If Rafferty had seen Broderick near the church, he might still be there, or in the immediate vicinity. Another forty yards of open ground, and Bolan would be crouching in the chapel's shadow. Emerging from his cover into daylight, Bolan was acutely conscious of his own vulnerability, and he braced himself for the impact of a shot between his shoulder blades.
Still intact, he made it to the church and waited for a moment, crouching near the door, alert to any sounds inside. Unable to be certain with the crack of scattered gunfire all around him, Bolan made his move into the narthex. Here, the light was filtered through a stained glass window set above the altar.
Bolan moved into the sanctuary, then froze again as he detected movement near the altar. He was braced when Broderick emerged from the concealing shadows, carrying his autorifle ready at his hip.
"I didn't know you were a prayin' man," he said.
"I have my moments."
"Yeah. I guess you're havin' one right now."
"It's over, Broderick."
"Not yet."
The warrior knew it was hopeless, but he had to try. "I need the names of your superiors."
"I guess you haven't noticed, Frankie, but I'm the best there is."
And Broderick's weapon was already winking flame when Bolan caught him with a blazing figure eight across the chest, the impact lifting him completely off his feet and draping him across the altar. Dying, Broderick wouldn't release his grip on the Kalashnikov, its last rounds shattering the chapel's stained glass window, raining multicolored fragments on his face and chest.
New footsteps in the ringing silence, and the warrior swiveled, ready to confront his enemies. Instead, he spotted Yakov Katzenelenbogen closing in from the narthex.
"You all right in here?" the Israeli asked.
"So far."
"We're done out there."
He listened, conscious of the fact that there was no more gunfire in the plaza. Seeing Katz before him, he wasn't required to ask the outcome, but he wondered at its cost.
"How bad?"
"Let's say we won."
"I wonder."
29
McNerney had an hour at New Orleans International before he had to catch his flight to Baltimore. He had considered flying into Dulles as a gesture of defiance, but discarded the idea as foolish, realizing that the airport might be covered with a blanket of security by now. If they were thinking clearly — and they had been, long enough at least to edge him out at San Felipe — they would know he wasn't running. He had never run from anything since childhood, and his military record would describe an officer who never called retreat, attacking relentlessly until the enemy surrendered or was finally annihilated.
They would cover all the options, certainly. His former proximity to South America would set the assets hopping in Bogota, Rio, Buenos Aires. There was a quaint hotel in Acapulco he had favored for vacations, and he could imagine Feds in polyester suits and mirror shades stampeding through the halls, accosting any white-haired man they found and making asses of themselves.
They might as well be checking Hong Kong or New Delhi, and he put the problem out of mind. Security in Washington was his immediate concern, and while they couldn't know the details of his backup plan, they would be conscious of his so-called friends and allies in the area, the men from Langley and those members of the general staff who had encouraged him to make his dream a bold reality, supplying cash and the necessary hardware. Would they all be in the net before he reached the capital? McNerney hoped so, smiling at the notion of their fraud exposed, their phony patriotism held up to the purifying light of day.
He had no sense of being used, manipulated. Rather, he had been manipulating them, capitalizing on their desire for a "free" Nicaragua to work a little magic of his own. While his "superiors" were building castles in the air and slicing the hypothetical pie to their own specifications, he had worked for rather different goals. Ortega's ouster would have been the signal for a broader revolution — no, a counterrevolution — as the people of the Third World learned to wage relentless war against the Communists. Their example might have sparked some similar resistance on the home front, made things hot for parasites in Washington, but there were different ways to get the same job done.
Like knocking off the President, for instance. At Baltimore-Washington International, he rented a nondescript Buick sedan, using his bogus Alabama driver's license and a phony credit card, both in the name of Ernest King. The sweet young thing on duty didn't bother checking out his card, and he was on the road in twenty minutes, ticking off the thirty-seven miles that separated Baltimore from Washington, D.C. En route, he found a roadside shop that dealt in sporting goods, made several purchases and stowed his parcels in the Buick's trunk.
The basic plan was simple: find the President of the United States and execute him as a traitor to the people. Afterward, assuming that McNerney was alive, there would be ample time to state his case and rally stalwart patriots to his defense. Specifics were a different matter; lacking any real idea about the presidential schedule, he would have to bide his time, collecting information from the media, selecting the most advantageous time and place to strike.
The time wasn't a problem. He had sufficient cash to carry him for several weeks, if he didn't indulge himself with lavish suites and six-course meals. The press would keep him posted on his target's movements, and he would be waiting, watching, when the inevitable moment arrived. Despite a prior brush with sudden death, the President refused to be confined and mothered by his Secret Service detail. He was still accessible, still vulnerable to a gunman with determination or someone with absolute commitment to his cause.
He might be able to complete the tag within a day or two, but if he had to wait for two weeks, three, it would be worth his time. A lag might even help, allowing guards to grow complacent and convince themselves the danger was illusory. Whichever way it played, McNerney was prepared to die, if necessary, to attain his goal.
Historians and analysts contended that no single man was indispensable within the democratic system, that assassination of a President changed little in the long run. They were wrong of course. In 1865 the death of Lincoln shattered plans for peaceful readmission of the late Confederacy to the Union, bringing on the violent period of Reconstruction. McKinley's murder in 1901 had elevated Teddy Roosevelt to the White House, ending an era of laissez-faire big business and inaugurating the age of the muckraking trustbusters. In 1963 a rifle shot in Dallas canceled plans for troop withdrawals from Southeast Asia, paving the way for overt American military involvement in Vietnam.
Elimination of a President changed everything, hell, yes, and this time would be no exception. This time the tide was running out on liberals and socialists, the welfare state reformers and their goddamned pacifist associates in Congress. How they loved to criticize South Africa for "violating human rights," ignoring flagrant genocide in Laos, Cambodia, Afghanistan. How quick they were to cut off military aid for Contra freedom fighters, all the while expanding trade agreements with the Soviets, the Red Chinese.
America was slowly waking up and questioning the actions of its leaders. Mike McNerney was prepared to sound a general alarm — and more, to take the first decisive step toward reclamation of a government of, by and for the people. Naturally it would require some time before the people were prepared to wield their newfound power. Expert supervision was required, and who was better able to provide that necessary guidance than a professional leader of men?
McNerney was a natural. If he survived the next few days, the people would elect him President by acclamation. He was certain of it. Just as Washington had been the father of his country, Michael John McNerney would be named the nation's savior. Snatching victory from sure defeat, he would make history at one fell stroke. And afterward…
Well, afterward would take care of itself. A strategist by training and by inclination, he knew well enough that he must deal with first things first.
And first up
was the President.
* * *
A smaller group had gathered in the briefing room at Stony Man Farm. Of the original collection, five weren't in evidence; Encizo, Lyons, Blancanales and McCarter were recuperating from their wounds in sick bay, under orders from Brognola, while Kurtzman's assistant, Barbara Price, was busy running crucial traces through the farm's computer system. Bolan missed them all, in different ways.
He sat beside Grimaldi, having finally soothed the pilot's irritation over being left out of the action in Honduras. Gadgets sat to Bolan's left, and facing them across the table sat the three undamaged operatives of Phoenix Force. They all looked glum, a mood that had affected even Kurtzman, in his usual place beside Brognola.
Katzenelenbogen broke the ice. "Go on and spell it out," he growled. "How bad?"
"It could be worse," Brognola told them all. "We made a clean sweep on the home front, anyway. Caught the bastards with their pants down and rolled them up without a fight. One general bit the bullet, otherwise they're being handled through administrative channels."
Each member of the team was perfectly aware of what might happen in "administrative channels." On occasion individuals might be declared incompetent, confined to mental institutions from which they were never likely to emerge. Some others simply disappeared, their paper trails suggesting love affairs, embezzlement, a planned escape to parts unknown. A few had tragic "accidents" in public places, serving as the ultimate example to a handful in the know.
"Honduras?" Manning asked.
"We can't be certain yet, but from appearances McNerney was the only one to slip the net."
"Goddamn it!" Schwarz was obviously bitter and embarrassed by his failure.
"Let it go," Hal ordered gruffly. "There was no way to anticipate the play. He had us going in."
"We could have tagged him first instead of going after Travers."
"Only at the risk of an abort, in case you made the touch too soon." Hal shook his head. "I hate to disappoint you, Gadgets, but there isn't any room for blame on this one. These things happen."
"Sure." The Able warrior didn't sound convinced.
"Our problem now is tying up loose ends. We've got McNerney's hometown covered. Ditto half a dozen relatives and friends, if you could call them that. So far we're sucking wind. He's not about to call a family reunion when he knows that every badge in the United States is looking for him."
"Is it public yet?" Katz asked.
"A sanitized report is being issued even as we speak. We've got him on the FBI's Top Ten for interstate flight to avoid prosecution. The charges are listed as murder and sabotage. For public consumption, he's been linked to terrorist activities of the Aryan Nation."
"That fits," Calvin said.
"Close enough. He's down as armed and dangerous, with all the usual quotes about how no one's going to bring him in alive. Nobody wants to study this one, gentlemen. He's bought and paid for."
"Any idea where he'd run to?" Manning asked.
"We're most concerned right now about D.C."
"How's that?"
Brognola frowned. "We have three individuals matching McNerney's description on a flight out of Honduras to New Orleans on the day it all went down. Two of them have been traced and cleared. The third name was a phony — Ernest King — and Mr. King made a connection into Baltimore that evening. We were pretty sure he couldn't have been carrying, and on a hunch we started checking gun stores in the area. A place called Hubert's off U.S. 95 near Scaggsville has the records of a major sale to Ernest Michael King. The salesman still remembers him because he came in right at closing time."
"He had a Maryland ID?" Calvin asked.
"Not necessary," Hal reminded him. "The '86 revisions to the Federal Firearms Act permits a purchase out of state on long guns."
"What exactly did he buy?" Schwarz questioned.
Brognola checked the shopping list in front of him. "A Winchester Security Defender twelve-gauge pump with pistol grip in place of shoulder stock. One hundred rounds of double-ought in three-inch Magnum loads. A Sako Finnbear, chambered for 7 mm Remington Magnums, with a Bushnell sixteen-power target scope attached. Four boxes of the Remingtons. Let's call it eighty rounds."
"Assassination?" Bolan asked.
"Right now, I wouldn't rule it out," Brognola said. "He's got the tools."
"So, button up the Man," Grimaldi said, "and keep him under wraps until we have this sucker in the bag."
"Which could be never," Katz responded, "if he's waiting for his shot."
"He's got to show himself sometime," Schwarz put in.
"With ample money, he could stay submerged for months," Katz told them. "Does anybody here believe the Man is going to make himself a prisoner because of what might happen?"
"We've suggested that he take an unannounced vacation at his ranch," Brognola said. "He categorically rejected the idea."
"So, turn the game around," the Executioner suggested. "If you can't conceal the target, put it on display and make it irresistible."
"I'm listening," Brognola said.
"Present McNerney with an offer that he can't refuse. Announce the President's location, leave security at status quo and throw in something for the kicker."
"Such as?"
"Oh, well, let's say a Soviet ambassador, for instance."
"Bogus?"
"Naturally."
"You have someone in mind to play the role?"
"Well, he would have to fit the mold, as far as general age, authoritarian appearance, general sour disposition."
"Hey, I've got it," Kurtzman beamed, one hand already resting on Brognola's shoulder. "Someone perfect for the part."
Hal glowered at him, steered the conversation back on track. "You can't expect the Man to cut White House security."
"I wasn't thinking of the White House," Bolan answered.
"Oh?"
"Camp David."
There was silence for a moment as the other warriors chewed it over, searching for a weakness in his plan. They didn't need to mention its most glaring problem — namely, that if there was any error in planning, any actual — opposed to perceived — weakness in presidential security, McNerney might be able to achieve his goal, take out the chief executive and leave them all up the creek without the proverbial paddle. In that eventuality, they would be coconspirators in the assassination of a U.S. President.
"I hope there's more to this," Brognola said.
"There is," the Executioner assured him.
For most of half an hour, Bolan spelled his plan out in detail, refining it as he went along, smoothing the rough edges until everything meshed. When he finished and sat back, the others stared at him and at each other for a long moment of silence.
It was Hal who finally broke the ice. "You don't want much, now, do you? I don't know if I can get this past the Secret Service."
"Get it to the Man, Hal. Bodyguards are paid to follow orders."
"This is very risky."
"Give me an alternative."
But there was no alternative, and Bolan knew it. The President wouldn't submit to house arrest for untold weeks or months, and if McNerney was already stalking him, they had to flush the would-be killer out before he had an opportunity to choose the killing ground himself. It was a sucker play, but it could work, and at the moment Bolan couldn't think of any other decent options.
"Shit. I'll see what I can do," Brognola said. "Is there anything else?"
He was already on his feet, moving toward the door, and no one tried to stall him by prolonging the debate. With their decision made, the hardest part was still ahead, and none of them were envious. It was Brognola's task to make the President of the United States expose himself, become a sitting target for the madman who was stalking him. And he was running out of time.
* * *
"I'm sorry to disturb you at this hour, sir."
The President dismissed Brognola's apology, driving at the heart of their mutual problem. "Have you g
ot a handle on McNerney yet?"
"No, sir, but we're still convinced that he's in Washington and armed with weapons suitable for close- or long-range assassination."
"I see."
"I hope you'll reconsider my suggestion…"
"No," the commander-in-chief cut him off. "I won't run out to California and hide like some intimidated child. This administration will not live in fear of irrational enemies."
"Very well, sir. Striker has suggested an alternative."
"I'm listening." The Presidential voice was curious, yet wary.
Hal outlined the plan in simple terms, including his participation, that of Bolan and the able-bodied men of Stony Man. When he had finished, there was momentary silence on the other end.
"I think your plan has merit," the President said at last. "I'll have my press secretary make the appropriate announcements. Let's call it day after tomorrow."
"Yes, sir. We'll be there."
"I hope so. It wouldn't be the same without you, Mr. Ambassador."
The President was laughing as he cradled the receiver, but Brognola didn't share his levity.
It was goddamned risky any way you cut it. Bolan might have figured all the angles, covered all the odds, but there was still a lethal wild card in the game. Assuming that McNerney took the bait — a very hazardous assumption, in Brognola's mind — there were a thousand things that could go wrong. He might slip past the several layers of security or have an ally up his sleeve whom they would never recognize until it was too late. Assuming for a moment that the Man had been mistaken in his own assessment of the D.C. sweep, granting the remotest possibility of other plotters still at large, the odds were drastically revised, and in favor of their enemy. If Mike McNerney had an inside man…
Brognola pushed the morbid thought away. He was becoming paranoid with age. The President had covered everything in Washington, with some assistance from the chiefs of staff and loyal supporters at the top in Langley. If Brognola started seeing shadows now, imagining a plethora of enemies around him, he was beaten well before he took the field.
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