Executive Treason (48 page)

The SEALs continued to use hand signals. Nolt indicated where they should ascend. The first men up had the hardest job—finding the best place to grip. Each footing was marked with luminous powder, visible through the night-vision goggles.

Alpha took six minutes to scale the rock face. Bravo needed an extra ninety seconds, which put them behind schedule.

Speeding up could be dangerous, but they were on a timetable, which was out of their control. Nolt pushed his men through the underbrush due north for a quarter of a mile, then northwest until they came to a thick bamboo forest. They made up two minutes. The next 200 yards would take additional time. They had to navigate around gullies and swamp.

“Shit!” Showalter cursed. He slid knee-deep into a bog. The more he tried to pull himself out, the harder it became to move.

Polonsky avoided the same mistake, stopping short of the mud. Roberts came to Showalter’s aid. Chaskes circumvented the area, but doubled-back.

Polonsky motioned for Showalter to stand still. He looked overhead. Bamboo branches shot through the jungle canopy. “Push that one down,” he signaled Roberts. If Showalter could grab hold of the branch, then at least he’d stop sinking.

Roberts shimmied up the tree, high enough to reach a point where he could force down the trunk and get it within reach of Showalter.

All of this was accomplished silently, but it was taking too much time.

“Got it,” Showalter whispered. He reached as high up the curved wood as possible and slid the top of the trunk between his legs. The flexibility of the branch worked in his favor. But there wasn’t much he could do yet.

Roberts then bent over another trunk, a few feet from the first. The trapped SEAL grabbed the second shaft and forced it under him as he had done before. The two trees effectively created a ladder. With a combination of pulling and climbing, Showalter cautiously inched out of the mud that had trapped him.

Polonsky checked the time. Two minutes behind schedule.

Nolt looked at his watch. The massive batteries of the USS
Cowpens
, an Aegis cruiser off the coast, were loaded and ready to fire. According to the GPS direction finder on Nolt’s wrist PDA, they still had another fifty yards to go. He waved Alpha forward into their attack position.

Shaughnessy identified nine targets on the perimeter. He rolled on his stomach and showed Pintar, who was behind him, nine fingers. The word went back to Lopez, and ultimately to Nolt.

The nine were only the first kills they’d have to make. Beyond them, the rest of the militia. Shaughnessy panned his night-vision sight across a grove, which abutted a cliff. He could see three encampments. Each housed at least 100 troops. The men milled around. The light from their cigarettes created hot spots on the infrared goggles. Another, smaller group gathered around a camouflaged tent. It was large enough to hold a dozen or more prisoners.

Shaughnessy looked at his palm device. He was receiving LINK 16-type data, down-linked and culled from intelligence sources including AWACS telementiy, a RC-135 Rivet Joint ELINT/SIGINT/COMINT aircraft, and an E-8B/C J-STARS ground surveillance plane. With it, he had a solid lock on the primary objective: the tent and a pulsing beacon from within.

Lt. Nolt gave his watch one more glance. Forty-five seconds. He inched forward through the underbrush toward Shaughnessy, careful not to show a profile to the enemy. The two men would come in from the southwest. Pintar and Lopez to their left. Bravo Team—Chaskes, Showalter, Roberts, and Polonsky—would circle around from the north. Twenty seconds.

Ten seconds. Nolt steeled himself for his first kill. Five seconds. His target stood twenty feet ahead. His automatic weapon was down at his side.

Suddenly and without warning, the sky brightened to the south. Flashes of light, all coming from one point well off shore, illuminated the night sky. Trails of fire streamed across the horizon.

The guerillas watched, mesmerized. Then they realized they were under attack. With nowhere to run, they fell to the ground and covered their heads waiting for the explosions.

The explosions came, but not at their encampment. They were a few kilometers away, at a neighboring island.

Gradually, the troops rose to their feet and cheered at the stupidity of the Americans.

Now.

The targets closest to Alpha Team had their weapons down. They were pointing to the destruction of the island in the distance.

Nolt stepped out of the shadows. Shaughnessy was by his side. The SEALs moved in perfect synchronicity. They approached from the rear, stretching a thin cord into a wide noose. In one quick, stealth move, they slipped their devices over the unsuspecting victims’ heads. The rebels’ hands reflexively went up, but there was nothing they could do. Each SEAL kicked his target’s knees. The victims were thrown off balance. Neither man could steady nor protect himself.

Nolt and Shaughnessy drew their nooses back under their victims’ chins until their work was done. Their first kills went down without a whisper rising above the explosions. Nolt and Shaughnessy slowly lowered the bodies to the ground.

Three men, barely fifteen feet in front of them, paid no attention. Nolt again took the lead and flared to the target on the left. Shaughnessy would take the man on the right. They counted on Lopez to drop the target in the middle.

This time, they’d use their UDT knives. Again, as in a mirror image of one another, the two SEALs advanced from behind. Their blades came up as they grabbed their targets heads with their left hands and quickly slit their throats. Simultaneously, the guard between them crumpled to the ground, felled by a bullet from thirty yards away. But death would not be so immediate for Nolt and Shaughnessy’s two, unless they ended it with a back-entry slash to the kidneys and another front plunge into the heart. It took all of another second.

Now Pintar did more of the cleanup. He fired four perfectly aimed shots through his noise-suppressed SR45.

Plus thirty seconds. On schedule, Nolt reported to himself. Two more men at the edge of the guerilla’s compound. He signaled Shaughnessy. Suddenly, the man on the right stepped forward, then turned to address his compatriot. He spotted Nolt.

“Kunjungi!"—Look! the sentry exclaimed. His automatic instantly came up. The other Indonesian guerilla whipped around.

“Apa?” he asked. What? His confusion bought Nolt his life. The first guard started to explain rather than fire a round.

From his blind side came Lopez. He slammed the butt of his Sig Sauer up and under the skull of the combatant. He dropped him with the other end of his weapon, plunging his K-Bar into the man’s heart. This drew the second man’s attention, which prevented him from detecting Shaughnessy. He worked his knife in around the front of the Indonesian’s chest and dropped him with one blow.

There was no time for thanks or congratulations. The camouflaged tent was ahead.

Haruku Island

Based on the number of seconds between the flashes and the sound, Taylor calculated that the bombs were exploding eight-to-ten miles away. He didn’t know for sure what they were, but he had a strong feeling about the possibility.

Five minutes into the bombardment, the terrorist commander returned to the tent. He strode right to the president and laughed aloud.

“Do you hear your bombs?”

Taylor ignored Komari.

“All your American technology and you can’t find the right target? Your soldiers are blind. They attack the wrong island. But listen.”

Another volley passed overhead, exploding miles away. “That is the sound of their disdain for you. No helicopter gunships to rescue you. Why? Because that is how you infidels fight. Missiles from the sky. Bombardment from a ship. There is no substitution for a man on the ground. For loyalty. For a true jihad.”

Komari laughed heartily again and kicked two of the nearest captives; one was a woman reporter for
The Miami Herald
.

Morgan Taylor never took his eyes off the commander. Keep him talking. Engage him. He wanted Komari to remove the tape over his mouth. He tried to speak through the gag.

“What? Are you ready to plead for your life?”

Taylor continued to make noise. Komari came back to him.

“At first, you presented a problem to me. But I realized the Prophet himself delivered you. You, the President of the United States: the enemy of my brother. My enemy. You were a gift from Heaven. The Prophet Muhammad rewarded me with the honor of punishing you.”

Taylor tried to speak again. Komari felt no reason why he shouldn’t be heard. With one quick, painful tug, he tore the duct tape from the president’s mouth.

“There. You deserve to plead for your life—not that it will matter. Your fate is sealed.”

Taylor spit out a mouthful of blood and took in a deep, refreshing breath. Salt air. They were so close to the ocean. Close to an infiltration point. Stay alive, he said to himself.

“Your English is quite good,” Taylor managed. His mouth and lips were so dry it was hard to talk. “May I learn the name of my judge, jury, and executioner?”

“You may. I am Umar Komari, Commander of the October 12th Allegiance.”

“October 12th?” The president searched his memory for the meaning. There was always a meaning.

“Come now, you have to be a student of history. October 12, 2002? Kuta on Bali? The news called it the deadliest act of terrorism in Indonesian history. It was an act of war on Christian colonialism.”

The president remembered. Keep him talking. “Hundreds died. Mostly tourists. The Jemaah Islamiah.”

“Yes, my brother was JI. He moved to the Solomon Islands, where you and your godless allies launched an indefensible attack only weeks ago. You killed him.”

Taylor remembered. The recollection was in his face.

“Ah, you can’t deny it. So your judge is right.”

Keep him talking. “The Australians found a bomb in a hotel. He could have killed many people.”

“I know this plan. What great patience my brother had. One of many such bombs.”

Keep him talking. More bombs. A diversion?

“Ready to be detonated at the proper time. But it was discovered. Yes, and somehow your spies found him.”

“He would have killed hundreds of innocent people.”

“There are no innocent people in this war,” Komari shouted. “You, yourself have proven that with your decision to bomb encampments. To kill my brother.” He stood up and kicked the president squarely in his stomach. “To kill my brother!” The sheer physical act of hurting the president made Komari happy.

“Was one of my brother’s bombs intended for you?”

The president grimaced at the pain. He feared another rib was broken. As Komari’s foot landed a second blow, he nodded yes.

The commander knelt down again. An almost spiritual glow came over Komari’s face. “I understand the meaning of it all now.” He leaned into the president and whispered in his ear. “The Prophet has truly delivered you to me, so I may complete my brother’s work. Praise be Allah.”

Washington, D.C.

Katie fumbled for her cell phone, which was under a stack of papers. Her work was spread out on Roarke’s IKEA desk in his apartment. She already vowed that his furniture had to go.

She just hadn’t told him yet. “Coming!” she yelled, willing the phone to keep ringing. She missed it. “Caller ID Unknown.” Okay, no one to call back. Katie was about return to her work when her phone rang again.

“Hello,” she quickly answered.

“Ms. Kessler?” It was a man’s voice. He sounded official. There was urgency in his voice.

She didn’t recognize it. “Yes.”

“Where are you right now?”

“What? What’s the matter?” She straightened up. “Who is this?”

“Agent Roarke instructed me to call you. You must meet him precisely at 3:30 P.M.”

“Where is he? Who is this?”

“I work with Agent Roarke. He’s in a briefing and he can’t be disturbed. He’s asked that you not call his cell phone, but it’s extremely important you meet him as he requested. He said you’d understand.”

“But why?” This was a little too cloak-and-dagger for her. She remembered the Charles River. “What going wrong?”

“All he said was you must meet him. He told me 3:30, Ms. Kessler.”

“Okay, okay. Where?”

It still didn’t make sense when he told her, but the past few days had been full of surprises. Why should today be any different, she thought.

“All right, I’ll be there. But can I call?”

“No. Absolutely not. He’ll explain when he sees you.”

“Do I need to bring anything?”

“No. But be there on time.”

“I will.” She asked another question about reaching someone else who could help, then realized the caller had dropped off. Katie was having a hard time getting used to Scott Roarke’s world. She also realized that so much seemed to be played out between the lines of the law. Most of that was never reported.

the same time

Roarke dialed the New York number again.

“Hello.”

This wasn’t the voice he expected to hear. “Who is this?” Roarke demanded. He looked at his Treo. He’d dialed the right number, but a stranger answered.

“First, who are you?” came the reply from a very serious sounding man.

Roarke strained to hear the ambient noise in the background. There was a good deal of conversation and the distinctive wail of sirens.

“I’m calling for my friend who was supposed to meet me last night.”

“And who exactly is your friend?”

Roarke suddenly sensed that it was the kind of question a police officer asks, especially when the answer isn’t known.

“He’s a reporter for
The New York Times
.”

“Oh?”

A cop, he thought. “Michael O’Connell. What’s happened to him?”

“You say you’re a friend? What kind of friend?”

Roarke wasn’t sure he wanted to say quite yet. “Look, you’ve answered O’Connell’s phone. This is his number. You’re not him, so how about explaining who you are first.”

There was a slight pause, then the man spoke. “Coates—NYPD.”

Roarke knew the name. He strained to remember. Coates. Coates! “Detective Harry Coates.” Shit. That was a mistake.

The cop was caught off guard. “You know me?”

Roarke recalled that Coates was one of the investigating officers for the New York Police Department when it looked into one of Cooper’s killings during the campaign. He hit a brick wall with the CIA, but Roarke read the brief and knew a good deal about the 53-year-old policeman. Shit, shit, shit! Roarke said to himself and hung up.

Roarke’s number couldn’t be traced. In fact, it didn’t really exist, but he cursed at his stupidity. Something’s wrong. He needed information quickly. Davis can find out.

Haruku Island
the same time

Komari was satisfied with the way that his men took pleasure torturing the Americans. Even Musaf Atef. The commander’s doubts about his lieutenant disappeared when he delivered a nose-breaking punch to one of the bound and gagged officers.

“See how the Prophet gauges our commitment? If we have the will to inflict pain on Taylor and his thugs, then we are prepared for our destiny: to liberate our land from the Christians.”

“Commander, the Americans will pay a great deal for their leader. Are you certain you want to kill him?” he said over the sound of the shelling.

“Atef, this is not a transaction. There is no monetary gain to be realized. This is fate. Ours and theirs. Listen to their bombs. Are they raining money?”

“No.”

“What kind of negotiations would we have?”

Komari didn’t expect a response. He didn’t get one. “What a shame our prisoners don’t understand the role God has given them. We have become a true army through their deliverance: truer still when we take the president’s head.”

The thought made Atef shiver. A quick death was one thing, but a traditional beheading—especially of the American leader—was another. He bravely called the decision to question. “Commander, should anyone ever find out how he died, they shall search us down to the ends of the earth. But if we execute him as a common criminal—the world will understand that. Our Muslim brothers would welcome us.”

Once again Komari saw weakness that worried him. Perhaps he should be put to the ultimate test. “The Qur’an says, ‘When you clash with unbelieving infidels in battle, strike and overpower them. Thus you are commanded. He lets you fight in order to test you.’ You are a reader of the Holy Qur’an, a true believer of the Prophet, Atef?”

“Yes, commander.” His pulse quickened in anticipation of what Komari was about to demand. “Then it shall be you who proves it, to me, and to all who are witness to your faith.”

Komari went to a hope chest he’d stolen from a fisherman’s wife. He opened it and extracted a long, beautiful ceremonial sword.

“Atef, you are a leader, are you not?”

He would feel one end of the sword or the other.

The Washington Mall
the same time

“There are far too few,” Duke Patrick proclaimed to the marchers—all 2.4 million of them. Another 46 million people watched on TV and listened on the radio. The speaker stood alone on a stage in front of the Capitol. The platform was decorated only with American flags—fifty of them. They waved in the background, providing an animated backdrop for the cameras.

Patrick hid his anger for Lamden and his hatred of Taylor. For now, he would be a statesman. One day soon he would have his revenge.

“Too few. Too few great generals—defenders of our freedom—have become commander in chief. Yes, George Washington, Ulysses S. Grant, and Dwight Eisenhower. But do you remember the others: William Harrison, Rutherford B. Hayes, James A. Garfield, Chester A. Arthur, Benjamin Harrison…”

The crowd sensed where he was going with his run of names. Applause began to build.

“…Andrew Jackson, Franklin Pierce, Andrew Johnson, and Taylor. Oh, but not Morgan Taylor—he was only a commander.” His line got a laugh. “I’m talking about Zachary Taylor. Twelve great men. Twelve extraordinary generals. Throughout our history, America has depended on men who are willing to lay down their lives for us. America has stood behind twelve exceptional military leaders in the past. We can make it thirteen! Are you ready?”

The crowd roared back with a booming “Yes!” that crescendoed across the Mall.

“Are you ready to send a signal to every city and town, every county, and every state that it is time for a new American revolution, the way the Founding Fathers intended…where the Constitution can be re-written?”

“Yes!” echoed the marchers.

“I’m ready, too!” That was Patrick’s personal ad-lib.

“Yes!”

“We are at the dawn of a new day. We have in our midst a different kind of man; a true leader; a real hero who can usher in a new era of greatness we, as Americans, deserve. Are you ready for that day?”

“Yes!”

“Did you see the dawning light?”

“Yes!”

“Are you prepared to welcome the future?”

“Yes!”

“Then I give you the man to take us there. Ladies and gentlemen assembled here…and to all Americans across the country, that future begins now with United States Marine Corps General Robert Woodley Bridgeman!”

Thunderous shouts filled the air as the general walked onto the stage. He wore a sharply tailored blue suit; his white shirt was set off by a bold red tie. Bridgeman fit in perfectly with the flags.

Duke Patrick shook his hand and hugged the general. The stage belonged to the man Elliott Strong catapulted to national attention, but in wake of the day’s news, he shared it with Duke Patrick. Bridgeman saluted and extended his arms in appreciation. The crowd cheered for another three minutes.

Lebanon, Kansas

Elliott Strong watched a TV monitor on a bookshelf across the room and described the scene to his listeners as if he were there. He made special note of the injustice Patrick suffered and the way Bridgeman would correct it. And he smiled.

Chicago, Illinois
the same time

“The car is in front.”

“What?” Gonzales slid off a pair of earphones and turned down his Walkman. He was listening to Strong.

“We’re ready.”

“Thank you,” Gonzales told his man, Roger Alley, the former Ali Razak—the Miami man wanted by the FBI. “The rest of the suitcases are on my bed. Get them.”

“Certainly, Mr. Gonzales.” The name was finally coming automatically to him. He wondered if it would change again now that they were on the move. “And your computer drive?”

“Take it. Did you double check with the cleaning crew?”

The bodyguard had. He also confirmed that movers would be arriving in another hour. By midnight, the luxurious condo would be empty and wiped clean. A bank would handle the sale.

“Then let’s go.”

Gonzales breezed through the lobby without a word to the building guard at the front desk. He was happy to be heading to a warmer climate and out of the United States, where soon there would be hell to pay.

The Washington Mall

“Thank you, Congressman Patrick,” Bridgeman began. The nation saw the two men together. “You are a true American, who like everyone here today, deserves far better. We’ll see that day together.”

The crowd cheered again for the duke and the general. The opening line gave further credence to the rumor circulating the country: A Bridgeman-Patrick ticket would be on the ballot. Patrick waved for the cameras and left, as ordered. Now it was time for Bridgeman to get to his prepared remarks. He did so with great gusto.

“America—our defenses are down,” Bridgeman said quietly. The powerful opening salvo surprised the crowd. It instantly silenced them. “Our defenses are down. They are down to nothing. These are not the technological defenses that protect our skies. No, they’re the defenses that protect our God-given personal freedoms. Those defenses have eroded to nothingness, not by enemies from foreign lands, but from those at home who seek to destroy our way of life.”

In another time, Bridgeman could have been inspiring the colonial army to cross the Delaware, or the American forces to take the beaches at Normandy. He was that kind of leader: inspiring and charismatic. Soon he might lead America’s voters to the polling booth for another victory. For without announcing his intentions, John Bridgeman was already the people’s candidate. He was preaching to the converted in a populist movement where people believed that America was being destroyed from within.

“But there is hope,” General Bridgeman continued, “Because of you. The torn fabric of ideas, the fading words on the parchment are replaced by the strength of your presence. The heart of our nation boldly beats again because of you. So, right here, right now, in this very place, we stand together and pledge ourselves to a new American revolution. And no one will be able to rise above our defenses!”

The multitude, which had remained utterly silent, suddenly broke into a deafening cheer that eclipsed anything in Washington’s history.

As Richard Cooper listened to the radio coverage, the intensity of the moment, the mood of the crowd, the very feel of the event took him back a year earlier, when he was peering out of a hotel room in Hudson, New York. He shouldered a Galil sniper rifle then. He remembered the ease at which he set up his shot. That day, his target was merely fifty yards away. It wasn’t a matter of sharp shooting as much as timing. His view was partially obstructed. It was only when Congressman Teddy Lodge moved that he had the clear shot of his target.

He remembered listening to the cadence of Lodge’s speech. At the appropriate moment in his delivery, the congressman bowed his head forward. That’s when Cooper pulled the trigger and Jennifer Lodge breathed her last. Pandemonium replaced calm that day in the small upstate New York community. No one suspected—at least for months—that the candidate wasn’t the target. The deception worked that day, as another one would today.

Cooper smiled and listened to the rambling of another would-be president.