Katie was finished. She’d made her case. Successfully?
“Ms. Kessler…” Taylor slowly started.
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Have you run this by Chief Justice Browning?” He raised his eyebrow. This would be the real test.
Katie smiled confidently. “As a matter of fact, I have.” The room fell completely silent. “He wishes I’d come to work for him instead of you.”
Epilogue
Special Operations Command
MacDill Air Force Base, Florida
one week later
General Jonas Jackson Johnson and Jack Evans monitored the attacks from the Integrated Battle Command Center at MacDill Air Force Base. The strikes were executed from the deck of the USS Kitty Hawk and Australian Royal Air Force bases at Tindaland Amberley. The Liberian tanker was the first target. Wisely, the captain stopped shy of Sydney. He acquiesced to the SASR team, rather than face scuttling. The Australian special forces quickly found what they sought.
All told, sixteen other targets were being pounded by F/A 18s and F-llls flown by the two nations under SAPATA authority. Satellite imagery, in large part provided by the KH-12s, showed massive explosions at seven locations in Indonesia, two in the Solomons, five more in the Malaysian islands, and two in Pakistan.
The satellites, dubbed Improved Crystal, are assets of the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), located near Washington Dulles Airport and the National Security Agency. They capture new images every five seconds. The shots are relayed through Milstar satellites to the National Photo Interpretation Center, then—within five minutes—onto National Command Authority at MacDill.
J3 and Jack Evans monitored the images on hi-def television screens deep within the concrete-reinforced, blast-secure facility. Live audio transmission from the fighters accompanied the pictures.
Down-looking before photos were on a separate bank of monitors. They showed amazing detail even through clouds: direct evidence of heat sources created by thermal plumes. These and other analytical markers gave J3 the data on which he based the SAPATA attack order.
Unlike in the movies, the images were black and white and somewhat grainy. In time, computer enhancement would clean them up. But the pictures were sharp enough to tell the story. The terrorist camps, storage centers, and training areas were disappearing from the face of the earth in a hail of allied firepower.
“From now on we go to the terrorists, no matter where they are—Afghanistan or the Arizona desert. We remove them with extreme prejudice,” the general observed.
J3 wasn’t so far off. Although he didn’t know it yet, Evans had satellite reconnaissance photos pinpointing another target—an al-Qaeda training camp in Mexico, and another in Peru. He was certain Taylor would pull the trigger on those targets as well.
“Why didn’t we do this years ago?” J3 asked. He watched as the latest images downloaded. Each one had a human toll that would be calculated in the thousands once the clean-up teams were on ground.
“Because patriotism played better than militarism,” Evans admitted. “But we’re in a new World War, General. And you’re right. This is the way it has to be fought. Thankfully, we have the man willing to do it.”
The Oval Office
“Mr. President, Mr. Hernandez is on the phone.
Taylor had Louise schedule the call with the Mexican leader. It would be brief.
“Mr. President, so good of you to make yourself available.”
“The pleasure is mine,” Hernandez said, not really knowing what to expect.
“Don’t be too hasty. I know we have been having some disagreements about the stepped-up security at the border.”
“Yes, yes we have, Mr. President. Is this the reason for your call? It would be most appreciated.”
“No, Mr. President. It isn’t. To tell you the truth, things are about to get more intense.” Morgan Taylor explained how, in four days, the Air Force was going to cross the border to do something Hernandez hadn’t.
The Mexican leader realized an appeal wouldn’t get him anywhere. He was hearing a new, uncompromising policy and the debate was over. Morgan Taylor definitely wasn’t an acting president any longer.
“Roarke, what kind of trick are you trying to pull?”
The call from Touch Parsons came out of nowhere.
“What the hell do you mean?” Roarke answered. He heard the FBI photo analyst type on his keyboard and he could almost see the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder.
“Come on, Roarke. We both know.”
“Know what?”
Parsons sensed that maybe Roarke didn’t have any idea. “You’re serious?”
“Serious about what?”
“Just get over here.”
Roarke made it to the FBI Labs in Quantico in an hour. He tore into Duane Parsons’s inner sanctum. His first question was out before any hellos. “Okay, what’s going on that was so important you couldn’t explain?”
“Your buddy, here,” Touch said.
“What buddy?”
“This one.” He wheeled around to his computer and placed a stylus on a paint box palate. It matched up to a cursor on a computer scroll down file. Parsons tapped the first line: his most recent work. A photograph popped up that Roarke had seen enough.
“What of it?” he asked coldly.
“I’m just doing what you asked”
“Refresh my memory. And get that picture off the screen.”
Parsons didn’t clear the computer screen, but he turned around and faced Roarke. “Make sure. You said, make sure.”
Roarke finally recalled the conversation. “And?”
“I said I would after. Well, this is after.”
Roarke frowned, still uncertain of the point Touch Parsons was making.
“Here, look,” the FBI’s computer photo expert said. Parsons addressed the screen again. The photograph was there. He quickly moved the stylus to the corner of the pad and the picture receded into the left side, paired with a second shot. “Okay, side by side, now.”
Roarke leaned in. He stared at the FBI photograph of the lifeless Richard Cooper, taken at the Mall where he and Davis killed him. He shifted his glance to the right. Parsons had paired it with the photograph captured by the Immigration camera. He’d seen them both hundreds of times.
“They’re the same man.”
“Yes,” Parsons noted.
“FERET confirmed that,” Roarke stated for clarity. “You even told me.”
“Yes, I did.”
“The man on the left is the same as the man on the right,” Roarke stated again.
“Yes.”
“Then what’s the mystery?”
“You didn’t ask me the most important question.”
“Parsons, you are, by far, the most impossible, most insolent, most annoying human being I’ve ever worked with. What the hell are you talking about?”
“How many times do I have to explain things to you, Roarke? Bring me the right photographs and I can take the guess work out of anything.”
“I did. I personally brought you the right photographs!”
“Yes, you did. Yes, you did.”
Parsons called up another photograph—Richard Cooper in his military outfit. “The question, my friend…” he adjusted the screen again. The photograph of Cooper seated on the right side; the shot from the Mall remained on the left, “…is, whether these two photographs are of the same man?”
“Of course they are!” Roarke shot back.
Parsons typed in a command. Each photograph zoomed in on a sequence of tight frames matching feature-by-feature: eyes, mouth, nose, ears, eyebrows, chin. Then, on a separate screen the computer mapped three-dimensional models. Parsons let the program cycle twice. He stopped it on an extreme close-up of Cooper’s eyes.
“Are you sure?”
Roarke leaned in again. His own eyes widened, as did his mouth. He wasn’t proficie
nt in how Facial Recognition Technology worked, but Parsons convinced him FRT did work. The truth was in the mapping. The God-awful truth was right in front of him.
Bali
He was dead again. Rich and dead, with no regrets. He set up another assassin to take the fall, to bury Richard Cooper a second time. Even his benefactor would think he was gone. That was fine. The fact that he didn’t fulfill his contract and ignite the riot, as agreed, was of no concern. Now, he had no ties and no identity. He hadn’t felt any loyalty for years. There was only the sun and the sand—and time to think more about how to punish the government responsible for sending him into that building in Iraq.
Acknowledgments
U.S. Navy Lt. Commander Greg Hicks, who pointed me in the direction of the South Pacific; John Gresham, whose authoritative knowledge of Specials Forces Ops and his ranking in the world of military history added to the detail and accuracy; Captain Barry Schiff, an extraordinary pilot whose experience with virtually every plane in the air, helped me on key scenes.
I also want to thank Lt. Colonel Cynthia Scott-Johnson, Air Force Public Affairs; Jay Halfond, Dean of Boston University’s Metropolitan School; and Linda Finnell at NBC. Also, Peter Loge, of Milo Public Affairs in Washington, DC.. Peter had served as Campaign Manager to U.S. Representative Brad Sherman and Deputy to the Chief of Staff for Senator Edward Kennedy.
My ongoing thanks to Sandi Goldfarb for her exceptional advice and assistance framing and promoting the work, as well as Debbie Supnik, Nancy Barney, Jacob Arbach, Fred Putman, Nat Segaloff, and my extraordinary agent at Broadthink, Nancy Cushing-Jones. Additional thanks for the belief that Scott Waxman and Mary Cummings have shown at Diversion Books for my books.
Of course, thanks to my wife, Helene Seifer, for her constant help and support; my wonderful children, Sasha, Zach, and Jake; and my mother, Evelyn Grossman, whose own political career helped shape my life. She will be with me forever.
I’m grateful to have worked so closely with Roger Cooper, Dwight Zimmerman and Byron Preiss for having faith in me. And extra thanks to Bob Bowker and Bianca Pino at iNet//Web Solutions for their ongoing efforts in creating and shaping my book websites.
Finally, I want to express my sincere gratitude to the readers of my first novel, Executive Actions, for making me feel so welcome in the world of International thrillers. Your e-mails and letters are wonderful. I truly hope I deliver on the good will you’ve given me, and that you’ll enjoy Executive Treason.
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