Term Limits (62 page)

Stansfield pointed toward the shattered door. “Go wait outside. I'll talk to you later.” Garret looked at Nance meekly and left. Stansfield looked at O'Rourke. “Are you all right, Congressman?”

Michael stood and wiped some more blood from his nose. “I'll survive.”

Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, Stansfield handed it to O'Rourke and looked back at Nance. “What in the hell were you thinking?”

Nance ignored the question and walked over to a humidor that was sitting in the middle of a large oak coffee table. Stansfield's bodyguard aimed his machine gun at Nance's head and took a step forward. The national security adviser looked up and frowned. “Thomas, call off your dog.”

Stansfield replied, “Carl, if he makes a wrong move, kill him.”

Nance ignored the statement, retrieved a cigar from the box, snipped off the end, and lit it. He blew several clouds of smoke in the air and smiled.
“Thomas, you would have done the same thing if you were in my shoes.”

“I would have never gotten into your shoes.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Do you want to even attempt to explain this?”

Nance shrugged his shoulders. “No. I can see when I'm beat. I'll announce my resignation in the morning.”

“It might not be that simple.” Stansfield looked at his watch.

“Why not?” asked Nance in between puffs.

Nance's cocksure attitude was infuriating. With sarcasm Stansfield replied, “Oh, I don't know, Mike. Perhaps your kidnapping of Congressman O'Rourke may have changed things a bit.”

Coleman stopped his truck at the main gate of the Naval Academy. A U.S. Marine stepped out of the guard booth and approached the car. Coleman rolled down the window and said, “Good evening, Corporal. I'm here to see Sam Jarvi.”

The Marine held out his hand and asked, “Identification, please?” Coleman handed over his driver's license. The Marine studied it briefly and then handed it back. “Sam just called, Mr. Coleman. Do you know where to find him?”

“Yes.”

The Marine stepped away from the car and motioned for Coleman to proceed. “Have a nice evening, sir.”

“Thank you. You, too.” Coleman drove onto the campus and grinned, thinking of the surprise the feds were in for.

 

Two blocks back, Skip McMahon had pulled over. The other three cars were waiting several blocks back. He watched Coleman pass through the gate and then got the bad news over his walkie-talkie. “What do you mean you can't follow him?” he yelled over the radio.

The pilot of the helicopter elaborated, “It's restricted airspace.”

“Damn it. Can't you call someone and get clearance?”

The pilot had come across this problem before and knew it was not an easy obstacle to overcome. “I could try, but it will take a lot of time and they're going to ask more questions than you're gonna want to answer.”

“Can't you just tell them it's official FBI business?”

“It doesn't matter. The military is rather particular about people flying over their land. Even us. If you want clearance, the best way to get it is to work from the top down. If I call the local tower, they're gonna want to know why, and then they'll have to go to the top to get approval. They have to go through the chain of command and that takes time.”

“Damn it.” McMahon tapped the rubber antenna against the side of his head. His orders were to keep as tight of a lid as possible on their surveillance. Calling the local tower might set off too many bells. It would be better if he called headquarters and worked it from that angle. Maybe Roach could call some admiral and quietly get them clearance. McMahon pressed the talk button. “Cars two, three,
and four, let's find out how many exits this place has and take up positions. In the meantime, I'll see if I can get the chopper some clearance.” McMahon set his radio on the dash and reached for his digital phone.

Coleman zigzagged his way through the old campus. He parked underneath a large oak tree near the administration building and dialed Stansfield's number. Someone else answered and told him to wait. Stansfield was on the phone in short order, and Coleman asked, “Did you find the congressman?”

“Yes.”

“Is he all right?”

Stansfield looked at O'Rourke. “He's a little roughed up, but other than that he's fine.”

Coleman breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Are you at Nance's house?”

“Yes.”

“I think it's time we had a meeting.”

Stansfield was caught off guard by the proposal. He turned his back to the rest of the group. “In person?”

“Yes. You, Nance, and Congressman O'Rourke.” Coleman paused. Stansfield's apprehension was obvious. “You have nothing to worry about, sir. There are some things we need to discuss, and I would like to see with my own eyes that the congressman is safe.”

“And if I decline?”

“The tape gets released.”

After a long pause, Stansfield asked, “Why should I trust you?”

“Director, we have gone to great lengths to try and find a way out of this mess. My beef is not with you, it's with Mr. Nance. Am I clear?”

Stansfield considered the last statement. “I think so. Where would you like to meet?”

“Do you still have your helicopter?”

“Yes.”

“Get on board with O'Rourke, Nance, and one pilot. If anyone else comes along, it's off. Tell the pilot to fly to Dutchman Point and then head due east five miles out into the Bay. I will call you in twenty minutes and tell you where to go from there.” Coleman paused. “And, Director, I don't want any surprises. We have Stinger missiles, and if I see another aircraft within a mile, I'll have my men blow it out of the sky. Understood?”

“Yes.”

Coleman hung up and pulled away from the curb. He had made up the part about the Stingers, but Stansfield didn't know that. Coleman was on his own with no backup, but if his gut feeling was right, Stansfield could be trusted.

The Naval Academy had its own private harbor located at the east end of the campus. Coleman worked his way down the narrow streets and parked in a small lot adjacent to the harbor. Standing next to the plain gray harbormaster's hut was his old friend and former Navy SEAL Sam Jarvi. Jarvi was the current dive master at the Academy. Coleman got out of the car with the scramble phone and metal trunk in hand and walked over to Jarvi.

Jarvi tossed his cigarette on the ground and
crushed it with his foot. The menacing little pit bull, as Coleman used to call him, was no taller than five six. If one counted his bristly, short, gray hair he may have been five seven. Back when Coleman was trying to become a SEAL, Jarvi was one of his instructors, or tormentors, depending on how you looked at it. When Coleman went through BUDS, the twelve-week boot camp that the Navy uses to make sure only the toughest of the toughest become SEALs, Jarvi was there every step of the way screaming and yelling.

Jarvi stuck out his hand. “So you got some bad guys on your ass?”

“Yep.” Coleman set both cases down and the two men hugged each other tightly.

Jarvi picked the larger Coleman off the ground, then set him back down. “It's good to see you, brother.”

“It's good to see you, too.”

Jarvi motioned toward the selection of boats in the harbor. “You need a little transportation?”

“Yeah, if you can spare one.”

“Anything for a buddy. I already cleared it with the harbormaster. He's an old crusty frog. He said as long as it's going to a SEAL, it's okay.” A large smile broke across Jarvi's face. Coleman tried to return the smile, but failed. Jarvi picked up on his old friend's unease and asked, “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, just some business I have to take care of.”

Jarvi went from jovial to no-nonsense in a second. “Do you need some help?”

Coleman shook his head. “No, but thanks. I'm running solo on this one.”

Jarvi showed his displeasure with a furrowed brow. SEALs didn't like to hear other SEALs use the word
solo.
They were trained and conditioned to do everything in pairs and teams. The solo concept was foreign to them. “Scott, you say the word, and I'm in.”

“Thanks, Sam, but this is something I have to do on my own.” Coleman slapped Jarvi's shoulder. “I'll be all right.”

Jarvi nodded solemnly. “I won't keep you waiting. Follow me.” Bending over, Jarvi picked up the heavy trunk. “Shit, what in the hell do you have in this thing?”

“Tools.” Coleman grinned.

“I don't wanna know, do I?”

“No.”

Jarvi led the way down one of the docks. “I gassed up a twenty-eight-foot Whaler. She's got a one-hundred-fifty hp outboard on her, and she's loaded with all the new navigational crap.” Jarvi waved a hand in the air. “Global-positioning system, depth finder, the works. These little shits around here can't find their ass without a computer and a satellite.”

Coleman jumped into the Whaler and grabbed the trunk from Jarvi. He primed the engine and fired up the motor. Jarvi untied the bow and aft lines and nudged the bow away from the dock with his foot. “If you break it, you buy it.”

“I'll bring her back in one piece.” Coleman slipped the boat into gear and started to pull away. Over his shoulder he said, “Hey, Sam, if the FBI comes looking for me, tell them you never saw me.”

“Whatever you say, brother.” Jarvi gave his old friend a curt salute.

Coleman stood behind the small center console of the Whaler and pushed the throttle to the stops. The whine of the outboard matched the increase in speed. The small white boat kicked up a foamy wake as it sped out of the harbor and toward the expansive Chesapeake.

When Coleman cleared Greenbury Point, he headed southeast across the channel. There was a slight chop on the water, but as the wind died down, the bay would get smoother. Once he reached the other side of the channel, he called Stansfield and gave him the final location of the meeting place. Coleman had picked a small sandbar just outside of the channel that appeared during low tide. He pulled the throttle back as he neared the hump of sand. The sandbar was crowned in the middle and at its widest point was fifty feet across. The strip ran north-south with the current of the channel. He brought the Whaler in on the north end and beached her. Coleman knew the Chesapeake as well as one could expect for such a large and shapely expanse of water. When he ran SEAL Team Six, they had spent countless hours training in and around the bay during every possible weather condition both day and night.

Coleman opened the metal trunk and grabbed a flashlight and black tactical hood. He studied the hood for a moment and decided that for theatrical reasons it would be needed. He pulled the hood over his head and adjusted it so a one-inch slit was around his eyes. Next he grabbed his 9mm Glock and stuck the gun in the back of his pants.

He leaned against the center fiberglass console and waited. Several minutes later he heard the familiar sound of a helicopter chopping its way through the air. Not long after that he spotted its blinking running lights. Coleman turned on the flashlight and pointed it in the direction of the helicopter. He waved it back and forth several times, then pointed the light at the crest of the sandbar.

The helicopter looped around to the south and came in for a landing without the assistance of its powerful floodlight. Sand was whipped into the air as the spinning rotors displaced the air beneath. Coleman shielded his eyes but did not turn his back. The retractable landing gear extended into the locked position and touched down softly on the sand. The whine of the turbine engines slowed immediately and with it the speed of the blades.

The fury of flying sand died, and the calm, quiet night returned. Coleman stepped out of the boat and his foot splashed into several inches of water. He stayed next to the boat and eyed the helicopter. From his vantage point, the only person he could see was the pilot. One of the side doors opened and three men stepped down onto the sandbar. Coleman recognized all of them. Shoving the flashlight into one of his pockets, he moved forward to meet them. His boots sloshed through the water for his first several steps until he made it onto the drier portion of the tiny island.

The four men stopped several strides away from one another. Nance stood in the middle, and O'Rourke and Stansfield stood on either side. Coleman looked at his friend's battered face and
said, “Michael, I apologize for getting you involved in this.” The former SEAL hesitated before proceeding with the next part of his plan. It was a gamble, but if he had gauged Stansfield's character correctly, one that should work.

Coleman pulled off the black hood and addressed Director Stansfield. “Sir, I am Scott Coleman, United States Navy retired. Congressman O'Rourke knew nothing about what was going on until this morning. The recent political assassinations were conducted by myself and a network of men that shall remain unknown. Congressman O'Rourke was brought in after my people interrogated Mr. Higgins and found out that he and this idiot here”—Coleman pointed at Nance—“were behind the killing of Senator Olson and Congressman Turnquist.

“Congressman O'Rourke was a close friend of my deceased brother. We needed someone we could trust, so I contacted Michael this morning and gave him Arthur's confession along with a list of our demands. I failed to foresee the possibility that Mr. Nance would try something so desperate.” Coleman looked from Stansfield to O'Rourke. “Michael, I can't apologize enough for pulling you into this.” Michael stood in silence, completely dumbfounded that Coleman had revealed his identity.

Coleman paused for a moment and then glared at Nance. Through clenched teeth he asked, “You just couldn't walk away, could you?”

Nance shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Mr. Coleman, the issue of America's national security is my responsibility, and one that I have always taken very seriously. When someone
blackmails the president, they are threatening the national security of this country. Did you honestly expect me to do nothing?”