Executive Treason (41 page)

Sydney, Australia
Wednesday, 15 August

“Done!” Prime Minister Foss proclaimed.

The pronouncement was followed by silence. The representatives, all of them leaders of their own nations, looked around at one another. Something momentous had happened here, but it was hard to grasp the full significance. Morgan Taylor began to clap. He was joined by the prime minister of Japan. The Indian president joined in. One by one, the heads of state of the rest of the countries applauded. Foss acknowledged the achievement himself by standing and nodding his appreciation.

The formal agreement would be drawn up shortly. The basic language of the pact endorsed Morgan Taylor’s plan to seek and destroy terrorist weapons stores anywhere in the South Pacific. The policy, once ratified by the U.S. Senate, would serve as a blueprint for similar sweeping treaties he hoped to broker in other parts of the world. In its final form, it was titled “The Southeast Asia and Pacific Anti-Terrorist Act,” or SAPATA.

Photographers were called in to record the moment for posterity. Taylor and Foss shook hands for the cameras. They’d successfully hammered out the means to be pro-active. They could take action outside their own borders. They could with a formal invitation. They could do it without a signatory nation’s full approval. It represented a sweeping change in the way the war on terrorism would be fought.

SAPATA would also help stabilize smaller governments: those with insurgent forces they could not uproot themselves. Taylor requested that the countries sign in alphabetical order, based on an English standard. That placed the United States at the bottom. The president wanted to erase any notion that SAPATA was actually a “Taylor Doctrine.” Foss may have felt blindsided by Taylor’s strong-arming tactics at the session, but even the prime minister agreed mutual “defense” agreements were outdated. Today’s global threats required a posture that embraced the notion of mutual “offense.” SAPATA was it.

“Congratulations, Mr. President,” Foss said as Morgan Taylor came up to add his name to the document.

“The same to you, Mr. Prime Minister.”

The two old warriors stood at attention as the still cameras and TV crews shot their pictures. Then Foss explained to the world the momentous step they’d taken together at Government House.

Chicago, Illinois
two hours later

What the hell is this all about? Gonzales wondered after decoding the message encrypted in an eBay bid for classic rock and roll ‘45s. It worried him. Midway through the communiqué was the heart of the problem:

He asked if it was pure luck or coincidence that every break came at somebody else’s expense?

The question was so pointed, so specific.

How does he know?

There was more.

Can you get into
The New York Times
?

Gonzales could. A complication? he wondered. Yes, but not insurmountable.

CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia

“Philadelphia, Detroit, Miami, Buffalo, Indianapolis, and Chicago,” reported Jassim. “Dixon’s personally talked to many of the leading big and tall men’s stores.”

“And?” D’Angelo asked.

“Based on purchases in the last six months, we had likelies in each of those cities. Factor in the exact measurements, and we narrow the possibilities to Detroit, Indie, and Chicago.”

“Any name matches?”

“Let me get Dixon. He can fill you in more.”

Dixon, the CIA liaison to the FBI, was on a call. When he finished, he joined Jassim and D’Angelo.

“What’s the latest on Razak,” Jassim prompted.

“Still nothing one-to-one, but we are assuming he could be using a different name.”

“Correct,” D’Angelo replied.

“Well, based on that last call, I’m down to two cash customers who fit the description of a six-four-to-five-plus Middle Eastern weightlifter. One who gave a name and address and another who didn’t. We’re checking on the one who did. He’s in Indianapolis. Right measurements. Right age. Right look.”

“And the other?”

“Chicago. A guy who shopped earlier in the year at Rochester Big & Tall. He came in wearing summer clothes…in January. He needed a lot to keep him warm.”

The New York Times
the same time

“Can you help me out, Robin?” O’Connell asked one of his friends on the business desk.

“Whatcha want?” the Wall Street writer asked, looking up from her computer.

“I’m working on an article on Elliott Strong.”

“Strong the yahoo?”

“That’s the one. I have his radio stuff down, but I need info on his net value. Can you run down his financials?”

“I don’t know, Mike.”

“Just get me started.”

“I’m on a deadline,” she said.

“You know where to look. Please.” This should have been a simple yes or no. Instead it was a negotiation.

“What do you need?”

“Everything. Loans, leans, holdings, tax history, tax problems, partnerships. The whole nine yards.”

“That’s an awful lot.”

Yup, she’s negotiating
, O’Connell thought.

“I hope this isn’t a rush, Mike.”

“It’s a big rush. Weaver is on my ass to get an article out before the march on D.C. Strong’s talking it up on his show.”

“I don’t know, I’ve got this enterprise piece of my own.”

“Come on, get me started.” Time to pay up. “Look, if there’s a solid business angle, we can team up on a sidebar.”

This was just what the business reporter wanted to hear. She smiled thinking she’d gotten the best of O’Connell. She had a lot to learn.

“Okay, but just one hour. I’ll e-mail everything over to you.”

Lebanon, Kansas
that night

“Let’s talk a little about the political parties in the U.S. of A.” Elliott Strong represented neither and attacked both. Some people tried to describe him as a libertarian, but they’d be wrong. Strong defined himself as a cultural conservative, an anti-Beltway, and “the living, breathing voice of the Founding Fathers.”

“They aren’t representing you. They’re not doing the work of Jefferson, Adams, Madison, and Washington. They’ve allowed the government to grow to suit their own needs, not yours. They come at it from different sides and say the same things. The Republicans argue against big government, but they’ve added new Cabinet departments and ballooned deficits to the trillions. And the Democrats?” The jab was deliberate. “They’re the greatest social spenders of all time. The Democrats have run up bills we’ll never afford to pay from here to Hyannis Port. Well, maybe not from here,” he joked. “Don’t count on either party to be the loyal opposition. They’re both the loyal resistance: the resistance to the future. They’re not the ones to lead. For God’s sake, they don’t even see where the country is already going; where you want it to be; the nation your children deserve to inherit. There is a man who does see it right, who does see the light. Bob Bridgeman.” He decided Bob sounded better than Robert.

Strong was getting to his point. “He’s already a leader. He’s a leader you can count on. He’s a leader you can trust. He’s a leader who can end the January Siege.”

The host had been looking for another way to describe the inauguration of Lamden and Taylor. Now it just rolled off his tongue. “The January Siege.” He smiled in his mirror, quite proud.

“The January Siege! January 20, the day we lost control of the country. Well, Bob Bridgeman is going to Washington and you’re his army. You’re his instrument of justice. Show America that we are united and that you want Congress to change the laws or get out of the way.

“General Bridgeman stands with you. And unlike the parties which created the travesty of the January Siege, Bob Bridgeman also stands for you.” Strong was leading up to his final point. “Bob Bridgeman won’t suppress your freedom of speech. He supports your right to assemble, and he will not take away your ability to own and bear arms. He’ll tell you as much in Washington. So come ready.” The word ready was an intentional choice. The implication, though unstated, was for protestors to come armed and ready.

“Your calls coming right up.” He threw to a McDonald’s commercial. Strong Nation was sailing down the main stream.

Glenbrook Royal Air Force Base
New South Wales, Australia
Thursday, 16 August

The president’s motorcade pulled up alongside Air Force One. Colonel Peter Lewis saluted from the cockpit window when Morgan Taylor stepped onto the tarmac. His favorite mechanic leaned into the cabin.

“You called?”

“Yes, Rossy. Check out number three. Agins caught a power flux.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Nothing below normal,” co-pilot Bernard Agins added. “But she could use your eyes.”

“Anything else?”

“Not from me. Milkis?” Colonel Lewis asked.

The navigator, Greg Milkis, said he was fine.

“Okay, I’m on it. I’ll let you know. Don’t leave without me.”

“Not a chance,” Lewis replied.

Forty minutes later, with everyone satisfied and the president in his forward compartment, SAM 28000 rolled down the runway. In four hours they’d be in Afghanistan for a quick conference with the military leadership and time to greet the troops. After that, they’d be on the way home, a few days ahead of the much-ballyhooed march.

Washington, D.C.
the same day

The hotels were all booked, but he hadn’t planned on checking in anywhere, under any name. The man had another way to find a room. He stood outside Reagan National Airport. To any passerby, it appeared as if he were waiting for someone. Occasionally, he rubbernecked around some departing travelers, trying to spot a friend. But there were no friends here. The buff man with a baseball cap and a blonde, ponytail was actually searching luggage tags. He already spotted three names and addresses he liked. He was still looking for others—people who lived closer in, within walking distance to the Mall.

The reason he wanted a family was quite simple. It was more likely that they’d be traveling for a longer period of time. He would slip into their apartment with some viable excuse should a neighbor raise a question. But these days, neighbors rarely spoke to one another.

By seven o’clock, he felt confident he had enough locations. At least one should work. He preferred multi-unit buildings.

“Couldn’t find your friend?” one American Airlines baggage handler asked when he saw the man start to leave.

“No,” he said. “Must have missed ‘em.”

They had talked off and on through the last hour. It helped him get close enough to the bags to read and memorize the tags.

“I’ll call them later. Thanks.” He tipped the skycap ten dollars, not once worrying about fingerprints. It was all too benign.

Kandahar, Afghanistan
8 hours later

Rossy was about to check the re-fueling of the president’s plane when a member of his crew radioed for some assistance from the twin 747. Twenty-nine’s got a cargo door problem.”

“What kind?” he said over his com link.

“The latching. I think we gotta check the mechanism.”

Colonel Peter Lewis wouldn’t take off unless every door closed and sealed properly on both planes. Any loss of pressurization caused by a malfunctioning latch could be deadly. Rossy quickly found another member of his team to take over his job.

By the time Ross solved the problem, which turned out to be minor, fueling was complete.

Lewis was nearly through his final pre-flight check when he got the heads-up that the commander in chief was on the way. He called in for the latest weather advisory. Aside from a band of seasonal thunderstorms over the Banda Sea, they’d have clear skies.

Morgan Taylor boarded and went straight to the flight deck. “Colonel.”

“Mr. President, all set for the long haul?” Lewis asked. They carried enough fuel to make Los Angeles or San Francisco. But the flight plan called for them to touch down in Hawaii. If necessary, both were capable of docking with a KC-10 tanker midair.

“Am I! After I give the Mrs. a call, I’m getting some shut-eye.” Taylor automatically scanned the flight controls and gauges knowing what to look for. “If I wake up in time, maybe I’ll join you later. Tell you what, Colonel, we can swap. You figure out how to balance the damned budget and I’ll do what I really enjoy.”

“Half of that deal sounds good,” Lewis laughed. He had his headphones in his hand, so he didn’t hear the radio clearance from ground control. His co-pilot, Bernard Agins, tapped the right cup of his phones. “Excuse me sir, we’re cleared to go.”

“Then that’s my cue,” the president said. “See you gentlemen later.” He said goodbye to Agins, Milkis, and Lewis: all good men.

Two minutes later, the entourage rolled to the end of the runway. The escorts lifted off first. Most of the transports had departed straight for Washington from Glenbrook. Three minutes later, Air Force One was aloft. Lewis reported all was well on take-off, though the plane handled more lightly than expected.

Morgan Taylor was asleep by the time they climbed to cruising altitude. He lost himself in his favorite dream—he was at the controls.

Over the Pacific

The roving mechanic followed his routine. He did it throughout the flight. It started with a check of the visible systems on the plane. Then he went to the guts. He opened panels containing internal wiring and sub systems. Everything was in order.

He made his way toward the flight deck, up the stairs from the first level rear stairs, where he nodded politely to the members of the president’s staff and basically ignored the reporters. Some people were already asleep, a few were typing updates they’d e-mail out via Air Force One’s satellite com center, others were playing poker. He spoke to the crew, making sure they were okay. He was surprised he didn’t find Brady at his post.

Rossy considered Mark Brady solid back-up. Brady was relatively new to the president’s bird—if three years was new. He worked with Ross on both planes. About the only thing he couldn’t do was pilot. But he was always there, diagnosing onboard problems almost as fast as his supervisor.

Rossy cued his com set. “Brady, Rossy, over.”