The Line

CHAPTER 20

A day had passed, and Boomer was ready to explode on all fronts. No word from Trace — Skibicki had checked with Maggie. They had taken no action here, which meant the whatever The Line had planned was going along quite well without their interference.

“I’m worried about Trace,” Boomer said.

“She would have checked in by now. Something must have gone wrong.”

“I’m worried, too,” Skibicki said.

“There’s a hell of a lot at stake here. More than just the safety of Major Trace.

She’s got the proof and with Colonel Rison dead, we’re up shit’s creek.”

“Is there any other information you have that might be helpful?” Boomer asked. Skibicki had gone over to Fort Shafter the previous evening and, without going to the tunnel, had checked in with some friends to see what was going on.

“ADDS from Special Warfare Group One is missing along with a Mark IX Swimmer Delivery Vehicle. No one knows who’s got it,” Skibicki said.

“You mean the SEALS who own it don’t know where it went?” Boomer asked incredulously.

“Roger that,” Skibicki said.

“Someone from Pacific Fleet came in and loaded it up on a cargo truck and wheeled it away. They could have taken it anywhere and mounted it on the Sam Houston.”

“But isn’t the Sam Houston controlled by Navy Special Ops?” Boomer asked.

Skibicki shook his head.

“Negative. All those ships are under control of Fleet Headquarters. My buddies in Navy Spec Ops have no idea where the Sam Houston is.”

“So it looks like your idea about the DDS and SDV is correct,” Boomer said.

“We got to go to someone,” Vasquez said.

“There’s an advance security detail from the Secret Service here already,” Boomer said.

“I suggest we go to them and tell them what has happened so far.”

“We might as well pack our bags for a prison stay, then,” Skibicki said.

“Or are you forgetting those two men we killed out at Kaena Point?”

“Like you said — this is bigger than Trace; this is also bigger than us,” Boomer replied.

“We know something’s going on. Let’s turn it over to people who can handle it better than we can. We agreed last night that if we didn’t hear from Trace we would act.”

“But if they don’t believe us, we end up in prison, and that leaves no one out here in the real world who knows about the plot and can try to do something about it,” Skibicki countered.

“What can someone do by themselves?” Boomer asked.

“Well, we could have fucked up their jump into the island,” Skibicki said.

“Maybe with a little better idea of what we’re up against, we can do a better job. We can’t go out to sea to check out these subs, but if they’re planning anything in Pearl Harbor we can go down there and check things out.”

Skibicki closed his eyes in contemplation. When he opened them his mind was made up.

“All right. I agree someone has to go to the Secret Service, but only if someone stays out here in the real world and does the best they can to stop this thing if the Secret Service doesn’t react in time.”

Boomer could read between the lines.

“I guess that means this’someone’ “—he pointed at himself—“goes to the Secret Service, and that’someone’ ” he — pointed at Skibicki—“stays out here.”

“Pretty good figuring for a West Pointer,” Skibicki said, slapping him on the back.

“Take me downtown,” Boomer said.

“Excuse me, the lady at the front desk said you were with the Secret Service, and I need to talk to you.”

Stewart looked over the man who had approached him from across the lobby and decided he didn’t like what he saw. Whoever he was, this man spelled trouble — the eyes that were flickering around the lobby, taking in everything, the untucked shirt with slight bulge underneath the right shoulder that suggested a concealed weapon and, most importantly, the uneasy feeling Stewart picked up. an instinct that he’d learned to trust.

“I’m Agent Stewart. How can I help you?” Stewart edged sideways, looking over the man’s shoulder. The rest of the lobby was clear, and Stewart could see two of his men watching them carefully, so he felt somewhat more at ease.

Boomer dug out his special Federal ID and showed it to Stewart.

“Major Boomer Watson, Delta Force.”

Oh shit, Stewart thought. Not a gunslinger from Bragg.

He’d dealt with Delta before and had not enjoyed the experience.

He hadn’t been told that any of them were going to be involved here.

“Special Agent Mike Stewart. Presidential security detail.

What can I do for you?”

“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Boomer asked.

Stewart checked his watch. He had an appointment with his counterpart in the Honolulu PD in thirty minutes.

“Reference?” ‘

“Reference security for the President’s trip,” Boomer replied.

“I’ve got a meeting in thirty minutes,” Stewart said.

“You need to be more specific. I wasn’t briefed that your unit had any jurisdiction or responsibility here on the island.”

“We don’t,” Boomer acknowledged.

“I’m not here in an official capacity. I showed you my ID to let you know I am legitimate.”

“What can I do for you?” Stewart asked, weary of the roundabout conversation.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” Boomer asked.

Stewart frowned. There was something familar about the man.

“I roomed with your second detail Beast squad leader,” Boomer said.

“You’re class of’eighty-one?” Stewart asked.

“Third company in Beast?”

“Right.”

“So — I repeat my question — what can I do for you?”

“Can we talk somewhere private?” Boomer repeated.

“You just told me you’re not here in an official function,” Stewart said.

“I am here on official business and I don’t have time for games. You got something for me, lay it out.”

“I think there’s a military plot against the President,” Boomer said in an even voice.

Two hours later. Boomer was exhausted. He was seated with Agent Stewart in a room on the floor below that reserved for the President.

He’d laid out the story from the beginning, including his part in the killing of the two men found at Kaena Point — leaving out Skibicki’s name. Stewart had made several phone calls to check on their story.

Boomer wasn’t certain how well his theory had been received but he knew one thing — he had crossed his Rubicon and he could not recross. The fact that Stewart was a West Pointer had worried him when he’d first spotted him from the hillside in Waiwa, but the more he thought about it, the more Boomer realized this might be a good break. He very much doubted that Stewart was in the employ of The Line.

If he was. Boomer would find out very shortly.

“You’ve heard nothing from this Major Trace who supposedly has evidence of the existence of this organization called The Line?” Stewart asked.

“Nothing since she called after leaving the stadium,” Boomer said.

“Philadelphia PD has no report of a shooting at the Army-Navy game,” Stewart said, giving him the results of at least one of his phone calls. The only confirmation I have of your story is that two bodies were found up at Kaena Point and that they were killed with 9mm rounds.”

He looked hard at the man across from him.

“But that does little other than make your confession of murder legitimate.

It says nothing of a plot against the President.”

Boomer had said all he could.

Stewart leaned back in his chair, then picked up his special Satcom phone. He punched in a special code and accessed the special link with Air Force One.

“This is Agent Stewart. Is General Maxwell on board?”

There was a brief pause, then Stewart continued.

“General, this is Secret Service Agent Mike Stewart in Honolulu. We talked at Fort Myer at General Faulkner’s funeral. I have a rather strange situation here that I’d like to run by you.” Stewart proceeded to succinctly relay what Boomer had told him in about five minutes, with a few interruptions as he was obviously asked a question. When he got done, he listened for several minutes then put the phone down.

“What now?” Boomer asked.

Stewart held two fingers a fraction apart.

“You were this close to having me call Honolulu PD and you being taken into custody.”

“Were?” Boomer asked.

“Were,” Stewart confirmed.

“Now we wait. Air Force One will be here and the Man will have to decide what to do.”

Air Force One was cruising at 34,000 feet, heading west toward Hawaii.

The airspace for 100 miles around the plane was kept clear by air traffic controllers. Inside that space, besides the large 747, two F-16 Fighting Falcons flew escort, shadowing the bulky plane like two sleek watchdogs, their radars scanning the skies all around, their missiles armed and ready for firing.

Inside Air Force One, General Maxwell slowly put the phone down. He glanced up as Senator Jordan walked down the aisle. Jordan had been spending more time with Maxwell over the course of the past month, feeling him out on his views. Maxwell knew that Jordan was a key player between the White House and Congress. Most importantly, though, was the fact that Jordan had the President’s ear and Maxwell knew the best way to approach the President was through the senator.

“What’s wrong, general?” Jordan asked, taking the deep seat across the way from Maxwell.

“We might have trouble in Hawaii.”

Jordan waited silently. Maxwell began with the phone call from Agent Stewart, then worked backwards, telling the story he’d just been told.

When he got done. Senator Jordan made no comment.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Maxwell took a deep breath.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know this Major Watson who came to Agent Stewart. However, I don’t think we can afford not to believe that the story may be true, particularly with all that has been happening between this administration and the Pentagon. Before he departed on advance security I told Agent Stewart to be on the lookout because I’ve been concerned about the strained relationship between the President and the military.”

Jordan shook his head.

“This is ridiculous. This country has never been concerned about its military doing something like this. What you’re talking about here — the plot this man has come to Agent Stewart with — it’s unthinkable.”

Maxwell thought that was a rather simplistic approach.

“We have to consider it as possible, sir.”

Jordan frowned.

“This Major Trace. She supposedly has some sort of proof that this organization exists?”

“Yes,” Maxwell said.

“Unfortunately she has not been heard from in the last twenty-four hours. She was last seen at West Point.”

“Is there anything we can do to track her down?”

Maxwell nodded.

“I’ll make some calls,”

“And the soldier?” the senator asked.

“What is his status?”

“I’ve asked Agent Stewart to hold him until we arrive.

Technically speaking, of course, Stewart should be turning him over to the local police for questioning on homicide charges.”

“You did right holding him,” Jordan said. He paused in thought. “Have you ever heard of this Line?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“And you’ve been in the military for over thirty years.

Don’t you think you would have run into it? Especially when you were in command over in Yugoslavia? If you’ve never heard of it, I doubt that it exists.”

Maxwell considered his thoughts carefully.

“I have never heard of an organization called The Line, that is true.

But I also could not swear to you that such an organization does not exist. I have seen and heard too much in my years of active service in uniform to discount the possibility.

There has always been a closing of ranks among senior officers from the service academies.”

“That’s not a stand, general. I can’t go to the President with that.”

Jordan pressed home.

“Do you believe — yes or no — that an organization called The Line exists?”

Maxwell thought for a few moments, then startled himself, never mind the senator, with his next words.

“Yes, I do believe it exists.”

“Oh shit,” Senator Jordan said, losing his composure.

“Do you believe that there’s a plot against the President in Hawaii?” he demanded.

Maxwell’s forehead furrowed.

“I think something is going to happen. I’ve felt all along that at the very least the President was going to be confronted by General Martin and the Joint Chiefs in Hawaii over some of the issues.”

“Confrontation and assassination are two radically different words,” Jordan said.

“I know that. But this information is disturbing, the Special Operations Forces parachuting off the north shore and the Vice President just happening to be vacationing up there. The movement of the Special Ops sub toward the SHARCC — the President was scheduled to participate in a highly classified exercise on board there, yet these people know about it — that meant others knew about it.”

“I want you to check on that, general,” Jordan said.

“Find out who authorized those troops to move and what their mission is. If there is a mission.”

“I’ll check on it.”

Jordan pushed the call button and a steward appeared.

Jordan raised a finger and glanced at Maxwell.

“Coffee,” the retired general said.

The steward returned with a drink for the senator and the coffee.

Jordan took a sip.

“Maxwell, you were one of them.” He held up a finger as the general started to protest..

“No, listen to me. The President has no ties to the military,” Jordan chuckled.

“That may be the understatement of the year. So talk to me. What’s going on in the Pentagon?”

Maxwell cradled the coffee mug in his hands.

“They want the President to back down on the MRA and allow it to die in the Senate. They also want him to allow full funding of the Hard Glass system and cut all support for the Ukraine.”

“What are they going to offer in return?” Senator Jordan asked.

“I think they’ll endorse the recommendations of the Fortney Commission,” Maxwell said. The Fortney report had been done by a group hired by the Pentagon in response to the administration’s MRA research.

Its recommendations, mollified by the fact that the Pentagon controlled the commission’s budget, had been mild to say the least, and bore little resemblance to the sweeping changes in the MRA.

“And?” Jordan asked.

Maxwell shrugged.

“That’s all.”

Jordan blinked.

“You’re joking.”

Maxwell’s face didn’t betray any emotion.

“No, I’m not.”

“And if the President refuses?”

Maxwell shifted his steel rimmed glasses toward the senator.

“We have a problem. Now you understand why I’m inclined to believe Agent Stewart’s report.”

Jordan stirred the ice in his drink.

“General Martin is political. He has the support of the opposition in Congress.

The Joint Chiefs could embarrass the President with some incident if they so desired. But a military coup is a far cry from political embarrassment. It surprises me that you believe the situation could be this critical.” Jordan looked at the folders piled on the seat next to Maxwell.

“Have you seen a draft of the President’s speech?”

Maxwell nodded.

“How do you think the military audience at Pearl will react?”

Maxwell remembered all too well the chilly, almost insubordinate, reception the President had received at a military post early in his campaign several years ago.

“In a military manner,” he said.

“What’s that mean?” Jordan asked.

“It means,” Maxwell said, a bit of exasperation in his voice, ‘that they will be exceedingly polite to his face and say’yes, sir yes, sir, three bags full.” If he orders the Navy band to jump off the memorial into the Harbor, they will jump off into the water in perfect step. But he cannot control what they think or feel, and I don’t think he should try.”

“Is there something you aren’t telling me, general?” Jordan asked quietly.

Maxwell’s composure cracked slightly.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?” Jordan pursued.

The mask returned to Maxwell’s face.

“Nothing.”

Jordan leaned forward.

“General Maxwell, I deal with half a dozen to a dozen crises a day. I have to be able to trust the people close to me to not only tell me the facts, but I have to trust their instincts. I haven’t been able to think about this trip to Pearl for more than a few minutes amid all my other duties. You’ve been across the river at the Pentagon and focused on it for several days. You seem a bit agitated about something. You just told me you believe this Line organization exists, yet you offer no proof.

If there’s something I need to know and bring to the attention of the President — even if it’s just speculation on your part — I need for you to tell me.”

Maxwell was ill at ease.

“I really don’t know. But I’ve had a strange feeling about this whole trip to Pearl ever since it was announced. Something’s not quite right. I used to be able to go anywhere in the Pentagon, but the JCS war room is now off limits to me.”

“That could simply be because you are no longer on active duty,” Jordan noted.

“No,” Maxwell replied.

“I had access until last week.

Now, though, they’re enforcing a new access roster — one that excludes me.”

“And?” the senator prompted.

“Is there anything else bothering you?”

Maxwell’s eyes were fixed on the bulkhead over Jordan’s left shoulder.

“I did my first tour in Vietnam as a lieutenant assigned to advise a Vietnamese Ranger company. They had an old Vietnamese sergeant that always walked point for them on patrol, and he’d never once led them into an ambush. He’d been fighting almost all his life. First with the French, then with us. One day I talked to him through an interpreter and I asked how come he never had been ambushed. He told me the spirits warned him of danger on the trail.”

Jordan took another sip of his drink, waiting for Maxwell to make his point.

“Later, on my third tour, I met some of the men we sent across the border into North Vietnam and Laos. Members of our best recon teams and I talked to them, and they told me the same thing — the ones that managed to survive dozens of trips into enemy territory — except they called it something different. They told me there was a sixth sense that they paid very close attention to — that they trusted their lives to. I felt it occasionally too in combat. Once before my infantry company got attacked, I could feel something was wrong — that something bad was about to happen. And it did.”

Maxwell shrugged.

“I’ve had the same feeling about this trip. I can’t put my finger on anything specific, but I have had a bad feeling about this trip from the beginning.” He picked up a folder from the seat next to him.

“I looked at the itinerary. I see that the President is to participate in a national command and control exercise on the night of the sixth. I assume that will be aboard the SHARCC.”

“Yes, that’s been scheduled for months,” Jordan replied.

“I don’t know the details of the exercise. It’s required by memorandum of agreement between the Office of the President and the Department of Defense that he participate in one C&C exercise every six months. Been in effect for over forty years.”

“I would say that is the opportune time for General Martin and the Joint Chiefs to confront him. Just before he gives the speech at Pearl,” Maxwell said.

Jordan smiled.

“Then we can cancel the exercise, which will solve that problem. We’ll make Martin and his cronies come to us.”

Maxwell nodded.

“That will help minimize the potential for problems. But don’t underestimate General Martin. In Vietnam he won the Distinguished Service cross-the second highest award, just below the Medal of Honor. He also has a Purple Heart with three oak leaf clusters, which means he was wounded three times — and he didn’t get those wounds sitting on his ass in the rear. He walks with that limp because a large-caliber machine gun bullet took away most his right thigh. I disagree with some of his philosophies, but he is one hell of a soldier.”

“I served my country, in World War II, so don’t be trying to pull the wool over my eyes because of Martin’s background,” Jordan said sharply.

“He’s not the only one who was shot at in the service of his country.”

“Senator, I say that merely as his due, because there are some nagging doubts about the general that even his record can’t remove.”

“For example?”

Maxwell held up a binder with top secret stamped on the cover.

“The Backfire incident.”

“I’ve read the report,” Jordan replied.

“I don’t think it’s complete.”

Jordan waited. Maxwell took a deep breath. He felt out of his league.

“I question how they knew that Ukrainian aircraft would be making that particular flight with this particular pay load.”

“According to that report the military didn’t know,” Jordan replied.

“It was coincidence. They picked it up on AWACS as it crossed the Black Sea. The two F-16s were participating in a NATO exercise and were able to be diverted to intercept the Backfire.”

Maxwell nodded.

“But the report states that while this was believed to be the first attempt by the Ukrainians to smuggle out a nuclear weapon, there were previous nights of the same sort, carrying conventional arms. How could General Martin and his people know that?”

“That information did not originate from General Martin,” Jordan said.

“It came from the CIA.”

“I know that,” Maxwell said.

“But when did the CIA report that to Martin? Before or after the Backfire incident?”

Jordan didn’t have an answer to that.

“If the CIA informed Martin before, then it should have been brought to the President’s attention, and he could have tried diplomatic means to stop the shipments, instead of ending up with a nuclear incident over a friendly country and the loss of two pilots.”

Maxwell flipped a few pages in the report.

“It says right here that Martin specifically ordered U.S. forces in Turkey on alert for three days prior to the incident looking for such shipments.”

“So you’re saying Martin allowed it to happen?” Jordan asked.

“Why?”

Maxwell ticked off reasons on his hand. “To support his own agenda.

Hard Glass. Shooting down the MRA. To reduce confidence in the President.” Maxwell picked up another folder.

“And then the incident in the Ukraine,” he continued.

Jordan finished his drink.

“What are you trying to say, General?”

“I don’t really—”

“If you have some facts, then you put them down on paper and you give them to me,” Jordan snapped.

“The President has a lot on his mind and until you have something solid, I’m not going to worry him with speculation.”

He stood up and left the cabin.

The head air policeman for Hickam Field threw a couple of extra-strength Tylenol into his mouth and washed them down with a swig of orange juice.

“Who the hell is that?” he asked irritably, as the chief air traffic controller acknowledged an inbound flight.

“We’re shut down for all but emergencies and specifically authorized nights until we get Air Force One in and out of here.” The two men were standing in the control tower, both exhausted from the extra preparations for the high-level flights that were coming in.

“I don’t know,” the head ATE said.

“Some V.I.P from the mainland. I got a personal call from General Dublois telling me to give this flight top treatment and direct clearance.

It’s not on the list of authorized flights, but I’ll take General Dublois’s word that it’s authorized.”

Given that General Dublois was the Air Force Chief of Staff, the head security man for the airfield knew he wasn’t going to argue. He watched as the unmarked Learjet rolled to a halt and a large limousine with darkened windows pulled up next to it. An old man was escorted down the short flight of stairs and into the waiting car, which immediately took off, heading for the gate to adjacent Pearl Harbor.

“Are there any other authorized unauthorized flights coming in?” the security man asked sarcastically. He wondered who the old man was to rate such high-class treatment and why the Lear didn’t come into the international airport, which would have been just as easy.

“That’s the only one I know of,” the head ATE said.

“I think I’m going to go home and get a couple of hours of sleep.

Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”