Term Limits (49 page)

Stansfield approached. “Give me the rundown.”

“We're tracking his homing signal right now.” Dobbs pointed at the big screen in the front of the room. A detailed map of the Chesapeake was on the screen and a slow-moving red dot. “It appears
they've got him on board a boat and are making a run for the open sea.”

“Do we know how it happened?”

“We've talked to the guard who was running the control room inside Arthur's house. He says Arthur stepped outside to smoke a cigar, and then they came over the wall. He isn't sure how many of them there were because they shot his cameras out. Two of the guards are dead, and there is no sign of Arthur.”

“What procedures have we put into effect?”

“We've scrambled two Cobra gunships out of Quantico and an AWAC was on patrol when the whole thing went down. The AWAC has confirmed our bogie and has classified it as a small watercraft moving at a speed of sixty-two knots. I have also notified the Coast Guard, and they are moving to set up a picket at the south end of the Bay.”

“How long will it take for the choppers to intercept?”

“If there is no course change, they should intercept in about ten minutes.” They all looked at the big board and watched the moving red dot. “I also activated two of our security details. I'm sending one to the estate to investigate, and the other will be airborne within the next two minutes. I'm sending them after the boat.”

Stansfield shook his head. “Charlie, do whatever it takes to get him back.”

Stroble peered over the top of the windscreen, his night-vision goggles helping slightly, but not much. The stars and moon were blocked out by the thick clouds, and the water was black. He kept the
boat just to the west of the channel markers. The Chesapeake was notorious for unmarked sandbars, and now would not be a good time to run aground on one. Hackett came out from the small cabin and announced that the charges were set. He kept his night-vision goggles up on the top of his head and checked the sky and water behind them.

They were less than a minute away from their demarcation point. Hackett threw their weapons and equipment over the side, everything except their fins and mask. Taking two short pieces of rope, Stroble tied the steering wheel down so the boat would stay on a straight course. He looked at his watch and gave Hackett a thumbs-up. Hackett got on top of the engine cover and without hesitation dove off the back of the boat, curling into a ball. As soon as Hackett was away, Stroble flipped on the running lights, grabbed his fins and mask, and ran for the back of the boat. He leapt clear of the propellers and also tucked into a tight ball. He hit the water and skipped several times, rolling as he went. Their bodies stung slightly from the initial impact, but otherwise they were fine.

Hackett appeared at Stroble's side, and they paused for a second to watch the boat rumble away. They put on their fins and masks and started swimming as fast as they could for shore. They had a little over a mile to go. Before leaving the boat, Hackett had placed a series of small, timed charges that would rip holes in the bottom of the boat's hull. They pumped their arms powerfully through the water, their fins doing most of the work. Shortly, they were within two hundred yards of shore.

Hackett stopped and so did Stroble. Sticking his hand into the neck of his scuba suit, Hackett pulled out his radio headset. Without putting it on he held the unit next to his ear and said, “Mercury, this is Cyclops, come in, over.”

“I read you loud and clear, Cyclops, over.”

Hackett and Stroble bobbed up and down in the water, staring at the dark shoreline. “Can you give us a mark on your position, over?” They both saw the flicker of red light. Marking the position with a dip in the tree line, Hackett responded, “I've got a fix. We'll be joining you in a couple of minutes, over.”

Hackett shoved the headset back under his suit and was getting ready to swim again when he heard an all too familiar noise. Stroble heard it, too, and they both sank a little deeper in the water. The chopping sound grew, echoing off the water. It was hard to get a fix on where it was coming from, but there was no doubt what it was. It was getting louder. They turned in the water, looking skyward.

The noise increased markedly, and then, without warning, two helicopters screamed over treetops above where Tim O'Rourke was waiting. For a brief second, both former SEALs thought they had been discovered, but the choppers didn't stop. They kept going, racing overhead, out into the Bay and then turning south. Stroble and Hackett looked at each other quickly and then sprinted for shore.

Back in the Operations Center the tension was mounting. Stansfield watched the chase unfold on the big board. The display from the AWAC was up
on the screen. Arthur's homing signal hadn't changed course. It was still headed south. The position of the two Cobra gunships was marked by a duo of green triangles on the screen. The radio communication between the pilots of the choppers and the airborne controller on board the AWAC was being played over the loudspeaker. The choppers were closing quickly.

Dobbs turned to Stansfield and said, “I have to tell the pilots what their rules of engagement are.”

Without pause Stansfield replied, “If they are met with the slightest resistance, they are free to use whatever force they deem necessary. I want that boat stopped.”

The small charges exploded, ripping three holes in the bow of the boat and two more next to the engines. The holes in the bow acted as scoops, funneling water into the cabin. In the stern, water rose rapidly, the engines straining with the extra weight and the loss of a smooth hull. The engines revved louder and louder until they were smothered by the water. All forward movement stopped and the expensive boat slipped beneath the surface of the dark water.

The controller on board the AWAC announced the decrease in speed before it was noticeable on the big board in the Operations Center. He continued to read off the decreasing speed until the boat had stopped. Stansfield, along with everyone else in the room, watched the helicopters rapidly close the gap. The green triangles inched closer and closer to
the stationary red dot. The AWAC's controller vectored the choppers right in on top of the mark, and then came the surprise. The pilots announced no boat was in sight.

The black BMW weaved through the busy Friday-night traffic of Georgetown. As Coleman drove, he told Michael that his former boss, Admiral DeVoe, had called to tell him the FBI was snooping around asking questions. A pensive O'Rourke asked, “Did he say why they are interested in you?”

“Only that they wanted to know why I was discharged early.”

O'Rourke stared out the window and said, “That means they know about Snatch Back. Did the admiral tell you who called him?”

“No. All he said was that they were from the Bureau. Michael, I wouldn't get too worried yet. They might just be going down a list of former SEALs.”

“I doubt it. The FBI is looking for someone who had motive enough to do this, and when they find out Fitzgerald was the one who leaked Snatch Back, they're going to be all over you.” O'Rourke nervously tapped his fingers on the dashboard. “And then they're going to find out about Mark's death, and they're going to get real interested in you.”

“Let them look. They're not going to find anything. They can't prove I knew squat about who leaked Snatch Back. I found out from you, and you weren't supposed to know.”

Michael thought about it. “If all they have is Fitzgerald's connection to Snatch Back and your
brother's death, that won't be enough to indict, but it will be enough for them to assign a couple dozen agents to watch you around the clock. You are going to have to lay really low for a while. Dump the car as soon as we're done tonight, and don't go back to the garage.”

Coleman agreed, and several minutes later he turned onto Michael's street. They stopped in front of Michael's house and O'Rourke jumped out. Flipping up the black cover on the security pad, he punched in the code for the garage door and it opened. Coleman backed the car into the tight garage, and Michael followed, closing the door behind him. At first they were going to bring Arthur to the cabin, but since it was only fourteen miles from the estate, they thought it would be best to bring him back to the city where they could use the busy traffic and people for cover.

Before opening the trunk, Michael and Coleman pulled their mesh masks down over their faces. Coleman inserted the key into the lock and pushed in. The trunk opened, revealing the bony white body of Arthur. His eyes were glassy and his wrists and ankles tied together with rope. A blue racquetball was shoved in his mouth. Michael dug the ball out and Arthur moved his jaw. With a deep look of confusion he stared up at the two dark figures. Michael almost felt sorry for Arthur and then remembered who he was.

Coleman grabbed him under the armpits and Michael grabbed his ankles. Together they hoisted him out of the trunk and brought him into the house. The ground level of O'Rourke's brownstone
consisted of a single-car garage on one side and a utility and washroom on the other. They brought Arthur to the corner of the washroom and set him on the floor with his back against the wall. Coleman went out to the car and came back with a small black case. He set it on top of the dryer and opened it. Inside were two clear liquid vials and several syringes. Coleman grabbed the vial labeled sodium pentothal, tilted it upside down, and stuck the tip of a syringe through the rubber top. Pulling the plunger back, he filled the syringe about halfway. After putting the vial of truth serum back in the case, he let the bubbles rise to the top of the syringe and squeezed some of the fluid out.

Arthur mumbled something, and Coleman ignored him. The chloroform was wearing off. Coleman grabbed a stick of smelling salts and broke it open. He stuck it under Arthur's nose, and the pungent smell forced the old man to yank his head away. Coleman did it several more times and Arthur responded verbally.

“What are you doing?… Where am I?”

Coleman ignored him and grabbed the syringe from atop the dryer.

Arthur looked up at the needle and realized what was going on. “Before you use that, let's talk for a second.”

Coleman kneeled down and grabbed Arthur's arm. Arthur's eyes shot frantically back and forth between the head of the masked man and tip of the needle. “I don't know who's paying you, but I'll double it.”

Coleman found a blue vein just under the surface
of Arthur's thin, dry skin. He slid the needle in and depressed the plunger.

Arthur watched with a panicked look on his face. “You have no idea what you're doing. My people will come looking for me.… They will find you no matter what it takes!”

As Arthur shouted, Coleman walked out of the room and shut the door behind him. Michael came down the stairs with a tape recorder, video camera, and a set of small speakers. He handed them to Coleman and went into the garage to grab the mobile scramble phone. When Michael got back, he asked Coleman how long it would take for the drug to take effect, and Coleman told him about another five minutes. Both of them went back into the washroom. The second they opened the door, Arthur began pleading, his voice growing more placid by the minute.

Michael and Coleman ignored him while they set up the equipment. O'Rourke plugged the two speakers into the mobile scramble phone and attached the voice modulator to the mouthpiece of the handset. Coleman took the video camera and mounted it on top of a tripod. They did a quick test to make sure everything checked out. Michael waved for Coleman to follow him, and they stepped out into the hallway.

“Remember, I'll ask the questions. If you want to say something, turn off the tape recorder and camera first. If we end up using this tape, the CIA and the FBI will analyze every little noise.”

“Understood.”

“Is there any chance he'll be able to lie to us?” asked Michael.

“No, I've used this stuff in the field before, and you can't fight it.”

Michael nodded and they went back into the room. Arthur sat in the corner staring up at the light in the middle of the ceiling. Coleman approached, grabbed Arthur's jaw, looked into his heavily dilated eyes, then told Michael Arthur was ready. Coleman turned on the camera and Michael hit the record button on the tape recorder. Speaking into the modulator, Michael asked, “What is your name?”

Director Stansfield stared at the big board on the front wall of the Operations Center and noted the running time since Arthur's personal alarm had been sounded. They were approaching the forty-minute mark, and things were not looking good. With each tick of the clock, the odds of getting him back got worse. They were still getting a signal from Arthur's beacon, but the Cobra gunships had found nothing. Navy frogmen were on the way from Norfolk to find out what was beneath the water. At first they thought Arthur's alarm might have been thrown overboard by his abductors, but the AWAC operator told them the bogie had stopped dead in the water. The quick-reaction team had arrived at Arthur's estate and was assessing the situation. Only one thing was certain: Arthur was nowhere to be found.

Stansfield watched as his people in the Operations Center alerted the Coast Guard, local law enforcement agencies, airport officials, and U.S. Customs agents to be on the lookout for anything suspicious.
For security reasons, they didn't tell anyone the real reason for the alert, only that they were looking for a fugitive. They didn't want the story ending up in the press. Stansfield knew if they were to get Arthur back at this point it would take luck, and to get lucky they had to hustle. For every minute that expired, their chances of getting him back decreased. Stansfield also had procedure to follow. He picked up a secure line and dialed the number for the National Security Desk at the White House.

“National Security Desk, Major Maxwell speaking. Please identify yourself.”