Worst Case Scenario, page 19
Maxwell furrowed his brow and looked down for a second. When his head rose, his eyes were wide. “The Speaker of the House. You’re not saying…”
Cook stared at him, and a grim smile crossed his lips. “I’m not saying anything, Colonel.”
“…but how sure are we that he’s gone?” McFadden asked, lounging in his leather executive chair with his feet propped on the desk. He held out his glass for a refill. Newman Smith figured he’d ask this question. He poured the bourbon over the two cubes of ice then refreshed his own.
“The front gate guards saw him leave a couple of days ago—in fact, the same day I traveled to DC. No sign of him at Cora’s since he left, but we keep watch until her lights go out each night, anyway.”
McFadden used the tip of his finger to outline the lip of the glass as he stared out the window. His lips stretched thin in thought. “Do we know where he went?”
Smith glanced at his boss. “No, he left without warning from Samuel’s. We assumed he was heading back to Cora’s, but he never came back.”
McFadden lifted his gaze to Smith. “Doesn’t it seem strange to you that a man who’d bested us in every way decides to just up and leave for no reason?”
“Maybe he figured his luck had run out. I don’t believe we should make more out of this than it is—we’re overthinking the problem.”
McFadden stared out the picture window. He took a slow sip. “Yeah, maybe, but let’s keep an eye on Cora. My bet is, if he shows back up, it’ll be there.”
Thad Farrow walked across the mall past the Vietnam War Memorial. Washington, DC weather was still a little warm and sticky, so he slung his suit coat over his shoulder. The short drive from Chantilly, Virginia, gave him a welcome chance to get out of the office for the afternoon. Since the Secretary of Defense appointment as National Reconnaissance Office Director last year, he’d had far too few opportunities to leave his desk—except to attend a meeting somewhere in the District.
He walked up the slight rise and scanned the benches under the trees. General Harry Cook sat near the Korean War Memorial, studying the nineteen stainless steel sculptures of GIs scattered through the grass. Cook had also removed his coat, and a breeze caught the end of his tie, making it flutter. Farrow didn’t know Cook very well, but no one else seemed to know him, either. He’d heard stories from the CIA and other DOD types about the organization Cook led and the fact he always got what he wanted.
“Good afternoon, General Cook.”
Cook came out of his trance and stood. “Director Farrow, thanks for coming.”
They shook hands, and both sat on the bench—the breeze ruffling the leaves overhead.
Cook turned back to the sculptures and cocked his head. “You know we’re over sixty years removed from that forgotten war.” Cook nodded toward the sculptures. “1950 to 1953, they slugged it out over there in that miserable place.”
Farrow sucked in a slow breath. Cook had something on his mind, but Farrow decided to wait and let him bring it up.
“My dad was wounded there.” Cook turned to face him. “Got the Bronze Star.”
Farrow nodded sympathetically.
Cook crossed his legs and leaned closer. “Thad, I have a real problem on my hands, and I believe you’re the only one who might be able to help.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Cook swung his left arm on the back of the bench. “The National Security Advisor has authorized a domestic operation, and my group has the lead. One of my people is about to make a covert entry into an area in New Mexico, and I need your birds to keep an eye on the place, at least until he’s out.”
“New Mexico? Would this have anything to do with,” he looked around to see if they were alone, “you know what?”
“It has everything to do with it.”
“Well then, that’s not a problem. Just shoot us a request.”
Farrow now couldn’t figure what the meeting was all about. He got tasking request for his satellites every day. Why was this one different?
Cook grinned. “Well, to tell the truth, it’s a little more complicated than that. “ “I can’t make this an official request through regular channels.”
Farrow faced him. “I don’t understand?”
“Thad, we believe several outfits may have been compromised. The sensitive nature of this requires us to skip the usual channels.”
“A spy in my shop? Who? Give me a name.”
“We believe he’s a major in the Air Force—don’t have a name.”
Farrow considered the information. “Because this is a domestic surveillance mission, that puts it into a touchy category—I’ll need some higher authority if no formal request is issued.”
Cook reached into his inside coat pocket and withdrew an envelope. He handed it to Farrow.
Farrow read the handwritten instructions on the personal stationery of the Secretary of Defense. Farrow’s eyebrows rose about halfway through the document. He stood. “I’ll see to it personally, General.”
Cook rose and looked again at the sculptures. He turned back to Farrow. “Remember, only you and the officer-operator can know. Make sure he has no history with any place in New Mexico, and patch the real-time images to my office.”
“Will do.”
They shook hands, and Farrow began the walk back across the mall to the parking lot. The rumors had been correct—Cook always got what he wanted. The old guy had an aura and reputation that caused people to like and trust him automatically. Of course, an authorization letter from the Secretary of Defense also helped. Farrow glanced back in Cook’s direction, but he was nowhere in sight. Farrow shook his head and smiled; the general had left him with a real mess.
The next day, Cora went to work as usual, and Bishop stayed low and out of sight in the house. He wanted to do the penetration last night, but Cook had insisted he wait till tonight. Cook gave no reason, and Bishop asked for none. After working for the man for so many years, Bishop didn’t question what the general said. Every order Cook issued had been carefully thought through. After work, Cora shuffled around the house, picking up a light jacket for the trip to Samuel’s. Bishop pulled all the drapes and blinds, making the small house seemed especially gloomy.
“Wish you were going with me.” She stopped at the table where he studied Samuel’s map.
He looked up. “I’ll be okay. Think I might try and grab a nap—it’ll probably be a long night.”
She planted a quick kiss on his cheek. “I won’t be long.”
“Hey, when you tell Samuel I’m back, make sure he understands that’s privileged info, not to be shared.”
“Who would he tell? His only neighbor is McFadden.” She flashed a smile before walking out the door. The sound of her motor scooter cranking hardly fazed Bishop’s concentration as he memorized every detail of the map.
Bishop figured he’d digested enough information on the McFadden Ranch for one day and put the map aside. He peeked out the front and back windows—nothing, but he still suspected eyes were watching. He strolled to the bedroom and unpacked his gear from the duffle bag. After checking everything, he yawned, kicked his boots off, and lay on the bed. Bishop decided he’d wait a few minutes after midnight before leaving. Cora would need to turn in especially early. If the house were being observed, the watchers would quickly become bored looking at a dark residence. That would be his time.
He must have drifted off without realizing it because the front door suddenly burst open, and he heard the sound of feet running through the house. He rolled to his left, grabbing the pistol off the nightstand, and pointed the gun at the bedroom door as Cora ran inside. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“He’s gone—they’ve taken him,” she screamed.
Bishop rose, dropped the gun on the bed, and Cora rushed into his arms. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. There was blood everywhere,” she sobbed, “and he’s not there.”
Cora shook so hard Bishop had to hold her for a few seconds. He gently pushed her to arm’s length. “Tell me everything you saw.”
They sat on the edge of the bed. Cora wrung her hands and wiped tears from her face as she took deep breaths and composed herself. “When I arrived, there was blood on the front porch and a hole blown through the front door. I went inside, and there was more blood but no sign of Samuel. I found the old double-barrel shotgun on the floor, the one he keeps behind the refrigerator, and two empty shells inside.”
“Looks like he didn’t go down without a fight,” Bishop remarked.
Her eyes were wild with fear, “He’s at Ochoa’s; I know he is. I’m going after him.”
She started to get up, and he pulled her back. “No, you’d never get past the front gate.”
“Then you find him, Troy. Bring him back.”
Bishop held her close, and the sobbing turned into an all-out cry.
“I’ll find him,” he said. The search had now also become a rescue mission. Would I have time to do both?
Sixteen
The long shadows of evening crept across the closed window blinds. Cora took a pill and was at last sleeping. Bishop turned off all the interior lights except a small night light in the bathroom and readied himself. Every so often, he’d chance a peek out one of the windows, but the blackness of the night revealed nothing about who might be watching.
He filled two canteens with water and did a final equipment check. Samuel’s recovery was now part of the mission, but that would have to wait until he finished his search for the nukes.
Bishop stared at Cora before he turned to leave. In the dim light of the room, she laid there, eyes open, staring at him. She didn’t move—just looked his way. He kneeled beside the bed and softly brushed the loose hair from her eyes. “Thought you were asleep. You okay?”
She didn’t answer but offered a shy grin. She ran her gaze over Bishop’s black outfit and face smeared with dark tones of camo paint. “You look like one of those commando guys in the movies.” A sudden realization crossed her face as her eyes widened. “That’s what you really are, Troy, aren’t you?”
“Try and get some rest. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. I left a couple of names and numbers on the table. If I’m not back by this time Friday, call and tell them.”
She rolled off the bed and hugged him. Her warmth and smell made him want to stay. He could spend the rest of the night in those arms.
“Be careful.” Her lips brushed his before the long goodbye kiss. “Bring Samuel back.” She lay on the bed and covered herself with the thick comforter, watching him disappear into the dark shadows of the house.
Bishop looked out the back door with the night goggles. Nothing showed through the lens but the green outline of trees. No movement or sound. Staying low as he slowly opened the sliding glass door, he slipped out and knelt behind the woodpile—listening and watching. The soft click of the door lock told him Cora had secured it. The night was cool, and a gentle wind blew across the peak, bringing the sound of some far-off night bird. The swishing movement of the big pines overhead was the only other sound.
Bishop stayed close to the house and crept to the front. He waited for a couple of minutes, then quickly moved toward the edge of the mountain. This was where the tricky stuff started. How to negotiate his way down a steep cliff in the dark sprinkled with rocks and burned-out trees was the question. His troubles began at the outset. Too few footholds. Too many loose stones. After an hour, he’d only climbed down a couple of hundred feet. At this rate, he’d never make it before sunrise. He stopped and rested for a minute, then surveyed the area. There was a clear path to his left. He’d have to go slightly out of his way, but the time he saved might make it worth trying. He swung toward the area and started his descent again. The ravines and rocky outcropping of the terrain continued to slow him, but he made better time on the new route.
About an hour before dawn, Bishop reached his objective—a small ledge, a few hundred feet before the bottom. He was exhausted. He’d climbed up alpine mountains during training with less effort. He walked around the area and studied the shallow depression in the ground about six feet in diameter with some scrub oak surrounding it. He’d seen it from the fire tower a few days earlier and made a mental note. This would be his hide. He unloaded his pack and spread the camouflaged tarp over the depression. After staking down the sides, he moved the rest of his gear into the depression, under the tarp, and slid under a loose edge. A four-inch gap between the ground and tarp offered him a full view of the ranch below. He looked to the east and just made out the first rays of sun streaking through the sky. His perch was about a hundred feet directly above McFadden’s house.
To his left, a scream from the area of Ochoa’s house broke the early morning’s silence. Bishop winced and rolled on his back. He stared up at the beige-colored tarp. To leave this secured position during daylight would be suicide. He’d have to wait until dark before he could move around the ranch. That would be more than twelve long hours from now.
Special Agent Carpenter stood in the shower and let the water spray on his face. He’d not slept well again and knew why—Bishop. The fact he’d been in contact with the guy and not informed his supervisors still troubled him. Well, he’d remedy that today. He planned on writing a full report outlining everything he and Bishop had discussed. He’d talk it over with his supervisory special agent and see what he thought. Couldn’t keep this quiet any longer. To go out on a limb any further for Bishop wasn’t something he wanted to do.
“Breakfast is almost ready,” Jean’s voice boomed from downstairs.
Carpenter dried off, ran a brush through his hair, and slipped on a pair of dress slacks, shirt, and socks. He grabbed his electric shaver and cleaned off the stubble on the way to breakfast. He left twenty minutes later, thinking about what he’d write as he walked out the door.
Two coffees later at work, Carpenter sat back and reviewed his report. Yup, he’d covered all the critical points. He started to save the report in the H drive on his FBI computer, but the phone call interrupted him.
“Hey, Carpenter, something just came in for you; it’s at my desk.” It was Peggy’s voice, and she sounded more chipper than usual this morning.
“What is it, a puppy?” Carpenter liked Peggy, and they joked constantly.
“Right, a cute, fuzzy puppy with a cold, wet nose and wagging tail,” she laughed. “Or perhaps it’s an envelope from OPM with an answer to that request you sent them.”
Carpenter stood. “I’ll be right there, thanks.”
He walked through the cubicle maze and took a left. Peggy’s cube was always easy to spot. It was the one with the plants by the window. Miniature palms, ivies, and several other things no one could identify lined the top of her cubicle. Peggy was typing with her back turned when he stuck his head around the corner.
“Let’s see it,” he said.
She jumped and rested her left hand across her chest. “Don’t scare me like that.”
He winked. “So how would you prefer to be scared?”
“Here,” she handed him the yellow envelope.
Carpenter didn’t get in a hurry about leaving. He enjoyed looking at Peggy. She was the top intelligence analyst in the division and easy on the eyes. If he were ever going to cheat on Jean, Peggy would be his choice. He slowly opened the envelope, keeping one eye on her. He assumed she knew the effect she had on him and enjoyed the playful exchange as much as he.
He slid the thick stack of papers from the envelope and enjoyed her sexy grin. He smiled and glanced at the report. The smile disappeared as he quickly flipped the pages. There was a tightness in his chest. It was hard to breathe.
Peggy frowned. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes darted around while he shoved the report back inside the envelope. “Nothing—nothing’s wrong,” he stammered. “Has anyone else seen this?”
“No, it came sealed with your name on it, why?”
He tried to look normal. “No reason.”
“You sure nothing’s wrong—you don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine, Peggy, fine,” he mumbled, walking quickly back to his desk.
He flopped down in his chair and stared at his computer screen. The report he’d just written moments ago stared back. He hit the delete button. The computer asked him if he was sure he wanted to delete the document—his work had not been saved. He hit the yes button and deleted it. He sat back in his chair and let out a deep exhale. Moving his hand across his forehead, he wiped off a bead of sweat. What should he do?
Bishop lay on his stomach and scanned the ranch through the four-inch slit between the tarp and ground with the binoculars. This was a perfect location. The scrub oaks lined the depression he’d staked the camo tarp across, leaving him just enough space to see without being seen. A better recon blind he could not imagine.
Little had happened since he arrived. The ranch hands finally began stirring between seven and eight o’clock, and a few vehicles rolled between the cattle barns. Samuel stayed on his mind. Too much activity to move during the daylight. A wave of exhaustion and fatigue settled on Bishop. He sat the binoculars aside and rolled on his back. He lifted his right hip and removed a rock nestled under it. He knew he needed to sleep, so he closed his eyes and tried to relax.
General Cook knew him better than Bishop knew himself. So that was the reason Cook had insisted he wait over twenty-four hours to execute the penetration. Cook, sly old soldier that he was, had carefully evaluated the climb from the top of the peak—especially in the dark. He probably considered the angle of descent and a dozen other factors before ordering Bishop to do nothing but wait and rest up. It was the right decision.
It had been a while since Bishop had spent any time in a recon hide in enemy territory. September 2001, Bishop was a young officer assigned to a Delta unit in Pakistan providing special ops training to one of their anti-terrorist units. After the World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks, Bishop’s team was quickly dispatched to Tora Bora. CIA analyts had been listening in on bin Laden’s radio traffic from his mountain redoubt and narrowed his location to a north, south ridge near the Pakistani border. After hooking up with a troop of Mujahideen, Bishop’s unit took the lead until reinforcements could arrive. They were again the tip of the spear. They needed to stay as close as possible to the transmission location to send back intelligence and assess the best way to assault the target.
