Target of Opportunity td-98

by Warren Murphy

  Back came a testy and unprofessional "Hold your horses."

  Then his earphone filled with a hissing, spitting, snarling ball of sound, and Armbruster was screaming in a high, frightened voice, "Backup! I need backup! Rose Garden!"

  "All available agents! Rose Garden. Armbruster in trouble."

  As he ran, Murtha wondered what the hell was going on. It sounded as if Armbruster had gotten himself tangled up in the mother of all cat fights.

  They found Special Agent Dick Armbruster sprawled in the Rose Garden, his face striated with streaks of red and his right hand in ribbons.

  "There he goes, the bastard," Armbruster shouted, pointing with a shredded index finger.

  Everyone looked where he pointed.

  "There who goes?"

  "That damn killer cat. It jumped me. Look what it did to my hand."

  "What'd you do, kick it?"

  "I never touched it. It attacked me. Christ, it was a damn cougar."

  "Get that cat," Murtha said. "Two of you, stay with me. We'll get him inside before the press or the President sees this mess."

  Jack Murtha was overseeing the moving of the injured agent when the sound of wildcats came in stereo. In the earpiece and just around the corner.

  "Ahh!" an agent screamed.

  "That sounds like Reynolds."

  "It's that cat. It must be rabid," Armbruster said.

  "You sure?"

  "You know that cat. Mellow as pipe smoke. Look what it did. It's not itself."

  "Damn," Murtha said, lifting his wrist mike on the run. "All agents. Possible rabid cat moving toward South Lawn. All available agents pursue and surround. Use extreme caution."

  The wildcat sounds stopped suddenly, and when Murtha, two special agents in tow, reached the place where they heard the sound, they found the two agents squirming on the grass.

  "Reynolds! What happened?"

  Reynolds looked up with pleading eyes. He was clutching his throat with both hands. Blood was dripping through the cracks in his fingers, and when Murtha yanked them away, he saw exposed trachea.

  Reynolds gave out a choking gurgle, and his eyes rolled up in his head.

  The other special agent was sitting, holding his left eye cupped in one hand.

  "I think it got my eye."

  "Damn, what's got into that cat?" Into his hand mike, he barked, "Report on Flea Dip."

  "Burton here. Vonier and I have that tick-bait cat in sight."

  "Use extreme caution. Do not attempt to apprehend without assistance."

  "The cat?"

  "Yes, the fucking cat. Surround but do not approach."

  "Roger," Burton said in a dubious tone.

  FULLY SEVEN trained special agents converged on the South Lawn where Marine One was due to arrive shortly.

  Socks the First Cat was pacing in increasingly smaller circles as it became aware of the closing net of frightened humans.

  "We'll close the circle and keep it contained until Marine One sets down," Murtha said, whispering into his hand mike so as not to spook the First Cat.

  A chorus of "Rogers" filtered back.

  "Anybody notice if it's foaming at the mouth?"

  "Negative. No foam."

  "No foam from this side."

  The cat continued pacing, arching its back often.

  "It's not acting like Socks at all."

  "When they contract rabies, they lose their minds," Murtha said grimly.

  "It does have that stupid look rabid animals get."

  "You ask me, that fool cat was born looking stupid."

  The circle continued closing. Socks walked in tighter and tighter circles, starting in one direction and retreating when it realized there was no loophole in the circle of polished cordovans.

  The distinctive echoing rattle of Marine One came at the worst possible time.

  The First Cat gathered itself up.

  "Okay," Murtha said urgently. "Just everybody hold your ground. It's too well fed to jump very high."

  In that, Jack Murtha was wrong. From a standing start, Socks jumped straight backward. Everyone expected a forward leap. So the agents behind the First Cat were caught by surprise.

  The cat hopped backward like a bullfrog to land between Jack Murtha's legs.

  "Mother-" he said, reaching down to grab the cat by the neck in both hands. Maybe he could immobilize it by cutting off its oxygen. He had been taught that hold at the service's training center at Beltsville.

  Jack Murtha wrapped all ten fingers around the cat and lifted. It was an adaptation of his training and looked good in theory.

  In practice it was a disaster.

  The cat squirmed, clawing, and its rear claws raked his wrists and hands. It was like trying to hold on to a threshing python. Its strength was incredible.

  Marine One settled closer. He could feel the hair at his neck stir under the fierce prop wash.

  "Give me a hand!" he cursed.

  But it was too late. Frenzied claws forced him to let go.

  The First Cat sprinted off, tail curled high, a halfdozen Secret Service special agents in hot pursuit.

  "Damn it! Don't let it get near the President," Murtha said, holding up the ribbons that were now his wrists. "Shoot it if you have to, but don't let that the little fucker get near Big Mac!"

  THE PRESIDENT of the United States looked out the window of Marine One as the great expanse of the South Lawn came into view.

  He saw a knot of Secret Service special agents pounding toward the landing pad.

  "Don't you think they're overdoing it?" he asked his Secret Service bodyguard.

  "Until a conspiracy is proven or disproven, there is no such concept as overdoing it, sir," said Vincent Capezzi.

  "That, I plan to take up with your superior."

  "I understand he's en route to the White House, Mr. President," Capezzi said as the big helicopter touched ground. He unbuckled and leapt from his seat to open the door for the Chief Executive.

  The President of the United States emerged from Marine One to see a frantic clot of agents pounding toward him. Leading the group, as if in welcome, was Socks the family cat.

  Despite his bad mood, the President let a smile come to his puffy face. "Now, isn't that just the cutest thing you ever did see?"

  "What is?"

  "Socks. Looks kinda like he's leading the Secret Service."

  Vince Capezzi turned and saw the look on the faces of his fellow agents. Their shouting blended into a hoarse burst of sound.

  Reaching for his belt, he turned on his radio.

  Through the earphone came a blur of frantic shouting.

  "Shoot him!"

  "Shoot the fucker!"

  Capezzi spotted the guns in his fellow agents hands and jumped to a reasonable conclusion.

  There was no one between the frantic special agents and the President but himself and the family cat. They obviously weren't out to shoot the cat. They must mean either the President or himself.

  Either way, Vince Capezzi's duty was clear.

  Throwing the President of the United States to the grass at the foot of the blue-carpeted fold-down helicopter steps, Capezzi snapped his MAC-11 from its whip-it shoulder sling, simultaneously throwing himself across the President's bulky form, and prepared to mow down his fellow agents and ask questions later.

  He just hoped a stray round didn't catch the First Cat. Ballbuster would kill him.

  Chapter 13

  Capitol Hill police cruisers and sawhorses had blocked all approach roads to the White House, so the taxi driver turned to Remo Williams and said, "This is as far as I can take you."

  "Thanks," said Remo, throwing the cabbie a twenty and stepping out of the car.

  Marine One was coming down at a shallow angle toward the the dull green expanse of the South Lawn, so Remo figured matters were reasonably well in hand.

  The burst of gunfire brought him from a standing position to a floating run that was deceptively fast.

  Remo went o
ver the White House fence and flashed over the ground so fast his feet never tripped the seismic sensors buried under the turf.

  There were no guards to stop him as he whipped toward the South Lawn. Not that any guard would have been fast enough to react.

  Remo's senses were trained to absorb and analyze dangerous situations in a split second. A microsecond was sometimes all he had to dodge a bullet or evade other forms of sudden death.

  Coming around the corner, Remo saw a clot of Secret Service agents dropping into firing positions.

  The weapons were pointed toward Marine One. At the foot of the fold-down blue-carpeted steps whose risers were emblazoned with the words, Welcome Aboard Marine One, a lone agent was sprawled over the President of the United States and was shooting short bursts over the heads of the others, crying, "Lay down your arms! Goddamn it, lay down your arms!"

  Confusion marked the faces of the crouching agents. Some hesitated. Others were throwing up their hands in surrender.

  And in between, a black-and-white cat crouched in fear, ears laid back, not knowing which way to go.

  For once Remo's training was not equal to processing the information his brain was receiving.

  He flashed among the crouching agents and began relieving hands of weapons. Slap. Slap. Slap.

  He used restrained force. Still, a few fingers got broken. But every visible weapon went bounding along the grass, clips and bullets popping out.

  Remo started sweeping around for another pass when the agent spread-eagled over the President paused, holding his fire.

  He had seen Remo. He was the only one who had. He adjusted his weapon, trying to track him. Remo feinted, moved backward and managed to keep the muzzle pointing every place except where he was.

  During the lull, the First Cat ran toward the nearest shelter. Marine One.

  An agent hollered, "The cat! Stop the cat! It's rabid!"

  In the act of weaving, Remo shot forward.

  He came up behind the cat, reaching out to grab its tail.

  The cat felt the hand and curled its spine, claws unsheathing. It was like taking hold of a live high-voltage wire, Remo found. Hissing and spitting, the cat squirmed and struggled and went for Remo's throat.

  Remo simply spun in place and gave the cat a kaleidoscopic 360-degree view of the White House grounds.

  When he finally dropped it, the cat wove dizzily on its feet and staggered three steps.

  A bullet caught it in the flank, and it flopped over dead.

  "What'd you do that for?" Remo snapped as trotting Secret Service agents approached.

  "It was rabid."

  "I had it under control. That was someone's cat."

  "Who the hell are you?"

  Remo pulled out his wallet and showed his Remo Eastwood Secret Service ID card and gold badge.

  "You're with us?" the agent asked skeptically.

  "Yeah."

  "Dressed like that?"

  "I'm undercover."

  "Where are your sunglasses?"

  "If I wore sunglasses in December," Remo said acidly, "I might as well carry a sign saying, Pay No Attention to Me. I'm an Undercover Secret Service Agent."

  "Then what are you doing here without a White House pass?"

  "Maybe you should disentangle the President before you throw your weight around," Remo suggested.

  The agent looked past Remo's shoulder.

  The President of the United States lay under a pile of three Secret Service agents. Two more had poured out of Marine One after the shooting began.

  A muffled "Get off me" was coming from under the pile.

  "It's okay," Secret Service Special Agent Dick Armbruster said.

  "It's not okay until I know what went down," Capezzi said from somewhere within the pile.

  "The Presidential cat is rabid. It tore up a bunch of agents. We were trying to stop it from attacking Big Mac."

  "Did somebody say something about Socks?" an anxious female voice called.

  All heads turned.

  It was the First Daughter. She was peering around one of the Ionic columns strung along the White House breezeway, her face as white as the column she clutched. Sunlight glinted off her braces.

  "I'm afraid we have bad news about Socks," Armbruster said.

  "But he's right here," said the First Daughter.

  And from behind the column, a familiar black-and-white mottled face peered with dull yellow eyes.

  "If that's the First Cat," Vince Capezzi said, pointing toward the cat sitting at the feet of the First Daughter, "who the hell is this?"

  The dead cat on the grass just lay there, dead.

  "Somebody has some tall explaining to do," the angry voice of the President of the United States said from under a pile of protective agents.

  "All right, all right," Jack Murtha called out. "Everybody on their feet."

  "Hey, where is that guy Eastwood?"

  Everyone looked for Secret Service Special Agent Remo Eastwood. But he was nowhere to be found.

  THE PRESIDENT of the United States didn't know whom to trust.

  It was written on his face as his Secret Service agents picked him up off the grass at the foot of Marine One's fold-down steps.

  "We're going to walk you to the Oval Office, sir," Vince Capezzi said.

  "What's going on?" the President asked, shaky voiced.

  "I wish to God I knew," said Capezzi.

  Capezzi called for a box-there were three basic protective formations used to protect a moving President, the box, diamond and circle. Capezzi called for all agents to assemble in four enclosed lines around the Man, their handguns held at the ready.

  It was a short dash up the path to the Oval Office, which faced the South Lawn, and they moved to it with urgent speed. It was the longest short dash Vince Capezzi ever experienced.

  "Daddy, Daddy," called the First Daughter, coming running, the First Cat bounding along on its snow white paws.

  Jack Murtha dropped to one knee, trained his shaking Delta Elite automatic on the First Cat and shouted, "Get that cat out of the way!"

  The President's daughter went bone white. She gathered up the cat, shrinking back from the angry finger pointing at her.

  "Daddy, what's going on?" she moaned.

  "What are you doing?" the President demanded, pulling Murtha to his feet.

  "Sir," Murtha said flatly. "We can take nothing on face value."

  "That's my daughter, you clown!"

  "Ask her a question only you and she know the answer to," Murtha said, not taking his eyes or his gun off the First Daughter.

  "Where's your mother?" the President asked his daughter.

  "Up-upstairs."

  "Go to her. I'll be up shortly," the President urged.

  "Daddy, I'm scared."

  "I know," said the President, who wanted to reach out and give his daughter a hug but dared not move out of the box.

  They escorted him to the latticed doors to the Oval Office, and only then did the human box of shaken agents dissolve to take take up their posts outside the doors.

  The President got behind his desk and put in a call to the director of the Secret Service.

  "I am glad you are all right, Mr. President," said the director.

  "I am not all right," returned the President. "I just landed on the South Lawn, and a contingent of the White House detail were shooting all over the place."

  "Shooting at what, sir?"

  "It looked like they were shooting at me."

  The director of the Secret Service was speechless. The President could almost hear him gulping for air on the other end of the line, not two blocks down Pennsylvania Avenue.

  "But they claim they were trying to shoot the First Cat," the President added.

  "My agents?"

  "Except the cat they were shooting at wasn't the First Cat, but an exact double."

  The director of the Secret Service seemed to be having trouble breathing now.

  "You know what this means
?" the President continued. "A conspiracy. Maybe with roots in the Presidential protective service."

  "I-I'm on my way, Mr. President," said the director of the Secret Service.

  "Plan on a long stay," said the President before hanging up.

  The First Lady burst into Oval Office a moment later, her blond hair bouncing, her face so white her cheeks looked like smoldering coals.

  "Tell me what's going on!" she hissed. "I had to practically kick those agents in the balls before they'd let me in to see you."

  "I want you to take Chelsea to Camp David. It may not be safe here."

  "I'll do nothing of the kind."

  The President looked at his wife, saw the sparks in her blue eyes and knew that all of Congress hitched together like a team of horses could not drag the First Lady to Camp David.

  "I want you to do something for me," the President said.

  "What's that?"

  "Go through the incoming White House E-mail. Look for a message from Smith."

  "Not that Smith?"

  "Yes, that Smith. If you find one, bring it right here."

  "First I want to know who Smith is."

  "Sorry. National-security secret. You have no need to know."

  "My foot! I'm the-"

  "-wife of the President. Nobody elected you. Now get going. Unless you yearn to be the Jackie Kennedy of the nineties."

  The First Lady turned even more pale, then turned on her heel and stormed out of the Oval Office.

  After she was gone, the President went to the somber privacy of the Lincoln Bedroom and opened a drawer in an antique rosewood bed stand.

  The red telephone without a dial sat where it had since the days of the President who had inspired him to run for high office a generation ago. He picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear. There was no dial tone. But as the outgoing President had explained to him, there never was a dial tone. It was a dedicated line to a faceless man named Dr. Harold W. Smith at

  CURE, the supersecret branch of government only the Chief Executive knew about.

  The President waited for the phone at the other end to ring. But there was only a dead, gravelike silence on the line.

  It had been like this for three months. In those three months the Chief Executive had heard nothing from Smith. He had no idea where CURE was located. There was no other way to reach Smith, and since the last crisis in which Smith had gotten word to the White House by E-mail, there had been no further communication. But then there had been no further crises, either.