The Labyrinth Campaign (20 page)

Greg Larson was sitting in his favorite leather chair sipping a cold Coors Light, flipping through the channels mindlessly, when the phone rang. He quickly grabbed his cell phone off the coffee table, expecting to hear from John Sterling, the researcher he’d been waiting for his entire career.

“Hello.”

“Greg, this is John Rollins, chief of staff for the Will Hawkins presidential campaign.”

Larson immediately sat up in his chair, thinking to himself, No shit, everyone in town knows who John Rollins is. “Yes, Mr. Rollins. What can I do for you?”

“You can start by calling me John. But more important is what you can do for me and the Will Hawkins presidential campaign.”

“And what might that be?”

“After significant discussion throughout the senior ranks of the campaign, we’ve come to the conclusion that you are the perfect person to do an exclusive interview series with Senator Hawkins.”

Inside, Larson’s excitement could barely be contained. But, he knew it was imperative that he stay cool. “Go on, John. I’m listening.

“Well, that’s really the headline, Greg. We’ve been following your
Free Press
series on the senator, and based on everything we’ve seen, you appear to be the perfect person to inform the world about the political platform that will lead this country to a new level of economic and ecological prosperity.”

The hair on the back of Larson’s neck stood on end as he listened to Rollins’s bullshit. “I’ve got to tell you, John, I’ve never been so offended. I am nobody’s puppet. And if you think I’m going to be led to a preconceived conclusion by you and your fucking campaign, you are sorely mistaken.”

“Greg, you are a Pulitzer Prize winner. I never intended to imply a specific slant on your story. It’s just that everything we’ve seen from you so far has been so positive.”

“Well, to tell you the truth, that’s all I’ve found. If there was anything negative that came up in my research, I would have told that side of the story as well. And having said that, as long as you understand that I write stories based on facts and what I believe the general public wants or needs to know, then I’d be honored to have an exclusive interview with the future president of the United States.” Larson smiled to himself as he continued the sales pitch. “I believe in Senator Hawkins’s platforms and would walk across a mile of broken glass to spend some one-on-one time with him, regardless of the chance to publish a series of stories.”

“Fantastic!” Rollins exclaimed. “That’s what I was hoping to hear. Now here’s what we’d like to propose. Thursday morning at 8:00 a.m., Senator Hawkins’s private jet will be leaving Love Field headed to Eagle County Airport in Colorado. The senator is planning to spend a few quiet days in the mountains to get some much-needed rest. We’d like you to accompany us on the trip. It should give you an inside look at the senator, his staff, and the inner workings of his campaign. Now, the senator is admittedly wound up pretty tight. So the interview process can’t begin until Saturday morning. So, if your schedule doesn’t allow a Thursday departure, then we can arrange for you to arrive Friday evening as an alternative.”

“No, no,” Larson quickly responded. “I wouldn’t miss this opportunity for the world.”

“Great, then plan on being at Hangar 7 on the private-jet side of Love Field around 7:30 Thursday morning. It’s just off Mockingbird and Lemmon. You’ll see the entrance.”

“Got it,” Larson responded. “Looking forward to it.”

“As are we,” Rollins said. “Goodbye.”

As Rollins hung up the phone, he smiled to himself. Finally, something that had gone according to plan.

Greg Larson also was smiling to himself. His plan, too, was taking shape. An exclusive interview with the front-running Democratic candidate coupled with exclusive information that would change the face of the upcoming election. Larson couldn’t help but think once more about how interesting it was going to be to see Will Hawkins’s reaction when he asked him about his relationship with Carlos Pendrill. Then, before he had time to recover, he’d hit him again with a question surrounding his relationship with Jack McCarthy, his fugitive aide. An ex-roommate who was the world’s most notorious drug trafficker, an ex-aide implicated in drug trafficking, the murder of the aide’s girlfriend, and a shooting outside the Dallas Police Department … this truly was going to be an interview to remember.

D
oug Flannery, the deputy director of South Carolina’s Charleston Nuclear Facility, had just pulled into a dingy Motel 6 approximately thirty miles from the power plant. Flannery had been approached the night before at the Roadkill Bar, where he often stopped for a beer after work. The handsome, articulate Hispanic man who had approached him suggested that they meet regarding an opportunity to make an astronomical sum of money. After agonizing most of the night, Flannery decided to hear the man out. He knew whatever the opportunity was, to make big money, it had to do with his place of employment, and it had to be illegal. But he rationalized to himself that whatever it was, his employer deserved it. He had recently been passed over for a promotion to director of the facility, and he was still bitter.

Flannery knocked on the door of room 112 and was promptly greeted by the man he had met the night before. There were two other men and a woman also in the room. Flannery shuddered as he suddenly realized that he could be in significant danger. His fears, however, were quickly diminished as the man assured him there was nothing to worry about and motioned him toward a makeshift work space in the corner of the room. Two of the men sat down with him at the table. The other man and the woman looked on with interest, sitting on the edge of the double bed.

“Mr. Flannery, can we get you anything to drink?” asked his acquaintance from the previous evening.

“I’d love a beer if you have one,” Flannery replied.

With one nod from the leader, the man sitting on the bed went to the cooler under the sink and brought Flannery a bottle.

“Thanks,” Flannery said, nodding to the man. “Now, what do you fine people have on your mind?”

“Well,” the leader began, “it’s really quite simple. We’ve been asked to create a situation at your facility, and after extensive research, we found that you might be a person who would be willing to help us.”

Flannery bristled at the arrogance in the man’s voice. “One, what makes you think I’d help? Two, what research led you to this conclusion? And three, what the fuck do you mean by ‘a situation’?”

“Calm down, Mr. Flannery. This is an opportunity, not an inquisition. We are simply proposing a mutually beneficial partnership. As for why you’ve been identified as a candidate for this partnership, you’ve spent the last three weeks at the Roadkill Bar bad-mouthing your employer for passing you over for a promotion. We simply happened to have been in the right place at the right time and overheard some of what you had to say.”

Flannery took a deep breath and nodded. “Okay, what do you have in mind?”

“Well,” the leader responded, “we’ve been retained to create a minor meltdown at a US nuclear facility. We’ve chosen your facility for its rural location, hoping to minimize any long-term damage to the environment and any significant impact on the local population.”

Flannery’s mouth gaped open. “You want to create a minor meltdown? There’s no such thing! Any meltdown is catastrophic. You must be fucking crazy.” Flannery started to get up, but the other man at the table put a powerful hand on his shoulder, easing him back into his chair.

“Don’t be so hasty, Mr. Flannery,” the leader continued. “For your help in this endeavor we are prepared to pay you $250,000.”

Flannery sagged in his chair. He didn’t know what to say. Part of him couldn’t believe the luck of being included. The other part of him knew
that, should he participate, it would be one of the most infamous terrorist acts in American history. The room was silent. Finally, the terrorist leader spoke.

“The plan is quite simple. We will provide you a very ingenious incendiary device. This device will have remote detonation capability, and, once detonated, it will spill a very powerful acid compound that will ultimately eat through any metallic material in its way. Now if our information is correct …” While the terrorist leader continued to explain, he nodded to his partner across the table who then unfolded a very detailed blueprint of the nuclear facility.

“How did you get this document?” Flannery asked in amazement. “This blueprint is classified level 4. You must know someone in some very influential circles.”

The leader ignored the interruption. “We believe if the device is placed right here,” the leader pointed with his index finger, “sometime between three and four hours later, the acid will melt right through the system to the core. And, well, Mr. Flannery … you know the rest of the story better than we do.”

Flannery stared at the blueprint in silence. $250,000 tax-free … That would be a pretty good trade for getting passed over for promotion by those SOBs …

He mumbled, “Can I sleep on it?”

“I’m sorry, but no. Our timeline is very tight, and if we’ve misread your unhappiness with your employer, then we’ll have to go to Plan B.”

The tone of the voice used by the leader sent shivers down Flannery’s spine, and the silence that ensued seemed like an eternity. Finally Flannery whispered, “I’m in.”

The lead terrorist spent the next ten minutes explaining the simple plan in detail. He finished by explaining how the transfer of money would take place and how Flannery would meet them in the same room one hour after the accident first made the news. The account number, account password, and other relevant documents would be handed off
with the expectation that they would never see or hear from him again. Flannery said he understood.

The woman terrorist who had barely been noticed throughout the discussion came forward. She laid the incendiary device on the card table, and in the next two minutes, she very efficiently and effectively explained the placement of the device. When she was finished, Flannery left without another word.

David Ellis took the stage at the National Conference for The Future State Foundation. The 1,500 or so foundation faithful had arrived at Exhibit Hall J of the San Francisco Convention Center nearly two hours earlier. After a reception where the wine and beer were flowing freely and Ellis had pulled a no-show, the throng of fervent supporters was primed to hear from their charismatic leader.

As the cheers rang out for more than a minute, Ellis continually raised his hands over his head, trying to quiet the crowd. Finally, a break in the roar allowed him to begin. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for being here. First, I must apologize for not attending the reception earlier this evening. Two days ago, my intention was to spend time with all of you, the greatest political movement this country has seen since the civil rights marches of the 1960s.”

With that, the crowd erupted again. Another break allowed him to continue. “As I was saying, my original goal was to spend time with all of you, but that was before the travesty that took place in Colorado just forty-eight hours ago. This tragedy, and I don’t use that term lightly, changed the face of ecological politics forever. The foundation, a result of our collective passion for the future of this country, has known for some time that an accident of this type was just around the corner. Our current administration has ignored us. And they have ignored our children’s opportunity for a better future.”