“They won’t,” said Harry confidently.
“But if they do?”
“The plan’s dead in the water. It’s a risk but to the world and the American people, we need to make it real. The fewer people who know, the better. So far, we’re the only four people who are aware of the plan and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“The VP and NSA Liz Roberts would need to be in on it. I’d want their input on the plan. Jesus! You’ve got me talking like this is possible!”
“It is,” said Harry. “Laid out like I’ve just done it sounds a bit ridiculous but over time, we’ll iron out the creases and finesse the details. If we do it right and Nick thinks like them, I believe we can do it.”
“And what do we do with these planeloads of suicidal jihadists? Gitmo’s not that big and I’m supposed to be closing it down.”
“Sorry, I left that bit out. We blow them the fuck away and let their bodies rot at the bottom of the ocean.”
“That bit I get,” smiled President Mitchell, before turning to Nick. “How good a shot are you?”
“Not bad, sir,” replied Nick with a smile.
Chapter 92
PRESENT DAY
The White House
President Mitchell looked out at the construction teams who were rebuilding the West Wing. He was still struggling to believe the audacious plan laid before him almost a year and a half ago had been successful. Harry, Bob and Liz had been camped out with him since 11:00 a.m. in the makeshift situation center that had previously been the State Dining Room. The one man not present, the former VP, had been sorely missed but not forgotten.
In great secrecy, they had kept in touch with the events of the day through the various disconnected parts of the operation that Harry Carson had concocted.
The agents who had so efficiently manned the check-in desks and who had subsequently acted as the stewards on board the flights, were all Combat Controllers, highly specialized and skilled members of the USAF’s Special Forces. They were expert in many fields and most importantly for the mission, high altitude parachuting. They had more knowledge than most of what was likely to happen to the passengers on board the aircraft but ultimately could do nothing but guess.
The drone pilots who had been trained over the previous months on how to pilot the Boeing 747s, had been told that the planes were being rescued from imminent scrapping and were being used in a military exercise. None was aware that there were passengers on board the crewless airliners.
The fighter pilots who had left Narsarsuaq were the only people outside of the makeshift Situation Room who were fully aware of the mission. They had been carefully selected by Harry’s brother-in-law, Major General Howard Carter, and given their history and personal losses, it was highly unlikely they would ever talk.
In all, they had created twenty Boeing 747 drones from planes sitting in storage waiting to be scrapped or sold for spare parts. All had been allocated a real flight number and thanks to the Combat Controllers at check-in, the real passengers were separated and directed to their real flights, while the jihadists were directed to a ghost flight of the same number. The airlines had helped, throughout the months of training, by allowing the military to carry out its top secret exercise which required the use of their desks and allowed the forces’ planes to use their livery. It had all gone perfectly to plan except for the US Airways Boeing 747 screw up. US Airways not having a 747 in service had created a buzz amongst a very observant plane-spotting community. A buzz that needed to be silenced to protect the operation and which was costing the US government an extra $400 million. The only way to cover their tracks was to make the planes that should never have existed, suddenly exist. US Airways was about to gain two free Boeing 747-400s, whether they wanted them or not.
Getting the five hundred plus jihadists on board each flight without them realizing what was happening had been a logistical wonder. Allocating the various jihadists to planes where they didn’t know other group members had been difficult. When the groups were greater than twenty in size, luck and allocation of seating played a big part, as did the boarding. The instructions for each jihadist ensured that different areas of the planes were filled at set times. Meticulous planning had been involved in how Nick should instruct the timings of each jihadist, based on their seat numbers. Each jihadist’s instructions on the day depended on their seat number but this meant spreading the check-in over three hours. The excessive number of check-in desks ensured that, on arrival, the jihadists were checked straight onto the flight and as the flight was sitting and ready to go, they were directed to board immediately. By the time the later jihadists boarded, most of the plane was either asleep or faking sleep, desperate to follow their instructions, to keep to themselves and not draw attention.
“Do we have all the updates now?” asked President Mitchell, turning his back to the West Wing and rejoining the group, whose enthusiasm and elation had waned dramatically.
“Yes, Mr. President, all flights have been terminated.”
“Casualties?”
“All combat controllers have checked in safely. They jumped over a desolate part of Iceland and all have been picked up and are on board US Naval vessels that were stationed offshore.”
“The fighters?”
“All have landed back safely in the US.”
“Geller?”
Harry shook his head. “The video started playing early on his flight. Two combat controllers were still in the cabin. He threw them into the lift and with no more room, sent them down with orders to jump immediately. They just managed to parachute onto land from where they were. It’s unlikely Nick would have gotten out the cabin alive once the movie started. Even if he had, he would have landed in the water.”
President Mitchell nodded. The movie they had played on the planes was a very different version than the one played to the American people and pulled no punches.
Just like the announcement regarding turbulence and fastening their seatbelts, the video was in Arabic, ensuring that the majority of the plane would take notice. Some just did what the announcement had said, others had instantly realized that Arabic was not a language used for announcements on American flights. Whatever the reaction, the announcement had woken up everyone on the planes and ensured they were awake when the screens burst to life.
The video started with a grave President who then, with a smile, told them to ‘watch this.’
The real video of Caliph Zahir Al Zahrani was then played to the captivated audience, not the Hollywood special effects version that had created a digitized reality that had endeared Nick Geller to the jihadist cause. The real video showed Nick Geller promising the Caliph that he was going to kill as many suicidal jihadists as he possibly could and in the process wipe out the fundamentalists once and for all, cleansing the Islamic religion and Allah of the hate-filled crazies that had no part in the peace loving Islamic world.
The President then reappeared and through an interpreter told the jihadists that their hunger for death was about to be fulfilled by the might and power of the American people.
On cue, the fighter jets would then fly alongside each of the planes, before pulling away and sending the pilotless and crewless planes to the depths of the Atlantic. One option had been to do away with the fighters and just let the planes run out of fuel or have the remote pilots fly them into the ocean. However, the fighters ensured the planes went down exactly where they wanted them to, the deepest part of the Irminger basin.
***
“I want every available ship and plane looking for Geller,” ordered the President. He had no illusions at the beginning of the operation that the chances of Geller surviving were anything more than slim to nil. But as time progressed and he had, piece by piece, brought the plan and the traitor to life, the more he thought they would see Geller again and have the chance to congratulate him for what he had managed to accomplish, an achievement that was nothing short of monumental to the world. The selection criteria for the
jihadists had been precise. Only the true believers who, without hesitation, would give their lives for the cause they believed in. A cause that was so warped that they would have to kill or be killed.
However, thanks to Nick, the lives and souls of the most devoted and experienced members of the jihadist organization were now rotting three miles below the surface of the ocean. Their leadership, structures and lifeblood were gone forever. Each of the groups had offered up their best men, their leaders, their number twos and their team leaders. None believed they would all be selected, none knew they had all been selected. Nick had hinted many times that only the best of best would be offered the opportunity to take the fight to America. Every man whose name had gone on the list was selected. They had all been so keen to take the fight to America, that none had thought to question what they were doing, or the effect of what Nick was doing would have on their organizations. None could see beyond their opportunity to take their war to America. The jihadists had been dealt a blow from which they would never recover. With Flynn killing the prince, their monies were gone, their leaders were gone, their organizations were gone.
And so was Geller. Although whatever had happened, “Nick Geller” could never have resurfaced. For the plan to work, his demise needed to be believed. Nobody could ever know the jihadists had been tricked. Nobody could ever know that Nick only had one real vial of virus. He had destroyed the other forty-nine even before leaving the medical research facility. Nobody could ever know that the Americans had designed and executed the plan to rid the world of over ten thousand jihadists. As far as the world knew, the Americans had intercepted one inbound flight of virus-ridden passengers and jihadists. They had no choice but to shoot the plane down to save the world.
As far as any individual jihadist groups were aware, the three hundred jihadists who were killed were all the jihadists they knew. That one plane, to each group, was their group of jihadists. Their leaders, their team leaders, their best warriors, all gone, along with the man who had promised them their dream, Nick Geller.
Nick Geller was dead no matter whether on the plane or in the sea. Nick Geller would live on as the greatest “traitor” in American history.
Epilogue
Six Months later.
Castle Rock, Colorado
Frankie had been in labor for over six hours. She breathed in between contractions. It had been a tough six months but Castle Rock had been welcoming and she easily found a job with the local police force and was promoted within the first three months to Commander of the Serious Crimes Division. Outside of work, she kept to herself. Once the baby was born, she told herself she’d become more sociable but she wasn’t sure that would ever be the case.
Nick Geller had been something special. His betrayal had extinguished the spark in her. Trust had become a major issue for her. Not trusting other people, not trusting her own judgment.
Another contraction came and the obstetrician told her to breathe. Despite how her time in Washington had ended, she had accepted the presidential recommendation for her doctor. Recommendations didn’t get much better. So far, he had been brilliant and had allowed Frankie the natural birth she wanted. Her mom was by her side, holding her hand and supporting her through a pregnancy she deeply disagreed with but would support nonetheless.
Frankie had kept in touch with Reid, although a few emails every now and then were hardly the foundations of a great friendship. The one thing they had worked out was that the list of innocent victims’ names was bullshit. Not one person on the list of names appeared to correlate with a real person. People had shown up at the memorial service but the more Frankie and Reid asked questions, the more the bullshit fell apart. If the press were on to it, they weren’t interested. The return of pre-9/11 style travel was on the horizon. The Islamic faith had been all but cleansed of its radicalization, earning a newfound respect across the world. Their numbers had in fact grown since the incident as more and more Muslims who had lost faith due to the radicals flooded back to the mosques.
Another contraction hit. This time, the doctor told her to push. And push again. Her mother vociferously encouraged her up until the first screams of a beautiful baby boy.
Nurses fussed around the room as Frankie lost herself in the wonder of motherhood, her perfect baby boy nuzzling into her.
Two hours later, mother and baby were finally alone. She soaked up every one of his features. His ten perfect little toes, his ten perfect little fingers. His dark mop of hair, his sallow skin and his piercing eyes, his father’s eyes.
“Miss Franks,” said one of the nurses, interrupting a precious moment. He had been one of the nurses she vaguely recognized as one who had helped during the delivery. “I have a Facetime call for you, shall I hold the baby for you?” He held out an iPad. He was missing the tips of a few of his fingers. She reluctantly swapped her baby for the iPad. He noticed she couldn’t take her eyes off of his fingers.
“Exposure,” he explained. “Not careless.” Ensuring that Frankie could see her son was safe in his arms, he walked to the other side of the room to give Frankie some privacy during the call.
“Congratulations, Frankie,” said a beaming President Mitchell, the crystal clear waters of a Caribbean beach in the background.
“Thank you, Mr. President. I see you’re enjoying some winter sun.”
“Just visiting a dear old friend,” replied the President. “In fact, he wants to say hello.” The image on the screen spun around and a hospital style bed came into view in what otherwise appeared to a beachside villa, one she recognized and had in fact visited.
The image revealed the supposedly dead Vice President of the United States, Donald Brodie, a shadow of his former self, painfully thin and gravely ill.
“Mr. Vice President?” she said gasping. “But…but…”
“Cancer,” he explained breathlessly. “I didn’t want to go through it in office. I took an opportunity and bowed out in a blaze of glory,” he joked, coughing painfully.
The President joined him, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I can’t explain everything but your son has a father to be proud of,” said Brodie.
Frankie was speechless and became suddenly aware of the nurse in the room.
She lowered her voice. “Are you saying Nick wasn’t for real?”
“Your Nick was, our Nick wasn’t,” said President Mitchell.
“So I tried to shoot my Nick?” she asked, suddenly realizing she almost killed him.
“But you missed!”
“I wasn’t trying to miss and I’m damned sure Bill wasn’t either.”
The President’s face suggested otherwise.
“Oh my God, why tell me now?” she said angrily.
“Everyone believes we killed him. Everybody believes Nick Geller the traitor was real. There’s only one person who deserves to know that’s not true. Only six other people know the truth about who Nick Geller really was. You and your son deserve to know he was one of our greatest heroes ever.”
Tears welled in her eyes, which turned into a flood. The emotion of six months of anguish and doubt, about herself, the life her child would lead, about Nick, came flowing out.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” she said through the tears.
“You’ve got a great guy there,” he said. “Look after him for us.”
“Of course I will,” she said, reaching out for her baby.
“I think he actually meant me,” said the nurse, a man she didn’t recognize in the least until she, for the first time, caught sight of his eyes, the only things the plastic surgeon hadn’t changed.
The End
PLEASE READ ON FOR AN EXCERPT FROM CAPTIVE-IN-CHIEF – AVAILABLE NOW AT AMAZON
Captive-in-Chief
by
Murray McDonald
Captive-in-Chief
Murray McDonald
Published by Murray McDonald
Copyright 2016 Murray McDonald
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoy
ment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
The right of Murray McDonald to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents act 1988.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Chapter 1
Chaos was Officer Stevens’ first thought as he reached the scene. Three cars lay strewn across the upmarket lawn - one police cruiser and two Executive Town Cars, each bearing witness to a brutal gun battle. Bullet holes and shattered glass littered the area. The front door to the house was thrown wide open, an unmoving body obstructing the entrance.
“Thank God,” croaked a blood-soaked officer in the crippled cruiser.
Stevens rushed to his aid. “What the hell happened?” he asked, checking the officer for injuries.
The officer pushed Stevens’ hand away. “I’m fine, a few scratches, it’s not my blood.” He pointed to another officer on the lawn. The large hole in his chest didn’t require further investigation.
Stevens looked again. The injured officer’s uniform wasn’t the same as his.
“Are you Secret Service?” he asked, taking another look at the house to see if he recognized it.
ALL ACTION THRILLER BOXSET: THREE MURRAY MCDONALD STANDALONE THRILLERS Page 97