Dead Water

1

Sitting behind his desk in the Oval Office, which was brightened by the natural light coming through the three large, perfectly clear, and bullet-resistant windows at his back, newly elected president Robert Williams had secretly changed one rule in the manner America was to fight terrorism. He had added a new element, one that only a handful of people knew about. This new tactic was highly illegal but one that the president felt was necessary. He put his country's safety above all else, including the law as currently written.

A white nondescript van coming out of Mexico, through Texas, had set off radiation-detection devices at the border. These had been installed at all major border crossings between the United States and both Canada and Mexico, the result of a botched attempt to set off a dirty nuclear device in Madison Square Garden that, through no more than sheer dumb luck, had failed.

The FBI had been shadowing the van by automobile and helicopter. It was being carefully watched, with no chance of it slipping away. Several high-resolution photographs had been taken of the driver. The result indicated the driver did not fit any profile thought to resemble a potential terrorist. The van's plates had been run. Surprisingly, it turned out to be not a rental but one belonging to an established business that had been operating for more than thirty years, a used medical equipment supply house.

President Williams met with his director of the FBI, Matt Sanderson, director of the NSA, Elliott Ragar, and Charles Rockford, director of Homeland Security.

Sanderson spoke first. "Mr. President, by all accounts, this van does not appear to be a threat. I think we should have the van stopped and checked out to be sure, but I'm not particularly concerned."

"Matt, what is your take on this?" asked the president.

"I think it's hauling used x-ray equipment. Bought cheap in Mexico and brought here to be sold. We've checked this company out thoroughly, and this seems to be routine for them."

"Anyone else have any thoughts?" the president asked.

The other two men in attendance merely shook their heads.

"Keep on it," directed the president. The three men got up from their chairs and left. The president pondered a moment and then decided to make a phone call. Using a secure line, he called Captain Richard Starr, retired, the unofficial leader of his "group." Under the umbrella of the new president's Department of the Presidential Office, or DPO, this unit was assigned the task of locating, identifying, and eliminating terrorist targets the president designated. This quartet had free rein on how that was accomplished. It consisted of four members: Starr, the nuts-and-bolts leader; Sergeant Marvin Styles, USMC "Force Recon Sniper," retired; Darlene Phillips, arguably the world's best computer hacker; and J. C. Christman, a TOPGUN flight instructor. President Williams had given this party everything they might require to carry out their missions. Starr and the president had been friends most of their lives. There was an unbreakable bond of trust between the two men. It was Starr, a former marine commander, whom the president had approached when the beginning of the idea to change strategy against the terrorists had emerged in his mind. Starr had commanded Styles for a long stint while both were in the marines. Those two, over the years, had developed a trusting friendship. Styles, though never admitting it, considered Starr his best friend. The phone call connected.

"Sir," Starr answered.

"Richard, I wanted to give you a heads-up. That van we've been tracking appears to be a nonthreat at this time. It's believed to be carrying used medical equipment, probably x-ray machines of some type, so your group can stand down for the moment. If anything changes, I'll get right back with you."

"Understood, sir." The call ended.

Starr came out of the communications room at the property he and Styles considered home and then sat down at the kitchen table across from Styles, who was just finishing a cup of coffee.

"Want some coffee?" Styles asked.

"No, thanks. Are you going exploring or something?" he asked, noting Styles's appearance; Styles was fully dressed in camo.

"No, I want to check on a few things over by the bluff," he replied, referring to the rearward side of the property. "Anything up?"

"The Man just called. That van they had under surveillance appears to be okay. It seems to be hauling medical equipment, so we can relax for a bit."

"Good to hear. Not the relaxation but the lack of threat," Styles replied.

"Yeah."

They were back at the Ranch, which consisted of three hundred acres located in eastern Tennessee. It featured the main house, two guest cabins for Christman and Phillips when they were required to be on-site, two barns, and an extensive training course for Styles, including two firing ranges. Styles also had a gym set up in one of the barns. He had a training routine that would make a world-class athlete hurt just to watch. They had been back for less than twelve hours since ending their mission in Saudi Arabia. Darlene Phillips had been dropped off outside of DC so she could return to her apartment, and Christman was in his cabin, probably sleeping. It had been a long and stressful flight, especially getting out of Saudi Arabia.

Starr went into the kitchen, coming back with a pizza that he had thrown into the oven twenty minutes earlier. He tossed it into the middle of the table, along with two plates.

"I swear, Starr, if I eat any more pizza, I don't know if I'll shoot you or me."

"Quit your bitching. It was fast, and I didn't feel like cooking. If you don't want it, don't eat it."

"Bite me," he said as he reached over and grabbed a slice. "Probably oughta call Phillips and tell her we're off the hook for now. We can wait till J. C. wakes up."

"Yeah," Starr agreed. He dialed Phillips, who answered immediately.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"We're standing down. The van doesn't appear to be a threat. Anything changes, I'll be in touch."

"Crap. I just packed two bags."

"Well, now you're ready for the next trip. See? Your time wasn't wasted."

"Thanks, Starr."

"Anytime. Later." He hung up.

Styles just chuckled. "It sounds like she was pretty set to go."

"Yeah, almost disappointed, I think. We got lucky when the president assigned her to us."

"You're right about that. Can't tell her, though." They grinned at each other.

Styles got up, went into the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee, and returned to see Starr toss two strips of pizza crust onto his paper towel that was being used as a napkin. "Didn't take you long to wolf those down," he remarked, receiving a burp in reply.

Starr commented, "That was a hell of a trip we just took."

Styles paused and then responded, "That's straight. I've been going over it in my head, and overall, I think we did a damned good job. We took out some primary targets, and, except for that incident with Phillips, didn't run into any real problems. J. C. did a good job getting our asses outta there."

"Yeah, he did," Starr concurred.

After a few moments of silence, Starr spoke again. "Did you notice that after the president's phone call on the plane, Phillips went to the bathroom?"

"Yeah, I did."

"Think she made a phone call?"

"I'd bet my ass on it. I've got a real strong feeling that somewhere back there, one might find a corpse with no head."