Executive Treason (47 page)

Patrick bolted to his feet in defiance. “Mr. President, obviously you’re not well. You should be back in the hospital. You can’t run the country. You don’t have the strength. You’re irrational. Listen to yourself. You’re attacking the Speaker of the House of Representatives. Me.” He started for the door. “I’m going to talk to the attorney general and the White House lawyers.”

“Mr. Speaker, I’m here because of them, and a smart young woman attorney who encouraged them to get me out of bed. She’s the one who spoke to the doctors. They cleared me. I guarantee you, if you go down that road, you will not win. More importantly, you will not survive another week in this town.”

For one of the first times in his life, Duke Patrick decided to shut up.

“While we’re talking man-to-man, in another day, you’ll introduce the biggest single danger to the American public since Joe McCarthy. Maybe I underestimated you. You’re a better politician than I thought. But I have to ask you—what the hell do you think you’re doing tying in with that crackpot? The best Bridgeman will give you is VP. And let me tell you, if you think that sycophant behind him has an ounce of interest in you, you’re crazy. Strong will eat your heart out right on national radio. You’re not in his great plan for the country. He’s designing a hate-filled America, with laws that serve the extreme. There’s no room in his nation for the Constitution, and there’s no room in it for you, Mr. Speaker. So again I ask—what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You may dismiss the voice of the people. You can call Strong and all of the others like him sycophants or egomaniacal hate-mongers—whatever you want. But the power is shifting. There is a tyranny of words mounting, and it’s going to take you down, along with every other old-time politician. People don’t listen to you anymore. You’re a sound bite. Seven seconds, eight. If you’re lucky, ten. They’re the whole show. A caller on the radio gets more airtime. The only rule is you have to agree with the host. So what am I doing? I’m joining the new media, Mr. President. I’m agreeing with the host. And I’m going to be heard. Not you. Me. Enjoy your presidency while you can, because this isn’t over. You just kicked the can down the road a little bit. We’ll see who will or won’t survive in this town.”

The Speaker of the House left the Cabinet Room, and with it, any tie with the administration.

The White House Press Room

“I have a brief announcement to make,” Bill Bagley said. “I’ll take questions for a short period after.”

Ninety-minutes earlier, the White House press corps received an advisory that a major announcement would be forthcoming. They’d been waiting and speculating. Advance word had not leaked, so the press secretary’s statement caught everyone off guard.

“The Pentagon received a report early this morning that Air Force One crashed into the South Pacific Ocean. The president’s plane was en route to Andrews Air Force Base from Afghanistan. At present, I am unable to give you the exact location of the crash due to security in the area.” His voice cracked. Bagley fought back his grief, then continued with a hollow and labored delivery. “I can tell you that President Morgan Taylor was onboard along with members of the White House cabinet and staff, and colleagues of yours. Contact was lost with the president’s plane west of Indonesia. The 7th Fleet has been assigned the task of rescue and recovery. I have no further details on cause of the disaster. I’ll share what I can throughout the day.”

Hands shot up in the air. A dozen voices yelled out questions. However, Bagley had more to say.

“According to the 25th Amendment, ratified in 1967, succession would pass to the speaker of the House, in this case Congressman Duke Patrick.” He paused, sensing the anticipation in the room. “However…”

The however brought instant gasps.

“…when appraised of the situation, President Henry Lamden, recovering at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Bethesda, advised Attorney General Eve Goldman that he would resume his duties as president, pending discharge by his doctors. President Henry Lamden has since returned to the White House. At this hour he is conferring with his cabinet and he’ll speak to the nation tonight at nine o’clock, eastern time. He has informed the speaker, who was ‘relieved to see’ the president.”

“Questions?” Bagley asked. They all came at once:

“How long were we without a president?”

“Is President Lamden healthy enough?”

“Do we know if there are survivors?”

“What happens if….”

Lebanon, Kansas

Midway through his next call, Strong’s wife frantically waved a paper at him. She was in the control room, trying to get his attention. Strong, annoyed by the distraction, ignored her. She then spoke into the intercom. “Look at your computer.” While the caller from New Hampshire rambled on about how he was going to be in the first row for Bridgeman’s speech, Strong read the message screen.

“Oh my God!” he blurted.

“What?” asked the caller.

Strong’s reaction was genuine: maybe his first honest one in years. “Bring it in,” he said over the air.

His wife ran in with the bulletin from the Associated Press. As he scanned it, she typed a quick Internet link on his computer. The full story appeared.

Elliott Strong rarely read anything cold on the air. He usually marked pages with one-word cues for adlibs and practiced what he wanted to say. Not this time. He got the gist of the news brief, dropped the caller, who was talking again, and began.

“Darice has just handed me a story from the Associated Press. Honey, keep on this,” he said off mike. “We aren’t the first to report this, but here it is. From AP, maybe a minute ago, ‘Washington, D.C. White House Press Secretary Bagley announced that Air Force One has crashed in the South Pacific, near a chain of islands that comprise Indonesia. President Morgan Taylor, and a contingent of administration staff and reporters were returning from Kandahar, Afghanistan, when Air Force One suffered a catastrophic incident. No further details are known at this time. When notified, President Henry Lamden returned to the White House to assume the office of president.’”

Strong’s voice wavered as he read the news. An accident? Intentional? This was different than anything he’d been told. What’s it going to mean to the plans? He’d send an e-mail out during the break to see if there were any new instructions. For now, he decided to stay the course.

“Tragic news. But the march will go on.”

Chicago, Illinois

Luis Gonzales switched off his radio and stared out the window at the city below. Taylor was gone. The Prophet’s hand was evident. But a final act was yet to come. Chaos and death. Lamden would be blamed. He would follow the news en route to his next destination. It was time to leave Chicago now. He had things to attend to in Paraguay. Business. The kind that filled his pocketbook and the kind that filled his heart. Money and revenge. Both made him happy.

The White House
War Room
0534 hrs ET

“Oh, Christ!” Roarke caught the time. Where the hell? he asked himself. Hours had gone by and he’d completely forgotten about his meeting with O’Connell.

“Give me a sec,” he told Evans backing away. The National Director of Intelligence was going over the latest recon photos. “I have to check on something.”

He went to the closest phone and called the White House switchboard.

He asked for the marine guard at the North Entrance. “Roarke,” he said getting connected. “Do you have a visitor there for me. O’Connell? Michael O’Connell?”

“No, sir,” the marine replied. “I have his name, but he hasn’t shown up yet.”

Roarke was clearly perplexed. “Okay, thanks. Call me if he does.”

Next Roarke scrolled down to O’Connell’s number in his Treo’s call log. He pressed the center oval button to connect him. After five rings, the reporter’s voice mail message engaged.

“O’Connell, Roarke. You said you were coming down? Where the hell are you?”

With that, he hung up, not entirely disappointed that he didn’t see the
Times
reporter. Not today. Not now. Too much going on.

Roarke rejoined the conversation with Evans.

“Is everything okay?” the intelligence czar asked.

“Yeah. Any change?”

“Quiet.” The latest satellite intel showed rugged mountain terrain with ample cover. “But we’ve got heat signatures for some three hundred. Until the SEALs are in place, we’re not going to know much more.”

“What’s J3 say about the chances?” He hated asking a question like that. There’s never a good answer. Roarke knew. He’d been in Special Forces.

Evans shook his head. “Surprise will be on our side. That’s all I can tell you.”

Roarke examined the computer printouts of the terrain. “It’s rough going.”

“Most of it up. And not along the paths.” Jack Evans pointed out the route of ascent the SEALs would take, compared to the way the terrorists went.

“What about noise?” Roarke asked.

“Oh, there will be a lot of it,” Evans added. “But not from the SEALs.” He explained what J3 had in mind. Roarke actually smiled. He wished he could be there.

Arafiira Sea

“Somebody up there likes us,” Rear Admiral Clemson Zimmer explained to J3, who was en route to the Special Ops C2, the Command Center at MacDill AFB in Florida. Zimmer was 12,000 miles away aboard the USS
Blue Ridge
. “We’ve got a pair of SDV MK VIII’s on the USS
Essex
. Pure luck.”

General Johnson breathed a sigh of relief. Actual good news, or what could be termed as good news.

“I suppose we can thank the terrorists who planted the bomb in Sydney. When Australia invoked ANZUS, we spread the 7th Fleet out. The
Essex
was assigned to the Malukus, right where we need to be,” Zimmer added. “SEAL Team THREE will drop in the Banda Sea, about fifteen kilometers off shore. They’ll get a swift, all-expenses paid trip to Huruku, with an on-time arrival.”

“And their cover?” J3 asked.

“We’re ready. Targets have been set. What’s your ETA for MacDill?”

General Jackson didn’t have to consult his watch. His internal clock had been ticking off the time since he left. “Thirty-eight minutes.”

“Roger. The details will be there waiting for you. But here’s the general idea.”

Haruku Island

Every time the prisoners started falling asleep, the terrorists roamed the tent and kicked the captives. “Where is your American strength now?” asked one of the guards in broken English. He stood over the president who was gagging on blood from his last beating. He couldn’t spit it out; his mouth was covered with tape. “The Great Satan doesn’t look so great tonight,” he boasted.

The rebel circled to the president’s back. Ross was tied to him. They were both covered in mud from being dragged up a hillside. They itched and smelled of urine. They sat on hard, unforgiving, dusty ground. Ants crawled around and while the hostages did their best to kick them away, the ants, like the insurgents, were winning.

Without warning the guard rammed his rifle butt into Rossy’s ear. The lieutenant fell over, pulling the president with him. The other prisoners looked on. Some had broken ribs, a few suffered broken noses.

The beatings came every fifteen minutes, each time from a different terrorist. It was as if the leader was putting his men to the test. Did they have the stomach for the job? One after another, they did.

Taylor shifted his weight to the side, helping Ross back up. The lieutenant whispered his thanks, knowing that if the guard heard him, he’d earn another, more crippling blow.

“We’re gonna start losing guys pretty fast, Mr. President,” he said.

Rossy was right. The president felt like he had a rat’s-eye view of the Titanic.

3,500 feet over the Banda Sea
2320 hrs local time

“Coming around again,” reported the pilot to the ramp of the C-17. The SEALs would jump momentarily. Their equipment and specialized gear had been dropped on pallets with flotation devices on a first pass, released by a series of automated floor locks, controlled by the C-7′s loadmaster.

“Go, go, go, go!” The command from Nolt came right after a green “on” light signaled the SEALs were over the DZ. The first four SEALs, comprising Bravo Team, jumped out of the rear of the C-17 that had ferried them from Hickam. Then came Alpha. Their drop zone put them ahead of the USS
Essex
, a Waspclass landing ship. Two Navy HH-60H Seahawks, equipped for Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR), were ready to lift off as soon as the SEALs cleared the airspace and dumped in the sea.

Now it was Nolt’s turn. He saluted to the Air Force major who supervised their drop. “Thanks for the lift. You know where to send the bill.” On his way down, he thought about the shower he’d be enjoying in twenty minutes, and the one he hoped to take about six hours later.

Aboard the USS
Blue Ridge
The Banda Sea
Sunday, 19 August
local time 0116 hrs
(Saturday, 18 August ET)

“Misdirection,” Adm. Zimmer explained from the command ship. Nolt’s SEALs listened over their radio. J3 was connected from MacDill. President Lamden was on in the White House War Room. “They’re going to think we think we’re pounding them.” The Admiral described his plan.

“The target is here,” he used a telestrator, visible via computer links. Everyone saw a small rugged island, twelve kilometers from the target. “The purpose is two-fold. We’re going to light up the sky in the distance and draw their eye while the SEALs come in from their blind side. And we’re going to use the noise to mask the incursion. The window of opportunity is twelve minutes. We’ll start with a heavy bombing run that will shake them all out of bed. They’ll see missiles launched to the South, they’ll feel the shock. And they’ll drop their defenses. Psych Ops says that they’ll be drawn to the lightshow feeling pretty good about themselves. That’s when the SEALs strike. Then phase two of EAGLE CLUTCH.”

“I suppose you’ve blown up your fair share of things, Lieutenant Nolt,” Zimmer gathered. Nolt laughed.

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“And you’ve trained for hundreds of hours, and for virtually any contingency.”

“Yes, sir. The same is true for all my men.”

“But this is one hell of an assignment.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do your men know the nature of the mission?”

“They understand that we are to infiltrate a terrorist camp and secure the release of a group of kidnapped VIPs, sir.” As instructed, Nolt had not explained the actual identity of the number-one VIP.

“And your men are ready?” Zimmer asked.

“Yes, sir.”

Nolt’s team listened intently, so far unfazed by what seemed like a typical pre-mission pep talk.

“I’m sorry you were not informed earlier. However, there is an extraordinary aspect to this operation,” Zimmer continued.

A few of the men chuckled. They’d heard this kind of thing before.

“The operation has only come together in the last few hours. We believe there are only a few hours left to act. VIPs were taken. I stress, very important persons. You were called together minutes after the Navy reported that the hostages were taken. The details are known by a handful of people, for good reason. You’re about to join the short list.”

The SEALs began to feel a greater sense of urgency.

“Approvals have gone up the chain of command faster than any action in American history. Any. You have trained for this, without ever knowing who you were training to free. And now the time has come.”

The SEALs looked at Nolt. He kept a poker face.

“Gentlemen, you are about to rescue the President of the United States.”

Nolt watched as surprise registered on everyone: man by man. They shot hard stares at one another.

“He was captured following the ditching of Air Force One. We believe that was an act of sabotage. It is unknown if the capture of the commander in chief is related. But now it’s your job to get the president and the other hostages out. Eight SEALs against hundreds of guerillas. You must succeed. You will succeed.”

Heightened fervor spread through the briefing room aboard the
Essex
. Pintar immediately checked his handgun; Lopez felt for his knife. The others found their own way to toughen up.

“That is your mission. Are you ready?” Zimmer asked.

“We’re SEALs,” offered Showalter, without regard to rank. “God help anybody who gets in our way.”

Lamden heard exactly what he needed. “EAGLE CLUTCH is go.”

The
Essex
came dead in the water and a series of ballast tanks in the stem flooded down. A rear gate lowered and the two Mark VIII Swimmer Delivery Vehicles, essentially sub-surface “wet” submarines, floated out of the well deck. The SEALs were all on board.

“Ready, Nolt,” called out to the members of the Alpha Detachment.

“Ready,” reported Shaughnessy, Pintar, and Lopez. Nolt would take the lead submersible with them. He received a similar acknowledgment from Bravo Detachment—Harold Chaskes, Todd Roberts, Mark Polonsky, and Brian Showalter. Four men in each SDV, along with the pilot and navigator.

The Mark VIII’s computerized mixed-gas on-board breathing systems were already fired up, and the canopies were closed. The crew reviewed their checklists, engaged the Doppler navigation systems (DNS), the obstacle-avoidance sonar subsystem (OAS), and tested the ballast and trim systems and the horizontal and vertical planes. These were controlled through a manual stick to the rudder, elevator, and bow planes.

All of the electronics of the SDVs were housed in airtight, dry canisters, designed to withstand seawater pressure to a depth of 500 feet. Today, they’d shuttle to Haruku at a maximum depth of thirty feet, less for the last 100 yards.

With the signal from the pilot of Alpha, all was set. The first Mark VHI’s five-bladed propeller began turning. The 254-inch-long craft moved forward. The pilot flooded all of the compartments and began a slight descent. The Bravo SDV followed.

The sea was still rising to swells of fifteen feet, but below the surface, all was calm. The eight SEALs got into a relaxed breathing pattern. This was the last time for private thoughts and personal prayers. In another few minutes they’d be on the clock.

Washington, D.C.
the same time

He relaxed in the hotel’s luxurious bathtub, clearing his mind and thinking through the details. Success always depended on the right state of mind.

Except for the crowd, there wasn’t anything especially difficult about the job. People might see him move about, but they’d take little notice. Their attention would be elsewhere—to the podium or the TV projection screens placed at intervals down the Mall.

Once he accomplished his assignment, he’d simply become one in a million of confused, perhaps riotous marchers, hiding in plain sight.

He rarely liked to be told exactly where, how, and when to perform an assignment, but the instructions had been specific.

In another two hours, he would leave Washington a far richer man than when he arrived. He slid his torso under the bath water and held his breath. He kept his eyes open. It was a comforting sensation. He saw everything through a slowly shifting, thick, out-of-focus lens. So peaceful. It cleansed him, not that he needed it. He felt no guilt.

The Banda Sea
Off Saparua Island

Lt. Commander James Nolt knew very little about the enemy. More time, more recon would have been extremely helpful. For now, he had only his intuition and textbook analysis.

Guerilla fighters. They had weaknesses,
he thought. The SEALs would have to take advantage of them. They have a loose organization and possibly a poorly trained command. Next, he put himself in their position. Arrogant. Self-deluded. Fanatical. Strong belief in their political and religious cause. Willing to become martyrs. Capable of taking the hostages with them.

To successfully complete the mission, Nolt and his men needed to remain stealth, maintain the offensive, and operate in a limited-visibility environment. Raid, kill, gain ground. The team leader ran the playbook in his head. He was 100 percent certain that each of his SEALs was doing exactly the same.

The two jet-black SDVs slowed and finally came to a stop. The navigator delivered them to the precise coordinates, about 900 yards off the rocky shore.

Nolt’s squad unhooked from the Mark VIII’s breathing apparatus and engaged their own tanks. They opened the canopies and silently floated above the submersibles. When they were at a depth of fifteen feet they swam toward land.

The SDVs would stay in place until 0700 hours, or later, if ordered by C2. They were the backup means of exfiltration, should EAGLE CLUTCH go wrong. But like the trip out, the Mark VIIIs could only transport the SEALs. A lot had to go right before they’d be safely on their way home.

The SEALs swam in pairs. One diver-buddy held a board, which included a compass, as well as depth and watch gauges. The basic equipment kept the teams on course. Meanwhile, the other partner held onto his arm just below the triceps. He served as the lookout and counted kicks calculated to get them to the shore. The pairs communicated in non-verbal codes, consisting of squeezes and alternating pauses. The swim represented the fundamental of SEALs training: Teamwork is everything. Seemingly impossible tasks are made possible by working together.

Everything they needed for the ops was attached to their wetsuits: grenade and ammo pouches, secondary magazines, medical kits, helmet radios, night vision equipment, and their weapons. They chose Heckler & Koch MK3′s, Sig Sauer 9 mm automatics, Beretta M92-Fs with slide locks and Qualatech silencers, and K-Bar survival knives.

Pintar and Shaughnessy also carried their Knights SR25 sniper rifles, critical for the first phase of the mission.

Lebanon, Kansas

“How many times can the presidency be stolen?” Strong asked his listeners. “This amounts to a coup.” He read from the wire service report about Lamden’s return. His real information came from an e-mail on the Hill. “So they trot Henry Lamden out so they don’t have to swear in the Speaker of the House.”

Strong had to be careful; he hadn’t laid the groundwork on why Patrick, a Democrat, would be better than another Democrat. He decided to give it a more politically motivated spin.

“They know that Congressman Patrick was coming out in support of General Bridgeman—that he was all set to introduce him today. So, rather than make him president, they punish him. They bring out an invalid instead of naming Duke Patrick the rightful president.” He slammed his hand down hard.

“How do I know this? Because I’ve been told by my sources in Washington.” Patrick. “Conspiracy at the highest level. Congress must open an investigation immediately. This is the last straw!”

Strong thought he turned the negative into a true positive. More for Bridgeman to talk about today. More to anger the crowd. More reason to incite….

Haruku Island

They quietly emerged from the sea, timing their run to shore—two SEALs at a time—with the crashing of the waves. They regrouped fifty yards inland at the base of a cliff—their first obstacle.

The clouds obscured the moon, which cut down on the enemy’s ability to see them. It also made their passage more difficult. They had a 100-foot slippery vertical surface to climb and no time to waste.