Authors: Rob Sangster
Chapter 47
July 12
7:00 a.m.
THE UNRELENTING beep finally drilled into Jack’s brain. It took a moment to locate the phone and fumble it to his ear.
It was the voice of the hotel’s impassive mechanical concierge. “Good morning. It is seven a.m. The temperature is sixty-two degrees. Your personal copy of the
San Francisco Chronicle
is outside your door. Have a nice day.”
A nice day? Not likely. And the night hadn’t been very nice either, full of stressful dreams. He felt wrung out.
In the bathroom, he forced a smile to improve the weary expression he saw in the mirror. After a hot shower, he used the towel like a shoeshine rag to stimulate his body into full consciousness. Within minutes, he was in his new Brooks Brothers black suit, white shirt and burgundy tie. His objective was initial credibility with the President of the United States.
His cell phone started buzzing. Caller ID told him it was Gano.
“Morning Gano. You’re just in time.”
“Yeah, well, you owe me four hundred bucks, Mr. Paymaster. That’s U.S. money.” The Louisiana accent was like molasses. “The damn Mexican highway patrol claimed they clocked me at 110. Fined me, payable on the spot.”
Jack didn’t even bother to ask if the police had been right. “I’ll pay. What did you find out?”
“Don’t get your knickers in a knot, old boy. I figured if I started tracking those trucks anywhere near the cave the crews would be on me like woodpeckers on a June bug. So I parked on a side street in Batopilas to ambush ’em. Sure enough, four of those big mothers rattled past. I got a few photos but they’re not great. I’ll send them to your cell phone. Anyway, as soon as they passed me, in tight formation like the Blue Angels, I let some other folks get between us, then settled in for the trip back to the Palmer plant. It was all good ’til we got close to Chihuahua City. You said all four trucks would turn north onto 45D toward Juarez.”
“Right.”
“Wrong. Only the first two went north on 45D North. The other two split off, so I swung into the middle lane to stick with them. When one of them suddenly turned onto 45D South, I was way out of position to follow. All I could do was chase the last one into Chihuahua City.”
Something was wrong. “The one that turned south, any idea where it was headed?”
“Could be Monterey, Guadalajara, even Mexico City.
Quien sabe?”
“Who knows” wasn’t good enough. He needed proof of the route the trucks took, and Gano didn’t have it. The fact that the trucks split up meant something. He had to figure out what.
“You didn’t lose the last one did you?”
“Hell no,” Gano said. “I ain’t no amateur. As soon as he turned toward the city, the truck jockey pulled over next to an all-night burrito joint. It looked like they were settling in for a while, so I jumped back on the highway and gunned it after the two trucks heading north.”
A soft knock on the door was followed by George McDonald’s voice. “Jack? You ready to roll?”
“Just a second, Gano.” He opened the door. “Hey, glad to see you, Mac. As soon as I get off the phone, I’ll move my BMW to underground parking. It was full when I got here last night.”
“I scoped out the parking lot. No unfriendlies in sight. I’ll move your car, then pick you up at the side exit in my Land Rover.”
Feeling rushed, he gave Mac the BMW keys and got back to the conversation with Gano. “Where are you now?”
“After I followed the trucks to the Palmer plant, I crossed into El Paso.”
“Great. I need to know where Montana is.”
“I’ll track him down and give you a shout. Have to go now. I’m losing bars on the phone.
Hasta luego.
”
JACK PUSHED through the Westin’s side exit door onto the parking lot. The air was crisp, the sky clear and sunny. Quite a contrast with his mood. He expected to see Mac in his Land Rover, but he wasn’t there. Maybe he was having trouble with the BMW. He walked closer to where he’d parked the night before and saw the BMW, motionless, partly backed out of the numbered space where he’d left it. That was odd. Engine trouble? Still a row away, he heard the motor running so he walked toward the passenger’s side—and stopped in his tracks.
The passenger’s window was a sagging web of safety glass, opaque because of a pink mist washing down the inside surface. Heart pounding, he rushed around to the driver’s side.
Through the open window, he saw Mac slumped at a sharp angle to his right, the seat belt keeping him from falling over. His thick hair looked like a blood-soaked sponge. The left shoulder of his jacket was bloody from a second wound.
Fighting not to throw up, Jack spun around, looking for the shooter. A middle-aged man was helping an elderly woman into a car. A man in a gray uniform stood behind a grocery delivery truck. None of them was acting as if they’d just heard gunfire.
He stood by his car in shock, unable to process what had happened, unable to move. He couldn’t take his eyes off Mac’s brutalized brain and inert body.
Mac had insisted on coming along as his bodyguard, flexing the warrior nature that had made him a champion boxer. With apparently no warning, not even a split second to get his guard up, he’d gone from being a brilliant professor and powerful man to being dead.
But maybe Mac wasn’t dead. He forced himself to lean forward and press his fingers to the side of Mac’s throat. No sign of life. Then his left wrist. Nothing.
“Oh my God, Mac.”
He felt completely responsible. He’d drawn Mac into this. Let him get too close. But he had to hold back his grief. He should call 911 or notify the hotel staff to get the police. But if he was detained and questioned, he’d miss his crucial meeting with the President. He hated leaving Mac to be discovered by a stranger, but he had no choice. It wouldn’t be long before some hotel guest walked up to the car to ask the driver to move it.
The wallet would identify Professor George McDonald, but ownership of the car would be traced to Jack Strider, and the hunt would be on. He had to get to Travis Air Force Base before they could catch him.
He thought about taking Mac’s Land Rover, but there was no way he’d try to dig the keys from his friend’s pocket. Glancing around, he started across the parking lot toward an Enterprise car rental office across the road. From force of habit he asked the clerk for a convertible, but switched to a black Honda sedan. He needed to be inconspicuous. He tried to pay in cash to avoid leaving a trail, but the agent insisted he use a credit card. Walking to the assigned car, he fought against a surge of nausea.
He drove north on El Camino for a few minutes, then turned east and caught the 101 on-ramp north toward San Francisco. The most common route would be to stay on it to the City and cross the Bay Bridge. Instead, he turned east in Menlo Park to use the Dumbarton Bridge to cross the Bay, a much less predictable way to Travis.
As soon as he settled into a groove on the freeway, his mind filled with images of George McDonald in the BMW. Given the high crime rate in the Bay Area, the CHP would think it had been a botched robbery. But then they would notice what he had—a bullet embedded in the frame just above the driver’s window. That meant at least three gunshots, and they had
not
been fired by someone standing next to the car. They’d come from farther away. He remembered seeing a dense grove of sycamores beyond the last row of parked cars. From there, a sniper would have had a clear line-of-sight to the BMW. The assassin had found him at the Westin and staked out his car. He and Mac were similar enough in build that, from a distance, a shooter expecting Jack Strider to be getting into the BMW hadn’t realized the target in his sights was a different man. Jack had no doubt that Justin Sinclair had hired the hit man. Question was, had the hit man stayed close enough to the hotel to realize his mistake? And, if so, where was he now?
If Jack called off the meeting with Gorton, the President would forget the name Jack Strider by sunset. But Sinclair wouldn’t forget. It had been in Sinclair’s best interest to set up the meeting with Gorton. But everything had changed since then. Sinclair now knew he was in great danger, so he’d never permit Jack to reach Gorton, and he’d never let Jack escape. That’s why he’d issued a death sentence.
A red Ford sports car swerved past on his left, horn blaring. He deserved it. He’d drifted halfway out of his lane, nearly sideswiping the Ford. That forced him to pay attention to the dense freeway traffic as he sped north past Berkeley.
His eyes flicked repeatedly to the rearview mirror, scanning for any vehicle appearing to be trailing him. He should be anonymous in a rental car picked up less than an hour ago, but he felt as though his caution lights were flashing to attract attention.
Just beyond Vallejo, highway signs led him to the small town of Fairfield and the mammoth Travis Air Force Base. He stopped several hundred yards short of the main entrance and watched. Lots of people walking, most in uniform, many parked cars with couples in them.
Trying to identify a shooter was nuts.
Shooters made themselves unnoticeable. He tried to convince himself that Sinclair had called off the assassin because he thought he’d been successful. That didn’t work. What did work was telling himself that security was so tight around this base that an assassin would have to be suicidal to start shooting.
He had another problem. A big one. The two people he needed with him in the meeting were missing. He called Debra, but got her voicemail. He said, “I hope you’re almost at Travis because the meeting starts in a few minutes. I was planning to bring both you and Gano in with me, but now I’ll have to leave passes at the gate for you. If you’re still where I sent you when you hear this, stay there.”
He waited another few minutes, then drove to the gate. The guard stepped to the car window and asked stiffly for his identification and destination.
“Jack Strider. I have a meeting aboard Air Force One. Here’s my driver’s license.”
The guard took it and disappeared inside the guardhouse. When he hadn’t returned after several long minutes, Jack grew suspicious. By now the CHP had his name. Could they have already connected him with the rental car and put out an APB?
Suddenly, the man returned. “You’re cleared to go aboard, sir.” He returned the license.
“Thanks. I also need you to get passes ready for two people who’ll be joining me on Air Force One.”
“Beg your pardon, sir, but you’re just a visitor yourself, so I have no authority to write a pass like that. It would have to come from the Commanding Officer of the Base or from the White House.”
This was a fight he wasn’t going to win in the few minutes he had left. “I understand. When they arrive and mention my name, please contact Air Force One immediately. The President will want to see them.”
“I’ll tell the Captain of the Guard about your request, sir. Now please park over there. Master Chief Williams will drive you to Air Force One.” He snapped a crisp salute and held it as Jack drove to the small parking area.
By God, he’d made it here.
Then the pain hit him.
But Mac hadn’t. If it was the last thing he ever did, he’d make Sinclair pay for that.
Chapter 48
July 12
11:30 a.m.
MASTER CHIEF Williams drove up beside Jack in a black sedan, saluted, and asked him to hold out his left hand. The Chief looped a self-locking plastic strip around Jack’s wrist and pulled it snug. From it hung a multicolored badge with strings of numbers and an imbedded holographic design.
They drove past several office buildings into an area of huge hangars. Following a trail of red markers in the asphalt, Williams turned past the last hangar and there, less than fifty yards ahead, was Air Force One, gleaming in the sunlight. It looked as he’d seen it in news clips showing one president or another descending the roll-up staircase, waving at real or imaginary crowds. The giant Boeing 747-200B, white with powder blue trim, stood at the center of a ring of armored vehicles. There was the Presidential seal on the nose, the words “United States of America” on the side of the fuselage, and the American flag painted on the tail. It was called Air Force One when the president was aboard even though its tail number read 28000.
The layout of the interior of the plane was classified, but he knew that the cockpit and communications center were on the top level with the bottom level used for cargo and equipment. The presidential suite was all the way forward on the main deck.
Williams escorted him to the bottom of the flight of steps used by the President. “Sorry for the inconvenience, sir, but I’ll have to keep your cell phone and any other electronic devices before you go aboard.” He smiled, even though his implication was that Jack might be about to blow up Air Force One.
Jack handed them over, and Williams placed them in a leather pouch, locked it, saluted, and got back into his sedan. While Jack was climbing the stairs, hypothetical shifted to cold reality. He had fifteen minutes to gain the trust of the President and motivate him to stop two looming catastrophes. It was all on him.
A Marine sergeant standing behind a stainless steel podium at the top of the stairs examined the wrist badge, scanned it with a hand-held device, and used a headphone to confirm Jack’s identity. He then searched Jack’s briefcase. Only then did he snap a heel-clicking salute.
A Chief Communications Officer joined them. “Good morning, Mr. Strider. I’ll take you to Sitting Room B. The President will send for you when he’s ready.”
They walked past a galley and a large room nearly the width of the plane. “That’s the President’s conference room,” the officer said. “Those paintings are of earlier presidential aircraft. The one at this end with the label Sacred Cow is FDR’s C-54 Skymaster. Farther down is President Nixon’s Spirit of 1976. And, of course, those black and white photos are aerial shots of President Gorton’s ranch.”
Farther aft, beyond a movable barrier, he saw a few rows of seats marked for reporters, all empty.
“Where is everyone?”
“They aren’t permitted to board until the President passes the word that he’s ready to depart. Most of them wait at the Officer’s Club.”
Just past the conference room, he was shown into Sitting Room B which was set up as a working office space with computers and phones. He checked his watch. 11:45 a.m. Perfect timing for a noon appointment.
He breathed deeply, trying to steady his nerves. This setting was much less imposing than the Oval Office would have been, but the President was no less the President. He visualized a minute of small talk followed by Gorton asking what made it so important that they meet. He was ready with that answer.
At noon he stood up, expecting a knock at the door. It didn’t come.
By 12:15 p.m. he was mentally bouncing off the walls. Had this delay cancelled the pitiful fifteen minutes he’d been allotted? Had Gorton forgotten him? He picked up a phone but realized how out of bounds it would be to complain that the President was keeping him waiting.
At 12:20 p.m. his internal clock was ticking so fiercely that each second had become an electrode shocking his brain. Something must be wrong. He tried the door handle of Sitting Room B. It opened. Seconds after he poked his head out, the Chief appeared.
“May I help you, sir?” He conveyed respect for anyone on the President’s calendar, along with disapproval of that person for having left his assigned space without being summoned.
“I was supposed to meet President Gorton at noon.”
“Yes, sir. I’m sure it won’t be long.” He smiled and nodded as if sharing inside information.
Jack retreated and continued pacing. Less than five minutes later a knock came and the Chief opened the door.
“Sir, I just took coffee service in to the President and handed him a note that his twelve o’clock appointment was here. He said you should come right in. Please follow me, sir.”
When he entered the conference room, President Gorton was coming toward him from the far end of the gleaming redwood table. Medium height, a few pounds overweight, his black leather flight jacket had a “Commander-in-Chief” insignia embroidered on the chest, surrounded by a circle of five-pointed stars. He looked like an image on a wartime recruiting poster.
“Damn good thing the Chief told me you were out there.” He flashed his trademark grin, shook hands firmly and gave Jack’s shoulder a squeeze followed by a friendly slap. “My friend here told me you must have decided to cancel.” He waved an arm casually in the direction of the other man in the room who stood next to a porthole, facing them.
Justin Sinclair stayed where he was, brushing a speck of lint from the sleeve of a dark gray suit that radiated genteel extravagance.
Jack had considered the possibility that Sinclair would show up at this meeting, so his game plan prepared him to counter. But that was before the son-of-a-bitch had tried to have him assassinated; before he’d had Mac murdered in a parking lot. He felt a rush of rage, his face hot. He wanted to run across the room and beat the coldhearted bastard’s face into the bulkhead, pound that cynical smile off Sinclair’s face. He could feel his hands gripping the man’s throat. But that would end the meeting with Gorton. Too high a price.
At Jack’s first step forward, Sinclair took a reflexive step back.
Years of training enabled Jack to get control of himself. He had to keep his anger from knocking him off his game plan. He could do that. The moment of danger had passed. Gorton might not have noticed the moment he’d lost it, but Sinclair had—and that was good.
Sinclair had a big edge. He’d been in the room alone with Gorton, peddling his poisonous fiction. But now Jack had an edge too: Sinclair’s heart must have skipped a few beats when Gorton told the Chief to bring in a man Sinclair thought was dead. It was a shame the intervening minute had given him time to make his face impassive.
To most people, Sinclair’s bushy eyebrows and slightly drooping lids made him look a little sleepy, but Jack knew he was as alert as a cheetah poised to pounce on a gazelle. Sinclair’s prey, in or out of the courtroom, seldom escaped. The floor of the legal jungle was littered with the bones of lawyers who had antagonized Sinclair, but Jack was ready to take him on, right here, right now. This was no longer a matter of making a carefully crafted argument to a skeptical President.
This was war.
“In your absence, Mr. Strider,” Gorton said, showing no intention of resuming his seat at the end of the table, “Justin briefed me on those allegations of environmental violations in Mexico you wanted to see me about. I agree with him that any infractions can be handled by—was it Palmer, Justin?—yes, by Palmer Industries with the firm guidance of Justin’s law firm. Best all around to keep the public out of this thing. I’m sure you agree.”
“No, sir. I don’t agree, and I don’t think you will either if I may speak with you for just a few minutes.”
From the far end of the room, Sinclair broke in. “Time to drop it, Strider. I gave the President all the salient details. Obviously he’s satisfied.”
“That’s about it, Mr. Strider,” Gorton said. “Justin also mentioned that you’ve been under considerable strain and tend to grow overly alarmed about what are quite manageable situations. Sorry you made the trip to Travis for nothing. I’ll have the Chief arrange a VIP tour of the Base for you.”
Sinclair had done his work well. No wonder the bastard was always the last man standing.
But not this time.
Jack had scores to settle for Mac, Ana-Maria and Juanita. Gorton could take his VIP tour and stuff it.
Gorton’s hand returned to Jack’s shoulder, this time to steer him toward the door. Jack braced himself and stopped his motion. Gorton stepped back looking perplexed.
“Mr. President. It’s vital to you and our national security that I outline this situation for you myself. Since this meeting is supposed to be between the two of us, I respectfully request that Mr. Sinclair wait outside.”
“You ingrate.” Sinclair’s voice rose. “Don’t you dare suggest I haven’t told the President everything he needs to know. A man with a reputation as disgraceful as yours has no credibility in this room.”
“Hold on, Justin,” Gorton broke in, looking perplexed. “You didn’t tell me he has a disgraceful reputation. If that’s true, why the hell did you insist I meet with him in the first place?”
“I set this up only because Strider threatened to go public with his crazy stories. I thought it was worth investing fifteen minutes and getting him off our backs. As far as what I said about him earlier, I was trying to be kind. The fact is that he was fired by the law school where he taught.”
“That’s not true,” Jack protested
.
“But you told me you hired him for your firm,” Gorton said.
“That was a mistake. I had a specific job to be done in Mexico that I thought he could handle. Instead, he caused so much trouble I had to fire him. He—”
“Mr. President,” Jack interrupted, “there are two situations that need your immediate action. The first involves poisoning a major aquifer that two million people depend on. If it’s destroyed, El Paso and Ciudad Juarez in Mexico will turn into ghost towns.”
“Just a damn minute,” Gorton said. “Destroy the El Paso water supply? Are you saying there’s some terrorist plot? We’ve always been worried about the vulnerability of—”
“Pardon me, sir,” Jack interrupted. “It’s not terrorism. It’s the greed of an American company. That’s what I need to tell you about.”
Gorton grimaced and glanced at Sinclair. “All right, I’ll listen for a minute. Take a seat here at this end of the table.” Gorton sat at the other end of the conference table. Sinclair sat at his right.
The conference table seemed as long as a bowling alley. The psychological distance felt even greater.
“Mr. President, Palmer Industries, a California corporation, set up a facility on the outskirts of Juarez to treat and dispose of extremely hazardous waste trucked in from all over the U.S.”
“All perfectly legal,” Sinclair said.
“Only as long as Palmer Industries obeys Mexican laws . . . which it doesn’t. That’s why PROFEPA, the Mexican environmental protection agency, tried to get an injunction to shut it down. Mr. Sinclair ordered me to defend Palmer whether they were guilty or not. Then Palmer Industries bribed the prosecuting attorneys and the judge and got the complaint dismissed with prejudice. But it gets much worse. Rather than spend the money to treat some of the lethal chemical and biological waste, the manager of the Palmer Industries plant, Tomás Montana, has been pumping it into huge tanks on top of a mesa near the plant. From there, he built a pipeline to three injection wells. Those wells drain straight into the aquifer that serves El Paso and Juarez.”
Sinclair snorted. “Strider, you’re delusional.”
Jack took a folder from his briefcase and held it up. “This statement, prepared by a Stanford hydrologist, describes the geology of the area and the vulnerability of the aquifer.” He took out a second folder. “I also have a statement from a scientist at the University of Texas at El Paso. It’s an analysis of the contents of the tanks on the mesa that shows how deadly they are. And here are photographs I took of the tanks and the wells.”
He walked the length of the table and held them out to Gorton. The President merely nodded and indicated that he should set them down.
He returned to his seat and continued, “The wells were damaged three days ago, but Montana could have it operational almost immediately. After he dumps that toxic material into the aquifer, El Paso and Juarez will be uninhabitable. The Mexican government won’t stop him, and the Juarez police are in his pocket. When Montana pulls the lever, there will be an international catastrophe with an American corporation as the proximate cause.”
“Good God!” Gorton exclaimed and looked at Sinclair. “What’s going on here? You told me you’re their general counsel. How could you let this happen?”
Sinclair looked indignant. “As I told you earlier, I can handle it.”
“The President won’t think so when I tell him the rest of the story.” Jack consulted his yellow pad. “After I met with PROFEPA on June thirtieth, I told Mr. Sinclair that Palmer was guilty as charged by PROFEPA. Four days later, I told him that Palmer should settle and comply in full.”
“On July 9th, three days ago, I informed Mr. Sinclair how Montana intended to poison the aquifer and that he should be arrested and the wells dismantled immediately. I also told him that Montana’s people had shot at me and that two women who could have testified against him had been murdered. Mr. Sinclair could have stopped Montana right then. Instead, he did nothing.”
“You’re lying,” Sinclair shouted. “You gave me that cockamamie story with absolutely no proof. Against my better judgment, I passed it on to Arthur Palmer to take whatever action he saw fit, if any. But the one I should have stopped was you.” He withdrew a folded sheet of paper from his inside breast pocket. “Justin, this is a letter Strider wrote me just prior to the Hearing pertaining to the minor charges made against Palmer Industries by PROFEPA. He’d become so fanatical in his belief that Palmer Industries was doing terrible things that he was determined to make the company suffer. He said that if the judge didn’t penalize Palmer, he would betray his own client and put them out of business. When the judge decided in Palmer’s favor, Strider and some other thug trespassed on plant grounds and tried to burn the place down. He’s wanted for a dozen felonies in Mexico. He’s here because he wants revenge.”