Term Limits

chapter Twelve

They say they were flares." Perplexed, McMahon shook his head. Lortch said, "I don't get it either. The pilots that were flying Marine One said they were dead meat .... They said that when the lead escort broke formation, they thought they were going to be blown out of the sky.

We're either very lucky or these terrorists screwed up somewhere."

McMahon stared at the horizon and rubbed his forefinger across his lips as he sifted through the new information. A short while later he announced, "We're missing something .... Something doesn't fit here.

Why go to all of that effort and not take a shot?" Both of them pondered McMahon's question, and then McMahon shook the dazed look out of his eyes and said, "We'll have time for this later. How's the President?"

"My people tell me he's pretty shook up. I guess the ride was rough."

Lortch stopped and his jaw tensed. "They also tell me that damn Stu Garret is on one of his rampages, yelling at everyone and demanding answers. This whole stupid thing was his idea from the start."

"What do you mean?"

"I told them I didn't think having the meeting at Camp David and moving the President was worth the risk." Lortch brought his hand up to his eyes and said, "I've had it up to here with Garret."

"Jack, let me give you a little piece of advice. There's only one way to deal with a jerk like Garret. You meet him head-on, and you don't take any crap.

Half the reason why he's the way he is, is because people let him get away with it."

"Believe me, I've thought about punching his ticket more than once, but I like my job too much." McMahon was about to add another editorial comment on the behavior of Garret when he heard Kathy Jennings yell from below. McMahon and Lortch looked over the edge of the bridge.

Jennings craned her neck upward and held a digital phone in her outstretched hand. "Hey, Skip, I just got off the phone with some Air Force people over at the Pentagon. I read them the serial numbers off this thing and they say it's one of ours. It's an older-model radar unit that they used to put in the nose cones of fighters like the F-4 Phantom."

Lortch and McMahon traded glances, and McMahon yelled back down, "Did you ask them how someone would go about getting their hands on one of them?"

"Yeah, they said there's thousands of them available on the surplus-military-hardware market."

"I assume they keep records of what they do with all this stuff."

"Yep, they told me they'll start tracing it for us."

"Great," responded McMahon, and then he continued in a sarcastic voice, "By the way, you didn't happen to find any unused missiles down there, did you?"

"Not yet."

"All right, good work."

McMahon turned back to Lortch. "Well, at least it's a start."

"Yeah, listen, I've got to get out to Camp David and brief the President on what happened. Give me a call if you find anything out, otherwise let's plan on talking later."

"Will do." During Lortch's short flight to Camp David, he'd prepared himself for what he knew was an assured confrontation with Garret. He thought about the way the chief of staff had treated Dorrell after the Basset assassination and knew he was in for the same treatment. What McMahon said was right, he'd put up with Garret's reckless and unprofessional abuse for almost three years, and now was the time to put an end to it. He knew exactly how to handle it.

It would be kept between him and Garret, no one else needed to know.

Special Agent Terry Andrews was waiting for Lortch on the porch of the main cabin when the Suburban pulled up. Lortch walked up the steps, and Andrews led him over to a more secluded area of the porch. Andrews spoke in a low voice. "What have you found out?" Lortch relayed the discussion he'd had with McMahon and then asked, "How's the President?"

"He's trying to get some rest."

"Where is Garret?"

"He's in the conference room with Hopkinson trying to figure out how they're going to spin this story to the media. I was in there just when you landed, and they were debating whether or not they should hold a big ceremony and pin some medals on those Marine pilots. I tell ya, Jack, it takes all the strength I have to not crack that damn idiot across the head. He's been screaming his head off for the last hour demanding to know what's going on. He told me the Secret Service is going to pay for this f*ckup."

"We'll see." The two men walked into the cabin and down the hall to the conference room. Lortch opened the door and entered first. Garret was standing over Hopkinson's shoulder telling him what to write. He looked up at Lortch and pronounced, "It's about time you got here.

You'd better have some answers for me." Lortch ignored Garret and looked at Hopkinson.

"Ted, would you please excuse us?" Hopkinson did nothing for a moment and then started to stand. Garret put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back into his seat. "Anything you have to say to me, Ted can hear."

Lortch glared unwaveringly into Garret's eyes and said, "Not this, this is for your ears only." The lean Lortch took off his jacket, laid it over the back of a chair, and pointed at the door with his thumb.

"Ted, please excuse us, this will only take a minute. Terry, you, too."

Hopkinson got out of his chair, and he and Andrews headed for the door.

As they were doing so, Garret snapped, "This had better be good."

Lortch continued to stare at Garret and said, "Terry, please close the door."

Andrews closed the heavy wood door behind him, leaving Lortch and Garret alone. Garret stayed on his side of the table and started in. "You'd better have some answers for me. First you guys screw up and get Basset killed, and then you almost get my ass and the President's blown out of the sky." Garret continued to bark while Lortch walked around the table.

Lortch was just a little shorter than Garret and weighed slightly less.

Because of his slight size advantage and position of authority, Garret incorrectly thought there was no reason to physically fear Lortch instead of backing away, Garret took a step forward and pointed his finger at Lortch. "Heads are going to roll over this one, Lortch, and yours is at the top of the-" Before Garret could finish his sentence, Lortch grabbed his Adam's apple and slammed him backward into the wall.

Garret stood pinned against the wall, his eyes wide open, and both hands wrapped around Lortch's wrist. Lortch brought his face to within inches of Garret's and in a tense, quiet voice said, "Stu, I think it's about time you and I had a man-to-man talk. I'm finished taking your shit, and my people are done taking your shit! We're sick and tired of your emotional outbursts! Today's little ride up to Camp David was your idea! I told you it was an unnecessary risk, but you went ahead and for your own stupid reasons convinced the President that he should have the meeting up here. It was your idea, Stu, so I don't want to hear you say another word about it, or I'm going to start airing some of your dirty laundry in the press. "No heads are going to roll. You are not going to ruin my career or any of my people's. In fact, you're gonna start treating them with respect, because if you don't, I'm gonna leak the story of how you and Mike Nance blackmailed Congressman Moore." Garret's eyes opened wide, and Lortch smiled. "That's right, Stu, I know all about the little arrangement you and Nance had with Arthur Higgins." Lortch paused to let Garret sweat a little more.

"I'll make a deal with you, Stu. From now on you start listening to me when it comes to security issues. What I say goes, and I don't want to see any more juvenile tirades. You start treating me and my people with the respect they deserve, and we'll get along fine. But I'm warning you, Stu, don't piss me off again, or I'll turn everything I have over to the FBI. And believe me, there are plenty of people at the Bureau who would love to take a bite out of your ass!"

MICHAEL WAS PARKED IN FRONT OF A BRICK APARTMENT BUILDING IN THE Adams Morgan neighborhood of D.C. He sat behind the wheel and sipped a cup of piping hot Colombian coffee he had just picked up at the Starbucks two blocks away. He looked down at his digital phone and then up at the Ford Explorer that was parked three cars ahead of him. It belonged to the man he wanted to talk to. O'Rourke had already called up to the apartment twice and had got the answering machine both times. O'Rourke was growing impatient. He desperately wanted to talk to the man who lived in the building. He tapped his hand on the steering wheel and guessed that his friend was out for a jog. O'Rourke knew he was in town because he had called his office and checked. Five minutes and half a cup of coffee later, he saw a man with a dark blue baseball cap and a large backpack thrown over his shoulder round the corner.

Michael set his coffee in the center console and got out of his truck.

Straightening his tie, he walked up onto the curb and locked eyes with the man. "You're awfully hard to get ahold of." The lean individual gave Michael a surprised look. "I'm sorry. I've been on the run."

"Don't you get your messages?

I've called a dozen times in the last three days." Michael stuck out his hand, and his friend grabbed it. "Sorry, I've been awfully busy."

The man, who was six years Michael's elder, adjusted the backpack on his shoulder and glanced up and down the street with his alert eyes.

Michael looked around. "Am I keeping you from something?"

"I have a lot to do today, but I can always spare a few minutes for my little brother's best friend." O'Rourke was warmed by the comment.

The man standing before him was Scott Coleman, the older brother of Mark Coleman, O'Rourke's best friend who was killed a year earlier.

Scott Coleman was the former commander of SEAL Team Six, America's premier counterterrorism unit. He also happened to be the person Michael had been worrying about since last Friday. Coleman had left the SEALS almost a year ago after a highly decorated sixteen-year stint. Despite his illustrious career, he did not leave on a happy note. He had lost half of his SEAL team in a mission over northern Libya the previous year.

Upon returning from the mission Coleman was informed that their assault on a terrorist training camp had been compromised because a high-profile politician had leaked the mission. When his superiors refused to reveal the identity of the politician, Coleman resigned in disgust. O'Rourke had found out through Senator Olson, who was the chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, that Senator Fitzgerald was the person in question. Michael had labored as to whether he should tell Coleman. They had grown closer since the death of Mark Coleman, and while on a hunting trip the previous fall Michael finally decided to confide in the warrior. Seamus was right: if they were his men, he would want and deserve to know. Coleman had taken the news about Fitzgerald in silence, and that was the only time he and Michael had discussed the issue. But when Senator Fitzgerald turned up dead a week ago, Michael could only wonder. O'Rourke put his hands in his pockets and shifted uneasily.

"That was quite a deal with the President's helicopter this afternoon.

You wouldn't by chance know anything about who might do such a thing, would you?"

"Nope." Coleman stared unflinchingly at Michael with his bright blue eyes. "Do you remember that hunting trip we went on last year?"

"Of course."

"Do you remember that bit of information I passed on to you?"

"Yep." Michael returned Coleman's stare and nodded. After several moments of silence Michael decided to change his approach. "So what do you think about the assassinations?" Coleman's face stayed expressionless. "I'm not doing a lot of mourning, if that's what you're asking."

"No." O'Rourke shook his head. "I didn't think you would be. Any idea who might be behind them?"

Coleman cocked his head to the side. "No, do you?"

"I might." Michael rocked back and forth on his heels. "Are you alone?"

"Yes."

"You haven't by chance talked to anyone at the FBI lately?" O'Rourke shook his head.

"Good. Are you planning on talking to anyone at the FBI?"

"No. I think you and I can handle this one-on-one." Coleman raised one of his eyebrows and shot Michael a questioning look.

"Hypothetically," asked O'Rourke, "if you knew who the assassins were, do you think you could give them a message from me?"

"Hypothetically?" Coleman folded his arms across his chest. "I suppose almost anything is possible."

"Tell them" - Michael leaned in close-"that there has been enough killing. Tell them to give us some time to implement their reforms before this thing gets any uglier."

"That sounds like a good idea, but I'm not so sure the President and his people have gotten the hint. And now our friend Senator Olson is trying to screw things up." Coleman shook his head. "I don't think these guys are done killing. At least not until the President and the others come around."

"So you think there will be more assassinations?"

"I wouldn't know." Michael rolled his eyes.

"Hypothetically."

"Hypothetically speaking. who knows?" Both men stared each other down for a while, both refusing to blink. Finally Coleman looked at his watch and said, "I'm running late. I should really get going.

Let's get together for lunch next week." Michael reached out and grabbed Coleman's arm. "Scott, I understand why you're doing what you're doing. If Fitzgerald had compromised the security of me and my men during the Gulf and gotten even one of my men killed, I would have come home and gutted him like a pig. I'm not going to pass judgment on you, but I think it's time to let the politicians finish what's been started."

"Like they did in Iraq." Coleman shook his head. "I think these boys are going all the way to Baghdad. No half-assed jobs this time. You politicians, present company excluded, have a history of screwing things up when the clear objective is within reach." Michael couldn't argue with the historical comparison. "Let it rest" was the only answer he could muster. Coleman nodded and turned toward his apartment. As he reached the first step, he turned to Michael and said, "There is one thing you can do. Do you still keep in touch with Senator Olson?"

"Yes."

"It might be a good idea to tell him now is not a good time to get into bed with the President." Michael felt the hair on the back of his neck rise. "Keep Erik out of this, Scott."

"I'm sure Erik will be fine. I'm just saying hypothetically it would be a good idea to warn him." Coleman gave Michael a half salute and entered the building.

McMahon walked down the executive hallway at a quicker than normal pace.

The day had been one of nonstop commotion. The media was everywhere, sticking a microphone or a camera in McMahon's face at every turn. The events surrounding the President's unusual flight to Camp David were coming together like a jigsaw puzzle, and a crucial piece of the puzzle had just been discovered. McMahon hadn't had the chance to check his voice mail until just minutes before. The message left by the assassins had sat untouched for over five hours. McMahon nodded to Director Roach's secretary and continued through the door, closing it behind him.

Roach was on the phone and looked up at McMahon. McMahon towered over the edge of Roach's desk, waving his finger in a circular motion, signaling his boss to wrap up the conversation, that there was something more important to talk about. Roach nodded and told the person on the other end that he needed to go. Hanging up the phone, Roach asked, "What's up?"

"We got a message from our friends and it's been sitting under my nose all day."

"What do you mean 'friends'?" Roach asked with a quizzical look on his face. "The assassins." McMahon walked around the edge of Roach's desk and punched his voice mail number into the phone.

When it was ready to go, he pushed the speaker button. "Listen to this."

The computerized voice played from the small speaker. Roach sat transfixed, listening intently as light was shed on the afternoon's events. When the message was over, Roach asked McMahon to play it again.

After it was played for the second time, McMahon saved it and looked to his boss for a reaction.

"Who in the hell are these guys?" Roach asked with a deeply puzzled look.

"They're not terrorists, Brian. Let's come to an agreement on that right now, and they're not some fringe white-supremacist group. If they were, they would have blown the President out of the sky.

Terrorists don't give a shit about killing Secret Service agents or Marines. These guys are exactly who Kennedy said they were from day one.

They're former commandos."

"I think you're right, and besides, terrorists wouldn't send this to us, they'd send it to the media. The more exposure, the better Can we be sure this is from the group responsible for the previous attacks?"

"I'm ninety-nine percent sure. The message was left about fifteen minutes after Marine One took off from the White House, and the computerized voice sounds the same as the one that was left with ABC after Basset's assassination. I'm having our lab analyze the sound signature right now."

"How long will it take them to verify?"

"They told me within the hour. When are you going to tell the President?"

"I'm flying out to Camp David in about thirty minutes to brief him.

I'll wait and do it in person." Roach stared off at nothing for a moment while he thought about the tape. "You don't have to come if you don't want to. I'm sure you've got plenty to keep you busy around here.

Besides, I know how much you hate these briefings."

"Are you crazy? I wouldn't miss seeing the expression on Garret's face when he hears that these guys are onto him."

Roach nodded his head in agreement and looked at his watch. "Be back up here in thirty minutes. I've got a chopper picking us up on the roof."

"One more thing, the boys over at the Secret Service have been getting beat up all day. If it's all right with you, I'd like to let Jack Lortch take the lead on telling the President about the radar units and the flare launcher. I'll back him up on what we're doing to investigate the new evidence, and I'll let you handle the message from the assassins if you want."

"No, that's all right, you can handle it, and go ahead and let Lortch take the lead." McMahon left Roach's office and headed back to his.

The chopper ride from the Hoover Building to Camp David took about twenty-five minutes. Roach, McMahon, and two of the director's bodyguards sat in back. Roach utilized the time by having McMahon bring him up to speed on every aspect of the investigation. After landing, they were driven to the main cabin and escorted to the conference room.

It was just after 7 P.M. when the President and Garret entered the room, taking their spots at the head of the table. Mike Nance was seated at the far end of the table so he could observe everyone, while Stansfield, Roach, and McMahon were seated on the one side, with Lortch and Director Tracy on the other. Garret looked at Roach and in a tired voice asked, "Director Roach, do you have any new developments to report since we talked earlier?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, we have received a message from the assassins. I'll let Special Agent McMahon fill you in." Roach turned to McMahon and nodded. Each spot at the large conference table had a phone in front of it. McMahon pulled the one in front of him closer and punched in his voice mail number. "Just before we left this evening, we discovered a message left by the assassins. If you'll bear with me for a moment, I'll retrieve it." McMahon finished accessing the message, hit the speaker button, and slid his chair back. The message started to play: "Special Agent McMahon, we know you have been placed in charge of investigating the assassinations of Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Speaker Basset.

We are sending you this message because we do not want to fight our battle in the media." Both the President and Garret looked up at McMahon upon hearing his name. The message continued while everyone listened intently. When the tape ended with, "Mr. President, the Secret Service cannot protect you from us.

They can make our job more difficult, but they cannot stop us from ending your life. This is your last warning," the pale President looked to Jack Lortch and Director Tracy for reassurance but only got straight faces and silence in return. Garret leaned back in his chair and placed both hands under his armpits to keep them from shaking. The silence was only making him more uncomfortable, so he looked at McMahon and snapped, "How do we even know if this thing is real?" McMahon responded in an even tone, "Some of our lab technicians analyzed it just before I left.

They say it has the same voice signature of the recording we received after Speaker Basset was shot." Garret started to grind his teeth. He didn't like surprises, and he had no doubt that McMahon and Roach had intentionally withheld the tape from him until just now.

Through clenched teeth he asked, "How long have you known about this tape?"

"I checked my voice mail for the first time since this morning at about six this evening."

"When did the assassins leave it?"

"At about twelve-thirty this afternoon." Garret sprang to the edge of the table.

"You've had this since twelve-thirty and you haven't told us about it?"

"The assassins left it on my voice mail at twelve-thirty, but I did not discover it until six. Considering the fact that we were coming out here to brief you at seven, Director Roach and I decided that we would play the recording for you when we got here."

"Hold on, back up a minute.

Don't you usually check your voice mail more than once a day?"

"On a normal day, yes, but I was a little busy today." Garret pointed his finger at McMahon and raising his voice said, "The next time you get something this important, you let us know immediately! There is absolutely no excuse other than incompetency for not informing us of this recording as soon as you found it!" McMahon was enjoying himself too much to let what Garret was saying upset him. Leaning back in his chair, McMahon folded his arms and smiled. Jack Lortch who was sitting next to Garret, leaned forward and caught the chief of staffs eye.

Lortch gave Garret a hard stare. The message was clear. Garret looked down at his notepad and mumbled something to himself. No one spoke for a while, and then a nervous President Stevens attempted to speak. The words didn't come out right the first time, so he started over. "Could they have shot down Marine One today?" Without pausing for a second, Lortch answered, "Yes." In the most polite tone he could muster, Garret cleared his throat and said, "Jack, let's not be so presumptuous. We shouldn't jump to any conclusions until we get more information."

Garret didn't like anyone getting the President frazzled unless it was him. Lortch shrugged his shoulders and said, "I am basing my opinion on nothing more than the facts. These assassins have shown an incredible propensity to plan ahead. They not only discovered which helicopter the President was on, but they forced Marine One and her escorts to fly a course they were not supposed to. I spoke with the pilots, and they said there is no doubt in their minds that Marine One could have been blown out of the sky this afternoon." The President closed his eyes and shook his head.

Several seconds later he looked at Lortch and asked, "Can you protect me or not?"

"If you continue to ignore my advice, no."

"What do you mean ignore your advice?" asked the President in a pleading tone. He looked to Lortch's boss this time for an answer, but didn't get one. Lortch had convinced his boss to stay out of it and let him put the fear of God into the President. Lortch leaned forward and got the President's attention. "Sir, when you and Mr. Garret informed me that you wanted to hold your budget summit at Camp David, I told you it was a bad idea and that it should be held at the White House.

Because you ignored that advice, you were almost killed today." Lortch paused briefly, his voice taking on a more authoritative tone.

"Special Agent Dorrell told Speaker Basset that he should cancel all public appearances. The Speaker ignored his advice and now he's dead .... I have been telling you for two and a half years that security around the White House is lax, that the press is given too much freedom to come and go as they please. Well, it all came home to roost today.

I found out how the assassins knew which helicopter you were on."