Worst case scenario, p.17
Worst Case Scenario, page 17
Cook continued, “And last but not least, a little before ten, Speaker of the House Wilson arrived and met with Smith until almost eleven.” Cook raised both eyebrows and grimaced.
“Did we get any audio on these guys?” Bishop asked.
“Nope, not enough time to set it up,” Cook said.
“Do we still have surveillance on Smith?”
“He caught a flight back to New Mexico this morning,” Cook mumbled.
“What’s our next move?”
Cook leaned forward with elbows on the desk and clasped his hands together. He studied Bishop before answering. “We wait.”
“On what?”
“After listening to your story, Fuller had an idea. When you stepped out of the office just now, he Googled the bio on the Speaker of the House.”
“Why?”
“To check his education.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“Yup, another honored graduate of the McFadden Academy. He was in the fifth graduating class.”
“What about the two agents, the intern and General Shaw?”
“Same.”
“According to Fuller, Speaker Wilson is a bare-knuckle politician. He’s a lot nastier than he’s portrayed on the news. He loathes the President, and the feeling’s mutual.” Cook looked at Bishop. “If it’s ever discovered we’re spying on him, it could bring down this President—especially if we’re wrong. If it turns out this was just several alumni getting together for old times, that’s one thing, but Fuller doesn’t want to make that call. That’s why we’re waiting. Fuller’s going to ask the President for permission to proceed.”
“And if permission’s granted?”
Cook picked up a plain white envelope and withdrew the one typed page inside. “I’ve been instructed to read you this verbatim.” Cook readjusted his glasses and exhaled. “TOP SECRET//SCI//PEO.”
Bishop stiffened. Good God, PEO—A President’s Eyes Only Directive.
Cook said, “The President of the United States directs you to make a surreptitious entry into the McFadden Ranch located in Socorro County, New Mexico. You will conduct a covert search to determine if there exist on premises any materials capable of being utilized in producing a nuclear device and determining if any nuclear weapons abide on said property. SCI operational protocols will apply.”
Cook looked over the top of his glasses with a blank expression. “Do you acknowledge a full and complete understanding of this order, or do you wish me to reread it?”
A lump formed in Bishop’s throat. A three-sentence Presidential Warrant. Bishop had heard about them but never knew if they really existed. People sometimes whispered about them to their most trusted colleagues in quiet restaurants and wine bars around DC. The kind of memo you never acknowledged to outside people, even if you read it. The thing would probably be filed away in the President’s Book of Secrets or whatever BS name they gave highly classified Presidential Directives. Future presidents could marvel at the audacity or temerity of those they succeeded.
“I understand, sir.” Bishop said.
Cook nodded, and without showing Bishop the order, dropped it into his shredder and flick on the switch. The grinding of the crosscut shredder filled the room. That was it. It no longer existed. Fuller had made sure no one was in the office but he and Cook when Fuller released the memo to him. Cook had made sure no one was in the room when he read it to Bishop. And now it was gone. Everyone had complete plausible deniability in the matter. Everybody but one person: Bishop, The Man in the Arena.
Bishop wasn’t disappointed or bitter toward Cook or Fuller. They were doing their jobs and following the rules outlined by their superiors. The fact Bishop and guys like him were the point of the spear wasn’t new. Direct action people were always the point. The success of the mission rested in his hands. If he succeeded, there wouldn’t be any big celebrations or parades, and if he didn’t, the whole mess would quietly be swept under the government rug and never spoken of again.
SCI operational protocols were intel jargon for: during the mission, the operator will retain no identification or information that identifies himself or that he is involved in a covert operation on behalf of the United States. In the event of capture or detention, Bishop could not acknowledge acting as an agent of the US Government, nor would the Government acknowledge his employment or seek his release.
“So, when is the President likely to sign it?” Bishop asked.
“Fuller will approach him later today, when he feels the time is right.”
Bishop stood. His mind clicked a mile a second with possibilities. “If that’s all I’d like to start getting ready.”
Cook rose and extended his hand. “Be careful. You can’t afford to get caught on this one.”
Bishop shook the hand. “Can I ever afford to get caught, General?”
Bishop walked past Mary’s desk. Maxwell had disappeared. Just before opening the hall door to depart, Bishop turned back. “Mary, give Andy a call and tell him I’m stopping by to pick up a few things.”
She started to dial the number. “He’ll want to know what things.”
Bishop thought for a second before saying, “A six-pack of trackers and several flies on the wall should do.”
He was gone before she could say another word.
Bishop arrived at P2OG’s offsite a little before noon and went straight to Andy’s shop.
“You found them, didn’t you, Bishop?” Andy said.
“What?”
Andy gave an exasperated sigh. “The nukes, of course.”
Bishop shook his head. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you curiosity killed the cat.”
“No, I’m not a cat. By the way, did the nuke watch work?”
“Actually, it did.”
“Ah-ha! You did find them, then.” Andy showed a satisfied expression believing he’d tricked him.
“No, I found a small sample of highly enriched uranium. That’s what set the watch off.”
“Oh.” Andy’s joy turned to muted confusion. Finally, he asked, “How did you find highly enriched uranium without finding the weapons?”
“Long story, wish I had the time to explain. Do you have the items I requested?”
“Yeah.” Andy retrieved two black plastic cases from under the counter. Bishop figured he must still be mulling over the uranium mystery.
“Sign here.” Andy pushed the property receipt toward him.
Bishop scribbled a signature and strode for the door. “See you later, Andy.”
“Later,” he mumbled. Still scratching his chin.
Bishop headed for home; he had packing to do. By midafternoon he was ready to go, but there was no word from Cook, which meant no word from Fuller, which meant no Presidential approval. Bishop’s stomach growled and reminded him he’d skipped lunch again. He threw a pack of Ramen noodles in the microwave and watched the news. By late afternoon he couldn’t sit still; he called Mary.
“Anything, yet?”
Her voice sounded scratchy. “No, but I think I’m coming down with a damn cold. Who gets a cold this time of year?”
“Don’t know. Is Maxwell there?”
“He and the General are both out.”
“Do you know where they went?”
She coughed. “Yeah, the White House.”
“Never mind, Mary. Hope you get to feeling better.”
“… and Bishop said he wanted me to draw it for him,” Samuel told Cora.
Cora sat at her kitchen table, facing him. She studied the map he’d brought.
“Did he say why?”
Samuel rubbed his face and rested his chin in his hand. “No—just said he wanted me to do it. Look it over and see if I’ve missed anything.”
She traced the drawing with her finger and glanced at the notes Samuel made in the margins. Everything seemed to be as she remembered. The McFadden Academy, gym, and daycare, the communal laundry, the great outdoor kitchen and covered open-air pavilion, the clinic, garage, barns, corrals, and a dozen other buildings were as she recalled.
“What’s this?” She pointed to the base of the mountain—almost directly below McFadden’s house.
“That’s the cave,” Samuel said, “I made a note about it there,” he pointed to the lower left-hand margin.
“Never knew there was a cave on the ranch.”
“Most people don’t. McFadden excavated and expanded it when he built his house. Even built a natural spring-fed pool inside. The entrance is camouflaged, so unless you know where it is, it’s hard to find.”
Cora pursed her lips. That area was in one of the exclusion zones. Growing up on the ranch, there were three areas you never dared go unless you worked there. The main house, the base of the mountain below the house, and of course, the two heavily wooded fenced acres which surrounded Ochoa’s. No parent ever had to worry about their children straying near Ochoa’s. There were stories about what happened there—bad sounds at night, like someone screaming. The old tale about mountain lions making those scary, disturbing noises wasn’t really believed by folks, but no one asked too many questions about what happened.
Cora looked up. “Everything looks good to me—I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”
General Curtis Shaw sat at his desk and reviewed the file on the relocation exercise. His aid, Major Phillips, waited in front of the desk.
Shaw asked, “Have all of the base units and agencies been notified?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any problems?”
Phillips dipped his head and said, “Well, to be honest, sir, several questioned the necessity for a full base closure so close to the last drill three months ago.”
Shaw dropped the file on his desk, and his stare bore in on Phillips. “This is a special exercise. We’ve been ordered to do a full secure shut down this year between 0800 and 1200 hours. Tell the crybabies to just suck it up for four hours. I have no time for whiners this year. Understood?”
Phillips came to attention. “Yes, sir—understood.”
Shaw eyed Phillips and pointed his index finger. His voice rose with each word. “And Major, I mean a full shut down. All gates locked and guarded. All critical facilities and infrastructure patrolled, and all external communications cut, except through secure channels. Nothing goes in or out unless cleared by this office.”
Phillips’s back stiffened. “Yes, sir—I’ll see to it.”
Bishop had dozed off with the TV still on when his cell rang. “Bishop, here.”
Maxwell’s voice seemed strained. “Number one has ordered a go. I repeat, it’s a go.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And Bishop—he reiterated, don’t get caught.”
“Happy to know he’s thinking about me.”
FBI Section Chief Benjamin Witcher tried to pick up the pace. He was on the third mile, but today it seemed a more challenging run. The jogging trail near the park behind his house was his getaway—his recharge zone. He had gone to college on an athletic scholarship in track and managed to keep fit throughout his FBI career. All his agents in the Weapons of Mass Destruction Directorate at FBI headquarters knew this trail was where his most important decisions were made. This was where Witcher cleared his mind of all the background noise at headquarters and sorted out the best course of action. The day’s stress and job aggravation began melting away after about the first mile or two. This was only his second run this week. He usually did five runs a week. His body and mind craved the relaxation of running on this isolated trail. The theft of the weapons in New Mexico had sent a chill through the law enforcement and intelligence agencies. The FBI’s WMD Directorate was at the epicenter. He’d been working sixteen-hour days for the last week and was mentally and physically exhausted.
Witcher glanced at his watch—7:33. The sun had set over forty-five minutes ago, and he was almost at the halfway point. He’d have to pick it up on the way back. He came to the curve where the giant oaks hung over the trail like a tight leaf roof. What little light emanated from the path lights could not penetrate the veil overhead. As he entered the gloom, a cyclist was kneeling beside his bike, making some adjustments to the front wheel. His long blond hair flowed to the top of the backpack, and the heavily muscular legs and shoulders were a sign he did more lifting than biking. Just as Witcher ran past, the fellow spoke to him.
“Good evening, Mr. Witcher.”
Witcher slowed his pace and looked back at the man. The fellow continued working on the bike, paying him no mind. The voice was familiar, but he couldn’t place him from behind. Besides, he didn’t know any man with hair that long, except a couple of undercover FBI types. Witcher stopped and addressed the stranger. “Excuse me, do we know each other?”
The kneeling man stood and glanced over his shoulder down the lonely, dark trail before turning back to Witcher. Even with the low light conditions, it was apparent who he was.
“Piedmont, what the hell are you doing here. And what’s with the wig?”
Piedmont didn’t answer but stared morosely. “Sorry, Benny.”
The silenced pistol spit fire twice. The muffled shots were barely audible. Witcher staggered backward and only then realized he’d been shot. The searing pain in his chest—the sensation of being hit with a bat. His legs gave way, and he fell hard on his backside. Piedmont approached. This had to be a dream. Piedmont was one of his best Supervisory Special Agents. Witcher looked up. “Why?”
Piedmont didn’t answer. He leveled the gun and fired again. Witcher felt like he’d been punched hard in the throat. The slight taste of blood he’d noticed from the previous shots was suddenly overshadowed by the flood that poured down his throat and shirt. Witcher couldn’t breathe—he grabbed his neck, feeling his life drain between his fingers. He braced with his other hand to keep from falling back. He was nauseous and dizzy, watching Piedmont stretch the pistol to within inches of his head. He tried to cry out but couldn’t.
Piedmont looked both ways down the trail. There was no one in sight. He rolled the body off the path and down the small hill. The tall summer grass would hide it till tomorrow. He again checked the trail—all clear. He took the liter bottle of water from his pack and washed the blood off the concrete. Climbing back on the bike, he rode to the parking area. It was dark now. No other cars were in the lot. He lifted the bike to the carrier, secured it, got in the car, and drove away. After he left the park and was back on the highway to Manassas, he pulled the blond wig off and smoothed his short black hair.
Fifteen
Bishop wanted to leave that night, but it was already too late by the time he got the go-ahead. The direct flights were few, and the connections weren’t good—better to wait till tomorrow. Besides, he needed Carpenter’s help, and he knew he would be less than enthusiastic about his request. When he called him, Carpenter was much less enthusiastic than Bishop would have figured.
“You have to be shitting me,” Carpenter exclaimed.
“You said if I needed something to give you a call—this is what I need.”
There was a long silence before Carpenter spoke again.
“So, I guess if I say no, you’ll make another call, and I’ll get my ass chewed out again. Is that how it works?”
“I’ll make another call. What happens after that is anybody’s guess.”
Carpenter released a tired breath. “Okay, then. I’m in.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Oh, Carpenter. Don’t tell anyone in your office what you’re working on.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Means what I said. I’ll explain when I see you.”
“You’re a pain in the butt, Bishop.”
“I know, but you’ll get used to me.”
The sound of Carpenter slamming the phone down was the last thing Bishop heard before being disconnected.
Wednesday morning, Bishop caught the 8:25 flight to Albuquerque. He called Carpenter upon arrival from baggage claim at the Albuquerque airport.
“Hey, you here?” Bishop said into his phone, scanning the lobby before heading for the terminal’s front door.
The voice sounded grumpy and inpatient. “I’m here. Where are you?” Carpenter answered.
“Walking out to the taxi area in less than a minute.”
“Fine, I’ll be there.”
Bishop hoisted the duffle bag to his shoulder and marched through the two automatic glass doors. The weather was nice. A cool breeze still chilled the air. Even better—there was no humidity. That’s what killed Bishop back in DC. Place was built in a swamp. Even a late afternoon jog turned into a sweat bath. The brilliant New Mexico sunshine forced him to slip on his Oakley’s. He waited and watched for Carpenter. Figured he couldn’t miss him. Soon, the large FedEx truck rounded the corner and slowed as it approached. The uniformed driver had a disgusted expression. As the truck stopped, Bishop hopped into the passenger area and tossed his bag on the floor.
“This had better not be a joke.” Carpenter seethed.
Bishop looked him over. The FedEx shirt tucked into the navy shorts and running shoes almost looked believable. “Didn’t know you had such great-looking legs.”
Carpenter met Bishop’s smile with a smirk. “Okay, where are we going?”
“I’m hungry. Let’s find a drive-thru Chipotle. I’ll buy.”
Carpenter turned. “What?”
“We have a long drive. Let’s eat before heading out.”
Carpenter rolled his eyes and put the vehicle into gear. Fifteen minutes later, they exited the drive-thru, each with a burrito and drink.
