by Oliver North
TREATY ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE
1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE
WASHINGTON, DC
SUNDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 2032
2100 HOURS, LOCAL
In all his years around the president and her late husband, Chief of Staff and Acting National Security Advisor Muneer Azzam Murad never saw her so agitated. He and White House Counsel Larry Walsh were persona non grata in her presence since Acting FBI Director Jon Keker awakened her at 0500 to tell her James Newman had somehow escaped from Pawleys Island. The day went downhill from there.
For all of them it was sixteen hours of information overload. It wasn’t just the bad poll numbers—they had that covered. It was everything else. At the White House they knew so much—and yet they still could not control events.
After Murad rebuked Keker for calling the president directly without going through the chief of staff, the Acting FBI Director began calling on the secure digi-cube with updates almost hourly. At 2030, Keker called again, asking for an “urgent, private meeting with the president.” Murad knew it couldn’t be good news.
She had just returned from an evening campaign fund-raising event at the Ritz-Carlton hotel when the chief of staff called her in the residence. The president was curt: “Tell Keker to meet me in the Treaty Room at nine p.m. You and Walsh be here ten minutes early.”
Murad mentally noted the “Walsh” instead of “Larry,” but instantly did as bid, summoning the White House counsel by secure PID message and voice-mail. Walsh raced to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in a staff car and arrived in the chief of staff’s West Wing office at 2047.
With no time to compare notes or share any new information, the pair practically double-timed across the colonnade, into the residence, and took the stairs two at a time to arrive at the Treaty Room door out of breath at 2055. The female Secret Service agent at the portal admitted them without challenge.
The president was seated at her desk, clad in a blue warm-up suit bearing the presidential seal, looking tousled. She didn’t rise and instead looked at the time on her PID and said, “You’re late.”
Muneer started to say, “We got here just as soon . . .”
She cut him off. “Shut up, M&M. Don’t make excuses. I’m sick and tired of excuses. What does Keker want this time?”
Before either man could tell her they didn’t know, there was a knock on the door and Secret Service Agent Frances James stuck her head in and said, “Excuse me, ma’am. Acting FBI Director Keker is here. Should I send him in or ask him to wait?”
“Send him in.”
As Keker entered the office the president motioned to four chairs in a semicircle in front of the desk and said, “You three sit over there. I don’t want to catch stupid from any of you and I have to get up early in the morning to get to Chicago. I’m taking the vice president with me on Air Force One. That means I won’t be able to get anything done on this until I get back here tomorrow night.”
Murad shook his head and asked, “Does the Secret Service know he’s going with you? They howl every time you’re in the same city—much less the same airplane.”
“Let ’em howl. It’s Air Force One. It’s the veep’s hometown and he’s agreed to make the money pitch.” Turning to the Acting FBI Director she said, “Now, Jon, tell me what the hell is going on with the Newman family fugitives and our sinister Senator Caperton.”
Without prelude, Keker began: “Since my call early this morning, I have tried to keep all three of you up to speed on all I know, but—”
She slammed her palm down hard on the desk and snarled, “Stop! I don’t give a damn what you tried to do. I just want to know what’s going on and get advice on what to do about it. I don’t want explanations, excuses, or embellishments. Do all of you understand?”
They nodded in unison. Keker began again. “Since this morning we have determined the following: Last night there was a fire at the Newman residence at Pawleys Island, South Carolina. In the confusion, James Newman somehow escaped and disappeared again. The place at Pawleys Island and the Newman home in Virginia were searched by DHS counterterrorism agents with warrants at thirteen hundred this afternoon. The agents seized computers, financial records, and multiple unregistered firearms at both locations but little else. There were no family members at either location and we presently do not know where they are.”
“Why don’t we know?” she asked. “Last night you told me James Newman, a federal fugitive, was at Pawleys Island with his wife, four children, two parents, and the traitor Caperton. All of them are former military personnel or military dependents. They all must have PERTs and PIDs. They can’t simply disappear. With all the expensive high-resolution cameras and technology the government owns, why the hell can’t you find them?”
Clearly uncomfortable, Keker continued: “As I told you all this afternoon, the Newman family members have apparently disabled or masked their PERTs, which makes them very hard to trace. We have fed their images and PERT biometric data into the DHS and UN global tracking systems, but none of them have shown up on any facial, fingerprint, or DNA recognition checkpoints in CONUS or overseas.”
She shook her head and said, “Your report at seven tonight said you located Caperton. How did you find him?”
“Our Signals Intercept Unit told me their voice pattern computers have high certainty Senator Caperton is at his ranch, west of Great Falls, Montana. The communications analysts believe he has been there since this morning.”
“In Montana? Last night he was in South Carolina with his friends the Newmans. How the devil did he get to Montana?”
“We don’t know yet. But our SIU experts say Caperton is communicating with others in Mexico about an unknown aircraft headed from Texas to Mexico. That’s why I asked to meet with you on such short notice tonight.”
The president shook her head and said, “I don’t understand what you’re telling me. Explain.”
Keker took a deep breath, consulted his PID, and went on. “Our SIU has been attempting to monitor all communications to and from Senator Caperton in real time. That’s not always possible because he is apparently using multiple unregistered PIDs, so SIU has to rely on voice pattern analysis. Our techs say Caperton is apparently communicating via satellite voice and data interface with a person named A-Jay in Merida, Mexico. This A-Jay person is in voice sat-phone contact with a third suspect named Bruno—also in Mexico. They have been talking about an aircraft headed to Mexico from Texas. According to one of our analysts, Caperton, A-Jay, and Bruno are apparently part of some strange international organization called the Fellowship of Believers. It’s—”
“The Fellowship of what?” she interrupted.
“Believers.”
“Who is in this ‘Fellowship of Believers’? How many of them are there?”
“We don’t really know. We’ve done all the usual crime stat, Interpol, and MESH searches but there is next to nothing about them. The members of this group don’t seem to communicate through normal channels.”
“Who is in charge of this group? Where is their headquarters? What do they believe in? Are they Anarks?”
“We don’t know any of that, either. One of our analysts says it’s a weird, international Christian group. They apparently use some kind of ancient symbols to identify each other. That’s how we figured out—”
“Madam President,” Murad interjected, “we’re getting very far off track. Can we go back to what Jon was telling us about an aircraft heading to Mexico?”
She nodded and Keker continued. “Caperton and the two in Mexico—the suspects we’re referring to as A-Jay and Bruno—have been exchanging information about an unknown aircraft en route from Texas to somewhere in Mexico. In voice sat-phone conversations between these A-Jay and Bruno suspects, we have heard them refer to the ‘MIA admiral.’ Our analysts believe that’s likely to be Admiral Cohen.”
What little color that wasn’t a cosmetically applied, added attraction drained from the president’s face. She turned to Mu
rad and Walsh and said, “Cohen? I thought Stan Turner took care of our Cohen problem with Rodriguez in Mexico City. What’s going on here?”
The two men glanced quickly at each other before the White House counsel said quietly, “I’m speaking as your lawyer. Jon and the FBI don’t have a ‘need to know’ about Stanley Turner’s conversations with President Rodriguez. That’s a diplomatic matter. It’s not part of this discussion about domestic law enforcement.”
To change the subject, Murad asked, “Jon, what more can you tell us about this unknown aircraft?”
Keker, clearly confused by the exchange he just heard, again consulted his PID and replied, “We know it’s a modified Gulfstream VII and it’s not a USG aircraft. It’s apparently registered to a company in Switzerland named AvecVous SA but it’s not showing up as currently on charter by any U.S. government agency. I’ve asked the FAA to pull all the records on the aircraft but it’s Sunday night and they are having to get someone to come in and find the paperwork . . .”
“Get on with this, Jon,” the president urged. “This is superfluous information and you’re making excuses again. Why is this important?”
Looking at the screen on his PID, the Acting FBI Director resumed. “The aircraft took off from DFW at nineteen thirty-one CDT tonight after filing a flight plan as a ‘humanitarian aid shipment’ en route to Mexico City. But after dropping the humanitarian aid equipment or personnel at MEX, it took off again. Now its flight path indicates it is headed for the Yucatan Peninsula.”
She nodded and said, “Go on.”
Keker continued, “Shortly before I called Muneer to ask for this meeting, the aircraft went silent on its radios and shut off its transponders but we have determined the sat-comm equipment aboard and its frequencies are licensed to a company in Australia. Our analysts say the aircraft may have some kind of military significance because various weapons have been mentioned by A-Jay and Bruno.”
Now Murad—the tech-savvy chief of staff—asked, “What sat-comm system are they using?”
Keker looked again at his PID and said, “Our SIU says the A-Jay person in Mexico and this Bruno character are using the Iridium satellite array. So is Caperton for his encrypted data exchanges. We don’t know about the aircraft because we can’t intercept satellite communications from or to Australia without violating the UN Space Treaty.”
“To hell with the UN Space Treaty,” said the president, who had lobbied for its Senate ratification. She turned to her lawyer. “Larry, don’t we have a Presidential Emergency Action Directive that authorizes us to do whatever necessary to prevent a terror attack?”
Nodding in the affirmative, the White House counsel said, “Pretty much. We’re already using your emergency authorities to intercept the Caliph’s and Senator Caperton’s PID and MESH communications. We used the same PEAD to detain the Navy aircrew that located Cohen’s PERT signal in Mexico and to search the Newman properties in Virginia and South Carolina. You have national emergency authority to order the SIU to listen in to just about anybody. We used those same directives to expedite issuing the Capture/Kill order for James Newman on such short notice.”
“Good,” the president said, smiling for the first time as she arose. “Larry, get me whatever pieces of paper I need to sign authorizing us to intercept or jam whatever communications necessary. Tell the Secretary of Defense I want this pirate aircraft en route to Mexico found, intercepted, and forced to land in U.S. territory or shot down. And get me a Capture/Kill order for Senator Mackintosh Caperton.”
At this Keker’s survival instinct kicked in and like a good presidential lap-lawyer he asked, “Why do we have to kill Caperton and shoot down the aircraft?”
“It’s simple,” she said. “This Swiss-owned aircraft communicating on Australian satellite channels is clearly a drug cartel plane. It probably has perpetrators of the 9-11 attack on Houston aboard. As for Caperton, he is obviously part of the Anark–drug cartel conspiracy with James Newman—a known, wanted terrorist. We have visual proof from the vid you sent me last night. It’s also evident the Anark senator is interfering in our effort to rescue Admiral Martin Cohen—a valuable national asset. We certainly don’t want anyone to disrupt our effort to rescue the world’s expert on fuel cell technology.”
As Keker opened the door and the three men headed for the exit she asked, “Muneer, how long will it take to get me the necessary paperwork for all this?”
Murad looked at his PID to check the time and replied, “Jon can take care of the satellite communications intercept order verbally with the SIU when he gets back to FBI headquarters. We can paper that over in the morning before you take off for the campaign fund-raiser in Chicago. But we can’t just jam the Iridium system or the Australian uplink overnight. I’ll have to check with NSA on what it’s going to take.”
“How about taking down this suspicious aircraft heading from Texas to Mexico and the Capture/Kill order on Caperton?”
“I’ll call the Pentagon and see what military assets are available to deal with the suspect aircraft. The Capture/Kill order for Caperton will take longer because—”
“How long?” she interrupted.
The chief of staff suppressed a sigh and said, “We can’t do this on a verbal. Caperton is an American citizen. The Attorney General and Turner at DNI have to sign off on the authorization order based on the bill of particulars Jon sends us from the FBI. As Acting National Security Advisor, I can sign for the NSC. To avoid putting this in message traffic that others will see, the order will have to be hand carried. Unless Turner or the AG have a hang-up, I should be able to get their signatures and have the order to you by WHCA courier before you take off from Chicago tomorrow morning.”
“Good,” the president said; then she added, “See to it they don’t have any ‘hang-ups,’ as you put it. We need to clean up this whole Newman-Caperton cabal tomorrow. These people are getting in the way of progress.”
As the three men hastened down the stairway, none of them glanced at the Secret Service agent silently holding her breath in the corridor’s muted light.
SON RIVER RANCH
P.O. BOX 633
FORT SHAW, MT
SUNDAY, 19 SEPTEMBER 2032
2120 HOURS, LOCAL
Mack, we’re getting too old for this stuff,” said Peter Newman with a smile. He and his old Naval Academy roommate were seated in Caperton’s “Ranch Office”—the one the senator preferred over all the perks and privileges of his plush Washington workplace.
“You’re right, my friend, it’s been a long few days,” Mack responded with a nod. “But as you are fond of saying, ‘Age and experience trump youthful exuberance every time.’ I’m praying we have thought of everything that needs to be done.”
“Well, I’m hoping Rachel and I didn’t leave anything behind at Cair Paravel to compromise James or you. When you sent Officer Carter to warn us they were coming with a search warrant, we only had a few minutes to pack up, get in the car with him, and head to Charleston.”
“Peter, we’ve known each other for more than fifty-eight years. Don’t be concerned about anything left behind. There is nothing we can do about it now anyway. And no matter how this turns out, we will eventually leave all this behind.”
“Yeah, but—”
“No ‘buts’ about it, Peter,” Caperton cut him off. “Today was a great success. All our alternative communications channels are working. Your ops people were able to get a CSG aircraft to pick you, Rachel, and Carter up at Charleston Air Force Base before the Homeland Security goons tossed Cair Paravel. Your daughter Elizabeth, her four kids, and your sister Nancy all got the word and cleared out of Narnia before the DHS search party showed up. They are all in good hands with fellow Believers who would die before giving them up. Best of all, you and Rachel are here with Sarah and her boys.”
Newman nodded and said, “You’re right, Mack. But I’m still worried about James . . .”
“Well then, pray for his safety—don’t worry. W
orry doesn’t help anything. Prayers do. If anyone knows that, you and I should.”
“Okay, roomie,” Newman said, smiling again. “Don’t bilge me. But don’t you wonder where all this is heading; how this all ends?”
Caperton leaned back in his chair, thought for a moment, then said, “Sure I wonder. But I don’t have the gift of prophecy, nor do I believe I’m the smartest person on the planet. I just have some very good friends like you. The people who think they are running the world from Washington are full of institutional arrogance. They have convinced themselves they can regulate and control everything—even the human spirit—by pushing buttons, listening to our conversations, intercepting our communications, taking polls, feeding us tailored information, controlling the MESH, telling us what to believe.
“For decades politicians have told us that topics such as the sanctity of human life, the definition of marriage, and freedom of religion are ‘social issues.’ They’re not. For tens of millions of us, these are deeply held moral and spiritual concerns—matters of faith, not politics.
“What the president and her minions no longer grasp is the American people aren’t sheep. We don’t want government intruding in every aspect of our lives. The Bill of Rights—those first ten amendments to our Constitution—still mean something to most of us, no matter how much they have dumbed down public education. In their guts, most Americans understand that our rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, as Jefferson put it, really are God-given—not a gift from government.”
“What does our country look like after all this comes out? When the dust settles will we even have a sovereign country?”