Term Limits

by Vince Flynn

  “They were saying on the morning news that you cut one hundred billion dollars from the budget. Is that true?” asked Michael in a doubtful tone.

  “You don’t sound like you believe it,” said Olson.

  “I don’t think you can get the two parties together and cut one hundred billion dollars in two days.”

  Olson looked blankly at Michael and then Seamus. “You’d be amazed what people are capable of doing when they’re backed into a corner.” The disgust was openly visible on his face.

  “Erik, what happened up there?” asked Seamus.

  “I promised the president I wouldn’t talk about it.”

  Michael leaned closer to Olson and looked him in the eye. “Erik, if you don’t think you can trust us, this town has really gotten the best of you.”

  Olson looked at Michael and then Seamus, thinking about the close friendship between their two families. Michael’s father had been Erik’s best friend. The O’Rourkes were the most honest people he knew. When they gave their word, they meant it. Olson fidgeted in his chair and leaned forward. Seamus and Michael did the same. “I’ll tell you what happened, but you have to promise me you will tell no one.” Seamus and Michael nodded yes. “That means no one. Especially Liz, Michael.”

  “You have my word.”

  Olson slowly recounted the weekend’s events. Michael and Seamus listened intently and stayed quiet. Five minutes into Olson’s account, lunch was served. The plates were pushed aside as Olson continued to recount the president and Garret’s plan to mislead the public. Olson became more animated and angry as he explained in detail how they were going to actually spend more money and, through accounting gimmicks, say they were cutting the budget. The same was true for the O’Rourkes. The more they heard, the more they strained to keep their mouths shut. When Olson was done, he sat back in his chair and took a large gulp of water.

  Seamus was the first to speak. With his deep, weathered voice he said, “Those bastards all deserve to die.”

  The severity of the comment almost caused Olson to spit his water back up. “You don’t really mean that, do you?”

  “You’re damn right I do.”

  Olson looked to Michael, and Michael said nothing. “Seamus, don’t you think that statement is a little harsh considering recent events?”

  The older of the O’Rourkes repeated his conviction. “Those corrupt bastards deserved to die, too.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “I’m very serious. They were running this country right into the ground, and I couldn’t be happier now that they’re dead.”

  “It doesn’t scare you in the slightest that some group of terrorists has decided to circumvent the democratic process?”

  “One man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.”

  “Did you learn that one from the IRA?” Olson regretted the shot before he’d finished making it. It was not a good idea to provoke Seamus.

  Seamus sat like a rock, his eyes burrowing deeper and deeper into Olson’s, his large fist clenched on top of the table. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” Seamus O’Rourke was financially involved with the Irish Republican Army in the years following World War II. Seamus was born in Ireland and moved to the United States with his parents at a very young age. He believed strongly in Ireland’s right to self-rule and thought Britain’s conquest of Ireland was no different from their conquest of India or any of the other colonies. He supported the IRA’s paramilitary efforts until they started setting off bombs and killing innocent people. That was too much. Fighting for independence like a disciplined soldier was one thing, fighting for it like a cheap thug was another.

  Olson broke the silence. “You don’t really think what these . . . assassins have done is justifiable?”

  “Not only do I think it’s justifiable, I think it’s necessary.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I mean, I know you don’t like politicians, Seamus, but you can’t really believe those men deserved to die.”

  “I do.”

  “Have you lost all faith in the democratic process, in the people’s ability to effect change by voting?”

  “The system has become too complicated and corrupt. Every single candidate lies to get elected and then sells his soul to the parasite special-interest groups who gave him the money to run his campaign. The two-party system has made change impossible. No one’s willing to face the real problems and do what’s right.”

  “I acknowledge that things could be better, but we still have the best leadership and political system in the world.”

  Seamus laughed out loud. “That’s debatable, and even if you’re right, it won’t be true for long.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Look at the numbers, Erik. We’re going bankrupt, both morally and financially. We need some drastic changes, or the most powerful country in the world is going to go the way of Rome.”

  “And violence is the way to bring that change about?”

  Seamus rubbed his chin. “Maybe.”

  Olson shook his head sideways. “Violence is not the answer.” The senator looked out the window as if Seamus didn’t deserve the courtesy of eye contact. “Violence is never the answer.”

  Seamus’s complexion reddened, and he slammed his fist down on the table. The silverware, plates, and glasses shook, and the Secret Service agents at the next table snapped their heads around. Seamus ignored them and leaned toward Olson. “Erik, I don’t mind a healthy debate, but don’t ever use a line of crap like that on me again. I’m not one of your naive college students, and I’m not some little sycophant political activist. I’ve seen people killed, and I’ve killed people in the service of our country. Your idealistic, philosophical theories might fly in the hallowed halls of Congress, but they don’t work in the real world. Violence is a fact of life. There are people who are willing to use it to get what they want, and in order to stop them they need to be met with violence. If it wasn’t for war, or the threat of waging war, people like Adolf Hitler and Joseph Stalin would be running the world, and you would get shot for going around saying stupid things like ‘violence only begets violence.’ ”

  Olson was embarrassed. He was not used to being spoken to in such a manner. The oldest O’Rourke took words more seriously than most people, and Olson had forgotten that the art of debate, as it was practiced in Washington, did not work on men and women who had no time for political posturing. Seamus O’Rourke was not a man to be patronized with political or philosophical slogans. Olson exhaled deeply and said, “Seamus, I apologize. The last couple of weeks have been very hard on me, and I’m not feeling very well.”

  Seamus nodded his head, accepting the apology.

  Olson sat back and rubbed his eyes. “This entire thing is wearing me down.”

  Michael placed a hand on the senator’s shoulder. “Erik, are you all right?”

  “Physically, yes . . . mentally, I’m not so sure.” His hands dropped limply to his lap. “You’re right about the debt, Michael. You’ve been harping on me about it for years, and deep down inside I always knew you were right. I just thought that when things got tough the two parties would put aside their differences and do what was right. Well, I was wrong. Here we are in the midst of the biggest peacetime crisis we’ve seen since the Depression, and what do we do? We come up with some gimmick that’s meant to deceive the American people and these damn assassins!” Olson stopped and shook his finger. “And it’s all the president’s and that damn Stu Garret’s fault! At the one time when we really need leadership, we have none. Those two self-centered idiots are running around taking opinion polls, if you can believe it!”

  Michael nodded. “Oh, I can believe it. They only have one thing on their mind, Erik—how they’re going to win the election next year.”

  “You are absolutely right, and I’m sick of it.”

  “What are you going to do about it?” asked Seamus.

  “I’m going to give th
e president a week to put together a new budget with some real cuts in it, and if he does, I will sign on.”

  “What will you do if he sends this current one to the House?” asked Michael.

  “I will expose it for what it is—a sham.”

  Michael felt a wave of confidence rush over him. With Erik taking the lead on this, the president would be forced to make real cuts. The senior senator looked down at his watch and said, “Damn! My committee meeting starts in five minutes.” Olson looked up for their waiter, who was nowhere in sight. Next he reached for his wallet and Seamus placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Don’t worry, Erik. After what you’ve just told me, I’ll be more than happy to take care of the bill.”

  Olson stood and grinned. Slapping Seamus on the back, he said, “You’re a pain in the ass, Seamus, but I love you. You have a unique and refreshing way of putting things into context. We could use a couple more of you around here just to keep the rest of us on our toes.”

  Michael shook Olson’s hand and said, “Anything you need, call me.” Olson nodded and left. Michael and Seamus watched him leave and then Seamus paid the tab.

  As they walked out onto the sidewalk, the sun was just starting to peek out from behind the clouds. Michael had told Seamus of his meeting with Scott Coleman. Seamus’s only response was, “Stay out of the man’s way. If he’s behind it, we should all be grateful.” Michael thought his grandfather was carrying it a little too far, but for the time being he agreed that it would be best to give Coleman room. If Coleman was behind the assassinations, which Michael had little doubt about at this point, then his fake missile attack on the president’s helicopter was ingenious. He had sent a clear message that no one was out of his reach. Now if Erik could exert enough political pressure on the White House, everything would fall into place.

  They stopped at the first intersection and were waiting for the light to change when Michael turned and saw Senator Olson’s limousine pull out of the underground parking garage a half block down the street. The large, dark car turned toward them, its powerful engine roaring as it pulled out into traffic. Michael watched as it approached, then the highpitched whine of a motorcycle caught his attention. The sleek black bike broke away from the rest of the traffic and raced toward them. The driver and his passenger were both wearing dark helmets and black leather pants and jackets.

  The limo approached the intersection and stopped as the light turned red. The other pedestrians started to walk and then stopped as the highpitched whine of the motorcycle’s engine reverberated off the surrounding buildings. Michael stuck his arm out in front of Seamus and focused on the motorcycle as it raced up the street.

  The dark bike and its riders darted in between the rows of cars that had stopped for the light and continued to accelerate. The bike approached the senator’s limousine, and then, suddenly, the man riding on the back leaned out and tossed a dark bag onto the roof of the limo. The bike continued on, skidding into a hard right turn and slicing through the lanes of traffic.

  Michael looked at the bag and instinctively turned to shield Seamus. The noise was deafening. The roof of the limo imploded, and the tinted windows blasted outward, propelled by bright orange and red flames. The explosion rocked the entire block, throwing the O’Rourkes and the other pedestrians violently to the ground.

  24

  PRESIDENT STEVENS WAS PRESIDING OVER A cabinet meeting when Jack Warch entered the room and walked up behind him. Warch bent over and whispered into Stevens’s ear. Without warning, Stevens slammed his fist down on the table and shouted an expletive. The president stood so quickly he almost knocked his chair over. Pointing at Mike Nance, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table, he yelled, “My office, right now!” On his way toward the door, he slapped Garret on the shoulder and said, “Come on, Stu, you too.” Stevens, Garret, Nance, and Warch filed out of the room, leaving the wide-eyed cabinet members wondering what was going on.

  The distance between the Cabinet Room and the Oval Office was less than thirty feet. Stevens was walking fast and shaking his head. When he reached the door to his office, he abruptly stopped and started back in the opposite direction. Warch, Nance, and Garret stopped as Stevens pointed down the hall and said, “Let’s do this in the Situation Room.” As he passed Mike Nance, he pointed at him and said, “Get Stansfield, Roach, and Tracy over here immediately.”

  No one talked as they followed Stevens down the stairs to the basement. A posted agent opened the door to the Situation Room, and the president, Garret, Nance, and Warch entered. Stevens picked up a remote that was sitting on top of the large conference table and pointed it at the far wall. As the wood panel slid to the side revealing eight television sets, the president looked at the TVs and muttered, “This is unbelievable.”

  Five of the eight TVs were broadcasting images of Olson’s charred limo. Garret looked at Mike Nance, but Nance ignored him. Garret then looked at Stevens and tried to get a read on his temperament.

  Garret attempted to ask a question, but before he could get more than two words out, Stevens said, “Quiet. I don’t want to hear anyone say a word.”

  They all watched the TVs in silence. About five minutes later, Secret Service director Tracy arrived, and he and Warch retreated to the far corner to talk. The president stepped even closer to the TVs and turned up the volume, drowning out the noise of the conversation behind him. Roach arrived a short while later, and Stansfield almost twenty minutes after the call had gone out. After several minutes of Stevens not acknowledging the arrival of the three directors, Garret walked up beside him and said, “Jim, everyone is here.”

  Stevens walked to the head of the table and stood between the rest of the room and the TVs. Looking down the long table, he said, “Sit!” Everyone took a chair and Stevens began squeezing the back of his high leather chair. With a look of utter frustration Stevens asked, “Can anyone tell me how in the hell a United States senator gets killed in broad daylight less than a mile from the White House?”

  No one answered the question. The silence added to the frustration Stevens felt, and a rage started to press its way forward from the back of his head. In a crisp, stern voice Stevens said, “I’ve got some things to say, and I don’t want to hear anyone speak until I’m done.” Pausing for a moment, he put his hands on his hips and closed his eyes. “I want this killing to stop, and I want it to stop right now. I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care what laws have to be bent or broken. I want these bastards caught.” Stevens opened his eyes and looked at Director Roach. “Does the FBI have any suspects?”

  Roach shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “Mr. President, this investigation is not even two weeks old.”

  “Are you any closer to catching these people than you were a week and a half ago?”

  Roach looked back at Stevens but didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.

  “I didn’t think so.” Stevens closed his eyes again, the frustration evident on his face. Without looking up he snapped, “I’m done screwing around. We have to catch these bastards, and we have to do it quickly. I want the CIA and the National Security Agency to get involved. I want surveillance and wiretaps set up on anyone who we think could be remotely involved in this. The FBI can continue to run its investigation through the proper legal channels, but I want the NSA and the CIA to start bugging every phone between here and Seattle.”

  Garret’s eyes opened wide at the mention of wiretaps. He threw his hand up to catch the president’s attention. “Jim, I think we need to talk to the Justice Department before we start running around—”

  “Shut up, Stu. I’m not done.”

  The unprecedented rebuke immediately silenced Garret. He sank back into his chair and Stevens continued.

  “We are in the middle of a crisis, and I’m not going to sit around and wait for the FBI to do this by the book. We don’t have the time. The CIA and the NSA are better equipped to get quick results and do it without raising too much attention. I want phones bugge
d, and I want them bugged now. I want every militia group in the country shaken down for information. If we still think these assassins are former commandos, I want every former commando questioned by the end of the week, and the ones that look suspicious—bug their phones and set up surveillance. I want results, damn it!”

  Garret tried again to dissuade his boss. “Jim, there are some serious legal issues that need to be addressed before we run off half-cocked.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it, Stu. Don’t tell me there aren’t ways to do it. I’ll sign an executive order, I’ll sign a national security directive, I’ll declare martial law if I have to, but I want these bastards caught, and I want it done quickly!” Stevens tossed the remote control onto the table. “Figure out the logistics and make it work. I want the CIA and the NSA involved, and I don’t want any leaks to the press. Am I understood?” All heads in the room nodded yes, and Stevens moved for the door, saying, “Stu and Mike, when you’re done down here, come up to my office.” A Secret Service agent opened the door and the president shouted over his shoulder on the way out, “I want everyone back here at seven A.M. tomorrow, and I want some results.”