Siege at Tiamat Bluff

by David DeLee

  Wright nodded. “Now, onto this madman’s list of demands. The money, fine, we can do that.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking of giving him what he wants?” Flores asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Wright said. “But we’re going to need to buy time. Let this nutjob think we’re acting in good faith, string him along until we can get our act together and save the President.”

  “Congress will never agree to being pressured into passing a law to aid and support a terrorist organization,” Diaz said. “To appear to capitulate to terrorists will ruin them politically.”

  “You think I give a goddamn about politics at a moment like this?” Wright demanded.

  “No,” Diaz said. “But they will. They won’t play ball. They pass a law like that, even temporarily, they’ll see it as giving in to the terrorists.”

  “Then we do a run around Congress,” Wright said. “Screw ’em.”

  “You’re suggesting an executive order,” Flores said, a lawyer by training before joining the FBI. “That has to come from the President. But it’d be invalid in his current situation.”

  “Captured and under duress,” Wright said.

  She nodded.

  General Hall cleared his throat. “The President could be declared incapacitated…”

  “You’re talking about invoking Article II,” Flores said.

  “No,” Wright said, knowing exactly where the General was going. “The President is fine.”

  “The president is under a terrorist’s influence, capable of being coerced,” Flores said. “He’s already issued orders under obvious duress.”

  “We need a Commander in Chief who’s accessible,” Hall added. “One who can communicate, make decisions, issue orders, one that isn’t compromised. We don’t have that.”

  “No,” Wright said again, more forcefully.

  His tone softened. “Not yet. We’re not there yet.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  After Tara snapped off the television at the Keel Haul, a stunned silence hung over the bar and it's few occupants. It reminded Tara of that horrible day when the world stopped, shocked at watching the World Trade Center towers fall. She was in a bar in Cairo at the time, not quite twenty years old. Watching on every screen in the bar, along with everyone else, as those massive structures collapsed in a billow of black smoke.

  She’d been affected by it, of course, the entire world had been.

  What she didn’t know at the time was how that event would influence her life going forward. Shape her entire future. How that same kind of cowardly terrorist act would kill her parents and set her on the path to becoming the person she was at that moment. What some have referred to as a human weapon.

  Eventually, the surfer dudes quietly pushed back from the bar. Their stools scrapped the wood floor. The sound incredibly loud in the stillness. They dug out their wallets, but Tara told them not to, they were good. They each dropped a twenty on the bar anyway, mumbled their thanks and left. Even Captain Floyd shuffled toward the door without giving Tara and McMurphy grief about having to leave, which he always did, even at the regular closing time.

  At the door, he looked back at them. “Bannon. Get him back.”

  “We will, Captain,” McMurphy said.

  Floyd frowned, as if giving the matter deep thought, then added, “Good. ‘Cause breaking in a new bar owner’s a real pain in the arse. Don’t you two make me have to do that.”

  “Promise,” McMurphy said.

  Then the old guy was gone.

  Tara paced behind the bar. A caged tiger ready to tear someone’s head off. “When do we leave?”

  “Wright’s sending a ride.” McMurphy tossed back the last of his beer. The pizza was left uneaten.

  He glanced at the TV. It was still shut off. He seethed. She could feel his anger. Like it had a physical presence. Tara knew how he felt. She felt the same way. She tossed the countertop flap open and came out from behind the bar.

  “Where are you going?” McMurphy asked.

  “Get my go bag. It’s in the car.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Kayla Clarke said, entering the bar. Letting the heavy door bang close behind her. “Not yet anyway.”

  Cold, outside air swept through the bar.

  An active-duty lieutenant, Kayla was officially assigned to the Coast Guard’s Judge Advocate General’s Office, First Division, stationed in Boston, Massachusetts, but she was also part of Brice Bannon’s little strike team. More the tech and computer person, she didn’t get to go out in the field as often as she’d want, but she was as good as any IT person out there at trolling the Internet and scouring databases and other information sources and coming back with gold.

  “What are you talking about?” Tara asked. She and Kayla were close friends, but if she meant to stop Tara from helping rescue Bannon, the woman was treading into dangerous waters.

  “You’re not going to the Putnam,” Kayla said emphatically.

  Anger bubbled over as Tara took a step toward the woman. “Who’s going to stop me?”

  “Orders,” Kayla said, undeterred. “Straight from Diaz.” The Deputy Secretary of Homeland Security, their immediate supervisor in Elizabeth Grayson’s absence. “And the Vice-President.” She nodded to McMurphy. “As for you. Your ride’s waiting.”

  He crossed to the front window and pulled the shutters back.

  Tara expected to see a state police car or dark government sedan from the Coast Guard’s motor pool parked outside. Instead, a twin-engine HH-65 Dolphin helicopter sat on the narrow strip of beach across the street. Its single main rotor spun lazily. The cabin’s side door was open, awaiting its passenger.

  McMurphy looked at Tara, reluctant to leave without her.

  She bit her lip, weighing her two choices; stay and follow orders whatever they might be or defy the bureaucrats and go help save Bannon and the others. McMurphy waited, arched a bushy red eyebrow. He’d support either decision, she knew that.

  “We’ve got work to do here, Tara,” Kayla said. “I need your help.”

  “Blades?” McMurphy asked.

  “Go,” she said, making her decision, but not liking it.

  “You sure?”

  She nodded, reluctantly. “Yes. Damn it. Go before I change my mind.”

  Kayla nodded her approval.

  McMurphy headed for the door.

  Tara called out, stopping him. “Skyjack.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Bring them back. All of them.”

  “Count on it.” He pushed through the door without even pausing to grab his coat.

  Tara went to the window and watched him jog across the street. He climbed into the waiting helicopter, paused to give the bar a last look before he slammed the cabin door shut. The chopper’s rotors immediately picked up speed then lifted off, creating a cyclone of sand and sea spray beneath it as it gained altitude.

  Tara pushed the shutters closed and turned to Kayla. “Convince me I didn’t just make a big mistake.”

  Kayla crossed to the bar and slapped her laptop—encased in a military-grade steel casing—onto the bar. “You didn’t.” She booted the computer up. “The Vice-President wants us to figure out how this could’ve happened. Procedure, protocol, somewhere there was a breakdown. We need to figure out what it was.”

  Tara returned to the server’s side of the bar. “Inside information. Who got it and who gave it to them?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Coffee or a drink?” Tara asked.

  “Put a pot of coffee on, but I’ll start with booze,” Kayla said. “Diaz believes the leak came from the White House’s inner circle. Someone high up. We need to find him, or her, or them.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” Tara glanced at the closed windows, forcing down the regret churning in her gut.

  “The President’s trip to Tiamat Bluff wasn’t a state secret, but it wasn’t highly publicized either. He wanted to make a big deal of it, make a big splas
h on the news tonight. Use it as the setting to launch his re-election campaign. Demonstrate what a friend he is to science, business, innovation, that sort of thing.”

  Tara felt her patience slipping dangerously away. “Get on with it, Kayla.”

  “Which means the pool of people in the know about the trip, would be quite small. The White House inner circle, protocol, logistics, and travel teams, the Secret Service, high-ranking members of the Coast Guard.”

  “Anyone working for Tiamat Bluff,” Tara added. “People who work for that company, run by that lady scientist who spearheaded this thing. What’s her name?”

  “Dr. Robin Larson. I’ve accounted for them, too, of course,” Kayla said, but immediately returned to her train of thought. “Diaz has given me direct access to all the White House and top agency systems; Defense, Secret Service, you name it. I’ve already downloaded their vetting reports, background checks, everything about anyone who was involved in arranging this trip. I also have a list of all the personnel involved in the advance teams, and of anyone in government, the military, and civilian companies who had prior knowledge or information about the President’s itinerary.”

  “Can’t you just hack all that stuff?”

  “I can,” Kayla said, adding, “But it’s so much easier when they give you permission.”

  “Okay, so, that’s great,” Tara said. “It still doesn’t tell me what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m not the ‘pour over paperwork and spreadsheets’ kind of gal.” She did pour two gin and tonics over rocks, handing one to Kayla. “Kicking in doors, doing enhanced interrogations, that’s more my speed.”

  “If we’re going to help Brice and the President, we need to get a handle on who’s orchestrated this plan.”

  “I thought that was this General Sucre and his Revolutionary Republic Army?”

  “Maybe, but Boca Las Casas is a small country, the RRA a minor resistance force with minimal impact or influence.”

  “Until now.”

  “Until now,” Kayla agreed. She took a healthy swallow of her drink and grimaced. Tara had been heavy-handed on the booze, figuring they both needed it. “This is a sophisticated operation. Well beyond their normal scope. Certainly, beyond the resources they have access, too. I suspect someone’s helping, them, bankrolling them. Maybe even pulling the strings.”

  “That’s where I come in,” Tara said eagerly.

  “That’s where you come in,” Kayla agreed. “We discover who’s ultimately behind this…”

  Tara's smile was humorless. “I get to kick ass and take names, as Skyjack might say.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Now you’re talking.” Tara raised her glass. They toasted and drank. “Point me to the who and where and let’s get this thing done.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The HH-65 Dolphin helicopter skimmed swiftly over the open ocean water, traveling due east. Its twin turboshaft engines at full throttle pushed the needle to its near max speed of two-hundred miles per hour. The medivac-capable, search and rescue chopper normally flew with two pilots and two crew. They were one person shy as McMurphy occupied the co-pilot seat. The craft was equipped with an M240 machine gun and one Barrett M107 12.70mm precision rifle.

  McMurphy hoped they wouldn’t be needed, but was always happy to have that kind of firepower available. The Coast Guard’s motto wasn’t Semper Paratus—Always Ready—for nothing.

  He glanced over at the pilot. A young man so fresh-faced he looked like he hadn’t yet had his first shave. “What’s your name, son?”

  “Parker, sir.” His voice carrying over the roar of the overhead rotor and the engine noise.

  “How old are you, Parker? Twelve?”

  Parker glanced over at him and grinned. “Twenty-six, sir. Don’t you worry. I’ve got four years in with the Guard and over seven hundred fifty flight hours. You’re in good hands.”

  “Seven hundred fifty, huh? A real master then.”

  “Yes, sir,” Parker said proudly. “Ever thought about flying, sir?”

  “Son, please. I had more time than that in the seat during my six months in sandbox while getting shot at,” McMurphy added. “Probably while you were still in diapers.”

  “You’re a pilot?”

  McMurphy smirked. “They didn’t tell you who you were picking up, did they?”

  “No, sir. Just to get your ass—sorry—to the Putnam forthwith.”

  “Quit calling me sir. Makes me feel old. It’s Skyjack.” He stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, kid.”

  Parker stared at him with his mouth open. “Wait. What?”

  “You all right, Parker? You look like you’re seeing a ghost.”

  “More like a living legend. You’re telling me you’re Skyjack McMurphy?”

  “Last I checked.” McMurphy couldn’t help but grin. “You’ve heard of me?”

  “Well, sure. Is it true? You actually stole the Marine-One helicopter?”

  “Allegedly. I can’t talk about it until the statute of limitations runs out.”

  “Holy smokes. The guys back at the base aren’t going to believe it when I tell ’em.”

  “How about you work on landing this bird on the Putnam without putting us in the drink first.” McMurphy pointed at the Putnam as they approached.

  The gleaming white hull of the four-hundred-foot Legend-class cutter sat majestically on the horizon of the deep turquoise sea. The prominent service mark: the angled blue and white racing stripe, and the red bar with the Coast Guard shield centered on it, and in black letters: U.S. Coast Guard under the superstructure, filled McMurphy with patriotic pride. He’d serviced nearly twenty years and still, his chest swelled at sights like that.

  “Unless you want me to take over,” McMurphy asked.

  “Appreciate the offer, si—Skyjack,” Parker said. “But I’ve got it.”

  Spoken like a true pilot. McMurphy would’ve been disappointed in the kid if he’d responded in any other way. As it was, even under McMurphy’s watchful eye, Parker did a fine job of gently bringing the Dolphin down in the middle of the Putnam’s stern flight deck.

  “Like a pro,” McMurphy said, unhooking his five-point harness and giving Parker a good handshake.

  “Thanks. That means a lot,” Parker said. “Coming from you.”

  “Don’t put too much stock into those old stories you hear,” McMurphy said. “Most of ’em are hogwash. I ain’t nothing special.”

  “Respectfully, I doubt that, sir.”

  McMurphy patted Parker’s shoulder as he climbed into the cabin in back. From there he hopped down to the cutter’s flight deck and gave the chopper crew a so-long salute. An icy wind whipped across the deck, made worse by the still spinning rotor overhead. A bracing reminder McMurphy he’d left the Keel Haul without a coat. He jogged across the flight deck, feeling out of place on the cutter wearing civilian clothes. And was greeted with his first surprise.

  Amal Haddad, the President’s Chief of Staff stood off to the side, along with Captain Tolliver, waiting for him.

  McMurphy threw Tolliver a salute. “Permission to come on board, Captain.”

  “Permission granted,” Tolliver said, returning the salute before clasping McMurphy’s hand, shaking it, old friends. “Good to see you again, Skyjack. Sorry it’s like this.”

  “Same.” McMurphy turned to Haddad. “Ms. Haddad. I was told you were among those killed in the submersible explosions. Not that I’m not glad you weren’t.”

  “Amal, Mr. McMurphy.” She cast her eyes downward. “I was called away to deal with an emergency. Rather than delay the other’s departure, I told them to go ahead. That phone call saved my life.”

  “Lucky for you,” McMurphy said. His tone left open the possibility it hadn’t been luck at all.

  She gave him an odd look. As did Tolliver. “A young Washington staffer took my place on that vessel, Mr. McMurphy. He died in my place.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply anything—”

  “Yes, you
did,” she said sharply, but then her tone softened. “And you are not wrong to do so. I was scheduled to be on one submersible that’s been taken hostage, and then a second that blew up, circumstances causing me to miss both. I’d question that, too. I know your record, your reputation, Mr. McMurphy. Follow your instincts. Do your job. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Never a chance otherwise,” he said. “Just trying not to be disrespectful, until it’s justified.” He pulled at his lumberjack flannel shirt, still wearing the ‘pilots know how to stick it’ t-shirt. “Sorry I didn’t come dressed for the occasion.”

  “Then let’s get you inside before you catch a death of cold,” Tolliver said. “We can find you something more appropriate to wear I’m sure, Chief.”

  He led them into the superstructure and then up the flights of metal steps to his quarters. Tolliver shut the door and Haddad took a seat on his bunk. Once inside, McMurphy could see Haddad looked exhausted. Her eyes were raw from crying.

  McMurphy had never met her before but knew her to be a competent and ruthless political attack dog for the President. Fiercely loyal, this had to be a tremendous burden for her, putting her very far afield of her Pennsylvania Avenue wheelhouse.

  Tolliver’s quarters were small with barely enough room to fit the single size bunk. Still, a brown leather easy chair, a wardroom, and a desk were jammed into the compartment as well. The latter cluttered with papers and a computer keyboard. The flat-screen monitor was embedded in the bulkhead alongside two brass-rimmed portholes.

  Over the bunk was an oil painting of the USCGC Alexander Hamilton navigating in rough ocean waters. McMurphy knew the story. A Treasury-class cutter bravely battling swirling, storm surged waves off the Icelandic coast in 1942. It had been torpedoed by a German submarine, killing all twenty-six men on board.

  “Coffee?” Tolliver asked.

  A small coffee maker sat on his desk. The glass carafe full. The hot plate was on.

  “Depends on what you can put in it?” McMurphy said.

  He glanced over his shoulder. “On a Coast Guard cutter, Chief? Really?” He made a tsk, tsk sound even as he pulled a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon from a low desk drawer. He poured generous amounts of coffee and booze into two mugs he’d lined up on his desk. The mugs were white and had a blue-lined image of the Putnam on one side and the Coast Guard shield on the other.