Term Limits mr-1

by Vince Flynn

  “Well, he’s obviously ignoring the order.”

  Coleman pulled his mike back down in front of his mouth. “All right, everybody, this is Zeus, listen up. We are going to wait until these two finish their cigars, and then, hopefully, they’ll go back inside and the guard by the cliff will head back up to the main house. Then we will finish our recon and head back to the boat. Until then, we sit tight. I

  don’t want them to have any idea we were here, over.” Irene Kennedy was having a difficult time staying awake. The human body needs more than two hours of sleep in a day. Kennedy had only slept two hours in the last three days, and her body was about to shut down.

  She was sitting in the midst of stacks of green personnel dossiers.

  Ninety-four to be exact. Kennedy was methodically picking through each file, reading every boring line of black print. Military personnel dossiers were not intriguing reading.

  Kennedy had already read fifty-two of the files and was coming to the realization that she would not finish tonight. It was almost 11 P.M and her ability to analyze the tedious information was diminishing. She decided to read two more files and call it a night, leaving herself an even forty to finish in the morning. She was impressed with the job that Naval Intelligence had done in keeping tabs on their former SEALS. Even the CIA

  was interested. Kennedy had found five SEALS who were now on the CIA payroll. The files didn’t say they worked for the CIA. Kennedy recognized their employers as companies that were either fronts for the Agency or companies that did a lot of work for the Agency. Kennedy opened the next file and looked down at a picture of Scott

  Coleman.

  Beneath the photo was his date of discharge. A little over a year ago.

  She continued reading the file, noticing nothing unusual. Any one of the ninety-four files alone would be impressive, but after reading fifty of them they all kind of blended together, and the superhuman feats these men performed started to seem normal.

  Kennedy noticed that Coleman’s IQ was near the genius level. Flipping to the last several pages, Kennedy read a list of covert missions that Coleman had participated in. It was long and impressive, starting in the early eighties and finishing about a year and a half ago. The missions were all listed by code names. Because of Kennedy’s security clearance and her background in terrorism, she recognized almost half of the missions.

  She got to the last mission Coleman had participated in, and an empty feeling crept into her stomach. The code name for the mission was Operation Snatch Back. Snatch

  Back was something few people knew about, and something that no one wanted to talk about. The only thing listed after Operation Snatch Back was Coleman’s date of discharge.

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  Next to the date, in parenthesis, was the comment “Early discharge granted.”

  “I haven’t seen one of those yet,” Kennedy commented to herself. As her curiosity grew, Kennedy felt less tired. She flipped to the last page and found that Coleman was living in Adams Morgan and had started a company called SEAL Demolition and

  Salvage Corporation. Kennedy immediately wondered who the other employees of the

  SEAL Demolition and Salvage Corporation might be. Grabbing the file, Kennedy stood and walked briskly down the hall toward General Heaney’s office. A young ensign was the only person left in the main office area. “Is the general still in?” asked Kennedy. “Dr.

  Kennedy, he said good-bye to you almost three hours ago …. Remember, he said he’d be back at zero six hundred.” Kennedy frowned. “Damn it.”

  “Ma’am, if you don’t mind me saying, you look like you could use some sleep.”

  Kennedy shook her head and looked down at the file. She stood there for a moment trying to figure out what to do next. “Is there anything I could help you with, ma’am?”

  Kennedy looked at the young officer and was about to ask him what his security clearance was and then thought better. At his age and rank there was no way he was cleared to discuss this information. “No… thank you for offering though.” The paper-thin

  Kennedy turned to walk away and then stopped.

  “Ensign, how unusual is it to get an early discharge when you’re in the Special

  Forces?”

  “It’s not that unusual. We have guys blowing out knees every other week.

  We get at least one broken back a year, and a whole lot of other injuries. A lot of these knee injuries take a year to rehab, so if a guy is due to get out in a year and he blows his knee, we let him go early.”

  Kennedy accepted the explanation and said, “Thank you.” Again, she turned to walk away and again stopped. Turning back to the ensign, she said, “If that was the case, wouldn’t their file say medical discharge?”

  “Yes, that is correct.” Kennedy opened Coleman’s file and found the page where it said early discharge granted. She pointed at the last line and showed it to the ensign.

  “This is different than a medical discharge, is it not?”

  “Yes, it is. I’ve never seen one of those before. Well, I shouldn’t say that. With the budget cuts it’s fairly common in the regular Navy, but not in the Special Forces.”

  Kennedy wavered for a moment, wondering if she should have the ensign call General

  Heaney at home, but knew the general needed sleep as much or more than she did. She decided it could wait until morning. Kennedy asked the ensign for a piece of paper and wrote a note for the general. She paper-clipped it to the top of the folder and handed it to the ensign. “Would you please put this on the general’s desk for me?” Kennedy gathered her things and decided to let the rest of the files wait until morning.

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  She had to be in Skip McMahon’s office at 8 A.M. for a meeting.

  Arthur and Nance stood outside talking and smoking their cigars for about forty minutes. During that time, O’Rourke and Coleman speculated as to why the national security adviser would be talking to Arthur.

  From their spot atop the gazebo they became more and more curious.

  Finally, Arthur and Nance went back inside. Several minutes after that, they heard a car drive away. Shortly after that, the guard standing watch by the cliff took his dog and headed back for the house.

  Coleman scanned the entire yard thoroughly and told everyone to sit tight for a couple more minutes to make sure they hadn’t missed anything. When he felt comfortable, he lowered his mike and said, “All right, let’s work our way back to the boat. Sound off if anything comes up, over.” Coleman slid off the roof first and lowered himself down onto the chair. O’Rourke followed and put the chair back at the table where they’d found it.

  They both huddled next to the row of hedges and looked at each other. For at least the tenth time in the last forty-five minutes, O’Rourke said, “God, I’d like to know what in the hell those two were talking about.”

  “So would I.” Coleman looked around the yard and grabbed his mike.

  “Cyclops and Hermes, this is Zeus.

  Do you read, over?”

  “Yes, we read you, over.”

  “Where are you, over?”

  “We’re getting ready to go down to the water, over.” Coleman looked across the yard.

  “I’ve got something I want to check out. It shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes. We’ll meet you back at the boat, over.”

  “That’s a roger, over.”

  “What’s up?” asked O’Rourke. “When I was driving around today, I noticed that there was a big place for sale several doors down. It looked kind of rundown, like no one was living there. As long as we’re here, I want to look around. Let’s stay low and keep quiet.”

  They ran toward the other side of the yard crouching next to the hedges. No fence separated the two yards, only a tree line, but Coleman and O’Rourke stopped anyway.

  They scanned the yard with their goggles and looked for motion sensors. They found

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  none, and all of the lights in the large house were off. C
rossing the yard, they reached an old wrought-iron fence and stopped. “This is it,” said Coleman.

  “Let’s walk the fence line and see if we can find a gate.” They walked away from the

  Bay and toward the house, their goggles lighting the way for them.

  They’d only walked about thirty feet when they found a hole. Two of the wrought-iron bars were missing and a gate had been created. They stepped through the opening and onto a thinly worn path that moved through the trees and weeds. After about thirty feet, it opened into a huge, wild yard the size of a football field. The grass was almost up to their waist. Looking up toward the house, they studied the dilapidated mansion. All of the windows on the main floor were boarded up, and the surrounding vegetation looked as if it was attempting to swallow the house. “This place has been empty for quite a while,” said Coleman.

  “They can’t sell homes like this anymore. The taxes alone have to be a half a million dollars.”

  “Follow me, I think there’s a service drive over here.” They trudged through the tall grass, staying by the trees.

  Adjacent to the main house, and behind a row of tall hedges, they came across a small shed and a dirt road. They followed the path to the main road and stopped at the service gate. Next to the gate was a good-size servant’s house. The windows were also boarded up. They heard a car approaching and ducked down behind some bushes. The car grew louder and louder, and then its headlights lit up the night air.

  The undergrowth and trees were thick, and with their dark clothing they were not in danger of being seen. A Mercedes passed and continued around the turn.

  Coleman rose from the bushes and inspected the gate. It was a smaller version of the large wrought-iron gate for the main drive to the mansion. It swung open from the middle and was chained and padlocked.

  Coleman inspected the lock briefly and then checked the hinges.

  Turning to O’Rourke, he said, “I’ve seen all I need, let’s go.”

  “Would you mind telling me what you’re thinking?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I’m just trying to get a feel for things …. Let’s go.” With Coleman in the lead they worked their way quietly down the service drive, through the tall grass, and back to Arthur’s neighbor’s yard. From there, they descended down the steps to the Bay, where they repacked their gear in the waterproof backpacks and swam back to the boat.

  Stroble and Hackett were waiting for them. As soon as Coleman and O’Rourke were on board, they raised the anchor and headed back out into the Bay. Once they reached the

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  other side, they turned north for Baltimore. All four of them were gathered on the fly deck. The windscreen shielded them from most of the breeze, but the night air was still frigid. Hackett was telling them that he didn’t think it would be difficult to take Arthur out. “I can’t believe that a guy who’s that paranoid about security is dumb enough to step out in the open like that just to smoke a cigar.”

  “They’re all alike … all over the world,” scoffed Stroble. “They all have a weakness.

  some little habit that they won’t let go of.”

  “How hard do you think it would be to kidnap him?” asked O’Rourke. “A lot harder than shooting him in the head from one hundred and fifty feet,” responded Hackett.

  “You’re not really considering that as an option, are you?”

  “I would like to get inside his head and find out what in the hell he and Mike Nance were talking about.” O’Rourke looked at Coleman, who was concentrating on the water ahead of them. He knew Coleman was thinking the same thing. Without taking his eyes off the water Coleman said, “It can be done, but we’ll have to take the guards out.”

  “Why?”

  “Those guys are not your average security guards. If they’re guarding Arthur, that means they’re good.”

  “How good?”

  “Good enough that if we try to sneak up on them, one of us will end up dead.”

  “What about shooting them with a tranquilizer gun?”

  Coleman thought about it for a second and asked Hackett, “Any chance we could take them out with tranquilizers?” Hackett shook his head. “Too much wind coming off the

  Bay, and the distances are too far. It looked like the guards were wearing body armor, so we’d have to hit them in the neck. From the distances we’d have to shoot, I wouldn’t give us better than a fifty-fifty chance of hitting the mark.” O’Rourke thought about killing the guards. He had killed several Iraqis during the war, but this would be more personal.

  “What type of men are they?

  Do they work for CIA?”

  “No. They’re professional mercenaries. Probably men who have worked for him in the past.” Coleman scanned to the port and starboard sides, checking for any other vessels in the area. “Michael, the only way we can do it is to take the guards out. We can either take Arthur out, without knowing what’s going on, or we can grab him and find out what he and Nance are up to I say we grab him, but the decision is yours.”

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  IRENE KENNEDY WAS SOUND ASLEEP. AFTER ARRIVING HOME FROM

  THE Pentagon late the previous evening, she didn’t even have the energy to take off her clothes. She plopped down on the covers and was out in seconds.

  Through her deep sleep she sensed that she wasn’t alone in her bedroom.

  Someone was watching her. She opened her eyes’and saw the intruder.

  Looking back at her were a pair of little brown eyes. They belonged to her four-year-old son, Tommy. He was staring at her with a frown on his face and a juice box stuck in his mouth. Irene blinked her eyes several times and tried to rub the sleep out of them.

  Tommy pulled the juice box away from his lips and asked, “Why are you sleeping in your clothes?” Irene ignored the question and held out her arms. “Give Mommy a hug.”

  Tommy set his beverage down on the nightstand and jumped up onto the big bed.

  Irene gave him a warm hug and kissed his forehead.

  “How have you been?” she asked as she rubbed her hand through his blond hair.

  “Good.” Tommy liked to give one-word answers. “How have you and Mrs. Rosensteel been getting along?”

  “Fine. She told me to let you sleep.”

  “She’s here?”

  “Yep.” Irene bolted upright. “What time is it?”

  She looked at the bedside clock and suppressed the urge to swear. She jumped off the bed and picked up Tommy. “Mommy’s late, honey. Go ask Mrs. Rosensteel to make me a cup of coffee, please.” Irene patted him on his little butt and headed for the bathroom.

  She showered in under three minutes and got dressed. Today would be a pants day. No time to shave the legs. With her hair still wet she shoved her makeup kit in her purse and headed for the kitchen. Tommy’s nanny handed her a cup of coffee in a large to-go mug, and Irene thanked her. She dropped down to one knee and kissed Tommy on the forehead. “I’ll call you from the office.”

  Standing, she added, “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” Tommy waved as she ran out the door. Minutes later Irene was battling traffic on her way downtown. She reminded herself to call her mother and ask her to stop by and see Tommy. Since these assassinations had started, she’d been working some horrible hours and her time with her son had suffered. She violated a half dozen traffic laws on her way to the Hoover Building and had still managed to put on her makeup. She appeared in Skip McMahon’s office less than thirty minutes after Tommy had awakened her, feeling better than one would have expected. “Good morning, Skip.”

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  “Good morning, Irene. How are you doing?”

  “Pretty good. I finally got more than a couple hours of sleep last night.”

  “Good, because we’ve got a full day ahead of us. I just got out of a meeting with

  Harvey Wilcox and Madeline Nanny. They have solid surveillance set up on ten of the fourteen suspects and are hoping to have the last four taken care of by this evening
. How are you and your people coming along?”

  “Good. As of ten P.M. last night we had visual and phone surveillance initiated on all forty-five suspects.” Kennedy took a sip of coffee.

  McMahon tapped his foot under the desk and looked at Kennedy, waiting for the good doctor to crack a smile and tell him she was joking.

  Kennedy gave no response, and McMahon realized she wasn’t kidding.

  McMahon wondered how in the hell the CIA could initiate surveillance on forty-five people in less than thirty-six hours. He was sure that, however they did it, civil rights were being trampled left and right.

  The investigative side of McMahon wanted desperately to know how it was done, and the law-abiding Federal-agent side wanted to be kept in the dark. After a brief internal struggle the investigative side won.

  “Irene, I have a hard time believing that you have the manpower to watch forty-five people around the clock.”

  “We don’t.”

  “Then how in the hell are you keeping an eye on all of these people?”

  “It’s not about manpower, Skip. It’s technology.”

  “What do you mean ‘technology’?” Kennedy grinned. “I’d like to tell you, but it’s probably best if you don’t know. Just trust me that we can, and that we’ll pass whatever we learn on to you as quickly as possible.”

  McMahon leaned back in his chair and frustratedly accepted Kennedy’s answer, understanding that it was probably best that he didn’t know.

  “I was thinking about your SEAL theory last night. The more I mull it over, the more intrigued I am. If these guys are as smart as we think they are, they would have tried to do something along the way to throw us off their trail.” Kennedy set her coffee cup on the edge of the desk and stood. “I’m glad you brought that up. I need to call General Heaney and ask him about something. Would you dial his office and put it on speaker?” While

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  McMahon dialed the number, Kennedy continued, “I was reviewing those personnel files last night and came across something a little unusual.” One of the general’s aides answered, and a moment later Heaney was on the line. “Good morning, Skip. What can I