Scott Roarke 03 - Executive Command (18 page)

This made Cooper, above all the others at the party, think. He lived and even survived because of detailed planning. That worked so long as he was in control of all the variables—time, place, strategy, and ultimately, the element of surprise. Death when you least expected. But, the general, and Eisenhower before him, was absolutely right. He only considered one side of the equation, not the unexpected.
What if
the tables turned?

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I didn’t plan on becoming Morgan Taylor’s nominee for vice president. Not on your life.”

Or yours, General,
Cooper thought.

“But rest assured I will give the Senate completely honest answers in my testimony up to the issues of national security. I will be guided by the president in those matters. As it should be. Anyway, I’m too damned new at this thing to run at the mouth. I’m going for the three Bs. Be brief. Be good. Be gone.”

The crowd laughed. Most had never heard Johnson speak. Those who had, never knew him to be so glib. Jonas Jackson Johnson even amazed his wife.

“And with that, I am gone.”

“
Forever,” Cooper whispered as he returned to making drinks. In a few minutes his relief would take over and he’d really go to work.

“Enjoy yourselves.” The guests applauded and the FBI and Secret Service agents who patrolled the party and the grounds looked for just about anybody Richard Cooper might be tonight.

Roarke was aloft in one of the real old birds the 1st Helicopter Squadron of the 11th Wing flew. This particular UH-1N had flown in the Vietnam era and now provided rotary wing support to VIPs in the NCR, the National Capital Region. Though the temperature outside was barely above twenty degrees, the helo cabin hit a comfortable seventy-two degrees with the turbine spinning and bleeding welcomed warmth Roarke’s way.

The pilot, LT Latham Gerstad, set a course for McLean. It was not as direct as Roarke wanted, but airspace in and around NCR is full of restricted areas, Military Operational Areas (MOAs) and Terminal Control Areas. Even Roarke’s Huey had to obey the TAC and FAA procedures or risk being brought down.

The president’s call to the secretary of the air force and the secretary’s subsequent call to the Andrews tower cleared some of the hurdles, but not all given incoming traffic, fuel issues, and non-negotiable no-fly zones.

The most direct shot was low over the Potomac River, below incoming commercial flights, then barely above the tree and power lines on a southwest heading to McLean.

The flight took an agonizing twenty-two minutes, worthy of ulcers if Roarke wasn’t so focused.

As they neared the destination, Gerstad reported, “Two miles out, sir.” He was following GPS coordinates to a supermarket parking lot four blocks from the general’s house. “Hope we’ll have room,” he said. “If not, I’ll get you as close to the deck as possible. You might have to take a big first step.

It was the kind of comment Roarke didn’t need to respond to; just be prepared for.

“Coming up,” Gerstad said a minute later. He pointed ahead and to the right.

“We going to make it?

“You’ll know as soon as I do.” And with that, Gerstad concentrated on the wind, the telephone poles, and the cars below.

“Dicey, but I see a spot that may work.”

Gerstad brought the helicopter down five feet from the deck when a Nissan Sentra careened around the parking lot. “Hang on,” the pilot warned. His lifted the bird up fast; a maneuver that sent Roarke’s stomach squarely into his throat. He fought the nausea and concentrated on the task at hand.

“Okay, let’s try this again.” Gerstad came around and hovered twelve feet from the ground. He wasn’t going to take the same chance a second time.”

“This is as close as I dare get. How are your knees?”

“I suppose I’m about to find out,” Roarke said.

“Okay, on three,” Gerstad said as he hovered over the jump zone. “And good luck. Looks like you’ve got yourself a real mission,”

“You have no idea,” Roarke replied.”

Three came very fast and hard.

McLean, Virginia
Once on the ground, it was a matter of expediency. Roarke needed to get to the general’s house fast. Problem solved when the driver of a light blue Toyota Prius rolled forward. Roarke approached, ID in hand, and Sig Sauer ready. In a move right out of an old
Lethal
Weapon
film, the driver watched his car tear down the street without him. If Roarke wished for a fast sports car, he was not disappointed with the pep of the hybrid.

“Nice speech, General,” a waiter said politely after working his way up. He offered Johnson the last glass of champagne on his silver tray. “For the toast. Everyone’s gathering.”

“Thank you.” Johnson replied.

General Jonas Jackson Johnson gave the man a good sizing up, as he did everyone.
Flunky,
he thought, noting that the waiter wasn’t even wearing a jacket that fit properly.

“You never failed to inspire. An illuminating career.”

The general wondered if he sensed another word left unsaid.
Was it “sir?”
Before he could follow up, the waiter walked away.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if I may please have your attention?” Carl Lyons had gone to West Point with Johnson and, as one of his oldest friends, was the best person in the room to address the crowd.

The downstairs, filled with some of Washington’s military, political, and social elite, quickly quieted again. People moved closer to the speaker, but left room around General Johnson so he could be seen. By now everyone had a champagne flute in hand.

Lyons, distinguished and poised, raised his glass. “I’ve known this old warhorse since we were cadets. Let me tell you, he was as irascible then as he is now.”

People laughed.

“For years I thought his vocabulary consisted of
yes
,
no
, and
what don’t you understand about the word no
.”

More laughter.

“But time has softened him up a bit. I thought I heard a ‘maybe’ a few minutes ago. I guess he’s trying out a new word he’ll need on the Hill.”

Lyons had perfectly characterized his lifelong friend and brought his toast to the transition point he wanted.

“And so, with utmost respect and admiration, and in honor of a most distinguished military leader, a wartime general, and a man dedicated to peace, I heartily congratulate the next vice president of the United States, the soon-to-be retired General Jonas Jackson Johnson.” Lyons brought his glass up higher. “On behalf of a grateful nation, I wish you true happiness, success, and health.”

The general pivoted right and left nodding to his guests’ calls of “Here! Here!” Jonas Jackson Johnson then brought the drink up to his lips. Champagne, no matter how good, wasn’t to his taste. The scotch that was being drained from his liquor cabinet was. But a celebration was a celebration and soon this god-awful evening would be over. So a little champagne…

“Don’t!”

It was more than a shout. It was a command. J3 knew commands. He spent his life listening to them and giving them. He respected them and he followed them.

The general evaluated the voice. It was sharp and direct, coming from over his shoulder; from someone running. It was a familiar voice. And now he saw it came from a familiar face—Scott Roarke.

Johnson didn’t need any other warning. It suddenly came together. The unsaid,
sir
, the oversized jacket of his server. The comment.

General Johnson looked at the champagne, and dropped the glass.

Roarke’s shout coupled with the breaking glass created a virtual vacuum. The only sounds over the sudden silence—running and a back door crashing open.

Roarke took off in the same direction, squeezing through the door before it closed. He saw his quarry ahead, racing into the woods.

“Cooper!”

Richard Cooper didn’t stop. Roarke did. He aimed his Sig and fired, but Cooper dodged left at the last moment.

Roarke picked up the chase following Cooper through the thick maples and oaks.

The assassin slowed, looking for cover and exit points. He stopped when he heard the crunching snow behind him.

“Hands behind your head. Kneel and hit the ground. It’s over,” Roarke stated.

Cooper ignored him.

“Now!”

“I’ll grant you one thing, Roarke. You’re a persistent son of a bitch.”

“Hands up, kneel, and hit the deck.”

Roarke heard rustling behind him, then a voice. “It’s okay. FBI. I have him.”

Roarke kept his eyes on the target and demanded, “Cooper, my last warning.”

“I said I have him. Stand down.” The order came from the man now beside him, agent Curtis Lawson.

“He’s MINE. I’m Secret Service.”

“Stand down, mister.”

Roarke carefully lowered his Sig. Lawson’s Glock was trained on Cooper. The FBI agent then stepped closer to the subject who still hadn’t complied with Roarke’s order.

Lawson then made what Roarke considered a dumb move. He positioned himself directly in front of Roarke, blocking any shot the Secret Service agent might have. Roarke adjusted his position, but was hemmed in by the trees. He thought Lawson was trying to cuff Cooper, but he wasn’t sure. Then he saw a blur of arms and Lawson doubling over on the ground and the assassin on the run.

“Dammit!” Roarke ran to Lawson.

The FBI agent waved him on. “Get the bastard.”

Roarke heard the crunching of snow ahead. He dodged some bushes and cut around trees in pursuit. Suddenly, his leather shoes failed him. Roarke slid down an embankment and hit a rock hard. The time he lost was the time Cooper needed.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Roarke was pissed. “That was a rookie-ass move,” he complained to Lawson who was still trying to get to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” the FBI said. “Didn’t know you. We’ve been waiting to see if this guy would show up.”

“Right, because of me! And I identified myself as Secret Service.”

“I had my orders.”

“Were your orders to let a killer get away? Because that’s exactly what you did.”

Roarke was disgusted. He didn’t wait for an answer. He walked past Lawson and then Shannon Davis and the other bureau agents who were now outside. Mulligan was going to hear about this in no uncertain terms.
He let him get away. He let him.

White House

Later that night

“Jesus!” Taylor exclaimed over the phone to his director of national intelligence. “How many lives does this guy have?”

“Not lives, Mr. President. Identities. Cooper is an absolute chameleon, a master of disguises with more personalities than I’ve ever seen,” Jack Evans replied. “I wish he worked for us.”

“Well since he does not, I recommend you find him once and for all and get rid of everybody he is or ever will be.”

Atlanta, Georgia

The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention

12 January

“Hello, you’re on the air.”

Tonight, that’s about all the host had to say on
Coast to Coast AM
. The audience took it from there. For four straight hours callers talked about the mysterious illnesses and deaths that were cropping up across the country. It was as hot a topic as anything had been since alleged sightings of El Chupacabras and Big Foot, the end of the world Mayan Calendar predictions, and the secrets behind Area 51, HAARP, and Project Majestic. More importantly, it was current with names, dates, and places. What started as a trickle a few days ago was a flood of calls now. Certainly some could be written off as conspiracy theorists who trudged through knee-deep suspicion of the government. But many of the callers had the ring of truth. Their family members were dying.

Bonnie Comley listened. More than that, she had her staff listen, take notes, and immediately follow up. The conversations led to more pins in her map. A lot more.

Ciudad Del Este, Paraguay

Ibrahim Haddad had his own map, which replicated many of Dr. Comley’s locations and then some.

He turned down the Internet radio Web site of this incredibly popular American radio series.
At last,
he proclaimed only to himself. Now he would achieve his goal because this time he wasn’t relying on the cumbersome American political system or the power of the media to shape public opinion. He dug deeper into history and into psychology. This time it was all about fear; ultimate fear that would bring panic to communities, the stock market, and the government itself. The first things were already happening. Soon it would go viral.
Viral.
The term made him laugh. People were now using the word to explain how fast information flowed.
Flowed, another apt description. From town to town. County to county. State to state.
Haddad was quite certain an already armed citizenry would surely place family over ideals and defend home before country. All of this to severely weaken the United States and remove its influence over his hated Israel. All of this to punish a nation’s people for the death of his wife and daughter.

Things were proceeding on schedule. He figured no more than ten days, maybe less.

The Great Satan will choke,
Haddad said to himself. The fact that he’d also stand to make hundreds of millions of dollars gave him even greater satisfaction. He would not live forever. But his money would continue to finance terror long after.

Haddad turned the Internet radio station back up and looked at the global market on the CNBC Web site.
Another very good day ahead.

New York City

Wall Street Journal Offices

Paul Twardy reported on stock trends. He was watching Pepsico, Coke, and Nestlé again, to see where they would go with the morning bell. He charted sharp rises four days in a row. The trend would be understandable in the summer. But
January
?

Twardy was raised in upstate New York, studied business at Wharton, and switched to journalism at NYU grad school. No surprise he could make a business story read like a thriller. He’d written for the
Boston Globe,
the
Philadelphia Inquirer,
and
Time,
where a decade earlier he won a Pulitzer for his cover story on pharmaceutical companies that profited from flu epidemics scares. He exposed two schemes in particular. The award was great, but the magazine lost advertising revenue. He was unceremoniously dropped eight months later. He took his award to
Newsweek
, then
USA Today
, and most recently
WSJ.

This story had the same kind of ring to it. But he wasn’t sure why until he heard the last half hour of an off-the-wall radio show on his way into work.