Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command

by Gary Grossman

  The documents couldn’t leave the room. Neither would the HP laptop computers with their SCI or “Sensitive Compartmented Information.” On the other hand, smart phones, iPads, and other devices weren’t allowed in. Attendees deposited them in hallway cubbyholes outside the Situation Room.

  “Please follow me as I go through my presentation,” the vice admiral instructed. They all focused on the first of Gunning’s PowerPoint slides. There was only one word in fire engine red over a black background: MERCURY.

  Gunning’s staff had considered calling the operation “Antidote,” but J3 quashed that notion. “Too many people don’t know how to spell the damned word today. They confuse it with anecdote. And this isn’t a fucking anecdote.”

  The president had another reason for vetoing it. Nobody wants an antidote that doesn’t work.

  So it became MERCURY, recalling the Greek God and the planned swiftness of the mission.

  “Our objective…” Vice Admiral Gunning switched to the second slide, a revolving space-view of Earth. Next he triggered the embedded animation to zoom into South America, then tighter to the Tri-Border region of Paraguay, Argentina, and Brazil. “Here. The country is Paraguay. The city is named Ciudad del Este, Paraguay.”

  Gunning gave a quick summary of Ciudad del Este and the dangers it presented.

  Having gone as far as Google satellite would take the eye, the video dissolved to a classified NSA view which continued to zoom tighter and tighter to the Paraná Country Club along the Rio Paraná and into what was obviously a heavily fortified compound with armed guards patrolling every twenty feet.

  “This is a real-time sat view of our hard target. Some one hundred miles up. We get about a ten-minute window every ninety minutes, so timing is critical. Also mission worthy—predators which can loiter for hours. They’ll fly high enough that they won’t be seen from the ground. They shouldn’t be picked up by Paraguayan radar. But shouldn’t isn’t won’t. We’ll test their area air defenses before we launch.”

  He clicked through to another web source. “Now, real-time video. You’re looking at a mansion with twenty-foot walls, guerillas with AK47s patrolling the grounds, cameras, and perhaps mines on the property. The sentries seem to know exactly where to walk.

  “What you see is what we’ll be taking. A three-story mansion patrolled by armed guards. Once inside, we will locate, identify, capture, or kill this man.”

  He changed the slide.

  “Ibrahim Haddad.”

  The screen showed a single photograph. Seconds later, with another command, it separated into a quad split with three other pictures, then multiplied to sixteen pictures, all from different places and events over the years.

  “Location. Target. Now for the timing.”

  A digital timer came on screen. It counted down days, hours, minutes, and seconds.

  “We are on the clock now, people. Our first asset, courtesy of Director Evans, is arriving in the country,” he checked his watch, “in two hours and forty-five minutes. We’ll have reliable, on-ground intel coming in by the evening.”

  Gunning switched to the next slide. It showed a photograph of a Navy SEAL in full tactical gear ready for battle. “Now here’s how we’re going to do it.”

  Ciudad del Este

  Vinnie D’Angelo spoke Spanish with an impeccable accent. Anyone with a trained ear would swear he came from Madrid.

  The CIA operative arrived at Aeropuerto Guarani in Minga Guazá on TAM Airlines from São Paulo, Brazil. He cleared a very lax customs without incident and grabbed a taxi through Ciudad del Este to the Paraná Country Club, which is in Hernandarias.

  The lack of security at the airport was more than made up for by what he faced here. Armed guards were posted at the entrance. Cameras mounted on posts, at the corner of the guard gate, and in trees provided overlapping 360-degree views to unseen eyes.

  “Pasaporte, señor.” The order came in Spanish from a very serious and well-trained paramilitary figure. Likely a former mercenary, he reasoned. D’Angelo vowed to not underestimate them.

  “Si,” D’Angelo responded warmly. He opened his briefcase, retrieved the passport identifying him as a Spanish national, and handed it over to the guard.

  The sentry examined the picture closely against the man. “Do you have additional identification?”

  D’Angelo was surprised, but not flustered.

  “Other identification? Certainly. Just a moment.”

  The CIA agent reached for his wallet in a zippered front pants pocket. He had backup IDs from a driver’s license to credit cards. “Here,” he said handing over the license.

  Again the guard studied the picture against D’Angelo. Overly thorough or on alert? he wondered.

  Holding the license and the passport, the guard stood erect and keyed his radio. D’Angelo read and memorized his nametag. SGT Julio Octavio. “I have a Señor Rafael Gonzales. Check.”

  Thirty seconds went by. The meter on the cab continued to run and D’Angelo, Sr. Gonzales for this expedition, settled into his seat beginning to look mildly impatient and inconvenienced as normal would suggest.

  Octavio got clearance in his earphone and bent over into the passenger side window again. He held onto the identification.

  “Your business, Sr. Gonzales?”

  Now D’Angelo launched into his legend, which could be easily confirmed thanks to friends in the Spanish business community under CIA payroll.

  “I’m a travel industry executive, and quite honestly…”

  “Your business, Sr. Gonzales?” Octavio said with more authority.

  D’Angelo relaxed for effect. “I work with Exotica International. We are looking to establish ecotravel adventures to the Tri-border region with a luxury stay at the Casa Blanca.” He decided to tickle the tiger and gauge whether he was subjected to a degree of heightened security. “But I’m not sure I would recommend the property if this is the way tourists are treated when they arrive.”

  It worked. Ocatvio’s concern lessened. “We are simply being cautious, Señor. We live in a beautiful place, but one must take extra precautions.”

  It was the extra that alerted D’Angelo. He’d convey that to Washington later.

  “And how long will you be staying?”

  “Likely four days. I will be touring, setting up meetings, and writing a blog.” All of it was true. Then there was the part he didn’t explain.

  “If you need a guide, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  That was the last thing D’Angelo would do.

  “Gracias. Perhaps.”

  Now D’Angelo made an obvious attempt to examine the man’s badge, which of course, he had already done. “I will certainly let you know, SGT Octavio.” He also assessed all of the immediate threats on the man. His Glock, a taser, and nightstick.

  Ciudad del Este was living up to its reputation as a smugglers’ paradise, a haven for outlaws, gangsters, and terrorists. A place not to be taken lightly.

  “In the meantime, is everything all right?” D’Angelo held his hand out for his identification.

  The guard smiled. He was not quite ready. He peered at D’Angelo’s wallet. Now the CIA agent recognized that Octavio worked for three masters. The country club, the terrorist, and cash.

  D’Angelo casually removed five hundred thousand Guarani, the equivalent $100, and offered it in trade for his IDs. Octavio casually took it and released the IDs, but not without saying in plain English, “Thank you.”

  It didn’t throw the CIA agent. The ploy was as old as a George Sanders depiction of a cold Nazi commander from a 1940s Hollywood B-movie. “Perdóneme?” D’Angelo asked.

  “Nada,” Octavio said waving the cab through. “Nada.” Five hundred thousand richer, the guard reasoned there was no need to place a call to the man in Casa del Zuma, and no reason for the cab driver, also on salary, to report anything suspicious.

  Vinnie D’Angelo was in.

  The White House

  Situation Room

 
“Scott, got a second?” the president said following the briefing.

  “Sure,” Roarke said without his usual lightness.

  “This Slocum thing has weighed heavily on you.”

  “Yes, it has.”

  “And all indications point to our man Haddad.”

  Roarke nodded in agreement.

  “You were not responsible, Scott. Not in any way.”

  Roarke still didn’t accept that fact, even though it’s what everyone was saying.

  “Focus on Katie. You’re lucky to have her. She’s so good for you. Try to think about that future together, will you?”

  Taylor saw that his words of consolation were not hitting home. He understood what made Roarke tick better than probably anyone. He believed he had a solution that could help.

  “Look, if you want in on MERCURY, I’ll speak to the vice admiral.”

  Roarke raised his head and stared into the president’s eyes.

  “I want in. I want to be there for the kill,” Roarke said with the unmistakable desire to pull the trigger.

  “It’ll be tough. The SEALs are animals. Only a few days for you to train with them.”

  “Get me in. I’ll be ready. I’ll be so ready.”

  The thank you was implied.

  Sixty-seven

  The Oval Office

  3 February

  “Duke, thank you for coming in.”

  The president dispensed with the formality of Mr. Speaker or Congressman. He purposely didn’t rise from his desk.

  “You know the Director of the FBI,” he continued, indicating Robert Mulligan’s presence.

  “Yes, of course. Good to see you again Mr. Director.”

  But Patrick, feeling an icy stare from Mulligan recognized it was not good.

  Morgan Taylor added further evidence. “Take a seat, please.” He motioned to the couch facing Mulligan who sat in one of two captain’s chairs.

  Patrick cut to the center of the Oval Office and did as he was instructed. Only after he was seated did Taylor stand, cross the room, and take the seat next to the FBI chief. Mulligan opened a file, which Patrick showed obvious interest in. Mulligan closed the file shut when he saw what Patrick, reputed to be able to read upside down, was doing.

  “Duke, you had a young woman working with you by the name of Christine Slocum,” Taylor stated.

  Patrick smiled. “That’s right. A crackerjack writer and legislative aide. She’ll make a great chief of staff some day.” He had other designs on her as well.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Mulligan said.

  “What? She’s a real pro,” Patrick said, taking obvious exception. “Why?”

  “She’s dead,” the president said solemnly.

  The declaration caught Patrick completely off guard. His mouth gaped open, but no words came out.

  “She was murdered last night.”

  “Taken out would be more like it,” Mulligan interrupted. “Shot in her bed. Assassinated.”

  “Assassinated? What are you talking about?”

  The president looked to the FBI director to continue.

  Mulligan opened the file again and turned to a tabbed page. “Christine Slocum was a plant in your office, just as she had been for Teddy Lodge. Groomed, trained, and put there by the terrorist behind the nation’s poisoning, the same mastermind behind last year’s coup attempt and the election fraud before it.”

  “I can’t believe this. This is ludicrous.”

  “Mr. Speaker,” Mulligan continued without raising his voice, “She was in the process of expanding her sphere of influence directly into the White House. Infiltrating, if you will, through a relationship with one of our Secret Service agents. Infiltrating here, just as she had in your office. She had hoped to co-opt this agent, learn vital information, and relay it to her handler.”

  “You’re making this up to get to me,” Patrick blustered. It was an automatic response. “And, Taylor, I promise you this will get nasty all the way up the Hill.”

  Mulligan was about to react when the president tapped his arm and bore down on Patrick himself.

  “You will rethink what you just said, Congressman.”

  Taylor was more serious than Patrick had ever seen him.

  “In basic terms, you had a spy in your office. How do you think that will play on the networks news, let alone back home. You. On your payroll. Someone who, through intermediaries you are also dealing with, reported to a foreign national, now the enemy of the people of the United States.”

  Patrick started to form a rebuttal, but Morgan Taylor cut him off.

  “I am not finished. There is more. We’ve scrubbed her computer and researched her phone records. Slocum’s Svengali may have been a foreign national. But there were intermediaries. Others in the Beltway. It’s all in the director’s report.”

  “Which I presume I can see?”

  “No. As long as you cooperate,” Mulligan declared. “Yes, if you don’t. In the Post.”

  “This is unbelievable,” Patrick stuttered. “You’re trying to blackmail me not to criticize you. Not to run for this bloody office.”

  “The only thing you have right, Duke, is that this is a bloody office and it’s about to become much bloodier.”

  The impact of the revelation was that Patrick would never be able to run for president. Never, in his mind, become the most powerful man on the face of the earth. All of this in one short conversation. And considering this was Washington, it also meant that the president had something in mind to ensure Patrick’s acquiescence.

  “What do you want?”

  Duke Patrick stood before the cameras and microphones in the Capitol Rotunda, ready to deliver a short statement.

  “I’ll make this as simple as possible. I come before you today in support of President Taylor’s call for calm. We live in a perilous time that tests us beyond our means and imagination. Rather than showing our differences to the world, we must stand united; brave and determined to right the wrongs that have been perpetrated against the United States of America…against the good people of our nation…against the freedoms we hold so dear. Go to your homes, as the president said, and trust in your government that we will see this through to a brighter day. Thank you.”

  Patrick left without taking any questions. It was a signal to many in the press corps that he was not happy.

  Sixty-eight

  The White House

  Later

  “It won’t work going through Paraguay,” Secretary of State Bob Huret explained to Morgan Taylor. Huret was still in the air over the Atlantic on his way back from briefing NATO partners in Europe. The president sent him to speak with America’s allies; to reassure them that the United States was not paralyzed by the attacks and that they should increase their security, but not feel alone and vulnerable.

  Huret, a former international businessman, fluent in French, German, Spanish, and Mandarin, did his best to relieve anxiety abroad. Now he appraised the president on our relations with the Paraguayan government.

  “The new regime is, what shall I say, cash rich. The cash comes from, let’s just say, dubious sources.”

  “Dubious?” Taylor asked. “Dubious as in Ciudad del Este’s businesses?”

  “Evans can probably answer with more authority, but yes. Twenty percent of Paraguay’s $9 billion gross domestic product comes from illegal trafficking. President Ruben deJuan is in the hip pocket of any number of the crime families.”

  “Hold for a minute. I’ll get Jack on the line.”

  Taylor made the request to Louise Swingle to patch the Director of National Intelligence in. It took less than the minute he told Huret.

  “Jack?”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Thanks for joining. I’ve got Bob Huret on from the air. We’re talking about our travel destination and el presidente.”

  “Hi, Bob.”

  “Hi, Jack.”

  “Your thoughts?” the president asked.

 
“Well, he’s sure not my favorite,” Jack Evans quickly stated.

  “Go on.”

  “Liberal party on the face of it, but his ties with Hamas and Hezbollah were what got him up the food chain to the top.”

  “Can he be trusted with any inside baseball?”

  “Not if you want to keep it a secret.”

  “Bob, are you in agreement?”

  “One hundred percent, Mr. President. I’m sure you’ll tell me what this is all about in a few hours, but give him anything sensitive that might relate to his keepers, and rest assured, they’ll hear about it. We’ve had a cordial relationship, but since he took over two years ago, he’s not anyone I would ever expect to engage in any normal dialogue. Very guarded.”

  “Jack?”

  “There’s more that I can get into. As for a flyover, Bob’s nailed it.”

  “Okay, gentlemen. Give me the next best neighbor. For the sake of this conversation, Bob, we need a friendly nation we can rely on or one where a little subtle arm-twisting will work. Your specialty.”

  “On the Tri-Border there is, of course, Argentina and Brazil,” Huret explained. “I’m not the person to give you strategic information, just political ramifications. I’d have to defer to Jack.”

  “No on Argentina. We’ll have easier access with stopovers in Brazil and a straight shot across the Paraná River,” Evans offered.

  “How are we doing with Brazil, Bob?”

  “That’s a touchy subject. We haven’t delivered on some promises, and Lydia Santiago is as shrewd a politico as they come.”

  “Can she be trusted?” Taylor asked. It was probably the most important question so far.

  No one jumped in.

  “I need to know, gentlemen.”

  “Let me put it this way, you can negotiate with her,” Huret stated.

  “That may be enough. Okay, I have a thought about that and maybe the leverage that will work. When are you due to touch down, Bob?”

  “In about three hours.”