Executive Treason

by Grossman, Gary H.

  Alley slowed and eased onto the shoulder. He came to a gradual stop. Gonzales slid back into his car seat. He wanted to disappear, or at least look like a fare on the way to the airport.

  “No problems,” Gonzales reminded Alley.

  “It’ll be okay.”

  The officer pulled up behind the BMW, but he didn’t get out of his vehicle.

  “What’s he waiting for?” Gonzales asked.

  “He’s checking our plates. It’s normal. We just sit tight.”

  Gonzales tried to relax.

  “Here he comes,” Alley said.

  The State Trooper motioned for the driver to roll down the window. Alley complied.

  “Is something wrong, officer? We’re on our way to the airport.”

  “May I see your license and registration, please.” The please wasn’t necessary.

  “Our flight is…”

  “Your license,” the trooper demanded.

  Once he had Alley’s license, he stepped back, behind the car.

  “What’s he doing?” Gonzales whispered.

  “Just checking. Everything will be fine.”

  The officer returned to the car and peered inside. “Mr. Alley, you were traveling at more than thirty miles per hour over the limit.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m trying to make a plane. May we…”

  Without responding, the officer stepped back again, keeping the license and registration. He returned to his squad car and sat inside.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “They do this sort of thing. It’s all normal.”

  No it’s not, Gonzales thought. No it’s not.

  “Step out of the car and put your hands on the roof!”

  The State Trooper’s order, amplified through a PA came so suddenly and with such intent, that Gonzales’s chest tightened in the time it took for the policeman to complete his sentence. Gonzales reached inside his jacket pocket for his inhaler. After fumbling for a few seconds he found his medication. He took a fast puff and struggled to say, “Don’t!”

  Alley looked in the rearview mirror. The policeman was crouched behind his open car door. He had a microphone in one hand and a shotgun aimed at the back of the car.

  “Out, now!” the trooper demanded.

  Gonzales responded to the second demand by looking around. The action brought him right into view of the video camera mounted on the dashboard.

  “What should I do?” the driver asked.

  Gonzales’s chest ached. To get this far. How did they know? I can’t… He figured that by now, other officers were on the way; maybe even with a helicopter. “Back up! Smash him fast! Then go!”

  “He’s got a gun!”

  “Do it!”

  Alley started the car and jammed it into reverse. His foot slammed on the gas pedal. The twenty-five feet that separated the two vehicles immediately disappeared. Before the officer could get off a proper shot, the impact knocked him down. His shotgun discharged in the air and the door broke his arm.

  “Go, go! Now!” Gonzales cried out. He filled his lungs with another puff from his inhaler. The acceleration pressed him into the back of his seat and then tossed him to the right as Alley swerved onto the road. He swore in Arabic at the cop, at the traffic, and under his breath, at everyone in America.

  “That field! There!” Gonzales pointed about a quarter-mile down the road. “Pull over, I’m going to jump out. Then you keep going.”

  “To where?”

  “Anywhere. Jamaica.” Gonzales made that up. “I’ll find you. And destroy the computer! You must destroy the computer.” It was in the trunk.

  Gonzales whipped around to see if they were being followed. Not yet. He tapped Alley. “Now! Get over!” The driver steered to the side, applied the brakes and came to a quick stop.

  “Jamaica?”

  “Yes, Jamaica!” Gonzales shouted as he put his hand on the door. “In ten days.” With that he was gone. He ran down an embankment and hid, waiting for Alley to peel out again. When he was certain that his man was a good distance down the Kennedy, and the sirens were well past him, he walked toward an opening in a fence and the world that lay beyond.

  Chapter 77

  Andrews Air Force Base

  Suitland, Maryland

  the next day

  The VC-25, the twin of the downed Air Force One, landed at Andrews Air Force Base without fanfare. The SAM 29000 rolled up to the gangway, and was met by a contingent of Secret Service officers, a marine detail, General Jackson, and one other.

  Only one man had seen Taylor as he looked now—Scott Roarke. That was years ago in Iraq.

  Taylor held his side and walked slowly. He escaped with three broken ribs, a severely scarred cheek, black eyes, and a gash across his forehead. He’d soon recover from the injuries, but the experience had changed him. He was hardened and eager to help Henry Lamden get on with the business of destroying terrorist camps and weapons supplies.

  General Jackson was the first to greet him. “Mr. Vice President, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “General, I’m just happy to be alive.” He shook J3′s hand, then hugged him, carefully. “Thank you for getting those boys in there.”

  “Sony we called it so close. I think it was the time difference.”

  Taylor tried to laugh, but it hurt too much. He saw Roarke standing off to the side.

  “Get on over here. I’m sure as hell not coming to you!”

  Roarke did as ordered. “I see you’re no worse for the wear. But don’t you think this rescue-behind-enemy-lines-thing is becoming a little old?” Roarke offered lightly.

  “No thanks to you.”

  “Hey, I had my hands full.”

  “So I heard. Nice work.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now let’s get going. There’s a hot bath with my name on it wherever the hell I’m sleeping tonight.”

  Everyone laughed. Taylor was due to move back into Number One Observatory Circle, the vice president’s residence.

  Taylor was escorted to one of the twenty-three new AgustaWestland EH 101 helicopters operated under the Marine One squadron. Like its fixed-wing counterparts in the Air Force, an EH 101 in the fleet assumes a special call sign whenever the president is aboard—Marine One. Today it flew as Marine Two, reflecting the vice president’s position in the political food chain.

  As soon as they were airborne, J3 handed Morgan Taylor a sealed file. “It didn’t take much. The president talked to Prime Minister Foss. It’s done.”

  Taylor broke the seal and scanned the first page of the secret report. There was Lamden’s name, signed in ink, along with fax signatures by Foss and the leaders of six other Asian nations. The report identified hard targets that the United States was authorized to attack under the terms of “The Southeast Asia and Pacific Anti-Terrorist Act.” The first was the Liberian tanker heading toward Sydney. SAPATA, quickly passed by overwhelming Senate approval, was going active.

  Lebanon, Kansas

  the same time

  Millions of listeners were waiting to hear what Elliott Strong had to say today. Bridgeman had been chased out of the headlines by his nemeses, Lamden and Taylor. How would their bombastic talk-show host respond?

  “Good afternoon. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, or with your head in the sand, you’ve probably noticed something very important about the political climate in America…about the leadership issues…about the construction of the government.” He waited for his audience to fill in the blanks, then Strong responded in a booming voice. “Nothing’s changed!”

  True to form, Strong ignored what he couldn’t overcome. Instead of even acknowledging the breaking news he redefined the debate. “I’m happy for Mrs. Taylor. I’m glad to see our military demonstrate its might. But members of our Strong Nation, we’re right back with the mess we had before. Worse. We saw yet another example of the arrogance of this administration. They prev
ented a true man of the people, a man willing to break from the system from taking power—if only for a short time. They stopped Speaker of the House Duke Patrick. And why? They were afraid of him: afraid because he was willing to recognize that General Bridgeman deserves to be the leader of the Free World.”

  Elliott Strong smiled into his mirror. He was proud of how he twisted the argument in his favor. Now, with the issue settled for his listeners, it was time to move on.

  “So, let’s look at the real news.”

  He didn’t know the half of it.

  The White House

  four hours later

  A showered and refreshed Morgan Taylor walked into the Oval Office. He wore khakis, a light blue shirt, and a blue double-breasted jacket without a tie. This was informal for him.

  Louise cleared him through, which was, in itself, somewhat awkward. Morgan Taylor thought about what he was going to say. The vice presidency wasn’t for him. A good president needed a good vice president: not somebody who didn’t want to be there. Lamden deserved his own man, from his own party.

  “Morgan,” Henry Lamden said with real affection.

  Taylor quickly observed that the heart attack had aged the president. He was thinner, weaker, and smaller. His suit was too big for him. Lamden slowly came to his feet and stepped away from the desk used by Franklin Roosevelt, John F. Kennedy, George W. Bush, and Henry Lamden. It had been given to the U.S. by Queen Victoria. Roosevelt added a front panel to cover the mid section so that visitors wouldn’t see his wheelchair. The desk seemed to dwarf Lamden now.

  “Well, Henry, you’re looking good.”

  “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, Morgan,” Lamden countered. He braced himself against the desktop, right in front of the hinged panel, which could swing open. Years ago, little John-John Kennedy played with the door while JFK worked.

  Taylor came the rest of the way into the Oval Office and shook Lamden’s hand. He got half the energy in return.

  “Looks like you took quite a beating,” the president offered.

  “Sons of bitches,” was Taylor’s reply. “Call it serendipity, but I suppose by being there we prevented one helluva bloodbath. They planned on taking Jakarta. I can’t even imagine how many hundreds of thousands of Christian Indonesians would have been killed.”

  “Just serendipity?” asked Lamden. He was a religious man, more so than Taylor.

  Taylor hadn’t really thought about the circumstances that brought him to Haruku Island. “Makes you wonder.”

  Lamden closed his eyes believing there was more to it. When he opened them again, he returned to the leather chair behind the Victorian desk—the power seat.

  “I’m exercising my right as president. I’m going to talk and you’re going to keep your damned trap shut, which I know isn’t your nature.”

  “Henry, I need to talk to you, too.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  Taylor laughed. This was his old friend. He brought up one of his favorite chairs—the Colonial Adams. It’s what he used for personal conversations. He felt that’s where they were going.

  “Good, now listen. I’m not going to give you a long speech and I’m not taking questions after like a goddamned press conference.”

  “Okay, okay,” Taylor said obligingly.

  “I’m happy to have my picture in the history books. Maybe someday they’ll even put me on a fifty-cent stamp. But I have to tell you, Morgan, I’m not up for this job anymore.”

  Taylor leaned forward, clearly caught off guard. This isn’t what…

  “Look at me,” Lamden said rolling on. “They say I’ll get stronger with time, but the doctors admit it’ll never happen with the pressure of this place. Personally, I like hanging around here. But I’ve spent enough years away from my wife: first on ships with nothing but smelly men, and then on the Hill with men whose politics stank. Quite honestly, I missed a lot of years getting laid. Given the choice, if my wife’s willing and there’s enough Viagra in the world, I’d rather be in bed with my wife than being fucked by voters who didn’t want me in the first place.

  “Morgan, you’re the president the country needs, whether or not they know it. You’ve proven it to them once and again. Get yourself a vice president you can really trust and do what you need to do.

  “If you really feel you have to, parade me out on holidays and special events. Send me to meet the Pope; I think I’d like him. Or get me over to England for a royal wedding. My wife loves Wedgwood. But don’t argue with me now. Not one word. My mind is made up. This is your job, Morgan. You’ve got the balls for it. And for God’s sake, between you, me, and the lamppost, you even have the heart. But you won’t hear me admit that in public. You’ll get too many votes from Democrats next time. Which leads me to an important question: Can you even run again? After all, you didn’t get elected last November. But hell, that’s your problem, not mine.”

  Taylor fought the tears back. He did have the heart.

  “So, do what the country needs you to do. Become president for the third time.”

  Chapter 78

  The New York Times

  Two days later

  “This is Weaver,” the Times editor answered.

  “Ms. Weaver, my name is Roarke. Scott Roarke. I’m with JL the Secret Service.”

  “Yes, Mr. Roarke.” She was nervous; distracted. “I know who you are.”

  “Can we talk about Michael O’Connell?” Shannon Davis passed along the details, or at least what was known by NYPD, to Roarke.

  She had trouble replying. “You heard?” she managed to say.

  “Yes, what happened?”

  “He was robbed and killed.” Weaver’s voice cracked. “His body was found in the Bronx. Why, for God’s sake?”

  Roarke decided to volunteer information: something he rarely offered. “He was on the way to see me, Ms. Weaver. He had something to tell me. Do you have any idea what that was?”

  She hesitated. The time it took her to respond told Roarke she did.

  “Please. What was it?”

  “I can’t,” she said. Andrea Weaver was falling on a useless sword.

  “Look, who robs someone in the middle of Manhattan and drives them to the Bronx? He was on his way to see me at the White House. He had something to tell me in person. You know what it was.”

  Still silence.

  “It’s what got him killed,” he continued. “If you want to help, tell me.”

  He could almost hear her thinking.

  “It was important enough to cost him his life.”

  “The police were here,” she said weakly.

  “Did you tell them anything?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “For the same reason I haven’t told you. We’re the press and….”

  “He’s dead, Weaver. Michael O’Connell is dead. Because of a story he was working on? Something he discovered? He had to see me. Me! And he pretty much hated me. But still, O’Connell had to come down in person. He didn’t want to do it over the phone. He was grabbing a cab for the airport.” He raised his voice, something Roarke rarely did with a woman. “For that reason alone, I have to assume that it was too important to discuss on the telephone. So, what was it?”

  “But the robbery?”

  “Come on.”

  “And the Bronx?”

  “He was dumped there.” An uneasy thought started forming in his mind. The taxi driver. It evaporated as soon as she spoke.

  “What’s your e-mail address?”

  “My e-mail?” he responded.

  “I’ll send you the story Michael was working on. I’ve only got part of it. We got hit by a weird computer virus the other day. His computer got fried, most of my files were lost.”

  The e-mail dumped into Roarke’s mailbox a minute later. He opened it and read what remained of Michael O’Connell’s last story. It was a saga that began years ago on a California back r
oad and led to U.S. Route 281 in Lebanon, Kansas. Time after time, according to the report, Strong’s career advanced, as if orchestrated by an outside force.

  The next two pages were a jumble of words. The computer gibberish cleared up midway through O’Connell’s description of his trip to Russia. The reporter intimated that a famous American radio talk-show host may have been there as well. The article became incomprehensible again. Roarke scanned ahead until he came to a section, which covered Andropov Institute’s Red Banner curriculum, where Russians and Middle East agents were trained to become Americans. Michael O’Connell made the leap of faith that the sleepers could have found their way to positions in the U.S. media, including radio. The loosely connected dots formed a picture of Elliott Strong.

  Roarke sat back in awe. Of course, The Times couldn’t print the story. In its current draft, it was largely composed of hearsay and supposition. But in Roarke’s mind, it was true. All of it.

  The Secret Service agent considered what happened. O’Connell put out feelers. Word got back to Strong, or O’Connell talked to him directly. Given O’Connell’s reputation, Strong, or whoever he worked for, considered O’Connell too much of a threat. So he was killed.

  Roarke printed the story and ran up to the Oval Office. “Louise, is he in?”

  “He’s with the NDI.”

  “Good. Buzz him.”

  Roarke started for the door.

  “Scott, you can’t…”

  But he could, and Louise knew it.

  “Boss!”

  Louise barely got word to the president when Roarke was through the door. Few people in the world could get into the Oval Office on a sprint.

  “Scott, we are in the middle of something.” Jack Evans and the president were working on strategies that would take out more terrorist camps around the world. Roarke got to share a great deal of Morgan Taylor’s presidency, but not this. The intelligence director turned over the map, which earmarked targets. “I’d appreciate it if you would wait a few minutes.” It wasn’t really a request.

  “I can’t, sir.”