Pike kept his plane on the deck and flew ten miles due west before climbing to 10,000 feet.
“Roger that,” Major Pike radioed to J3. “Assumption is that Top Gun is aboard.” His pictures would confirm that fact when he landed at Andersen Air Force Base on Guam. Command redirected him there after the Stinger launch.
He hoped that his presumed death could buy the president and USAPACOM needed time.
New York City
Not such a good reporter, thought the cabbie. He didn’t comment that the man pictured in the license had a moustache. The driver didn’t. He gazed into his rearview mirror. He should have sensed that we never got on the East Side Drive. But he’s sleeping. The cab kept heading north into the Bronx, missing the last exit for the Triboro Bridge. And he failed to notice that the bulletproof glass between the front and back seats was gone. Very foolish. No, he just sleeps.
The taxi continued to drive north, taking turns slowly. The cabbie came to a gradual, almost imperceptible stop in an alley. Why wake him? He reached to his right and quietly put his hand under a copy of The New York Times and raised a 9 mm Glock. The silencer was already attached. Just let him sleep.
He actually wondered what it would be like not to wake; not to know that you had fallen asleep, never to breathe again. No fear. No knowledge. No goodbyes.
Just let him sleep. “Very good.”
Chapter 69
Cannon House Office Building
the same time
Duke Patrick nearly had his speech down, but an argument in the outer office broke his concentration. Now what? He waited for the talking to die down. It didn’t. There was a knock at his door. “I said no interruptions!”
His chief of staff was the first in. A number of other men—all looking serious, all with Secret Service pins on their lapels—followed. “I couldn’t stop them,” he said.
“Mr. Speaker,” began the lead agent. He muscled his way right around Patrick’s staffer. “You need to come with us. There’s an urgent meeting at the White House.”
“What? Why? I’m in the middle of something important.”
“I’m sorry for the interruption, but please. Now, sir.”
“I demand to know why?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”
“Then I won’t be joining you.” He turned his back to the agents and silently returned to his speech.
“Sir…”
Patrick ignored him.
“Mr. Speaker, I have my orders.”
Patrick blew his temper. He reeled around and shouted, “Is this one of Taylor’s tricks? Get me out of the way so I can’t deliver my speech?”
“No, Mr. Speaker.”
“Then why on God’s earth should I go with you?”
“Because the White House needs you there.”
Patrick remained obstinate.
The Secret Service agent stepped away and spoke into a small microphone in his sleeve. He pressed one finger to his ear, setting the earpiece tighter. Congressman Patrick watched, broadly smiling as if he had won something. The agent finished and walked directly up to the speaker and whispered into his ear.
“Mr. Speaker, I’ve been instructed at the highest levels to bring you to the White House. It is your Constitutional duty.”
“Highest levels? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I don’t believe the president has returned yet.”
Duke Patrick was living up to his reputation, thought the Secret Service agent. Insolent, intractable, and officious. The agent radioed back, “Negative on John Wayne. Repeat. John Wayne will not comply.” John Wayne was the agency’s handle for the current Speaker of the House. It was an homage to Hollywood’s Duke.
Ten seconds later the speaker’s private phone line rang.
“I think that’s for you, Congressman.”
It rang three more times. Patrick finally picked it up, showing his extreme displeasure.
“Congressman Patrick.”
The Secret Service agents and Patrick’s chief of staff watched, unaware of what was being said, but totally interested. The congressman’s expression dropped.
“Okay,” was all he said.
He hung up, and ignoring the Secret Service detail, told his chief, “I’ll be at the White House. Stay by the phone.”
On board the AWACS
“Still tracking the craft.” The navigator gave the heading, which was plotted by Pentagon analysts back home. “Course is for an island. Two point two miles.” He changed screens. “Landfall likely at any number of potential coves. Other islands ahead through narrow passageways.” It wasn’t his job to assess the potential destinations, but it didn’t look good. The terrain was rocky and mountainous. Dense vegetation would make a rescue mission extremely difficult. He typed in more information on his computer. It got worse. The immediate islands were known for their caves—hundreds, if not thousands of them. He revised his opinion. If they took the president there, it might be impossible to find him. Like a needle in a haystack.
Outside the Dirksen Senate Office Building
the same time
Katie expected to hear sirens. After all, it was Washington, D.C. There was a fair chance that at any given moment, one dignitary or another needed to be hustled somewhere fast. But in the five minutes since she left the Rayburn Building, it seemed like there were nothing but screaming sirens.
She was on the corner of Constitution and C trying to hail a cab when she realized that all the noise was heading in the same direction—away from the Capitol. A taxi eventually stopped for her. She gave Roarke’s address and asked the obvious. “What’s going on?”
“Dunno,” the driver answered.
“Is it usually this crazed?”
“Oh, sometimes. You never know.” Two black Lincolns with blaring sirens passed them on Constitution. “Could be anything.”
The explanation sounded good enough until another two cars raced by. She took her cell phone out of her pocketbook and dialed Roarke. It rang three times. “Yeah, honey. Can’t talk.” Not good, she thought. “Just tell me, is everything all right?”
“Why? What do you know?”
“Nothing, except that every car with a siren has it turned on.”
“Where are you?”
“Heading home.” That has a nice ring to it. “Will you be…?”
“Later,” he interrupted.
“Call me when you can. Please.” She let her concern show. “I will. Love you.”
She added, “I love you more,” but Roarke was already gone.
Lebanon, Kansas
“They’re going to feel the love, Elliott,” said a caller. “They better feel what we hate,” the talk-show host said. “That’s what the march is all about.”
Elliott Strong brokered in hate, day and night. He had delivered his single-minded message for years: You’re either for a Strong Nation or against it. Now his philosophy had a face attached—General Robert “Bob” Woodley Bridgeman.
Over the years, he never embraced Democrats. Now he finally turned on Republicans, as he always planned. Strong was leading millions of disenfranchised Americans toward a new political movement: a new party, which would soon have a new name.
“This isn’t a protest march, for God’s sake. You go to Washington and show Bob Bridgeman that you’re there for him. You’re there to demand change. If the power brokers don’t do it themselves, well then, I suppose we’ll have to do it ourselves.”
This was the first time he raised the specter of seizing political power. He slammed his hand on the table to get his listeners’ attention. “You have that? No more calls to congressmen we don’t trust. No more e-mails to a president, hell, two presidents, that don’t mean anything to us! No more pleading with senators. We’ll take this country from the ground level up. It’s time for a recall! We’ll get people in government who can do what needs to be done. And believe me, there’s only one man who can lead us out
of the mess we’re in. General Bob Bridgeman.”
Strong shuffled some papers. He looked at his computer screen. He had enough calls to last a month. They’re getting it, he thought.
The White House
“Where are you?” Roarke asked urgently.
“Ah, almost at your apartment.”
“Still driving?”
“Yes,” Katie replied. “Scott, what’s going on?”
“Change of plans. Get over here.”
“Here? Where’s here?”
“The White House. North Entrance. I’ll meet you,” he explained.
“But…”
“Just do it.”
Chapter 70
Washington, D.C.
The capital was packed with protestors and the vendors were thrilled. They were stocked up with Bridgeman Rules, March2Washington, and Bridgeman for President t-shirts, sweatshirts, and buttons. Everything was designed in bold red, white, and blue with a single, approved photograph of General Bridgeman against a fully unfurled American flag. It was the work of a New York designer; organized and distributed; definitely not a fly-by-night operation.
The Associated Press had already estimated that more than $2 million would be spent by marchers on souvenirs. Hotel rooms and meals could account for $20 million over the next few days. Overtime for police and support services, another $1.5 million according to the wire service quotes. It was all for a man the public knew nothing about little more than a month earlier…and all because of one radio talk-show host.
Fox News scored another sit down with Bridgeman, while CNN had to settle for a quick run-and-gun interview with the general. No matter the bias, everyone talked about the meteoric rise of the Texas general. As the host of The McLaughlin Group termed it, opinion weighed heavily over traditional reporting in this new age of journalism. Fact-based coverage was becoming a dying art.
“So, Roger Deutsch, political contributor to Vanity Fair, I ask you, can General Bridgeman muster a vote of confidence?” The McLaughlin host always employed tight, staccato phrasing in his questions.
“A vote of confidence? Yes. But if the endgame is to unseat the president, he’ll flame out long before the election. This is too early: three years before the next election, two years before the primaries. I can’t even tell you what party he’s aligned with, or more to the point, what party is aligned with Bridgeman.”
“Any party he wants!” interrupted The Philadelphia Inquirer’s Victor Monihan. “When was the last time we saw a political rally this size for a declared candidate? Never. Both the Republicans and the Democrats would love to have him lead their party. Now if you’re asking me if it’s a good thing?”
“Is it a good thing?” the host prompted.
“Who knows? I can’t even articulate who he represents, other than an amorphous radio constituency.”
“I can tell you what he wants, though,” argued Peter Weisel, the Washington bureau chief of The Chicago Tribune. “He’s for a recall and totally anti-Lamden, anti-Taylor, anti-Constitution, anti-process, anti-procedure, and anti-protocol. And just check his military record—he’s anti-establishment.”
Weisel was not the first to recognize it, but he was the first to state it.
“Page One, The Chicago Tribune,” the host read. “It’s right here. You say General Bridgeman was not the leader he claims to be, but an arrogant maverick who ignored military command in Bosnia.”
“Worse,” explained Weisel. “Under his command, he very nearly restarted the war. The Pentagon sent him to Afghanistan to cool off. He was ordered to lay low, but he couldn’t. He called the new leadership a joke and he held the prime minister under house arrest on suspicion of drug trafficking. Unproven, I might add. That wasn’t the last of Bridgeman’s brilliant military career moves. He came back to a desk job and promptly pissed off then-President Morgan Taylor for deploying troops to Lebanon. It’s all true, and yet you don’t hear any of this on the radio.”
“For good reason,” offered the Dallas Morning News’s Christy Castle. “It’s triple X material. Excessively misstated. Extremely inaccurate. Exceptionally partisan. The man is a true military hero. Distinguished Service, Silver Star, Navy Cross: the whole nine yards. You’ve ignored how he prevented war from breaking out again in Bosnia, how he uncovered the largest drug smuggling operation in Afghanistan alone how, in the Middle East, General Bridgeman saved his own men in the heat of battle. This is a good man, a dedicated American. How he got to national prominence? Well, I suppose that’s because we need him.”
Chapter 71
The White House
“Kessler.” Katie identified herself to one of the two White House guards who stopped her cab. She noticed far more security than normal: more Secret Service and Marines; more guns. “I’m here to see Scott Roarke.”
While one guard stayed with her, another looked at a list. Her name was not on it. “You have an appointment?”
“Mr. Roarke just called. I got here quickly and…”
“May I see your license, please?”
Katie complied, also producing a temporary White House ID she’d forgotten to mention.
The marine stepped aside and radioed inside. He had to speak loudly over the sirens from other cars rolling into the driveway.
While the marine was making his call, Katie paid the driver, but was careful not to get out of the cab until the Marine okayed her.
“You’re cleared Ms. Kessler,” the guard said a minute later. “Agent Pino will escort you through security.”
“Thank you.”
The woman agent appeared almost out of nowhere and led Katie to the metal detectors. She handed Katie’s purse and attaché case to another guard at an X-ray machine.
“Is this your first visit to the White House, Ms. Kessler?” Agent Pino asked.
“No, my third.” Her first meeting was immediately after the inauguration. The second was only a few days ago with Bernie Bernstein and White House counsel, Brad Rutberg. Now she sensed that this visit was going to be different for entirely new reasons, still unknown.
There was a profound change in everyone’s manner. People were quickly racing through the halls. The urgency from outside carried right inside, or, as she realized, vice versa.
“This way, please.” Pino ushered her to an elevator and accompanied Katie down. When the doors opened, Katie entered a whole new world. Marines were posted everywhere. Officers with uniforms from almost every branch of the military scurried from room to room.
“Just ahead.” They continued to even more guarded quarters, the White House Situation Room. The Secret Service agent spoke to a huge marine posted at the door. He radioed inside showing no hint of emotion. A minute later, Scott emerged. It wasn’t the Scott Roarke she’d left earlier that morning. His face was ashen; he looked pained.
“What’s wrong?”
Roarke pulled her inside and closed the door. What he had to say was not even for the guards. Not yet.
“The president’s plane went down.”
Katie suddenly knew why she was there. It wasn’t because Scott needed his girlfriend at his side. All her work was coming to bear.
Roarke explained what he could. With news of the crash of Air Force One came the inevitable question:
“Who’s in charge?”
Without another word, Roarke accompanied Katie to Brad Rutberg and Supreme Court Chief Justice Leopold Browning.
“Ms. Kessler,” Justice Browning said, “circumstances have moved up our meeting.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. She firmly shook the hand of the man she deeply respected. She hadn’t seen the chief justice since their spirited conversations in January. “We have much to discuss.”
“Indeed.” The chief justice was 68, which made him younger than most of his colleagues, yet he was more knowledgeable than anyone else on the bench. It was difficult to argue Constitutional wisdom with the former Illinois prosecutor. Kat
ie had tried. And though she was persuasive in their last meeting, she learned that when it came to law, no one in the country had a more brilliant mind than Browning. What can I possibly tell him that he doesn’t already know?
Haruku, Indonesia
The prisoners were marched blindfolded from the shore, up a rocky incline, through a dense tropical jungle, to a flat area. By the sound of things, they settled in a tent. The fact was confirmed when the rebels removed their hoods. “At least we’re not in a cave,” Taylor whispered to Rossy.
“Silence!” Komari’s order was followed by the butt of a rifle across the back of the president’s head.
Taylor fell to the ground. Komari barked something else in Indonesian, which the president quickly realized were instructions to tie the prisoners together in pairs, back-to-back. Taylor was lashed to Ross. Considering what they had gone through together, the president couldn’t have asked for a better partner.
“Sorry I put us down in these waters, Rossy,” the president whispered when Komari and his men were working on the others.
“You saved a lot of lives, sir.”
“Did I?” They were surrounded by a dozen men with guns.
The soldier closest to them couldn’t stop gaping at Taylor. He’d seen the look before. Pride over a valued prize. Word had spread that the prisoners included the American president. But Taylor assumed that very fact created a serious problem. They have to figure out what to do with me.
“Surely the infidels will pay handsomely for their leader,” Atef boasted. “We will trade the keys to the capitol for his life. Right?”
Komari wasn’t so sure. Bargaining would surely give us away. The Americans can trace radio signals. Far better to kill them now and forget that we ever found the infidels. But another thought called out to the commander.
“The Prophet may be testing us, Atef.”
“Testing? Why?”
“To see if we have the strength to demonstrate our commitment.”
Executive Treason Page 49