by Gordon Ryan
“Wheels up,” Wolff said and started the cart again, driving clear of the trees and looking out over the ocean toward the marina. “About three minutes now.”
* * *
Flight 2340 lifted clear of the runway, gaining airspeed and altitude as it flew due west over the ocean and above Monterey Bay. Dozens of yachts, both sail and motor, filled the Breakwater Cove Marina. Representative Mary Elizabeth Hopkins looked down at the scene, her thoughts running to earlier days before her husband’s death. Sailing had been one of their joys and until his untimely heart attack, had provided far more than five hours of pleasurable entertainment. Many times over the years they had sailed south from Marin County and been hosted by friends at Breakwater Cove.
But times had changed. All those people below were lost in a world she had long forgotten, trapped by her congressional duties. The plane banked north, beginning its run up the California coast to where it would cut east just above San Jose and begin the approach into San Francisco International. Perhaps, she thought, looking out the window at the coastline off to her right, once they were able to put an end to this secession business, she would vacate her seat and return to enjoy her grandchildren and to instill in them the same love for the sea their grandfather had possessed. Life was too short for constant political commitment, and her family deserved her attention ever so much more than her constituents, didn’t they? And what about her? Hadn’t she earned some rest after running full speed nearly eighteen years in Congress, all of them without Hank?
* * *
Jean Wolff stood beside the golf cart, looking up as United Express Flight 2340 completed its banking turn and leveled at about three thousand feet, heading due north. Approximately two miles from shore, its flight path paralleled the coast line, and Wolff could see the aircraft only by shielding his eyes from the sun as it completed its twilight journey into the sea.
From a pocket in his Titlest golf bag, Wolff retrieved what appeared to be a small transistor radio and extended the antenna. Without a word spoken between the two men, Wolff pressed a small, brown button on the face of the device, and an immense flash appeared in the sky, the sound reverberating some seconds later.
United Express Flight 2340 disappeared from radar scan just as Captain Anderson switched radio frequency to San Francisco control.
* * *
“Good evening. I’m Paul Spackman, and welcome to the Six O’ Clock Eyewitness News. A devastating tragedy has struck our nation this evening as multiple assassinations have occurred throughout California and other parts of the country. Reports are still coming in, but at present we have confirmed that seventeen of California’s fifty-two congressional representatives have been the victims of assassination attempts. Fourteen are confirmed dead, and three are wounded and under medical care, with one in critical condition. All seventeen were party to the class action suit filed with the U.S. Supreme Court last month in an attempt to overturn the secession vote.
“In a call to this network, the Western Patriot Movement has assumed responsibility for the attacks, claiming that these congressmen and women have failed to listen to the will of the people. President Eastman has ordered around-the-clock Secret Service protection for the remaining members of California’s congressional delegation. At the site of perhaps the most devastating single attack, we go now to Sally Todd, at the Breakwater Cove Yacht Club, in Monterey Bay, where dozens of vessels were used in search and rescue attempts, looking for any survivors of a United Airlines commuter flight with five congressional members aboard. Sally, are you there … ?”
* * *
“This is Colonel Connor,” Pug said, taking the telephone from his sister’s outstretched hand.
“Pug, it’s George Granata. Have you seen the news?”
“Yes. I’m in Christchurch with family, and we’re watching the Fox News live feed right now. The news is shaky. How bad is it actually?”
“Fourteen dead at the moment, in California and here in Washington. We’ve put the others under close security, but six are still unprotected. We haven’t located them yet. The president called and said it’s time to get our operation in gear. How soon can you make it back?”
Pug glanced at his watch. “It’s just after one, Wednesday afternoon here. I can be on the evening flight out of Auckland. I’ll have my sister call you at home tonight and confirm my departure, but I should be there by tomorrow evening.”
“Good—come straight to D.C. I’ll have two agents meet your flight at National. Do you want them to take you home, or shall I book you a room?”
“I’ll go home, George. I need some different clothing.”
“Fine. The agents will take you, and I’ll ask Wendy to put a casserole in your fridge.”
“Your wife is a saint, George. If she includes a piece of her coconut pie, don’t you dare eat it before I get there.”
“I’ll tell her,” Judge Granata said. “Ambassador Prescott has set up a meeting of involved parties for Thursday morning, and she wants you there as well. The ATF ambush and now this blatant attack seem to be an open declaration of war, Pug.”
Pug glanced at the muted television set and the scenes of floating aircraft pieces being retrieved from Monterey Bay. “It would seem so. See you tomorrow, George.”
* * *
At six-thirty Thursday morning, having gained a day crossing the International Date Line on his return from New Zealand, Pug Connor stood on the front porch of his Virginia home and waited for George Granata to exit his house next door. Although neighbors for over a dozen years, it was the first time they had arranged to go to work together. George exited his front door and walked over to where Pug waited.
“Welcome home, neighbor. Did you have a good flight?”
“Long, tiring, and cramped. In other words, the usual. Any developments?”
“One further congressman found dead in the backseat of his car. He was on a fishing vacation up in Maine. The rest have all been accounted for and are in some degree of hiding. Some found the security precautions to be restrictive, and balked. The president called a couple of them personally and told them about his security restrictions. He told them that if he could endure it, so could they, and to get their egos under control—no bravado. He personally delivered the message to that militant congresswoman from East Los Angeles—what’s her name—uh, Jessica Homer, I think,” Granata said.
“Our nation has never experienced anything even remotely similar. This is the work of ruthless and unprincipled people. How can we stop it?”
“We’re at war with these militia groups, Pug. No two ways about it. We’ll see what we can come up with this morning. The president still wants to keep the task force confidential, so it will be a closely held meeting. Oh, here’s our car,” he said as a long, black limousine pulled up. The driver got out and opened the rear door.
“Good morning, Director Granata.”
“Good morning, Sam. This is Colonel Connor, my neighbor and associate.”
They settled into the backseat, and once the driver was in place, George gave directions. “The White House, Sam. They’ll be expecting us.”
“Yes, sir.”
George put the divider window up and leaned back in his seat.
“There’s one bit of information I thought to hold until you returned, Pug—no reason to burden you during your trip. You know of course that Special Agent Al Samuels, the agent in charge of the California investigation, was killed during a militia-organized bank robbery several months ago. His partner, Nicole Bentley, the young woman you met in San Francisco, became the primary agent on the case. It will be your decision whether to retain her or not. Her knowledge is extensive, but she’s fairly new, with less than two years in the bureau. We could have a more experienced agent in place immediately, if that’s your call.”
“She’s going to need a new partner in any case, isn’t she? Are you satisfied with her performance while I’ve been gone?”
“She’s intelligent, seems to have o
vercome her grief at Samuels’ death—she was present at the robbery and, in fact, shot and killed the man who shot Samuels.”
“I see,” Pug said. “What’s your opinion? Can she handle it alone?”
“I like her instincts. I have a more senior agent in mind to assign with her, but he would assume leadership. She clearly wants to remain on the task force, and she’s in town, at my request, although I haven’t told her about the meeting this morning.”
“I’ve been the new boy a few times myself, George. I thought she had a good head on her shoulders. I vote we keep her onboard. As for a new team leader, that’s your call.”
“Good enough,” Granata said, picking up a telephone. “Sam, please arrange for Agent Bentley to meet us at the White House. I believe she’s at the Washington Hilton.”
Granata nodded at Sam’s response and replaced the receiver.
“So, how does the president want to handle this new development?” Pug asked.
“I haven’t a clue. Prescott called the meeting, and I’m not even sure if Eastman will be there. But we can be sure of one thing—he’s not easily pushed around, even by domestic enemies, and he’s got a lot of alternatives at his disposal.”
* * *
The president disagreed with Judge Granata’s assessment. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve thought about nothing but this problem for the past thirty-six hours—indeed, for the past several months if truth be known, but I’m flat out of options,” President William Eastman said to the small group gathered in the Executive Office. “Any open restraint I make will appear militant and infuriate those groups that are on the fence, including Governor Walter Dewhirst. In the old days, the president simply would have talked to the CIA about the problem, and some of the bad guys would disappear—if they could find them. We don’t work that way anymore. Sometimes I wish we did. George, what has the bureau come up with?”
“Mr. President, we’re quite certain who the primary leaders of the Western Patriot Movement are—at least the military leaders—but none of them have actually been observed for nearly a month. They’ve gone to ground, and with our inside agent killed, we’ve lost daily contact.”
“You mean to tell me you don’t know where they are, or what they’re doing?”
“That’s pretty close to accurate, Mr. President. We have a tail on some of the general membership, but not the leaders. Of course, we have a tail on Grant Sully, but still haven’t really determined his role, if any, in all this. But picking up the rank and file would be fruitless.”
“Clarene, this has been your ballgame so far. Where do you suggest we go from here?”
Ambassador Clarene Prescott, serving as national security advisor, leaned forward in her seat and placed her elbows on the highly polished walnut table. Around the table, seemingly as perplexed as the president, were FBI Director George Granata, Colonel Pug Connor, and Special Agent Nicole Bentley.
“We encourage them to come to us, Mr. President.”
“And what makes you think they will?”
“So far, every senior government leader who has spoken out on the issue, with the exception of Senator Turner, of course, has expressed his or her disapproval of the secession. The people behind the scenes on this have no one to confide in—no government official to publicly meet with to offer their support and suggestions. I have a feeling they would rather develop into a political action group—lobbyists advocating their new nation—than continue as militants forced to confront superior odds.”
Director Granata spoke up. “Ambassador, do I hear you correctly? You want to have some of us cross over to their side of this preposterous patriot movement?”
“Not quite, Director,” Prescott said, smiling at him. Looking back at the president, she continued. “Mr. President, I have a long-standing relationship with Governor Dewhirst. I believe he could be of assistance, if approached with the right ideas.”
“But he’s opposed to the secession, Clarene, or so I last heard,” the president said.
Prescott nodded. “But now … he’s heard the will of the people.”
President William Eastman slowly nodded. “I see … and he will slowly, even reluctantly perhaps, move down that path. Is that what I hear you saying, Clarene?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Something along those lines. And if not him specifically, then some of his staff. If he begins to prepare his state for the transition, perhaps it will give Colonel Connor and the task force the time they need to ferret out what is actually behind this patriot movement and its true leaders. If we don’t offer such staunch, unyielding opposition, maybe we can forestall further bloodshed until Colonel Connor has a chance to obtain some results.”
“What do you think, Pug?” the president asked.
“Mr. President, our options are few, and open military confrontation would only serve to bring about unacceptable bloodshed. As we both know, sir, from past experience, Ambassador Prescott is usually two steps ahead of the rest of us on this type of analysis.”
Eastman looked back at Prescott and smiled. “Well, it seems you have at least one acolyte on the team, Clarene. But doesn’t this plan carry the potential of simply escalating the movement toward secession?”
“That’s what I’m counting on, Mr. President.”
“So be it then,” the president said, standing up. “You’ll have your personal safety on the line out there, Pug, as well as the dedicated people on your team,” he said, glancing at Agent Bentley, “and I’ll follow along only so far. Then, at my sole discretion, I’ll take the steps I deem necessary to bring a halt to this thing, by whatever means I might decide. Do you understand me clearly, Colonel?”
Pug stood and nodded. “I do, Mr. President.”
“Then let’s get to it. Clarene, what do you propose to do first?”
“Vice President Hamilton leaves on his trip to London on Saturday morning, and the press will focus on that. I’ll slip out the back door and have a private meeting with Governor Dewhirst in California. If he announces the appointment of a few people in key positions to begin the transition phase, with luck, the political structure behind the militia movement will come out of the woodwork.”
“That’s asking a lot, Clarene.”
“It is, Mr. President, and will require a bit of faith along the way.”
“And the task force?” the president asked.
“I believe the existence of Colonel Connor and his task force should remain confidential.”
“So do I,” Eastman said. “Godspeed to you all,” he said, shaking hands around the room.
Chapter 24
London, England
Leaving the formal dinner through the lobby of the London Hilton Hotel, Vice President Terrance Hamilton was surrounded by reporters and well-wishers as he made his way to the vehicle. British Prime Minister Roslyn Thornton accompanied the vice president, and together they entered the black limousine, driving away into the night with escort vehicles front and back.
The meetings had gone well, other than the expected interruption from crowds of dissidents beleaguering the vice president’s appearances, each pressing for one cause or another. If it wasn’t AIDS or military bases, it was support for human rights in third world countries. The vice president often took the flack for the United States on these flag-waving expeditions on foreign soil.
Both Prime Minister Thornton and Vice President Hamilton had agreed in the initial press conference that the recent announcement of Australia’s formation of a republic, replacing the queen as head of state, did not presage a separation of interests between the two countries. It represented more of a movement toward economic association as opposed to merely political alliance; the former, rather than the latter, being the focus of many independent nations as the world plowed its way through the twenty-first century.
The small convoy of dark vehicles proceeded to the corner of the block and made a right turn. As soon as the lead car made the turn, the limousine in which the prime minister and the vice
president were riding entered the intersection. In a blinding flash of light, the vehicle was lifted completely off the ground and skidded to a stop on its side. The occupants never saw the shoulder-fired missile that impacted the vehicle, turning it into an instant fireball.
Swerving to miss the burning limousine, the following escort vehicle was impaled on a corner water hydrant that immediately spouted a geyser, flooding the intersection and adding to the frenzy of the scene. Security escorts were out of their vehicles immediately, rushing to the limousine with fire extinguishers and weapons at the ready, but no attackers appeared—their mission had been accomplished, and they were already following their escape plan.
A red-haired, ruddy-faced man, who stood on the far corner of the next intersection, lingered only long enough to confirm that the impact had been sufficient to inflict the desired damage. These things never went exactly as planned, and the end result was often open to question. But in this case, there was little doubt. The occupants of the limousine could not have survived the direct hit by the TOW missile.
As part of the contingency plan for just such an emergency, medical service vehicles were on the scene almost instantly. Four occupants were rushed to the hospital: the British special branch driver, an American Secret Service agent, British Prime Minister Roslyn Thornton, and U.S. Vice President Terrance Hamilton. No immediate announcement of their respective conditions was made available to the reporters who had been following the entourage and who now descended en masse, taking photographs of every detail of the carnage.
At about 6:00 p.m. Washington, D.C. time, the president was advised that the vice president had been involved in a terrorist attack in London. His condition was listed as critical. Furthermore, Prime Minister Roslyn Thornton was dead, as were the driver and the vice president’s personal Secret Service agent.