“Okay, if you’re using expressions like that, Ms. de Mey, things must really be serious.” Tom looked around the tiny cabin.
“We’ve searched it from top to bottom. There’s nothing.”
Just then, they heard somebody unlock the cabin door. It swung open, and three of the guerrillas barged in and dragged Tom, Hellen and Cloutard outside.
“Vamonos. Adelante!”
They jammed a gun into Tom’s back, driving him along a narrow passage and up a set of stairs. Hellen and Cloutard were pushed brutally along after him.
“Where are you taking us? What’s going on?”
“The captain got new orders. We’re going to shoot you and throw you overboard.”
Their faces turned white as chalk. Even Tom was at a loss for words. His makeshift plan had gone seriously awry. That had happened before, but until now it had only been his own skin at risk. Now it seemed his recklessness would mean not only his own death, but that of Hellen and Cloutard as well. They were surrounded by a gang of mercenaries, armed to the teeth. Tom knew men like this. They would shoot first and ask questions later, if at all. His mind was racing, but a wave of despair washed over him. He had absolutely no idea what to do. Hellen’s and Cloutard’s terrified faces only made things worse. They were herded up and outside, where the sun beat mercilessly onto the deck and the shipping containers.
The leader of the mercenaries pushed all three of them to the railing. Tom knew he would not hesitate for a second: he’d pull the trigger, and they would fall into the sea. Over and out. For the first time in his life, Tom truly regretted his recklessness. He hated himself. Hellen’s and Cloutard’s blood was about to be on his hands. Tears stung his eyes as the leader leveled his Kalashnikov at Hellen.
71
U.S. freighter “Sin Libertad,” international waters
A clattering suddenly tore through the tension. All eyes turned. Even the leader of the mercenaries was distracted, and he lowered his gun. Tom, Hellen and Cloutard turned around almost simultaneously. Tom instantly recognized the sound—swooping in from the horizon were three U.S. Navy helicopters: two Sikorsky SH-60 Seahawks and a big Sikorsky CH-53E Super Stallion.
The troop of mercenaries turned and looked at their leader in confusion. Two of them started shouting something at him, while two others looked like they wanted to cut and run. The leader bellowed back at them and a loud discussion ensued that soon looked as if it might turn into a brawl, or worse.
This was Tom’s chance, and he did not hesitate. Fearlessly, he kicked the leader hard in the chest, and the man flew backwards and crashed onto the steel deck. In the same instant, the helicopters came thundering over the bridge and swung around, hovering over the ship.
“This is the U.S. Navy,” a voice boomed through an enormous loudspeaker. “Heave to and stop your engines. You are transporting illegal substances into the United States. Stop your engines immediately and prepare to be boarded.”
“Go!” Tom yelled. “That way!” Hellen and Cloutard reacted instantly, and all three leaped into a gap between two containers. Bullets slammed into the containers behind them, and ricochets whined across the deck.
The Navy repeated their demand, this time adding “This is your last warning!”
But the mercenaries didn’t seem to give a damn what the U.S. Navy had to say. They opened fire on the helicopters.
“Come on, we have to get to the lifeboat,” Tom shouted, pointing toward the stern, and they ran for their lives. A pitched battle was developing around them, and they had to deal with dangers on two fronts. The Navy, of course, had no idea that they were the good guys. A lethal hail of bullets poured from the M134 GAU-17 miniguns mounted on the flanks of the Seahawks. Six thousand rounds a minute rained down on the steel deck, shredding everything in sight. The mercenaries had no chance.
“Hey! We’re friendlies!” Tom cursed. They had just managed to escape the steady stream of fire and finally reached the lifeboat. Tom jerked open the hatch at the rear of the vessel. “All aboard!” he shouted. Hellen slid inside first, followed closely by Cloutard. Tom got in last, pulled the hatch closed behind him, and climbed up over the rows of seats to the cabin above. Inside the lifeboat were four rows of seats, each facing backward. Hellen was already strapped in, and Cloutard was just tightening his seat belt. Tom buckled himself into the pilot’s seat and gripped the steering wheel. He glanced momentarily out of the small window and out over the sea—and could not believe his eyes. The third chopper had moved away from the fight and had flown out over open water. When it turned back toward the ship, Tom saw why. The helicopter flew low and dropped a cylindrical object into the sea. A torpedo. Tom decided to keep that to himself for the moment. His friends were unsettled enough as it was.
“Ready?” he shouted.
“Nooooooo!” Hellen cried, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She was sick to death of all the excitement of the last few days.
“Then let’s go.”
Tom pulled the lever beside his seat and the lifeboat dropped free—not a second too soon. A deafening explosion shook the craft as it shot down the slide. It was followed instantly by a gigantic fireball that engulfed the freighter’s entire bridge, including the lifeboat. Flames licked at the windows of the vessel as it dropped thirty feet into the ocean.
Hellen and Cloutard both screamed, but Tom let out a cheer. The lifeboat slammed into the water, shaking its three occupants like a cocktail.
“Touchdown! The crowd goes wild!” Tom whooped. Moments later, the lifeboat bobbed like a cork to the surface. “Who wants to go again?” he said, laughing maniacally. This was his kind of fun, true, but his relief at their survival was boundless. Saved again at the last second.
“Can we all agree not to ever do anything like this ever again?” Hellen gasped, sitting rigid and unmoving in her seat, her eyes still closed. She was just glad it was over.
Tom piloted the boat away from the danger zone as fast as possible and activated the emergency beacon. The torpedo had blasted a huge hole in the hull of the “Sin Libertad,” and it wouldn’t remain afloat much longer.
“How do we get out of here now?” Cloutard asked.
“I think this is our ride,” said Tom, and he pointed upward. They could hear a helicopter hovering over the lifeboat. Tom opened the hatch. A cable with a harness was already being lowered.
Hellen finally opened her eyes. “Oh my God, now this? I just want to go back to my museum!” she whimpered. But all three of them knew she didn’t really mean it. One by one, happy and tired, they were winched up to the helicopter.
72
Camp David, Maryland
“Without a doubt, this is the biggest scandal in the history of our country,” declared Fox News anchor Sean Hennessy. “I still cannot believe it. We here at Fox News are speechless.” Hennessy shook his head in disbelief. His co-host, Megan Collins, nodded in agreement.
President George William Samson sat alone in the living room of the Aspen Lodge at Camp David, staring at the TV, watching the report heralding the end of his career. When the affair had come to light, Samson had decided—for now—to retreat to the lodge to plan his next moves.
“The Goldwater affair is a black day for the Democratic Party and, of course, for the entire country,” said Collins. “Sean, let’s recap the events as they’ve come to light one more time for our viewers. They may have heard it many times already, but it’s simply impossible to believe.”
“We do have to remember that the people involved are innocent until proven guilty, Megan,” Hennessy said to the camera. “Especially because the main suspect in the Goldwater affair is none other than the President of the United States. But the evidence is overwhelming, and it’s all the more damning since it was Vice President Pitcock who brought the affair to light.”
Hennessy gathered together a handful of papers and looked across at Collins before he continued. Both journalists were visibly shaken.
“President Samson has apparently be
en engaged in election manipulation on a scale never before seen in this country. Just as unprecedented is the sheer volume of information now being made public, not only by the FBI, but also by the CIA. But one thing is certain: President Samson, together with Yasmine Matthews, the CEO of the multinational NutriAm corporation, the largest food company in the world, were plotting to poison the American people using an ancient substance. Ms. Matthews is not available for comment at present, and insiders have claimed that she has escaped to Central America. We have heard that the diabolical plan has its roots in Belize, from where a ship loaded with bottles of poisoned water was already on its way to the United States. We have Vice President Pitcock to thank for averting this catastrophe, too. Pitcock, an ex-Marine himself, sent a team of specialists to Belize to stop the ship, doing it for his country and the well-being of all Americans. Whatever problems he might have faced in going behind President Samson’s back were a secondary consideration— he simply wanted to do the right thing. I have to say: it all sounds unbelievable.”
Hennessy looked across to his colleague, who responded with, “Yes, Sean, it is unbelievable. It all comes down to an ancient drug used in Mayan rituals more than two thousand years ago. Stay tuned, because we’ll be hearing more about that later from one of America’s leading botanists, Dr. Joseph Dunham. With the help of CEO Matthews, the bottled drinking water was deliberately laced with this substance in order to make the American public more easily persuadable on an immense scale. In other words: this was an attempt at mass brainwashing.”
“That’s absolutely right, Megan. What we don’t know yet is how big a role the president had in planning this evil plot. But we do know that he must have known about it,” Hennessy added.
“All in the name of securing his own re-election,” Collins said.
“It’s understandable, in a way. His liberal views and planned gun control reforms would have meant his defeat otherwise. Of course, we here at Fox News are following the story closely and will keep you up to date as the FBI and CIA release new information,” Hennessy said, passing the ball back to Collins.
“Congress has already filed articles of impeachment against President Samson. For the first time in the history of the United States, we are seeing bipartisan support for the move, with both Democrats and Republicans unanimously supporting the filing. If Samson doesn’t resign first, Congress will likely vote to remove him, which would make him the first president ever to be punished in this way,” Collins said. “And Pitcock seems to be the first vice-president to have ever really made a difference. The president has announced a press conference for early tomorrow morning, saying only that he will deliver a statement at that time. Let’s wait and see.”
“Thank God I didn’t vote for him,” Hennessy said with a smile at the camera.
Samson was now on his feet and looking out over the upper terrace at the estate’s beautiful grounds. He wasn’t particularly concerned that his career was over. He was far more upset, in fact, that he would not be able to keep his promise to his dead wife. He knew now that he should never have put his trust in Yasmine Matthews, never given her a free hand. Because of his mistake, he would now have to break the oath he had made to his wife on her deathbed—and he would go down in history as the president who tried to poison his own people. But at least he would have the chance to tell the world his side of the story tomorrow morning.
He turned around, picked up the remote control, and turned off the TV, where various political figures, from both the U.S. and the rest of the world, were weighing in with their opinions. Just then, there was a knock at the door.
“Sir, the premises have been secured. I just wanted to wish you good night and good luck tomorrow morning,” said Rupert, Samson’s loyal Secret Service man. The president turned around.
“Thank you, Rupert. Good night.”
But Rupert remained where he was for a moment. “Uh, sir, can I ask you a personal question?”
“Of course, Rupert. As a matter of fact, why don’t you come in and have a drink with me?”
“Thank you, sir, but I’m still on duty.”
“Nonsense. I’m a fallen star. No one gives a damn about me anymore. Come on.”
His colleagues couldn’t see this, Rupert knew. He looked around. Samson slumped back onto the sofa and rolled up his sleeves.
“Would you mind?” He signaled to Rupert to bring the drinks. Rupert nodded and went across to the silver tray standing on the sideboard. He poured a glass of whiskey from a Baccarat crystal carafe, turned around, and handed it to the president.
“Never trust a beautiful woman. In fact, never trust anyone . . . ” With these words, Samson raised his glass to his bodyguard and took a swig of whiskey. “It will be the end of you,” he added in a murmur. Samson leaned forward, put the glass down, and loosened his tie. He felt suddenly odd.
“You have no idea how right you are,” Rupert said.
“So what did you want to—” Samson broke off and shuddered. Cramping, he grabbed his left arm and fell back on the sofa. “Help me! I’m having a heart atta . . .”
“Sir? Everything all right?” Rupert asked casually. Ignoring Samson’s pleas, he returned to the sideboard. He pulled on a pair of disposable gloves, took out a cloth and wiped his fingerprints from the carafe. Then he picked it up and carried it to the sofa, where the president was just gasping his last breath.
George William Samson was dead. Rupert carefully lifted the president’s hand and pressed it against the carafe, transferring Samson’s fingerprints. Then he set the carafe on the table in front of Samson, wiped the whiskey glass and repeated the process. Finally, he pressed the president’s fingers to a small bottle of sleeping pills, set it down beside the glass, and scattered a few tablets on the table. The autopsy would give suicide as the official cause of death. Then he took out a flip phone and pressed a speed-dial number.
“It’s done,” he said, and hung up. He peeled off his gloves and left the room.
73
The White House, Washington D.C., next morning.
“I, James Pitcock, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States. So help me God.”
Theodore M. Campbell, Chief Justice of the United States, held the Bible on which Pitcock had placed his hand and taken the oath of office. They stood in the Oval Office, surrounded by a makeshift inauguration committee consisting of the Washington, D.C. attorney general, the late president’s chief of staff, the secretary of state, and another federal judge. Two small teams from CNN and Fox News were broadcasting the new president’s hastily organized inauguration live.
“Mr. President, we would like to ask a few questions.” The ceremony had just come to an end and the CNN reporter immediately tried to get in before Pitcock’s chief of staff could veto the attempt. Pitcock sighed, clearly deeply upset by the turn of events.
“You’ll have to excuse me, but I won’t be making a statement or taking any questions at this time. This situation is unique in the history of the United States. I’m sure you’ll understand that I have to sit down with my advisors first; we have a lot to discuss and a lot remains unclear. I will most likely address the nation this evening.”
Pitcock seemed composed, but unsettled. Everything had happened so quickly, and a superhuman burden had landed on his shoulders overnight. The reporter nodded, disappointed, and Pitcock’s chief of staff herded everyone out of the Oval Office.
“We’re going to need a few hours to look at all the facts and put together the president’s address,” she said as she closed the door behind the last one.
President Pitcock dropped onto an armchair and stroked the armrests with his hands. “I’ll need a little time to adjust,” he said.
Rita Sorensen looked at her president. Her expression was hard to interpret. Pride mingled with uncertainty, and enthusiasm with sympathy.
&nb
sp; “You can do it, Mr. President,” she said as she gathered her papers. Then she, too, left the Oval Office.
Pitcock stood up and looked out through the large windows to the Rose Garden. He turned around to make sure he was really alone, and a sudden change came over him. The furrows of concern on his forehead vanished, the tension disappeared from his posture, the lines of his face relaxed. Slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up into a broad smile. It continued to widen, transforming into a malevolent grin. He stood like that for some time, savoring the moment.
The door opened and his secretary was standing in the doorway. “Sir, I’m sorry to disturb you, but your appointment? The one you told me about before the inauguration? He’s here.”
“Thank you. Show him in.”
74
General Scott Wagner’s house, Washington D.C.
Tom locked the porch door and closed the curtains. He wandered through his Uncle Scott’s bungalow one last time, just to be certain he hadn’t overlooked anything important. He had to make sure everything was squared away before it was sold. After all the excitement of the last few weeks, Tom had decided to stay in the U.S. a little longer, while Hellen and Cloutard flew back to Vienna to report to Theresia. He needed to settle his murdered uncle’s estate, but he also wanted to get a little distance from everything. Too many people had died and too much had changed—at least in part because of him. He had almost lost his beloved grandfather in Russia. He had some things to figure out, especially his feelings for Hellen and how things were supposed to continue with her and with Blue Shield. And nothing cleared the mind like a few days of physical labor.
There wasn’t much left to do now: his uncle had been a proponent of a minimalist lifestyle, but he had also been a fan of fast cars. When Tom opened the garage door, he was stunned to find a perfectly preserved 1970 Dodge Challenger R/T convertible. The V8 muscle car was one of the first so-called "pony cars", a style that harked back to the first Ford Mustang. Keeping it would not be cheap, Tom knew, but he could not bring himself to get rid of it. The beautiful machine was already on its way to Vienna.
The Golden Path (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 4) Page 21