Big Three-Thriller Bundle Box Collection (7 page)

“Brrr,” I said.

“Mmm,” Michelle agreed.

She pushed back from the table, pointed the remote control at the TV, and switched it to her favorite morning news program,
Breakfast with America
.

Hosts Sid Keats and Charlotte Dunn welcomed their guest, Senator Avery Lawrence, to the show. They began talking about the senator’s presidential aspirations in the next year. He didn’t say he would run. Nevertheless, he was obviously leaving the door wide open.

Michelle asked me to pass the grape jelly.

Host Sid Keats queried the senator on his position concerning China. Avery replied, saying he would stand tenaciously against giving a Presidential waiver allowing
Normal Trade Relations
— formally known as
Most Favored-Nation Status
— to a government so deaf to human rights.

“What do you think, hon’
— our next President?” Michelle asked between bites. She frowned as she chewed.

I grunted. I wasn’t too excited about the possible candidates
— actually, at that moment I couldn’t remember any of them.

Michelle said, “He’s pushing that big bill he sponsored in the Senate to lower taxes with across-the-board cuts. That means no more government funding for stem cell and spinal cord regeneration research. He’s also pretty heavy handed with insurance companies. I heard a news story last week that said if he got elected, insurance companies are likely to disallow any kind of payment toward operations that seem in the least bit experimental.” Michelle’s brow was drawn, face full of concern.

I hadn’t heard about either of those things. Just last week, Dr. Xiang had given us hope — telling us that we’d received the acceptance letter from Bethesda Hospital in Washington, DC. All Will needed now was to pass some tests — the results of which we were to discover at our appointment this afternoon. The mending of Will’s severely damaged spinal cord depended on the yet experimental regeneration procedure done in the U.S. only at Bethesda. It was likely to cost hundreds of thousands of dollars that we didn’t have. I gritted my teeth. A powerful rush surged through my body, and my fork dropped from my hand and clattered onto the plate.

The thought of Senator Avery standing in the way of William being able to walk again seemed to trigger a stabbing pain in my temple and the base of my skull tingled. I glared up at the TV as a gush of what seemed like fire rushed up my backbone.

The back of the television exploded with a flash. It flared twice. Sparks showered out in a fiery fountain. The tube went blank as the light above the sink popped, and its fragments chimed into the stainless-steel basin below.

Chapter 5

U.S. President Francis Allen Mason gazed into the dim light from the tinted, bulletproof picture window of his study in Upstate New York. Three years ago, at the age of forty-five, he was elected as the youngest U.S. President aside from Theodore Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. During the election, his athletic nature, charm and youthful looks had elicited a comparison to Kennedy, and the media coined him “the Republican’s JFK.” Such visual ties to one of America’s most honored statesmen and heroes opened the door to connotations of strong leadership, good judgment and political savvy. Mason had tried hard to live up to these high marks. He now stood rigidly, his hands clasped behind his back as he waited.

The window of the President’s ranch-style summer home faced the rolling foothills that quickly grew into the Adirondacks. Three Secret Service agents had taken position within easy view from that window, and the President knew at least a dozen more were within a stone’s toss.

Surrounded by six hundred acres of wooded hills, the home was the quietest place he knew, making it his favorite locale for a little
R and R
. Modestly decorated with cornflower-blue country curtains, family heirlooms and antiques, it was as comfortable as the worn out pair of Adidas sneakers and
Go Navy
sweatshirt he now wore. The hardwood floors and built-in oak cabinets and bookshelves were original — an important part of the home’s design when a rich mink farmer built it back in the early thirties.

The “Double R” was also President Mason’s favorite place during any sort of crisis
— international, domestic or personal. The past three years had been turbulent, and he had been here almost as much as he had been in the White House.

Secretary of State James Coates sat to the left of the President’s desk, his hand patting the chair arm impatiently as he watched his Commander-in-Chief. Seated next to him, Defense Secretary Jacob Banks leafed through an intelligence report that had been handed to him by his attaché fifteen minutes earlier as he’d entered the room. Chief of Staff Edward Thurman had found his usual seat, symbolically, as far to the right as possible. He sat slumped in his chair, flicking his nails. An unoccupied spot between Banks and Thurman was reserved for Central Intelligence Agency Director Carl Winston.

Paramount decisions would be made today, and Mason wanted no distractions from any of his other advisors. He wanted no bleeding heart opinions, no humanitarian whining.

The four were deep in their own thoughts and silent, Mason studying the window’s reflection of three of his most trusted advisors. Sweat beaded on Coates’ upper lip, which had sported a broad mustache during his prior assignment as Secretary of the Navy. With the more politically scrutinized station of Secretary of State that Coates now held he’d decided with great reluctance that his facial hair go, and Mason was sure his friend of thirty years still missed it every morning when he shaved. He knew Coates also missed the mustache at times like these when he would have normally pulled at it while considering such an important dilemma. Although Coates was a warm and passionate man, he had yet to let his emotions get in the way of his job.

Defense Secretary Jacob Banks was also personable. When he spoke, it was important and honest. A third generation military man, Jacob Banks came through the ranks as a former U.S. Air Force pilot and Vietnam War Veteran, and most recently was the first African-American governor of Kansas. The air of a simple man, under this thin layer of restraint was a complex strategist.

Chief of Staff Edward Thurman was a different story. The closely cropped, gray hair added to his cool and hard character. He seldom showed any sort of emotion, was always curt to the press and as aloof as a hermit. Considered as one of Mason’s political coffin nails by most Republican Party leaders, Thurman had been a close friend since college days, and the President would have no one else for his Chief of Staff. Over the past thirty-two months, Thurman had pegged every foreign crisis before it arose. He’d given advice that helped stave off many tense situations that could have blown quickly out of proportion and would have required U.S. troop involvement on foreign soil. He was a needed and trusted confidante, no matter that the man lacked any sort of personality trait that could be mistaken as the slightest bit mammalian. And the cigars he insisted on smoking were detestable. The air still stank of the one he’d put out directly after arriving.

When CIA Director Winston joined them, the room would become as electrically charged as a summer thunderstorm. Winston was always Mister Cool — expressive, yet reserved and normally soft-spoken. Although at all times courteous, he acted as though he thought himself slightly better, knowing more, smarter than everyone else — including Mason.
Hell, he’s probably correct,
President Mason thought and nodded to himself.

While waiting for Director Winston, Mason decided he would not rein in the passions of his four advisors, but let their feelings come out. In a situation such as this, there was no place for holding back.

Coates looked at his watch for the second time in less than a minute.

“He’ll be here, Jimmy,” Mason said, causing the Secretary of State to look up in amazement. He gave the President a slight and knowing smile, seeming to realize Mason had been watching him in the reflection of the window.

Mason had kept them waiting long enough. They could rehash what they needed after Winston arrived — probably wouldn’t have to update the CIA chief on much anyway. Mason turned to face the three men and leaned over his desk. “So, what are the facts? What do we know for sure?”

Chief of Staff Thurman’s voice was even. “Major Jackson’s last communication with us was over an hour ago. It had been bounced from satellite to satellite like his phone call to you earlier. We’ve got our best Com people working on pinpointing his location. So far, no luck. But they’ve assured me they’re narrowing the search and should find Jackson in a matter of hours, perhaps minutes. What we do know is that the so-called ‘Black Lion,’ with his band of mutineers, has proceeded with this rescue mission more in the manner of a
blind kitten
— against your orders, sir. We think he is now in position, and we should have word of the outcome — success or, more likely, failure — within hours.”

Mason shook his head. “To this point, what’s our best guess on his location?”

Thurman said, “He couldn’t have gone far, Mr. President. He doesn’t have the resources. I believe he’s in the Rockies. Probably still somewhere in Colorado. Wyoming or Montana are possibilities, but somewhat less likely.”

Secretary of Defense Banks raised his brow. “He
did
have access to some very sophisticated radar jamming and electromagnetic pulse devices, Mr. President. And he
did
have help. How else could he bounce his communication signals as he did? We believe former Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant Bernard Sampson assisted him with logistics and support.”

“Gunny Sampson?” the President asked. “
The
Gunny Sampson?”

Secretary of State Coates reached up to pull at a mustache that wasn’t there. “That’s correct, sir.” He brought his hand down and continued. “Sampson retired from the Marines about ten years ago. Good man. I became acquainted with him when I was SecNav. Since he retired, he’s had a number of windfalls, invested wisely, and now owns several airlines including three of the largest, privately held and profitable ones in the world; Canadian Skies, U.S. Wings and Thai Eastern. He’s a billionaire.”

“Okay,” President Mason said. “Why?”

Coates sat forward in his chair. “You’ve already been told of Major Jackson and Daniel McMaster’s acquaintance
— well, it runs deeper than that, sir. McMaster saved Jackson and Sampson from certain death during a clandestine mission into Iran a number of years back.”

“Iran?” the President asked, thinking he’d misheard.

“Yes, sir. Black ops,” Coates said. “During the early Clinton years. Jackson was with a pararescue group that went in to rescue McMaster’s four-man recon team in southern Iran. McMaster’s group was mapping an invasion route in the event the U.S. would be called on to help topple Ali Khamenei, the successor to Ayatollah Khomeini. They got cut off from their beach egress. Jackson’s group went in to SPIE rig them out.” He paused, then explained, “On a rope. Jackson’s helo took fire and crashed. He was copilot, a young lieutenant back then. Pilot and the rest of his crew were killed. Jackson suffered severe internal injuries. Sampson was a gunnery sergeant — McMaster’s team leader. Was wounded in the leg and couldn’t walk. The other two men in McMaster’s team were dead. Daniel McMaster, a young sergeant at the time, pulled Jackson from the burning wreckage and, under heavy fire, carried him out of the trees on his shoulders to the beach. He went back for Sampson. A team of SEALs picked them all up. The rest is history. The Gunny and Jackson most likely feel indebted — wish to repay McMaster for saving their asses.”

“I’m sure they do,” the President said. “And McMaster
is
a one of a kind. His Nonlethal Solutions company is ingenious. Their research and development of nonlethal weapons is undoubtedly responsible for saving hundreds of lives, thousands will be saved in the future. But these men have to know this is a sensitive issue. If we act before knowing who’s behind this — who’s responsible and why they’re doing it — a messy rescue mission could be very costly.”

“They, no doubt, know that, sir,” Defense Secretary Banks said. “But they seem to be getting intel and direction from what might be regarded as a less than conventional source. It appears they believe they have no choice but to act now. They’ve been in constant contact with our Thousand Eyes
— ”

Thurman interrupted, “Mr. President, I suggest we stick with the facts and not rely on crystal balls.”

Banks said, “The facts are; we have dozens of scientists and surgeons missing. And then there’s the death of Spain’s President last Monday. As you know, sir, Thousand Eyes thinks it’s related. Garnica had just turned sixty-five, but his doctors were flabbergasted by his heart attack. Said he was in excellent health.”

“Black magic and mumbo jumbo,” Thurman said. “I suppose if he’d slaughtered a couple of chickens and hanged them on his bedposts he’d still be alive today.”

Banks stared at his own hands, seeming stifled.

Coates placed his index finger across his top lip, looking almost as if he was hiding it. He fixed his eyes on the front of President Mason’s desk without comment.

Mason swiveled his chair to face the window again. He gazed out for a moment, thinking he would let their emotions simmer, give them time to consider what they were all really in for. Nearly a minute of silence passed before he turned back and asked, “What are our options?”

Thurman raised his eyebrows. It was the most emotion he would ever show, and even that was rare. “You’re correct about a ‘messy rescue mission,’ Mr. President. Whoever is behind this is obviously well organized. If a rescue effort fails, it could end up costly not only by way of human life and financially, but politically unpopular, as well. You don’t need that, right now. Election’s coming up. The necessary course of action is obvious. Not only are our bombers prepared, but we have nuclear subs within striking distance of any location on this continent, as well as any other continent, for that matter. They’re armed with cruise missiles that
— ”

This time it was Coates who interrupted. “Jesus, Mr. President. We’ll be killing our own people.”

Thurman didn’t look at Coates. He continued to gaze directly at Mason. “They knew the risk. It was their choice to become rogues — not let the President, the U.S. Government in on their intel. As I was saying, Mr. President, as soon as we determine where they are, we could surgically remove the facility and the town in question — if need be, with small nukes. The missiles can fly
map of the earth
, under radar. Nobody would see them coming, couldn’t prove where they came from. It worked last year at the North Korean nuclear plant. It’ll work again, now.”

Mason wasn’t one hundred percent pleased with his own decision to destroy North Korea’s nuclear arms plant the year before. Disguised as a nuclear power plant, to intelligence sources it was an obvious façade. The bombing had worked out well for the U.S., however. The North Koreans had no proof that it had been American bombs that destroyed their facility, and they weren’t about to let UN inspectors in to look over the mess. The swift action had set back the North Koreans’ nuclear program at least ten years and diverted what was building to be a costly confrontation between the North and the South that would draw the major world powers into the fray. The swift and decisive action had come at the cost of several hundred innocent lives, however. And those skeletons would not easily be buried away in the President’s subconscious.

“But we’re talking about on our own soil,” Banks protested.

Thurman continued, “Like I said, ‘if
need be
, small nukes.’ Depends on the scope of this thing. We have bunker busters, fuel-air bombs that would pack nearly as big a wallop without the radiation. Whether we determine nukes are warranted and use them or not, we’d cordon off the area and send in our cleanup teams to tidy up a bit. Collateral damage could be kept to a minimum resulting in negligible long term environmental effects.”