America's Trust (13 page)

“Of course and I’m sure we’ll--”

“Handle it as a priority,” interrupted Jack, staring at Kenneth. He had a funny feeling his Chief of Staff had been about to make a promise he wasn’t in a position to make.

Jack turned and caught a look of fury on Roger’s face, aimed firmly at the all too aware Kenneth Lee. Kenneth’s head bowed even more under Roger’s gaze.

“If that’s all, Roger, we’ll get on to this straightaway,” said Jack, raising his arm towards Roger and gesturing towards the door. Roger remained seated, ignoring Jack’s dismissal.

Jack was not a man whose suggestions, subtle or otherwise, were ignored. From an early age he had that look; the look that ensured instant obedience from all before him. He was, in the true sense of the expression, a born leader. Roger Young was a man he’d had few dealings with. His dealings with The Trust had always been through Kenneth. His previous two meetings with Roger had been very social events, with little in the way of business ever discussed. He was beginning to wish he had taken a far greater interest in the man. He recognized a kindred spirit. Roger Young was more than a business guru. He had far more in common with Jack than anyone could ever comprehend.

“That will be all, Kenneth,” said Jack, dismissing his Chief of Staff without dropping Roger Young’s gaze. A gaze that was clearly going to be returned as long as was required to prove who was in charge. However, the gaze was dropped, and far more quickly than Jack had anticipated, but in a most unexpected manner. Jack noted the almost undetectable nod of dismissal towards Kenneth and he turned to watch his Chief of Staff leave, not entirely sure who had just dismissed him.

He chastised himself for his paranoia and tried to blank out the face of Tom Butler, who had once again popped into his mind.

Beware the Trust.

“So, Roger, something else?” asked Jack, dropping the friendly tone and taking a more businesslike approach.

“The Russians,” he replied, as though Jack would understand exactly what he meant.

“You’ve lost me.”

“What are we going to do about the Russians?”

“I didn’t realize there was a ‘we’,” replied Jack, his blood beginning to boil.

“The Trust is inextricably linked to any future conflict. From communications and technology to missile systems and bullets, we are the single largest contractor. From building and supporting bases and facilities and their security, we are with you all the way.”

Jack felt a shiver tingle down his spine. How had he let one organization become so entrenched in the defense of the nation?

“Don’t worry, we’ll keep you in the loop,” he said dismissively, standing up again.

“If you don’t mind, Mr. President, I have a team I’d like to be involved in any decisions that--”

“You what?” Jack’s temper was beginning to fray. Normally even the suggestion of his temper rising would ensure an end to any discussion. Roger continued unabated.

“They’re a small team that works across our entire defense network. They have access and understanding of the US capabilities beyond anybody in service. Air, sea, land, they know the capability of each unit and its equipment. They model scenarios and situations to the last minutiae of detail. They plan and execute computer models in an attempt to evaluate the optimum scenario for swift and effective resolution to any conflict. Their involvement at the planning stage is critical and I believe would offer the US a significant advantage in assuring a satisfactory resolution.”

“I’ll talk to my Chiefs of Staff and see how they wish to proceed,” said Jack. He had no intention whatsoever of interfering with the military’s assessment of the situation.

“They’re aware I’m here and want the team to be involved. They just want your approval,” replied Roger.

Jack knew that he had coasted the last three years. His wife dying had not helped, and had further encouraged his retraction from the day-to-day issues. As president in peacetime with an economy going north, unemployment heading to an all time low, and a budget surplus, there really had been little for him to do. The previous evening had been a wake-up call. Jack felt for the first time in a long time that he was in charge, or at the very least was taking charge.

“I’ll speak to
my
chiefs and Kenneth will liaise with you shortly,” Jack said firmly, making it very clear the meeting was now most definitely over, emphasizing the message by striding to his desk and taking his seat behind it. Jack noted that Roger sat for a few seconds before rising and, thinking better of saying anything, left the office.

As the door closed behind Roger, Jack knew there were a number of things he had to do. Averting a global war was up there on the list but first and foremost, he really needed to find Tom Butler.

It was almost 9:00 a.m. by the time the taxi managed to fight through the DC rush hour and following Tom’s circuitous directions and drop them at the less than salubrious trailer park. From the outside, Tom’s RV was something to behold. How it managed to stay together, let alone move, was a feat in itself. Swanson didn’t think it had seen a sponge and soapy water in over thirty years.

“Is it safe?” she asked, screwing her nose up as Tom retrieved the key hidden under a stone nearby.

“Perfectly!”

“Biologically as well as mechanically?”

In answer, he opened the door to reveal a clinically clean and tidy interior.

“It’s not what’s on the outside that counts!” he chastised with a smile.

She gave a sarcastic smile in return and pushed past him into the main cabin. The dimness, despite the daylight, was soon countered when Tom hit the light switch, bathing the stark interior in fluorescent light. The RV was devoid of any personal belongings and remained as empty as the day it had left the showroom, many decades earlier.

“Not one for mementos then?” she asked, surveying the emptiness.

“I’m only using this for this trip,” Tom said, realizing she thought it was his home. “I don’t live in here permanently.”

Swanson lifted her shoulders in a no-concern-of-mine shrug, while she actually thought the complete opposite. She had thrown her future behind this guy. How did she know he wasn’t some nutter who travelled the land in his decrepit RV?

The safe under the sofa was certainly not an original piece of kit. Swanson watched Butler input a truly mind-boggling number of digits before the door opened to reveal a solitary iPad within.

“I thought you said you need your papers?” she asked.

“I did and I have just retrieved them,” he replied, hoisting up the iPad like an Olympic medalist. He hit the power button and began to shuffle through his electronic documents like a man possessed.

“You looking for anything in particular?” asked Swanson.

“Russia; anything with a Russian connection.”

“Russia!” she exclaimed, leaning closer and unknowingly saving her own life.

The bullet ripped through the tin frame of the RV like a hot knife through butter and exited the other side of the RV where her head had been just a second earlier.

“Fuck!” she screamed and fell to the floor, as Butler pulled her down alongside him.

A torrent of bullets began to rain down on the small RV unit. They scrabbled to push themselves down as close to the floor as possible. Butler grabbed a metal ring that was embedded into the carpet and a small section of the floor lifted to reveal a trap door.

Swanson didn’t need to be asked twice and scurried into the hole below, quickly followed by Butler.

“Shit!’ he exclaimed as he fell onto the ground below the RV, just as fire engulfed it. “My papers!”

Chan smiled when the first lick of flames lapped at the windows before him. He shouldered the high-powered rifle as Smith continued to fire bullets into the flimsy frame, their infrared scopes effectively useless as the flames engulfed the small RV.

Chan couldn’t believe his luck when they had pulled up in the cab. The RV was the only potential link they had to Butler. Swanson was going to open up a whole new list of possibilities but they still had to be worked through. After Butler’s capture in DC, they had searched every RV park in the local area, and thanks to some very clever photo-analysts, had identified a similar RV from satellite images that had been moved from an RV park in Pittsburg - the only other location they had pinned Butler down to for any length of time. To say it had been a long shot would have been an understatement.

“I think that’s enough,” said Chan, tapping Smith’s shoulder. The flames spiraled out of what must have been a sunroof in the RV.

Smith reluctantly lowered his rifle. “You never know with this guy,” he said warily.

Chan couldn’t dispute Smith’s assertion. Butler had been evading them for some time and every time they got close, he somehow managed to get away. Only a couple of hours earlier, they had had a gun at his head and were pulling the trigger.

“Hmm, perhaps, just a few more, to be sure,” he said, nodding his head in agreement.

Smith smiled and raised his rifle, his pace quickening as a flash of movement from below the RV’s floor line caught his eye.

The bullets stopped pinging, and Swanson rolled to her left, leaving the security afforded by the RV’s wheels as the heat began to take hold above them. They needed to get out from under the RV or it would surely become their crematorium. In one swift movement she rolled and withdrew her service pistol. She scanned the area ahead for their would-be assassins but saw nothing; the area in front of the RV was clear.

Butler made a similar move to the right, his eyes scanning the area ahead and, like Swanson, coming up empty.

“Shit!” brayed Swanson. “I can’t see anybody.”

“Me neith--” Butler began, a gunshot killing the end of his sentence.

Chan caught the same movement and hurriedly moved his own rifle scope into position. The view of the female FBI agent soon filled his scope, her head turned to her right, looking towards her companion. Chan scanned his scope quickly to the left, only to be first dazzled by a flash and then blinded by a redness that filled his vision.

“
Run!” screamed Butler, firing his second shot into the RV opposite. His first bullet had hit, the spray of blood testament to his shooting practice. However, he was not at all sure of the second. It was fired at a distance from a pistol in haste towards a moving target.

Swanson didn’t need to be asked twice. She followed Butler and both scrambled out from under the RV on the opposite side of the shooters and made a break for the nearby woods.

“Your papers!” she shouted as they ran.

Butler looked over his shoulder. “The important stuff is up here,” he said, tapping his head. “You’re just going to have to make sure nothing happens to me.” He smiled and picked up the pace.

Chan wiped desperately at his scope to try and clear it of the blood and sinew of his now lifeless partner that lay by his side. Smith’s head had literally exploded beside him but Chan’s attempts were in vain. The sleeve he was using was itself covered in a fine mist of arterial spray. The RV they had broken into earlier as a last ditch attempt to find Butler had paid off; at least in the sense of it being the only place they were aware of that he might visit. It certainly hadn’t paid off for Smith. Chan’s flinching at Smith’s death had inadvertently saved his own life and it was with a renewed energy to avenge his partner that Chan burst out of the RV and took up the chase. He raced beyond the burning RV and past a second RV that skirted the woods before grinding to a halt, his reflection in the RV’s window stopping him in his tracks. His blood smeared face and clothes had him looking like a deranged killer some would correctly argue, but it was certainly not the image he was expected to portray. He grabbed his cell and barked a number of commands. Five minutes later, his driver appeared and between them, they secured Smith’s body in the trunk before leaving the scene for the local police to try and make sense of.

“Stop! For fuck’s sake, will you please stop!” squawked Swanson breathlessly. She was spent. She doubled over and screamed in pain, her lungs gasping for oxygen. Butler looked around warily as he jogged back to the struggling Swanson.

“We need to keep going,” he emphasized ruthlessly.

Swanson responded by sitting on the ground and leaning against a tree. “Knock yourself out!” she replied between gasps, waving him onwards.

“I can’t leave you here!”

“You’re going to have to. I think I’m dying!” she said dramatically.

Butler had a choice to make. One life against the many. His goal was to save a country not an individual. Nothing was more important than getting his information to the president.

“Best of luck,” he said in parting. He
eHe
turned away and left Swanson to catch her breath and hopefully a large chunk of luck.