Critical Error (15 page)

“It’s him, I know it is,” he said to himself, transfixed by the burning forest in the background.

“Come on, whatever’s happening doesn’t involve tankers in the middle of a highway.”

“You have no idea,” he said shaking his head.

Their train journey had passed off without incident and a quick cab ride had taken them to the Howard Johnson where, as directed, Senator Baker had checked in as Tim Wilkinson. He used the driver’s license that Sam had given him six years earlier as ID. He had offered to take two rooms but Clark had refused. She made it very clear that she would not leave his side until they could get help. It had been four hours since they had arrived and over seven hours since Sam had warned his brother.

“Something has happened to him. I’m telling you, there is no way he would take this long to get to New York. We need to reach out to someone we can trust.”

“I’m sure he’s fine.” But Clark’s protestations were wearing thin. “I think we should give him another hour.” She checked her watch. “If we’ve not heard anything by 10pm, we’ll make a move.”

Senator Baker was unconvinced. If there were a person in the world you could rely on, it was Sam Baker and if he were coming, he’d have been there by then.

As the door to the Federal Suite closed, the bedroom door opened and the Governor of Idaho, John Mellon, joined the Horsemen. He had listened in on the meeting and wasted no time in offering his opinion.

“The little shit’s hiding something, you know,” he announced to the group as he took a seat.

Mellon was unknown to Russell. He was the fifth member of the group. He also, unknown to Russell, would be his running mate on the Vice President’s ticket. Mellon was the richest, most obnoxious and right wing politician in the land and had no chance of becoming President but as Russell’s Vice President, he would be the proverbial heartbeat away from the seat. As much as people loved Russell, they loathed the old bastard from Texas. The young Russell would be doing a Dick Cheney, just using the old war horse as an adviser and bringing some experience to his young presidency.

Everything had been running perfectly smoothly until Senator Baker had thrown his hat in the ring. The loose cannon Baker was a vote winner and had his allies. Of course, Russell had the support of the President thanks to the Horsemen’s funding support. Unfortunately, their influence over the sitting President did not extend further. He was his own man and had made it clear to them on many occasions. Russell had ingratiated himself as instructed but again his influence only went so far. They tried in vain to discredit Baker but nothing stuck, despite their control of the media. They had tried to get him to accept the Vice President’s ticket, much to Mellon’s objections, but the idea was just to get him off the Presidential ticket. Mellon’s Vice Presidency ticket could have been resolved at a later date. Baker had flatly refused. As the numbers started to swing in his favor, it was, as ever, Lawson who had voiced the need for a permanent solution. Senator Charles Baker was in their way and had to be removed. Mellon agreed without hesitation. Russell was informed and tasked with the job. Normally, they would have dealt with it quietly but it was agreed that a strong message would be sent to all those in Russell’s camp. Plus, of course, when Russell was assassinated, three months into his presidency, as was the plan, Mellon would be made President. Mellon would have something on each of Russell’s team to ensure complete loyalty and compliance.

“Perfect,” said Lawson as he laid out his plan to the group.

“Well, we’ve been assured it will be dealt within the next 24 hours,” reminded Walter.

“Jesus, Walter, don’t be so fucking naive. The CIA could fuck up a piss up in a brewery,” said an irritable Lawson. “However, I’m confident it will be dealt with in the next twenty four hours but only because I had arranged an insurance policy for just this eventuality. A certain contractor who has worked for me on a number of occasions is on the case.”

Johnson, the Director of the CIA, grabbed Russell by the elbow as they made their way into the room and guided him to a corner, away from prying eyes and ears.

“We have our target cornered.”

“Excellent, where is he?”

“Our face recognition software picked him up at Newark train station as he was rather stupidly hailing a cab. Amateur. Anyway from there, we tracked the cab, discovered he was dropped off at the Howard Johnson and from the timings, found he checked in as a Tim Wilkinson. No idea where that came from but anyway, we have a team about to take him out.”

“Make sure your guys don’t fuck it up again,” warned Russell, starting to regain his authority following his meeting with the Horsemen. “So what’s the story here?” he asked looking back at the Situation Room.

“The Palestinians have got their hands on another nuke. I don’t understand how careless people can be with these things. I blame the Commies personally,” replied Johnson conspiratorially.

“How good is the intel?”

“We’re told they’re 90% certain it’s real. When the Israelis give you anything over 50% it means it’s serious. 90% means they bloody well know it’s coming.”

“Shit, any ideas where they’re targeting?”

“Nope, not a clue. America is all they can give us. But I have to say we would normally have heard something ourselves. There’s been no increase in chatter which we would expect when they’re trying to pull off something this big. So I’m not sure they’re right.”

Jens nodded at his two colleagues at the far end of the corridor, the signal to move. They closed the stair door quietly and began to casually walk towards Room 216. This approach was somewhat alien to them. Normally, the approach would have been fast with guns at the ready. Unfortunately that was not an option. Armed men, guns drawn, walking down a corridor in Newark would rouse more than a little suspicion. While two moved towards the door, Jens and his sidekick kept the elevators stationery on their floor. He didn’t want any passers-by stumbling into the action. One clear message had been to minimize collateral damage and by minimize they had meant none.

As they neared the door, the two assassins drew their BXP machine guns and readied themselves.

“Shhh. What was that?” whispered Clark, putting her finger to her mouth and turning the TV off.

The Senator did not need to be told twice. Clark was a highly trained Secret Service agent and if he had learnt anything over the years, it was that when they said shush, you shushed.

Both listened intently. The Senator heard nothing. Clark drew her weapon and motioned for the Senator to get behind her and began to back up from the door. Her gun was trained just above the center point of the door.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” whispered the Senator, more to himself than Clark.

After what seemed like an hour to the Senator but was almost instantaneous, Clark began to lower her weapon. “I think you’re right, a bit jumpier than I realized, sorry.”

Her stance relaxed and she stepped forward allowing the Senator at least a little breathing room. Her gun had almost made it back to her holster when all hell broke loose.

The two assassins took their cue from Jens. With the elevators still in position, he nodded for a second time and the two men down the corridor moved. One raised his Size 12 boot and with every ounce of his 230lbs of flesh, literally took the door off of its hinges. His colleague rushed in, the BXP quietly spewing its deadly cargo ahead of him.

Clark’s reaction times were amongst the best in the service but a door crashing down caught her entirely by surprise. The main door had crashed to her left and not where she had been focusing her attention only a second earlier - the interconnecting door with Room 218. As the door left its hinges, bullets tore through the room, fortunately at angles that were in their favor. Standing back from the interconnecting door had meant they were up against the far wall on the other side of the room. The gunmen would have to clear a small corridor before being able to get Clark and Baker in their sights.

Clark raised her weapon and pushed the Senator behind her for the second time in as many seconds. A second weapon began to fire. Clark was cornered and was now facing significantly greater firepower. She was no fool and knew that was it. She would go down in history as one of the few Secret Service agents to have failed in their duty.

A second crash and the interconnecting door flew towards her. Jesus, she thought, these guys are serious. Whoever wants the Senator dead has covered all bases. Clark swung her pistol towards the interconnecting door. She wasn’t going down without at least taking some of the bastards with her and fired three rounds, just high off center.

As the second door crashed open, the two assassins paused. That hadn’t been the plan. Jens was supposed to wait. This was their kill. Jens was cover but neither wanted to take out the boss so they both stopped firing.

Unluckily for them, Jens was exactly where he was supposed to be, holding the elevators.

The rounds of a Frag-12 shotgun are particularly unpleasant and combining those with an AA-12 fully automatic shotgun with a 32 round drum magazine and a fire-rate of 300 rounds per minute meant that what was left of the two assassins could be scraped up. Ten Frag-12 rounds made it into the small corridor before the shotgun stopped firing. The highly explosive shells did exactly what the ammunition box said they would. They exploded on impact with the force of a small grenade, making mincemeat of the South Africans.

Just as Clark pulled the trigger, her arm was momentarily forced upwards because of a deafening shriek in her ear.

“NO!!!!!!” screamed the Senator.

Before she could make any sense of what just happened, pressure wave after pressure wave hit her as the shotgun shells hit their targets. With little or no hearing and her other senses not entirely stabilized, Clark looked at the interconnecting door and the mass that lay prostate in its doorway.

“Jesus, you shot him!” yelled the Senator, pushing past Clark.

“Stay behind me!” ordered Clark.

The Senator ignored her and rushed towards the body on the floor, pushing Clark away.

As the Senator reached the body, it moved. Clark raised her gun and aiming for the head, she pulled the trigger.

“Hi Charlie,” said the body.

Clark immediately released her trigger, with 9 lbs of pressure depressed out of a 10lb trigger, she had just managed to avoid shooting dead the Senator’s brother.

“Agent Clark, this is my brother Sam.” The Senator struggled to hide an extremely proud grin as he introduced the two.

“We’ll have time for niceties later,” suggested Sam, pushing the Senator aside and getting up from the floor with an audible wince.

“Did I hit you?” asked Clark, worried she had caught him with one of her rounds aimed at the door.

“Fortunately not,” he said, pointing to his left arm which hung rather limply. “This is from a rather spectacular car crash earlier. That’s for later though, we need to move, these guys weren’t alone.”

Sam ushered them both into Room 218 and holding his AA-12 in one arm, he led them to the door of the corridor.

“Wait here,” he ordered.

Clark began to protest but one look from Sam shut her up. He was in no mood for discussion.

Listening at the door, he stepped back and was clearly about to open the door when he realized he only had one working arm.

Clark was ready and waiting. Her protestation had been a realization that he would need help getting through the door with a shotgun up and ready.

They mouthed ‘on three’ and nodded as they counted out the three. Clark opened the door in one swift motion and Sam hurled himself into the corridor. The AA-12 was up and shooting before Jens and his colleague had a chance to react. Their focus was the carnage in the entrance hallway of Room 216. Being on his feet assured his aim. Although hindered, he was more accurate than before and with only two shells per man, the job was significantly less messy, not that either man would be having an open casket funeral.

Sam turned from the gruesome scene and pointed towards the back stairs. Clark took point, the Senator following closely behind, while Sam took up the rear. Sam reckoned that the whole incident, from the door crashing open to his final shot, had taken less than ten seconds. People were stirring from rooms and doors were beginning to crack open but no guests, as yet, had plucked up the courage to venture out into the wild yonder. Just as well, the massacre would certainly have given them something to remember.

As they flew down the stairs and moved quickly to the exit, they remained silent. None of them dared to speak. Clark moved swiftly, her pistol up, scanning the staircase ahead while listening for any noise that would give away a potential threat. However that was short-lived. The sirens had started, first one then a second and then a cacophony, too many to count, the sounds just merging into one big noise.