Call to Treason (2004)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 11

  “Senator?” Kat said. “Is he all right?” she asked the bodyguard.

  He did not answer. Kat ran to the senator’s side and squatted in front of him. She took one of his hands in hers. It was cool. “Senator Orr, are you all right?”

  “He can’t answer,” Kendra said. “Mr. Simcox put several drops of sodium thiopental in his drink.”

  “What is that?” Kat asked.

  “A mild anesthesia,” Kendra replied. “It should keep him still for about ninety minutes.”

  “Why?” Kat demanded.

  There was a knock at the door. Kendra waited. The knock was followed by two others. Kendra opened the door to admit Eric Stone. The young man walked in. His expression was serious but unworried.

  “How is everything?” he asked.

  “Perfect,” Kendra said. “What is it like downstairs?”

  “Mild disorder and growing,” Stone replied. He walked over to Simcox and took the gun. “Get him dressed please, Thomas.”

  “Yes, sir,” the bodyguard replied.

  “Thomas?” Kat said.

  “Thomas Mandor,” Stone replied. “A longtime acquaintance of Admiral Link.”

  “What is he, an assassin?”

  “No, Kat. We do not want to kill the senator,” Stone assured her. “We want to get him away from here and have a long talk about William Wilson and about the future. We want to make sure we all have an understanding.”

  Kat rose and approached Stone. He held up his free hand for her to stop.

  “Eric, what is this?” Kat asked. “What are you doing?”

  “We are helping to save the country,” he replied.

  “What are you talking about? The senator is a patriot. And what about Admiral Link? You know him—”

  “The admiral is not the issue. What concerns me right now is Donald Orr,” Stone said. “He is a killer, a belligerent nationalist who appeals to the basest fears of the electorate. He nurtures the kind of suspicion that will one day make us turn on ourselves, on anyone who is different than he is.”

  Mandor returned with a hat, sunglasses, and windbreaker. He began putting them on the senator.

  “Please,” Kat said. “Stop this. Stop before it’s too late.”

  “We are.” Stone moved closer to Kat. “My question to you is this. Will you come with us, or do we leave you here?”

  “Come with you where?”

  “That is not important,” Kendra interjected.

  “Away from here, ostensibly to keep the senator safe,” Stone said. “Yes or no, Kat? Are you coming or staying?”

  Kat looked at the gun. “You wouldn’t shoot me. Not here, not now.”

  “No one will hear,” Stone assured her. “Your answer, please.”

  The woman did not know what to say. The silent barrel of a pistol was more persuasive than Stone’s arguments. The sight had a way of short-circuiting the brain and weakening the legs. It was one thing to believe in an ideal. It was quite another to perish for it. But there was a stubborn part of her soul that did not want to be bullied. Especially when she and the senator had worked so hard to get here.

  The brief, internal debate was resolved a moment later when a third option presented itself.

  One that no one had anticipated.

  FIFTY-THREE

  San Diego, California Wednesday, 4:44 P.M.

  The low hum, more tangible than audible, came upon them suddenly. The windows began to wobble before anything else. That caused the drawn drapes to shake. A few moments later, everyone felt the vibrations.

  The nearly sixty-foot-long AH64-D Apache Longbow helicopter lowered itself sideways beside the hotel. The sun threw its stark shadow against the drapes. The Longbow looked like a mosquito, with its slightly dipped rotors and stubby wings set against a long, slender body, a large General Electric T700-GE-701 turboshaft engine mounted high on each side of the fuselage.

  The helicopter rotated slowly so that its 30 mm automatic Boeing M230 chain gun was pointed toward the room.

  “Christ in heaven,” Stone muttered as the aircraft turned.

  He started toward the door just as the knob and lock popped loudly, and the door flew in along the hinges. Mike Rodgers stepped through the acrid smoke of the C-4 blast. He was followed by a small complement of marines. The marines were all carrying MP5-N assault rifles. Several of them moved toward Thomas Mandor and Kendra Peterson. They directed the two toward the bedroom. Neither of Stone’s companions protested. Two of the marines remained with Mike Rodgers.

  “Put your weapon down!” Rodgers ordered as he walked toward Stone. He had to shout to be heard over the beat of the Apache that had ferried them to the rooftop. Rodgers expected to be using it again shortly.

  The USF officer hesitated, but only for a moment. He turned the gun from Kat to Senator Orr.

  “Don’t!” Kat screamed.

  “You are leaving me no choice!” he replied.

  “I am,” she said. She edged toward the senator. “We can talk about your concerns. We’ve done that before, all of us.”

  “It’s too late,” Stone said.

  “Eric, have you actually killed anyone?” Rodgers asked as the marines filled the room.

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Then don’t start now. I know you think there’s no other choice. People in an emotional situation often think that. But it isn’t true.”

  “You don’t understand!” Stone said. He gestured angrily at Orr with the gun. “This man is evil!”

  “This man is a United States senator, and you are not his judge!” Kat yelled.

  Slowly, the woman sat beside Orr. She was obviously attempting to place herself between the handgun and the senator. That was a sweet gesture, but at this range, Stone would take both of them out before Rodgers could reach him. That left just one option, and the general did not want to use it.

  “Kat is right,” Rodgers said. “You may get jail time for whatever you’ve done till now, but it beats having these boys cut you down.”

  “You tell me not to kill by threatening to kill me?” Stone laughed. “You’re as twisted as Orr!”

  Rodgers continued to move closer to Stone. The young man was standing sideways, the gun aimed down. He scowled, angry, cornered. In hair trigger situations like this, it was important to be determined without being overly aggressive.

  “Let’s stop thinking about who can kill who,” Rodgers suggested. He extended his left arm slowly and opened his hand. “Let’s do as Kat suggested and talk this thing over. Give me the weapon so we can start to ratchet this thing back.”

  Stone said nothing. Often, that meant the individual was ready to capitulate. It was usually noticeable in a softening of the tension around the mouth and eyes, in the sinew of the neck. Unfortunately, none of that was happening here. The thumping of the helicopter probably was not helping Stone to think straight.

  “I’ll tell you what, Eric,” Rodgers said. “I’m going to have Lieutenant Murdock, who is standing right behind me, get on the radio. He’ll send the helicopter away. It will be easier to talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk!” Stone cried. “I want to finish what we started!”

  “What who started?” Rodgers asked.

  “The admiral, Kendra, and myself.”

  “What did you start?”

  “The counterprocess,” Stone said. “That was the code name the admiral devised. It was his idea, and it was the right idea!”

  The young man was under both internal and external stress. More than intent and desire, physical strain could cause the handgun to discharge. Rodgers had to take precautions. He held his right arm straight down, the index finger pointed toward the floor. That was a sign to the marines. If the general crooked his finger, that meant to ice the target. If he raised his arm again, it meant to stand down.

  “Talk to me about the counterprocess,” Rodgers said.

  “It was conceived to work within the senator’s plan.”

  “Like a virus or a m
ole,” Rodgers said.

  “Yes.”

  “What was the senator’s plan?”

  “To kill his enemies,” Stone replied.

  “That’s a lie!” Kat shot back.

  “Let him talk!” Rodgers cautioned.

  Rodgers watched Stone’s grip on the handgun. There was no change. The general continued to walk toward him.

  Stone turned slightly to address Rodgers directly. “Killing William Wilson was Orr’s idea,” Stone said. “Kat fleshed it out. It was a way of drawing attention to a problem and solving it at the same time.”

  “The problem of anti-American economic activities,” Rodgers said.

  “Exactly.”

  “How do you know the senator was behind the killing of Mr. Wilson?” Rodgers asked. He wanted to draw Stone deeper into conversation, focused on him and not on the senator.

  “Orr told the admiral, and the admiral told me,” Stone said.

  “Did you ask the senator yourself?” Rodgers asked.

  “Why bother? He would have lied to me. Anyway, the admiral never lied. Not to me.”

  Rodgers was just a few paces away. “If this is true, I need you to tell me everything. Then I can pass it along to Op-Center.”

  “Op-Center!” Stone snarled. He turned a little more. “They were the ones who screwed this up for all of us—”

  Rodgers saw an opening and took it. Stone had raised his arm slightly so the Glock was pointed away from both Donald Orr and Kat Lockley. Rodgers reached across Stone and grabbed the man’s right wrist with his own right hand. He forced the gun toward the floor as he simultaneously swung his left hand toward the gun. Rodgers pressed left with his right hand, against the back of Stone’s forearm, and right with his left hand. Stone’s wrist snapped audibly. The gun hung loosely in his trembling fingers, and Rodgers snatched it.

  The marines moved in. One of them secured Stone by pushing him facedown on the carpet. The other ran to look after Kat and the senator. He told Kat to call downstairs for the hotel physician. Rodgers picked up the Glock.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing!” Stone said.

  “Saving you from death by lethal injection, I think,” Rodgers replied. He motioned for the marine to let Stone sit up. Then the general crouched beside him. “Where is Admiral Link?”

  “I don’t know,” Stone replied.

  “I don’t believe you,” Rodgers replied. “You were filibustering outside the hotel while his limo was being hijacked. You wanted to keep me from seeing anything.”

  “That doesn’t mean I know where he went,” Stone said.

  Rodgers shook his head. “Don’t you get it? The counterprocess is over. Whatever it is, whatever it was supposed to be, this whole thing is done. Cooked. The only way you save any part of your own ass is by cooperating.”

  “I believe that what we have done is right,” Stone replied. “And I won’t rat out my boss. Neither will Ms. Peterson.”

  “This gentleman says he will,” said a voice from the bedroom door.

  Rodgers looked over. The other male member of Stone’s party was standing there. His short marine guard was behind him, the assault rifle lowered. There was something contrite in the manner of the big man.

  “Who are you?” Rodgers asked, rising.

  “Thomas Mandor, sir.”

  “What is your role in all this?” Rodgers asked.

  “Just muscle,” Mandor replied.

  “He was hired by Admiral Link’s staff, supposedly as a personal security officer for the senator,” Kat said bitterly.

  “I was hired by Mr. Stone, but to escort the senator to another location,” Mandor said. “And I happen to know where Admiral Link is.”

  “I’m listening,” Rodgers replied.

  “My partner has him. If I tell you where they are, can we cut some kind of deal?”

  “No,” Rodgers said. “If you don’t, I’ll do my damnedest to make sure the state of California adds obstruction of justice to whatever else you may have done.”

  Mandor considered that for just a moment. Then he told Rodgers where Kenneth Link had gone.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  San Diego, California Wednesday, 5:15 P.M.

  Rodgers and his marine unit charged back up the stairs to the roof of the hotel. They left Stone, Kendra, and Mandor in the custody of the local police. The three were charged with assault, a felony weapons charge, and conspiracy to kidnapping. Kat remained with Senator Orr and the hotel physician. Rodgers had questions for Kat, but this was not the time or place to pose them. He needed more information and suspected that only Kenneth Link had it.

  Thomas Mandor had directed them to a cabin in the mountains of nearby Fallbrook. The pilot phoned the address to the county sheriff. The marine explained that they needed to get to the site without the chopper being seen or heard, which meant landing some distance away. He said that he did not need backup, just a spotter, someone to point out the residence. The sheriff sent Deputy Andy Belmont ahead to meet them. He said the young man would be waiting in an open field at elevation 1963 feet, three miles due northwest of the Mission Road exit in the foothills of the Coastal Range. That was just a quarter mile or so from the target. The dispatcher said that Deputy Belmont was familiar with the area and also had met Mr. Richmond. He would be able to point out the cabin. The pilot was told to look for a black Jeep with a large white star on the hood.

  The Apache flew over Highway 163 and then followed 15 east. The pilot kept the helicopter under five hundred feet. Navy fighter pilots trained along this corridor, and he did not want to risk a collision. He ascended when he reached the foothills. Rodgers was sitting behind the pilot, watching for the deputy’s Jeep. There was one marine to his right and three more in the snug jump seats behind them. They were actually more like paddles, recent additions to the Longbows that allowed them to shuttle small special ops units into hostile territory. The seats, even the fixed ones, vibrated like those old quarter-fed motel beds, and removing the headphones was guaranteed to leave a passenger’s ears ringing for a week. This was not an aircraft designed for comfort. As the pilot proudly put it, “The Longbow was built for roughing things up.” In addition to the chain gun, the helicopter could be equipped with air-to-surface Hellfire missiles on four-rail launchers and air-to-air Stinger missiles. This particular Apache did not carry Stingers. Part of that was a virtue of the quick launch protocol the crew had used to reach Rodgers as quickly as possible. Part of that was to protect the civilian population in the event technical failure brought the chopper down.

  The pilot spotted the Jeep first and swung toward it. He set the Apache down two hundred yards away. Rodgers opened the door and ran over. The deputy climbed from the Jeep and offered his hand.

  “You must be General Rodgers,” the deputy said.

  “That’s right.”

  “It’s a pleasure, sir,” Belmont told him. “What do you need from me?”

  “Tell me about the target,” Rodgers said.

  “It’s a traditional log cabin set back about three hundred yards from a ridge,” the deputy told him. “There are oaks all around—a real firetrap, but shady. May I ask what’s going on there?”

  “Hostage situation,” Rodgers replied. “What is the best way in?”

  “Are you looking to surround and siege or charge it?” Belmont asked.

  “We’re going in.”

  “There are more windows on the north side, the ridge side,” the deputy told him. “You’ll be safer coming in from the south.”

  “Is there someplace closer to set down for extraction?”

  “There’s a three-acre clearing off the point, just above the cabin,” Belmont told him. “Good surveillance point, too.”

  “Great. Can you walk us there?”

  “It will be an honor,” Belmont assured him.

  Rodgers gave the deputy an appreciative clap on the shoulder, then ran back to the Apache. Gathering his team, Rodgers told the pilot to get airborne and remain over the
field. As soon as the marines had secured the cabin, one of them would direct the pilot to the point. If Link were here, as Mandor had said, Rodgers wanted to get him into custody as soon as possible. The way people were getting drugged, the general wanted to make sure he had at least one live and conscious USF official.

  Hopefully, it was one who could be convinced to tell him what the hell was going on.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Fallbrook, California Wednesday, 6:00 P.M.

  Eric Stone had said that based on the photographs he had seen, the isolated mountaintop cabin reflected the personality of the owner. Like Michael Wayne Richmond, it was rough, uncomplicated, and a little dangerous.

  The two-room structure was small and dark. The hardwood floors were warped from groundwater that percolated from below and the old, beamed ceilings were stained from seeping rain. The many framed oil paintings of trucks, done by Richmond, were lopsided due to regular seismic activity. In the front, the four-pane windows looked out on a thickly weeded field that ran to a private dirt road. In the back, the windows offered views of steep slopes spotted with huge, precariously balanced boulders. A strong Santa Ana wind caused the branches of oaks on the sides of the house to scratch the roof insistently.

  There were field mice in the attic. They had become active since the sun started to set. There was mostly beer, processed meat, and cheese in the refrigerator. The bread was stale. When it was dark, Kenneth Link would send Richmond out to get real food. Richmond would take his SUV, not the van they had used to get here. That was in the freestanding garage. If anyone had seen Richmond transfer his “captive” from the limousine, investigators would not find the other vehicle. Certainly not before the next night, when Link would manage to get away. He would leave here while Richmond was placing a call to the press, claiming to represent Far Eastern extremists. That would represent the first blow against the USF. The last thing Americans wanted was to make new enemies among radical terrorists. His hands bound, Link would make his way down the mountain path. He would run, fall, and scrape himself to make it look as if the escape had been a daring one. When Link finally reached the freeway, he would be saved. Then, after a manfully short hospital stay, the admiral would address the USF convention. He would ask the attendees to pray for the well-being of Senator Orr. When that was done, he would sit down with Eric Stone. If Orr had agreed to retire from the USF, he would be released. If Orr refused to cooperate, there would be widespread mourning about his disappearance and presumed death. In either case, Kat Lockley and Lucy O’Connor would be implicated in the deaths of William Wilson and Robert Lawless. He had no doubt that Kat would fall on her sword to protect Orr. The only one Link felt bad for in all this was poor Lucy. She had been used. But then, she had let ambition fog her judgment.