Term Limits

by Vince Flynn

  McMahon heard the sound of an approaching helicopter and looked up to see one of the shiny green-and-white presidential VH-3s approaching. The large helicopter swung in over the bridge and descended, its churning rotors blowing sand into the air. McMahon turned away, shielding his face from the flying debris. When the bird touched down, the pilots cut the engines and the swooping sound of the blades lessened. The swirl of sand started to subside and McMahon turned to see Jack Warch approaching. McMahon extended his hand and greeted the younger man. “I’ll bet you’ve had better days, Jack.”

  Warch shook his head and frowned. “This ranks with the worst of them.”

  McMahon grabbed Warch by the shoulder. “Come on, let me show you what we’ve found.” McMahon led Warch over to the side of the bridge and pointed down at Jennings and the other two agents. “My agents found a small, gray metal box with a dish attached to the top and a piece of wood with some vertical tubes. Both have batteries and transponders attached, so it would appear that they were activated by remote control. Which of course means the people we’re after are long gone.”

  “Can I take a look at the stuff?” asked Warch.

  “Not yet. I have a special evidence team and a mobile crime lab on the way. I want to keep the area as sterile as possible until they get here.” Warch nodded and McMahon changed gears. “Jack, how did they know which helicopter he was on?”

  “I have absolutely no idea. We didn’t even know until just minutes before he took off.”

  “How did they know which route he would take to Camp David? Don’t you guys send all the choppers along different flight paths?”

  “Yeah, they all fly in different directions, but this was not the route they were supposed to take.”

  McMahon had a confused look on his face. “Well, how did they end up down here?”

  “Right now we think they were forced to fly into the river valley.”

  “How?”

  “Do you have a map of D.C.?”

  McMahon said yes and the two walked over to the car. Skip retrieved a map from the glove box and spread it out on the trunk, using his gun, handcuffs, and digital phone to weigh down three of the four corners.

  Warch pointed to the White House and said, “The squadron commander tells me that when the group left the White House, they were lit up by fire-control radar from the south. About ten minutes ago my people found a small, gray box with a radar dish. It was concealed inside a Washington Post newspaper box on the corner of Fourteenth and Constitution.” Warch tapped his finger on the spot just a block to the south of the White House. “The group took evasive maneuvers and fled to the north. About ten seconds after they were lit up by radar to the south, they were lit up again by radar to the north and east. The helicopters headed west away from the threat, and as they approached the Potomac, they were lit up again from the west. The squadron commander tells me his boys are trained to head for the weeds when something like this happens, and that a river valley offers the perfect protection because they can dive below the radar and an approaching missile. So when these guys reached the Potomac, they went for cover and headed in the only direction that they hadn’t been threatened from . . . to the northwest.” Warch took his hands and set them on the map forming a V, the base located at the White House and the open end at the Chain Bridge. “They created a trap and drove the helicopters into it.”

  “So what happened when they got here? Did they fire a missile?”

  “Supposedly the pilots thought they were in the clear. They have threat sensors that tell them when a missile is locked onto them, and I guess they make this screeching noise. Well, when they dove into the river valley, these things stopped screeching and they thought they’d avoided the threat, and then all of the sudden these red streaks pop up in front of them and the threat sensors start screaming again. The lead escort thought they were missiles and he broke formation.” Warch shook his head in frustration. “Which he’s not supposed to do. The whole idea behind this strategy is that the escorts are supposed to protect the president’s bird, and if need be, take the hit.”

  McMahon put his hands up in the air, palms out. “Hold on a minute. I’ve got a bunch of people telling me they saw a missile, and I’ve got some other people telling me that they were flares. I’m inclined to believe the second group because no one reports hearing an explosion, and my agents found several warm but burned-out flares. Now, what do your pilots tell you? Were there missiles launched or not?”

  “The other pilots don’t think so. They say they were flares.”

  Perplexed, McMahon shook his head.

  Warch said, “I don’t get it either. The pilots that were flying Marine One said they were dead meat. . . . They said that when the lead escort broke formation, they thought they were going to be blown out of the sky. We’re either very lucky or these terrorists screwed up somewhere.”

  McMahon stared at the horizon and rubbed his forefinger across his lips as he sifted through the new information. A short while later he announced, “We’re missing something. . . . Something doesn’t fit here. Why go to all of that effort and not take a shot?” Both of them pondered McMahon’s question, and then McMahon shook the dazed look out of his eyes and said, “We’ll have time for this later. How’s the president?”

  “My people tell me he’s pretty shook up. I guess the ride was rough.” Warch stopped and his jaw tensed. “They also tell me that damn Stu Garret is on one of his rampages, yelling at everyone and demanding answers. . . . This whole stupid thing was his idea from the start.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told them I didn’t think having the meeting at Camp David and moving the president was worth the risk.” Warch brought his hand up to his eyes and said, “I’ve had it up to here with Garret.”

  “Jack, let me give you a little piece of advice. There’s only one way to deal with a jerk like Garret. You meet him head-on, and you don’t take any crap. Half the reason why he’s the way he is, is because people let him get away with it.”

  “Believe me, I’ve thought about punching his ticket more than once, but I like my job too much.”

  McMahon was about to add another editorial comment on the behavior of Garret when he heard Kathy Jennings yell from below. McMahon and Warch looked over the edge of the bridge.

  Jennings craned her neck upward and held a digital phone in her outstretched hand. “Hey, Skip, I just got off the phone with some Air Force people over at the Pentagon. I read them the serial numbers off this thing and they say it’s one of ours. It’s an older-model radar unit that they used to put in the nose cones of fighters like the F-4 Phantom.”

  Warch and McMahon traded glances, and McMahon yelled back down, “Did you ask them how someone would go about getting their hands on one of them?”

  “Yeah, they said there’s thousands of them available on the surplus-military-hardware market.”

  “I assume they keep records of what they do with all this stuff.”

  “Yep, they told me they’ll start tracing it for us.”

  “Great,” responded McMahon, and then he continued in a sarcastic voice, “By the way, you didn’t happen to find any unused missiles down there, did you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “All right, good work.” McMahon turned back to Warch. “Well, at least it’s a start.”

  “Yeah, listen, I’ve got to get out to Camp David and brief the president on what happened. Give me a call if you find anything out, otherwise let’s plan on talking later.”

  “Will do.”

  During Warch’s short flight to Camp David, he’d prepared himself for what he knew was an assured confrontation with Garret. He thought about the way the chief of staff had treated Dorle after the Basset assassination and knew he was in for the same treatment. What McMahon said was right, he’d put up with Garret’s reckless and unprofessional abuse for almost three years, and now was the time to put an end to it. He knew exactly how to handle it. It would be kept between him
and Garret, no one else needed to know.

  Special Agent Terry Andrews was waiting for Warch on the porch of the main cabin when the Suburban pulled up. Warch walked up the steps, and Andrews led him over to a more secluded area of the porch.

  Andrews spoke in a low voice. “What have you found out?”

  Warch relayed the discussion he’d had with McMahon and then asked, “How’s the president?”

  “He’s trying to get some rest.”

  “Where is Garret?”

  “He’s in the conference room with Hopkinson trying to figure out how they’re going to spin this story to the media. I was in there just before you landed, and they were debating whether or not they should hold a big ceremony and pin some medals on those Marine pilots. I tell ya, Jack, it takes all the strength I have to not crack that damn idiot across the head. He’s been screaming his head off for the last hour demanding to know what’s going on. He told me the Secret Service is going to pay for this fuckup.”

  “We’ll see.”

  The two men walked into the cabin and down the hall to the conference room. Warch opened the door and entered first. Garret was standing over Hopkinson’s shoulder telling him what to write. He looked up at Warch and pronounced, “It’s about time you got here. You’d better have some answers for me.”

  Warch ignored Garret and looked at Hopkinson. “Ted, would you please excuse us?”

  Hopkinson did nothing for a moment and then started to stand. Garret put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his seat. “Anything you have to say to me, Ted can hear.”

  Warch glared unwaveringly into Garret’s eyes and said, “Not this, this is for your ears only.” The lean Warch took off his jacket, laid it over the back of a chair, and pointed at the door with his thumb. “Ted, please excuse us, this will only take a minute. Terry, you too.”

  Hopkinson got out of his chair, and he and Andrews headed for the door. As they were doing so, Garret snapped, “This had better be good.”

  Warch continued to stare at Garret and said, “Terry, please close the door.” Andrews closed the heavy wood door behind him, leaving Warch and Garret alone.

  Garret stayed on his side of the table and started in. “You’d better have some answers for me. First you guys screw up and get Basset killed, and then you almost get my ass and the president’s blown out of the sky.”

  Garret continued to bark while Warch walked around the table. Warch was just a little shorter than Garret and weighed slightly less. Because of his slight size advantage and position of authority, Garret incorrectly thought there was no reason to physically fear Warch. Instead of backing away, Garret took a step forward and pointed his finger at Warch.

  “Heads are going to roll over this one, Warch, and yours is at the top of the—”

  Before Garret could finish his sentence, Warch grabbed his Adam’s apple and slammed him backward into the wall. Garret stood pinned against the wall, his eyes wide open, and both hands wrapped around Warch’s wrist.

  Warch brought his face to within inches of Garret’s and in a tense, quiet voice said, “Stu, I think it’s about time you and I had a man-to-man talk. I’m finished taking your shit, and my people are done taking your shit! We’re sick and tired of your emotional outbursts! Today’s little ride up to Camp David was your idea! I told you it was an unnecessary risk, but you went ahead and for your own stupid reasons convinced the president that he should have the meeting up here. It was your idea, Stu, so I don’t want to hear you say another word about it, or I’m going to start airing some of your dirty laundry in the press.

  “No heads are going to roll. You are not going to ruin my career or any of my people’s. In fact, you’re gonna start treating them with respect, because if you don’t, I’m gonna leak the story of how you and Mike Nance blackmailed Congressman Moore.”

  Garret’s eyes opened wide, and Warch smiled. “That’s right, Stu, I know all about the little arrangement you and Nance had with Arthur Higgins.” Warch paused to let Garret sweat a little more. “I’ll make a deal with you, Stu. From now on you start listening to me when it comes to security issues. What I say goes, and I don’t want to see any more juvenile tirades. You start treating me and my people with the respect they deserve, and we’ll get along fine. But I’m warning you, Stu, don’t piss me off again, or I’ll turn everything I have over to the FBI. And believe me, there are plenty of people at the Bureau who would love to take a bite out of your ass!”

  20

  MICHAEL WAS PARKED IN FRONT OF A BRICK apartment building in the Adams Morgan neighborhood of D.C. He sat behind the wheel and sipped a cup of piping hot Colombian coffee he had just picked up at the Starbucks two blocks away. He looked down at his digital phone and then up at the Ford Explorer that was parked three cars ahead of him. It belonged to the man he wanted to talk to. O’Rourke had already called up to the apartment twice and had got the answering machine both times.

  O’Rourke was growing impatient. He desperately wanted to talk to the man who lived in the building. He tapped his hand on the steering wheel and guessed that his friend was out for a jog. O’Rourke knew he was in town because he had called his office and checked. Five minutes and half a cup of coffee later, he saw a man with a dark blue baseball cap and a large backpack thrown over his shoulder round the corner.

  Michael set his coffee in the center console and got out of his truck. Straightening his tie, he walked up onto the curb and locked eyes with the man. “You’re awfully hard to get ahold of.”

  The lean individual gave Michael a surprised look. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on the run.”

  “Don’t you get your messages? I’ve called a dozen times in the last three days.” Michael stuck out his hand, and his friend grabbed it.

  “Sorry, I’ve been awfully busy.” The man, who was six years Michael’s elder, adjusted the backpack on his shoulder and glanced up and down the street with his alert eyes.

  Michael looked around. “Am I keeping you from something?”

  “I have a lot to do today, but I can always spare a few minutes for my little brother’s best friend.”

  O’Rourke was warmed by the comment. The man standing before him was Scott Coleman, the older brother of Mark Coleman, O’Rourke’s best friend who was killed a year earlier. Scott Coleman was the former commander of SEAL Team Six, America’s premier counterterrorism unit. He also happened to be the person Michael had been worrying about since last Friday.

  Coleman had left the SEALs almost a year ago after a highly decorated sixteen-year stint. Despite his illustrious career, he did not leave on a happy note. He had lost half of his SEAL team in a mission over northern Libya the previous year.

  Upon returning from the mission Coleman was informed that their assault on a terrorist training camp had been compromised because a high-profile politician had leaked the mission. When his superiors refused to reveal the identity of the politician, Coleman resigned in disgust. O’Rourke had found out through Senator Olson, who was the chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, that Senator Fitzgerald was the person in question.

  Michael had labored as to whether he should tell Coleman. They had grown closer since the death of Mark Coleman, and while on a hunting trip the previous fall Michael finally decided to confide in the warrior. Seamus was right: if they were his men, he would want and deserve to know. Coleman had taken the news about Fitzgerald in silence, and that was the only time he and Michael had discussed the issue. But when Senator Fitzgerald turned up dead a week ago, Michael could only wonder.

  O’Rourke put his hands in his pockets and shifted uneasily. “That was quite a deal with the president’s helicopter this afternoon. You wouldn’t by chance know anything about who might do such a thing, would you?”

  “Nope.” Coleman stared unflinchingly at Michael with his bright blue eyes.

  “Do you remember that hunting trip we went on last year?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you remember that bit of
information I passed on to you?”

  “Yep.”

  Michael returned Coleman’s stare and nodded. After several moments of silence Michael decided to change his approach. “So what do you think about the assassinations?”

  Coleman’s face stayed expressionless. “I’m not doing a lot of mourning, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “No.” O’Rourke shook his head. “I didn’t think you would be. Any idea who might be behind them?”