by Oliver North
When Peter said it, he didn’t know how soon “soon” would come.
LAFAYETTE PARK
WASHINGTON, DC
SATURDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER 2032
2330 HOURS, LOCAL
Automated WHCA records showed the National Security Advisor placed four calls from his office phone on Saturday evening. The first two calls, at 1921 and 1935, were to the White House chief of staff’s office and lasted less than two minutes each. The third call, at 2005, to the Treaty Room at the Chief Executive’s Residence, lasted three minutes, twenty-five seconds. In accord with current protocols, these conversations were not recorded. At 2015 a final call lasting ten minutes, twenty-three seconds was placed to an unregistered PID through a wireless MESH portal at Litchfield, South Carolina. A digital recording of this call was made on a White House Communications Agency computer in the basement of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building—the EEOB.
Secret Service logs show entry and departure times for every employee, guest, and visitor to the White House and the EEOB. All staff and visitor badges contain RFID tags. Within the eighteen-acre complex, forty-three sensors track specific locations of individual RFIDs and PERTs inside and outside the White House. Two hundred and thirty-five live-feed cameras document every movement within—and the immediate area around—the White House complex. Computers in the Secret Service Command Center cross-correlate RFID tag and PERT locations with the video record.
At 2145 General John Smith walked from his office on the ground floor of the West Wing and descended the staff stairway to the White House Situation Room. He said, “Hello, Frank” to the Secret Service agent standing watch at the desk outside the door as his PERT deactivated the electronic lock.
Inside the high-tech facility, Senior Watch Officer Ben Carver rose and said, “Good evening, General. How can I help you, sir?”
“Nothing needed, Ben. Just thought I’d check in with you before heading home. Anything new from Admiral Turner in Mexico City?”
“Nothing since the ‘Everything has been arranged’ message he sent to the president, you, and the chief of staff a few hours ago.”
Smith nodded and said, “Okay. I’ll be in my apartment and back here first thing in the morning. Notify me right away if anything pops.”
“Yes, sir. Shall I notify your Secret Service PSD and driver to meet you outside on West Exec?”
“No. I need the exercise and it’s a nice night. Now that the Park Police have cleared out the occupiers from Lafayette Park, I can take up my morning and evening walks again.”
Carver shook his head and said, “General, I know it’s not my place, but you shouldn’t be out walking alone. This isn’t the Truman era. Why don’t I have a uniformed officer meet you at the Northwest Gate and escort you.”
Smith smiled, patted Carver on the shoulder, and said, “Thanks anyway, Ben. It’s a five-minute stroll from here to the Army and Navy Club. I’ll be all right.”
* * * *
Automated Secret Service logs and surveillance camera digi-vid records confirmed the National Security Advisor departed the personnel portal at the White House Northwest Gate at 21:58:09. Digital files from four surveillance cameras mounted atop buildings and pedestals on the EEOB, the Executive Mansion, Blair House, and Decatur House on H Street showed him walking alone across Pennsylvania Avenue into Lafayette Park.
At 22:03:47, surveillance camera #1173, pointed east from a town house on Jackson Place, recorded 4.7 seconds of video showing General Smith walking north through the park toward H Street. Beside him was an unidentified, six-foot-three individual wearing a dark blue hooded Windbreaker, black or dark blue trousers, and brown or black athletic shoes. A four-hour time-lapse scan of Lafayette Park detected no PERT emissions from any person matching this individual.
At 22:15:09, a watch officer in the Secret Service command center noted a stationary PERT signal emanating from the northeast quadrant of Lafayette Park. After slewing several video and thermal surveillance cameras, he determined the location to be in a coverage gap and sent a “Check Site ASAP” MESH message to the Park Police. The dispatcher sent the nearest K9 unit.
Sixteen minutes later, U.S. Park Police Officer Mike Manning and his dog Casey found the body of General Smith in low shrubbery just ten yards south of H Street. The officer quickly determined the National Security Advisor was shot once with a small-caliber projectile at very close range, just behind his right ear. He immediately summoned an ambulance and called for backup.
Less than an hour after the general’s body was found, the White House released the following statement to every U.S. and international news service:
Office of the Press Secretary
September 18, 2032: 1129 PM
At approximately 1030 PM, EDT tonight, General John A. Smith, U.S. Army (Ret.), National Security Advisor to the President of the United States, was killed by an unknown assailant in Lafayette Park, less than one block from the White House. General Smith, the first openly gay National Security Advisor, was apparently walking alone, en route to his residence, when he was attacked.
The President was notified immediately. She says, “We have lost one of the most valuable members of our national security team. The person or persons who committed this heinous act will be brought to justice whether they are foreign terrorists, drug dealers, Anarks, or common criminals committing a hate crime.” She has extended her personal condolences to Gen. Smith’s parents, siblings, and loved ones.
The crime is being investigated by the U.S. Park Police, the Secret Service, the FBI, and the Washington, DC, Metropolitan Police. All media inquiries should be made to the Department of Justice.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
RUN!
TREATY ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE
1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE
WASHINGTON, DC
SUNDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 2032
0045 HOURS, LOCAL
She was seated behind the large desk, wearing her trademark red, white, and blue exercise suit with the presidential seal and an American flag embroidered above her left breast. She was clearly agitated. “What do you mean they can’t be arrested tonight? You assured me Keker and his goons would have everything ready! We know where these criminals are. I want them taken now! This is just the kind of boost my campaign needs.”
Chief of Staff Muneer Murad and White House Counsel Larry Walsh stood mutely before her. She summoned them to the Treaty Room but didn’t invite them to sit. Muneer spoke quietly: “Madam President, Acting Director Keker is still moving assets into position. He’s had Newman’s indictment and arrest warrant for less than twenty-four hours. As I reported to you earlier, Keker wants to use Homeland Security officers for the apprehension, not FBI agents. He says he will have everything in place in eighteen hours.”
She slapped her palm on the desktop and stood up. “That’s not good enough! I want Newman and Caperton apprehended now. They are a threat to the security of the United States and that threat needs to be eliminated.”
Walsh tried to intercede. “Please listen. Things are happening very quickly and we cannot afford to have anything go awry. Keker has his hands full right now dealing with the investigation into General Smith’s untimely demise just a few hours ago. We need another day to make sure this goes right. We don’t even have an arrest warrant for Caperton and we won’t be able to get one until later this morning.”
“Don’t make excuses, Larry. We have all we need. You saw the PID-vid. James Newman is with his wife, his children, and his parents, and Senator Caperton is with them. Caperton is identifiable even in the brief seconds he appears—conspiring with a wanted terrorist. Tell the AG to draft a warrant to arrest Caperton based on what we already have from our communications surveillance and this PID-vid—and get it to one of the pet judges I appointed. We need to get on with this. Do we have a PERT track on their locations?”
Walsh shook his head and said, “There are no PERT signals from anyone in the Newman family. We have to assume they have been disabled or masked
. But according to the MESH portal database, the PID-vid originated at or near the Newman house—they call it Cair Paravel—on Pawleys Island.”
The president picked up the digi-vid from her desk and touched the screen to replay the twenty-three-second video. “Look!” she exclaimed. “There’s even a firearm visible on the table—in the presence of children! That’s a violation of our Federal Child Protection statute. Add child endangerment to the Caperton arrest warrant and indictment. Have you found out why there is no sound on this vid?”
“Apparently there is no audio signal,” her counsel replied. “We wouldn’t even know this vid existed but for an analyst at the MESH Surveillance Service. He programmed Newman’s image into the facial recognition software at the DHS all-source intelfusion center and the system spit out the vid. The DHS analyst thinks the vid is from some kind of flying toy being operated from an unregistered PID . . .”
“Well, well; an unregistered PID. That’s another violation of law. What more does Keker need to take this whole gang into custody tonight?”
Muneer sighed and said, “He says he needs another twenty-four hours. He wants to get the right DHS people in place—with a Schedule C agent in charge. There are already more than sixty agents headed down there right now, but Keker wants time to coordinate everything so Newman can’t escape. There are two causeways connecting the island to the mainland. Both have to be sealed without creating a lot of attention. He also wants to preposition some armed agents offshore, cordon off Highway 17, and get an ISR platform in place.”
“ISR platform. Remind me what that means,” she said.
“An intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance aircraft—manned or unmanned. I don’t know which he’s planning to use. But the point is all this takes time. Keker says we need to do all this during the hours of darkness—and the earliest it can be put together properly is tomorrow night.”
“We can’t afford to wait—and we’re not going to. These people could be gone by then. We know Smith double-crossed us and warned Caperton—”
“Stop!” Walsh said. “You have to get out of your head anything you know about Smith’s call to Caperton. You must not talk about that to anyone. It gives motive to what happened to—”
“I got it, Larry,” the president interrupted in return. “Now, you two get this: Newman and Caperton need to be taken down tonight. I want this to make the Sunday morning talking-head shows eight hours from now. That will give us maximum political impact. It’s just what we need in the aftermath of Smith’s unfortunate passing. Make it happen. And then plant a rumor we’ve broken the Anark ring responsible for the attack in Houston. If Newman and Caperton happen to die resisting arrest—so be it. Tell Keker I want this to go down before dawn. Tonight!”
As Murad and Walsh headed for the door, she asked, “Have we heard anything new from Stanley Turner in Mexico City in the last few hours?”
They both paused as Murad responded, “Only that Mexican President Rodriguez has expressed his condolences over the murder of General Smith and ‘Everything is in place to deal with the Cohen matter.’ Turner should be back here by mid-morning.”
She nodded and asked, “What do you two think about appointing Turner as interim National Security Advisor?”
As Murad opened the door, Walsh answered, “Turner’s ambitious enough to take the job and this trip to Mexico indicates he’s reliable—but we thought Smith was, too. I think you should leave Muneer in charge of the national security portfolio until after Smith’s memorial service on Wednesday. That should give me time enough to see if we have anything on Turner that’s not already known—to hold him in line. News of the appointment three days from now will give us something to distract the media from any dust kicked up in this Newman-Caperton operation.”
She nodded her assent and the two men exited the Treaty Room, then headed for the stairs. Neither one looked back in the dimly lit corridor to acknowledge the Secret Service agent posted outside the door.
CAIR PARAVEL
PAWLEYS ISLAND, SC
SUNDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 2032
0211 HOURS, LOCAL
Rachel Newman was awakened by the ping of her PID. It was on a charging pad atop the nightstand beside the bed she shared with her husband. Peter barely moved as she reached for the device and pressed the corner between her thumb and forefinger to activate it. She glanced at the screen and read the nine-character text message: “IS40:31FJ.”
She immediately sat bolt upright in bed, nudged her husband awake, and handed him the PID. He looked at the glowing screen, shook his head, and asked, “What’s this mean?”
Rachel took the device and said, “It’s Isaiah 40:31—you know, ‘. . . mount up with wings as eagles . . . run and not be weary . . . walk and not feel faint.’ It means they are coming for our son.”
“Who sent it?”
“It’s from Secret Service Agent Frances James . . . a very simple signal we worked out when we met at church. It’s far too complicated for you special operators and spies—but the message means we have to get Jim-Boy out of here. Now!”
Peter was suddenly energized. As he swung his legs out of bed he whispered, “Rachel, you really are amazing. I’ll wake up Mack. You get James and Sarah. Tell them not to turn on any lights or wake the kids yet.”
Less than five minutes later, all five hastily dressed adults were gathered in Peter’s office. He had closed the blinds and pressed the rheostat for the lights to the dimmest setting. After Rachel read the message on her PID and explained what it meant, Peter said, “Mack, can you check with General Smith to see what’s up?”
Mack pulled his government-issued PID out of his shirt pocket, pressed the corner to turn it on, and grimaced when he saw the message displayed: “PID-SIG BLOCKED.”
The senator frowned, quickly shut off his PID, and said, “Rachel, before we went to sleep, we agreed yours would be the only authorized PID left on. Is yours still working?”
She glanced down at her screen and said, “It was, but now it says my signal is blocked.”
“That’s not good,” Caperton said. “Unless the whole PID system is down, which is very unlikely, it probably means someone has set up a local jammer to block any inbound or outbound PID signals to discrete devices.”
“What does that mean?” asked Sarah, standing beside James, her arm around his waist.
James, a PID in each hand, looked up and answered, “Whoever is doing this doesn’t want to block the whole system, because then they couldn’t talk to each other except by radio or landline—so they block specific PIDs at various MESH nodes instead. My SSCI staff PID is blocked, but unregistered PIDs should still work—at least until a tech can figure out what’s being transmitted. Why don’t I go down the beach, away from the house, and try to send a short message to the CSG Ops Center.”
“Good idea,” said Peter, “but as far as we know, you’re the one they’re after and if they are already here, they could grab you. I’ll go.”
“No, Peter,” Rachel said, “I’ll go. I’m probably the only person in this room who isn’t wanted for something. I’ll walk down to the Sea View Inn, tell Henry to get to the plane right away, and see if I can contact the CSG Ops Center. You and Mack stay and help everyone get ready to get out of here.”
The old Marine smiled at his wife. “Like I said, you never cease to amaze me.” Then, handing her an unregistered PID, he added, “Don’t turn it on until you get to the Sea View. If you have service when you get there, after contacting the Ops Center, wipe it down to remove your fingerprints, leave it on, and drop it in the dunes before coming back. It may help distract whoever is coming and buy us a few extra minutes.”
“Okay, what else? Do you think I should take those night-vision things with me?”
Peter unlocked his desk, reached into a drawer, pulled out a set of PVS-42 thermal glasses, checked the battery, pressed a tiny button atop the right temple hinge, and handed them to his wife, saying, “I’ve turned off the transmitte
r, but the memory chip will record the image and range of whatever you’re seeing for up to an hour. You remember how to turn them on?”
She looked for the little switch on the front of the bridge, pointed to it, and asked, “This one, right?”
“Right,” Peter replied. “If you’re approached by anyone out there, just slip them in your pocket. Unless someone knows what they are looking for, they will likely mistake them for a pair of old-fashioned eyeglasses with ugly frames.”
Rachel slipped the thermal optics into the pocket of her fleece vest, put on a dark blue Windbreaker, and quietly exited the beach-side door. As she left, Mack pointed to an old digital radio on the shelf behind Peter’s desk and said, “We need to get some news. Does that still work?”
Peter reached up, turned the radio on, and pressed a preset button for BBC.
They had to listen for only a few moments before the newsreader said:
And now, the latest developments from the United States. According to the U.S. Justice Department, a full-scale manhunt is under way to find the individual or persons responsible for last night’s slaying of General John Smith, the National Security Advisor to the president of the United States. A Justice Ministry official speaking on background to our BBC correspondent in Washington says there is a reward of twenty-five million gex for information leading to the apprehension of the assailants who are now listed as “wanted—dead or alive.” We’ll have more at the top of the hour.
“Well,” said Mack, “that explains why we didn’t hear from Smith. We better put our ‘E-and-E plan’ into effect.”
James and Sarah went upstairs to complete the packing they began before bedtime and start gently waking their boys. Mack went to his room and changed into a pair of dark trousers and an old black turtleneck sweater. Then he pulled a pair of dark athletic shoes out of his bag, sat down, and put one shoe on his foot and the other on the foot of his prosthetic leg.
Rachel was gone for nearly thirty minutes. By the time she returned, James and Sarah had dressed the boys and moved them down the darkened stairway to the living room. When she let herself in, the twins, David and Daniel, were asleep on the sofa while Seth and Josh, caught up in the drama of a late-night expedition, whispered excitedly while poring over the items they were taking. The adults reassembled in the dimly lit office to hear her report.