The Labyrinth Campaign

by J. Michael Sweeney

“I can’t believe this is fucking happening,” Kate groaned.

  They discussed their plan as they drove. President Hughes had a trip planned to Vail, Colorado, for a little vacation. His mentor from his first term in Congress, Gerald Ford, had originally introduced him to the splendors of the Vail Valley many years ago. During his time as president, Vail had become to him what Key West had been to Truman and what Cape Cod had been to Kennedy.

  Jack and Kate’s plan was to get to Colorado and somehow find a way to meet with him. But, first things first. They had to find another car, switch plates to be safe, and get some cash. They were hoping to find someone to cash a check; that would take longer to trace than a credit card. Once that was done, they would drive the twelve-plus hours to Colorado and meet the president of the United States. They both started to laugh hysterically … like that was going to be an easy meeting to get set up.

  thirty-two

  Greg Larson walked to the end of the driveway of his modest Lakewood home. It was rare for him, but he had slept until almost 9:45 on a glorious Sunday morning. As he settled in to perform his weekly ritual of reading the Sunday Free Press cover to cover, the front page caught his attention. The photos of Jack McCarthy and Kate Anson immediately piqued his interest. This was the same Jack McCarthy who just yesterday was relegated to page two of the Metro section. Now he was front-page news and on the run with a Dallas Police Department homicide detective. It was getting more and more intriguing.

  Larson devoured the story of the Will Hawkins aide, allegedly involved in a major drug trafficking organization. The violent way McCarthy’s girlfriend had died, coupled with the midday shooting in downtown Dallas, sickened Larson. But at the same time, the adrenaline rush associated with the fact that he was on to something big left him almost giddy. He now had the ammunition he was desperately searching for. One fact was front-page news. The other, the fact that Carlos Pendrill was Will Hawkins’s roommate, so far had not surfaced. He could not believe his luck. But much of the luck could actually be attributed to John Sterling, the ’60s-throwback researcher who was the best he had ever worked with.

  Larson knew in his heart the time had come. It was time to contact John Rollins and request a one-on-one interview with Will Hawkins. He would obviously have to deceive Rollins, telling him that as hard as he’d tried, no good dirt was uncovered on the fine senator. Assuming the Democrats agreed (and he knew they would), he would proceed with what appeared to be a standard interview. Then, without any hint of aggression, he would hit Will Hawkins with both barrels. He was imagining the conversation.

  “Senator, is it true that the fugitive Jack McCarthy was a key part of your staff?”

  He could hear the answer as if he were clairvoyant.

  “Yes, Greg, he was. And no one was more shocked than I at Jack’s alleged extracurricular activities.”

  “Well, Senator, is it also true that the world’s most ruthless drug kingpin was your roommate and confidant in graduate school?”

  Larson could picture the look on Hawkins’s face. It would be priceless in more ways than one. But for now, some breakfast. He was famished.

  Will Hawkins was at his best in front of a crowd. For a Sunday morning campaign stop in Austin, the throng of three thousand faithful supporters was considered by most political pundits to be absolutely massive. Senator Hawkins was not one to miss an opportunity. As he extolled the virtues of his policies, with the economy, drug enforcement, and the environment getting most of the attention, the crowd cheered endlessly.

  His staff was waiting in the wings, watching with pride as Will ended his rousing speech with a stirring quote: “If I am elected president, I assure you that I will not sleep until we’ve amputated the hands that feed drugs to our children.”

  The crowd roared as Will stepped down from the podium.

  As Ian had predicted, Will’s next move was to approach the crowd that was chanting, “Hawkins, Hawkins, Hawkins.” Ian’s plan was perfect, and he was prepared, having dreamt of this confrontational moment for a long time. As the senator inched toward the rail where he had been pressed by the surging crowd, Ian coolly revealed the sign he had carefully created the night before. It wasn’t long before one of Hawkins’s staff spotted the sign reading, “The Hawkins Administration will change the world” and began subtly moving Will in that direction. As Will approached, Ian took the note from his pants pocket, ready to slip it to the senator. The moment had finally arrived. Will Hawkins locked eyes with the sign-wielding supporter, recognizing the momentary sensation that they had somehow met previously. But before he could ask the question, the two men were shaking hands, and Will realized the man had slipped him a note.

  Ian leaned toward Will ever so slightly and said, “I think you’d prefer to read that later. And I’m quite sure you’ll find it interesting.”

  Will looked at the man with the British accent, intrigued at his brashness. But just as quickly as it happened, Will shrugged, put the note in his pocket, and moved on. Ian smiled to himself and worked his way through the crowd back toward the Driskill.

  The four Mexican Nationals, who just days earlier had crossed the US-Mexico border with enough firepower to conquer a third-world nation, now sat in a small, clean motel room in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, biding their time until evening. And what an evening it would be. This day marked the beginning of the ecological reign of terror envisioned by Sen. Will Hawkins and executed by the ruthless criminal network of Carlos Pendrill. In the minds of the terrorists, the clock was moving at a snail’s pace. It felt as if 9:00 p.m. would never arrive. This was the moment they had trained for around the clock for the past several weeks.

  The plan was complete and impeccably detailed; all that was left was the waiting. At approximately 9:00 p.m., the truck carrying toxic waste from the mining site in Utah would pass through Glenwood Springs on its way to a disposal site in Northern New Mexico. It was a relatively simple mission. When the truck stopped at the weigh station in Glenwood Springs just prior to entering the famed Glenwood Canyon, it would be delayed by a well-compensated attendant. During the delay, two of Pendrill’s henchmen would sneak under the truck and attach a small device to the right front tire. The device, a plastic explosive with remote detonation capability, was designed to separate the front wheel and tire from the axle, causing the truck to severely lurch to the right in a canyon that left little room for driver error.

  By 8:40 the terrorists were on the move. As they pulled to within visual range of the weigh station, they shut off the headlights. The two men in the back silently exited the car and disappeared into the darkness. At 8:57 the truck with a full load of toxic waste pulled into the station, just as they had planned. Fifteen minutes later, without a single contingency plan requiring execution, the two terrorists returned to their vehicle. Phase I of their plan had been completed; now it was time to wait.

  Ten minutes later the semi left the weigh station heading east on I-70 into Glenwood Canyon. The terrorists followed approximately a half-mile behind. The timing of the plan was extremely tight, and flawless execution was mandatory. The woman in the front passenger seat was calculating the truck’s speed and the timing at which it would be in the detonation zone.

  The group only had a three-second window to detonate and ensure maximum effectiveness. “Forty-five seconds,” the woman spoke in perfect English. The man sitting directly behind the woman held the remote detonator softly, with his thumb poised above the detonate button. She began her countdown. “Ten, nine, eight, seven,” as the man waited for the word fire. At the split second that she spoke the first syllable, the man pushed the button. The small explosion was immediate and highly visible, even from a half mile back. What happened next seemed to take an eternity. The truck lurched right, then the tank began to swing back and forth, causing all four terrorists to hold their collective breath. Just as the truck appeared to be slowing and not sliding toward the steep embankment that led to the river, the tank flipped and flew over the guardrail,
dragging the cab with it. The entire truck rolled two more times and landed squarely on some large boulders at the bank of the Colorado River, splitting the tank and spilling its poisonous contents into the longest river west of the Continental Divide.

  The terrorists grinned with the satisfaction of a job well done. Little did they know or care that within an hour, half the country would be appalled by the tragedy and searching for someone to blame it on. All they knew was that Phase I of a four-phase process had been successfully completed. Their boss would be pleased.

  thirty-three

  The Monday morning meeting in Will Hawkins’s office had all the ingredients of a national crisis: phones ringing, multiple newscasts playing on the wall of TVs, advisers running in with updates, and the candidate’s top adviser, John Rollins, sitting across the desk from him as he took a call from the leader of arguably the most powerful special interest group in the country.

  As David Ellis and Will Hawkins discussed the environmental tragedy of the previous evening, Will explained his position on the situation. “David, I am as appalled as you are. The fact that we would ever allow toxic waste to travel a route along one of our most cherished waterways is a travesty. And I’m here to tell you, if I’m elected president, protection of the environment will be one of my top priorities.”

  “Senator,” Ellis said, his voice trembling with emotion, “I believe you. That is why I’ve committed my support to you. You have my pledge that the foundation will provide unprecedented resources to your candidacy.”

  Will, smiling from ear to ear, interrupted Ellis, “David, you will not regret this. Our partnership, and I use that term purposely, will make a mark on the environment that will change our children’s future.”

  Ellis responded, “I’m with you, Senator. And as soon as we hang up, I will be arranging a news conference that will formally announce The Future State Foundation’s support of Senator William S. Hawkins for president of the United States.”

  “Thank you, David. Let’s talk soon.” As Will hung up, he looked at John Rollins and smiled, “Well, at least something is going right.”

  “Well, it’s a start,” Rollins responded, “because we’ve got a real problem here with your long-lost friend from London. We’ve done some digging. His name is Ian McKay, and he is a Special Ops expert with the British Military.”

  The room went quiet as Will pondered the situation. After moments of silence, Will spoke as if he were thinking out loud. “It seems that the appropriate next step would be to arrange for our friend Mr. McKay to accompany us to Colorado where we could quietly discuss the situation and then dispose of him with little or no interference.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Rollins exclaimed. “This whole thing is getting way out of hand.” The two men sat in silence, and then John Rollins asked, “Have you ever heard of a labyrinth?”

  Will responded coldly, “Of course, what do you think I am, an idiot?”

  “No, but I’ve got to tell you that’s exactly what we’re creating here. Each time we enter into another illegal activity, the odds of everything working out as we planned exponentially decrease. We’ve got to clean up what has already been initiated and get ourselves out of this downward spiral.”

  Will silently stared at Rollins, showing absolutely no emotion, so Rollins continued.

  “It reminds me of a family vacation when I was twelve. We were driving in Northern California and went to visit the Winchester Mystery House. Old Lady Winchester was the heiress to the firearm fortune and had obviously lived life being a few cards short of a full deck. Over many years, she had created this grand mansion where she planned to live out her years. The problem was she was never satisfied with the final product. So she continually added wings and rooms and staircases with no master plan in mind. The result was rooms with no windows, staircases running into walls, and a general layout of a home with no semblance of order.”

  “John, I hate to interrupt this compelling story, but where are you going with this? I’ve got a full day ahead of me.”

  “Where I’m going with this is that that’s when my father taught me the valuable lesson of the labyrinth. He explained that in life, just like building a structure, a master plan is required. I don’t believe we currently have a master plan. Therefore, by default, we are creating a labyrinth that I’m not sure we will escape.”

  Once again, while looking interested, Will stared at John Rollins in silence. While some of Rollins’s diatribe made sense, Will was thinking to himself that regardless of the risk, he could not afford to have a blackmailer around who knew he had killed someone in an alley behind a bar more than two decades ago. It didn’t matter that less than twenty-four hours earlier, he himself hadn’t known the unfortunate outcome of that fateful night. After more silence, Will finally spoke.

  “Okay, then, it’s settled; we’ll take Mr. McKay to Colorado and make sure he’s never heard from again.”

  Rollins nodded disgustedly, knowing that any further discussion was futile. He was in too deep to get out and at a disadvantage regarding influence. “Well, we’re going to have to be very careful, because another guest will also be traveling with us to Colorado.”

  “And who might that be?”

  “Greg Larson. This is our opportunity to get Pulitzer-caliber coverage from a ‘skeptical convert’ in the press.”

  “Perfect! I’ll be happy to give Larson and the nation’s press an interview that will swing our great nation’s voters.”

  Jack McCarthy and Kate Anson entered Denver International Airport with the intention of getting a rental car. They parked the Lincoln Town Car on Level 3 of the west parking structure with no intention of ever going near it again. Their plan was relatively simple but also extremely risky. As they boarded the bus that would shuttle them to the Budget Rental Car counter, they nervously held each other’s hands, posing as a tourist couple. Their next steps had been scripted on the nearly thirteen-hour drive from Dallas to Denver.

  Once they rented any available SUV using Jack’s credit card, they would look for their unwitting accomplice. The plan was to identify a young man traveling alone who might be willing to trade his just-rented subcompact for their more luxurious SUV. The story they had concocted would center around Kate’s ex-boyfriend. They would explain to their target that the ex was very wealthy and very jealous and had reason to believe they were headed to Colorado. If he was willing to trade, not only would they pay for both cars, but would also give him $100 for his trouble. It would take the right individual to make this work, but they hadn’t come up with anything better. And they knew that once they used one of their credit cards, all pursuit would center on Colorado.

  As Jack and Kate entered the rental-car building, the first thing they noticed was that it was packed. They smiled at each other, thinking that finding someone willing to trade vehicles had just gotten easier. Jack was scanning the room looking for unwitting targets when the nearby newspaper stand caught his eye. There it was in bold type on the front page of The Denver Morning News: “COLORADO RIVER TRAGEDY.”

  Jack nearly vomited. He quickly dug out some change and grabbed a paper from the dispenser. He couldn’t believe what he was reading: toxic waste in the Colorado River … and he had known it was going to happen. Seconds later, he heard a gasp from behind him. Kate had just read the headline over his shoulder.

  “My God, what’s happening here?” Kate exclaimed quietly.

  “It’s our worst nightmare,” groaned Jack. “They’re actually following through on this madness.”

  “What do we do now?” Kate said.

  “We stick with the plan. It’s more imperative than ever that we get to the president. And he’s only a two-hour drive away.”

  They quickly got into line, ready to attack the next and most improbable leg of their journey. As the woman behind the counter handed them their keys, she asked if they needed a map. Jack quickly said no as they headed for the front lobby to find their target.


  It wasn’t easy. The first two guys they approached emphatically declined. The second actually added a “fuck off” when they persisted. But as was usual in bizarre situations, the third time was somehow a charm. The young man was clearly hesitant at first but clearly loosened when the offer was raised to $300 cash and a free rental car. The two parties agreed that the young man would just insert his keys in the slot when returning so that a receipt would be mailed to Jack. Jack in turn promised to charge the man’s bill to his credit card upon return, explaining that he was paying for his buddy’s rental. The returns would happen on Thursday, the day the young man was to return to Kansas City. Jack added for assurance that the man should call Budget on Thursday evening, and if everything was not copasetic, he could explain the situation to the rental car company and report the vehicle as stolen.

  The man looked around as any suspicious character would, but nobody seemed to care. The keys and cash were quickly exchanged, and the man walked off with a slight spring in his step.

  Jack and Kate found their Ford Fusion. “Is it just me, or do all rentals look alike?” Jack asked rhetorically. And off they went.

  As Jack and Kate merged on to I-70 from Peña Blvd, Jack blurted out, “We’ve got to get to Hughes and end this nightmare.”

  His fatigue clearly showing, he was referencing a meeting with the president as if it were already scheduled.

  thirty-four

  The phone in room 720 of the Four Seasons Hotel in Austin rang twice. Ian McKay snatched the phone from its cradle as he re-entered his room from the balcony overlooking Lake Austin. “Hello.”

  “Sir, this is a representative for Senator Will Hawkins. Have I reached the right room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sir, we have discussed the terms of your proposal, and Senator Hawkins has agreed, in principle, assuming certain conditions are met.”