Foreign Enemies and Traitors (101 page)

                “That’s your Pavehawk on the LZ?”  Major Acorzado glanced at the “Screaming Eagle” combat service unit patch on the Army officers’s right shoulder seam.

                “That’s affirmative, that’s ours.  Well, we borrowed it for the trip up.”

                “What’s the matter with it?  Why is it still here?”

                The major was tuned in to their scheduled movements.  Boone knew he would have to be careful.  “Some kind of sensor trouble.  Not a big deal.”

                Acorzado nodded just slightly.  “So, you want to get to your helo without a lot of fuss, is that it?”

                “I’d greatly appreciate it.”

                Major Acorzado nodded again, and spoke a few words into his walkie-talkie.  “No problem.  We grunts have to stick together.”

                “Fuck the pogues, right, Major Acorzado?”  Boone was giving a hat tip to the Marines by using their vernacular.  In Marine-speak, pogues were rear-echelon troops who never left the safety of well-defended American bases. 

                “Damn right.  Fuck the fobbits.”  A fobbit was a Forward Operating Base Hobbit.  Like pogues, they never went “outside the wire” on actual combat missions.  “Don’t think that this is my permanent gig,” said Acorzado.  “But I couldn’t turn this job down.”

                “I understand,” said Boone.  “Hell, I’m a general’s dog-robber these days.”  This was a slang term for an aide-de-camp, who was expected to do anything for his general, including steal a dog, or even steal
from
a dog.

                The two majors laughed quietly, sharing a private joke.  Both men were combat leaders turned into glorified bellhops in order to advance their careers.

                Major Acorzado asked, “So, where were you, over in the sandbox?”

                Boone was ready, having memorized Paxton’s deployment history.  “Oh, Najaf, Mosul, Sulamaniyah…some other places.  Nothing special,” he said, with typical Army understatement.  “How about you?”

                “When I wasn’t in Afghanistan, I was mostly in Al Anbar Province.  Ramadi and Fallujah.  The Battle of Fallujah, not just during the occupation later on.”

                “Which Battle of Fallujah?”

                “Both,” said Major Acorzado.  “And they were both motherfuckers. But winning was better.  A
lot
better.”

                “Roger that.  So, when’s the president showing up?”  Boone asked this as matter-of-factly as he could.

                “The informal reception runs from ten to ten-thirty.  The president should arrive around ten-thirty.  Then there’ll be a reception line, and he’ll kick off the meeting at eleven with a short talk in the conference room.  After that he’ll leave.”  Then more quietly, the major said, “But he rarely makes the schedule, so who the hell really knows?”

                Boone thought that he detected a slight rolling of the eyes, but it was very subtle.  Acorzado’s crow-black eyes were hard to read.

                Another white electric cart rolled around the circle and stopped in front of the portico.  A different Marine corporal from before was driving.  Acorzado said, “Take the major to the
real
Blackhawk, the dirty one in the back.  He needs to get something.  Go the back way, and then return him here ASAP.”  Then the major turned to Boone and they exchanged quick informal salutes followed by firm handshakes and direct eye contact.  “I have no idea where this golf cart came from, Major Paxton.  It’s highly irregular.  I’ll be seeing you.”  Then Acorzado turned toward the conference center and disappeared inside.

                The corporal remained seated, waiting for the Army major to take a seat, but his eyes grew wide when he saw Lieutenant General Armstead approach.  The general had walked out of the conference center just after Major Acorzado left.  Both Boone and General Armstead sat on the two rear-facing seats, and the corporal drove off.  He had been ordered to take the major to the Army Blackhawk, and he was certainly not going to question the addition of a three-star general as an extra passenger.  This was Camp David, and he had driven presidents and prime ministers.

                There was an asphalt bicycle path that ran downhill around the conference center, and along the side of the hill just inside the eastern perimeter fence.  This winding path through the trees was wide enough for only one cart.  It bypassed the main road down the center of Camp David, and took them directly to the helicopter landing zone.  The corporal parked by the Blackhawk, and both officers stepped out of the golf cart.  Without a word, General Armstead climbed into the troop bay.  A thin black valise was handed to Boone, and the door slid shut.  The slim case was not important; it was just a prop, a reason for him to return to the helicopter.  He placed it into his briefcase.  It might still have been inspected, so it was innocuous and contained no contraband. 

                The helicopter engines began to whine as Boone sat again at the back of the cart, facing away from the driver.  The corporal had no questions and followed his original orders to bring the major back to the conference center as quickly as possible.  Marine corporals do not say a single word to a field-grade officer unless they are asked a direct question.  Boone had no questions, so not a word was exchanged, not even about the cold but clear weather.  Behind him, Boone could hear their Blackhawk apply power.  Because he was facing rearward and the tree branches were bare of leaves, he saw their helo lift off and bank away to the north, to Raven Rock.  So far, so good.

                The cart returned by the same jogging path, bypassing security.  They could not depend on getting this break; it was just a fluke, so they had not prepared a contingency to bring in weapons this way.  When devising the plan, they had thought it probable that Boone would have to go back through the security building again, but in fact he did not.  They returned by the same narrow path through the trees.  He could have brought back his Glock .45, or grenades, or almost anything.  Lessons learned.  As if there would be a second go-round for this crazy Camp David operation…

                On the way into the conference center, Boone found the men’s room.  Sitting in a stall, he carefully looked around for pinhole camera lenses.  The ceiling tiles were full of dots.  He wondered if there was a Secret Service agent somewhere whose job was to spy on suspicious activity in the johns.  He opened his briefcase on his lap and removed the green cloth-covered binder, which was closed with a zipper.  He unzipped the binder, opened it, and used a car key to spread apart the metal-and-plastic reinforcing spine behind the three silver ring clips. 

                Carefully, he slid out a thin black piece of material shaped like a ruler.  It was eleven inches long, less than an inch wide, and no more than an eighth of an inch thick at any point.  Half of its length was sharpened on one side; the rest was an integral handle.  Three inches from the sharp end on both sides was an indentation, at a forty-five degree angle.  Boone placed this crease over the metal edge of his open briefcase, pushed down hard on both sides, and snapped off the end.  Now the blade had a chiselshaped tip, like a very long box-cutter or exacto knife.  Before, its innocuous shape had allowed it pass through the X-ray machines undetected.  It had been seen, but not seen.  The ceramic knife was created for being smuggled through security, not for comfortable handling.  It could also pass through metal detectors, including the ones that Boone assumed were built into many of the doors here in the conference center.  In addition, Boone knew that undercover Secret Service agents would mingle among the attendees, covertly scanning them with concealed metal detectors.

                The knife was provided by Ira Gersham, who had picked it up years before from his former employers at “another government agency.”  The entire one-piece blade and handle was made of zirconium oxide, the second-hardest substance, after diamonds.  Ira had impressed Boone and Carson by dropping a tissue paper and then slicing it in half in midair.  The edge was beyond razor sharp, it was scalpel sharp.  Inside his briefcase was a thin plastic sleeve to cover the working end.  Boone gingerly slid the knife up his left forearm, under the black velcro band of his wristwatch.  An inch of the black handle protruded from the band, but was concealed by the cuff of his white dress shirt and blue jacket.

                Behind the top flap of the briefcase, there was a computer connecting cable.  Uncoiled, the green plastic cable was six feet long.  This harmless item had also been seen and inspected when they passed through security.  Boone pulled the connector off one end, and fit the other end into the modified charging jack on his cell phone.  Then he coiled the tubing more tightly, folded a brochure around it, and placed it into his left jacket pocket.  Then he flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and returned to the conference center.  He found Carson outside the main hall on a long patio deck.  The hillside fell away from the conference center on this side.  The uncovered deck was being used by some of the foreigners for smoking, in spite of the very brisk weather. 

                “How did it go?” asked Carson.  He turned toward the wooden patio railing, overlooking the trees.  On the patio, their heads were uncovered, even though they were outside.  Their hats had been left by the entrance to the conference center.  It was quite cold, just above freezing.

                Boone joined him, facing away from the building and any watchers or listeners.  “It went just fine.  The Blackhawk’s gone, and I’ve unloaded my briefcase.  Oh, here’s that paper you were asking about.”  Boone slipped the brochure containing the coiled connector cable to Carson, who casually dropped it into his own jacket pocket.

                “I saw the chopper take off,” said Carson.  “That means we’re on our own.  We’re just going by our schedule now.”

                Boone said, “I got a schedule update while I was outside looking for a ride back to the LZ.  The president should arrive at 1030, but he’s known for showing up late.  The economic part of the conference starts at 1100, and then we’re up at 1130 for the CONPLAN brief.  Cross your fingers and hope they have luck inside Raven Rock.  It’s ten after ten now, and our window is ten-thirty to eleven.”

                “Shit, twenty minutes to go,” said Carson.  “I’d rather be chased by Cossacks any day.  This place…well, let’s just say it’s not my style.  I feel like a bug pinned down under a microscope.  And that General Delaney was asking me some funny questions.  He was testing me, I think.  ‘How is old so-and-so?’  People I don’t know.  I think maybe he’s suspicious.  He’s got me worried.  I’m dodging him now.  Fortunately, the secretary of the Army nabbed him and I slipped away.”

                “If he’s suspicious now, just wait until he finds out that Armstead flew the coop.”

                “I know.  He’s going to throw a fit.  You’re lucky you’re only a major today.  The whole scene in there just really pisses me off.  Especially the Russians.  They’re probably all FSB or SVR, or whatever they call the KGB these days.  They’re acting cool, but they’re gloating at the same time.  They’re really rubbing it in.  You can’t get a cup of coffee without them trying to start a conversation.  They’re even speaking in English to each other so you can hear them.  They were talking about buying houses in the States for their kids.  Talking about how cheap real estate is.  About what a
good buy
America is these days.  I get what they’re saying.  They’re twisting the knife about Buffalo Jump.  America is a good buy.  It’s a liquidation sale.”

                “I guess they feel like it’s payback for ’91 and ’92,” said Boone.  “We sure did our share of gloating then.”

                “I suppose we did.  Well, anyway, that old battle-axe Henrietta Bramwell is keeping Delaney busy, trying to get his group to mingle with the Chinese delegation.  She wants them all to be best friends forever, it looks like.  I almost feel sorry for Delaney and his people.  I peeled away when her group jumped him.”

                Boone said, “Bramwell’s husband does a lot of business over there.  And I don’t mean millions, I mean billions.  His company was one of the first to set up aircraft factories in China, back in the ’90s.  They moved entire plants over there lock, stock and barrel.  And now his wife is the secretary of the Army.  They used to call that a conflict of interest.  Not anymore.”

                The two counterfeit Army officers spoke very quietly, leaning against the wooden patio railing, looking down and casually covering their mouths with their hands.  Camp David was a paranoia-inspiring place, especially considering what they were planning to do.  It was easy to imagine directional microphones, hidden bugs and telephoto cameras everywhere.  Supposedly, Camp David was a private place where world leaders could talk freely, in an informal rustic setting.  Anybody who believed that was too naïve to cross the street alone or talk to strangers.

                “That explains it,” said Carson.  “She’s chatting with those Chinese civilians like they’re old buddies, and trying to hook General Delaney up with some Chinese brass.”

                Boone shook his head disgustedly, looking out over the slope through the winter trees.  The paved golf cart path he had used to return to the helicopter was just barely visible a few hundred yards downhill.  “Henrietta’s so happy, you’d think her husband was just opening another jet factory in China, instead of her getting ready to trade a chunk of America to the Chinese.  I guess it’s all the same to people like her.  They really don’t care which way the business is flowing, just as long as they’re getting a cut of the action.” 

                Carson said, “This is how the Chinese must have felt when the British came in and started carving up China.  You know, the opium wars, gunboat diplomacy and all of that.  What goes around comes around.  Now we’re the decadent failed empire, being carved up and put on the auction block by our own Mandarins.”