“The long story was Marty ran an investigation of me and my guys when we were lieutenants. Some weapons were lost at sea. It was an accident. I told him there wasn’t anything to investigate. He was like me—a young buck full of piss, leading SEALs into all kinds of mischief and mayhem. We were teammates but not close.
“You and I are light years closer by comparison. He had his conclusion, that one of my guys lied about the loss of a sniper rifle and something else, but it was all bullshit. The equipment went right over the side of a LPD, the Denver, when the helo we were going to ride in was in its landing phase. The rotor wash caught the rifle case, and it and a few other things were blown over the side.
“My guys and I were anxious to get on our helo and be on our way, but the wash nearly shoved us and all our equipment over the side, too. We reported it, and Marty wrote his findings to support his conclusion. He didn’t give me the courtesy of telling me he would accuse me or one of my guys of stealing the rifle.
“I got the tape of the landing from the ship, and the video showed the case going over the side. It was a major breach. He was removed from the SEALs. He never apologized that he was wrong. When you went to the head, though, he did. He said he grew up a great deal and did a very stupid thing. He left the Navy and got into the Secret Service. I said he did pretty well for himself.”
“Hmph.”
“He said he was young and dumb from a liberal school, but he grew up during that episode. He wanted to tell me he was wrong but couldn’t do it. He was too embarrassed. He said he’s now very conservative. Protecting the president’s the hardest thing he and his guys have ever done, and the VP is a frigging degenerate.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“Then he surprised me. He said it was obvious that Operation Broken Lance needed to be activated, if he knew anything about such a program.”
They rode in silence, as McGee took the off ramp to the airport terminal road.
Suddenly, Hunter looked at McGee. “POTUS?”
“No. The VP.”
“That’s unexpected. If anyone deserves it, he definitely does. Let me get this straight. Are you saying Lancers are going to take direct action on the VP?”
McGee stared straight ahead. “You know better than that. That subject requires Special Access. Sir, no disrespect, but you aren’t cleared for the program. I know you haven’t been read in on this.”
“But I’m an honorary SEAL.” Hunter was half-joking.
“That may be true, Grasshopper, but you aren’t a Lancer. You did your part. You were wildly successful. We SEALs have to do this. The less you know, the better. You need to track down Bashir.”
“Maybe we can do that. Lynche and I have another mission. We’re off to Djibouti to look for hostages and hostage takers.”
“I’ll make a couple calls on Bashir. See what I can find out.” As the rental pulled up to the American Airline terminal at Reagan National, McGee offered his hand. “Have a nice day, Mr. Hunter. Safe travels, good Sir. Please stay in touch.”
For the very first time that Hunter could remember, McGee saluted Hunter first, as he drove off.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
0900 June 29, 2011
The White House Washington, DC
Three six-foot, red metal disks were rolled into place by the groundskeepers. A fire truck and ambulance and their crew stood at the ready. Sniper teams emerged from the roofs of federal buildings outlining the flight corridor. Specially approved visitors and friends lined up on the lawn for arrival. Eyes strained against the sun, trying to see the immaculate and famous flying machine.
The flight of three green-and-white VH-3Ds from Marine Helicopter Squadron One turned toward the greatest landmark in the District of Columbia. At six miles, the Washington Monument split the center windscreen, as the lead helicopter made a final correction to arrive on target, on time.
“Countermeasures ready,” the copilot said, a US Naval Academy graduate from the class of 2002. “Three minutes to jink.”
The pilot, class of 2000, pointed at the Radar and Homing and Warning indicators, as they flashed green in the indicator mounted above the pilot’s glare shield. The crew chief double-clicked his interphone key, signaling he was in his seat and buckled.
“Two minutes,” the copilot said after sliding doors hiding chaff and flare dispensers opened at the rear of the helicopter.
“Decoy checklist complete.” Green lights illuminated on the instrument panel; they were Armed. The IR Beacon flashed Hot.
“One minute.”
The crew looked forward, left, and right for any telltale smoke trail of a shoulder-fired weapon. They were in the critical window. The crew’s pulse rates jumped an additional forty beats per minute, as they scanned for any visual recognition of an incoming missile. The mission of the decoy wasn’t to avoid an incoming missile but to intercept it. If countermeasures failed, the decoy helicopter would be placed between a heat-seeking or radar missile and the president’s helicopter. Every day was a potential suicide mission for the Marine One aircrews.
“Thirty seconds. Twenty. Ten. Break.”
The two helicopters’ infrared generators flooded the National Mall with enough IR energy to attract 500 Sidewinders. From the ground, before the lead Marine helicopter reached the Washington Monument, the helicopter pitched hard right toward the Capitol. The number-two helicopter pitched hard left. The third continued its steady approach between tall trees to the White House lawn. The pilot expertly arrested the aircraft’s forward momentum and hovered the big Sikorsky over the red discs, then he added a little differential pressure to the rudder pedals to turn and align the landing gear over the big red discs. He centered the pedals and programmed the collective down to set the landing-gear tires directly in the middle of the red metal plates. The rotor disc quickly decelerated with the application of the rotor brake.
A moment later, the forward cockpit door was lowered and a Marine Corps Sergeant in full dress blues stepped out, awaiting the Commander in Chief to emerge. As the leader of the free world stepped out, the Marine on the ground rendered a razor-sharp perfect salute.
For the first time since he was inaugurated, the president didn’t return the honors rendered. He didn’t wave to the small crowd but proceeded to the Oval Office, finding the Vice President standing in the middle of the beige rug, running his finger across the famous Resolute Desk.
“Measuring the drapes?” snapped the President.
“No, Sir, Mr. President. I’m just delivering the papers from the Attorney General—your resignation and a full pardon for any crimes you may have committed while in office. I’ve already signed and dated it July first, as agreed.”
The Vice President was torn between glee and concern. Carey’s plan to leverage the president out of office on his timeline was thwarted by an unknown force. He couldn’t shake the thought that Nazy Cunningham forced the President to move up his timetable to kill bin Laden and she knew about the file on the President. He couldn’t fathom how she could have obtained the whole file when only a fraction of it resided in his safe.
His train of thought snapped when the President shouted, “I thought we had a deal!” Moving to his chair, he stared at the documents.
Over the previous ninety-six hours, a Constitutional crisis erupted in America. Hundreds of classified and confidential documents spanning the five decades of the President’s life were given to several law-enforcement agencies across the United States. One hundred members of Congress and 100 newspapers and TV stations across the country received softbound copies of the same documents from an overnight delivery service. 100 copies of the same documents also appeared resting atop a long banquet table in a conference room at the Washington Ritz Carlton. An easel announced the topic of the conference. In large gold lettering it read, Corrupt Lapdog Media and Their Inability to Vet a Communist or Radical Candidate. Conference materials inside.
Media outlets across Virginia and Maryland received e-mail in
vitations. Curiously, the New York Times and the Washington Post didn’t receive one. Hyperlinks to copies of the same documents were posted on the Internet on several liberal and conservative blog sites. No one claimed responsibility for the outpouring of the documents, but the FBI determined the billing address for the printing work was from a recently burned-down mosque. The credit card used to print, publish, and dispatch the 300 copies was traced to a bogus address in California. The owner was a suspected illegal alien. The FBI and the NSA were apoplectic.
Though ridiculed by the Democrats and the media as forgeries of a vast right-wing conspiracy, the documents were quickly subjected to forensic analysis and validated as genuine.
The information they contained painted a picture of a young Muslim radical traveling domestically to attend socialist or communist conferences. He also attended a terrorist training camp in Pakistan while enrolled in America's finest Ivy League schools. Intelligence documents showed that he consorted with a Who’s Who of Islamofascist and radical Muslim leaders. The news that he obtained counterfeit documents and established a new identity in the United States, just like some illegal aliens crossing the Rio Grande, prompted some members of Congress and the press to call for immediate investigations and impeachment.
When the British and Israeli prime ministers met at a joint meeting in the Azores and affirmed the immigration and surveillance documents from their respective intelligence services were legitimate, Congress moved to meet in emergency session. Bipartisan articles of impeachment were drafted for the president.
The president signed the letter of resignation and handed it to the vice president.
“Mr. President, you know I didn’t do this. I thought I had the only copy. It’s obvious there was more to the file than I had.” Carey was ill knowing there was another copy of the DCI’s file, but was at a loss of understanding of who could have made it? Who had it?
“That’s bullshit. If you didn’t do this, then you’d better watch your back. You’re next, and you don’t even know it. Now get out of my office. This is still my house.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
2330 June 30, 2011
United States Naval Observatory Washington, DC
The Secret Service Director dismounted from his black Suburban and was joined by his Deputy, who silently padded from the residence’s side entrance to the director’s side. A column of two Secret Service agents in black battle dress on matte-black Segways approached the Suburban slowly. Once past the men, they leaned forward slightly, silently racing off into the night.
The two men monitored the Vice President, as he stepped from the limousine and entered the official residence. They stood there for a moment before O’Sullivan commented, “Well, he’s on his way.”
The Deputy knew who “he” was. A humiliated, vanquished President boarded Air Force One for the last time at Andrews Air Force Base, on a westerly heading. With the recent revelations of the President’s Muslim roots and bogus documents, rumors abounded regarding his destination, most assuming it was the Big Island of Hawaii or somewhere in the Middle East.
The following day, Vice President Frank Carey would be sworn in as the next President of the United States and would spend his first night in the White House as President. The Secret Service Deputy Director left the White House Secret Service detail monitoring several work crews, some packing the President’s belongings and repainting the Master Suite, Sitting Room, and the Lincoln Bedroom before the new leader of the free world moved into the world’s most famous residence.
The Vice President didn’t see the President off, choosing instead to attend an official function at the British embassy. At the end of the night, the ambassador of the United Kingdom presented the Vice President a bust of Sir Winston Churchill to be prominently displayed in the Oval Office. The bust sat in the front seat of the Director’s Suburban, strapped in with a seat belt.
“The Founders would turn over in their graves if they knew a rabidly gay man and his lover were going to occupy the White House,” the Deputy Director quietly lamented to O’Sullivan. Staring at the antebellum building, he shook his head as if witnessing the unbelievable.
“Our job is to protect them, not judge them,” O’Sullivan replied noncommittally.
Both men were breathing hard after facing several trying days and nights for the Secret Service leadership. Since the document dump, threats on the President’s life jumped a hundredfold. The common theme was, If Congress and the Justice Department doesn't do something to remove the un-American president, patriots will.
The complete Secret Service was on twelve-hour shifts, working on and off. Stress rippled through the organization, and the two leaders of the organization hadn’t slept in days.
Since both men stopped moving, they yawned as if on cue. If they didn’t start moving again soon, they’d fall asleep standing up.
After another yawn, the Deputy said, “A friend of mine on the Hill the other day said, ‘May you live in interesting times,’ was a Chinese curse. It’s been an interesting week, Marty. I hope it’s over soon.”
“You got a friend?”
They shared a chuckle at the old joke.
“We have a big day tomorrow,” O’Sullivan said. “I say we get out of here and let the A Team take it.”
“Roger.”
Director O’Sullivan punched the transmit button on his wrist microphone. “Chuck Wagon; Eagle and Falcon departing Star Base to quarters.”
In the black earpiece, a voice replied, “Ten-four, Eagle. Good night, Sir.”
As if they’d been waiting for permission to move, the two men didn’t walk in opposite directions toward their vehicles until the command post operator replied, “Good night, Sir.”
As the Director approached the black Suburban and rolling command post, he glanced at the small observatory in the distance before entering the vehicle and driving off.
*
A single Secret Service agent in black battle dress, mounted atop a Segway, approached the outermost observatory of the five on the property, stopped, and dismounted. The electronic device stood perfectly still, balanced on its two wheels, as the agent approached the observatory’s antique metal door with its partially frosted reinforced glass.
A low-watt light bulb, suspended from a fixture with a rain shield, barely illuminated the concrete landing and handrail. With one black-gloved hand, the agent unscrewed the bulb until it broke contact with the power grid and went out. With the other, he extracted a mechanical lock pick from a cargo pocket and thrust it into the old Yale lock, manipulating levers and pins until all the tumblers fell into place.
He twisted the oblong brass handle. Three seconds later, he was inside, peering out of a window of the old National Observatory. He watched 110 yards away as several Secret Service vehicles departed from the front of the Vice President’s official residence.
The agent turned and removed his helmet. Cool air flowed over damp hair momentarily, as he retrieved night-vision goggles from a cargo pocket and pulled them over his head, adjusting the harness for a snug fit and turning on the power. In seconds, the interior of the observatory was visible in shades of green.
A thirty-inch telescope filled the binocular. Filigreed mirror arms with curls, whorls, and ionic volute connectors and mounts supported and accentuated the unique ancient instrument. The agent swept the room on the balls of his boots, then returned his gaze to the stairwell leading down into the telescope pit.
Stepping high over the small chain that discouraged the public’s access, his soft soles cushioned each step, as he stepped gingerly down a slightly winding staircase and around the arced walkway, glancing at the turntable, gears, and old motors of the antiquated telescope’s mechanical base.
Halfway around the circular pit, the agent stopped at the lone glass-and-metal door with a metal plate that read, Power Room. Trying the old-fashioned knob, he found the door unlocked, so he returned the mechanical lock pick into his cargo pocket.
&nbs
p; Stepping inside, he surveyed his surroundings. The room was as deep as a one-car garage but only half as wide. Three large filigreed power junction boxes were mounted along one wall. One featured a long, thick ornate arm nearly parallel to the floor. “Pull the arm” was the direction given, but it didn’t move.
He stepped back and reassessed the situation and his instructions. He pulled it horizontally, and it immediately extended half a foot. He heard metal slide against metal in the small room, then there was the hint of rushing air from the small wall. A downward push of the arm made the wall pivot on its center. Cool air filled the room with dust and debris, mostly the remnants of dead roaches and moths.
He stepped inside to face the wind and total darkness. NVGs capture and amplify electromagnetic radiation outside the natural range of vision. Without any photons to be captured or amplified, the device was useless. The agent braced himself against the wind and slipped his hand into a cargo pocket to pull out an IR penlight.
Depressing the button flooded the area with photons and reactivated the NVG’s photo cathode and multiplier. In a second, the phosphor screens were green again.
A green staircase stood before him, with a tunnel leading to the control center under Number One Observatory Circle.
*
“Mr. Vice President? We have an emergency!” a voice shouted from the hall.
“Wait! Don’t come in! I’ll be out in a minute!”
The Secret Service agent rounded the corner of the bedroom, a Sig Sauer P229 with a heavy silencer drawn and pointed skyward. “Intruder alert!” he whispered.
The corpulent, naked vice president, standing at the edge of the large bed, withdrew from his bent-over partner’s ass and turned to the agent.
The agent lowered the 9mm and shot the man face-down in the bedcovers in the back of the head, twice. With a heavy hand, he grabbed the startled vice president by the throat and pushed him four steps backward into a nearby chair, then he jammed the silencer under the rolls of fat under the man’s chin and pulled the trigger.
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