The Fury and the Terror (58 page)

Her boss was Lieutenant General Royce Destrahan, in charge of the U.S. Special Operations Command, which had jurisdiction over all of the armed forces' elite military units. These included Shyla's group and the Navy's SEALs. Destrahan also was Buck Hannafin's son-in-law. One of the other two men with them was Nick Grella of the Secret Service, who knew all of the security arrangements at Big Country Ranch. The last man was a Special Forces noncom, the best long-range sniper in the Army.

"Good place for a BASE jump," Courtney commented when they reached the cliff she had selected for their reconnaissance. "Watch your footing, everyone. Follow the mule."

The huge cliff, with a pitch of twelve degrees, was more than four thousand feet above the valley floor. The footing was mostly loose talus rock partly held in place by bear grass and huckleberry. There was enough sun-dappled lodgepole and spruce growing there to afford concealment if anyone was looking their way through binoculars.

Destrahan had studied satellite photos of the Big Country Ranch layout, but he wanted to see if MORG had installed any surprises. Courtney Shyla unpacked the telescope the mule had carried up and installed the fork mount on a field tripod. The twelve-inch Astro-type scope was motor-driven and could pick out a tenth magnitude smudge in the sky. Aimed toward the ranch, the lenses magnified a barbed-wire scar on a cow's behind at ten thousand yards. Courtney hooked up the telescope to a CCD camera, a laptop computer, and an ink-jet printer.

The sniper had a pair of 40X150 Japanese-made, military-spec binoculars to do his own reconnaissance. Buck was frowned at by Courtney the ecologist, and guiltily put it away. Nick Grella labeled the photos as they came from the printer.

"Did you ever rodeo?" Buck asked Courtney.

She swatted a biting fly away from one cheek. "Yes, sir. I was Little Britches' National Champ three years in a row before I got more interested in boys than barrel-racing."

"While you were working summers at the Broken Wheel, did you ever get over to Big Country?"

"No, sir, never did, they kept me too busy where I was."

Buck smiled. Down at the meadow she had taken off the wig of dark abundant curls that was part of her cowgirl pose. The wig was hot and made her sweat. He assumed that the severe military bob of her natural hair was necessary in her line of work, but damn she sure had been something special in all those curls.

"So nobody over there would know you, didn't date any of the cowboys?"

"No, sir."

Buck nodded vaguely, watched a couple of golden kestrels riding a thermal. Then he said, "If you boys have had yourself a good enough look, listen up here for a minute." When he had their full attention Buck looked at his son-in-law. "Just give me the bottom line, Royce."

"It can be done."

The sniper said with deadpan relish, "Fifteen hundred yards downrange, night, moving targets. Affirm, initial phase is do-able, sir."

"Well, sure; but done tidy, or done with a whole lot of unnecessary bloodshed on both sides? Seems to me that when you attack their perimeter, the perimeter collapses around 'Rawhide,' and he's hustled forthwith into that rockbound shelter. Which there is no way to breech without putting his life in jeopardy. Am I telling you true?"

"That's the way it works," Nick Grella said.

"Buck, it's all in how you coordinate the strike! There are multiple assault points, from the ground and the air simultaneously. Casualties, I can't sugarcoat that. Eight, maybe ten of ours.
All
of theirs, guarantee. I don't hold MORG's Elite Force in such high regard."

"And if one of them has instructions to turn his weapon on the President at the first indication of trouble?"

General Destrahan took a breath, let it out, finally nodded.

"That's the drag coefficient we can't afford."

"So maybe the best way to get Clint out of there is not to mount a hellfire assault, but to work stealthy from the inside. Inside the house, where they all feel the most secure. Those guys guarding the First Family are new on the job. Whatever Rona was thinking when she put MORG in charge of the POTUS detail, experience still counts. Isn't that a fact, Nick? So what is the most relaxed time of the day for most folks? Right around supper, dark-thirty, after the happy hour."

"Oh, no, Buck. No, no, no, I couldn't face Reggie if she found out that I let her father—"

"Why not? Has to be
me
, Royce. For certain you're not goin' in there with all your hard-ass ninja types. Or even by yourself. They'll scope General Royce Destrahan two hundred yards from the front door. 'Sorry, sir, the President and Mrs. Harvester are indisposed, we'll let them know you paid them a call.' On the other hand—" Buck looked at Courtney Shyla. "We fix up the major here with a pair of horn-rims and a cell phone; I can pass her off as one of my staff."

"Doesn't matter, Mrs. Harvester won't let you in either."

"Yes she will. Know why? Because Rona's cooking up something big, and I'm the fly in her souffle. What is it the old Mafia hands used to say? Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. Hell, it'll make Rona's day to see me on her doorstep."

"With what? You'll never get a weapon past them. This isn't a good idea, Buck. Now let's get serious about—"

"General Destrahan?"

"Yes, Major?"

"Begging the General's pardon, but I believe Senator Hannafin's idea has merit."

"Major, I've already—"

"Let her talk, Royce."

Destrahan nodded, but folded his arms.

"Well, sir, there wouldn't be any need to try to get a gun into the house, because I'm sure there are some inside already. Although probably not close by while everyone is having dinner. The element of surprise is central to all of our operations. I know that at some point I would have an opportunity to—obtain a gun from one of the MORG guys." She smiled. "Once I have one, then I'll have them all. Sir."

"She's making sense to me, Royce," Buck Hannafin said. "And you told me not two hours ago that you had a lot of confidence in this young woman."

"I have confidence in a well-made plan with second and third options. If even a single shot is fired inside that house, the game is lost."

Courtney Shyla responded by pulling a prehistoric obsidian knife from a boot scabbard. She passed one edge of the knife through a hanging alder leaf. The leaf barely stirred on the branch as it was sliced in two.

"Whisper-quiet, sir."

"We're gonna be a hell of a team," Buck said, beaming.

"Buck, nothing personal, but you're not as fast as you used to be."

"You haven't seen me on a dance floor lately. It's footwork, not foot speed that counts. Audacity and a little pluck can succeed where an entire company of Rangers might fail. I just have a bad feeling. Therefore I'm invitin' myself to dinner tonight at the western White House. Be nice to have your approval, Royce; but as you well know it ain't essential."

Destrahan chewed over the proposition, looking from Buck to Courtney Shyla. He couldn't completely sell himself, but finally he nodded his concession.

"All right, Major. I'll agree that you can probably pull it off, up to a point. How do you get the President out of there, and into safe hands?"

"Well—I think—we declare a medical emergency, sir. POTUS has a fainting spell, vertigo or something. A little chloral hydrate would do the trick."

"Go on."

Courtney looked at Nick Grella. "Which hospital in the area has been prepped to receive the President in case of an accident or sudden illness?"

"Bozeman. Twelve minutes by chopper. Medevac team from Mountain Home Air Force Base. The helicopter is on the pad at Deaconness Hospital. The team includes a cardiologist and a flight surgeon, and they're on twenty-four-hour call."

"Once the President is at the hospital, a Secret Service team already in place can seal it off from everyone, including MORG, long enough for the psychiatric exam to be completed."

"Okay," Destrahan said. "Here's my part of it. A diversionary thrust at the perimeter on Major Shyla's signal from inside the house. We'll make it look like right-wing nutballs operating out of the back of a pickup truck."

"Aw-dacious," Buck said admiringly.

"Still leaves a hell of a lot of variables. Not the least of which is the First Lady."

Buck's attention seemed to wander. He reached absently for the cigar that Courtney Shyla had disapproved of earlier, twiddled it between his fingers, took out his cutter and trimmed one end, fished for a kitchen match that he struck on one of the hand-tooled silver studs that ran down the sides of his leather chaps. He took his time, putting on a show that had everyone's attention, looking smug as only a man lighting a fifty-dollar cigar can look. He took a few puffs. Then he spoke.

"As for Miss Rona—Fate does have a way of taking a hand," he said.

NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE • JUNE 7 • 11:20 A.M. CDT

W
hen Eden, Tom Sherard, and Bertie Nkambe reached the Beloved Souls Church three blocks up West End from their hotel, they lingered outside while Bertie freshened their trail by peeping two churchgoers as they walked up the steps. She had done this a couple of times already, in the lobby of the hotel and during the short walk to church. The blue-haired lady she peeped first was oblivious, but her husband paused and looked around uneasily through thick glasses. Bertie smiled at him. Poor guy. Needed a new liver, but he was far down on the transplant list. Both of their minds were on miracles today.

Eden got in the way of three teenagers who were chatting and didn't see her. She faked a stumble down the steps and one of the boys rescued her. Eden clung to him for a few seconds, laughing, apologetic, then let him go when she'd seen enough, left her own signature for the MMF to pick up. Nice kid. Born-again, but he'd slipped with his girlfriend last night and had a brand-new sin on his conscience after being forgiven for the old ones. He also had a slight nosebleed as he rejoined his friends, and that was on Eden's conscience. She didn't have Bertie's ability to read an aura from a distance or overwhelm another's mind with her
chi
. If an incipient event was powerful and close enough in time she could visualize it. But in order to read a human being, a power that had been revealed to her during the phenomenal stress of recent days and extraordinary events, she had to rely on touch. The paranormal energy she channeled wasn't controllable yet. She had been taught that during her Dreamtime she was dangerous to the susceptible. Which, unfortunately, didn't include trained telepaths and Mind-Fuckers.

She looked at Tom Sherard.

"You're sure you want to do this?" he asked.

Eden showed him the clenched jaw and determined fist from team huddles during close basketball games.
Just give me the ball and box-out
. "I can handle it. I've had some practice, remember? Let's smoke out the rats."

She put on the jogger's blue headband Bertie had given to her at the hotel. It seemed a little out of place with her pleated skirt and silk blouse.

The church buildings were new; the style of the sanctuary, which smelled agreeably of recently completed carpentry and acres of paint, could only be described as avant-Biblical. The sanctuary was soaring steel and glass with stained-glass skylights that featured doves of peace. Vermilion pile carpeting throughout. A painted crucifix twenty feet high, mid-Renaissance in concept and execution, hung from the topmost point of the vaulted ceiling like a chime in a clock cabinet. Jesus and the cross were turning slowly; one complete turn might take several minutes. It was a startling sight.

"New Testament Baptists," Eden whispered for Sherard's benefit. "The Old Testament is a hard sell these days."

There was a resounding organ with tiers of pipes and a ninety-voice choir behind the altar. Seating was theater style. The service was being televised locally and taped for a Sunday-night showing on the Trinity Broadcasting Network, which had a banner hanging from the balcony.

Apparently the eleven-thirty was the big draw of the three worship services offered on Sundays. Most of the thirty-five hundred seats were already full, but they hadn't planned to sit together. Eden was ushered to a seat on the left-side aisle six rows from the altar. Bertie went up to the balcony. Sherard chose standing room at the back of the first floor, although a young girl, seeing the man with a cane, offered him her seat. He thanked her, explained he was waiting for someone.

Nice people in Nashville
, he thought. His skin was quite cold and his mouth was dry. Everything was at risk,
right now
. If they failed, they were likely to be vaporized or burnt to the quick along with a sizable chunk of the population. No way to know how much time was left: a day, an hour, a minute. He looked down toward the altar and saw the blue headband. Eden's head was bowed in prayer. Sherard had no gods to pray to. All he had was a rather shaky faith in Eden Waring and in the other young woman he loved. And he had a gun, tight against his side beneath his suit coat. It made him feel all the more futile, considering the powers that might soon be unleashed inside this sanctuary.