A Triple Thriller Fest (15 page)

“Coast Guard,” Granata said. “We’re pretty far north for a drug interdiction run.”

“They seem to be following in our wake. If they’re looking for us, maybe we should drop the kite.”

“Right,” Granata nodded.

Pug moved forward and released the halyard, dropping the spinnaker. He hastily pulled it in, hand over hand, before it could be sucked under and become fouled beneath the keel. The Coast Guard cutter pulled along Granata’s port side and slowed her advance. An officer in a gray foul-weather jacket came out of the bridge and raised a bullhorn.

“Is Judge Granata aboard?” he inquired.

Granata raised his arm, acknowledging.

“Your Honor, please stand by to heave to,” the officer shouted.

With a bit of maneuvering, the cutter pulled alongside and threw a line, securing the two vessels close aboard.

“Sir, I’m Lieutenant Sparks,” the officer said, standing outside the cutter’s small bridge. “We’ve been asked to see you safely ashore, where a helicopter is waiting to transport you to Camp David. Would you care to come aboard, sir?”

“I’ll come about, Lieutenant, and return to port,” Granata said.

“Sir, I’ve been instructed to transport you and your guest as quickly as possible, if you please. We can man your craft, with your permission, of course.”

“What’s the urgency?” Granata asked.

“Sir, all I know is that there’s a helicopter waiting to transport you and Colonel Connor to Camp David.”

Granata looked at Pug.

“Not a clue,” Pug said, shaking his head.

“Sir, permission for one of my officers to come aboard,” Lieutenant Sparks requested.

Granata nodded and waved his arm again.

Another weather-jacketed officer stepped over the sideboard, followed by two deckhands in foul-weather gear. When they were aboard, Granata looked into the face of the young officer.

“Son, you know anything about this class of yacht?”

“Yes, sir. Ensign Scott Argeris. Born on Martha’s Vineyard and crewed two seasons in various international races with Russell Coutts.” The young man smiled. “Plus one run on the Sydney to Hobart, four years ago.”

Granata smiled and relinquished the helm. “Another traitorous Yank gone over to the Kiwis.” He laughed. “Let’s go, Pug. From what I read yesterday, the president was headed up to Camp David for a weekend retreat. He probably got angry when he heard we were going sailing while he had to work.”

“Could be,” Pug said, grabbing his dark-blue Hood sea bag and tossing it to a waiting crewman on the cutter.

“Take her home, son,” Granata said to Ensign Argeris, “and enjoy yourself. It looks as if my sailing is over for the weekend.”

“Yes, sir, Judge,” the ensign smiled. “I’ll take good care of her.”

* * *

Colonel Pug Connor had to think how long it had been since he’d seen the president personally. He’d given briefings the president had attended, but since Pug had completed his tour of duty with the NSA, there had been little direct contact with President William Eastman. He shook his head and grinned. To be literally jerked off the water and flown to Camp David aboard Marine Two seemed a bit theatrical, but everyone knew that one of President Eastman’s trademarks was keeping people off balance.

A three-minute ride in an electric golf cart, driven by a marine in cammies, brought Pug and Granata from the helipad to a rustic log cabin nestled in a stand of pines. Pug knew the place well and experienced a wave of nostalgia as they pulled up in front, thinking about the time he had spent here in the presence of the joint chiefs during a previous Iraqi crisis situation while he was working at the National Security Agency. Ambassador Prescott, General Austin, and the president had been involved on a daily basis in that crisis, and Pug had participated in most of the meetings.

They were met on the porch of the cabin by Clarene Prescott, who for nearly six years had served as national security advisor to the president.

“Well, Colonel Connor, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it? And Judge Granata, it’s good to see you again,” she said, offering her hand to both men.

“It’s been several years, Ambassador Prescott. You’re looking very well,” Granata replied.

Prescott, formerly ambassador to the United Nations and confidante to four sitting presidents of both parties, opened the door to the cabin. Pug and the judge were electronically screened for weapons, and then they stepped into the cabin. The last time Pug had been in a small gathering with the president—an occasion that had occurred in the Oval Office—was when Eastman had, without fanfare or public acclaim, pinned the Silver Star on him for valor in a daring, covert, behind-the-lines operation during the second Gulf war.

President William Eastman entered the room, stepping forward with a bright smile and thanking them for coming.

 “Please have a seat,” Eastman said. “I’ve finally rounded up the Senate votes I need, George. With your permission, we’ll begin the hearings next week to see if we can’t get you in the driver’s seat over at the FBI.”

“I’m still in shock, Mr. President. I was about ready to step aside and let some of the younger jurists handle the load. In fact, I’ve recently purchased a new yacht, and just this morning—”

Eastman nodded. “So I hear. Sorry about that, George. But Colonel Connor here was probably just checking on the American competition with the intent to sell our nautical secrets to his New Zealand kinsmen.”

Granata laughed in reply. “Truth be told, Mr. President, it was the other way around. I was trying to steal
his
racing knowledge.”

Eastman nodded and smiled again at Pug. “What do you think of my choice for FBI director, Pug?”

“It will be good to keep him in the saddle, sir … and
off
the water.” Pug grinned. “In actuality, Judge Granata is one of the finest men I know, as well as a great neighbor. He even cuts his own grass, Mr. President.”

“A shirtsleeve jurist. High praise. Well, then, let’s get the ball rolling. Clarene, if you please,” Eastman said to Prescott, who stood quietly in the corner. “What say we arrange the hearings with Senator Thompson and get the Senate committee in gear?”

“Right away, Mr. President,” she replied.

“And now, Colonel, you’re probably wondering why I asked for you to accompany Director Granata today.”

“I’m at your disposal, of course, sir.”

Eastman stepped to a small table in the corner of the room, where he gathered several pieces of paper before returning to the seating area. His face and body language reflected a more serious demeanor. “In my hand, I have an original, unsigned copy of your resignation from the CIA. I’d appreciate your signature.”

Pug stood silent for a moment, glancing quickly at Granata and then Ambassador Prescott.

“That would come as a surprise, would it not, Pug?” Eastman said seriously.

“Mr. President, uh, I’m not certain …”

Eastman raised his hand, palm facing toward Pug, and nodded.

“Let me finish. Are you familiar with the name Hudson? Commander Avril Hudson?”

Pug thought for a few moments and came up blank.

“Commander Hudson is currently the American military attaché in New Zealand,” the president said.

Pug nodded. “Sorry, Mr. President, I do recall him. I met Commander Hudson about two years ago, I believe. In Wellington.”

“Colonel,” the president said, “in addition to your resignation from the CIA, I have here your appointment as military attaché to the American Embassy, Wellington, New Zealand. I know this is all quite sudden, Pug, and it might appear that I’m putting you out to pasture. In truth, Commander Hudson will remain at his post for another six months or more. You’re heading down that way next week, I understand. For a vacation with your family?”

“Yes, sir. I had planned to be gone four weeks, but—”

The president waved off Pug’s concern. “That will work fine, Colonel. Carry on with those plans. And enjoy yourself while you can. I want you out of sight for awhile. We’ll see to the publicity regarding your new appointment. You’ll return occasionally, for a day or two, in order to meet with Judge Granata and several of his agents. At the right time, I want you back in Sacramento, quietly and with no fanfare. This is not a quick resolution issue, Pug. In some respects, you’ll be involved in law enforcement work rather than military operations. That makes it a slow, tedious process, to gather sufficient information. I want this stopped, but we have the election cycle to consider and time to ferret out the culprits. It won’t be a quick assignment. You will likely spend the better part of the next year digging for worms before you catch your fish.”

Again Pug remained quiet, his expression puzzled. The president turned toward Clarene Prescott. “Clarene, perhaps you can bring the colonel and Judge Granata up to speed.”

“Certainly, Mr. President. Judge Granata, two days ago, Colonel Connor and his contemporaries at the CIA were briefed by one of the FBI’s special agents and an Army CID major regarding the growing insurrection in California. Their briefing was more along the lines of a fact-finding mission … and it came up empty, didn’t it, Colonel Connor?” she asked.

“Madam Ambassador, I still don’t fully understand …”

She nodded. “Grant Sully kept his silence, didn’t he?”

Suddenly Pug understood. “He did, Ambassador.”

“Right. Well, here it is in a nutshell. The president has asked me to put together a task force—outside the normal agencies—to investigate the truth behind the rapid movement toward secession. If you’re agreeable, Colonel Connor, the president would like you to head that confidential task force. You’re still a serving Marine Corps officer, and your absence can be explained by your new appointment in New Zealand.

“Judge Granata, it will take about six to eight weeks to get you into the director’s chair. In the meantime, the president wants you to work with Colonel Connor and several of the FBI’s militia investigators, meeting as time permits, in between your Senate confirmation hearings and Pug’s New Zealand visit, to try to ferret out what’s really behind this secession and the surprisingly strong public support it’s gained.

“Pug, your appointment to New Zealand will serve as cover for your leaving the CIA and will also give you a place to disappear, when necessary, for a few days at a time. Judge Granata will be your FBI contact, and you’ll report directly to me or to the president. The FBI agents involved will be outside their normal reporting lines as well.”

President Eastman leaned forward in his chair and looked at Pug. “Colonel, we’ve worked together before. I trust your instincts. Also, your current boss, General Austin, has told me a bit about your, uh,
testy
relationship with Grant Sully.”

“Sir, if the general is displeased …”

President Eastman laughed. “Not to worry, son. You still head Austin’s list of men with integrity. He actually recommended you for this assignment, telling me he would hate to lose you from his staff, but assuring me you had the right skills for the job. As for Sully, he’s served this nation for many years, but as of late, Director Wentworth has expressed … well, the jury’s still out, and the verdict may well depend in large part on your findings. Are you prepared to take on this assignment?”

“Sir, I’m … uh, I’m ready to serve as you deem necessary, of course.”

“Understand me clearly, Colonel Connor. These militia die-hards are no less dangerous than the Iraqis you faced. And they’re not as easy to identify. They’ll kill you in a heartbeat if they feel it will further their ends. That’s why your New Zealand assignment will be good cover.”

Pug nodded. “Thank you, Mr. President. I very much appreciate your concern.”

“Fine, then,” the president said, standing. “Let’s get underway. Go to New Zealand and have a good time. Meanwhile, Clarene will arrange for a safe house in Sacramento, and we’ll see what we can do to put Judge Granata in place at the FBI. Oh, and Pug, while you’re cavorting around in New Zealand, remember your loyalties. Consider it a presidential order that whatever sailing knowledge you have is highly confidential. Let the Kiwis fend for themselves.”

“Sir, you have nothing to fear from me. I’m barely a passenger on the water, pure and simple. Now the Kiwis … they’re a different story. If memory serves, it’s a Kiwi who heads the San Francisco yachting consortium. If America is able to hold on to the America’s Cup,
without using all Kiwi sailors,
I’ll be absolutely shocked.” He laughed.

Eastman feigned mock disdain and shook his head. “But the Swiss took if off the Kiwis, didn’t they?”

“They did, sir, but even then, the Kiwis still owned it. The same New Zealander who heads the San Francisco effort ran the Swiss victory.” He laughed.

“Clarene, shouldn’t such a treasonous remark go in Colonel Connor’s dossier?” the president joked.

“I’ll see to it, Mr. President,” she said, winking at Pug.

“Godspeed to both of you, gentlemen,” the president said. “All jesting aside, we have a serious threat to our national security with this secessionist movement. I want to get to the bottom of it and put an end to it. I don’t intend to preside over a second Civil War. Congratulations, Judge Granata. I look forward to working with you.”

“And I with you, Mr. President. Thank you for your confidence.”

Chapter 11

Sierra Nevada Mountains
Northern California

For most of his adult life, Jean Wolff had been a highly skilled, professional mercenary. Despite the Shasta Brigade’s well-earned reputation for violence, even murder—if the reports were true—meeting in person for the first time with the brigade’s leadership didn’t intimidate Wolff. Yet the physical insertion of another level of command—an
unwanted
level of command—always presented a problem. Depending upon the ego of the unit commander—in this case, a former U.S. Army officer named Jackson Shaw—the task had often proven difficult.

Twice, on similar missions, both times in the former Yugoslavia, the group commander or one of his associates had shot Wolff, but he had survived. On the second of those occasions, it was the local commander who had not survived. Wolff’s knowledge of the unit’s internal dissent had afforded him the opportunity to foment a rebellion within the ranks—to Wolff’s advantage.