Special Access

by Mark A. Hewitt

  She translated, “This is why you let me live.”

  Everyone in the room jumped when Spock energized the bang stick. Static electricity sizzled in the room.

  Nazy’s expression implored him to turn it off and put it away.

  Osama bin Laden sat quietly, thinking. He looked at Hunter, at the det cord, the battery cables, the SEAL, and the black wireless cattle prod.

  Hunter checked his Rolex Submariner. It was 3:35 AM. “Now or never.”

  Nazy didn’t translate.

  “You promise to put me on airplane?” She translated for Hunter.

  “I promise to put you on an airplane. A jet.” He was deadly serious, no emotion. Time’s up, he thought.

  “I don’t know the answer to your question,” bin Laden told Nazy. “I know only his father is Muslim. He’s Muslim. He speaks perfect Arabic, as well as you. He affirmed his Muslim faith. Al-Zawahiri got him Pakistan passports. Al-Zawahiri may know more. He was Bashir’s lover long ago. He worked for or has helped Bashir grow his fortune. Bashir is very proud of his president. That’s all I know. Not sufficient to send soldiers to kill me.”

  “But you planned to kill him?”

  “Yes. The vice president is an idiot. Al-Zawahiri and I thought to have the president killed, and that idiot would follow. As president, the idiot would bring America to its knees. Bashir had a special man who could do it, but he refused. He would do anything to protect his president.”

  The enormity of what he just said was masked by the quiet that followed Nazy’s translation. The group, on the verge of exhaustion, was stunned.

  Osama bin Laden’s eyes pleaded for understanding. “Did I provide the correct answers you were looking for?”

  Hunter listened to Nazy’s translation and nodded. “Tell him, ‘Thank you.’ He did well. Now he has a plane to catch.” He nodded imperceptibly to the SEAL.

  As Nazy translated, relief spread across Osama bin Laden’s face. Spock silently stepped behind the terrorist and covered his nose and mouth with a cloth saturated with chloroform. The old terrorist was unconscious in moments.

  Nazy, exhausted from the marathon interrogation, instantly perked up as OBL thrashed in the chair. “You lied to him.”

  “I wouldn't call it a lie. Let’s say he assumed one thing, and I meant another.”

  “Like Waleed?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Like Waleed.”

  *

  LeMarcus Leonard walked up to the observation deck of the control tower and waited for the jet’s taxi lights to illuminate. “Leave it to an old fighter pilot to say he’d be ready to leave at 0430, and at exactly 0430, he turns on his taxi lights,” he told the dozen geckos near the ceiling of the slanted glass container.

  LeMarcus flipped the runway master switch to On and pushed the big Runway and Taxiway switches forward. Out of the starless night, white edge lights appeared instantaneously. When he looked up from the airfield lighting control panel, he saw the position and anticollision lights of the aircraft he knew to be a white-and-red Gulfstream IVSP already on the taxiway, heading toward the runway. The jet didn’t wait for control tower instructions.

  The pilot taxied to the midfield intersection of the runway, made a gentle left turn to line up on the centerline, and departed Roberts International.

  When the aircraft was obviously airborne, LeMarcus toggled all the lighting switches to Off, took one look around the observation deck, and descended the stairs.

  *

  Osama bin Laden awoke with a massive headache. He tried to lift his head from his chest. His eyes hurt, and his sinuses were on fire. He tried to take inventory of his surroundings but couldn’t identify where he was. It was nearly pitch black.

  He tried to focus on his hands, but it was too dark. Though relieved he could move his hands, he couldn’t see them. The effort made him very tired, and he had difficulty breathing.

  Wherever he was, the air was stale, dusty, and thick. The high humidity smelled of old rubber and mold. Sensing significant pressure on his arms, he tried to move them, but they were restrained. He gave up trying to gain his bearings. It was still dark. He laid his head back on his chest and slept.

  *

  He awoke with a start two hours later, unable to breathe freely, and thought something touched his leg. The sun bore down on him from his left—from an airplane window? Opening his eyes to the bright sunshine was very painful. Recoiling, he slammed them shut.

  He turned his head, squinted, and opened his eyes. He was a little groggy from the chloroform but realized he was in an airplane cockpit. He looked away from the sun streaming in from his left. He was in the pilot seat of a medium-sized airplane. Becoming more aware of his surroundings, he saw he wore a heavy leather seat belt with shoulder straps, and his lap was full of chicken and rice.

  “Did I vomit?” he muttered, swaying from side-toside. His arms and legs were heavily taped to the armrests in the captain’s chair, while his feet and legs were taped to the seat mounts. There was no white cord on his wrist, but he couldn’t move.

  He started to panic. He couldn’t move, and breathing was difficult. He couldn’t fill his lungs with air. Perspiration rippled across his brow and dripped from his nose.

  The early morning sun beat down on him directly through the cockpit windows, magnifying the sun’s thermal energy onto the side of his face, making him hot on one side and cool on the other. Dust particles were suspended in the thick air. Dust rode eddies with every forced breath.

  He squinted, trying to focus on his surroundings while testing the security of his restraints. He saw the instrument panel—three banks of instruments in a column in the middle of the panel suggested he was in a three-engine aircraft. He shielded his eyes from the sun by moving his head away, craning his neck as far to the right as he could.

  His chin touched the socket of his right shoulder. At least his sensitive eyes were away from the sun’s focus.

  “Why am I in this airplane?”

  He noticed the cockpit door was open over his right shoulder. The other seat and instruments were intact, the cushions dark and gray. Everything was covered in dust, as if the cockpit was a time capsule. He looked at the instrument panel to the small placard between the large and small instruments—RA 87573.

  Though he knew he was in an aircraft cockpit, he was unfamiliar with the controls, instruments, or gauges. The numbers and letters were in Cyrillic. Looking for something to free himself from the tape restraints, he inventoried potentially useful items. There was glass in the instruments. His gaze went to the glare shield, where, in his periphery, a wet magnetic compass was mounted.

  He tried to continue his inspection of the cockpit, but the sun was too bright, severe, and painful for his unprotected eyes.

  Between blinks, he tried to focus on another item resting atop and centered from where he sat, partially obscured from the coruscating sunshine coming through the cracked, bubbled cockpit window. Through squinted, watery eyes, he saw the device was vaguely familiar. It had a dark outline, but the direct sunlight prohibited even a momentary glance.

  He leaned forward to get away from the glare of the full sun as best he could, trying a minutely different angle to see what was on the glare shield, but his limited movement didn’t yield the desire results.

  “What is that?” he mumbled.

  It was still completely obscured by the blinding sunlight. He was aggravated that he couldn’t see it. Every attempt to reposition himself to look at it was met by full sunlight in his eyes.

  He looked down at his lap. “Why is chicken and rice in my lap?”

  Then he saw and felt it. The cockpit grew progressively darker, and the thermal pressure of the sun on the side of his face ceased, as a cloud passed between the sun and the aircraft’s window, gradually extinguishing the sun’s fire on his retinas, releasing him from his contorted, bowed position, though still restrained by the pilot seat’s shoulder straps.

  His eyes went to the dark figure centered on the gl
are shield. He stared in confusion, as his jaw dropped. If he knew English he would have been able to read the words on the base of the figure—World Trade Center Twin Towers Statue 9/11 Commemorative Model.

  Fury replaced confusion. Arabic invective and spittle flew around the cockpit, as the cloud passed, bathing the man in bright sunlight again, just as a huge rodent climbed his leg.

  OBL tried to scream and kick it off. The shoulder and lap belts, as well as the tape on the armrests, held him tight. The rat, ignoring the movement and the stifled screams, nibbled at the chicken and rice in the man’s lap.

  Soon, the cockpit was filled with rats.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  0915 June 20, 2011

  National Counterterrorism Center

  The deputy director of the NCTC walked around his desk and offered his hand. “Nazy, it’s so good to see you. It’s been so long. To what do I owe this visit? We’ve missed you around here.” He offered her one of the two chairs before the desk and took the other one to face her.

  “Dr. Rothwell, I plan to post a package for you. It will probably arrive in the mail room tomorrow, maybe Wednesday.”

  “Nazy, why would you have to send me a package?”

  “Because the contents of the package contain several thumb drives of an interview with Osama bin Laden before he died. There are two others that have Agency documents that demonstrate the president isn’t who he says he is and may be an al-Qaeda sympathizer, at best.”

  While the shocked, balding man attempted to assimilate the information, Nazy stood. He made several attempts to speak before finally managing a coherent sentence.

  “How were you able to get that information?”

  “How isn’t the issue. The issue is, I love working here, and I want to continue to do so. I have this information. Some would say it’s ‘golden’ and contains much actionable intel. I need someone I can trust to take it, analyze it, and, as we say, work it.”

  “So you trust me? Well, well, Nazy Cunningham. Maybe this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship. You know I’m very fond of you. I’ve said several times we’d make a dynamite couple.”

  “Yes, you have, Dr. Rothwell, many times. Here’s my offer. You take the intel you receive in the mail and you protect me if my job at the CIA is threatened in any way. I don’t want the question of how I acquired these to be an issue. The NCTC will learn where al-Zawahiri is and how AQ really conscripts martyrs. Our friend Prince Bashir has a network in Europe and the US. This information will be a…how do you say? A big feather in your hat? I want to be left out of this. No exposure.”

  “Of course I’ll protect you. Whatever it takes.” The man was almost slobbering and his eyes raced from Nazy’s eyes to her bosom.

  “For your assistance,” Nazy said, “I won’t file charges against you for your continual sexual harassment. Our relationship is and always will be a professional one. Thank you for your time and consideration, Dr. Rothwell. Good day.”

  Her heels clicked, as she stepped toward the door and left the sitting man agape and crestfallen.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  1230 June 20, 2011

  County Sheriff Department Phoenix, Arizona

  Greg Lynche sat patiently in the waiting area of the hustling office building of the County Sheriff Department. The sheriff was a national figure for his no-nonsense stance on illegal immigration and compliance with the law. Routinely vilified by the political left and the national media, the entire department was always alert for reporters and journalists seeking an audience with the sheriff in order to embarrass him or destroy his career.

  Lynche requested the audience, telling the secretary that he wasn’t a reporter but a citizen with information. “I’m former CIA and in JPAS. I can give you my numbers, and you can check my bona fides.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Jones. I can squeeze you in at noon on the twentieth.”

  Greg, after flying almost forty hours in the past week, flew commercial to the meeting. It was mundane and boring being in first class from Ronald Regan National to Phoenix Sky Harbor, hiding under a sleep mask and sleeping all the way.

  Like all senior law enforcement, the sheriff was a busy man and ran late. Twenty-five minutes later, he rushed past his secretary with a posse of deputy sheriffs trying to keep up. A bigger man in real life than on TV, he consistently barked directions to his staff.

  Lynche felt Hunter should have come. He was more at home with loud, earthy types.

  “Next!” the sheriff hollered from his office at 120 decibels.

  The secretary waved Lynche to the door with a sense of urgency.

  “I don’t have all day!” the sheriff added.

  Lynche scurried in, offered his hand, and showed his ID. “Aren’t you a little out of your jurisdiction, Spook?”

  Greg offered him a black portfolio with a gold PanAm logo in one corner. “Sheriff, here’s a batch of documents from a patriot who was shot down in the performance of his duties. He hoped one day someone would be able to make sense of these.”

  The sheriff gave him a look that meant, I’m not impressed.

  “What are they?”

  “There’s an illegal alien in the White House. These are the documents to prove it.”

  The sheriff’s motions became more measured. Mr. Lynche had his full attention. The big man wearing the big badge leaned back in his chair and stared at Lynche for a moment, sizing up Mr. Jones. “What do you need from me?”

  “My assessment of these is that a crime has been committed. What the nature of that crime may be is out of my purview. I’m an old intel guy, not enforcement. You have the tools to prove if these documents are fake or real. I know they’re real, but the man who collected them so someone could do something about it paid for it with his life. An armor-piercing bullet tore through his heart from over 1,000 yards. He was killed by a Muslim sniper.”

  In his “good-ol’-boy” voice, the sheriff said, “You know I’m under federal investigation for potential civil rights violations, and there’s another separate federal probe accusing me of abuse of power.”

  “Yes, Sir, I’m aware.”

  “Well, I’ll have a look. I love the sound of liberals’ heads exploding. These will surely give them a fucking stroke. Thank you, Mr. Jones, if that’s your real name.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff. You know the drill. We never had this conversation. Good day, Sir.”

  *

  The man leaving the sheriff’s office was never adequately identified. All records of his visit to the sheriff were expunged. No photographic evidence was retained. Any video of the interior of the department with Lynche's presence was subject to a major computer glitch, and the video recorders in the server room all had to be restarted with fresh DVDs. The sheriff snapped the old discs in half over his office trashcan.

  *

  At the end of the day, after a careful review of the newly discovered documents, the sheriff called a press conference to announce he was conducting an investigation into a batch of documents that significantly questioned the immigration status of key individuals in the current administration. His team would use all the forensic tools available at their disposal to determine the authenticity of the documents. An announcement of the department’s findings would be forthcoming.

  A snarky young reporter, with fussy hair that ended in a rat tail, raised his hand at the conference. “Are you suggesting the president is an illegal alien?”

  Other members of the press pool giggled.

  “No. I’m not saying the president is anyone but who we know him to be. It’s just that some of the documents, used in an official capacity, such as the president’s birth certificate, appear to be forgeries. Uttering forged or forging documents is a criminal offense. Someone presented these as official government documents on a government web site affirming their validity."

  “If someone used these documents to secure government services or employment, and the documents are demonstrably false, th
en a crime may have been committed. It’s my job to find out if a crime has been committed. Next question.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  1530 June 20, 2011

  Secret Service Office Western Campus of St. Elizabeth’s, Washington, DC

  Bill McGee approached the security checkpoint and said to Duncan, “How many men in black does it take to protect this little gate? At least six, apparently.”

  A massive hydraulic ram barrier was raised in full defensive mode. It looked as if its maw could crush dump trucks when it wasn’t repelling tanks. Red paint, traffic lights, and gate arms completed the Checkpoint Charlie scene.

  One of the men in black motioned Bill to stop and lower his driver’s window. As the window slid into the door, a menacing fisheye camera lens the size of a softball telescoped to the edge of the vehicle and stopped. All that was missing was eerie music and sound effects in the background, as the device could have doubled as the snake-like probe from The War of the Worlds. The thick Lucite eyeball flashed little red lights around its circumference.

  McGee turned to face the camera, giving the operator a clear shot of his eyes for the iris-recognition system. Flashing red lights turned to steady green, then withdrew like an eel slipping back into its cave. He gave his and Hunter’s driver’s licenses to the man in black shades and black assault regalia—black hat, black Glock, black M-4, black earpiece, and black Secret Service Protection Division patch.

  With a nod from a similarly attired man in black at the computer station in the heavily fortified, sandbagged control van, the face and ID matched the entry clearance personally approved by the director.