Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command (43 page)

He was getting better with the traffic and had speed on his side.

Ahead, Cooper veered to the left onto a dedicated motorcycle lane. Another break for the assassin.

Ten seconds later Roarke drove into the bike lane. It would be impossible for Roarke to pass others in the narrower space. He honked and screamed for people to get out of the way. Mostly, he had to slow down.

Cooper passed a blue sign which read
MOTOS Controle Migratõrio e Aduaneri
, indicating an immigration control station. A guard in a blue shirt, khaki slacks, boots, a tactical jacket, and a blue cap stood holding a clipboard, but did nothing. Why would he? People had spent money in Paraguay. Their problem would be on the Brazil side.

Cooper knocked down other slower-moving motorcycles, further affecting Roarke’s chase. Now he was actually on the Friendship Bridge, 1,812 feet long, more than 130 feet above the swirling river. The motorcycle lane fed back into the main traffic; more room, but more deadly dodging.

Roarke darted around the downed motorcycles, doing his best not to break his own neck. Cooper still had the advantage. What’s more, Roarke was without a plan of action, and crashing through armed guards at the opposite end of the bridge wouldn’t make his job any easier. His best option was to get off a killing shot and then disappear into the swarm of tourists and smugglers returning to Brazil with their cheap cigarettes, electronics, and drugs.

A little past the midpoint over the river was a hand-painted sign on the cement railing. It had two words that delineated the precise geographic border point on the bridge.
PARAGUAY
was painted in capital letters on the near side. Next to it,
BRAZIL.
The words completely stood out.

Cooper quickly cut to the far lane and stopped. He dismounted and pushed his motorcycle into the traffic, snarling the flow. Horns blared. Angry drivers cursed. The backlog caught up to Roarke seconds later. He strained to see what was going on. A van in front of him blocked his view. Roarke managed to find an opening between the traffic and the six-foot fence between the road and a pedestrian sidewalk. And there was Cooper, leaping over the fence.

Scott Roarke realized he’d do better on foot now, too. He dumped his motorcycle, which added to the tie-up. Three vehicles up, he climbed atop a sedan and used the height to jump over the fence. Cooper was only feet ahead of him just stepping over the short cement barrier, the only thing between him and the drop to the Paraná below.

“Cooper!” Roarke shouted as he dove forward. The force brought them both to the ground but left them six feet apart.

Cooper was the first on his feet. He shot his right foot forward at Roarke’s head. Roarke deflected the move with a sweep of his right hand. But he didn’t expect Cooper to come in with a left hook which landed on his chin.

The blow stunned Roarke.

Richard Cooper smiled. “Roarke. You’re one persistent son of a bitch.” And with that, the assassin bent down and grabbed the shoulder straps on his backpack. He wedged the pack into an opening of the cement wall precisely under the border demarcation. The straps dangled over the bridge. “No more.”

Cooper’s cold eyes lock onto Roarke’s.

“You’re right, no more!” Roarke said sitting up spread eagle. He had his Sig Sauer in hand and fired just as Cooper used the straps to swing under the arch bridge. Roarke ran to where Cooper had leaped. The backpack was there but Cooper was not.

The lights of the bridge illuminated the roadway and spilled over to the side. At 3:32 a.m., the rising moon added more light. Roarke leaned over the side. He saw one hand clinging onto a single strap.

“Cooper. Hang on,” Roarke said, not even understanding why he was offering help. Instinct? Training? Evidence that he was different than the assassin only feet below him?

Roarke dislodged the backpack. He lowered it, giving Cooper the chance to grab the second strap; a lifeline. “Take it.” He dangled it. “Grab it for God’s sake!”

What happened next seemed to play out in slow motion. Roarke saw Cooper’s other hand reach for the strap. He felt the balanced weight on the other end. Roarke began to lift Cooper. He anchored his feet against the cement wall and began to lift Cooper using his stomach muscles. “Hang on.”

Then Roarke swore Cooper laughed. After that, he fell flat on his back as the weight disappeared. From where he lay, he couldn’t see, but Roarke heard the sound of a hard thud against the curved cement arch under the bridge, followed by a splash in the water.

Scott Roarke scrambled to his feet and peered over the edge. Below, concentric circles spreading out in the water. The impact point. He strained to see Cooper’s body, but Rio Paraná had swallowed it up.

“Scott, are you all right?” Katie’s voice shook. She was patched through to Roarke from the Situation Room.

The line crackled.

“Scott! Can you hear me?”

More attempts, still nothing.

J3 checked with Command at MacDill. “Are you tracking Sidekick?”

“Yes sir. He’s on the move. We have him almost at the other side of Foz do Iguaçu. About twenty miles per hour along main streets. But no communications. His transceiver went dead on the run.”

“Is he on a motorcycle?” the vice president asked.

“Don’t know, but he is proceeding to exfil point Charlie.”

“Patch him in when he re-establishes contact.”

“Roger.”

“A few more minutes,” Johnson relayed to the president. Taylor told Katie.

Those few minutes turned into thirty. Then Roarke’s distinctive voice came over the Situation Room speakers.

“Sidekick airborne. Understand you’ve been calling.”

“You gave us more than one scare there,” Morgan Taylor said.

“Sorry, sir. I did go a little off the reservation.”

“A little,” the president countered. “Anyway, there is someone here who wants to talk with you.”

Taylor whispered to Katie. “No real information. Just hello and how are you?”

She nodded and then started on Roarke with, “Are you crazy?”

Katie left, but the night was not finished for the president. In coordinated air force drone attacks, strategic MS-13 targets were attacked in Mexico, killing drug lords and destroying supply lines. Names and places provided by Manuel Estavan.

Simultaneously, the FBI and ATF raided Mara Salvatrucha strongholds in the United States, in Boston, Providence, Baltimore, Washington, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Miami, Houston, Phoenix, Los Angeles, and Chicago. Three hundred fifty gang members were rounded up before dawn. Hundreds more wished they had darkness to crawl into because their fellow gang members would soon be giving up their names, too.

At noon the next day, President Morgan Taylor addressed the nation from the White House.

“Last night and through the morning, the United States carried out deliberate attacks on those people responsible for the mass murder of Americans. The terrorist mastermind is dead. His name was Ibrahim Haddad. He was killed during a Special Forces assault on his compound in Paraguay. No American servicemen were injured in the action. Upon confirmation of the death of Haddad, and under my orders and with full cooperation of Mexico’s President Oscar Hernandez, unmanned drones destroyed twenty-four staging points in Mexico that were involved in the operation. In the course of the aerial bombings, we made a serious dent in one of the hemisphere’s most lawless gangs, the Mara Salvatrucha or MS-13, which has also participated in the reign of terror against the United States and the deadly drug wars in Mexico. For that reason, and based on the strongest intelligence culled from America’s law enforcement agencies, the Federal Bureau of Investigations, working with agents for Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives and the Drug Enforcement Administration, moved in on twenty-two related operations in cities coast to coast. The immediate result: hundreds of arrests. More will follow.

“While it is clear that our crisis is not over, and that the Centers for Disease Control has a great deal of work ahead, this government took decisive action. Our plans have been developing since the first report that toxic substances had been introduced into our water.

“Secrecy was key to the successful implementation. Now I hope that public disclosure will bring renewed confidence to all Americans.

“I promise, you’ll have no shortage of details in the coming days and weeks. For now, however, I continue to urge that you stay home, be safe, and remain calm.

“Thank you.”

The president left the podium in the East Room. The press secretary took over, introducing Secretary of Homeland Security Grigoryan and the CDC’s Bonnie Comley to answer questions. The press conference continued for ninety-five more minutes.

Taylor had more calls to make. The president of Paraguay. A brief apology. The president of Brazil. A heartfelt thank you. Then he took a brisk walk outside into the freezing February air. It had been an unusually harsh winter for much of the country. He bent down, picked up a handful of new-fallen snow, and let it melt in his mouth. This was the way a lot of people were getting their water.

11 February

In his debriefing at MacDill with Vice Admiral Gunning and his friend, FBI agent Shannon Davis, Roarke relived the last minutes on the bridge. He described in detail how he took the motorcycles, darted through traffic, caught up to the assassin, fired, and ultimately tried to save him. One thing troubled Roarke. “Why did Cooper stop precisely at the border between Paraguay and Brazil, right at the painted sign? Why there?”

“Dunno,” Gunning said. “Too much traffic ahead?”

“No, it wasn’t any worse or any better.”

“He realized he wouldn’t get through Brazilian immigration easily,” Davis added.

“He could have shot his way through. No, he just stopped right at that sign, as if he had planned to. And the way he used his backpack,” Roarke continued. “It was a tool.”

“Roarke, let it go. You got your man. Go home and remind that beautiful girlfriend of yours what she’s been missing.”

Roarke smiled. Davis was absolutely right about that. He couldn’t wait to be in bed with Katie. But was he right about everything else? He wondered for only an instant until his libido took over.

“I’m outahere.”

In Helena, Montana, a high school student opened two unsolicited letters that had arrived. One from Rhode Island School for Design, another from Savannah College of the Arts. Each institution offered Cheryl Gabriel full four-year rides—scholarships and living stipends, all thanks to a personal phone call from the president.

In the same city, a young man raised his right hand and swore to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Ricardo Perez joined the U.S. Army, though under a new name he personally chose. Eduardo Roarke.

At her CDC lab, Dr. Bonnie Comley was developing new standards to test for contaminants in local water supplies. Morgan Taylor assured her he would make it a presidential directive as soon as it was off her computer and on his desk for signature.

Water shipments were airlifted from Paraguay to U.S. cities, drawn from the Guarani Aquifer beneath Ciudad del Este. It was part of a new trade alliance, quickly forged with the Paraguayan president. Something that benefited both countries and a few terrorist organizations along the money train.

The FBI tracked down and arrested more of Haddad’s accomplices. The trial backlog was going to be enormous.

Christine Slocum was buried in Philadelphia next to her parents who had died in a car crash twenty years earlier when they failed to make a dangerous hairpin turn along The Stelvio Pass in Italy’s eastern Alps. Bad brakes were cited at the time. Working on information from Haddad’s computers, the CIA learned that the two right tires had been shot out.

Ibrahim Haddad’s computers provided more valuable information. One of the first names to come up: FBI Agent Curtis Lawson. Director Robert Mulligan made the arrest himself. Further investigation revealed that Lawson had marital problems, a huge debt, childhood self-esteem problems, and unresolved father issues; all signs that made him a prime candidate for betrayal.

Katie Kessler turned in her resignation as Deputy White House Counsel. Morgan Taylor hadn’t lied to her when he said Scott Roarke wasn’t going to be involved in any action. That had been the plan. But it had the impact of a lie and created far too much worry.

She left her White House job on Friday to begin another job in a week. Her new boss was an even stronger personality. Supreme Court Chief Justice Leopold Browning.

Roarke wanted to take a needed vacation in the U.S. Virgin Islands. However, Katie was eager to start her new job. Instead, he moved into her apartment for a week and did two things he had never done before. Scott Roarke really kissed up to the love of his life and he followed recipes in a Wolfgang Puck cookbook, creating what he thought were five near-perfect meals in a row. Saturday night Katie insisted on taking him out to dinner—in St. Croix.

The Capitol

Duke Patrick just couldn’t resist going on camera and tickling the tiger. Taylor was getting standing ovations wherever he went and nonstop praise. What wasn’t shining on him spilled over to the new vice president and SEAL Team 6.

Haddad was dead. His operatives, inexperienced and untrained, were being rounded up across the country.

MS-13, though not destroyed, was crippled by federal raids which netted cash, names, and plans. The Justice Department was certainly going to be busy for a long, long time.

But Patrick couldn’t stand it. He hungered for airtime. And so he called a press conference at the House of Representatives.

Dressed in his favorite blue suit, with a white shirt and a red tie, he aimed for the fences.

“While I applaud the president’s ability to bring our crisis to an end and his resolve to restore calm amidst the possibility of utter collapse, he did so violating international law, not once, not twice, but by my count dozens of times…in Paraguay, in Mexico, and, if the reports are true, with executions around the world.

“Moreover, our enemy had lived here. In the United States. Under the nose of Taylor’s FBI.”

Senator Shaw Aderly insisted that Duke Patrick stress that point. He believed it was his winning argument.

“For years, Ibrahim Haddad plotted within our borders, long before he hid in South America. Had Morgan Taylor gotten to this terrorist, rather than allowing him to escape…not once, but twice as we’ve come to learn, then we would not have faced this horrible crisis and suffered such losses.

“And now, to placate a nation, whose sovereignty we violated, Taylor seeks to rush through a long-dormant and controversial arms deal.”

Duke Patrick’s energy and vitality visibly grew the more he pontificated for the cameras.

The White House

“He said what?” Morgan Taylor exclaimed after Bernsie briefed him.

“The F-18s deal to Brazil. The Ford factory. He laid it all out and invented a few other things that we’ll have to answer for.”

“That son of a bitch,” the president shouted. “How?”

“All right on the air. He’ll use the House Appropriations Committee as a platform to kill it.”

“That was revealed in a closed-door session.”

“Apparently with a wide open window,” John Bernstein replied. “And a wide open mouth. Is the man that crazy?”

“No,” Taylor stated. He’s crazed. A megalomaniac who’s very short on memory. For God’s sake, we successfully prosecuted a dangerous mission without inflicting any U.S. military casualties, and we’ve begun to restore a semblance of order right here. Christ sake, does anyone have a bullet left I can use?”

“Mr. President!”

“A turn of a phrase, Bernsie. Some dirt for your autobiography.” Still, Morgan Taylor slammed his fist on his desk and stood abruptly.

“He just couldn’t keep his goddamned trap shut. He couldn’t stay out of the limelight. Not even for two weeks. Unbelievable. He couldn’t let things rest.”

“He still wants to be president,” Bernsie offered. “That urge is unstop…” the chief of staff caught himself.

“Say it, Bernsie. Say it.”

“Unstoppable.”

“Oh, you’re wrong. I’m going to stop him starting today.”

“You can’t be thinking…?”

“Christ, Bernsie, I’m not going to kill the man. Just destroy him.” Morgan Taylor seemed to glow with excitement now. “And when I’m through, if he has one ounce of dignity left, he’ll wish I made it quicker and less painful.”

“I’m not sure I should be party to this, Mr. President.”

“Of course you can. We’re going to go public about his association with Slocum and her connections to Haddad and let the press go wild filling in the blanks. Even his closest aides won’t deny how she manipulated him. And while we’re at it, let’s see how many degrees of separation there are between Shaw Aderly and our dead terrorist. I have a suspicion you won’t have to go further than three.”

“But Patrick was being used. He’s not a terrorist,” Bernsie suggested.

“Maybe so. But he’s going down.”