Cobra Clearance

by Richard Craig Anderson

  The private woodland community of Ocean Pines, Maryland was three hours from D.C. by car. Kruger drove through the darkened neighborhood with purpose. He’d encountered few problems getting here.

  The GPS had brought him straight to the address he sought. He noted the overcast skies and the absence of street lighting and smiled. He might not have brought down the Zionist president, but he would take out the Jewish wife of Levi’s friend—and their Jewish children. He would win at least one battle today.

  Kruger turned down the final street, killed the headlights and drifted to a stop. It was a few minutes after nine. He held up a pair of 7x50 night binoculars and checked his target. The home sat on a wooded lot at the end of a cul-de-sac. A bit of light escaped from an upstairs window. That would be the younger boy’s room. Nicholas. He studied the first floor. Sheer curtains covered the living room window, but he saw the silhouette of an adult female moving through the room. The Jewess. The shorter profile would be the older son. Kruger had a special plan for him. He wanted Mr. Levi to see the results of what he would do to his namesake. “I said we’d skin you alive,” he whispered. “I’ll skin the boy, instead.” Excitement surged through him. “Hmm. Both boys.”

  Kruger stepped from the car. He spent several minutes listening and watching in the shadow of a mature oak. He lifted his nose to the night air and inhaled. He looked into the trees as the clouds parted, revealing a full moon. The moonlight troubled him. Made it too easy to be seen. Then he started forward. He’d taken but three steps when he heard a dull thunk. He looked down at his feet and stiffened in disbelief at the sight of Brian’s frayed red dog collar. Where had that come from? He’d heard nothing.

  “Hands in the air,” Levi said in a low voice.

  Kruger spun and looked into the face of the man who had found him against all odds.

  Levi had on black BDUs and dark socks, but no shoes. He wore a black watch cap low over his forehead and his piercings were gone. He also carried a pistol and badge on his waist. He pointed a finger at Kruger. “Hands on your head.”

  Kruger complied. Anything to buy time. He even took a step forward to close the distance. “I have to hand it to you, Levi. You’re good.” He gauged his chances. “I’m betting you never killed Jackson, either. Yep, you’re a real pro.”

  “Don’t even try it, Kruger.”

  “Why not? I’m a better shot than you’ll ever be.”

  “Then I guess that’s where you’ve got me.” Levi leaned forward at the waist in a shooter’s stance. His hands went to the ready. “Because you see, I might just miss that tiny space between your eyes, and take out your left anterior frontal lobe instead. Then you’ll be a blithering, drooling mental patient for the rest of your life.”

  Kruger sneered. “After I kill you I’m going into that house. The Jew bitch can watch while I skin her sons alive. Then I’ll go to work on her with a blowtorch.”

  “You’re under arrest,” Levi said in a dead-calm voice. “You’re surrounded. Keep your hands on top of your head and drop to your knees. Do it now.”

  “What a load of bull. There’s nobody else here. Even if there were, I’ll still get you before they can stop me. And you know I can do it.”

  “Surrender, Kruger.” Levi raised his voice and said, “Light him up.” Four laser beams instantly zeroed in on Kruger’s chest from both sides of the wooded area.

  Kruger noted the red dots, then examined his nemesis through the seven yards that separated them. Eric can’t win. He’s done too much heroin to win.

  “Kruger? I’ve killed men in gunfights. You haven’t. I’ve got the edge.”

  “Edge? You have no edge.” Kruger’s gun hand became a blur.

  So did Levi’s.

  A gunshot ripped the still night air apart.

  “He’s down,” the tac team leader yelled. Emerging from behind a tree, the state trooper kept his M-4 with its surefire light leveled at the body and spoke into his boom mic. “Runk here. I’m clear.”

  Six troopers echoed “clear” as they materialized from all sides.

  Levi de-cocked his P-229, then lowered it from the high-ready and holstered it in one practiced motion. After taking a deep breath he stepped forward.

  The tac team leader’s helmet light revealed a neat entry hole through the bridge of Kruger’s nose. The trooper moved his head until his light illuminated the blood flowing from what remained of Kruger’s skull. He quipped, “Looks like a snake got hold of his nose.”

  “Yeah,” Levi said in a quiet voice. “A cobra, in fact.”

  Hacksaw and Dentz burst out of Michael’s front door seconds later. Levi was all business as he said to Dentz, “Get me an update.”

  Dentz yanked off the woman’s wig he was still wearing and made two calls. A minute later he announced, “I’ve informed Baker. Nadia and the boys are at the state police barracks. Sawyer’s with ’em.”

  “And Michael? Tucker?”

  “Still in surgery.”

  Levi nodded. Then he nudged Kruger’s body with his big toe and said in a low tone, “You. Were not. Going to kill. Someone’s wife and children. Not while I was here.”

  EPILOGUE

  Three days later, President Cohen strode through the back entrance of George Washington University Hospital. Heath Baker met him and led the way. “I’m still in shock,” Cohen said. “The initial prognosis called for a complete recovery, and yet Mr. Tucker is gone.”

  Baker’s original plan had called for the cancellation of the May Eighth ceremony, in exchange for a publicized helicopter departure from the South Lawn for the short hop to Andrews—enough to whet the appetites of Kruger and Amahl. At the same time, the immediate vicinity was to be roped off to keep innocent bystanders away—an act they would justify by claiming an unlucky scheduling of pesticide spraying. Once the deadly business began, Cohen’s double would step outside, then turn as if he’d been summoned for an urgent matter and start back toward the White House.

  All that changed when Kruger moved up the attack to an unknown date. Cohen vetoed the Service’s request to put the White House and its vicinity on a long term lock-down, stating that it would satisfy a major goal of terrorism—the disruption of daily activities. There would be some tourists in the area to be sure, but since Kruger’s plan called for an attack on the South Lawn, and because they had knowledge of the Mack dump truck, they performed a risk assessment based upon those criteria. As strategists they also allowed for Murphy’s Law, but the goal remained clear—to carry on business as usual while luring Amahl and Kruger into their trap. Cohen had insisted on taking the sole risk, but Baker convinced him to rely upon a Marine colonel look-alike who would be whisked away to draw fire, while Cohen strolled toward safety as if he were the double.

  “Thanks to Dragon Team we nailed Amahl,” Cohen said. “Even the helicopter crews made it out safe, as did my double. What a brave, brave man.”

  The president grew quiet when they reached Michael’s room. After embracing Nadia he whispered something to her, then turned to the two sons. “I am so very proud of your father. Someday you’ll understand.”

  Levi Bailey said, “Thank you for coming to visit our dad, sir.” Wrapping an arm around his younger brother’s shoulders, he urged him forward. “Go on, Nick. You shake his hand first.”

  The president beamed as he shook their hands. Then he bent over Michael, who was conscious but on a ventilator. Cohen said, “You’ve done well with your life, Mr. Bailey. Very well.”

  Twenty minutes later the limo and its escorts turned into the long curving driveway of the Key Bridge Marriott. The lanyards on the bare flagpoles snapped in the blustery winds. Gray clouds threatened rain at any moment. There were no crowds to greet the President of the United States, just security personnel. The limo stopped. Agents formed their protective box. Then he stepped from the car and went to a lone figure waiting nearby. He asked, “How are you today, Mr. Hart?”

  Levi Hart had on a beige London Fog over a beautifully tailor
ed black pinstripe, and gleaming Bally lace-ups. His blue tie, knotted rakishly against his starched collar, matched the color of his eyes. A shadow of auburn hair was sprouting across his entire scalp. The tattoo on his forehead was gone, the henna scrubbed away.

  The president gripped his hand while he studied Levi’s headgear. “I like it.” He touched the yarmulke, then swept his fingertips along Levi’s forehead. “I saw photos of your tattoos. Quite gruesome. I’ve asked my brother to remove the real one. He’s a fine plastic surgeon and he’s assured me that there’ll be no traces left when he’s finished.” He paused. “I’ve been told you already have a surgeon in mind, but please let my brother do this for you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m grateful.”

  “I read the reports. I saw how it was for you, what you sacrificed personally. And yet you prevailed.” Cohen paused when Levi tried but failed to smile. “You’re distressed but you don’t wish to burden me. Out with it.”

  “I hope you’ll excuse me, Mr. President. I’m concerned about my friend. And then there’s Joe Tucker.”

  Cohen clamped a hand down on Levi’s shoulder. “Of course.”

  The president turned somber. “If you’re ready?” After pulling Levi next to him they adjusted their feet until they stood on the exact spot where President Melchior had died. “Now we will say a proper Kaddish for our lost leader.” Cohen put on a yarmulke and draped a fringed silk shawl, the tallith, around his shoulders. Then he closed his eyes and intoned, “Yitgaddal veyitqaddash shmeh rabba Be ‘alma di vra khir’uteh…” He continued for another five lines, then paused and waited.

  Closing his eyes, Levi began the response. “Yehe shmeh rabba mevarakh le ‘alam ul ‘alme ‘almaya…”

  They spoke the remainder of the prayer, then said a Kaddish for Tucker. When they finished Cohen embraced Levi and asked, “I wonder—would you mind if I ask something else of you?”

  “I’m at your service of course, Mr. President.”

  “This isn’t a call to duty, but a personal request.” As the first raindrops began to fall he dug into a pocket and produced a simple Star of David on a thin gold chain. “This was my son’s…” He cleared his throat. “Now it’s my most treasured possession. I want you to have it.”

  Levi inclined his head and waited while the president fastened the thin gold chain around his neck.

  President Mark Cohen stepped back. “You are a member of my family. And I, a member of yours.” In a firm voice he declared, “Now our families live.”

  Levi jammed a hand to his eyes as if to shield them from a brilliant light and whispered, “Now they live.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Extremist groups are a reality and they are accurately portrayed within the context of this story. A Class One Authorization for undercover roles is correct as described. Elsewhere, I altered certain facts and operational tactics in the interests of National security and officer safety. The opening scene assassination scenario is a real possibility. However, there are classified safeguards in place to detect weapons in close proximity to the president.

  The Tactical Pistol Course is used by designated units within the U.S. government, and the descriptions of Dragon Team’s shooting abilities are authentic. The scene in which Joe Tucker stands next to a target, while Levi Hart shoots two stick figures with blazing speed is based upon first-hand knowledge of an actual practice session.

  Fannex exists. The interior descriptions and security measures, though modified for the purpose of this work, are realistic. The TS/SCI protocols that Dragon Team followed are genuine. Finally, the teams are out there—a shadow force of men and women watching, waiting and taking action while we sleep.

  CQD® is a registered trademark of Dieter’s Close Quarters Defense®, Inc. and is used herein by permission.

  Avwatch® is a registered trademark of Avwatch, Inc. and is used herein by permission.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and foremost I want to thank my editor Jean Jenkins for her steadfast loyalty toward this story. Jean pushed my buttons often, knowing that while it sometimes hurt, the story would be better as a result. My faith in her was absolute, and our friendship knows no bounds.

  A big thank you goes out to Levi Bailey (one of Southern California’s Finest), to S. Eric Briggs and to Quenton Josey for their inspiration and their generosity in lending bits of themselves to the story. I also want to express my gratitude to Robert Tanenholz, Barbara Sack, William Martinez, Louis Deanda, George Schmalhofer, Jr. and Michael Shevock for their insights and suggestions.

  Finally, here’s to retired agent and advocate for justice, Mark L. Cohen, Attorney At Law, for his assistance and friendship at a time when I needed it most.

  Richard Craig Anderson started out as a fire fighter in 1971, became a highly decorated Maryland State Police trooper, and went on to accept a position as a counter-terrorist operative. An accomplished aviator and world-class scuba diver, Rick has enjoyed a life well-lived, thanks to the relationships and friendships he’s made along the way—and that includes Kobi, his Rhodesian Ridgeback.