Paramount decisions would be made today, and Mason wanted no distractions from any of his other advisors. He wanted no bleeding heart opinions, no humanitarian whining.
The four were deep in their own thoughts and silent, Mason studying the window’s reflection of three of his most trusted advisors. Sweat beaded on Coates’ upper lip, which had sported a broad mustache during his prior assignment as Secretary of the Navy. With the more politically scrutinized station of Secretary of State that Coates now held he’d decided with great reluctance that his facial hair go, and Mason was sure his friend of thirty years still missed it every morning when he shaved. He knew Coates also missed the mustache at times like these when he would have normally pulled at it while considering such an important dilemma. Although Coates was a warm and passionate man, he had yet to let his emotions get in the way of his job.
Defense Secretary Jacob Banks was also personable. When he spoke, it was important and honest. A third generation military man, Jacob Banks came through the ranks as a former U.S. Air Force pilot and Vietnam War Veteran, and most recently was the first African-American governor of Kansas. The air of a simple man, under this thin layer of restraint was a complex strategist.
Chief of Staff Edward Thurman was a different story. The closely cropped, gray hair added to his cool and hard character. He seldom showed any sort of emotion, was always curt to the press and as aloof as a hermit. Considered as one of Mason’s political coffin nails by most Republican Party leaders, Thurman had been a close friend since college days, and the President would have no one else for his Chief of Staff. Over the past thirty-two months, Thurman had pegged every foreign crisis before it arose. He’d given advice that helped stave off many tense situations that could have blown quickly out of proportion and would have required U.S. troop involvement on foreign soil. He was a needed and trusted confidante, no matter that the man lacked any sort of personality trait that could be mistaken as the slightest bit mammalian. And the cigars he insisted on smoking were detestable. The air still stank of the one he’d put out directly after arriving.
When CIA Director Winston joined them, the room would become as electrically charged as a summer thunderstorm. Winston was always Mister Cool — expressive, yet reserved and normally soft-spoken. Although at all times courteous, he acted as though he thought himself slightly better, knowing more, smarter than everyone else — including Mason. Hell, he’s probably correct, President Mason thought and nodded to himself.
While waiting for Director Winston, Mason decided he would not rein in the passions of his four advisors, but let their feelings come out. In a situation such as this, there was no place for holding back.
Coates looked at his watch for the second time in less than a minute.
“He’ll be here, Jimmy,” Mason said, causing the Secretary of State to look up in amazement. He gave the President a slight and knowing smile, seeming to realize Mason had been watching him in the reflection of the window.
Mason had kept them waiting long enough. They could rehash what they needed after Winston arrived — probably wouldn’t have to update the CIA chief on much anyway. Mason turned to face the three men and leaned over his desk. “So, what are the facts? What do we know for sure?”
Chief of Staff Thurman’s voice was even. “Major Jackson’s last communication with us was over an hour ago. It had been bounced from satellite to satellite like his phone call to you earlier. We’ve got our best Com people working on pinpointing his location. So far, no luck. But they’ve assured me they’re narrowing the search and should find Jackson in a matter of hours, perhaps minutes. What we do know is that the so-called ‘Black Lion,’ with his band of mutineers, has proceeded with this rescue mission more in the manner of a blind kitten — against your orders, sir. We think he is now in position, and we should have word of the outcome — success or, more likely, failure — within hours.”
Mason shook his head. “To this point, what’s our best guess on his location?”
Thurman said, “He couldn’t have gone far, Mr. President. He doesn’t have the resources. I believe he’s in the Rockies. Probably still somewhere in Colorado. Wyoming or Montana are possibilities, but somewhat less likely.”
Secretary of Defense Banks raised his brow. “He did have access to some very sophisticated radar jamming and electromagnetic pulse devices, Mr. President. And he did have help. How else could he bounce his communication signals as he did? We believe former Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant Bernard Sampson assisted him with logistics and support.”
“Gunny Sampson?” the President asked. “The Gunny Sampson?”
Secretary of State Coates reached up to pull at a mustache that wasn’t there. “That’s correct, sir.” He brought his hand down and continued. “Sampson retired from the Marines about ten years ago. Good man. I became acquainted with him when I was SecNav. Since he retired, he’s had a number of windfalls, invested wisely, and now owns several airlines including three of the largest, privately held and profitable ones in the world; Canadian Skies, U.S. Wings and Thai Eastern. He’s a billionaire.”
“Okay,” President Mason said. “Why?”
Coates sat forward in his chair. “You’ve already been told of Major Jackson and Daniel McMaster’s acquaintance — well, it runs deeper than that, sir. McMaster saved Jackson and Sampson from certain death during a clandestine mission into Iran a number of years back.”
“Iran?” the President asked, thinking he’d misheard.
“Yes, sir. Black ops,” Coates said. “During the early Clinton years. Jackson was with a pararescue group that went in to rescue McMaster’s four-man recon team in southern Iran. McMaster’s group was mapping an invasion route in the event the U.S. would be called on to help topple Ali Khamenei, the successor to Ayatollah Khomeini. They got cut off from their beach egress. Jackson’s group went in to SPIE rig them out.” He paused, then explained, “On a rope. Jackson’s helo took fire and crashed. He was copilot, a young lieutenant back then. Pilot and the rest of his crew were killed. Jackson suffered severe internal injuries. Sampson was a gunnery sergeant — McMaster’s team leader. Was wounded in the leg and couldn’t walk. The other two men in McMaster’s team were dead. Daniel McMaster, a young sergeant at the time, pulled Jackson from the burning wreckage and, under heavy fire, carried him out of the trees on his shoulders to the beach. He went back for Sampson. A team of SEALs picked them all up. The rest is history. The Gunny and Jackson most likely feel indebted — wish to repay McMaster for saving their asses.”
“I’m sure they do,” the President said. “And McMaster is a one of a kind. His Nonlethal Solutions company is ingenious. Their research and development of nonlethal weapons is undoubtedly responsible for saving hundreds of lives, thousands will be saved in the future. But these men have to know this is a sensitive issue. If we act before knowing who’s behind this — who’s responsible and why they’re doing it — a messy rescue mission could be very costly.”
“They, no doubt, know that, sir,” Defense Secretary Banks said. “But they seem to be getting intel and direction from what might be regarded as a less than conventional source. It appears they believe they have no choice but to act now. They’ve been in constant contact with our Thousand Eyes — ”
Thurman interrupted, “Mr. President, I suggest we stick with the facts and not rely on crystal balls.”
Banks said, “The facts are; we have dozens of scientists and surgeons missing. And then there’s the death of Spain’s President last Monday. As you know, sir, Thousand Eyes thinks it’s related. Garnica had just turned sixty-five, but his doctors were flabbergasted by his heart attack. Said he was in excellent health.”
“Black magic and mumbo jumbo,” Thurman said. “I suppose if he’d slaughtered a couple of chickens and hanged them on his bedposts he’d still be alive today.”
Banks stared at his own hands, seeming stifled.
Coates placed his index finger across his top lip, looking almost as if he was
hiding it. He fixed his eyes on the front of President Mason’s desk without comment.
Mason swiveled his chair to face the window again. He gazed out for a moment, thinking he would let their emotions simmer, give them time to consider what they were all really in for. Nearly a minute of silence passed before he turned back and asked, “What are our options?”
Thurman raised his eyebrows. It was the most emotion he would ever show, and even that was rare. “You’re correct about a ‘messy rescue mission,’ Mr. President. Whoever is behind this is obviously well organized. If a rescue effort fails, it could end up costly not only by way of human life and financially, but politically unpopular, as well. You don’t need that, right now. Election’s coming up. The necessary course of action is obvious. Not only are our bombers prepared, but we have nuclear subs within striking distance of any location on this continent, as well as any other continent, for that matter. They’re armed with cruise missiles that — ”
This time it was Coates who interrupted. “Jesus, Mr. President. We’ll be killing our own people.”
Thurman didn’t look at Coates. He continued to gaze directly at Mason. “They knew the risk. It was their choice to become rogues — not let the President, the U.S. Government in on their intel. As I was saying, Mr. President, as soon as we determine where they are, we could surgically remove the facility and the town in question — if need be, with small nukes. The missiles can fly map of the earth, under radar. Nobody would see them coming, couldn’t prove where they came from. It worked last year at the North Korean nuclear plant. It’ll work again, now.”
Mason wasn’t one hundred percent pleased with his own decision to destroy North Korea’s nuclear arms plant the year before. Disguised as a nuclear power plant, to intelligence sources it was an obvious façade. The bombing had worked out well for the U.S., however. The North Koreans had no proof that it had been American bombs that destroyed their facility, and they weren’t about to let UN inspectors in to look over the mess. The swift action had set back the North Koreans’ nuclear program at least ten years and diverted what was building to be a costly confrontation between the North and the South that would draw the major world powers into the fray. The swift and decisive action had come at the cost of several hundred innocent lives, however. And those skeletons would not easily be buried away in the President’s subconscious.
“But we’re talking about on our own soil,” Banks protested.
Thurman continued, “Like I said, ‘if need be, small nukes.’ Depends on the scope of this thing. We have bunker busters, fuel-air bombs that would pack nearly as big a wallop without the radiation. Whether we determine nukes are warranted and use them or not, we’d cordon off the area and send in our cleanup teams to tidy up a bit. Collateral damage could be kept to a minimum resulting in negligible long term environmental effects.”
“Theoretically,” Banks said, “but highly debatable, Secretary Thurman.”
“What about the civilians?” Coates asked, horror filling his face.
“If these swamis of Banks’ are correct,” Thurman went on, “the death toll will rise exponentially if we don’t do something decisive and immediate. And if they’re wrong, Mr. President, this craziness could be your political knell. That’s what we should be concerned with. We have no proof any innocent civilians are even there.
“I personally believe something much less paranormal is skulking about in the dark — no less dangerous, politically. These scientists and surgeons — the people who seem to be missing — none are essential personnel, that is to security, defense, secret projects in the works. These people who have them — we’ve seen their workings before, the so-called militia movements of the Aryan Nations, Branch Davidians, Posse Comitatus, other paramilitary crazies within our own borders. They’ve set up shop somewhere discrete, and they’re up to no good — God knows what . . . plotting assassinations and delving into the paranormal, mind power studies, things we don’t understand and they don’t either. Admittedly, what’s happening on the world scene is unnerving, perhaps they’ve linked with another paramilitary group — possibly even Al Qaeda, Hezbollah, Hamas, Islamic Jihad or one of the other terrorists organizations around the globe.
“Find them, wipe them out in one fell swoop, and I’m confident the entire thing can be swept under the rug as an unfortunate accident — a denial-of-knowledge sort of thing — and your office could be kept out of the ensuing controversy almost completely. We could head off this mess — if there really is some sort of smoke-and-mirrors plot going on. Hell, we could easily blame it on Al Qaeda. It could be over in a matter of twenty-four hours, and we could all be sleeping, safe and secure, in our own soft featherbeds by tomorrow night.”
Coates gripped the arms of his leather-upholstered chair. “Mr. President, I’d suggest we give Major Jackson some time. That when we discover his location, we offer support for his rescue mission — national guard troops, ATF, FBI SWAT — and do this right, take care of our people. We’re not Russia and this isn’t Chechen rebels.”
Thurman said. “Talk about controversy — it could be Waco and Ruby Ridge times a thousand. Whatever this isn’t, we do know some of what it is — a well-organized operation being carried out by a large group. A small band like Jackson’s doesn’t stand a chance. We’ll be caught up in having to rescue the rescuers — end up worse than Mogadishu and the Mayaguez. The prudent thing to do is destroy all evidence and sweep it clean.”
Coates blurted, “You’re an idiot!”
Coates’ outburst caught Mason off guard, and he stared at his trusted, normally reserved cabinet member as the door opened without a knock or introduction. CIA boss Carl Winston stepped in, briskly went to the empty seat in the middle of the room and sat down. He brought his briefcase to his lap, turned the small tumblers on both of its latch locks and opened it smartly.
“Mr. President. Gentlemen,” Winston said. “I see we’ve already started the bonding session.”
Chapter 6
Michelle gaped at me wide-eyed almost as if the television explosion had been something I’d caused.
Awesome, Superman, Harvey said, but I didn’t take the time to scold him away.
I jumped up from the table and hurried to the counter. After snatching the TV cord from the wall outlet, I turned off the sink light.
Michelle sat still, her back to me. Her head and shoulders trembled.
“Mish, you okay?”
When I placed my hand on her arm, she cleared her throat and glanced over her shoulder. She chuckled nervously and patted my hand. “I’m fine. Just startled me.”
I looked at the microwave and saw its LED was out and then realized my eye glasses had cracked slightly. When I went to the refrigerator and opened the door, the light didn’t come on. “Power surge, I guess. Electricity’s out.”
“I’ll call the electric company,” she said, her voice quavering.
“I hope it didn’t ruin any of the other appliances. I can stay home, wait until they’ve checked it out, and they have the electricity back on.”
“Don’t be silly,” Michelle said. She seemed to have recovered and found her normal voice. “I’ll be fine. Your customers are expecting the store to be open. Besides, I know how much you want to get back to work.”
“You’re sure?”
“I mean it. You go. I’ll take care of the electric company. Don’t you think I can handle that either?”
“I think you can handle about anything.” I smiled at her. “But I’ll need to check with our homeowner’s insurance about claim forms for the damages, and — ”
Michelle nodded. “I’ll call the insurance company, too. And the exterminator about taking care of your little friend with Mickey Mouse ears.”
Then she frowned at me, and I realized she had noticed my broken glasses. I pulled them off and inspected them. “They’re not that bad. Just small cracks.” I looked at her, my memory failing. “Do I have another pair?”
Her eyes shifted. A lon
g moment passed before she answered, and it was as if she had a revelation. “At work. You always keep a pair at work.”
“I can wear these until I get there,” I said and glanced at the clock above the refrigerator. It had stopped at seven thirty. I checked my watch. It showed the same time, and the second hand wasn’t moving. I held it to my ear. Old habit as it was battery powered, and I could hear nothing.
“Odd,” I said. “Watch stopped, too. Almost like some kind of sonic thing — a sonic boom or something, but I didn’t hear anything.”
Michelle shook her head absently. She wasn’t wearing a watch. She reacted to my gaze with a kind of shrinking look, her eyes lowering again. I didn’t know what to make of it.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Battery’s probably dead. I’ll get one at the store. And if it’s the watch, I have a new shipment of Seiko’s. I’ll just pick out one for myself.”
Even with his batteries removed, Harvey popped into my head again. Pretty day. Supposed to snow. How about a walk?
I glanced out the window of the nook. Harvey was right. The houses across the street were silhouetted by a gorgeous orange and purple sky — like a painter’s canvas, all the colors in between blended smoothly at the hand of a master. “I’ll bet it’s seven thirty-five by now,” I told Michelle. “I’m going to be late.”
“Late? You still have ten minutes.”
I pointed outside. “Look how beautiful a day it is. It might do me some good if I walk to work. You can pick me up from the store on the way to the hospital, say — three thirty. How’s that sound?”
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