Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command (13 page)

The rest of Roarke’s questions didn’t matter. The same was true at his next meeting. The Mayville chief of police had nothing. Roarke hoped for more with the victim’s wife.

“Any history of dizziness or heart problems, Mrs. Wesley?”

“No, sir. My husband was in perfect health.”

“And how was he on horseback?” A silly question.

“He was the best rider in the county.”

Roarke left the Wesley house and decided to reconstruct the rancher’s last day on Earth. Breakfast at The Blue Note. A haircut down the street at Ligerri’s. Then, Wesley went home and rode his horse into the hills. Between the haircut and going home somebody might have seen something. Roarke found more people to question in town.

“Did anyone see a black-haired man with a limp?” he asked around town. “A stranger? Someone you haven’t seen since?”

A realtor did. Panini asked him to show him an empty storefront down the street from the bank. But after a few minutes he said it didn’t meet company specs. “That was it. Ten minutes at the most.”

Roarke worked that into a recreation of Cooper’s day. That was at 10 a.m. Ninety minutes before he killed Major Gene Wesley, U.S. Army retired.

“And he had no interest in seeing any other property? That was it?”

“Yes, that was it. He went to The Blue Note. Don’t know a thing after that.”

Back at the diner, Roarke asked the inevitable follow-up. Dolly remembered Panini coming in. He trusted her memory. Not many out of towners stopped by. “Then the guy left. He got in his car and headed out of town.”

Roarke opted for a cup of coffee before leaving. He was surprised it was twenty cents more today than yesterday. He attributed it to the rising gas prices and the cost of doing business. He was wrong.

Helena, Montana

Ricardo Perez awoke after a nine-hour sleep. He showered for a full half hour and then looked outside his Motel 6 room. The city was blanketed with snow. A ten-inch snowfall had blanketed everything. He thanked God it hadn’t snowed a night earlier, otherwise he would not have survived the road to hell and back.

The first thing he did was buy a pair of jeans, a shirt, and a heavy parka at a local Goodwill, one of the only stores open in the storm. Then he ran through his
opciones
again
.
There weren’t many.

Going to the police was out of the question. They’d hold him. A report would lead to an investigation; an investigation to his arrest.
No police.

Home? He could hitch a ride or steal a car. But he was a dead man if he returned without a plan. The gang member trudged through the snow trying to think of something. He never felt so isolated; so confused; and so fucking cold.

Revenge kept him alive the night in the mountains. But that wouldn’t save him in the short run. First he needed a plan.

Perez continued his walk. Fortunately, it was quiet. He didn’t draw any attention. Still, he knew he needed to be more than an El Salvadorian gangster in the middle of Santa’s Village.

He walked past a storefront on East Lyndale Avenue. A dramatic poster caught his eye. He never would have looked twice at it before.
Now?
It depicted a young man wearing the same kind of
don’t fuck with me
attitude that Perez lived by. They were about the same age. He, too, belonged to a large group, an extended hierarchical organization. Perez wondered how much they really had in common.
Don’t fuck with me
, was a good start.

Perez looked beyond the poster. There was a light on inside and he could make out two men. The gangster hesitated. He was more nervous than he had been since that day he was on the way to his uncle’s for candy. That awful day.

He sucked in a breath. The cold air filled his lungs.
No going back now,
he thought. But there was also no going forward without serious help.

Ricardo Perez made the most important choice of his life. He turned the door knob and entered.

The White House

The same time

“Mr. President, I’m still thinking. I’ve got one hundred reasons for saying no.”

“You only need one to make it yes. I want you,” Morgan Taylor told General Johnson. “Look, J3, there has never been a better time than now. I’m not into trying to make history, just run things more efficiently and not fuck up the world. But this is the right thing to do. And you’re the best man for the job.”

“I’m a soldier, not a politician. I can design, evaluate, and task a mission. I’ll tell you straight to your face whether you’re making a good decision or your head is up your ass. I’m you’re man for that. You’re paying me to be your national security advisor. And honestly, you couldn’t have picked anyone with more experience. For vice president? Keep looking, Mr. President. The country wouldn’t elect me.”

Morgan Taylor smiled. He expected the push back from General Jonas Jackson Johnson. What surprised him was that they were having a conversation about it. J3 could have just come in and said, “No fucking way. Now for today’s agenda.” He hadn’t. So the general was open to it.

“The country doesn’t have to elect you, Jonas. I’m appointing you. Who’s going to object on the Hill? It would be foolish for Patrick to try. This is a slam dunk. And, you’d still head up National Security. It’s a perfect way to streamline and save some salary.” The last comment was sure to help in the confirmation hearings.

“And you think the country is going to be happy with a standing general as veep?”

“You’ll need to hang up that uniform, at least for now. Think of it as a way to pick up another retirement package. And who knows, you just might like the feel of a good suit. It fit Washington well. Grant and Ike, too.”

“They were presidents.”

“I guess I am getting ahead of myself,” Taylor said. The comment had double meaning.

“You son of a bitch,” J3 exclaimed. “You’re trying to put me in place to run in three years. Did you crack your head that badly when you got shot down in Iraq?”

“And you’d be happy to see Duke Patrick sitting in that seat?” Taylor swung around and pointed to his chair which was tucked under his desk. “Of course you’d make a great candidate. A distinguished military career, a proven leader, head of National Security, vice president. Damned straight!”

“I’m not a politician,” the general said again.

“Good. The nation doesn’t need another politician. Look around. No one’s complaining about any shortage. There are thousands of them. There’s only one of you. You’re the man I want in the job.”

Ciudad del Este, Paraguay

There’s an age-old myth. The Arabic language has no word for
compromise
. There is victory. There is defeat. War and Peace. All extremes. But the West has argued that there is nothing in the middle. And because of it, it’s widely believed that Muslims will not negotiate. In fact, that’s not true, though it makes for good copy. The word compromise exists. Over the millennia, compromise has brought families together to form tribes, and tribes together to create nations.

However, compromise was no longer in Ibrahim Haddad’s vocabulary.
Compromise? There is no compromise
. He would never know happiness again. His wife and daughter were long gone. Enemy missiles had done their work. Now there was only the satisfaction of seeing his vision come true.

For more than thirty years, he plotted to exact revenge. He wanted Israel to suffer as a result of the withdrawal of U.S. support. But his plans failed. Now he was running out of time. Personal time. His coughing worsened. His inhaler helped less and less. He required oxygen more frequently. Doctors told him he had emphysema. It would get worse.

So this would be his last strike. He would honor his family in the deaths of Americans. The great Satan would be on its knees, struggling with its own economic and social collapse, and then the Arab armies could do what it wanted with Israel.
Yes, I will live to see it.

The Pentagon

“So what do you want me to do?” the army recruiter asked MSG Tom Quinn over the phone. “This guy could tear out of here if he thinks we’re stalling him.”

“Give me thirty minutes,” Quinn said. “Feed him, play cards with him. I’m sure you can keep him busy for a while.”

The master sergeant hung up the phone in his second floor Pentagon office and whispered to himself, “That was the weirdest call I’ve ever had.” The enlisted man looked out of his Pentagon office window on to the parking lot wondering what to do. “Just plain weird.”

On first blush he thought it was a crank call. The story was just plain wacky. Still, as part of the DOD intelligence team, Quinn went by the book. Check out the source.

Quinn quickly confirmed that the phone number and the name of the caller were legitimate army. Next, he reviewed the recruiting officer’s full file from the database.
Nothing out of sorts.

He now wondered just who to report this to. Local Montana police? Army Intelligence?
Who?
Just then his answer walked by his cubicle.

“Captain, sir.” Quinn stood up. “Do you have a sec?”

“Sure, Tom,” CPT Penny Walker replied. She was holding a folder with more information for Roarke.

“What’s up?”

“I took a call from a recruiting officer a few minutes ago. A Montana storefront that doesn’t get much traffic on a snowy day. But in comes a guy, a young Latino with a wild ass story.”

The blonde army captain was curious, partly because she always liked a good story, but mostly because it was her job to be curious. “And?”

“And he said someone had tried to kill him the day before.”

“Who?”

“He wouldn’t go that far.”

“Does he want to go to the local police?” Penny asked.

“No. The guy said he couldn’t.”

Can’t or won’t
, she wondered. “Okay, start again. He walks into an army recruiting office and…”

“And there’s more. He felt he wasn’t just walking into an army recruiter, he saw it as walking into an official U.S. government office, not to enlist but to talk directly to Uncle Sam.”

“Make this easier for me, sergeant.”

“He asked for asylum.”

“Holy shit.”

“He’s probably an illegal. Maybe even a gang member. A real fish out of water in Montana.”

“What does he want?” Walker asked pointedly.

“Protection.”

“Why the fuck does this guy need protection?”

Quinn checked his notes. “He claimed he was transporting a ‘package,’ as he called it.”

“A ‘package’?”

“A man. He drove someone all the way from Texas to Montana. He figures it was some suit who just entered the country and needed to go somewhere without being noticed. Not Hispanic. And not a young guy. Someone older, well dressed. Maybe Middle Eastern. After he dropped him off, he was given instructions to drive somewhere in the boonies and meet up with another car.”

Walker’s mind raced to an alert that came across her desk while she was on Roarke’s case.

“Where did you say he picked this guy up?”

“Texas.”

“Where in Texas? What city?”

He looked at his computer notes. “Houston. Probably a bureau matter, not for us…except…”

“Except what?” Penny asked.

“He said that when he reached the other car it was burning. He got out and saw that the driver was dead. That’s when his own car blew up.”

Walker came around to Quinn’s computer screen. “Give me that number, sergeant,” she said urgently. “And print out your notes. All of them. Word for word.”

MSG Tom Quinn took in a relieved breath. “Yes, sir.” Now it was someone else’s problem.

Minutes later

“Johnson.” It was J3’s one-word hello on the phone, sure to fluster any would-be flunkies, congressional aides, or as he liked to say, media weenies, from trying to get anything past him.

“General, this is Walker, CPT Penny Walker, DOD intel.”

“I know who you are.”

He was clipped and intentionally impolite. Penny Walker expected as much. She’d met the general at Pentagon functions and knew his manner well.

“I assume you’re calling for a reason,” he continued.

“Yes, sir. That’s why I skipped command.”

“I’d say you did. What is it?”

“Something very interesting. I think it may be related to the Houston shooting.”

General Jonas Jackson Johnson suddenly showed interest. “Go on.”

“Sir, a young Latino gang member, or presumed gang member, walked into a Helena, Montana, army recruiting office. He wasn’t there to sign up. He wanted protection.”

“Protection. Why?”

“Try asylum. I’ll give you my theory in a moment. But this was after he finished transporting a man, he presumed to be Middle Eastern, from George Bush Intercontinental to a truck stop in the middle of Montana. He was paid $5,000 in cash for the delivery, then sent alone down a remote country road an hour away. The next thing—kaboom.”

“Kaboom?”

“The damned car blew up. Fortunately, the driver was out.”

J3 was writing it all down. He’d already flagged key words.
Middle Eastern
,
cash, and explosion.
Together they were lethal. He could see where this was going.

“He’s only alive today because he saw another car he was supposed to meet up with—or what was left of it—burning on the road. Lucky he got out of his when he did. That’s when it exploded. The driver of the first vehicle was not so lucky.”

“A MANPAD or missile?”

“He doesn’t think so. More likely a bomb on a timer that was set when he dropped off his passenger.”

“Have you talked to him?” asked General Johnson.

“No, a sergeant down the hall took the call fifteen minutes ago. The recruiter is keeping the subject busy in Helena. But the guy’s panicky. He doesn’t know if he can trust anyone.”

“You said a gang member.”

“Yes, sir. By the sound of it MS-13 or a splinter group.”

“Dangerous sons of bitches. Here and south of the border.”

“That’s what I understand, sir.”

Penny sensed the wheels turning. “You think that recruiter can buy a little more time and keep this guy occupied? Some java, travel folders. Someone like you to keep him busy?”

She chuckled. “I’ll talk to them. I’m sure they can come up with ways.”

“Good.” Another pause from the president’s national security advisor. “Captain, how quickly can you meet me?”

“Upstairs?” She was referring to General Johnson’s Pentagon office. “In five-to-ten depending on the elevator traffic, sir.”

“No. The White House.”