Foreign Enemies and Traitors (94 page)

                Bob Bullard felt good about his decision to drop the Viper instead of merely putting the gang under surveillance.  Nobody ever escaped when five pounds of high explosives punched through their roof and detonated inside.  He could scratch the killers from West Tennessee from his list of concerns and prepare for his meeting with Sidney Krantz.  It was “T minus beer-thirty,” and counting.

****

Ira Hayes Gersham arrived at Hugh Rogan’s house
in his own nondescript compact car.  It had the correct Department of Defense windshield stickers, and he had his Army retiree’s ID card, so he could come and go onto the base as he pleased.  General Armstead had already departed Rogan’s duplex, after briefly going through the Operation Buffalo Jump concept of operations plan with Phil Carson.  Doug Dolan was alone in Rogan’s office, standing with his head tilted sideways, reading the titles of the books on a tall shelf.  Ira came into the room with Boone and closed the door behind them.

                “Sit down,” Boone ordered.  Doug was startled to see “Dewey Lieberman,” whom the other men called Ira, and he dropped into the chair by Rogan’s computer.

                Ira Gersham held a small digital audio recorder in his hand.  He placed it on the desk by Doug and pushed a button.  “Now listen to this.”

               
“Director Bullard?  It’s Harry.  We have activity at the target area.  The new one.”

               
“Oh?  Tell me about it.” 
 

               
“Three unknown subjects just arrived at a house in our primary watch area.  They came in a white SUV a few minutes ago
. 
The house is owned by an Iraq War vet.”

               
“Men or women?  What?”

               
“All men, as far as we can determine.”

               
“Where are they now?”

               
“They’re inside the house.”

               
“Where’s this house in relation to the cell call’s triangulated position?”

               
“It’s not exact, of course, but I’d estimate pretty darn near the center of the box.  Plus or minus a few hundred yards.”

               
“Hot damn!  Has Dolan made any more calls?”          

               
“No.  That phone’s been quiet since Monday night.  We’ve been trying to activate it, but either its batteries have been removed, or it’s shield-ed inside something thick.  Or it’s just been moved outside a cell coverage zone.”

               
“Any evidence that Dolan is one of the three men in the house?”

               
“We can’t confirm that yet.  The SUV is parked under a roof; we didn’t get a good look at them before they went inside the house.  About all we can tell from the film is it’s three men.”

               
“What about the license plate on the SUV?  Did the snooper pods catch anything?” 

               
“We got the tag number, but it looks like it might be stolen, a fake or a duplicate.  It’s a Tennessee plate, but the number doesn’t appear to be current, and it doesn’t match the vehicle.”

               
“All right!  Wrong tags means they’re dirty, so they’re probably our unknown subjects.  Harry, this is looking very promising.  Is the on-station Predator armed?”

               
“It sure is.  Two Vipers and four thirty millimeters.”

               
“Good.  I want missiles ready to drop anytime I say.  I’m coming down to flight ops, so be ready.”

               
****

“Do you want to hear it again?” asked Boone.

                Doug appeared shattered by the recorded conversation.  He stared blankly at the recorder as he slumped forward in the chair.  “No.”

                “So, who did you call?” Boone demanded.

                Dolan glanced between the two men, who stood over him in postures suggesting that he was about to get a beating.  “I…I called my mother in Baltimore.”

                “Tell us everything,” said Ira.  “Who, what, when, where and why.”

                Doug looked down at the floor.  “I found a cell phone in the kitchen drawer at the cabin.  You guys were gone.  I called my mother; I haven’t spoken to her in more than a year.  She thought I was dead.  I’m sorry.  I’m really sorry.”

                “You’re ‘sorry’?!  Do you know that people were probably
killed
because of you?”

                “Killed?”

                Ira asked, “What do you think they meant by ‘missiles ready to drop’?  A SWAT team just raided a house near the cabin.  They blew it up, probably with a missile launched from a Predator.  I was close enough to hear the explosion.  They thought it was us, but it was a mistake.  There’s no garage and no white SUV at the cabin, so obviously they got the wrong house.  But those three men are still dead, and now we can’t even go back to find out who it was.  And all because you had to call your mother!”

                “I’m
so
sorry…”

                “And those people are still dead!” shouted Boone, struggling to keep his composure.  “Let me tell you, Doug, part of me wants to…part of me wants to take you apart.  But I can’t.  I won’t.  And do you know why?”

                Dolan looked up at Boone, misery on his face.

                “I can’t give you what you deserve because we still need you.  You’re the only one of us who can run a modern studio mixing board, at least that’s what Ira tells me, and I believe him.  We don’t have anybody who can replace you tomorrow, so you have to pull your act together and somehow,
somehow
, not fuck this up.  So no matter how we feel about you right now, we still need you.  You’re our television producer, and you still need to do your job, without a doubt the most important job you’ve ever done in your short life.  And I know you’ll do it, because now,
finally
, I think you understand the kind of people we’re fighting.  They’re the kind of people who kill innocent Americans just because they think they
might
be rebels.  I hope it’s sinking in that this is no game.  So you’re getting another chance.  Now—are you going to fall to pieces on us, or are you going to pull yourself together, man up, and carry on like a Soldier?”

                Doug Dolan swallowed hard and nodded his head affirmatively.  “I’ll be able to do my part.  I won’t screw it up, Boone, I promise.  I’ll do my job.  No matter what it takes.”

                                                      
29

The military called them C-12 Hurons.
  Civilian general aviation pilots knew them as Beech Super King Air twin turboprops.  It wasn’t a Gulfstream, a Citation or even a Learjet, but Sidney Krantz wasn’t complaining.  The plane had a pressurized cabin and flew at jet altitudes, and it had the speed and range to carry him directly from Andrews Air Force Base to Fort Campbell.  An entire squadron at Andrews was dedicated to transporting government VIPs around the country and overseas.  The aircrews didn’t care who they were flying as long as they were given valid orders through their chain of command.  They routinely flew congressional delegations on thinly disguised Caribbean junkets, so a trip to Fort Campbell was above question. 

                This particular airplane was a deluxe version of the C-12, with only six very wide leather seats, three on each side.  The front two seats faced rearward, with fold-down coffee tables between them and the two middle seats.  The pilot and copilot could be seen all the way forward in the cockpit.  The only other person aboard was a female Air Force sergeant, a slim and trim Nordic type with short blond hair.  Her sole mission apparently was keeping her single passenger comfortable, plying him with snacks, drinks, defense industry magazines and pillows. 

                Krantz briefly wondered if other men in his situation might throw a pass at her, and perhaps inquire about her plans for later on at Fort Campbell.  It was just his bad luck that they would provide him with a female steward, because he was much more interested in handsome young men than in girls.  And in today’s military, a young male flight attendant might be openly gay, and he might even be attracted to an older Distinguished Guest, a Very Important Person who frequently had the president’s ear.  But alas, this was not to be, not on this flight.

                Even with propellers instead of jets, and a female cabin steward, this afternoon’s solo air travel was a huge boost to Sidney’s ego.  A twin-engine luxury airplane, two pilots and a steward had been placed entirely at his service.  He could fly back tonight or tomorrow, as he wished.  The plane and crew were at his beck and call, because this was a White House mission.  After this Tennessee rural pacification campaign was successfully wrapped up, and Jamal Tambor was even more impressed with his service, perhaps then he would rate a luxury jet for his official travels.  But even this level of luxury was very nice.  Best of all was being waited upon by uniformed military personnel.  If they only knew how much he despised them for their disgusting ultra patriotism, and their incessantly cheerful “Yes sir, no sir, what we can do for you, sir.” 

                If the crew only knew the true purpose of his mission to Tennessee, and what he was delivering!  If they only knew what he had in a glass vial the size of a pill bottle, hidden in his carry-on bag.  There was only about a tablespoon of the brownish liquid culture, but that was enough to infect hundreds of rats.  Just a tiny injection was all it would take.  That and fleas, and proximity to the thousands of rebels currently confined in tight quarters in a dozen FEMA camps in Tennessee.  Well, President Tambor had said that he wanted the resistance crushed, and he didn’t care how.  Sidney Krantz was merely attempting to fulfill his leader’s wishes.

                ****

The C-12 chased the afternoon sun for three hours,
and landed at Campbell Army Airfield just at twilight.  Ten minutes after its arrival, it had taxied onto a concrete apron amidst other small- and medium-sized fixed-wing aircraft.  The Huron was a sleek white twin turboprop with low wings and a high T-tail gleaming in the last light.  As its engines were shutting down, a black SUV drove up almost to its left wing and parked.  The plane’s side door was lowered, creating its own steps.  A single passenger stepped down, a portly man in a gray suit.  He held a black carryall bag in one hand, and a brown hanging bag in the other.  The driver of the SUV approached him, and even tipped his black ball cap. 

                “Mr. Krantz?”  The driver was wearing black trousers cut like combat fatigues, and a matching black insulated jacket with pockets and pouches for police radios, ammunition magazines, backup pistols, handcuffs, drinking water in a “camelback” and a dozen other “tactical necessities.”

                The deplaning VIP said, “That would be me.”

                “I’m your driver; I’ll be taking you to Director Bullard’s house.  May I help you with your luggage, sir?”

                “You can take my hanging bag, thanks.”  Krantz held onto his black leather grip bag, and followed the driver to the Suburban.

                “We’re just a few minutes from Director Bullard’s house.  Is this your first trip to Fort Campbell?”

                “Yes, it’s my first time,” said Krantz while checking his watch.

                The driver held the left rear door open for Sidney Krantz, who slid across the middle seat while keeping his carry-on bag close by his side.  The driver clipped the hanging bag to a hook, and closed the door.  Then he got behind the wheel and they drove away from the airplanes, the aprons and service roads, and the airfield.  It was fully dark by the time they left the perimeter road.  The two men shared no polite words of conversation; they were from utterly different worlds.  The driver selected a roundabout route that kept them away from most of Fort Campbell’s built-up areas. 

                Five minutes later, he pulled onto a winding road that led past a golf course.  This road, in turn, led into a secluded section that was home to Fort Campbell’s general officers.  This was also the location of the temporary residence of Bob Bullard, a member of the federal government’s Senior Executive Service.  A discreet sign at the entrance to this tree-shielded stretch of asphalt simply read “Senior Officer Housing, Authorized Personnel and Guests Only.”  On an Army base, where military discipline ruled personal conduct, this sign was the only outward indication of the presence of a higher security level.  There was no separate gate or guardhouse.

                Bullard’s two-story white shingle-sided house was at the end of its own cul-de-sac.  Lines of evergreens ensured its privacy.  It was one of only nine homes designated for general officers on Fort Campbell.  The black Suburban turned onto the long driveway, rounded the circle at the end, and parked in front of the home’s main entrance.  The driver stepped out and opened his passenger’s door, grabbed the hanging bag and politely waited while Krantz exited the SUV with his black leather bag in his left hand.  Then the driver walked up the brick steps to the front landing of the home, rang the bell, and stepped to the side as a motion-activated security light came on above them.  Sidney Krantz stood directly in front of the door, waiting for it to open.  A white security camera no larger than a pack of cigarettes was discreetly mounted above them to their left.

                In less than a minute the door swung inward, opened by Director Robert Bullard himself, dressed casually in jeans and a maroon sweater.  He stepped to the threshold, his right hand out to greet his colleague from Washington.  Sidney Krantz was the man who had plucked him from his virtual house arrest in San Diego and recommended him for his current assignment heading up the rural pacification program.  Bullard shook Krantz’s hand, then glanced over at the driver, whose back was turned to them.  He said, “Jimmy, you can leave the bag on that hook over there, and then you can take off.”