by Oliver North
“He wasn’t,” interjected Murad, who then belatedly added, “Madam President.”
“And how do you know that, my dear Muneer?” She stopped scrolling through her PID and looked up at him.
“Because he does not lie to me,” Murad responded simply. “He assures us his people are trying very hard to find out who was behind what transpired in Houston.”
The president stood, turned toward the thick, green-tinted ballistic- and TEMPEST-proofed windowpanes, and looked out over the Ellipse toward the Washington Monument. Suddenly she spun and said, “That’s just bull and I’m not buying it! The FBI confirms there were at least a dozen perpetrators. Listen to this . . .”
She picked up her PID, scrolled to what she had been reading, and said, “Partial human remains recovered from two males aboard benzene tanker at Exxon Mobile Bayport refinery. DNA database confirms Syrian origin. Partial human remains of two males recovered from the truck that brought down the I-610 bridge, DNA indicates Egyptian bloodlines. Partial remains of a male recovered from SUV detonated north of Bayport Boulevard bridge, genetic origin, Saudi. Partial remains of male recovered from truck explosion south of boulevard bridge, genetic origin, Yemeni. And worst of all, if these DNA traces are correct, at least five of these suicidal murderers have been living legally here in the United States for years.”
She stopped to look at the three, ensuring they were paying attention, then continued as she scrolled further on her PID. “DNA tests on partial remains of four male gunmen at the NASA Hilton confirm Pakistani origin. No PERTs found on any remains, but U.S. driver’s licenses were found in the clothing of two of them. All subjects appear to have been wearing bomb vests. Explosive residue chemical analysis: RDX and PETN consistent with Sudanese-origin Semtex.”
Now she looked up again and said, “If these murderous, suicidal scum aren’t from the Caliphate, I don’t know geography.”
She flipped the PID onto her desk and continued: “The only ones unaccounted for are the three who show up in the digital video from the hotel hustling Dr. Cohen out the back door and onto the ‘disappearing speedboat,’ which we, of course, can’t find.”
“Why do we have a Coast Guard, a Navy, and all these satellites, UAVs, and RPAs if we can’t find one lousy speedboat?” She said these last words while looking directly at Smith.
Well aware he had no acceptable answer to the question, the National Security Advisor cleared his throat and posed one of his own. “Madam President, the information you just read from your PID wasn’t in our Sit Room database a few minutes before I walked in here. Who else has access to that information?”
“How the devil do I know,” she said with a shrug. “There must be a thousand FBI agents working on this case. And there’s more. According to the FBI, the three abductors visible on the hotel digi-vid appear to be Latino, but they could easily be from the Caliphate. All three of them were registered guests at the hotel. They apparently checked in and paid using Venezuelan PERTs tied to a Cayman Islands bank account that isn’t in the Treasury Department’s international database. And of course, their PERTs went dark during the attack at the hotel and haven’t been picked up since. Do you people understand what this means?”
“Yes,” replied Murad, quietly. He had worked his way up the White House food chain since her husband’s two-term administration to become chief of staff by knowing what to say and when to say it. He added, “The Venezuelan PERT data and the tie to a bank in the Cayman Islands support the premise a Latin American drug cartel is involved. But if the suicide bomber DNA links to Middle Eastern bloodlines get out, our story about Houston being an Anark-cartel attack may not hold up.”
“May not! May not! If this gets out, the right-wing crazies will finish me! They have been saying for years the deals my husband made with Iran, the Arabs, the UN, and the Caliph were a bad idea.”
Her voice became shrill and her face flushed as she berated them. “The ‘right’ fought us on enforcing Fairness in Broadcasting, my Framework for Peace in the Middle East. They don’t like our Better Deal for All economic plan, our universal All-American Medical Insurance, the North American Union Treaty, our Hate Speech Laws, the Spreading Fear Statute, the UN Carbon Levy, or the UN Convention on Small Arms Control. They even opposed our free childhood immunization PERT implants for newborns. They hate us for everything we have done to make this a better, safer, greener world. Now they are fighting the new Global Exchange Currency. If they get their hands on this—”
“Madam President, please,” Walsh interrupted when she paused her litany to catch her breath. He continued quietly. “There are Secret Service agents right outside these doors,” he said, pointing to the curved portal to the Roosevelt Corridor and the doors leading to the Rose Garden. “We have to think this through—carefully, calmly, and most of all, quietly.”
She sat heavily into the leather desk chair, collected herself, and said, “You’re right, Larry, and I have to leave or I’ll be late getting to San Francisco.”
“The people at the fund-raiser will wait for you,” Walsh said quickly before she could go on. “But before you depart, the question General Smith asked a moment ago is relevant. The information you read to us from your PID is very sensitive. Did it come from the FBI?”
She leaned back in her chair, looked at the three men standing in front of her desk, and let a slight smile come to her lips. “Does it bother you that I have information you three don’t give me?” she asked with a hint of the coyness that had served her so well in her younger years.
“It is not important whether it bothers me,” Walsh replied. “It is important to know who else has access to that information. It contradicts the case we are building against the Anarks and this man Newman.”
Her eyes widened. She stood and said, “Stop talking, Larry. You are my lawyer. This is between you and me—and no one else. We will deal with this when I return tomorrow morning.”
With that she started toward the French doors opening to the Rose Garden and commanded, “All three of you, walk with me.”
As she reached the door, a female Secret Service agent suddenly appeared outside and opened it for her, holding it for all four to exit. As they headed toward the West Colonnade and the Executive Residence, the agent spoke into a wireless microphone mounted inconspicuously on her lapel, “Solo is en route to the Lima Zulu.”
Murad, Walsh, and Smith fell into step behind the president as she said, “Here’s what I want done while I’m gone. M&M, get your friend the Caliph on the phone—not one of his minions. Tell him I want a very public statement to the effect that no one in the Caliphate had anything to do with what happened in Houston—and that he has ordered his representatives around the world to fully cooperate with U.S. authorities on dealing with what appears to be an internal matter. See if you can get him to issue another of his famous fatwas.”
Turning to her national security advisor she said, “John, by the time I get back here in the morning I want you to find every national security and U.S. government contract held by Centurion Solutions Group—classified and unclassified—so you and I can go through them.”
At the entrance to the residence they were met by another Secret Service agent, who preceded the presidential party down the narrow staff stairway to the ground floor. As they reached the Center Hall, they could hear the crowd of staffers and campaign workers gathered in the Diplomatic Reception Room to see the president fly off the South Lawn.
The president nodded to the Secret Service agent leading their little procession to indicate that she was going into the Map Room; then she motioned for Walsh to follow and for Murad and Smith to wait outside. They watched as she pulled Walsh close by the lapels on his coat and stuck a finger in his chest. They couldn’t hear her say, “Listen, Larry, you and I have known each other too long for that kind of thing to happen again.”
“What do you—” Walsh started.
“The business up in the Oval Office about Newman,” she said. “He i
s our best suspect. Tell the Attorney General I want him found, locked up, and held incommunicado until after the election. Tell the AG I said to throw the book at him, use the old Bush regime antiterror statutes if necessary. Newman has motive for kidnapping Cohen and killing that scientist in Canada. His family makes millions providing services to oil and gas companies. Cohen’s fuel cell would hurt them. Their Centurion Aviation and security operations make millions more every time there is a terrorist attack. They have the means—this CSG company and their hired thugs. He was or is in Canada, where Cohen’s cohort was murdered. From what you have already given me, the whole family appears to have Anark tendencies. They homeschool out there in the Blue Ridge, don’t they? It’s like a primitive tribe. Find a way to get to them.”
“We’re doing our best.”
“Well, dear,” she replied, suddenly sweet, “do better. And while I’m gone, hold M&M’s hand and make sure he doesn’t let his pal in Jerusalem off the hook. The same goes for our tin-hat soldier. Keep Smith focused on the problem at hand—telling everyone Anarks and the cartels are the big threat.”
Walsh nodded and then said, “The problem with that approach is the FBI report you read to us up in the Oval Office. Smith and M&M heard it. Smith understands that whoever sent it to you may have shared it with others. That’s why he asked.”
The president thought about it for a moment and then said, “It was sent to me ‘Eyes Only’ by the director. Go over to the Hoover Building and see him this afternoon. Tell him I want any dissemination of that information recalled. Let me know how he responds. As you know, my husband appointed him. It would be a shame if something happened to such an old friend.”
With that, she spun on her heel, put on her brightest campaign smile, and walked out of the Map Room into the throng gathered in the Diplomatic Reception Room. A handful of aides and Secret Service agents formed a phalanx to get her out to the lawn. Murad, Walsh, and Smith followed in their wake and watched from beneath the canvas awning at the doorway.
As she boarded the glistening, white-topped VH-192 Sikorsky helicopter with UNITED STATES OF AMERICA painted on its tail, a U.S. Marine sergeant held a rigid salute. From the top step, she turned and waved to the cameras and the carefully coached crowd behind the rope line.
Immediately after the big bird lifted, the three men turned and entered the green door into the now empty Diplomatic Reception Room. As they turned left at the Center Hall and past the Map Room, Smith noticed the Secret Service agent standing in the doorway—the same one who escorted them from the Oval Office.
Their eyes met for an instant. And suddenly Smith recalled where he had seen her before. As he ascended the staff stairs to the State Floor, he pulled out his PID and scrolled to the message he received from the Secret Service Operations Center three days earlier:
110345ZSEP32:
FM: USSS OPS CTR SWO
TO: WHSR 1
SUBJ: POTUS RES. PSD
SIR, IN RESPONSE TO YR INQUIRY, THE USSS AGENT POSTED OUTSIDE THE TREATY ROOM THIS MORNING WAS SPECIAL AGENT FRANCES JAMES. IF THERE ARE ANY ISSUES, PLS CONTACT ME AT EXT 9157, SAIC BAKER KATZ AT EXT 9122 OR USSS DIR BILL PETERSON AT EXT 3333.
V/R, GEORGE SANDERS, USSS SWO
As they walked back toward the West Wing, Murad watched Smith put his PID back in his pocket and asked, “Anything new?”
“No,” the retired general responded, deep in thought. “Just another loose end that needs to be tied up.”
USAF CODEL SAM FLIGHT #MC09–14A
EN ROUTE LEESBURG, VA–CHARLESTON, SC
TUESDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER 2032
1525 HOURS, LOCAL
James Newman wasn’t surprised U.S. senator Mackintosh Caperton arrived at 22570 Randolph Road precisely at one thirty. The senator, as everyone knew, had a near-legendary repute for being punctual. James was surprised the senator was driving his own car and he was even more astonished to see his wife, Angela, seated beside him.
Once in the car, the senator reached around to James, handed him a small but heavier than expected envelope, and said, “Inside you will find a U.S. Senate Staff ID badge and a PID. Both have embedded PERTs identifying you as James Lehnert, a staff member of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence.”
Newman pulled the contents out of the envelope and was amazed to see his own digital image staring back at him from the SSCI ID.
As they drove west on the Greenway, the senator continued: “The envelope is TEMPEST-shielded. Put your own PID in it and use the one I just gave you for the next few days. In theory, the rest of our government isn’t allowed to monitor direct communications to or from a U.S. senator or member of Congress. At least that’s how we wrote the law. Do you still have the PERT embedded in your right foot wrapped in foil?”
“Yes, sir,” James replied. “These are the same kind of shielded boots we were issued by Special Operations Command when I was in MARSOC.”
Caperton nodded and said, “Good. Keep ’em on until we can figure out something better.”
It took them less than a quarter hour to reach the Leesburg Flight Support FBO, where James and the senator got out of the car, each retrieving flat-panel computer cases and small travel bags from the trunk. Before entering the terminal, Caperton opened the door for his wife, walked her around to the driver’s side, embraced her, and closed the door for her after she slid behind the wheel.
As Caperton and Newman watched her pull away, two blue and white U.S. Capitol Police sedans with a white van sandwiched between them pulled up in front of the small terminal. Newman felt a rush of adrenaline as eight people disgorged from the van and said, “Uh, Senator . . .”
Caperton, realizing James might well think he was about to be detained, quickly said, “Four of ’em are from my congressional staff, the two big guys are plainclothes Capitol Police officers, and the last two are aides to South Carolina senator John Haley. They’re just along for the ride.”
He introduced them to James “Lehnert,” a “new SSCI ‘staffer,’” and they all entered the small terminal to be greeted by a USAF technical sergeant who presented himself as their crew chief. He quickly scanned their IDs to his PID, hit SEND, and said, “We’re all manifested, Senator. Please place all bags on the conveyor. No need to stop or remove any clothing or metal objects before passing through the body scanner. This FBO has the most recent upgraded detector, so just keep walking through at a normal pace. The two law officers packing heat, please come through after the senator. Once everyone is through, grab your bags off the conveyor and we’ll go out to the flight line.”
James Lehnert’s bags and body failed to set off any alarms and the tech sergeant led them all out to a gleaming white and blue C-37C—a military variant of the venerable Gulfstream 560. As they boarded, the senator motioned for James to sit opposite him at the table in the front of the aircraft. The staff and security team spread out in seats farther aft.
They no sooner fastened their seat belts than a USAF major in a flight suit came out of the cockpit, approached Newman and Caperton, and said, “Senator, I’m sorry to inform you we have just been given a ground hold for Air Force One to transit the airspace en route west. As soon as I am told how long it will be, I’ll let you know.”
The senator shrugged and said, “She outranks us. So much for Mack Caperton’s ego. Thank you, Major.” They waited nearly an hour past their scheduled departure. He and Newman talked quietly during the delay and subsequent flight.
Caperton began the conversation by saying, “The next few days are likely to be tough on you, Sarah, and the boys. How can I help you?”
James was taken aback by the question. He held up the SSCI ID and the PID that Caperton gave him, gestured toward the top of the aircraft cabin, and replied, “Seems like you already have, Senator.”
“I’m not talking about this James,” Caperton responded, pointing to the Lehnert PID. “I’m talking about you and Sarah and the boys. I’m talking about you and your mom and dad. I’m talking about th
e things that really matter, not the stuff going on around us. And don’t be calling me ‘Senator.’ When it’s just the two of us, or with our families, it’s Mack, just like it has always been.”
James nodded but said nothing.
Mack Caperton had a well-earned reputation in Montana and Washington for straight talk. And persistence. He tried again. “Look, I’ve changed your diapers, James Newman. I was there when you were baptized, when you made Eagle Scout—back when this country still had Scouting. I was there when you were commissioned at the Boat School, when you got married, and I’m the godfather of your son, Joshua. I’ve hiked and hunted hundreds of miles with you, from the Blue Ridge to the Rockies, and we have fished most of the streams and rivers in between. I can read you like a sunrise at sea—and we’ve seen more than a few of those together. What’s eating at you?”
James shrugged and said, “I don’t know, everything seems to be turning out differently than I expected or hoped. Friday is Sarah’s and my tenth anniversary and Saturday is Seth’s twelfth birthday and I’m going to miss both, like too many others.”
Mack nodded and asked, “So who are you feeling sorry for, you or them?”
Newman looked out the window for a moment then replied, “Good question.” He paused and then continued: “I guess I feel sorry for all of us, but things haven’t worked out the way they were supposed to. Maybe I just wasn’t supposed to be married and have a family—”
“Well, you are married and you do have a family, so that’s water over the dam,” Caperton interjected. “And I’m not sure anything that happens in this life has a ‘supposed to’ attached to it—except we’re supposed to use our God-given gifts and talents to play the hand we’ve been dealt the best way we can. Never play the game of ‘should-a, would-a, could-a,’ because there are no winners in that contest. More importantly, what I hear you saying is the real problem is with you and Sarah.”
When the younger man nodded, wistfully looking out the aircraft window, Caperton resumed. “Tell me again how you two met and came to be married. If I recall correctly, Sarah was the widow of one of your friends from the Academy who was killed when you were wounded in the Sinai back in 2020.”