Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (25 page)

 
          
There
was no more time for discussion, because just then the limousine pulled up to
the aircraft hangar turned investigation center, and the members of the Senate
subcommittee task force began to step out. The line of twelve hangars on the
parking ramp at Beale Air Force Base once housed the SR-71 Blackbird spy planes,
which were the fastest air-breathing aircraft in the world before the advent of
the still- classified SR-91 Aurora. “A minute, Mr. Vice President,” Hardcastle
said. Martindale let everyone else out, and the Secret Service agent closed the
door again.

 
          
“Spit
it out, Admiral.”

 
          
“Sir,
you know that I believe in your campaign,” Hardcastle said easily. “No one was
happier than I to see you at our board of directors meeting, getting involved,
helping to raise money for the Task Force, all that. I know publicly you
haven’t announced if you’re going to run in ninety-six, but I feel you will,
and I’m one hundred and ten percent behind you all the way.”

 
          
“I
hear a big ‘but’ coming ...”

 
          
“Yes,
sir.
But,
after speaking with
Vincenti, I realized that we are not faced simply with gathering ammunition to
use against the current Administration—we need to formulate a policy to make
sure that attacks like last night don’t happen again.”

 
          
“Attacks?
They weren’t
attacks,
Ian, it was the
act of a madman trying to escape pursuit,” Martindale scoffed. “The odds of
Cazaux blowing up another airport in this country are ... well, hell, they’ve
got to be astronomical.”

 
          
“I
don’t think so, sir,” Hardcastle said. “I think he’ll strike again. I think we
need to set up a program to defend this country’s major airports from attack.
With all due respect, sir, I need to know if you’re serious about responding to
the threat, or if this is just a way to make some political hay until you’re
ready to throw your hat in the ring.”

 
          
“Christ,
Hardcastle, ease up a bit with that rhetoric—and the threats,” Martindale said,
motioning with his body that he was ready to get out of the car. “First of all,
whatever use I have for my activities with you and the Project 2000 Task Force
is
part of my campaign. You and the
membership agreed to spearhead my campaign. Like it or not, I’m in it, and I’m
calling the shots. You know I’m serious about national defense, Ian. When I
joined forces with the Task Force, you agreed to my terms. You and the other
Task Force members fall in line with me or I walk—it’s as simple as that.
Understand?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir.”

 
          
“I’m
Kevin to you, Ian,” Martindale said. “Both now and when I’m in the White House.
And I
am
going to the White House, my
friend, let there be no doubt about
that.

 
          
“As
for my thoughts on Cazaux: So far I haven’t seen any evidence indicating the
beginning of a wave of terrorism. We start creating fear like that, and we’ll
look bad. Hell, even if we’re
right,
we’ll look like doomsayers. I don’t want to start putting Patriot missiles on
the front lawn of the White House, Ian—all I want to do is point out to the
people of this country that the current President’s got his head up his ass
when it comes to the application of military force and his support for the
military.” Martindale paused for a moment, then seemed to decide to go ahead
and say what was on his mind—Kevin Martindale never had any trouble keeping his
feelings to himself: “Frankly, Ian, your alarm-ringing reputation is well known
in town. I’m not saying you’re wrong, but I feel a lot of people might be
turning you off. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since the attack. Let’s
not come to any really dire conclusions until we get some more concrete
evidence. Okay?”

 
          
“That’s
fine, sir,” Hardcastle said. “I’ll stand by my reputation and my opinions.”

 
          
“Don’t
get me wrong, Ian,” Martindale added. “I consider you a valuable asset, and
your thoughts mean a lot to me. But let me make the decisions and the public
announcements, okay?”

 
          
“Yes,
sir,” Hardcastle said. He exited the limousine, but turned to face Martindale
just before the former Vice President stepped out. “But think about this,
sir—what if Henri Cazaux strikes again? Then what will
you
be prepared to do to stop him?”

 
          
Martindale
had already been psyching himself up to get ready to speak with the press that
had assembled outside the hangar being used to headquarter the FBI’s investigation,
so he really wasn’t fully listening to Hardcastle—until that very last
sentence. If Cazaux
did
return, if
this was only the beginning and not the end of a horrible nightmare, then what
could
be done to stop it?

 
          
“Damn
it, Hardcastle . . the former Vice President of the
United States
muttered. Ignoring Admiral Ian Hardcastle
was never an option.

 
          
Newburgh
,
New York
Later That Day

           
The sleepy little town of
Newburgh
, about an hour’s drive north of
New York City
, was the perfect place for an American
terrorist base of operations. The small city of twenty thousand was easily
accessible to
New York City
by Thruway, train, overland, or even via the nearby
Hudson River
, but it was much smaller and much more
rural than a typical
New York City
bedroom community, offering lots of seclusion and privacy.
Newburgh
’s first-class airfield, Stewart International,
had direct flights to La Guardia;
Chicago
;
Washington
,
D.C.
; Raleigh-Durham International; Hartsfield-Atlanta; and even
Toronto
and
Montreal
, but it had fewer than a dozen arrivals and
departures a day. The U.S. Military Academy at
West Point
was just a few miles away, and the resorts
and ski areas of the Catskills were just a few hours away.

 
          
Passengers
liked
Stewart
International
Airport
because it was so easygoing and
efficient—Henri Cazaux liked Stewart because security there was relatively lax,
which made the little airport the perfect place to run a small-scale smuggling
operation, or smuggle weapons into the commercial air system. Cazaux had often
smuggled a fully loaded Uzi right through security in a briefcase by partially
disassembling it and packing it in a candy or gift box with a gold foil
wrapper—the wrapper shielded the contents from the X rays, and the guards never
bothered to hand-check, especially during the early-morning rush-hour confusion
of commuters on their way to New York, Boston, or Washington. The old
“gun-in-the-Bible” trick worked every time. If Cazaux ever considered hijacking
a plane, it would be from Stewart International.

 
          
There
were a lot of other factors: the large amount of general aviation activity at
the airport, with small planes taxiing and parking very close to commercial
traffic, made transporting contraband onto an airliner from the aircraft
parking ramp easy; the amount of wooded area and the isolation of many parts of
the base from all but roving security; the number of large, isolated vacant
buildings and hangars on the airport; and the relative safety and security
everyone felt by having a large New York State Police, U.S. Army, and Air Force
Reserve contingent stationed there at Stewart. Cazaux used that complacency to
his advantage many times. He once dressed like a USAir baggage handler,
commandeered a baggage tractor, and personally loaded several hundred pounds of
contraband aboard planes parked at the gates, and was never challenged. He had
done the same with an Air Force Reserve military cargo plane, posing as a crew
chief on a C-5A Galaxy transport. Cazaux stole whole pallets of weapons and
equipment right off the back of the giant transports with a forklift, and was
never challenged or questioned.

 
          
More
importantly, the little city was quiet and peaceful—it was a good jumping-off
point to just about anyplace in the world, but it was also a good place to lay
low and think and plan. That’s why when Henri Cazaux safely made it out of
Albuquerque
, he booked a flight—not a direct flight,
but a circuitous route to
Chicago
to
Cleveland
to
Pittsburgh
—and then on to his base of
U.S.
operations in
Newburgh
. He needed to get the roar of the
destruction he had caused in
California
, the smell of gunpowder and blood and
burning civilization, all out of his head for a while.

 
          
There
were two other reasons for Henri Cazaux to come to
Newburgh
, of course. It was a convenient place to
meet with his logistics officer, a private Wall Street trader named
Harold
Lake
. When a face-to-face meeting was needed,
Lake
could be in
Newburgh
in an hour and a half, and banking
transactions begun by
Lake
in a satellite brokerage house in
Newburgh
at
noon
would be on the books and in the system by
close of business. Cazaux felt too trapped, too surrounded in
New York City
itself—
Newburgh
was more to his liking, large enough to
allow him to blend into with the citizens but small and isolated enough to
remain anonymous.

 
          
The
second reason was Madame Rocci, M.M. Her real name, he knew, was Jo Ann Vega.
The “M.M.” stood for Minister of Metaphysics—it sounded like a phony show,
title or something out of a 1940s B-grade movie, but it was not. She was, and
had been for several years, the psychic for the world’s most dangerous criminal.

 
          
For
all of Henri Cazaux’s intelligence, military training, life experience,
toughness, and survival instinct, his one foible, his one departure from clear,
perfectly objective analytical thought, was in the realm of astrology—but of
course Cazaux would not consider astrology a “weird” science. An astrologer in
Denmark
whom he visited while in high school told
him he would be a great military man—he decided to go into the military based
on the woman’s advice. During a United Nations deployment to
Africa
while in the Belgian First Para, another
astrologer in
Zaire
, a shaman, told him he would be a great leader of men, known far and
wide for his deeds. Since going into business himself, he had consulted with an
astrologer once or twice a year. Their predictions were uncannily accurate, he
thought, and he had never made a bad move based on their words.

 
          
He
had met Madame Vega three years earlier. During a rare time traveling on foot
during daylight hours—tactical considerations absolutely forbade travel on roads
during daylight except in an emergency—Cazaux had ducked into the back door of
her tiny storefront parlor while getting out of sight of a State Police
cruiser. He surprised Vega as she came out of the bathroom, but she did not
challenge him or try to throw him out. She seemed to know instantly that he was
on the run and being pursued. She showed no fear, and offered him instant
coffee and two-day-old donuts purchased from the thrift shop down the street,
the only things she had to eat in her small kitchen.