Authors: Murray McDonald
Despite being no closer to finding Clara or whoever it was that was trying to take his country from under him, Clay felt far better. Simply knowing Joe was there was more comforting than he had even conceived. A void in his life had been filled, a void he hadn’t even realized had been empty until then. He stood at the window in the Oval Office, looking out. Sandy, with her high viz vest, was running across the lawn. Joe was at the pool and would be reading his note from that morning. Another bonus. He felt great after the morning swims. Even Val had noted how much better he looked for getting some exercise. If only he wasn’t being blackmailed, his daughter wasn’t being held against her will, and his country hadn’t suffered its greatest terror attack since 9/11, life would be good.
“Mr. President,” said Ramona, following a knock on the door.
He turned and smiled, whether fake or real he couldn’t even tell himself anymore.
“Yes?”
“Do you have a minute?”
“Come in, come in. For you, always.” He waved her onwards and directed her to the sofas, taking a seat across from her.
“What’s wrong?” he asked after seeing the look on her face.
“I know I shouldn’t be bothering you with this, but it’s, well…I don’t know what else to do…”
She handed Clay a letter from the local school district, where Ramona’s granddaughter Grace attended. She had just moved into second grade.
Clay read the letter. “They can’t do that!” he exclaimed. “Can they?”
Ramona nodded. “They tell me they can. They’ve got schools that are underused and need to redistribute the kids.”
“Doesn’t your daughter live two blocks from the school?”
“Yes,” said Ramona.
The president’s anger rose faster than Ramona’s. “So where’s the new school?”
“Across the river. It’s a terrible school, Mr. President. I’ve done everything I can to help my daughter have a nice home in Southwest to avoid schools like that.” A tear rolled down her cheek.
“Get Phyllis on the phone, will you?”
“Mr. President, you can’t bother the secretary of education with little Grace’s school problem,” said Ramona, shocked. “I mean I’d never have mentioned it if—”
He was going to point out she had just bothered the President of the United States with Grace’s school allocation. Her pause suggested she had realized that herself.
“I shouldn’t have bothered you with this, I’m sorry.” She stood up and reached for the letter.
Clay pulled it back. “You absolutely should have. And I will be speaking to Phyllis, whether you get her for me or I have to call her myself.”
“She’s not here, she’s at the Summit of the Americas in Argentina. From what I gather half the Cabinet are there.”
“When are they looking to move her?”
“Immediately. She’s been asked to attend her new school as of Monday.”
“Ridiculous. Get me the this guy on the phone,” said Clay, gesticulating to the district superintendent’s letter. “How many other children have been affected?” he asked, releasing the letter back into Ramona’s hands.
“Not many, just a few.” She walked across to his desk and dialed the number on the letter. “Please hold for the president,” she said when someone answered. In two years she never failed to get a buzz saying those five words.
Before he took the handset, Clay looked at Ramona. He felt awkward asking yet it was there, at the back of his mind. Something was niggling him. “Were the other children black as well?”
“I don’t know if they all are but the ones I know are.”
“What about this school they’re moving her to?”
Ramona nodded. She felt as uncomfortable as he did at thoughts that were going through both their minds. That sort of thing didn’t happen anymore.
Five of the most uncomfortable moments of the superintendent’s life later, it was confirmed that little Grace was going nowhere.
An extremely grateful Ramona called her daughter and made the appointment as requested by Clay for him to see the secretary of education as a matter of urgency on her return from Argentina.
Clay checked his diary. He had a few spare moments before the rest of the day disappeared in a mire of meetings. He checked his cell. It was silent, just as it had been for the last couple of days save for one photo of Clara. No demands, no instructions. They had him in the palm of their hand, they had their pawns in place. As relieved as he was not to be dictated, it was disconcerting. What were they doing? What did they have planned? The more he thought about it, the greater the knot in his stomach. Nothing good, was all he could come up with. He pressed Val’s name in the contacts.
“Hey, hon,” she answered cheerily.
“Where are you?’ he asked, the noise in the background was deafening.
“Boarding the flight.”
“Where to?”
“Argentina. I’m speaking at the summit. I told you this morning at breakfast.”
Clay had no recollection of her telling him, although that meant nothing. His mind was all over the place.
“God, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have cancelled, I should still come.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you need to be there. Charles will look after me.”
That explained why he hadn’t seen his chief of staff either, Charles Johnson. It appeared everybody was heading off to the summit except him.
“Okay, well take care and have fun. Anything I need to do with the children?”
“Remember they’re there and you’re their father.”
“Very funny,” he replied, ending the call. Although he
had
been avoiding them, just as he had everyone close to him. If he wasn’t near them, he couldn’t say the wrong thing and put them in danger. It was his way of keeping them safe, by staying the hell away.
There was a knock on the door to indicate his first meeting. An intelligence update. He had read the briefing. The world was going to shit. North Korea was already flexing its muscles and the US had hardly moved a troop out of South Korea; the Chinese were sabre rattling in the South China seas; and the Syrians, with Iranian backing, were building forces near the Golan heights.
“Come in,” he called.
The attendees filed in. A number of faces he expected were missing. He welcomed the group as they made themselves comfortable, excusing himself for a moment.
“Ramona, where’re the NSA, DNI and CIA directors?”
“Argentina, Mr. President.”
“Has everybody gone to this damn summit except me?”
He walked back into the office, closing the door pensively behind him. Something wasn’t right. With everything else happening and knowing he had cancelled his attendance at the summit, he’d have expected at least a few of his senior staff and appointees to be around.
Things were happening too quickly. As much as he wanted Joe to be careful, he needed him to do something, and quick.
The C-32 was the military version of the Boeing 757-200. Eight had been purchased, six for VIP use and two for special airlifts. Able to carry forty-five passengers in luxury, they were normally used by the vice president, secretary of state, first lady, and the president, although for him only when runway lengths excluded the use of the VC25, his Boeing 747. Other than at Andrews Airfield, their home base, it was not likely many people would ever have seen more than one at any one time.
Coming in to land and seeing five already parked below was unheard of, even at Andrews. Seeing it in another country was inconceivable, yet there they all sat. All six C-32 VIP configured United States of America emblazoned blue and white colored aircraft were at Bariloche Airport in Argentina. For the very keen plane spotter, the even more amazing fact was that the additional two C-32s were also
in situ
. Their exterior was far more demure, plain white with U.S. Air Force simply written on the side. A number of C-5 Galaxies parked in rough terrain off the edge of the taxiway hinted at a far greater American contingent than even the C-32s suggested. The fleet of helicopters that had been assembled were testament to the work the crews had carried out.
There was little doubt the Americans had arrived.
Val Caldwell, First Lady of the United States of America, descended the steps from her C-32 and boarded the nearby VH-60N White Hawk helicopter, which took on the designation ‘Marine One Foxtrot’ as it took to the skies. It was joined by a number of almost identical aircraft, Black Hawks, the far less luxurious version of the first lady’s transport. The Black Hawks were filled with Secret Service and elite Special Forces that would bolster the already significant security forces in place.
“We’re two minutes behind the vice president, Ma’am,” announced the pilot as they dipped their nose and accelerated northwest over the city and towards Lake Nahuel Huapi.
He pointed ahead, to where a swarm of dots were visible. Another large contingent of forces accompanied him as well.
“We’re certainly well protected on this trip,” she said to Charles, who had hitched a lift with Val to the summit.
“I was across a number of the preparations, Ma’am,” he said. “While still National Security Advisor. The president was supposed to be here and planning started over a year ago for this trip. The island the American delegation have been given is a mile offshore and around a mile long by half a mile wide. We’ve shipped in MK V high speed patrol boats, we’ve got mini subs, surface to air and sea missile stations, and more SEALs and Delta Force soldiers than you’d need to overthrow a small country. Nobody will be visiting us on that island that we don’t want.”
By the time he had finished describing the defensive set up, they were approaching the island. Only twelve miles from the airport and a further seven miles from the summit conference center. Val looked beyond the buzz of surface craft and helicopters that littered the area below and across the beautiful countryside. Memories of her childhood on the lakeside came to mind. The lush greenness of the unspoiled country air was washing over her. The Andes sat majestically as a picture perfect backdrop to the beautiful scene.
“It really is a truly beautiful part of the world,” she said as they touched down.
A golf cart awaited their arrival and transported the executive to the spectacular lakeside mansion that would play host for the next two nights to the senior members of the delegation. A number of surrounding temporary buildings had been erected to house additional staff, of which there were hundreds. Washington’s movers and shakers had temporarily moved their operations base five and a half thousand miles due South.
Val walked into the palatial mansion and was greeted by half of Clay’s cabinet and senior staff enjoying a roaring log fire in the main lounge. Summer in Washington was early spring in Argentina and the fire was a welcome heat away after the icy air flowing down from the snowcapped Andes. The room silenced when she entered. A glass of champagne was handed to her and she raised it to the room. A reciprocal raise from around the room recommenced the chatter that had preceded her entry.
“Aunt Val.” A kiss on either cheek from the vice president was an additional pleasant welcome.
“Where’s Maria?”
“Upstairs, tired after the flight.”
“How is she?”
“Okay,” he said noncommittedly. “Still upset about the attack.”
“Understandable,” said Val, catching Charles’ eye. She needed to check her itinerary for the following day. “I’ll catch you at dinner, I’m sure we’ll be seated together.” She kissed Eric on the cheek and left him to mingle.
Elsa and her crew had been
in situ
for two days. The passes that allowed them onto the island as part of the set up had cost hundreds of thousands to procure. A number of contractors were never going to have to work again. For the plan to work, they had had to be on the island forty-eight hours prior to the arrival of the main delegation. After that, the island went into lockdown. Nobody on or off. A major sweep had been undertaken during the forty-eight hour exclusion but hidden thirty feet below ground in a specially constructed hideout, they had nothing to fear except boredom. After the sweep, their ability to move was freed up as the island was considered secure.
She reread the message from her father. She had failed again. They had killed the wrong person in New York. They had killed the journalist’s ‘fag’ partner, as her father had so eloquently put it. He had responded ‘well…yeah’ when asked if he was Daryl, although as she and Clyde realized on reflection, he hadn’t really been able to finish his sentence. The moment he’d said ‘yeah’, Clyde had propelled him by the throat out of the window. He could well have been about to say
well, yeah he lives here
or
well, yeah, leave the parcel for him.
Whatever the case, it was now a problem he was going to have to fix which, given the journalist had subsequently disappeared, suggested he believed, and rightly, that his days were numbered.
If she hadn’t been stuck in a hole in the ground with her team, she’d have screamed. However screwed up her relationship was with her father, impressing him was still the most important thing in her life. It meant she absolutely had to deliver, failure was not an option. Despite being his own flesh and blood, too many failures would be intolerable for her father. As it was, two was more than he’d allow anyone else. He didn’t tolerate failure. She accepted full responsibility, knowing any mention of Clyde’s part in the failure would more than likely be his death sentence. Her father’s operatives had an extremely inspirational desire to deliver: their lives.
She put away her cell and focused on the job at hand. Darkness had fallen. She signaled to her men. Her Special Forces operatives donned their uniforms, exact replicas of the guards stationed across the island. Her specialists donned their maintenance uniforms; again exact replicas, indiscernible from the legitimate maintenance outfits.
It was time.