by Robert Gandt
Loomis looked perplexed. “Yes, sir, no problem. Is this something I can help with?”
“Keep my lines to the major commands open and secure. Everything outgoing encrypted.”
Another quizzical look. “You’ve got it, General.”
Inside his windowless office, Cassidy locked the glass door behind him, rolled down the slatted blinds, and settled into the big Aeron office chair. His condo in Arlington was ten minutes away. Even though he had phone access from his home office to the major Air Force commands, it wasn’t secure. What he had to do now required the encrypted connections of his Pentagon office.
During the drive to the Pentagon, he’d had time to think about who was behind this mess. By the time he’d reached his office, he was sure. For years he’d known about Capella. The right wing clique was comprised mostly of military officers, but also some high-ups in the government and the media. From time to time Cassidy had received hints that his career might be better served if he belonged. Cassidy had ignored the hints. In his opinion, the loonies on the right were as dangerous as the loonies on the left.
Now time was running out. He guessed he had an hour, maybe less. Who to call? It had to be commanders he personally knew. Guys he could trust. And therein was the problem. He had no idea how deep this conspiracy went.
After he thought about it, he picked up the phone that would connect him to the headquarters of the 1st Air Force. The connection was supposed to be encrypted. What he didn’t know was who else besides the recipient could unscramble the conversation. Were the connections monitored? Yeah, bet your ass they were. But by whom?
Cassidy distrusted computers and longed for the days when people exchanged post cards and called each other on land lines. Now they had all this high tech crap and nobody knew how to make it work except the IT geeks. Geeks like this kid, Fornier.
With that thought, he checked his cell phone again. Where the hell was the geek?
<>
The street in front of Sam Fornier’s apartment was deserted. It was still too early for the joggers and bikers and the pre-dawn worker bees headed for the city. Sam’s headlights played on the rows of parked cars along the curb. Both sides of the street were filled. She’d have to park in the back, in the narrow slot behind the dumpster where the Mini Cooper would barely fit.
Just to be on the safe side, she would make one pass down the street before going into the apartment. She didn’t think the goons had yet figured out who she was and where she lived. She’d taken a chance going out the gate at Andrews. The military facility was already in lock down mode. All inbound traffic was being blocked at the entrance while military police searched vehicles, but they were still letting personnel exit with only a cursory ID check. That would change as soon as the goons figured out that Capt. Sam Fornier had gone missing.
Easing down the street, Sam gave each parked car a good look. The brick-facade apartment buildings were uniformly dark, no sign of life. As she approached number 32 on the right side, she slowed almost to a stop. Her apartment was on the second floor. The blinds on the living room window were open. Had she done that? Sometimes she forgot. When had she left? This morning, a little past seven. It had been daytime, so maybe she hadn’t noticed.
She was almost past the apartment when she saw it. A light in the window. It was momentary, just a flicker. A flashlight? She glimpsed it again, this time a sweeping beam. Definitely a flashlight. Probing the darkness inside her apartment.
Oh holy flaming shit. Sam stepped on the accelerator, and in the same instant she noticed movement on her left. One of the parked cars, a black SUV with smoked glass windows, maybe a Toyota. It was moving. Pulling into the street, making a U-turn to go her direction. No headlights.
Sam jammed the pedal to the floor. At the corner she wheeled to the right. The Mini’s tires screeched on the pavement. In the mirror she could see the dim shape of the SUV. It’s headlights were still off.
The street was sparsely illuminated by widely spaced streetlamps. Sam flicked off her own headlights. In the sudden darkness she could barely make out the dark rows of parked vehicles blurring past on either side. At the next corner she threw the Mini into a skidding turn to the left. Just in time she swerved to miss the back end of a parked panel truck. In the mirror she saw the dark silhouette of the SUV veer around the corner.
The goons were getting closer.
Sam fought against the panic that was swelling inside her. Faster. Don’t let those assholes catch you. She jammed harder on the accelerator, then realized it was already floored. At this speed she saw only the blurred shadows of the parked cars. Another corner was coming up fast.
Sam yanked the wheel hard to the right. Too late she felt the Mini’s rear wheels slide out. The boxy little car was trying to swap ends. Sam fought to keep control, steering into the skid, trying to straighten the Mini’s careening path.
It didn’t work. The rear end swung around like a pendulum. The car hurtled into the intersection. Disoriented, Sam sensed the world spinning around her. The Mini had nearly made a complete revolution when the dark shape of a parked sedan swelled in the windshield. Sam felt the glancing impact as the right front corner slammed into the side of the sedan. The metallic whang deafened her. Sam had only a dim awareness of the car flipping over. She felt herself flung sideways across the seat, into the ceiling, the sudden gray presence of the deployed airbag jamming against her.
The flipping ended. Sam sensed the Mini skidding across the pavement on its roof. With a final whump the car slammed into a parked vehicle on the opposite side of the street. Sam lay in the overhead panel of the car. She tried to orient herself. The car’s motor was racing. A hissing noise was coming from somewhere in the engine compartment.
Her brain was in slow motion. What the hell happened? Nothing was making any sense. Why was she here? She had gone to her apartment to—
Oh, shit. In a flash of understanding it came to her. The goons. They were here.
Chapter 15
“We have just a few minutes,” said Libby. “Colonel Brand can’t be away from the cockpit for long. After he’s briefed us, we’ll discuss our course of action.”
It was Jill’s idea to use the conference room. It was the largest compartment in the aircraft. “They’ll be writing about this in their memoirs someday,” Jill had said. “Let’s make sure they write that they were included.”
Libby wasn’t so sure. She avoided large staff and cabinet meetings. Her Presidential style was to go one-on-one with her advisors. That way she could announce decisions post facto, which spared her the unruly cabinet debates and the long-winded spiels from self-important secretaries and policy specialists.
Libby sat at the head of the long conference table. To her left she saw the solemn faces of Gen. Gus
Gritti and Mike Grossman. At the far end was Karl Ozinsky, senior senator from Ohio. Ozinsky was a member of the Committee on Foreign Relations and, in Libby’s opinion, a pompous demagogue. Two election cycles ago Ozinsky had taken a shot at his party’s Presidential nomination before losing the New Hampshire primary. With his white-maned, patrician good looks and imperious manner, Ozinsky had become a fixture on the political talk shows.
Libby didn’t like Ozinsky, but she had to give him credit. He wasn’t afraid to take flak for crossing party lines on issues that were important to him. It was, in fact, why the senator had been included on the Tehran junket. “It signals our transparent approach to foreign policy,” Jill said. “Get Ozinsky on board and we’re halfway to getting the treaty ratified.” Libby didn’t believe it. She expected the opposite, but at least the cranky senator’s presence gave her Iran mission the appearance of being a bipartisan effort.
Next to Ozinsky sat Lester Vosges, White House senior director for Middle East Affairs. A witty and erudite Columbia professor, Vosges brought an air of civility to heated policy debates. On Vosges’s right was Josh Fortenoy, the thirty-year-old deputy White House chief of staff. Fortenoy was a brash young man whose job as gate
keeper and scheduler had been mostly expropriated by the President’s senior adviser, Jill Maitlin.
Jill sat in her customary place at Libby’s right. The seat on Libby’s other side was filled by the Presidential Pilot. Brand was wearing a blue windbreaker with the Air Force One emblem over his khaki uniform shirt, no tie.
Libby nodded to Brand. Brand glanced around the room. “As you know by now,” he said, “Air Force One has become a target. An entity still unknown to us is trying to remove the President. Our communications capability has been sabotaged, which means we’re not able to transmit our position or our intentions. We have opened up one very tenuous line of communication and our situation has been reported to a senior officer in the Pentagon.”
“Who would that be, Colonel?” asked Senator Ozinsky.
Brand hesitated. “I don’t think that it’s—”
“A general named Cassidy,” offered Jill Maitlin. “He’s supposedly a friend of Colonel Brand’s.”
Brand said nothing. His eyes bored into Jill Maitlin.
“Let Colonel Brand finish,” said Libby.
Brand unfolded an aerial chart. “Here’s my plan. From our present position”—he pointed to a spot off the coast of Canada—“we parallel the coast of North America, remaining a couple hundred miles offshore. Then we turn to enter U. S. airspace over the northeast coastline. We’ll make an immediate landing at a suitable base on the coast.”
“What’s to keep them from shooting us down?” asked General Gritti.
“Nothing,” said Brand. “Nothing except our single communications link—and our own defense capability.”
Ozinsky was peering over the rims of his reading glasses. “Defense capability? Would you explain that, please?”
“No, sir.”
The senator leaned forward, glowering at Brand. “Colonel, I asked you a question. I expect an answer.”
“Considering our circumstances, Senator, I prefer not to discuss it.”
Ozinsky’s eyes blazed. “Now you listen to me, I want to—”
“Excuse us, Senator,” said Jill Maitlin, “but that’s not why we’re here.” She turned her attention to Brand. “The real subject of this discussion is where we are going to arrive. And for your information, Colonel Brand, you’ve got it all wrong. Air Force One should return to the nation’s capitol. We shouldn’t be landing anywhere except back at Andrews.”
Libby glanced from Jill to Brand. She saw Brand’s expression harden. Jill’s expression was just as obdurate.
“With all due respect,” said Brand, “that would be the stupidest thing we could do.”
Jill’s face reddened. Before she could reply, Mike Grossman spoke up. “Ms. Maitlin has a point, Colonel. The President has the best security coverage in the world in Washington. What can happen to her there?”
“That’s the point,” said Brand. “We don’t know. We don’t know the extent of this conspiracy. Even if we didn’t get shot down before we approached Washington, we don’t know who’s waiting for us on the ground.”
“That’s why we have the Secret Service,” said Jill Maitlin. “To protect the President.”
“From whom?” said Brand. He looked around the table. “Who is the enemy? We know they’ve planted at least one agent inside the Presidential Airlift Group, one of our flight engineers. We know they’ve deployed at least one interceptor against us and, probably, the air refueling ship. It would be a mistake to assume they don’t have agents inside the Secret Service.”
“Now wait a damn minute,” said Grossman. “If you’re suggesting that one of our agents—”
“It doesn’t matter what the colonel is suggesting,” said Jill. She gestured with her hand around the table. “Let me remind you once again, Colonel Brand, the people at this table are the President’s advisors. It’s our job to counsel her, not yours.”
Brand said nothing. His face remained expressionless. A silence fell over the table. Libby could feel the eyes on her. Another impasse. They were waiting for her to decide, as if she were a damned referee. What should they do? Go to Washington, or land somewhere else? Jill or Brand?
The obvious answer was Jill. Throughout Libby’s political career—House to Senate to White House—she had depended on Jill Maitlin. Jill was the wise one. The tough one. The behind-the-scenes decider. She trusted Jill.
Brand was another matter. There was a reason she’d made Pete Brand the Presidential Pilot. It had less to do with qualifications than it did with instinct. As if she had known a day like this would come. A day when her life might depend on Brand.
Jill Maitlin was drumming her fingers on the yellow legal pad in front of her. She made a show of glancing at her watch. Jill’s standard method of prompting Libby into action.
“Colonel Brand is right,” Libby announced. “We shouldn’t land in Washington.”
Jill Maitlin’s eyes flashed. “That’s crazy. We have to talk about this.”
“We’ve talked about it.” Libby tried to sound more decisive than she felt. “Colonel Brand has a plan, and I think we should go with it.” Libby rose from her chair. “I’d like for the rest of you to start working on a ground strategy after our arrival in the U. S.”
The assembled group rose in unison. All except Jill Maitlin. She remained in her seat with her arms crossed, her face a frozen mask. Libby glanced at Brand. He gave her a nod, then walked out of the conference room.
Watching him leave, Libby felt a familiar queasiness rise in her. Why was she trusting Brand? He was one in a succession of male figures in her life whom she had trusted. Each had abandoned her.
With the queasiness came a memory. She could close her eyes and see them, the images from nearly four years ago. Rain, darkness, boat masts, a blackened harbor. A night that changed her life. The night Brand betrayed her.
<>
Libby parks where she always does, two blocks up from the marina. It has become a ritual, this weekend trip to the boat. She follows the sidewalk downhill, past the row of shops and restaurants, through the gate where she punches in the four-number code, then across the long dock out to the slip where Andromeda is tied.
The weather has turned nasty. The raw wind is driving sheets of early autumn rain across the sky. A ceiling of grey-black clouds scuds low overhead. She left the umbrella in the office. No matter. When she reaches the boat she’ll slip out of her damp work clothes into the warm ups she keeps aboard.
With the dreary weather has come an early darkness. Libby walks across the wet planking, wiping the moisture from her eyes. She peers through the gloom toward the end of the dock. All she sees are the dim shapes of boats tied next to each other. She tries to pick out the familiar silhouette of Andromeda. She can’t spot it.
She continues down the dock, along the row of boat slips. Still no Andromeda. The Severna Marina is huge, hosting over five hundred vessels. Maybe in the rain she has meandered down the wrong pier.
No. She stops and looks around. She knows where she is. There is Brand’s slip. It’s empty. Leaning away from the slanting rain, she pulls out her cell phone and punches in the coded number she uses for Brand. Wisps of wet hair dangle in her eyes. She shelters the phone with her other hand while it rings.
No answer. After five rings it stops. No voice mail announcement. That’s a change.
Libby is getting a bad feeling.
She is still standing on the dock, staring at the empty slip where she knows the boat is supposed to be, when she becomes aware of padded footsteps behind her. She turns to see a young man in a yellow rain slicker coming down the dock.
“Ms. Paulsen?”
She doesn’t answer for a moment. It makes her nervous when strangers know her by name. “Can I help you?” she says.
“I’m supposed to give you this.” The young man hands her a clear plastic zip bag. Without waiting, he turns and heads back up the dock.
Libby hesitates. Her feeling of unease is worsening. Now she is sure. Something isn’t right.
&nbs
p; Inside the bag is an unmarked, sealed envelope. Trying her best to shelter the envelope with her body, Libby tears it open and pulls out the folded paper. At a glance she recognizes the precise handwriting.
Dearest Libby,
This may seem a clumsy way to deliver this message, but I think you will agree that the subject is too painful for us to discuss face to face.
After much consideration, I’ve concluded that our relationship must end. Please know that you have done nothing wrong, nor have I. From the beginning we both knew that what we had together couldn’t last. Our worlds have always been too far apart, too incompatible.
Before we make an irrevocable mistake, it’s best that we break off this relationship now. We should not see each other again, nor should we communicate.
You have a brilliant career ahead of you. I wish you the greatest success and happiness.
With all my love,
Pete
Libby stares at the note. The ink is beginning to run as rain drops spatter the soft paper. She looks up the dock where the silhouette of the young man is vanishing. She wants to call him back. This is a mistake. This can’t be for her. Pete Brand—the real Pete Brand—would never do this. He loves her too much. He wouldn’t hurt her like this.
She wads the paper in her fist. Rivulets of rain mix with the tears streaming down her cheeks. After several minutes she steps to the edge of the dock and drops the crumpled paper into the water.
A wave of desolation sweeps over her. A little girl’s voice from years ago speaks to her. You should have known. She has again committed the mistake of entrusting her happiness to a man she loves. A man who, she thought, loved her in return.
The rain has turned cold. Libby doesn’t notice. Hands at her sides, she trudges back up the marina dock. She walks through the gate, up the lamplit sidewalk past a micro-brewery filled with boisterous young people. She keeps walking, past the parking lot where she’s left her car, on up the hill and through another tree-lined neighborhood of boutiques and cafés. For twenty minutes she walks, oblivious to the rain.