TSUNAMI STORM (26 page)

ONE YEAR LATER

Saturday was just another workday at the Pentagon. Rear Admiral Paul Jacobs finished and encrypted his report to Senator Elizabeth Bechtel, the new chairwoman of the Senate Intelligence Committee. She had managed to become part of the loop in covert military operations. How she had managed that, he didn’t know. He just saw it as part of her career path that would probably culminate in the White House.

He checked his watch. He was running late, which wasn’t that unusual, but today was a special day for him. He had promised her he would be there. The man in the dark suit was standing next to the door in his office being as patient as he could be.

“You’re not going to have time to go to your apartment and change clothes, Sir,” the security man said.

“I know,” Jacobs replied. “Too high profile in the uniform?”

“Under the circumstances, I think it will be okay,” he replied.

“Then let’s roll.”

Jacobs reviewed some of the reports in his briefcase on the long ride out into the hills of Virginia. Once finished with that task, he put the papers away and watched the rolling green countryside drift by. It had been a long journey getting to where he was now. He missed the autonomy of being a submarine captain. His new job was much more demanding but at least it came with people who were experienced and who had helped him adapt to the new world in which he had been placed. Life and death decisions had become a daily occurrence but it wasn’t on such a personal level as it had been aboard the
Massachusetts
. He was now much more aware of what was going on behind the scenes in the complex machinations of world politics and international relations.

China had taken the losses from the earthquake very hard. The damage to the Pacific Northwest had been very hard, as well. Publically, China had not mentioned the loss of the two Frigates or the submarine. Political relations between the U.S. and China had been frozen for most of the last year, but there were small signs of a potential thaw. Each side had carefully backed away from what could have turned into a full scale nuclear war.

“Almost there, Sir,” his limo driver said as they turned off the main highway following a curving two-lane road that headed gently up hill. He smiled with bittersweet memories as they turned off on to a gravel road and passed the large wooden sign held in place by a stout log frame.

THE TIFFANY GRIMES

CALL TO COURAGE CAMP

The gravel road led through the deeply wooded area for half a mile before opening into a large grassy section with log cabins and teenaged children running around. The limo pulled up to the large log construction building where it stopped. He didn’t wait for the driver to open the door. He got out and eagerly climbed up the stairs to the large porch where she was waiting.

“Joyce, it’s so good to see you again,” he said as his security man closed in behind him.

“Mmm, mmm, don’t we look spiffy today,” she replied.

“Sorry, didn’t have time to change.”

“That’s fine, Paul, I’m just happy to have you here,” Joyce Grimes said. “I want you to see what you created.”

“It wouldn’t have happened without your dedication and your vision,” he replied. “You put the rest of your life on hold to make this happen.”

She chuckled. “My life’s not on hold, Paul, this project has given my life a new meaning. It has filled a void that could have consumed what was left of my life. Instead of grief, there is laughter and joy, and more importantly there is hope and courage.” She led him across the long porch, down another set of steps and across the lush green grass. “This is where the running course begins. There are three levels of difficulty, which brings us to the obstacle course over here.”

Admiral Jacobs looked at the courses as memories of Annapolis, and his days at the Naval Academy came back to him. “You don’t think it’s too much?”

“No,” she replied. “The kids enjoy the challenges. The special area is over here.” She led him to the right for a hundred feet where four towers stood. Each tower had a circular stairway inside. The first two towers had a sixty-foot-long rope bridge, strung between them, twenty feet above the grass below. On each side of the rope bridge two poles stood with a thick steel cable running between them, sliding pulleys mounted on each side of the bridge. The rope bridge had a two-inch-thick rope as the foot section of the bridge with one-inch-thick ropes for the hand holds on each side. Half-inch ropes tied the hand holds to the foot rope at two-foot intervals.

“No one goes on the rope bridge or the other challenges without a safety harness, which is hooked to each of the safety lines running along the length of the challenges,” she explained. “There’s no danger of anyone falling and getting hurt. Even with all of the safety equipment, it’s amazing how much courage it takes to walk across that bridge. I’ve done it myself; it’s a spooky experience.” The third tower had a twenty-foot-high rock climb constructed on the wide face of the tower with similar poles for the safety lines.

“You wouldn’t believe how this is changing the lives of so many people, Paul. I get the biggest kick out of the helicopter moms who spend their lives hovering over their children. They’re horrified watching their child walk across the rope bridge or climb the rock wall. The kids love every minute of it. You don’t protect your child by hovering over him or her and controlling everything he or she does. You protect him or her by teaching your child to have the courage and inner strength to take life on head first. That’s what they learn here.

“The hardest part isn’t getting the
kids
to do the challenges – it’s getting the
parents
to do them. You wouldn’t believe the difference in attitude toward life when the whole family completes all of the challenges.” Behind the rock climb were thirteen poles a little more than a foot in diameter and twenty feet above the ground placed two feet apart with the usual safety lines along the sides. “Once they complete the rock climb they walk from pole top to pole top, again all in safety harnesses,” she added. “Once across the pole walk to the final tower, they have a simulated parachute jump down into the sand pit. That completes their Call to Courage.”

“It looks so much larger in real life than it did on the drawings,” Jacobs said.

Just then a group of teens, parents and adult guides came running up to the towers. Admiral Jacobs and Joyce Grimes watched as the kids were harnessed, clipped to the safety lines and eagerly entered the challenges. Jacobs smiled as the guides encouraged the parents to participate in the challenges. Some joined in, others just watched as their children had the time of their lives finishing the Call to Courage Course.

“None of this would have happened without you buying the land and paying for the construction of the camp,” Joyce said.

“Well, like I said in the beginning, I make good money in the Navy and I don’t have a family, so…”

Joyce smiled. “You
do have a family
,” she said. “In a very real way these are your children and your family. They have a new lease on life because of your investment. They are stronger and more courageous because of you. They are embracing life and its challenges because of you, and don’t you ever forget that.”

Admiral Jacobs felt a little embarrassed by the praise. “This was your vision, Joyce. I’m just glad I was able to help make it happen.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I love being the administrator for this program. I am growing through the speaking engagements that you organize and the fundraisers you put on. This has been my own Call to Courage, and I’m thrilled to be able to honor my daughter with this camp. Because of your efforts, we have enough funds to keep this camp going for the next ten years, and there’s more money flowing in every week.”

“Well,” he said quietly, “this camp is helping me get through some very tough days and nights. We make a good team.”

“Yes we do,” Joyce replied. “Look, I know you have to deal with some of the worst of humanity in your job at the Pentagon, but this camp can let you enjoy some of the best of humanity as these kids and some of their parents rise to be better people in a world that can really use their help.”

“Yes,” Jacobs replied, watching the first child start out on the pole walk. “It does help.” He stood there watching with a huge grin on his face as the young girl leaped gleefully from one pole to another. He felt truly happy for the first time in a very long time. He couldn’t remember how long it had been, but for now, just being happy was more than enough.

* * *

Willa McBride took the overly sized pair of shears out of her desk drawer and walked from the recently finished city hall out into the new Village Center. Some of the buildings were still under construction, the Ocean Grand Hotel in particular. Frank Gillis had postponed rebuilding his hotel so he could focus on rebuilding the homes and small businesses in Dolphin Beach first. Frank stood at the speaker’s platform near the midpoint of Village Center, updating the crowd that had gathered on what remained to be done in Dolphin Beach.

“I see our guest of honor has arrived,” Frank said as he saw Willa approaching. “Ladies and gentlemen, our beloved mayor, Willa McBride.”

Willa stepped up on the speaker’s platform and quickly surveyed the huge crowd of people. “Thank you Frank, and thank you my friends, the people of Dolphin Beach. We actually do have two honored guests with us today, Jason Roberts from Cal-Tech, will you please stand?”

Jason was seated in the front row. He stood, turned and waved to the crowd.

“Before you sit back down, Jason, I want to extend our profound thanks for all of the work you did to help educate us about the earthquake and tsunami. If it wasn’t for you and the evacuation plan you put together, most of us gathered here would have died last fall. Thank you Jason.” The crowd gave him a standing ovation. His face flushed, but he managed a small bow and another wave of his hand before sitting back down.

“Our other honored guest is my sister, Senator Elizabeth Bechtel.” Her sister stood and waved. “Thank you, Elizabeth, for all of your help with relief funds and the influence you exerted on our behalf to see that all of our communities could be rebuilt.”

Elizabeth quietly sat back down.

“In last year’s earthquake and tsunami we lost our homes, our businesses and our town. What we didn’t lose is one another. Dolphin Beach is the only town on the Pacific Northwest coast that didn’t have a single fatality in that disaster. That happened because you looked out for your neighbor. Young and old, rich and poor, you came together, and together we walked away from the greatest disaster in the history of the Pacific Northwest. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you. To me, you are the most wonderful people in the world.

“Which brings me to why we are here.” Willa turned to face the large tarp that covered the object over the new fountain in the Village Center. Frank held the wide ribbon that kept the tarp in place. Willa slowly approached, and glancing back at the people said, “I hereby dedicate this new piece of art to the courage and strength of the people of Dolphin Beach.” She cut the ribbon and the tarp fell away, revealing the new stainless steel sculpture of a Pacific White Sided Dolphin leaping over the central fountain. Frank reached down and turned the valve on for the fountain. Water sprayed into the air under the dolphin to the cheer of the people of Dolphin Beach. Willa turned and looked at her friends, the people of her home town. She turned again toward Frank and held out her hand. He came forward, smiling as he shook her hand.

“We’re back,” she said. “Dolphin Beach is back.”

“I can’t shake the feeling that I’m destined to die in the line of duty,” FBI Special Agent Jake Hunter said. He shifted in his chair but maintained his scrutiny of Dr. Rosen. She had a calmness and confidence about her that inspired trust. He just wasn’t sure he was ready to give her that completely. Her office was small and spartanly furnished, as was common among professional consultants hired by the FBI.

“Like your father?” Dr. Rosen asked.

Jake’s mind strayed to the portrait of his father, placed in a position of honor on the wall off the main lobby of the J. Edgar Hoover building, five floors below. “Yeah…like my father.”

“How long has it been since he died?”

Jake grimaced slightly and leaned forward in his chair. “He was killed thirteen years ago.”

“And where are you emotionally regarding his death?”

Jake closed his eyes. He felt pain envelop his heart again, making it difficult for him to breathe. “I still feel resentful. He had so much experience and wisdom he could have shared with me. I missed that. He was a good father. I admire him for being there for me. I depended on him to guide me while I grew up, attended college and went through the academy at Quantico. Then, suddenly, he was gone. I feel like I had to step into his role as a parent figure before I was ready.”

“You aren’t responsible for the lives of other agents, you know.”

He stiffened and sat up straighter. “I am. I’m responsible for them until they mature and come into their own.”

“Like your partner?”

Jake broke eye contact with her and looked out the window.

“Tell me about Agent Haden,” she said.

Jake paused. “I feel like he never really became an FBI Agent. He was with me for six years. During that time he did okay. He was well trained, generally competent, but it was like he was working at a job. You know what I mean? Technically, you become an FBI Agent when they present you with your badge and credentials. But for me, you become an agent when you
own
the position. When being an FBI Agent stops defining you, and you start defining what it means to
be
an agent by how you think and how you do the job. Haden never got to that point.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Yes. It does bother me. It’s like he died before he discovered who he really was, and that, to me, is a terrible loss.”

It was strange that with all the supposed glory of being in the FBI, ninety-nine-point-nine percent of his work was the tedious, meticulous tracking down of mundane information. It was only the adrenaline-pumping, one-tenth-percent of FBI work that resulted in armed confrontations—the latest episode of which had brought him to mandatory counseling for an hour a week. He found it hard enough to talk about how he felt after losing his partner, and the forced time off just made him feel more useless and depressed.

Jake felt truly alive only when he was putting clues together, building evidence and tracking down criminals.

“I admire your passion for being an FBI agent,” Dr. Rosen said. “Passionate people often make great contributions to the world. What I want you to work on is recognizing that many people aren’t as passionate about their line of work as you are. While they may have strong feelings about family, hobbies or sports teams, it’s perfectly normal for them to view their career as just a job. They still contribute and are productive members of society.” She closed her notebook and slid it to the side of her desk. “See what you can do with that. We’ll meet again the same time and day next week.”

Jake left Dr. Rosen’s office and walked toward the elevators. The hall was long, gray and slightly musty. The gray carpeting, flecked with tiny black threads, should have been replaced years ago, but instead it, along with a hundred other things, had lapsed into various stages of disrepair.

He took the elevator down to the ground level and stopped momentarily in front of the portrait of his father, legendary Special Agent Jarrod Hunter. He reached up and touched the frame, wondering what his father might have thought or said about his own struggles in the Bureau.

Fourth generation FBI,
That’s quite a legacy to live up to.

He exited the southeast entrance that faces the corner of 9
th
and Pennsylvania. The warm, moist air of June in Washington, D.C. engulfed him as he pushed through the glass doors and out into the paved area around the main entrance to the building.

I’ve
had enough of partners
, he thought. The first one hadn’t died; but he had been placed on permanent disability due to injuries sustained in yet another gun battle. And now with Haden, enough was enough. He couldn’t take losing a third one.

The FBI is just going to have to find a way to allow me to work without a partner.

He walked between the large, round, concrete barriers that protected the main entrance from vehicles, potentially filled with explosives, from crashing in through the doors and taking the entire building down. His thoughts drifted to what he was going to tell his boss.

The racing sound of a car rapidly accelerating jolted him back to reality. As he looked up a speeding black vehicle struck a pedestrian crossing toward the FBI building. The collision propelled the man’s body into the intersection. The car swerved right onto Pennsylvania.

Typical black SUV found all over Washington
, Jake thought, b
ut without any plates
. Movement of the man’s arm drew Jake’s attention back to the victim.
He’s still alive
. Jake raced into the intersection, waving his arms to stop the onslaught of traffic. Cars screeched to a halt as Jake knelt down to examine the injured man.

Bright red blood spread rapidly across the man’s right chest. It oozed through the otherwise crisp white shirt.
Right ribs are broken.
Jake checked for a pulse.
Weak and rapid. He’s in shock.
Scrapes and blood covered half of the man’s face. His right arm lay twisted and bent unnaturally.
Broken,
Jake concluded.
Both legs, too. This is bad.

Two Metro Police officers ran into the street from the southeast corner. One cop held back traffic. The other approached Jake and the injured man. Jake pulled his credentials and shield from his inside jacket pocket and held them up for the officer to see.

“I’m Special Agent Jake Hunter, FBI,” Jake said. “He needs an ambulance, now!”

The Metro cop grabbed his radio and called it in.

“F…B…I?” the man said slowly, looking up into Jake’s eyes.

“Yes,” Jake said. “Just hold on, help is on the way.” The man coughed. Blood sprayed from his mouth forming small bright red droplets on the left jacket sleeve of Jake’s suit.

The man held up his left arm. “Take…watch.”

“You’re going to make it. Just hold on.” Jake closed his eyes momentarily and then looked away. He hated lying to people who were dying, but this was what he had been taught to do−give them some hope−some reason to cling to life.

“No,” the man said. He coughed again. Pink foam appeared in his mouth, a clear sign of massive lung damage. “You have…”

Jake had seen too many people die not to recognize a last request.
He knows he’s not going to make it.

“You have…to…stop…them.”

“Stop who?”

“Take…watch.”

Jake looked at the watch. Both the minute and hour hands had a small skull on them. He was surprised by the sweep of the second hand. The watch was running backwards: counter-clockwise.

“What is this watch?” Jake demanded.

“Time…left.”

“Before what?”

“We…all…die.”

“What does that mean?” Jake leaned closer to the man’s face. “How are we all going to die?”

Jake held the man’s head up off the pavement. With the man’s last breath, pink foam and bright red blood welled up and flooded out of his mouth. Jake checked for a pulse; there was none.
The very worst part of my job,
Jake thought:
being there when people die.
Jake closed his eyes, lowered his head and breathed out slowly. He fought a deep sadness rising within his chest.
I hate feeling so damned helpless.

“Bus is on the way,” the Metro cop said.

Jake looked up and shook his head. The Metro cop got back on his radio. The ambulance would still be on its way, but they wouldn’t need the lights and siren.

Jake examined the watch more closely. The hours were marked in twenty-four-hour increments, like a military watch. He noticed a small clear rectangular window in the watch face with the number 35 displayed beneath. No manufacturer or brand of any kind was visible. He took the watch off the man’s wrist and examined the back. No markings there either. Jake checked the man’s pockets. He found a wallet with identification, a plane boarding pass for a flight from New York to Washington and back later in the day, and a Metro Pass card.

It’s evidence—but they won’t need the watch for identification, or cause of death. Besides, he gave it to me. Technically, it wasn’t his when he died.

As Jake moved the watch, he noticed a brief green flash from the watch face. He moved it slowly in the sunlight, looking for the source of the flash. Then he saw it: a holographic image of a large bird. It seemed to float in the air, just under the clear bezel of the watch.

“Huh,” Jake said quietly. The image looked similar to an eagle, but it wasn’t the usual shape. Jake glanced around and slipped the watch into his jacket pocket.

A Metro Police cruiser pulled to the curb just past them on Pennsylvania Avenue. A sergeant got out and approached.

“You see what happened?”

Jake gave him a description of the car and showed him the victim’s identification.

“Detectives are a little backed up. It’ll be an hour or two before they get here. We might have crime scene techs here before that, but maybe not. Can you stick around for a while?”

Jake knew how the system worked. Homicide detectives were overworked in D.C., never enough hours in the day. Same deal for the crime scene technicians.

“Yeah, I’ve got nothing else to do, anyway. You guys look like you could use some coffee.” Jake took orders and went back into the FBI building. With the early summer warmth and humidity, the inside of the Hoover Building felt cooler than it actually was. The air inside smelled unmistakably musty and stale compared to outside.

Despite the depictions in the movies and on television, cooperation between local law enforcement and the FBI was very good. Jurisdictional lines were clear. This was a vehicular homicide within the realm of the Washington D.C. Metro Police. No federal issues were involved.

When Jake returned, more Metro cops had arrived and yellow police tape cordoned off the crime scene. Gawkers collected behind the yellow tape, an unavoidable part of every crime scene. Traffic had been re-routed, which only added to the general confusion a dead body in the street caused. A deputy medical examiner had arrived to evaluate the body. Jake handed her a cup of coffee and filled her in on what he had seen, including time and cause of death.

Two hours later, a team of Metro detectives ducked under the tape: Detectives Kurt Traeger and Craig Dirksen. Jake had worked with both of them before. Dirksen confirmed the victim’s identity: Daniel Jacobson, residing in Manhattan, New York, Vice President of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York.

“Really?” Jake asked. “A vice president of the Federal Reserve Bank? In Washington?”

“Yeah,” Traeger said. “We see ‘em from time to time, visiting the politicos.”

“But this guy wasn’t anywhere near the political offices. It looked like he was coming here, to the FBI.”

“Why would you think that?”

Jake cringed. He hadn’t told the other cops everything, but it was time now.

Well, except maybe for the watch
.

“When I got to him, I identified myself as FBI to your patrolmen,” he said. “The vic seemed relieved and started mumbling something about all of us are going to die, and how I had to stop them. It seemed a little nuts to me, so I didn’t mention it to the sergeant.”

“Okay, we’ll run a drug panel with the autopsy. That may explain it,” Traeger replied.

Jake was now officially intrigued. A vice president of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York comes to Washington, rides the subway instead of taking a limo, apparently wanting to talk to the FBI. But there’s an FBI field office in New York. Why not go there? And what about the watch, counting down the days, hours, minutes and seconds until, according to the victim, they would all die? What was that all about? And just before he gets to the front door of the FBI building, he’s killed by a hit-and-run driver. What are the odds of those things being just a coincidence?

Jake felt the sadness lifting and his pulse strengthen. He turned and headed back into the building to talk to his boss.

* * *

“Daniel Jacobson, Manhattan, Federal Reserve Bank VP,” Senior Special Agent William Briggs read off the computer screen. Jake patiently waited for his boss to continue. “He’s been under surveillance by the financial crimes division for the last year−suspicion of money laundering.”