Sabotage (3 page)

"Yeah, he used it,” Neil confirmed.

"What did he say?" Cal asked, glancing over at Gaucho, now on his feet.

It was Gaucho who'd introduced Cal and his team first to Karl Schneider and then Vince Sweeney. They'd helped The Jefferson Group when a bunch of idiots thought it was a good idea to try to get the Marine Corps disbanded. Sweeney's men had uncovered the leak or at least found the trail that led to the ringleader.

"I'm still triangulating the signal to determine their last location. I'm not sure why, but it's not as clear as it should be; I can figure that out later. I do know that it's somewhere along the Eastern coast of Africa."

“What did the message say?" Cal interrupted.

"Well, that's the other part that has me concerned. The message didn't come through in its entirety. It was a little clipped. I really don't understand how that happened. You know I tested it all over the world. The variables were all aligned and the satellite placement was perfect. I just don't understand how—"

"Neil, what did the message say?" Cal asked again, his frustration apparent.

"What? Yeah, sorry," Neil said, refocusing. "Here, I'll read it verbatim.
Plane down, possibly shot
. Then there's a blank,
forces firing
, another blank, and then the word
dead
and a period.
Will E and E. Ask your best friend in Washington about the details
. That's it."

Most of the message made it clear as to what occurred, but there were holes. Some kind of plane Sweeney was on had been shot down. Maybe they'd been attacked on the ground. E & E meant that he was going to escape and evade - basically hide and try to get away from the enemy. Cal’s best friend in Washington—well, there was only one person that fit that description because he didn't have many friends in Washington.

Cal said, "Thanks, Neil," and terminated the call.  If Vince Sweeney had popped a flare and called for help, he was in
deep
trouble. Time was of utmost importance; therefore, Cal didn't hesitate to dial the number from memory. There was a series of clicks and whispers of vague sounds before the president of the United States answered the phone.

Chapter 3

The crowds cheered and waved as Congressman Antonio "Tony" McKnight waved back, flashing a wide smile. He'd graced the covers of
Forbes
,
GQ
, and just the day before was approached by
Men's Health
. He wouldn't pose shirtless, of course, but the writers had claimed America wanted to know more about him and, of course, his health secrets.

A group of girls in the front row begged for autographs but McKnight pretended not to hear their pleas. He observed the crowd and frowned inwardly when he saw how close they had been to the barriers. He knew what that meant.

He gave one final wave and yelled out “God Bless America” before exiting the stage. His lead handler was at his side ready to spew out the pertinent details of their next campaign stop.

"How many people were present?" McKnight snapped.

"Five thousand," the woman declared without looking up, her eyes glued to her tablet.

McKnight stopped and his head swiveled slowly. She turned to face him, her glasses perched on the end of her delicate nose.

"That did not look like five thousand – more like four thousand, Sonya."

She looked uncomfortable for a moment. "I promise, Congressman, we'll have more at the next stop." Congressman McKnight gave her a curt nod and walked away, leaving her in his wake. He didn't need the details of the next stop. It was just another Californian town - one of the endless stops in a primary campaign for the presidential election. He was well behind the leader, and he needed California if he were to have any chance to clinch the nomination.

He was almost to the door of the tour bus with
McKnight for President
splashed across the side, his perfectly tanned face welcoming the public to vote for him. He groaned at the thought of boarding the bus again. Running for Congress had been one thing, but running for the presidency was a marathon with no ending in sight. Scratch that, there was an ending, and if he wasn't careful, it would come much sooner than he'd expected.

The Republican congressman from Miami, Florida had entered the race as
the
frontrunner, but a few missteps and missed opportunities had nearly crippled his campaign. They'd clawed their way back to second place, but the former governor of Texas, a shrewd woman who had served twenty years in the Army as an attorney, was making a valiant play. She'd outflanked him on foreign policy, immigration, and even matters concerning the economy. As a senior member of the Armed Services Committee, Congressman McKnight had, at one time, almost seen the writing on the wall, but it wasn’t in his blood to give up. He had never given up.

He was about to step back onto the bus when somebody called out his name. It wasn't a well-wisher or a potential voter but instead a man he hadn't seen in months. When McKnight looked at the man, one word came to his mind – lumpy. While McKnight prided himself on his appearance, this man seemed to take great pleasure in looking slovenly and unkempt.

McKnight reluctantly gestured the man over, informing his security detail to provide them privacy. They spread out to make a wider cordon to give the congressman his space.

"That was a fine speech," the man declared. "I always wondered whether you guys change it up for every stop or if you just switch Bakersfield for San Diego in your notes."

McKnight frowned. The man was teasing him. Chiding was this man’s special gift in order to get under the congressman’s skin.

“It’s been months," McKnight said. "Please tell me you've come to provide an update rather than give me your tips on what I should or should not say at the next campaign stop."

McKnight crossed his arms over his chest and waited. The man known only to him as “Jim,” though he suspected it wasn't the man's true name, grinned and flashed cigarette-stained teeth.  McKnight groaned to himself as he spotted a remnant of the man's lunch wedged between two corn-colored choppers.

"It looks like your ship just came in, Congressman," Jim said.

McKnight's heart leapt. This was what he'd been waiting for and the only reason he’d taken a chance with the slob standing in front of him.

"Tell me," McKnight said.

"Your intel was spot on. They shot them down before they could get a message out."

McKnight wanted to pump his fist in the air and scream in victory. It had been a delicate situation. He'd heard about the covert operation from none other than the president himself. If all went his way, he would be soon run against the president in the general election. The irony of the entire situation was President Brandon Zimmer considered Congressman Tony McKnight both an ally and confidante. Thus, he'd seen nothing wrong with confiding in McKnight about his concerns as well as what he meant to do to alleviate the problem. 

It had all come at a perfect moment for McKnight, who was floundering from the latest attack leveled by his opponent. Sure, it could be construed as treason, but what the president had done wasn't exactly legal either: sending special warfare operators in disguise to spy on a supposed ally. Well, how aboveboard was that?

At least that's how McKnight saw it. It hadn't taken much nudging in his mind to determine whether or not he would use the information for his own benefit. This was politics after all, and politics was war. Just like the generals of old, men like Julius Caesar, Napoleon, and even Dwight D. Eisenhower, rose from the ranks to become leaders of their country. McKnight, a man with lofty goals, believed he was doing the same.

The political world had been a perfect match for him from the first day they shook hands. He'd been seeking something his entire life, and when someone had suggested he run for public office, he jumped at the opportunity. It had really been a bet, and in those days, Tony McKnight always took a bet he knew he could win. He'd won that first contest and, from that first run, every win made his political aspirations rise.              

Now he was vying for the ultimate prize, securing the White House. The path was still cluttered with obstacles, tripwires and moats. He'd have to use every trick he'd ever learned and call on all the contacts he could squeeze to pull out this victory. So he had made a deal. Sure, elections were about debates and how photogenic you appeared, but you could have those things in addition to a great message and a solid platform to build a presidency on. The dirty truth was you needed endless money to truly win. That's what always made McKnight laugh.

Everyday citizens polled were vehement in stating that they had voted for a guy because they believed in his immigration policy, because gun control was something they did or did not hold dear, or because they'd always voted Democrat or Republican since the days of FDR. What always surprised McKnight was how easily such people could be manipulated. All it took to sway their votes was leaking a negative story to a news outlet or having an inappropriate picture posted on a website that had the ability to spread like wildfire. Thus once ardent fans became lifelong haters – this was helpful in stealing votes from opponents. 

McKnight had never been so naïve, because he saw democracy for what it truly was –  a mechanism to manipulate and control the populace by the politicians that demanded reelection. Money was the key because without endless amounts, you couldn't win. Sure, you could pick up a councilman's chair or a seat on your local school board, but if you wanted to run, really run, you had to have not millions but billions behind you. This requirement, he lacked. There had been promises, but once the tide had swayed against him, the influx of money into his coffers had shriveled up.

That's where Jim came in. Jim was one of those guys that nobody liked to admit was in your pocket, but they had always existed, and everybody knew it. In the early days, they'd show up with a suitcase full of cash for some bigwig running for office in New York. Someone who somehow had the ability to control the boroughs and the warring ethnicities. The game was still the same, although it had gotten a little more complicated and much more high tech.

The game comprised of promising one thing to get another. The deal McKnight had made had been a test, an act of good faith, so that his potential patrons could determine if he was worth working with, that he was a man of his word but of utmost importance they gauged if he would do anything it took to win.

McKnight had supplied Jim with the information, location, and had even found out what type of aircraft the secret operators would be flying. He had insisted that the operators not be harmed. He hadn't explained why, but in his foreseeing way he knew there was an opportunity there. Sure, they'd probably be tortured and interrogated, but a couple guys from Delta Force were tough enough to handle themselves.

"Tell me what happened," McKnight said.

Jim looked around once more making sure no one was in earshot. Then he grinned again. "It was just like you thought. They got eyes on, tracked the plane and jammed their communications. They got smart and used an explosive on the side of the plane instead of trying to shoot them down. You know those savages; they probably couldn't shoot the Goodyear blimp out of the air."

McKnight waved the racist comment away. "Just get to the point, will you?"

Jim had a way of stretching out their brief meetings, like the more words he imparted the more McKnight was going to pay him, even though a long time ago they'd agreed to the total sum.

Jim scratched his stubbly chin. "They reported seeing one body thrown from the plane before it came down. They think it might have been the stewardess."

"And the soldiers, what happened to them?"

Jim ignored the question. "Once they were on the ground, militia forces engaged the target."

"Tell me they didn't shoot them."

Jim shrugged slowly. He was in no rush to get to the punchline. If they hadn't been in public, McKnight might have grabbed the man by the front of his shirt and shaken him. Maybe a couple slaps would do him some good.

Then Jim said, "Both pilots were killed."

"And the soldiers?" McKnight asked again.

Now, Jim frowned. "Well, that's the damnedest thing. Wouldn't you know, as soon as the troops went in to get them, a downpour started. They actually explained it was some kind of monsoon, that they couldn't see anything, and by the time it cleared the two guys were gone. They're looking for them as we speak."

McKnight felt his chest tighten. He'd expected good news, had seen it in Jim's eyes, but he'd been fooled. The relationship had been contingent on the operators being captured.

"Where does that put us with our friends in Beijing?" McKnight asked, then realized he had asked the question a little too quickly. He didn't want Jim knowing that he was worried. He added, "Not that they can renege on our deal now."

Jim gave a slow shrug, as if the details didn't matter. "They're pissed off, of course, but they're blaming the men on the ground for not finding them. You're off the hook for that part, but they did insinuate that the full amount wouldn't be delivered until a package arrived on their doorstep."

"What do they want me to do," McKnight grilled, "fly to Africa to find them myself?"