Tracie Tanner Thrillers Box Set

by Allan Leverone

  He thought about his own misgivings regarding the evidence, while Matheson droned on at the head of the table, seemingly gaining a second wind. Right after Humphries’s disappearance Aaron Stallings himself had been nagged by the sense that something was not as it seemed. It all came down to that Makarov discovered on the floor near Humphries’s desk. As Tanner had pointed out, the idea that an elite Soviet covert ops team would make such an obvious mistake while otherwise running their op to perfection made no sense.

  Aaron’s long career in U.S. intelligence made that discovery just not smell right. But then the evidence had started to mount, all of it pointing in one direction: Moscow. He wondered whether he had fallen victim to “group think,” unconsciously allowing himself to go along with a flawed theory simply because everyone around him was so convinced of its truth.

  Could Tanner have been right? Was it really possible that Mikhail Gorbachev was not lying when he claimed the Soviets knew nothing about J. Robert Humphries’s disappearance?

  If there was any chance that Tanner’s theory was correct, now would be the time to stand up and be counted. Military action was about to be undertaken against the Soviets. Aaron Stallings had been around long enough to know that once an attack was launched, targeted or not, it would no longer matter who was holding Humphries. The Soviets would respond in kind, and the United States would respond to the response, and soon the world would erupt in another war. One that perhaps no one would survive.

  So now was the time.

  Before it was too late.

  But if he was wrong . . .

  * * *

  U.S. Army General Jack Matheson’s presentation had finally ended. All of the questions had petered out, and the debate seemed to have ground to a halt. President Reagan ran a hand over his unshaven jaw and reluctantly said, “Very well, General, when can this assault be launched?”

  “Mr. President, we can have the F-16s airborne out of Aviano Air Base in Italy within the hour. The strike itself can be completed before daybreak here.”

  The president sighed. “Give the order. We simply cannot afford to wait any longer given the investigation’s lack of progress. I’d like continuous updates, from this moment on until our fighters are back on the ground at Aviano.”

  “Yes, sir,” General Matheson said. “If you’ll excuse me, sir.”

  “Of course,” Reagan replied. “Do what you have to do. And make this operation a success.”

  “Consider it done, sir.” The general double-timed it out of the room, followed immediately by the rest of the joint chiefs.

  When the door had closed, Reagan focused his attention on Chief of Staff Chester Moore. “Chet, how would you suggest we handle the media?”

  “Sir, we need to do nothing until the attack on the Smetlivy has been completed successfully. Then we should request network television airtime, interrupt daytime programming and make the announcement. We’ll lead with the news that Secretary Humphries has been missing for two days, and follow that with our assertion that the Soviet Union is responsible. We should indicate that we have overwhelming evidence to support this charge, but that we’re unable to release all of the evidence at this time. Then we should immediately announce that we have launched a tactical assault on a Soviet target in response, and finish by announcing we await the secretary’s release by the Soviets before determining our next move.”

  “But, Chet—”

  There was a curt knock on the door, and then it was flung open. A Situation Room duty officer stood in the doorway, his suit perfectly tailored even at this hour of the night. His necktie was drawn up in a tight Windsor knot and his impeccably ironed dress shirt shone with the brilliant white of newly fallen snow. His face was flushed with excitement.

  Before he could speak, Matt Steinman barked, “What the hell? Don’t you know we’re in a meeting here?”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the man replied, perfectly unruffled by the FBI director’s outburst.

  Then the man turned to Aaron Stallings. “Director Stallings,” he said, “Analysis Director Rafferty is on a secure line at the Watch Desk. He says he needs to speak with you immediately regarding the Secretary of State Humphries situation.”

  Aaron frowned. Sean Rafferty’s area of expertise was Middle Eastern affairs. There was that pesky Middle Eastern connection again. He raised his eyes to the young duty officer. “Did you tell him I’m in a meeting with the president?”

  “Of course, sir, but he said the information was critical and simply could not wait.”

  Aaron rose from his seat. “Excuse me, Mr. President,” he said, ignoring the rest of the room. Then he followed the duty officer to a secure bank of phones inside the control room adjacent to the Situation Room.

  The young officer handed a telephone handset to Aaron and then stepped a discreet distance away, although not, Aaron noted, out of the control room entirely. “Yes, Sean, what is it?”

  “Director Stallings, I’ve just heard from one of my analysts, Marshall Fulton. He says he’s in southeastern Maryland with Tracie Tanner and that they’ve been tailing the kidnappers of Secretary of State Humphries.”

  “Tracie Tanner no longer works for the agency. What is one of your data analysts doing in southeastern Maryland with her?”

  “I don’t have all the details, sir. All I know is that Fulton said the kidnappers plan to move the secretary out of the country today, and that they need help immediately.”

  He shook his head. What the hell had Tanner gotten into now? “How confident are you in this information?”

  “Sir, Marshall Fulton is one of my best analysts, and he claims to have seen the secretary firsthand. He says he is one hundred percent certain it was Humphries. I believe him.”

  Aaron pursed his lips “Okay, tell me what she needs and we’ll get it for her. But first, how are the Russians planning to get Humphries out of the country?”

  “It’s not the Russians, sir. It’s the Iraqis.”

  * * *

  Aaron returned to the Situation Room as the national security team was discussing contingencies. What would the next step be if the Soviet Union still refused to release Humphries even after the strike on the Smetlivy? What if they did agree and released the secretary without a military response? How would they go about restoring diplomatic relations, and should they even try after such a heinous act as kidnapping a sitting U.S. secretary of state?

  The CIA director stood silently in the open doorway, waiting for the buzz of voices to die down.

  Eventually it did.

  Again ignoring the rest of the national security team, Aaron spoke directly to Reagan. “Mr. President, the situation’s changed. We need to talk. Immediately.”

  “Well, that’s why everyone’s here, Aaron. Say your piece.”

  At that moment, Aaron Stallings was reminded why he disliked Ronald Reagan so much. The man had come to Washington as an outsider, winning the White House twice while running on a platform of fiscal responsibility and limited government, concepts that Beltway insiders detested, both Republican and Democrat alike.

  To the seasoned Washington pro, of which CIA Director Aaron Stallings was one, a Reagan presidency meant one thing: budget cuts. Making do with less.

  For the time being, though, he would be forced to put aside his personal dislike for the man in the interest of stopping World War III. If that was even still possible. “I’m afraid I can’t ‘say my piece’ here, sir. We need to talk in private.”

  Understanding dawned in the president’s eyes and he nodded once. “I see. All right, then. Would everyone be kind enough to leave Director Stallings and me alone for a couple of minutes? Refresh your coffee, grab a smoke, whatever. We’ll call you all back in shortly.”

  A chorus of angry voices greeted the president’s words. “Whatever Stallings has to say he should say to everyone!” “This is outrageous!” “We’re your national security advisors, for Christ’s sake!”

  Reagan stared down each man in turn until
the voices died away. Assistant Secretary of State Joe Malone was the first to leave. He silently pushed his chair back from the long table and strode out of the room, refusing to meet Aaron’s—or the president’s—eyes. One by one, the rest of the team followed, until moments later only Aaron, Ronald Reagan, and Chief of Staff Chester Moore were present. “You too, Chet,” Reagan said, not unkindly.

  “Mr. President, I’m by your side for everything. I should stay.”

  “I take a crap every morning without your assistance, Chet. I’ll be fine.”

  The veteran political operative opened his mouth as if to argue, then clamped it shut and huffed angrily as he turned on his heel and marched out of the room. He was muttering under his breath as he pulled the door closed behind him. He knew better than to slam it.

  “Okay, Aaron,” Reagan said without preamble. “What’s going on?”

  “Sir, Agent Tanner has located Secretary Humphries and is in pursuit of the men who are even now attempting to smuggle him out of the country.”

  “Tanner? I thought you fired her. You told me she was incompetent and had wasted two days chasing shadows when she should have been looking for J.R.!”

  “Yes sir…uh…yes I did. I…uh…I changed my mind about Tanner and took her back, giving her specific direction that led to her discovery of the kidnappers and the location they had been keeping the secretary of state.”

  “Specific direction? What specific direction?”

  “Sir, that’s not important now. What matters is that Agent Tanner has learned the Soviet Union is not, in fact, involved in the Humphries kidnapping and never was.”

  “No Soviet involvement?”

  “No sir.”

  “You’re certain of this?”

  Aaron hesitated. It was time for the rubber to meet the road. Time to shit or get off the pot, as the saying went. His next words would likely cement a sterling career in the intelligence community or leave it in a shambles. He went with his gut. “Yes, Mr. President, I’m certain.”

  “Then we’ve got a problem. Because we’re about to drop a bomb on Moscow’s head.”

  36

  Thursday, September 10, 1987

  4:55 a.m.

  The White House - Situation Room

  Aaron Stallings had known Ronald Reagan since before his first inauguration nearly seven years ago, and he thought the president looked less like a man nearing eighty years of age than he had ever seen as the rest of the national security team filed back into the room. Reagan stood ramrod-straight behind the table, steely eyed and impatient, waiting until everyone had settled into their seats before taking charge of the meeting in a way he had not done before.

  “Everything’s changed,” he said without preamble. “We have strong and credible evidence that suggests the Soviet Union is not involved in Secretary Humphries’s disappearance. J.R. was taken by Iraq.”

  The room erupted in chaos, all of the men shouting questions and demanding to know what had happened to change the assessment of the situation so dramatically.

  Reagan ignored them all. He raised his hands and barked, “That’s enough, people,” and after another moment, the buzz of chatter died away.

  The president turned to Secretary of Defense Mark Carmichael. “Mark, I want you to get on the horn to General Matheson immediately and rescind the order for an aerial strike on the Smetlivy.”

  “But sir, what—”

  “Immediately means now, Mark,” Reagan interrupted. “I’ll explain as much as I can as soon as I can to everyone who needs to know, but right now, the priority absolutely must be to put a stop to the unprovoked attack on the Soviets that will likely start a third world war. So get moving.”

  Reagan waited silently while Carmichael gathered his things and rushed toward the door. As he was leaving, Reagan said, “Mark?”

  The secretary of defense looked back. “Yes, sir?”

  “This might be the most important thing you’ll ever do in service to your country. Stop that attack and let me know immediately when the order has been acknowledged by General Matheson.”

  “Of course, sir,” Carmichael said. Then he turned and was gone.

  Reagan turned his focus to Secretary of the Navy Admiral James Shoop. “Jim, brand-new intelligence indicates J.R. was held right here in D.C. until just a few hours ago, and that the Iraqis’ plan is to smuggle him out of the country via low-level helicopter flight from Ocean City to an unknown airstrip in North Carolina, where they’ll then fly him out to Iraq on a small business jet.”

  The room was deathly silent. All eyes focused on the president. Admiral Shoop said, “So we need to get birds in the air immediately.”

  “Exactly. I want every P3 sub hunter available fueled and in the air ASAP, and I want them to stay airborne until that helicopter is located. I have no registration number to give you, no description of the helo’s type or color. But they’ll likely be flying low-level, probably a short distance off the shoreline as they move south from Ocean City in order to minimize the likelihood of being observed by witnesses on the ground. If they get airborne before daybreak, they’ll fly with running lights off, making them nearly invisible. I don’t care what you have to do. Get those P3s in the air and find that chopper.”

  “I’ll get right on it, Mr. President. Every available P3 from New England to Georgia will be in the air within thirty minutes, you have my word.” Shoop pushed his chair away from the table and hurried out, exactly as Mark Carmichael had done moments earlier.

  Next, the president addressed Assistant Secretary of State Joseph Malone. “Joe, prepare to contact the Soviets immediately. Once we receive verification that the strike on the Smetlivy has successfully been aborted, I want you to offer our official apologies for misreading the situation. Let them know we look forward to a continuation of the improved relations we’ve experienced over the last few years, blah, blah, blah. You know what they need to hear.”

  “Yes, sir, will do.”

  “But don’t take any action until we know there’s been no attack.”

  “Of course, sir.” Malone rose and exited.

  “Chet,” Reagan said to his chief of staff, “you and I can huddle privately to determine how we want to manage the media on this. We have to give them something since the secretary of state’s disappearance is about to become public knowledge, but obviously no specific details that might endanger the operation until Secretary Humphries is safely recovered.”

  Chester Moore was furiously scribbling notes on a stenographer’s pad that Aaron had never seen him without. He nodded as he wrote and then said, “Yes sir. I’ll nail everything down in your office, but for now I’ll get started on the outline of a press release.” He looked up. “You’ll probably want to make a television appearance as well.”

  Reagan nodded. “Of course, but not until this thing is over.” He looked around the nearly empty room and said, “Everyone else, I’m sure you understand that the intelligence this sudden operation is based upon is classified and will remain so. Say nothing to anyone without a need to know.”

  The president glanced at the clock hanging on the wall behind the table. “We’ll reconvene later today to discuss the operation and where we go from here.”

  With that, the president turned and strode out of the Situation Room, Chester Moore right on his heels.

  37

  Thursday, September 10, 1987

  5:25 a.m.

  Near Ocean City, Maryland

  Tracie ditched Marshall’s Buick along the thick underbrush several hundred feet north of an unmarked trail leading off a narrow, poorly maintained road southeast of Ocean City.

  Once Tracie had visually acquired the Iraqis’ Lincoln, following it without being spotted after the kidnappers left Route 50 had been a nightmare. Under normal circumstances, darkness was the ally of the tracker, but given the almost total lack of traffic, Tracie had been forced to back off a greater distance than she was comfortable with.

  She didn’t dare k
eep the Lincoln in sight, fearing that if she followed closely enough to keep eyes on her prey, the Iraqis would become suspicious later on when she would be forced to creep closer to them so she wouldn’t miss their turnoff when they left the road.

  She had taken the Route 50 off-ramp more than a quarter-mile behind the Town Car, allowing it to pull away and disappear, betting everything that the vehicle would turn east toward the Atlantic. She reasoned that their helicopter pilot would want to stay out over the ocean for most of the flight to North Carolina in an effort to avoid detection, and that they thus would have chosen a rendezvous point as close to the water as possible.

  After leaving the highway, Tracie had pushed Marshall’s Buick hard, driving the two-lane Maryland country road much faster than was sensible. She was anxious to reacquire the target before too much distance had elapsed.

  A half-mile passed.

  Nothing. Tracie thought she should have caught up to the vehicle by now.

  When a mile passed with still no sign of the Town Car, she began to doubt herself. Maybe the Iraqis had made her. She couldn’t imagine how, she had been very careful to keep Marshall well behind the target, but the proof was in the pudding, and the big vehicle was nowhere to be found. But still she continued.

  Finally, nearly a mile and a half after leaving the highway, Tracie spotted the distinctive Lincoln taillights far ahead along a straight and open stretch of backcountry road. She breathed a sigh of relief and immediately turned off at the next intersection, flipping on her turn signal far in advance to maximize the likelihood of it being seen by the vehicle ahead.