Final Finesse
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FINAL FINESSE
Copyright © 2009 Karna Small Bodman
This edition published by Regnery Fiction in 2018. Originally published by Forge in 2009.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.
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FINAL FINESSE
BY
KARNA SMALL BODMAN
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
CHARACTERS
CHAPTER ONE: GEORGETOWN–MONDAY EARLY MORNING
CHAPTER TWO: OKLAHOMA–MONDAY EARLY MORNING
CHAPTER THREE: THE WHITE HOUSE–MONDAY MORNING
CHAPTER FOUR: WASHINGTON, D.C.–MONDAY MORNING
CHAPTER FIVE: OKLAHOMA–MONDAY MORNING
CHAPTER SIX: THE WHITE HOUSE–MONDAY MORNING
CHAPTER SEVEN: THE WHITE HOUSE–MONDAY MID-DAY
CHAPTER EIGHT: OKLAHOMA–MONDAY AFTERNOON
CHAPTER NINE: THE WHITE HOUSE–MONDAY AFTERNOON
CHAPTER TEN: THE WHITE HOUSE–MONDAY AFTERNOON
CHAPTER ELEVEN: WASHINGTON, D.C.–MONDAY AFTERNOON
CHAPTER TWELVE: MEXICAN BORDER–MONDAY NIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE WHITE HOUSE–TUESDAY MORNING
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: TEXAS BORDER–TUESDAY NIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: CARACAS, VENEZUELA–WEDNESDAY MORNING
CHAPTER SIXTEEN: THE WHITE HOUSE–WEDNESDAY MORNING
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA–THURSDAY EARLY MORNING
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: SILVER SPRING, MARYLAND–THURSDAY EARLY EVENING
CHAPTER NINETEEN: MISSOURI–THURSDAY EARLY EVENING
CHAPTER TWENTY: GEORGETOWN–THURSDAY EVENING
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: CARACAS–FRIDAY MORNING
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: THE WHITE HOUSE–FRIDAY MORNING
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: CAPITOL HILL–FRIDAY MORNING
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: THE WHITE HOUSE—FRIDAY MORNING
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA–FRIDAY EVENING
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: CARACAS–SATURDAY MORNING
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: WASHINGTON, D.C.–SATURDAY EVENING
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: EL AVILA–SATURDAY NIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: WASHINGTON, D.C.–SUNDAY AFTERNOON
CHAPTER THIRTY: THE WHITE HOUSE–MONDAY MORNING
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: CARACAS–MONDAY MORNING
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: THE WHITE HOUSE–MONDAY MID-MORNING
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE: EL AVILA–MONDAY NIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: CAPITOL HILL–TUESDAY MORNING
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE: MCLEAN, VIRGINIA–TUESDAY AFTERNOON
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: THE WHITE HOUSE–WEDNESDAY EVENING
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN: THE WHITE HOUSE–WEDNESDAY NIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT: WASHINGTON, D.C.–THURSDAY MORNING
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE: EL AVILA–FRIDAY MORNING
CHAPTER FORTY: WASHINGTON, D.C.–FRIDAY MID-DAY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: EL AVILA–SUNDAY MORNING
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO: SILVER SPRING MARYLAND–CHRISTMAS EVE
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE: ALABAMA–CHRISTMAS MORNING
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR: DULLES AIRPORT–CHRISTMAS NIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: THE WHITE HOUSE–WEDNESDAY MORNING
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX: CARACAS–WEDNESDAY MORNING
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN: ALABAMA–WEDNESDAY MORNING
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT: EL AVILA–THURSDAY AFTERNOON
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE: THE WHITE HOUSE–FRIDAY MID-DAY
CHAPTER FIFTY: CARACAS–SATURDAY AFTERNOON
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE: LOUISIANA–SATURDAY AFTERNOON
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO: CARACAS–SATURDAY AFTERNOON
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE: CARACAS–SATURDAY NIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR: EL AVILA –SUNDAY LATE-AFTERNOON
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE: CARACAS–SUNDAY EARLY EVENING
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX: EL AVILA–SUNDAY NIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN: CARACAS –SUNDAY OVERNIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT: CARACAS–MONDAY LATE-MORNING
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE: THE WHITE HOUSE - MONDAY LATE MORNING
CHAPTER SIXTY: LOUISIANA–MONDAY OVERNIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE: EN ROUTE TO THE US–MONDAY OVERNIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO: LOUISIANA–MONDAY OVERNIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE: LOUISIANA–MONDAY OVERNIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR: LOUISIANA–MONDAY OVERNIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE: LOUISIANA–MONDAY OVERNIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX: THE WHITE HOUSE–TUESDAY EARLY AFTERNOON
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN: CARACAS–ELECTION DAY
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT: CAPITOL HILL–LATE JANUARY
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Welcome to the new Final Finesse—an updated version of the original story about a White House struggling to combat foreign agents attacking the country’s energy supplies.
In putting this thriller together, I received help from a number of friends and contacts at the Department of Homeland Security, former White House colleagues, ambassadors and especially agents of the CIA who shared their expertise (but asked to remain nameless).
Readers of this novel will discover humorous references to special interest groups, earmarks and Congressional resolutions–all inspired by actual requests made over the last several years.
Also I want to thank the Regnery Publishing staff for reissuing this series. We all hope you enjoy reading these stories of international challenges and political intrigue: Checkmate, Gambit, Final Finesse, Castle Bravo, as well as my new novel, Trust but Verify.
Finesse–v. “To handle with a deceptive or evasive strategy.”
CHARACTERS
THE PRINCIPALS
Tripp Adams, Vice President, GeoGlobal Oil & Gas
Samantha Reid, Deputy Assistant to the President for Homeland Security
WHITE HOUSE STAFF
Gregory Barnes, Assistant to the President for Homeland Security
Ken Cosgrove, National Security Advisor
Angela Marconi, Special Assistant to the President for Public Liaison
Evan Ovich, Special Assistant to the President for International Communications
Joan Tillman, Administrative Assistant to Samantha Reid
OTHERS
Joe Campiello, Grayfield company operative
Cassidy Jenkins, Senator from Oregon Senator
David Major, FBI agent
Godfrey Nims, Lobbyist for GeoGlobal Oil & Gas
Will Raymond, CIA agent
Dick Stock
well, Greyfield computer expert
Harry Walker, Senator from Oklahoma
FOREIGN NATIONALS
Victor Aguilar, President, GeoGlobal, South America
El Presidente
“Eyeshade,” Gang leader
Simon Gonzales, Field Worker
Juan Lopez, Field Worker
Carlos Mendoza, Field Worker
Diosdado Rossi, Assistant to El Presidente (The “Fixer”)
Rafael Santiago, Gang member
CHAPTER ONE
GEORGETOWN–MONDAY EARLY MORNING
“All non-essential White House employees remain home due to ice storm. Update in four hours.”
Samantha Reid stared at the email and pushed a strand of her long brown hair back off her forehead. She knew that most everyone would try to show up for work today because nobody wanted to be thought of as “non-essential.” At least she had a four-wheel drive jeep she’d been driving for years. Not the chicest car that regularly parked on West Exec., the driveway separating the West Wing from the Old Executive Office Building, or OEOB as they all called the big empire place that housed most of the staff. It was a car she’d bought near her parents’ home in Texas where everybody drives jeeps.
She glanced out the picture window of her tiny Georgetown apartment overlooking the Whitehurst Freeway. Just beyond was a narrow park lining the Potomac River, its trees weighted down with icicles. To the right, the Key Bridge was silhouetted in the dim pre-dawn light where a lone taxi, trying to navigate the icy roadway, suddenly spun out and slammed into a guard rail.
Good Lord. It may look like a scene out of Swan Lake, but it really is treacherous out there. She had known a front was moving in, but an ice storm in early December didn’t happen all that often, and nobody had predicted it would be this bad.
She looked down at her computer again. She always checked her personal and secure email accounts as well as texts when she first woke up, as she often got urgent messages from her boss, the head of the White House Office of Homeland Security. They had been working practically round the clock on a whole list of issues and new safety measures, coordinating with the agencies, following up on tips and executing presidential orders.
She had stayed late last night summarizing the fallout from a threat to a big shopping center made the day after Thanksgiving. Thankfully, that one turned out to be a hoax.
Today she knew they would be focusing on other problems including a new missile defense system they were trying to get deployed on a number of commercial airplanes. She checked her schedule and remembered that a group of airline executives was due for an 11:00 a.m. meeting in the Roosevelt Room. The mastermind of a new 360-degree laser defense, Dr. Cameron Talbot, was supposed to join the airline officers. But now, with the storm raging, she doubted if any of them would make it in.
She also had a meeting to follow up on an attack on the Metro. Transit cops had nailed a guy trying to leave a backpack filled with explosives on board a D.C. train headed for the Pentagon. When the Metro was built, some genius had designed a stop directly underneath the building. What were they thinking?
She shoved her computer aside and padded into the tiny galley kitchen. It looked like it could have fit into a train with its shallow cabinets on two walls, sparse counter space and a stove that was a relic from the eighties. Her whole condo was less than four hundred square feet, but she had gladly exchanged size for the convenience of a Georgetown address that put her within minutes of the White House, though this morning, inching along the icy Washington streets, she’d be lucky if she’d make it in an hour’s time.
She flicked on the small TV set that took up way too much space on the kitchen counter and heard a commercial advertising a new drug. There were pictures of a kindly looking grandmother pushing a laughing child on a swing while the announcer said in the tone of an after-thought, “Side effects could include dizziness, nausea, muscle weakness, weight gain and in rare cases, temporary loss of vision, coma or stroke.”
Samantha shook her head at the absurdity of it all, but then heard the news anchor come back on with the weather report. His map showed a wide swath of storms, snow and ice reaching from Oklahoma all the way up to Delaware, with D.C. on the leading edge.
She measured the coffee, stuck an English muffin into the toaster and checked her watch. She’d have to skip her morning workout in the basement fitness center. With the added commute time, maybe they’d delay their usual early morning staff meeting, but she couldn’t take that chance.
As she reached for a coffee mug, she made a mental note to remind her boss about his appearance on CNN at noon to discuss the Metro train arrest and the shopping center situation. She knew she’d have to write his talking points, but wondered what other potential disaster would have to be added at the last minute.
CHAPTER TWO
OKLAHOMA–MONDAY EARLY MORNING
“Honey, wake up! Something’s wrong.”
Her husband rolled over and made a muffled groan.
“Really. Wake up. It’s freezing in here. Furnace must have gone out or something.”
“Uh huh,” he mumbled and burrowed down inside the covers.
“Please, honey. I mean it.” She reached over and tried to turn on the bedside lamp. “Oh great. Just great. The power’s out.”
The windows in the old farm house rattled as a strong gust of wind pushed sheets of ice and snow against the north wall. “It’s gotta be forty degrees in here. We have to get the furnace going or something.” She yanked open the drawer in the table and fumbled until she felt the flashlight. She flicked it on and shoved the man until he finally opened his eyes.
“What the … what do ya mean it’s forty degrees?”
She pulled the heavy quilt to one side, and he snatched it back. “See what I mean?” she asked. “The furnace. Do something.”
He slowly turned the covers back and ambled to the bathroom where his terry cloth robe was hanging on the door. “Okay. Okay. I’ll check it out.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“Nah. Stay warm. Gimme the flashlight. With this wind, it’s probably just the pilot light. I figure we should get a new heater one of these days.”
“You know we can’t swing that now, not with the bills and all.”
“I know,” he sighed. “Just wish I didn’t have to keep fixing the damn thing all the time.”
The stairs creaked as he made his way down to the basement and headed to the back. He peered at the furnace and checked the pilot light. Sure enough. Out again. He held the flashlight with his teeth and tried to light the gas, but it wouldn’t come on. He turned the valve on and off and tried again. Nothing. He grabbed the flashlight and muttered, “Damnation. Gas ain’t getting’ through. Must be a clog or somethin’ in the line. Better check the fireplace.”
He climbed the stairs, went into the living room and knelt down in front of the weathered brick hearth. He tried the switch that turned on the gas logs. Nothing. He shivered and pulled the belt on his robe tighter. “Never shoulda put in the damn gas logs,” he whispered to himself, “regular ones burned fine. But no, she says they’re too messy to clean up, so we get the gas logs. Fine mess we’re in now.”
“What’s happening down there?” she called over the banister. There’s still no heat coming on.
“I know, damn it. There’s no gas gettin’ into the house. No furnace, no fireplace. Nothin’ works. Call your sister and see if we can come stay in town till we can get someone to fix the line.”
“I can’t call her now. It’s five-thirty in the morning.”
He got to his feet and started up the stairs to the bedroom. “So we wait an hour. Get back in bed. There’s nothing we can do now but wait.”
Several miles to the south, an underground bunker, covered by a golf course, had been built in the sixties with an elevator taking workers down to a ten thousand square foot facility. It currently is equipped with living quarters, a kitchen, bathrooms, and storage areas, all to
support a massive control room where employees of GeoGlobal Oil & Gas monitor their maze of pipe lines.
The supervisor pointed to a large board covering an entire wall featuring a map with red, yellow and green flashing lights that indicate the status of the lines stretching over a multi-state area. Five computer screens have the capability of zooming in on a section of pipeline, checking diagnostics and analyzing their operation.
“Pressure drop on number twelve,” he shouted. “What the hell!”
His assistant rushed over and stared at the map. “What the devil is that?”
“Gotta shut her down,” he called as he hit a series of computer keys.
“Must be a break of some kind. Helluva storm out there, you know.”
“Storms don’t knock out our lines. Where the hell were you during Katrina, huh?”
“Yeah, I know, but … I just wondered …”
“Stop wondering and start acting,” he ordered.
Suddenly several phone lines began ringing at once. The supervisor grabbed the one closest to his console. “Control room here.”
“Hey Joe, that you? This is Sheriff Chapoton. Big fire west of town. My deputy just called it in, and now our phones won’t stop. He says it looks like some gas line exploded. That’s gotta be one of yours.”
“Exploded? How the hell could that happen?”
“You’re the gas guy. You tell me. I’ve got the fire chief on his way out there with his boys.”
“We saw a pressure drop, so we closed down that line. Fire should burn off pretty quick.”
“Fine. But what’s going on out there?”
“Right now I can’t say. But we’ll get our crews over there pronto to check it out. We’re on it.”
The head nurse on the third floor of the small country hospital raced down the hall. “Blankets. We need more blankets,” she called out, almost colliding with a doctor coming out of the neo-natal unit.
“It’s way too cold in there” he exclaimed as he ran out the door.