****
Back in Key West, Number Eleven devised a plan of action and scheduled another meeting with Malone.
“Mr. Malone, you told me that you’d always wanted to have your own charter fishing boat. You’ve been very helpful to me, and I think that I can get that boat for you. There’s a little job that I need to be done. But it must be done immediately and discreetly. I am working on a publishing deadline.”
She was a very creative liar. “That little island intrigues me. I think that I could get a good story out there, but the man who lives there is very reclusive. I want you to find a broken down looking boat somewhere and get close to that island. You’re going to experience engine failure and call for help. Make sure your boat has no visible radio. I want you to look like you’ve been drifting about aimlessly and that you’re dying of thirst and nearly dead from exposure.
“Someone will surely have to come to your assistance. When they do, act like you’re weak and exhausted. Tell them you’ve been floating around for days. With your appearance, they’ll believe you.
“Your job is to get a close look at the island. Make mental notes of everything. I want to know how many people are there. And, if possible, who they are. What kinds of buildings there are, and most importantly if anything seems unusual or suspicious.”
Malone extended his hand to accept the deal. This time she reached out and shook it without hesitation. “As soon as you finish your job, I’ll buy you the fishing boat of your dreams. Now get on it; I need that information as soon as possible.”
The meeting was over, and Malone sauntered out of the bar. Number Eleven went to the restroom and washed her hands thoroughly. She noted the dirty facility and swore that she would wash again as soon as she could find a properly clean place.
****
In New York, at the same time, Stoellar was checking in with all his players. Everything was going smoothly and according to plan. He was vastly relieved and poured himself a cup of coffee before turning the television on to watch the morning news. He knew that there would be a lot of news on TV this morning.
****
In the second-floor living quarters of the White House, the president rose after a night of tossing and turning. Even though he had taken the sedative as instructed, it didn’t seem to have much effect on his jangled nerves. He had a quick breakfast, downed the first dose of his new medication, and went straight to the Oval Office.
He sat down at his desk and began to review his morning reports. After several minutes, he began to feel rather dizzy and had his secretary buzz Dr. Newton.
The doctor arrived in seconds accompanied by a nurse who pushed a crash cart in front of her.
Newton pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and immediately listened to his patient’s heart. His face became very serious. “Did you take that medication that I gave you yesterday?”
The president nodded.
Newton turned to the nurse. “Ellen, get the ambulance motorcade set up. I want him transported to Bethesda immediately. Things do not look good.”
“Mr. President, roll up your sleeve.” He took a pre-filled syringe from the crash cart and injected the clear contents into the president’s vein.
“This should help your dizziness. Just be calm. The team drills for emergencies constantly. You’re in good hands.”
Almost instantly, the president gasped and clutched his chest. His face became ashen, and he collapsed. Newton grabbed the defibrillator from the cart, charged it, and prepared to give the first jolt. Just as he called out, “Clear,” to make sure that no one was touching the president.
The shock seemed to help, and the president began to regain consciousness. His pulse was faint but steady.
By this time, a second White House physician had appeared on the scene. Newton instructed him to accompany the president to the hospital and be in charge of his care during transport. The new physician, Dr. Peter Allen, gave Newton a quizzical look but complied immediately.
They raced down the hall to the designated exit and rushed to the waiting ambulance and the already assembled motorcade.
Just before they placed the president into the ambulance, Dr. Newton deftly made a quick injection into his already connected IV. He hoped that no one had noticed. But Dr. Allen noticed and he asked Dr. Newton what he had just given the president.
“Digitalis. Now, get this damn ambulance moving; the president is in serious trouble!”
Dr. Newton closed the door to the ambulance and ran to the SUV that would follow it.
With sirens blaring, the motorcade raced off towards Bethesda.
Dr. Allen continued to monitor the president’s heart rate and suddenly detected an alarming arrhythmia. He grabbed the defibrillator and was preparing to use it when it happened.
The ambulance was the center vehicle with two heavily armed Secret Service vehicles in the front and two in the back. Motorcycle policemen led the way and blocked off intersections as they sped through any red lights on the way to Bethesda.
Suddenly, the unthinkable happened. An unmarked white van crashed into the motorcycle policeman blocking an intersection. The policeman was hurled several feet and crashed to the concrete, bleeding and unconscious.
The van then sped through the opening created by the motorcycle accident and crashed, broadside, into the ambulance carrying the president. Metal crumpled. Tires screamed. The ambulance violently overturned. Inside, the patient, his attendants, and medical equipment were tossed about violently. Gasoline began to pour from a ruptured gas tank.
The four SUV drivers braked as hard as they could, and Secret Service agents leaped out, guns drawn, even before the vehicles could come to a complete halt.
Before any agent could reach the doomed ambulance, it exploded throwing several agents to the ground. Another explosion from the van set the nearest SUV afire. Parts of the van were hurled high into the air and crashed to the ground. Giant plumes of black smoke billowed skyward as flames engulfed both vehicles. The noise from the blast temporarily deafened the Secret Service agents making their jobs even more difficult.
Dr. Newton pulled out his cell phone and calmly made a call.
The scene was utter chaos. It was obvious that there was no hope of survival for anyone in the ambulance; it was totally engulfed in an intense inferno of flames, some reaching more than fifty feet into the air. Police cars, helicopters, fire trucks, and all manner of emergency vehicles and personnel flooded the scene within minutes.
The chief Secret Service agent was in immediate contact with the White House. Soon, the entire area was cordoned off and secured. The scene became eerily silent except for the hissing sound coming from a punctured radiator in one of the SUVs.
All traffic in the area was at a standstill and would be for hours. Police held back curious onlookers who were trying to photograph the carnage with their cell phones. The streets were all soon filled with reporters and media vans broadcasting live. Satellite TV trucks vied for precious space. All television networks immediately interrupted programming for full-time coverage of the disaster.
The explosion had totally destroyed the ambulance and everything in it. The pavement was severely scorched from the intense heat of the ensuing fire. Nothing was left except blackened, twisted wreckage, still smoldering from the intense fire.
As expected, there were a few territorial issues between the police, Secret Service, FBI, and even Homeland Security. It was not chaos, but it was close enough for government work.
****
In his penthouse, Stoellar, sipped on his coffee and smiled. Several televisions were on, but each was tuned to a different station. Although they were silent, Stoellar knew what was happening. He smiled and toasted himself. Operation Plato had begun most successfully. It was a good start to what would be a great day!
Within minutes of the horrific crash and confirmation that the president was dead, Carla Montrose was sworn in as the president of the United States. The ceremony took place in a
secure bunker beneath the White House. The entire presidential staff had been herded down there immediately upon notification that the wreck could have been a terrorist attack. Armed Secret Service agents and Marines secured all exits. The entire nation went on high alert as authorities made desperate attempts to identify if foreign terrorists had engineered the attack.
Capitol Hill was placed in lockdown. Congressmen, never at a loss for words, for once were speechless and in shock. People in the street wept. Churches became flooded with people going there to pray.
Thirty minutes later, an aide read a hastily prepared statement from the new president. She vowed to serve her nation with courage in this time of disaster. She would carry out the unfinished business of the president with dedication. She would lead the nation through this terrible time of mourning with all the strength in her body.
On Capitol Hill, many congressmen suddenly received a second brutal shock. Carla Montrose, their arch enemy, was now president of the United States of America. They prayed even more fervently.
Within hours, handmade signs, memorials, and flowers draped the White House fences. Radio stations played somber and sacred music without commercial interruptions. The shocked nation was in mourning for their dead leader.
Later in the day, another press release was issued stating that a full investigation of the disaster had begun. Explosives experts were on the scene along with a team of highly trained investigators.
The news media read through the lines and openly speculated that the crash was no accident. There was the distinct possibility that a terrorist organization had been involved. Various groups were suggested and analyzed. At least two of them immediately claimed to be responsible. Quickly, their claims were discarded as false.
Stoellar reached for his secure satellite telephone and called Number Eleven. “We’ve done it!” The first step was the most important and by far the most complex. “Wire those million euros to our bank in Paris for the family of our dear, departed martyr. He probably deserves a bonus as well, but where would he spend it?” He chuckled.
Number Eleven had recruited the fanatic terrorist and trained him at a secret location in a small nation known for its violent hatred for everything Western. The young martyr had practiced endlessly to perfect his timing for the crash. However, she was furious. His bomb was to have detonated upon impact, but obviously, there was a several second delay. She would have to have a serious meeting with someone. The Dragon Lady did not like it when her careful planning was not executed precisely.
Within an hour of the crash, two additional terrorist attacks took place. Someone detonated two small bombs: one in the vicinity of the Capitol Building and the other near the Justice Department.
A third bomb that failed to detonate had been placed near the offices of Homeland Security. It was later located by police officers, and a bomb disposal unit was called to take care of it.
The entire nation was frantic. People were terrified. Streets became deserted. Schools dismissed their pupils to horrified parents. Businesses closed. Some clerics called for prayers while others waved their arms and bleated that the attacks were the result of America’s sinful ways.
Rumors were rife about more terrorist attacks. The rumors included things such as, “Terrorists holding innocent citizens as prisoners and in the process of executing them.”
Speculations went on and on.
America had never, ever experienced such uncontrolled, unbridled chaos.
****
In New York City, Erik Stoellar continued to watch the unfolding stories. He was forever amazed at the press and their histrionics. Quite amusing. He couldn’t have planned it any better himself. Their irresponsible reporting of wild rumors had fed the flames of fear and hysteria perfectly.
The secure satellite phone beeped, and he answered immediately. Number Eleven was on the line. She was always in control of any situation, but this time there was an undertone of excitement. She had found something.
“We’ve got to find Slater. You have my reports from Key West, and I’m even more suspicious than ever that the owner of that island is the person in contact with the craft in outer space. He’s very secretive, but I did find out that he changed the name of the island to Scott Key. People are rather egotistical and like to name things after themselves—you know, kind of for posterity. I think that Scott could be either his first name or his last name. I want every one of your agents on this immediately.
“And, here’s the icing on the cake. Several fishing boats have reported seeing some kind of small UFO hovering over the island recently. Supposedly, it’s red. Their reports were dismissed as the ones making them admitted to having been drinking beer in the hot sun. After all, who had ever reported a bright red UFO? But, put it all together and you have a situation that could spell trouble for us.”
She paused for a second and continued, “I’ve hired someone to go out to the island and do some reconnaissance work. He’s going disguised as a fisherman in distress. They’ll have to let him on the island since it will be an emergency situation. From there, he’ll gather as much information as he can and report it back to me. I should have something later this afternoon.”
Stoellar thought for a moment before replying, “This situation is beginning to worry me. Anyone who can enlarge an island, and do it secretly, must have resources and capabilities that could threaten us. Now, those supposed UFO sightings and the missing Dr. Slater come together for a perfect storm. We’ve got to get to the bottom of this before things get out of hand.
“Get your guy out to that weird island as soon as possible. I need information, and I need it fast. My guess is that Slater is there right now, and the man who owns the infernal island is the person in contact with the alien craft. We’ve got to find out their intentions and capabilities, and damn quick.”
Stoellar ended the call and stormed around the penthouse. He turned off all the televisions except the one in the living area. He poured a stiff drink, flopped on the sofa, and turned up the volume. He usually never had alcohol before noon, aside from an occasional Irish coffee, but today was a special case. He needed some high octane to help him calm his nerves. He did not like the chill that was creeping up his spine.
****
At the same time that Stoellar was launching Operation Plato, Maxxine was finalizing her report for John. The report was most disturbing, but she knew that her master was entertaining some important guests and didn’t want to be disturbed unless it was necessary. Should she contact him immediately or recheck her information?
After manipulating the data again, she decided to wait just a little while longer before making her report. After all, there didn’t seem to be any immediate danger to anyone, even though the entire nation was in the throes of the current crisis.
John was, after all, part human, so he would surely understand the bizarre actions of his fellow men. It appeared that Omega would be the site of detonation for a small nuclear tactical weapon. The device was quite small by nuclear weapon standards. It compared to the earliest atomic bombs, such as those dropped on Japan at the close of World War II. But such a blast would totally destroy a small area. Not to mention a hotel.
The target was also curious. Why would anyone want to destroy a historic hotel? It was quite pretty by primitive standards. It had beautifully manicured grounds and an architecturally impressive structure. Perhaps someone just wanted to replace the whole thing with a more modern facility. How unfortunate that would be. The place was stunning. She would discuss the situation with Maxx before proceeding. Perhaps he would have better insight into what these humans were planning.
So, Maxxine continued to watch and wait. She would have a comprehensive report for John to read as soon as he had time to talk to her. She had come to enjoy her job. Monitoring humans was most informative and usually quite surprising. Their enthusiasm for waging wars and devising new and terrifying weapons was a constant source of entertainment to her.
****
<
br /> John was riveted to the television in his office. He was stunned by the pictures of the fiery crash scene. Maxxine had been right. The Krakow Klub had already activated their plan to take over the government. He contacted her immediately.
“Maxxine! Were you able to save the president?”
Her opening statement almost gave him a heart attack.
“Oh John, I am so sorry. I ran into an unexpected problem. I had no idea that my gravity fields would be so adversely affected by tremendous heat. That fire was incredibly intense, and I had to wait until the explosion so that no one would detect my extractions.”
John practically screamed at the calm voice of Maxxine, “Did you save the president?”
“Calm down, John,” she replied in a consoling voice. “Yes, I saved the president and the doctor in the ambulance as well. But it wasn’t easy. Dr. Newton had already administered one of the drugs that were intended to kill the president. When I got him here, he was technically dead. But I had already analyzed the drug and Maxx told me how to reverse its effects. It was touch and go, but I managed to save him. He will live, but he will be groggy for some time, so we need to let him rest for a while.
“Unfortunately, the ambulance driver and the two EMTs were lost. However, I can assure you that they didn’t suffer. They were killed instantly in the second explosion.
“What about Newton? He should have been in the ambulance.”
Maxxine continued, with the utmost calm, “Newton, somehow, must have figured out what was going to happen. He had the other doctor ride in the ambulance while he rode in one of the Secret Service vehicles. I can truthfully say that he tried to murder his colleague.
“I used my gravity field technology to extract the two from the ambulance in the first fraction of a second of the explosion. The intense heat that followed prevented my saving the others. The doctor and the president suffered a few minor flash burns, but they are fine.
The Krakow Klub Page 21