Tom Clancy's HAWX

Chapter 54

"Care to sit down?" Aron Arnold asked the young petty officer. "I'm not going to bite you."

"No, sir," Tiffanie Talleigh replied. "Rather not, sir."

Arnold sat at a table near the window of the commissary sipping his coffee. His escort remained standingnervously — at a discreet distance. Perhaps he wouldn't bite, she thought, but a man associated with the overthrow of the government that she was sworn to protect was certainly dangerous.

"How do you expect this whole thing to play out today?" Arnold asked in a making-conversation tone. "Can't say, sir. Wouldn't speculate."

"Above your pay grade?" Arnold smiled.

"Couldn't say, sir, I just don't know."

"It's above my pay grade too," he admitted. "You're a lot like me in a lotta ways."

"How so?"

"Like we were talking on the walk over here… we're just a couple of people doing our jobs and following orders… right?"

"Can't speak for you," she said suspiciously. "Why are you here?"

"You know why I'm here, Petty Officer Talleigh. You've been with me every step of the way since I walked through that gate. You drove me to Laurel Lodge in your vehicle… you listened to what I told Fachearon…"

"I mean, like what are you doing here?"

"You mean, me personally?"

"You said you were a pilot. Why did they send a pilot to drive up into the mountains in a Lexus?"

"Why did they send a twentysomething petty officer to guard a guy whom they see as 'a traitor?"

He watched her blush slightly. She was obviously on the long side of thirtysomething, but nobody ever lost ground underestimating the age of a woman over thirty.

"They have confidence in my ability to do a job," Tiffanie replied.

"There you are." Arnold nodded as he took another sip of coffee. "That was, I assume, why I was sent on this little errand this morning. Like we were saying… we're both doing our jobs."

"What do you hope to gain by this?"

"Gain?" Arnold asked. "By coming up here? I was sent here to ask Fachearon to give it up and get with the program."

"I meant, like what do you expect to gain by being involved in this 'program' as you call it?"

"I keep telling you… it's my job… I'm paid to do what Firehawk needs me to do. It's nothing more than that. I'm a very straightforward person."

Tiffanie Talleigh just shook her head.

"I think we'd better go, sir," she said assertively. Her resuming the use of the formal term indicated to Arnold that their chat was over. "The president indicated that you could stay for lunch; are you staying for lunch, or not?"

"I guess not," Arnold said. "Not that it hasn't been a fun conversation. Maybe I should check in with him again — y'know, give him one more chance to reconsider."

"I don't think so," Tiffanie said tentatively. "The president's orders were explicit. You were to stay for lunch, then leave. Since you're not staying for lunch—"

"What if he did want to reconsider the Firehawk proposal?" Arnold. "You'd be the one who made the call that stood in the way… made it not happen."

"But he said—"

"But he could change his mind."

"I don't know," Tiffanie said, furrowing her brow. "What can it hurt?" Arnold insisted. "He'd just tell me to get the hell out of Camp David and never come back—"

"I believe that he already said that."

"What if?"

"I'll check," she said.

"Petty Officer Talleigh for the chief of staff's desk," she said, keying her two-way radio. "I'm with the subject… and he has a question… over."

"This is the chief of staff's office, Petty Officer," crackled the reply. "What is the question?"

"He wants to know whether the president will reconsider his proposal, over."

"What the… he what?"

"He wants to know whether the president will reconsider his proposal."

There was a long, crackling pause before the man who worked for Fachearon's chief of staff responded.

"Petty Officer Talleigh?"

"Roger."

"They tell me to tell you to tell him that the president is absolutely not interested in reconsidering, but he has something to tell the Firehawk man… so bring him back up to Laurel."

"Aye-aye, sir. Petty Officer Talleigh, out."

"The president will speak with you," she said. "But don't hold your breath about talking him into anything." "Yeah… I heard." Arnold nodded.

They exchanged no words on the walk back to Laurel Lodge. They had exhausted their topics of conversation. There was nothing more to be said. The mood was as dark and gloomy as the weather.

For Albert Bacon Fachearon, though, there was one more thing.

"Mr. Arnold," he said, meeting Raymond Harris's emissary on the doorstep. "Tell Raymond Harris… tell him emphatically… that I will not relinquish the presidency unless or until there is a trial. Under the Constitution, an impeached president can't be removed until convicted in a Senate trial… a fact obviously lost on Raymond Harris."

Fachearon was angry. Fachearon was taking it personally. Fachearon could feel his systolic blood pressure surging toward two hundred.

"Suit yourself," Aron Arnold said calmly, not taking it personally. "I'm here because I'm ordered… and apparently the senators and congressmen gave my boss the authority to issue that order."

"It will suit me to do as I have said I will do," Fachearon replied, unnerved that Aron Arnold betrayed no emotion, while he could feel the pressure of the blood throbbing in his neck.

"I will convey this information to the appropriate parties." Arnold nodded calmly.

Overhead, they heard the distant thunder of jet engines, and all eyes turned skyward. The clouds were low, and there was nothing to be seen. The sound soon died way.

As Aron Arnold bade Tiffanie Talleigh good-bye, he could sense her breathing a sigh of relief.

His Lexus remained as he had left it, the lone vehicle in the visitor parking lot outside the Camp David main gate. As he opened the door, he took out his cell phone. He decided that it would be a good idea to check in.

He dialed, pressed the send button, and put the phone to his ear.

Nothing.

What?

How could he have a dead battery?

He looked at the phone. Everything about it looked normal.

He turned it over and slid out the battery. Maybe some dirt had gotten on the contacts.

Then he saw it.

Someone had inserted a GK356a4 high-power, miniaturized homing transmitter.

When could this have happened?

The only time that he had taken his phone out of his pocket since he set foot at Camp David was when it went through the metal detector when he had arrived. None of the guards had touched it.

When was the last time that it had been out of his sight?

Then he remembered.

It had been in his jacket pocket that morning at the White House. In turn, he had left his jacket on the back of a chair in a conference room while he went to the bathroom.

Who?

Damn. Shit. Fuck.

A half mile down the mountain road, Aron Arnold stopped the Lexus, got out, and tossed the cell phone as far as he could into the thick brush.