by Tom Lewis
“So,” she said, getting right to the kernel of it. “Even if what you say is true, and I’m not in the least convinced it is, their lunatic plan never got off the ground, then, did it? What’s all this urgency about now?”
“Because we’re also certain Tyndall’s death didn’t make Koontz give up! He’s going ahead with it anyway, and we don’t know where you fit into his plan, if at all.”
I waited for a fiery response, and was surprised when she merely glowered at me, then got up and walked to the kitchen’s back door, much like Cal had earlier. She peered out into the darkness for several minutes, then turned back. I knew what was coming, and dreaded it. I was right, too.
“Two questions, Jeb: Do you have proof? And, if so, where is it?”
The only way I could truthfully answer her was to point at Cal. “In my father’s head, ma’am.”
She glanced once at Cal, then back at me, frowning even deeper. Then she looked up at poor Jason Barnes, who was standing aside like a man whose bladder was about to burst, with no toilet in sight. “Young man, is there something to drink in this mansion? I mean, something as hard as Jack Daniels? Neat, please.”
Barnes jumped like he’d had an electric shock. President Fordham tossed back half the tumbler he set on the table before her, shed her coat, and fixed her steely blues on Cal, who had sat down across from her.
Calvin James Willard is no southerner. Beneath his usual easy-going manners and lanky good looks, he’s as tough and stubborn as any New Englander who ever lived. At the time of his birth, in New Hampshire, he had been blessed with considerable gifts; one in particular. Like God grants a few musicians with perfect pitch, Cal had been given a photographic memory. Total recall. And at no time in his long life had it been more needed. Or appreciated. He quietly recounted everything we had seen on Koontz’s computer screen as if he had typed it into his own brain minutes before, only it took him over an hour to tell it all, including our too-close brush with death.
When he had finished, the whole kitchen atmosphere was steeped in dead air thicker than fog and heavier than lead. This lasted a full five minutes while the new President slowly sipped her whiskey, looking around at each of us. In a gentle, almost inaudible voice, she said, “Mr. Barnes, when all this is over, I’m going to personally see to it that you and the rest of your team are adequately rewarded for the tremendous service you have given to our country.” She looked then at me. “Jeb, I apologize for blowing up at you, and I’m so very thankful you and your father came through that ordeal alive.”
She reached across the table and took Cal’s hand in both of hers. “Mr. Willard, you and your son are really remarkable people. I can’t ever thank you enough, and I’m so very sorry to have placed you in such jeopardy. Please, would you mind going over the high points once more? I want to make sure I have it right in my own head.”
Cal leaned back in his chair. “It was total, ma’am. One carefully planned disaster after another, each worse than the one before. In addition to the nasty business with Mexico, the riots and bombings, the assassinations, and the calculated chaos in New York and other cities, all timed out to the minute, they had troops in place primed to take over every key television network, major newspapers, telephone headquarters, State houses, even local government centers. Aside from the military people, several secret police units were also included in the attack forces and would make their own moves in coordination with the troops. Commanders and Lieutenants from all branches of the armed forces, National Guard, and police were hand picked by Turnberry and Tyndall.”
Cal skipped a beat to allow that to sink in, and then continued.
“In my opinion, the worst trigger of all, the one that was supposed to be the final straw, was the plan to murder school children in Seattle and Miami. They figured that on top of all the rest, killing a bunch of kids would galvanize the country behind Tyndall out of sheer horror, and give him the final excuse to declare martial law, suspend congress and arrest anybody who objected. It was all tantamount to civil war. Tyndall would have been in position to become an American Adolf Hitler. Blitzkrieg and all.”
Cal paused to let all that sink in even deeper, then added, “I suppose then they would go about running the country in whatever warped way they wanted to. What Jeb said about his friend McCarty was true. He must have somehow found out what day Zero Hour was supposed to kick off, and shot Tyndall just before he could set his machine in motion. Trouble is, all that was on only four of the five discs we found. We didn’t get to see the fifth one, and Turnberry and his man Friday made sure they took all of them. What we think is that with a few minor changes, kind of a plan B, the Judge is moving ahead with it anyway.”
“But,” President Fordham argued, “With Tyndall dead, and me now in office, how could he possibly hope to get away with it?”
Another pregnant silence filled the room as Cal stood up and turned to me to drop the hammer.
I cleared my throat. “He couldn’t have, ma’am. Not until you appointed him Vice President. If anything happened to you, well, he would be the new president, and, he’d have Turnberry and Ferris right beside him. Because of us, Cal’s escape, and our burglary, I’m sure he’s feeling pressure to move rapidly before it all unravels. There is only one thing left for him to do now.”
Helene Fordham’s face turned chalk white. “You mean… kill me, too?”
I didn’t have to answer that.
She dropped her head. Her voice was a weak whisper. “Dear God in Heaven. It’s… It’s too unbelievable.” She looked up at Barnes. Tapped her glass. “Got any more of this?”
While Barnes poured, she leaned back in her chair. “I hate to keep harping on this, but the lawyer in me demands it. With all due respect to that marvelous memory of yours, Mr. Willard, we have to have physical proof. Without it, I’m powerless to act.”
“Not quite,” I said. “When I was a football player, my coach used to tell us to keep on running the same play until the other team stopped it.”
“You lost me,” she said.
“The ruse with Connie Ferris worked once. It might again. What we have to do is force the Judge into a bad move. A mistake.”
“All right, I’ll buy that, but how?”
I sat down in Cal’s chair. “First, we have to get you away from Washington. Out of harm’s way as much as possible, and as soon as possible. Secondly, I’m sure Bert here will confirm that you still have the loyalty and dedication of the Secret Service. Probably the FBI as well.” I glanced at Bert and Jason Barnes whose nods of affirmation were instantaneous. “Why not call Ferris again and tell him you want to continue your inspection tours of military bases on the west coast, maybe in conjunction with a few good will political visits, say, in San Francisco, San Diego, or wherever. This would accomplish a couple things besides getting you out of town. It would indicate to the Judge and his cronies that you don’t suspect a thing, and would maybe force him to make a move he hadn’t planned on. My hope is by doing so, he’ll slip up somewhere along the way, and we’ll catch him red-handed.”
President Fordham sipped and narrowed her eyes. “In other words, I’d be a moving target. Flying bait!”
I felt my face turn red. “Desperate times call for desperate measures. It’s the only way, ma’am. Don’t forget, you’ll be flying in the security of Air Force One, and Bert and his people will be with you every minute, everywhere you set foot. Cal and I will go along too, if we may.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she said, her voice hard-edged. “Air Force One is also under control of the military.”
I shook my head. “Ferris will also be aboard the whole time, too. No, it’s not the flight I worry about. It’s where you might be going.”
She placed her tumbler down on the table with a gesture of decision. “Much as I hate to admit it, I believe you’re right. There isn’t any other way I can see, and they have to be stopped. Quickly and legally. You and Ernie Latham may certainly come along, but your
father can’t. He’s going to stay here and write down every word he’s memorized. Names, dates, places, everything. His testimony in court or maybe a joint session of congress, under oath, may very well be needed.”
She stood, bringing all the rest of us to our feet as well. “Bert, we’d best leave now. I’ve got calls to make and some west coast political promises to keep.” She looked at Cal, smiled sweetly and quoted, “And miles to go before I sleep.”
At the door, she reached up and kissed me on my cheek. “Pray for us, Jeb. For all of us in this screwed up country.”
Then she was gone into the gray morning.
I turned around and asked Jason Barnes to loan me his phone. With it, I made two calls. A short one to Ernie and a long one to Salvatore Cancelossi.
Chapter 29
We had been in the air almost an hour when Bert Franklin touched my shoulder. “Can you and Mr. Latham come with me, sir?”
A few of the other members of the press corps who had been invited to make the trip west noticed this, though none reacted with more than a raised eyebrow of jealousy. We followed Franklin to the President’s quarters and were shown in. Helene Fordham got up from behind her loaded desk, removed her glasses, and shook my hand, then Ernie’s. “Glad you could come along, Ernie. Have a seat, please, both of you.”
We did, and she continued, looking at me. “Did you happen to see Connie Ferris when you came aboard?”
“Sure did,” I said. “He glad-handed all of us, and personally issued each of us a printed itinerary handout. A lot different than last time.”
“Yes. Curious, isn’t it? When I told him I wanted to do this west coast inspection tour, he acted like he was absolutely delighted. Couldn’t have been more cooperative and pleasant. Even laid on something special for me. You may know that the latest shuttle from the space station was supposed to land tomorrow morning in Florida. He’s arranged for it to land late this afternoon in California instead. Just for my benefit.”
Noticing the blank look on Ernie’s face, she said, “Jeb can fill you in later on what we’re talking about, Ernie. Ferris’ sudden attitude change, I mean. Meantime, I wanted to talk to you about our first stop. What do you know about Offutt Air Force Base?”
“Not a lot, Ms. President,” Ernie said. “I remember reading that’s where the Glenn Martin Company built big bombers during World War Two, including the Enola Gay and Bock’s Car, the two B29’s that laid the big eggs on Japan. Because of Offutt’s location, smack in the middle of the country, it used to be the brain center for the old Strategic Air Command. Back in the early nineties it was updated to the Strategic Command Headquarters, the Air Force Weather Center, home for other significant units, plus probably a lot more we don’t know about.”
“That’s all true,” she admitted. “What few people realize is that it’s also the operating center for the Defense Finance and Accounting Service. In short, it’s where Secretary Ferris holds tight to the military purse strings. Not a dime goes in or out that he doesn’t control. There are some parts of the underground complex I wasn’t even privy to as Vice President. Now, of course, Ferris is anxious to give me the cook’s tour himself. Short version. He told me it would take three hours. All you press people are going to be shunted to the base museum while I’m down there with him.”
Seeing the sudden cloud of suspicion invade my face, she laughed. “Don’t worry, Jeb. There’ll be a dozen Congressional people there as well. Besides, Bert and Joseph will be with me every step of the way. I’ll be safe enough, I think. Besides, it’s important that I seem to be enthused about everything Ferris wants to show me. Don’t you agree?”
I couldn’t argue with that.
“You and Ernie should just relax and enjoy the ride,” she added, with another reassuring smile.
“Yeah, right.” Ernie said. “We might even get up a bridge game, and fight over who’s gonna be the dummy.”
“Very funny. Okay, you two. Scat. I’ve got work to do. See you after Offutt.”
The carefully manipulated tour we were given would have normally been truly interesting, since Offutt has a long and unique history. A few miles south of Omaha and a couple miles west of the Missouri River, constructed on the original site of old Fort Crook, the exterior area of the base is vast. Many of the buildings on the post that were built before 1900 were still in use, including the guard house and various enlisted men’s and officer’s quarters. It’s a useful diversion for the nosy tourist, and publicly deceptive, since the nerve center of America’s military is as active as a beehive far below the benign surface of the flat land that encompasses more than 260 acres.
After a light lunch, a parade of staff cars taxied us back to the area where Air Force One had first parked, and was now being towed back into position for boarding. Ernie commented about that to our driver, a handsome, mustached Air Force captain, whose advanced training must have been in public relations. He puffed his chest out and answered, “Yes, sir. We’re very proud of our special operations people and their building, the Bennie L. Davis Aircraft Maintenance Complex.”
“I thought Air Force One was maintained at Andrews,” I said.
“Well, yes, sir, she is,” the young captain answered, smooth as a lawyer. “Our people have simply given her a bath and a vacuum. They’ve got nothing on us. We like for our Commander in Chief to fly in a clean ship.” He stopped the car and glanced at his watch. “Right on time. The President should be arriving in five minutes. You folks might like to go ahead and board.”
The glib captain was correct. President Fordham boarded only minutes after we had taken our seats, chatting amiably as she swept past us with Ferris and two senators I recognized. I glanced at Ernie, who bent sideways and whispered, “Jones and Wicker. Armed Services Committee.”
“Makes sense. Cornelius Ferris seems to have all his bases covered this time around, pun intended.”
Moments later, Ferris passed by us again, walking in the opposite direction, casually pausing here and there to speak to press people before going forward. After about ten minutes more, we felt a slight lurch as the big bird got underway, and two of the crewmember stewards passed down our aisle, quietly asking us to put our seatbelts on. A few minutes later, we took off. I pushed out a long, slow breath.
“Well, Jeb, so far, so good,” Ernie said. “Next stop, Edwards. Like the lady said, might as well relax and enjoy the ride.”
“Easy for you to say,” I muttered. I was feeling another gnawing bug crawling in my belly, but try as I might, I couldn’t pinpoint anything unusual. Still, I just couldn’t shake it. Things were going along fine. Perfectly. Too perfectly.
After we leveled off, the stewards came around taking orders for drinks and food. Ernie asked for a beer, but I didn’t want anything. For the first time in my life, I felt almost airsick. I kept looking at my watch. Half an hour passed. I noticed Ernie had dozed off beside me, and I tried to close my own eyes and relax, but it was no use. Another few minutes droned by and I wasn’t feeling any better. I was almost to the point of getting up and heading for the nearest toilet when President Fordham stopped at my aisle seat, leaned over and said, “Jeb, come with me. You deserve to see this.”
I stood, grateful as hell for the interruption. “See what?”
“A rather nice little surprise.”
I followed her forward, all the way to the door leading to the flight deck. She turned to me and explained. “Captain Nichols called a few minutes ago. Apparently something else has been laid on for my education. I thought you might like to see it as well.” She knocked. “An in-flight refueling operation. Should be really interesting to watch it from up here.”
Captain Edgar Nichols, the aircraft commander, was actually a full Colonel. His First Officer, whom he immediately introduced, was Major Caswell Jamison. Both men had the rugged, self-assured good looks of most senior pilots. Seeing me standing behind the President, Captain Nichols gave me one quick frown of disapproval, then spoke to his Commander in Ch
ief. “Ms. President, Secretary Ferris thought you might like to observe how we do this.”
“Don’t tell me we’re out of gas!” she retorted, laughing.
Both men chuckled with her. “No, ma’am,” Nichols said. “We’ve got plenty. We’re just going to take on enough for you to see how it’s done. It won’t take long once we reach the rendezvous coordinates.”
“Where are we now, exactly?” I asked.
“East and north of Denver about a hundred miles. Rendezvous is set for 1500 hours. Practically right over Mount Rushmore.”
Automatically, I glanced again at my watch. Thirty minutes to go.
Major Jamison pointed through the windshield, up and to his right at a KC-10 tanker. “There’s the cow. She called a while ago to tell us they are even sending an F-18 out of Colorado Springs to the rendezvous point to film it all for your scrapbook, Ms. President.”
To this very day, I will never know why I thought to ask, “Where is Secretary Ferris, anyway? Wouldn’t he want to be up here, too?”
Captain Nichols half turned in his seat, his brow furrowed as he looked back at President Fordham. “Oh, he deplaned back at Offutt just before we took off. Said he had some extra things to do there, and that he’d catch up with us at Travis. Didn’t he tell you, ma’am?”
Suddenly the gnawing in my stomach came back. I was about to ask another question when somebody behind us knocked on the door. Bert Franklin identified himself and was admitted, his face red. “Ms. President, all the television networks have broken into regular programming. There’s been a school playground shooting at Miami. Really bad one from first reports. Maybe twenty kids dead. Vice President Koontz has called a news conference for four o’clock.”
That’s when my gut finally reacted—to the explosion in my brain. I unceremoniously grabbed Helene Fordham’s arms. “That’s it! We’ve got to get down! NOW.”
“Are you sure, Jeb?” She said, her eyes wide.
“Has to be. Ferris slips off the plane? School massacre? Koontz calls a press conference? It’s all falling into place. We have to—”