The Labyrinth Campaign (18 page)

After what seemed to Kate like an eternity, she ended her show and casually glanced toward the guard. At the appropriate moment, her body dramatically jerked in acknowledgement of the presence of someone else. She casually waved toward the guard and began a slow, seductive walk in his direction. He didn’t move, mesmerized by the fact that his first human encounter since he arrived was an attractive woman in a swimsuit.

As she continued her slow, deliberate approach, Jack began his own approach from behind. Just as Kate was about to speak to the guard, not knowing what else to do, Jack pounced. His first shot to the neck, the one that had incapacitated the guard’s partner not twenty minutes earlier, did not have the same effect. The man in the suit swung around in fury, ready to take on whatever had just hit him.

Jack squared up in his start position, awaiting the guard’s first move. What he didn’t expect was a physical response that communicated his opponent was also skilled at the martial arts. What took place over the next forty seconds looked like a fight straight out of a Bruce Lee movie. Hands and feet were flying more quickly than the eye could follow. Most
blows were blocked, with an occasional hand or foot connecting with its target.

Kate watched in fear, unable to move a muscle to help Jack in this brutal battle. All at once, the action stopped as Jack fell to his knees, obviously the victim of an intense blow to the midsection or somewhere nearby. As the man in the suit smiled and slowly approached Jack for the final blow, Jack suddenly sent a two-fisted uppercut to his groin. He doubled over, and Jack directed a savage, two-fisted blow to his jaw. He crumpled to the ground in a heap of black suit.

Jack and Kate exchanged glances and, without speaking a word, began to move the guard’s massive body toward the lake house. Once inside, the two quickly tied his hands and feet in a manner similar to his partner. Once complete, the two checked their first conquest and were pleasantly surprised that the knots had actually tightened as planned when the guard struggled to get free.

As the two exited the front door, Jack turned to the one conscious guard, grinned, and said, “There’s food in the fridge if you get hungry.” He closed the door as Kate was already reaching toward the passenger door of her unmarked car. “Wait,” Jack said, “they may have rigged the car. Besides, every Texas Ranger from here to Oklahoma will be looking for the fugitives in the unmarked police car.”

The two fugitives scurried to the black Lincoln Town Car and drove down the dirt road toward their destiny. Less than twenty seconds into their trip, Kate let out a scream.

Jack slammed on the brakes, yelling, “What’s the matter?”

Kate turned the front page of the
Free Press
toward Jack. He had forgotten, with the rest of the morning’s events, that she had not yet seen her mug on the front page of the Sunday paper.

He responded, “Nice shots, huh?” and continued to drive.

“I can’t believe this is fucking happening,” Kate groaned.

They discussed their plan as they drove. President Hughes had a trip planned to Vail, Colorado, for a little vacation. His mentor from his first term in Congress, Gerald Ford, had originally introduced him to the splendors of the Vail Valley many years ago. During his time as
president, Vail had become to him what Key West had been to Truman and what Cape Cod had been to Kennedy.

Jack and Kate’s plan was to get to Colorado and somehow find a way to meet with him. But, first things first. They had to find another car, switch plates to be safe, and get some cash. They were hoping to find someone to cash a check; that would take longer to trace than a credit card. Once that was done, they would drive the twelve-plus hours to Colorado and meet the president of the United States. They both started to laugh hysterically … like that was going to be an easy meeting to get set up.

G
reg Larson walked to the end of the driveway of his modest Lakewood home. It was rare for him, but he had slept until almost 9:45 on a glorious Sunday morning. As he settled in to perform his weekly ritual of reading the Sunday
Free Press
cover to cover, the front page caught his attention. The photos of Jack McCarthy and Kate Anson immediately piqued his interest. This was the same Jack McCarthy who just yesterday was relegated to page two of the Metro section. Now he was front-page news and on the run with a Dallas Police Department homicide detective. It was getting more and more intriguing.

Larson devoured the story of the Will Hawkins aide, allegedly involved in a major drug trafficking organization. The violent way McCarthy’s girlfriend had died, coupled with the midday shooting in downtown Dallas, sickened Larson. But at the same time, the adrenaline rush associated with the fact that he was on to something big left him almost giddy. He now had the ammunition he was desperately searching for. One fact was front-page news. The other, the fact that Carlos Pendrill was Will Hawkins’s roommate, so far had not surfaced. He could not believe his luck. But much of the luck could actually be attributed to John Sterling, the ’60s-throwback researcher who was the best he had ever worked with.

Larson knew in his heart the time had come. It was time to contact John Rollins and request a one-on-one interview with Will Hawkins. He would obviously have to deceive Rollins, telling him that as hard as he’d tried, no good dirt was uncovered on the fine senator. Assuming the Democrats agreed (and he knew they would), he would proceed with what appeared to be a standard interview. Then, without any hint of aggression, he would hit Will Hawkins with both barrels. He was imagining the conversation.

“Senator, is it true that the fugitive Jack McCarthy was a key part of your staff?”

He could hear the answer as if he were clairvoyant.

“Yes, Greg, he was. And no one was more shocked than I at Jack’s alleged extracurricular activities.”

“Well, Senator, is it also true that the world’s most ruthless drug kingpin was your roommate and confidant in graduate school?”

Larson could picture the look on Hawkins’s face. It would be priceless in more ways than one. But for now, some breakfast. He was famished.

Will Hawkins was at his best in front of a crowd. For a Sunday morning campaign stop in Austin, the throng of three thousand faithful supporters was considered by most political pundits to be absolutely massive. Senator Hawkins was not one to miss an opportunity. As he extolled the virtues of his policies, with the economy, drug enforcement, and the environment getting most of the attention, the crowd cheered endlessly.

His staff was waiting in the wings, watching with pride as Will ended his rousing speech with a stirring quote: “If I am elected president, I assure you that I will not sleep until we’ve amputated the hands that feed drugs to our children.”

The crowd roared as Will stepped down from the podium.

As Ian had predicted, Will’s next move was to approach the crowd that was chanting, “Hawkins, Hawkins, Hawkins.” Ian’s plan was perfect, and he was prepared, having dreamt of this confrontational moment for
a long time. As the senator inched toward the rail where he had been pressed by the surging crowd, Ian coolly revealed the sign he had carefully created the night before. It wasn’t long before one of Hawkins’s staff spotted the sign reading, “The Hawkins Administration will change the world” and began subtly moving Will in that direction. As Will approached, Ian took the note from his pants pocket, ready to slip it to the senator. The moment had finally arrived. Will Hawkins locked eyes with the sign-wielding supporter, recognizing the momentary sensation that they had somehow met previously. But before he could ask the question, the two men were shaking hands, and Will realized the man had slipped him a note.

Ian leaned toward Will ever so slightly and said, “I think you’d prefer to read that later. And I’m quite sure you’ll find it interesting.”

Will looked at the man with the British accent, intrigued at his brashness. But just as quickly as it happened, Will shrugged, put the note in his pocket, and moved on. Ian smiled to himself and worked his way through the crowd back toward the Driskill.

The four Mexican Nationals, who just days earlier had crossed the US-Mexico border with enough firepower to conquer a third-world nation, now sat in a small, clean motel room in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, biding their time until evening. And what an evening it would be. This day marked the beginning of the ecological reign of terror envisioned by Sen. Will Hawkins and executed by the ruthless criminal network of Carlos Pendrill. In the minds of the terrorists, the clock was moving at a snail’s pace. It felt as if 9:00 p.m. would never arrive. This was the moment they had trained for around the clock for the past several weeks.

The plan was complete and impeccably detailed; all that was left was the waiting. At approximately 9:00 p.m., the truck carrying toxic waste from the mining site in Utah would pass through Glenwood Springs on its way to a disposal site in Northern New Mexico. It was a relatively simple mission. When the truck stopped at the weigh station in
Glenwood Springs just prior to entering the famed Glenwood Canyon, it would be delayed by a well-compensated attendant. During the delay, two of Pendrill’s henchmen would sneak under the truck and attach a small device to the right front tire. The device, a plastic explosive with remote detonation capability, was designed to separate the front wheel and tire from the axle, causing the truck to severely lurch to the right in a canyon that left little room for driver error.

By 8:40 the terrorists were on the move. As they pulled to within visual range of the weigh station, they shut off the headlights. The two men in the back silently exited the car and disappeared into the darkness. At 8:57 the truck with a full load of toxic waste pulled into the station, just as they had planned. Fifteen minutes later, without a single contingency plan requiring execution, the two terrorists returned to their vehicle. Phase I of their plan had been completed; now it was time to wait.

Ten minutes later the semi left the weigh station heading east on I-70 into Glenwood Canyon. The terrorists followed approximately a half-mile behind. The timing of the plan was extremely tight, and flawless execution was mandatory. The woman in the front passenger seat was calculating the truck’s speed and the timing at which it would be in the detonation zone.

The group only had a three-second window to detonate and ensure maximum effectiveness. “Forty-five seconds,” the woman spoke in perfect English. The man sitting directly behind the woman held the remote detonator softly, with his thumb poised above the detonate button. She began her countdown. “Ten, nine, eight, seven,” as the man waited for the word fire. At the split second that she spoke the first syllable, the man pushed the button. The small explosion was immediate and highly visible, even from a half mile back. What happened next seemed to take an eternity. The truck lurched right, then the tank began to swing back and forth, causing all four terrorists to hold their collective breath. Just as the truck appeared to be slowing and not sliding toward the steep embankment that led to the river, the tank flipped and flew over the guardrail, dragging the cab with it. The entire truck rolled two more times and landed squarely on some large boulders at the bank of the Colorado
River, splitting the tank and spilling its poisonous contents into the longest river west of the Continental Divide.

The terrorists grinned with the satisfaction of a job well done. Little did they know or care that within an hour, half the country would be appalled by the tragedy and searching for someone to blame it on. All they knew was that Phase I of a four-phase process had been successfully completed. Their boss would be pleased.

T
he Monday morning meeting in Will Hawkins’s office had all the ingredients of a national crisis: phones ringing, multiple newscasts playing on the wall of TVs, advisers running in with updates, and the candidate’s top adviser, John Rollins, sitting across the desk from him as he took a call from the leader of arguably the most powerful special interest group in the country.