by Russ Snyder
"Drop me off just before the parking lot; don't want any security cameras to catch me traveling with you," Styles directed Phillips. "Same when we leave."
"Got it."
Little conversation had taken place. Both knew what they were to do. Half a block away, they saw the large retail outlet. Phillips turned into a bakery parking lot, and Styles got out. Before he shut the door, he said, "Sound check."
"Loud and clear," remarked Phillips, dressed smartly in a black business suit.
"Same," confirmed Styles.
Phillips pulled back out onto the roadway and drove onward to the retail outlet.
Styles started walking and was just entering the parking lot as Phillips was entering the store. Immediately, too much noise was coming in over Styles's earpiece.
"Turn your volume down when you get the chance. Too much background noise," he said.
Within fifteen seconds, the unwanted distraction disappeared, and he listened as Phillips coughed to be sure he could hear her.
"That's good.
Phillips approached the customer service desk and asked to see the store manager.
"I'm the assistant manager. How may I help you?" a younger man, perhaps late twenties, answered.
Phillips, all business, asked, "Is your store manager available?"
"Yes, he is, but he's busy with a supplier at the moment."
Phillips flashed her official badge and identification. "Phillips, Department of the Presidential Office. Get your manger, now!"
The man looked at her badge and ID carefully and then said, "Yes, ma'am." Two minutes later, he returned with a short, chubby man in his midforties with a ruddy complexion.
"I'm Ted Longley. I've never heard of the Department of the Presidential Office."
"I'm Darlene Phillips, and I've never heard of Outdoor Hunting and Recreation Outlet, so I guess that makes us even." She handed him a card with the presidential seal embossed on the front. "There's a number on the front, a direct line to the Department of Justice, even though we're not part of them. They will confirm my identity if you have any questions. This is a matter of national security, and I don't have a lot of time and even less patience. Either make the call or shut up and listen."
Longley studied the card and the badge and then returned them. "How can I help you?"
Phillips held up a manila envelope. "You had a customer in here six days ago who bought some merchandise. I have a copy of his credit card receipt. I assume you have security cameras installed?"
"Of course," Longley replied indignantly.
"Take me to your office where your computer and camera equipment are placed. I need to do a search to try to match a face with this card."
"I'm sorry, Ms. Phillips, but I'm afraid that would be against our store policy to allow that."
Phillips's eyes blazed. "In two minutes, I'm either going to be in that office or you're going to be in the back of a federal agent's car, handcuffed on suspicion of aiding terrorism. You could be in GTMO before sundown. Which do you prefer?"
Longley swallowed hard. "Follow me."
The flight from the White House to the Baltimore Museum of Industry was to take just under half an hour. President Williams was going over his speech with Tommy DeLancy.
"I think you've got it down, sir," commented DeLancy.
"Not that much to get down. I want to be in and out of there in under an hour. I don't care what is going on, at the fifty-minute mark, you are to interrupt and tell me I'm needed back at the White House. Got it?"
"Yes, sir."
They were both looking out the windows of the president's helicopter. Off to the right were two identical aircraft, disguising which one the president was aboard. With less humidity than normal, it was a crystal-clear day, and looking out over the horizon, it was as though you could see forever. Four F-16 fighter jets were hovering three thousand feet above the president's craft. The three helicopters droned onward.
The president had returned to studying his speech, leaving DeLancy staring out the window. Suddenly, the helicopter flying the outside of the formation burst into a fireball. Stunned, DeLancy tried to yell to the president. Just as the words began to leave his throat, for a nanosecond, he felt extreme heat. He never had time to hear anything.
President Williams had just begun to look up from the noise of the first explosion, and then everything went black.
17
Vice President Herbert Lamar jolted from the sound of his chief of staff's panicked voice. "What?" Lamar asked. "What is it, Irving?"
Irving Vickers handed the vice president a cup of coffee with cream. "Take a couple of sips, sir, and wake up."
Vice President Lamar took the coffee, took a sip, and then said, "What the hell is it?"
Vickers sat down opposite the vice president. "Sir, I just got word that President Williams has been assassinated. His helicopter was blown up over Baltimore. All three helicopters were taken out."
"What?"
"President Williams has been killed. It happened about four minutes ago. You are now the acting president until you can be sworn in, which will be as soon as we land. We're forty-five minutes out." Right then, eight F-16s converged around the vice president's aircraft.
"It looks like they're worried about us."
"How?"
"Sir, I don't know the details yet. Sounds like some kind of rocket fired from the ground. All I know is that all three of the helicopters were hit. No chance of survivors. Everybody is scrambling. We've gone to DEFCON 3. Everybody will be at the White House by the time we arrive. You will be briefed then. After that, it will be your call, Mr. President."
"My God. Sweet Lord, what the hell is going on?" He downed the coffee even though it burned his tongue and throat. "Get me more coffee. I need to think."
"Yes, sir."
Minutes later, Irving Vickers returned to Vice President Herbert Lamar.
"Sir, we've been strongly advised to divert to an alternative destination to be safe."
"Where?"
"It's still being decided, sir, but probably Norfolk. We should know in the next fifteen minutes. We'll also pick up a military helicopter gunship escort when we get low and slow. Every available missile defense system has been deployed."
"Keep me apprised, Irving."
"Yes, sir."
Styles's cell phone rang. It was Starr. Styles heard tersely, "Have you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"The president's dead, killed about twenty-five minutes ago. His helicopter and the two decoys were all taken out by shoulder-fired rockets. Looks like they came from a boat that was docked by the museum where the governor's celebration was taking place. I don't know many details, but I deciphered that. Vice President Lamar is to be sworn in as soon as he lands, since he's on his way back from Japan. I'm not sure where he's landing; that's being withheld for security."
Marvin Styles was not a man who found himself absolutely shocked by news. Yet there he was. He was eerily silent. Then, "What's your thought?"
"He would want us to continue what we're doing," Starr answered, his voice heavy.
"I agree. We'll finish here and meet back in your room at the Holiday Inn. Does J. C. know?"
"I don't know. It's starting to hit the media. If he'd heard, he'd have called."
"Sounds right. You call him. We'll be back ASAP." No good-byes were warranted. He turned to look at some jackets and said to Phillips, "Did you catch that?"
"Yes," she said, her voice choking.
"Finish what you need to," Styles directed.
Phillips had been busy downloading pertinent information onto a flash drive. She had been able to match not only a photograph, but a driver's license to the credit card receipt. As soon as that downloaded, she was out of the office like a shot. She practically ran over the chunky little store
manager without so much as a look in his direction, her black eyes radiating pure wrath.
She climbed into the rental car, a silver Ford Crown Victoria, and burned half the rear tires off leaving the parking space. She glanced at oncoming traffic as she approached the area's exit and gunned it. She slid up to Styles, who was inside the car in a flash, which was good, as she was moving before the door was halfway closed. They didn't speak.
Phillips's body was exuding absolute rage. "I can't believe it," she finally said.
"I can. It's been the ultimate goal of the jihad for over ten years."
"Is there any way it might have been prevented?" she asked, fighting back tears.
"No. When you've dealt with these religious zealots like I have, nothing surprises you. They would literally fight to the last man to achieve their warped objectives. It's like a cancer. The only thing to do is cut it out, eradicate it---and that, Darlene, is exactly what we are going to do."
"How?"
"By doing what we do best, one step at a time, and not losing focus. I don't mean to sound cold here. Just try to understand this is how I've lived for twenty years."
Phillips only nodded.
Twenty-five minutes later, all four convened in Starr's room at the Holiday Inn. They sat at the dining table in the suite, silent.
Finally, Starr spoke. "J. C., you know the basics, right?"
"Yeah."
"Marv and I already talked about this, but I want your and Phillips's feedback. I firmly believe that the president would want us to continue on finding and stopping this new toxic threat. I have no doubt about that."
They both nodded in agreement.
"J. C., how long would it take for us to get back to the Ranch and then back here? There's a specific reason why I ask."
"Around seven hours, maybe a bit more, round trip for the plane. Then the chopper flight back to and from the Ranch, call that ninety minutes. Total flight time would be about eight and a half hours. Plus the time we spend at the Ranch. Why?"
"There's something there. That's all I want to say right now."
Styles glanced at Starr with a quizzical look. He said nothing.
Starr looked at Phillips. "You can do your research from the air, right?"
Phillips was quite shaken as she answered, "Yes, you know that, but would it be prudent for maybe one or two to stay here, continue with the investigation?"
"Normally, I'd say yes, but not this time. I want to get there and back as fast as possible. I believe it is that important."
Styles stood. "Normally, I'd grill you hard about this because it's not making logical sense. I also know you've got your reason, and that's good enough for me. Let's get the hell back."
Christman said, "Everybody meet at the plane."
Without even a glance, everybody went about their business.
18
T-Minus 37 Hours
Nazir al-Hadid guided his underwater scooter straight and true on a predetermined course at a depth of thirty feet. He glanced slightly rearward and saw his cohort Sirhan al-Razar following approximately eight feet behind him. He smiled as he thought back three hours earlier to when they had shot down the two decoy helicopters and the real Marine One from the old fishing trawler. Less than a minute later, he and al-Razar had slid into the water, untied their scooters affixed with spare scuba tanks from the dock pilings, and were traveling to rendezvous with a large ocean-traversing yacht. A waterproof GPS enabled al-Hadid to follow the track. They were about halfway through their journey. The water was chilly, but the wet suit was keeping him warm.
Al-Hadid was pleased that the sunny day provided good visibility. He looked around at al-Razar, as he often did, just to check. He had just turned back when he heard, and saw, a good-size boat pass overhead. He thought nothing about it. He never saw the fishing line that followed behind, and below, the boat. Suddenly, he saw al Razar being dragged through the water, passing him by less than five feet away. He saw the look of terror on al-Razar's face as his face mask had been ripped off. He just got a glimpse of a bright flash, and he could have sworn he saw a small fish just below his shoulder blade. Then it dawned on him. Sirhan al-Razar had been caught by a large fishing hook, and was helplessly being pulled away. Within seconds, al-Hadid had lost sight of him. He looked back and saw the empty underwater scooter slowing and starting to turn in a tight circle.
"Fuck!" he screamed underwater. There was nothing he could do, so he continued his journey, shaking his head in complete disbelief.
Bob yelled out, "Guys, I think I've got something already, and it feels big!" A fishing addict all his life, he was definitely the happiest aboard the forty-seven-foot sport-fishing boat that three couples had chartered and whose five-day fishing adventure was just beginning. It was a trip three years in the planning, and the party had already started. A twenty-thousand-watt stereo system rocking with the band Y's Factor was managing to drown out the twin diesel engines powering the boat. With drinks in hand, everyone was enjoying themselves.
The Baltimore Police Department Marine Unit was responding to a "body recovered" call when the two officers noticed something in the water ahead of them. The officer piloting the boat slowed, circled around, and came up beside it as it was bobbing up and down in the waves, yet obviously moving under its own power.
"What the hell is that?" said Sergeant Tom Rollins.
Officer James Wood responded, "Looks like one of those underwater scooters. Come up alongside, and I'll try to get a line on it." After several attempts, he managed to secure a rope around the guard of the propeller. He started to bring it aboard. He found he couldn't overcome the propulsion of the little craft. "Give me a hand. This thing's strong."
Sergeant Rollins placed the boat's shifter controls in neutral and joined his partner. "Shit, you weren't kidding," Rollins said as they both strained to reel in the scooter.
Finally, they were able to haul the rear out of the water, and the propeller immediately picked up speed without the liquid resistance.
"What in the hell is that doing out here?" wondered Rollins.
"Maybe some diver lost it. I don't see any diving flags anywhere. We'd better check with the glasses," suggested Wood, turning off the electric motor.
For the next ten minutes, both police officers scanned the horizon for any sign of a scuba diver. No boats anchored, no dive flags, nothing. They gave up.
Rollins and Wood might have been the only two law enforcement personnel in the Baltimore area not involved with the explosion of the helicopters a couple of hours before. Both were incensed about having to respond to their current call.
"Well, let's go check on this damned body," said Rollins.
Twenty minutes later, they were tied up to a chartered sport-fishing boat.
Sergeant Rollins hopped aboard and asked a man in white pants and shirt, "You the captain?"
"Yes, sir. The body is at the rear fishing platform. We covered it with a blanket. We haven't touched it."
"Good. Thank you."
Both officers proceeded to the platform and saw a shape under a bright blue blanket. Sergeant Rollins removed it, and there lay a scuba diver with a large hook clean through the lower part of his shoulder.
"How'd he die?" asked Officer Wood.
"It's hard to say. Probably drowned, but could have been trauma. I think we solved the underwater scooter mystery, though," answered Sergeant Rollins.
Miraculously, the swim mask was still in place. "Do we dare take it off?' asked Wood.
"Yeah, go get us gloves and evidence bags. We'll just be careful. I want to get a look at his face."
Wood was back in ninety seconds with the items.
Gently, Sergeant Rollins removed the mask. Staring at them through sightless eyes was a man of obvious Middle Eastern descent. Rollins looked at the man for a few moments and then bolted for his ow
n boat. He was instantly on his radio. "Harbor Patrol, this is Rollins, on that body recovery call. Get everybody out here now."
19
Three hours after the assassination, now president Herbert Lamar was sitting alone in the Oval Office. My God, what is happening? Lord knows I've always wanted to be president, but not like this. Dear God, please give me the strength and confidence and your help in guiding me through the coming days.
He summoned his chief of staff, Irving Vickers.
"Sir?"
"Get hold of Laura Green. Have her assemble everybody. I want the entire cabinet and all the directors of the security and law enforcement agencies to meet me at the White House in ninety minutes. No excuses---everybody. We'll probably have to use the White House briefing room. I don't want any media anywhere." What the hell do I say?
Twenty seconds later, Irving Vickers was on the line to Laura Green, President Williams's chief of staff. "Laura, I don't know what to say." The two had known each other on the DC conveyer belt for almost ten years. It was Irving who had suggested Laura Green replace Andrew Ladd after he'd been exposed as a traitor.
"There's really nothing to say for the moment, Irving. I've been expecting your call."
"The president wants everybody available for a meeting in ninety minutes, probably in the briefing room." He proceeded to list who was required to be there. "He and I haven't talked about it yet, but my feeling is no major changes will be made immediately. I wanted to ask you to stay on as my co-chief. I would suggest that you keep most of your staff, at least those you deem indispensable. We will have to work very closely in the coming weeks. Laura, this is going to take an exceptional effort to get through all of this, and I believe we are the key."
"Irving, my staff and I will do everything humanly possible to help in every way we can. I agree with your assessment."
"Laura, I don't even want to have to bother with swapping offices and all that shit. The president will obviously move into his new position, but for the moment, I strongly believe we need to keep the disruption to a minimum, if that's even possible."