Executive Treason (44 page)

He quickly ran through a set of maneuvers designed to shake and distract the Stinger. He was so low to the deck that he had to confine his defensive flying to lateral moves. There was no down, and up would burn off too much speed. He sharply dodged left, then right, releasing countermeasures at the same time, including a new towed decoy system, dubbed “soap on a rope.” The decoy proved effective over the Balkans, Iraq, and Afghanistan. What about the South Pacific at low altitude? Another left turn. A right. A sharper right.

Dweedle dweedle. The sound of the missile alarm. More chaf. Dweedle dweedle. The missile was still on him.

An explosion, about five kilometers away on the horizon, illuminated the sky for the second time that night. Komari’s men cheered.

“You have fallen into the wrong sea,” the commander told his captives in English. “I will decide what to do with you soon. But first, the American president step forward.”

Everyone stood still. The Secret Service agents blocked Morgan Taylor.

“I will only ask one more time. Then the first row will die.” He gave the order for the guns to take aim. “Now.”

The president pushed his protectors aside and walked forward. “I’m Morgan Taylor.”

“And so you are,” Komari observed. “You are a much smaller man than I imagined. Older.”

Taylor did not engage the terrorist.

“Older and weaker, too.”

“I believe that you will not find any of us weak.”

Komari laughed. “Like your supersonic jet? We plucked it from the sky like a kite.”

Don’t be so sure
, Taylor thought. Heat from the flares had drawn the Stinger’s sensors. Experience told him the missile had detonated, not the fully armed Eagle. The F-15 was gone, but there were still eyes and ears overhead.

“Are we prisoners of war, commander?” Taylor asked.

“War? I suppose so,” Komari boasted. “Your own well-publicized ‘War on Terror.’”

“Then we shall be afforded proper treatment under the Geneva Accords.”

The terrorist laughed, as Taylor was certain he would. “No, Morgan Taylor. You shall suffer the same fate as the Christian infidels who, for too long, have controlled my country.”

The lunatic plans to attack Jakarta!

“Take them under. Kill anyone who resists.” The instructions were in Bahasa, but the captives understood the threat.

There was another raft.

The fourth inflatable raft, the last to get clear of Air Force One, was out of view when the trawler came upon the others. Secretary of State Norman Poole ordered it to stay back when he heard the yelling and gunshots. Twenty-nine men and women were safely on board. Another eleven clung to the side. They escaped by diving off their rafts when the terrorists fired their rounds.

Poole, the de facto captain, instructed everyone to remain low and quiet. Help would come. The ELT, or emergency locator transmission, should be doing its job. Based on what the survivors of the attack told him, the terrorists knew who they had in hand.

Pike kept his plane on the deck and flew ten miles due west before climbing to 10,000 feet.

“Roger that,” Major Pike radioed to J3. “Assumption is that Top Gun is aboard.” His pictures would confirm that fact when he landed at Andersen Air Force Base on Guam. Command redirected him there after the Stinger launch.

He hoped that his presumed death could buy the president and USAPACOM needed time.

New York City

Not such a good reporter
, thought the cabbie.
He didn’t comment that the man pictured in the license had a moustache. The driver didn’t.
He gazed into his rearview mirror.
He should have sensed that we never got on the East Side Drive. But he’s sleeping.
The cab kept heading north into the Bronx, missing the last exit for the Triboro Bridge.
And he failed to notice that the bulletproof glass between the front and back seats was gone. Very foolish. No, he just sleeps.

The taxi continued to drive north, taking turns slowly. The cabbie came to a gradual, almost imperceptible stop in an alley. Why wake him? He reached to his right and quietly put his hand under a copy of
The New York Times
and raised a 9 mm Glock. The silencer was already attached. Just let him sleep.

He actually wondered what it would be like not to wake; not to know that you had fallen asleep, never to breathe again. No fear. No knowledge. No goodbyes.

Just let him sleep. “Very good.”

Cannon House Office Building
the same time

Duke Patrick nearly had his speech down, but an argument in the outer office broke his concentration. Now what? He waited for the talking to die down. It didn’t. There was a knock at his door. “I said no interruptions!”

His chief of staff was the first in. A number of other men—all looking serious, all with Secret Service pins on their lapels—followed. “I couldn’t stop them,” he said.

“Mr. Speaker,” began the lead agent. He muscled his way right around Patrick’s staffer. “You need to come with us. There’s an urgent meeting at the White House.”

“What? Why? I’m in the middle of something important.”

“I’m sorry for the interruption, but please. Now, sir.”

“I demand to know why?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

“Then I won’t be joining you.” He turned his back to the agents and silently returned to his speech.

“Sir…”

Patrick ignored him.

“Mr. Speaker, I have my orders.”

Patrick blew his temper. He reeled around and shouted, “Is this one of Taylor’s tricks? Get me out of the way so I can’t deliver my speech?”

“No, Mr. Speaker.”

“Then why on God’s earth should I go with you?”

“Because the White House needs you there.”

Patrick remained obstinate.

The Secret Service agent stepped away and spoke into a small microphone in his sleeve. He pressed one finger to his ear, setting the earpiece tighter. Congressman Patrick watched, broadly smiling as if he had won something. The agent finished and walked directly up to the speaker and whispered into his ear.

“Mr. Speaker, I’ve been instructed at the highest levels to bring you to the White House. It is your Constitutional duty.”

“Highest levels? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I don’t believe the president has returned yet.”

Duke Patrick was living up to his reputation
, thought the Secret Service agent.
Insolent, intractable, and officious.
The agent radioed back, “Negative on John Wayne. Repeat. John Wayne will not comply.” John Wayne was the agency’s handle for the current Speaker of the House. It was an homage to Hollywood’s Duke.

Ten seconds later the speaker’s private phone line rang.

“I think that’s for you, Congressman.”

It rang three more times. Patrick finally picked it up, showing his extreme displeasure.

“Congressman Patrick.”

The Secret Service agents and Patrick’s chief of staff watched, unaware of what was being said, but totally interested. The congressman’s expression dropped.

“Okay,” was all he said.

He hung up, and ignoring the Secret Service detail, told his chief, “I’ll be at the White House. Stay by the phone.”

On board the AWACS

“Still tracking the craft.” The navigator gave the heading, which was plotted by Pentagon analysts back home. “Course is for an island. Two point two miles.” He changed screens. “Landfall likely at any number of potential coves. Other islands ahead through narrow passageways.” It wasn’t his job to assess the potential destinations, but it didn’t look good. The terrain was rocky and mountainous. Dense vegetation would make a rescue mission extremely difficult. He typed in more information on his computer. It got worse. The immediate islands were known for their caves—hundreds, if not thousands of them. He revised his opinion. If they took the president there, it might be impossible to find him. Like a needle in a haystack.

Outside the Dirksen Senate Office Building
the same time

Katie expected to hear sirens. After all, it was Washington, D.C. There was a fair chance that at any given moment, one dignitary or another needed to be hustled somewhere fast. But in the five minutes since she left the Rayburn Building, it seemed like there were nothing but screaming sirens.

She was on the corner of Constitution and C trying to hail a cab when she realized that all the noise was heading in the same direction—away from the Capitol. A taxi eventually stopped for her. She gave Roarke’s address and asked the obvious. “What’s going on?”

“Dunno,” the driver answered.

“Is it usually this crazed?”

“Oh, sometimes. You never know.” Two black Lincolns with blaring sirens passed them on Constitution. “Could be anything.”

The explanation sounded good enough until another two cars raced by. She took her cell phone out of her pocketbook and dialed Roarke. It rang three times. “Yeah, honey. Can’t talk.”
Not good
, she thought. “Just tell me, is everything all right?”

“Why? What do you know?”

“Nothing, except that every car with a siren has it turned on.”

“Where are you?”

“Heading home.” That has a nice ring to it. “Will you be…?”

“Later,” he interrupted.

“Call me when you can. Please.” She let her concern show. “I will. Love you.”

She added, “I love you more,” but Roarke was already gone.

Lebanon, Kansas

“They’re going to feel the love, Elliott,” said a caller. “They better feel what we hate,” the talk-show host said. “That’s what the march is all about.”

Elliott Strong brokered in hate, day and night. He had delivered his single-minded message for years: You’re either for a Strong Nation or against it. Now his philosophy had a face attached—General Robert “Bob” Woodley Bridgeman.

Over the years, he never embraced Democrats. Now he finally turned on Republicans, as he always planned. Strong was leading millions of disenfranchised Americans toward a new political movement: a new party, which would soon have a new name.

“This isn’t a protest march, for God’s sake. You go to Washington and show Bob Bridgeman that you’re there for him. You’re there to demand change. If the power brokers don’t do it themselves, well then, I suppose we’ll have to do it ourselves.”

This was the first time he raised the specter of seizing political power. He slammed his hand on the table to get his listeners’ attention. “You have that? No more calls to congressmen we don’t trust. No more e-mails to a president, hell, two presidents, that don’t mean anything to us! No more pleading with senators. We’ll take this country from the ground level up. It’s time for a recall! We’ll get people in government who can do what needs to be done. And believe me, there’s only one man who can lead us out of the mess we’re in. General Bob Bridgeman.”

Strong shuffled some papers. He looked at his computer screen. He had enough calls to last a month.
They’re getting it
, he thought.

The White House

“Where are you?” Roarke asked urgently.

“Ah, almost at your apartment.”

“Still driving?”

“Yes,” Katie replied. “Scott, what’s going on?”

“Change of plans. Get over here.”

“Here? Where’s here?”

“The White House. North Entrance. I’ll meet you,” he explained.

“But…”

“Just do it.”

Washington, D.C.

The capital was packed with protestors and the vendors were thrilled. They were stocked up with Bridgeman Rules, March2Washington, and Bridgeman for President t-shirts, sweatshirts, and buttons. Everything was designed in bold red, white, and blue with a single, approved photograph of General Bridgeman against a fully unfurled American flag. It was the work of a New York designer; organized and distributed; definitely not a fly-by-night operation.

The Associated Press had already estimated that more than $2 million would be spent by marchers on souvenirs. Hotel rooms and meals could account for $20 million over the next few days. Overtime for police and support services, another $1.5 million according to the wire service quotes. It was all for a man the public knew nothing about little more than a month earlier…and all because of one radio talk-show host.

Fox News scored another sit down with Bridgeman, while CNN had to settle for a quick run-and-gun interview with the general. No matter the bias, everyone talked about the meteoric rise of the Texas general. As the host of The McLaughlin Group termed it, opinion weighed heavily over traditional reporting in this new age of journalism. Fact-based coverage was becoming a dying art.

“So, Roger Deutsch, political contributor to
Vanity Fair
, I ask you, can General Bridgeman muster a vote of confidence?” The McLaughlin host always employed tight, staccato phrasing in his questions.

“A vote of confidence? Yes. But if the endgame is to unseat the president, he’ll flame out long before the election. This is too early: three years before the next election, two years before the primaries. I can’t even tell you what party he’s aligned with, or more to the point, what party is aligned with Bridgeman.”

“Any party he wants!” interrupted
The
Philadelphia Inquirer
’s Victor Monihan. “When was the last time we saw a political rally this size for a declared candidate? Never. Both the Republicans and the Democrats would love to have him lead their party. Now if you’re asking me if it’s a good thing?”

“Is it a good thing?” the host prompted.

“Who knows? I can’t even articulate who he represents, other than an amorphous radio constituency.”

“I can tell you what he wants, though,” argued Peter Weisel, the Washington bureau chief of
The
Chicago Tribune
. “He’s for a recall and totally anti-Lamden, anti-Taylor, anti-Constitution, anti-process, anti-procedure, and anti-protocol. And just check his military record—he’s anti-establishment.”

Weisel was not the first to recognize it, but he was the first to state it.

“Page One,
The
Chicago Tribune
,” the host read. “It’s right here. You say General Bridgeman was not the leader he claims to be, but an arrogant maverick who ignored military command in Bosnia.”

“Worse,” explained Weisel. “Under his command, he very nearly restarted the war. The Pentagon sent him to Afghanistan to cool off. He was ordered to lay low, but he couldn’t. He called the new leadership a joke and he held the prime minister under house arrest on suspicion of drug trafficking. Unproven, I might add. That wasn’t the last of Bridgeman’s brilliant military career moves. He came back to a desk job and promptly pissed off then-President Morgan Taylor for deploying troops to Lebanon. It’s all true, and yet you don’t hear any of this on the radio.”

“For good reason,” offered the Dallas Morning News’s Christy Castle. “It’s triple X material. Excessively misstated. Extremely inaccurate. Exceptionally partisan. The man is a true military hero. Distinguished Service, Silver Star, Navy Cross: the whole nine yards. You’ve ignored how he prevented war from breaking out again in Bosnia, how he uncovered the largest drug smuggling operation in Afghanistan alone how, in the Middle East, General Bridgeman saved his own men in the heat of battle. This is a good man, a dedicated American. How he got to national prominence? Well, I suppose that’s because we need him.”