Dead Water

19

Three hours after the assassination, now president Herbert Lamar was sitting alone in the Oval Office. My God, what is happening? Lord knows I've always wanted to be president, but not like this. Dear God, please give me the strength and confidence and your help in guiding me through the coming days.

He summoned his chief of staff, Irving Vickers.

"Sir?"

"Get hold of Laura Green. Have her assemble everybody. I want the entire cabinet and all the directors of the security and law enforcement agencies to meet me at the White House in ninety minutes. No excuses — everybody. We'll probably have to use the White House briefing room. I don't want any media anywhere." What the hell do I say?

Twenty seconds later, Irving Vickers was on the line to Laura Green, President Williams's chief of staff. "Laura, I don't know what to say." The two had known each other on the DC conveyer belt for almost ten years. It was Irving who had suggested Laura Green replace Andrew Ladd after he'd been exposed as a traitor.

"There's really nothing to say for the moment, Irving. I've been expecting your call."

"The president wants everybody available for a meeting in ninety minutes, probably in the briefing room." He proceeded to list who was required to be there. "He and I haven't talked about it yet, but my feeling is no major changes will be made immediately. I wanted to ask you to stay on as my co-chief. I would suggest that you keep most of your staff, at least those you deem indispensable. We will have to work very closely in the coming weeks. Laura, this is going to take an exceptional effort to get through all of this, and I believe we are the key."

"Irving, my staff and I will do everything humanly possible to help in every way we can. I agree with your assessment."

"Laura, I don't even want to have to bother with swapping offices and all that shit. The president will obviously move into his new position, but for the moment, I strongly believe we need to keep the disruption to a minimum, if that's even possible."

"Just keep me posted as to what you need."

"Will do, and thanks."

"You are welcome, Irving."

Vickers returned to the president. "Sir, I've spoken with Laura Green, and everything will be set. I told her that it was my thought that we wanted to keep interruption to a minimum. I took the liberty of asking her to stay on as my co-chief for the time being. We are all going to need help during this time."

"Of course, Irving. I respect Laura tremendously. I thought she was an excellent choice after that mess involving Ladd. Make sure she knows she has full authority to keep whatever staff she might want."

"I've taken care of that, sir."

President Lamar smiled. "That's what I like about you, Irving. You anticipate well. Prepare yourself for some long hours ahead; this is not going to be easy."

"I realize that, sir. I have a comfortable sofa in my office."

"Good. You'll be using it."

Six hours after the assassination of President Williams, Nazir al-Hadid surfaced ten feet away from a splendid 110-foot ocean-traversing yacht at anchor.

It was just after dark, and al-Hadid's GPS unit had worked perfectly. The yacht was not overly lit up, not in the manner one would usually expect.

Two men were awaiting a different type of craft, one that would arrive silently. They had been on station for perhaps forty-five minutes when something surfaced ten feet away. It made its way to the platform. The two men reached down and hauled the underwater scooter aboard and then the man piloting it.

Nazir al-Hadid removed his swim mask and threw it into the ocean. "I never want to wear one of those again," he snarled. His swim fins followed.

Asobe Sydar hugged him. "You have done it, Nazir. You have done it." Then he noticed Nazir was alone. "Where is Sirhan?"

The second man handed Nazir a bottled water, which he eagerly accepted. He held up a hand while he gulped the entire contents.

"You would not believe it. From what I saw, it appeared like he was grabbed by a large fishhook. He was just yanked from his scooter, and then he was out of sight. He was right there, and then he was gone. A medium-size boat had just passed overhead. I saw a flash under his shoulder, along with a fish against him, and then he vanished. It can be the only explanation."

The second man, known only as Zahaar, questioned, "Was he dead?"

Nazir al-Hadid was in a foul mood after the nearly six-hour underwater trek. "How the fuck do I know, you idiot? It all happened in two seconds. You think I can swim faster than a boat?"

"No, I do not. I am only concerned if he were to be caught alive."

Al-Hadid realized his concern was appropriate. "Zahaar, I do not know. It seems unlikely if someone was hooked like a fish at such speed, I think he would probably drown, but I do not know this for a fact."

Zahaar added, "We can only hope. If the Americans were to capture him, they have ways that would certainly make him talk. We will have to closely monitor their news media for any information. Should we not call Ryyaki Ali?"

"No. We will not cause alarm without reason. If we find out definitive information, only then will we inform him. Do we have to stay in these waters?"

"It will not be a problem. We cleared customs without any problems. The Americans have no reason to check us again."

Nazir al-Hadid was not convinced. "Zahaar, I have just killed the American president. You do not think they will be checking every boat in the area?"

"Let them check. They will find nothing. Now strip off your wet suit. We will sink everything right here. Then we will cruise back into the harbor and find a nice anchorage. The Americans would expect a boat to be leaving, not coming closer."

"I hope you are right," he said as he stripped out of his wet suit. Everything was gathered into a large nylon net, including the underwater scooter. It was weighted down with over a hundred pounds of lead and then pushed overboard. It immediately sank out of sight.

"Nazir, go take a hot shower, and then join me for a fine meal. You have earned it. Asobe, inform the chef we will be eating in one hour."

Left alone, Zahaar looked at the spot where the net had sunk. Less than an hour before, another preceded it containing the body and paper documents, including a passport, of a crew member that al-Hadid now replaced. All the new paperwork in the same name but featuring Nazir al-Hadid's photograph was in place. He was confident that the yacht would easily clear any scrutiny should such need arise.

Captain Richard Starr was sitting up front in the cockpit of their supplied jet, always paying attention to better learn the operation of the aircraft.

Phillips was busy working three computers at once, and Styles spent the time staring out the window when he wasn't doing push-ups.

After takeoff, Christman had an unusual conversation with flight control. When finished, he explained to Starr.

"We have the option to change transponder numbers, which identifies us as a federal agency plane on an emergency mission involving national security. It lets us run faster without the FAA getting their panties in a wad. Whenever they see a plane going supersonic and it's not military, it won't be long before military fighters show up."

"How fast are you planning on taking us?"

"Nine hundred miles per hour, perhaps a bit faster. We have a tailwind, so our ground speed will be around a thousand. It'll cut our travel time by at least a third."

"Good thinking."

Christman got on the microphone to inform Styles and Phillips. "Hey, guys, we're going through the sound barrier in a minute, so prepare." Christman climbed to forty-five thousand feet and leveled off. "Here goes." He pushed the throttles forward. Six hundred, six twenty-five, six hundred fifty miles per hour, then… Boom… eight, eight fifty, nine hundred, nine hundred fifty miles per hour. The plane was performing flawlessly; the last time they had gone this fast was when they had to leave the Middle East being chased by fighter jets. Christman looked over at Starr and grinned. "She's smooth as silk. Those engineers did a hell of a job with these performance modifications. Last time, I didn't have time to enjoy it."

"Last time, we were fifty feet off the ground."

"Yeah, well there was that."

Starr looked below. He could clearly see the silver outline of a commercial jet perhaps ten thousand feet below, which they were overtaking quickly. "Man, J. C., we're really moving, that commercial liner below looks slow."

"If it wasn't for their radar, they'd never know we were here. They'll think we're military."

"They won't see us?"

"Probably not, but if they do, we'll just be a spot in the sky."

The DPO jet was just starting its descent into Knoxville when Phillips called Styles and Starr back to her workstation.

"I've got some updated info on the attack. Three shoulder-fired missiles were apparently fired from a fishing trawler tied up to a pier a couple of miles from the Baltimore Museum of Industry, where the president was headed for the celebration for Maryland's governor. It's believed two suspects got off the boat and escaped using scuba gear and underwater scooters. Get this: it looks like one of them was accidentally hooked by a fisherman who had a line out from a charter boat. A guy reeled in the body, called the cops, and the agencies at the scene put it together. It looks like they're on top of things for once."

Starr looked at her and said, "Hooked? Like on a fishhook?"

"Yeah. Got him in the shoulder," she replied, shaking her head. "They're working like mad to ID him, but so far, no luck."

"Who'd you have to hack to get this?" Starr asked.

"Surprisingly enough, no one; it came from DPO. Merritt said that for now, everything is staying status quo. Guess we'll see how long that lasts."

Styles spoke up. "How do we handle this new arrangement with him?"

"We don't. I'll take care of it. I have to consider whether to resign from DPO or not. It could serve us better if I remain. He thinks I work from home, anyway."

Styles merely nodded.

She continued, "There are three decent motels within ten miles of Ryyaki Ali's estate. How do you want to work this?"

Starr looked at Styles and then answered, "Two rooms in two of them. Get us four vehicles, SUVs."

"See if you can get me a Jeep. Dark green if possible," Styles interjected.

"On it soon as I've gone over this," Phillips responded.

"Here's what I've come up with. And right upfront I'm going to tell you a lot of this is no more than an educated guess. This Rijah Ellhad seems to be the key. Like I said before, Iraqi national, former Republican Guard, now not much more than a mercenary." She passed them three photographs each. "Here are some pretty good head shots; the third is from the camping store, so that's only a week and a half old."

Styles remarked, "He's got what we used to call 'dead' eyes, eyes of a stone-cold killer."

"Just what I thought," agreed Phillips. "The middle photograph is a falsified passport photo, name of Jason Daniels. Can't believe that didn't get flagged. The first is where we get lucky. There is a restaurant called Marroni's; apparently, he likes Italian food. This restaurant has been robbed five times in two years, so they put a high-end security system in. It's linked into Portland PD's database, which is how I got it. Every person who enters is on video; he's shown up there six times in the last two weeks. I can't figure out if he's careless or what. No one who does this shit should be keeping any kind of a regular routine."

Styles spoke up. "The Republican Guard was an arrogant bunch. They actually believed they were the best military outfit in the world. I'd bet the arrogance hasn't left."

Starr nodded.

"This restaurant is only about twelve miles from that estate I was telling you about. My money says that ties him in hard," stated Phillips with conviction.

"Not taking that bet," replied Starr. "So now what?"

"Two things," answered Styles. "First, we all start eating Italian food, two at a time. Second, we put our own camera at the entrance so we can observe when we're not there. I'm going to recon that estate. When he shows up, we follow and hopefully recover that toxin. Then I take them out."

Phillips was still amazed at just how easily Styles could say that. "How many do you think there might be?"

"It doesn't matter. Space in the county morgue isn't my problem."

Styles, Phillips, and Christman were seated around the large dining room table located in what was referred to as the great room in the Ranch. They had made excellent time on their rushed flight from Oregon. Neither Styles nor Phillips had spoken much during the trip, Phillips busy on her computers, Styles lost in thought.

Starr came walking in from his bedroom with a large sealed briefcase. After setting it on the table, he addressed the others. "The president gave me this right after Indianapolis. He was clear it was only to be opened if something happened that prevented him from carrying out his duties as president. I was to open it with you guys."

He cut the seal with his folding pocketknife and, with a sigh, opened it. On top lay a manila envelope addressed to all four. He unclasped the envelope and removed a couple of sheets of paper.

"This is addressed to all of us." He read the contents aloud.

Starr looked up to see no one looking at him. The three were completely focused on what he had just read. He took a quick look at what else the briefcase contained. After a minute, he placed the contents back inside and then looked up to see the others now staring at him.

"What else is in there?" asked Christman.

"The pardons and banking information. The Man was serious about giving us what we need. Phillips will have to confirm this, but I'd say we have pretty much unlimited funds at our disposal." Starr, who had been standing, sat down. "Okay, feedback time."

No one said anything.

"Come on, somebody's gotta say something," Starr pleaded.

"We get our asses back to Oregon and start doing the president's business," Styles snapped.