The Rampage of Ryan O'Hara (30 page)

“Surely you’re not implying that a bunch of right-wing, racist bigots cooked up a bogus story and convinced the Justice Department to start an investigation, are you, Maxwell?”

“I’m just saying that the president has been subjected to unfair treatment from…”

“So are you telling us that a note wasn’t found in the home of Jonas Judd?”

“I’m not familiar with any, uh, note. What are you referring to?”

There were audible chuckles and sighs from the other journalists in the room. It was already common knowledge that Jonas Judd, the late economic advisor to the president, had left a note indicating fear for his life and mentioning the White House as a potential purveyor of what he worried would be his demise.

“You know very well what I’m talking about, Maxwell, or at least you should. I’m referring to the note left by Judd describing a run-in with people from the chief of
staff’s office over some alleged information he had that could compromise the presidency.”

“I’m sorry, Wally. I’m really not familiar with that story and the last thing I’m going to do is, uh, speculate on an unsubstantiated rumor put forth by people in the enemy camp.”

“Enemy camp? Isn’t that a rather harsh way to describe your fellow citizens, Maxwell?” Christianson enjoyed badgering Waters, who he looked upon as a blithering idiot with no journalistic talent.

Ryan smiled. Never in his wildest dreams would he have guessed that so many other factors would be injected into the simple plan he had devised to avenge his grandfather and other victims of domestic terrorism.

The note from Judd, when combined with the multiple “executions” carried out against high-profile communist and Muslim activists, seemed to be convincing most people that a nationwide conspiracy was in play. Most of these same people, however, refused to believe that there was presidential complicity if for no other reason than the simple fact that all of those targeted were people of similar ideology and goals. No, it just didn’t make sense that the president would be bumping off his supporters. The conspiracy had to involve an as-yet-unknown group. But whom?

Perhaps the president was just an incompetent dupe, not aware of sinister goings-on within his inner circle. Or maybe he was only pretending to be a communist and was really part of a right-wing conspiracy to eliminate the very subversives who believed him to be an ally. But these were all pretty far-fetched hypotheses and not at all likely.

After several more questions from the White House press corps, Waters abruptly ended the session and walked out of the room, leaving the reporters with no more information on what was now being dubbed as the “Predawn Massacre” than they had had when the briefing began.

The network switched back to a program already in progress in which a panel of pundits, all acting as if they had more knowledge than they actually did, was expressing various opinions, views, and theories. They were soon interrupted by a bulletin.

Ralph Richardson and Dan Travis, reporting from the Portsmouth and New York affiliates, were on to a breaking story about the formation of a joint task force consisting of federal, state, and local law-enforcement agencies from throughout the country. On the satellite feed with them was DC bureau chief Brent Barres.

“What can you tell us about the latest development in the Predawn Massacre case, Brent?” Richardson asked.

“The only thing I can tell you so far is that the attorney general and Director Siringo at the FBI have announced that the bureau and representatives of several state and local law enforcement agencies throughout the country are coming together to pool their resources in an all-out effort to solve this case.”

Travis interjected, “Yes, I know about the task force. I’ve already spoken with the lead detectives on the Finnegan case here in New York and I believe they’re going to play a major role in the investigation as it moves forward.”

“Is there any chance they might be available to make a statement, Dan?”

“No. It was just by chance that I bumped into them earlier down at the precinct house. Other than confirming their participation in the task force, they’re referring all inquiries to the press liaison officer, Sergeant Pete McDougall.”

“Can you give me the names of the detectives, Dan?”

“Yes. They’re Detectives Dirk Mueller and Harry Hanratty. But like I explained, they’re not letting out any information and the department spokesman, McDougall, is not offering any more information than we already have.”

Ryan turned off the TV and was about to leave when Markowitz walked into the room.

“Leaving without so much as an adios, eh, O’Hara?”

“Naw, nothing like that. I just didn’t want to bother anyone this early in the morning. Besides, I thought we said our good-byes last night.”

“Yeah, well, I guess we did. Have a good trip and stay safe. I hope we’ll cross paths again. Remember, you’ve got a place in our organization if and when you’re ready to join us.”

“Thanks, Sterling. I’ll keep in touch and you’ll be the first to know when I make my decision.” The two men shook hands.

Ryan was soon out the door and heading for Fort Campbell, satisfied that he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do and more. He was pleased that authorities would be looking everywhere but in his direction for what was shaping up to be a media circus with the White House as one of its three rings. Yes, indeed, things couldn’t have worked out better.

F
ive hours and a hundred and seventy miles later, Ryan rolled past the front gate of Fort Campbell, Kentucky, the massive installation shared by the 101
^st
Airborne Division, the Fifth Special Forces, and the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment.

“Home at last,” he thought as he drove past the Mann Theater, Cole Field, and the Estep Gymnasium and finally out to the periphery of the reservation where the Special Forces compound was located in what had been the post stockade decades earlier.

A sudden peace came over him and he felt secure knowing that he would soon be back among his warrior family, sharing the brotherhood and camaraderie
that only men who have trained, fought, and suffered together know and appreciate. He looked forward to being medically cleared so that he could once again jump from big iron birds and practice his combat skills in the green and forested boondocks of this vast reservation located on the Tennessee-Kentucky border.

Ryan parked his car and walked into the orderly room. He found the team medic, Staff Sergeant Jerome Segelke, working on the computer, reviewing the medical status of his fellow operators.

“Hey, shithead, how long you been riding a desk?” Ryan yelled as he came up behind the medic.

Segelke jumped and then smiled. “Well, I’ll be damned. Look what the wind blew into my little sanctuary. It’s about time you got back, you old punkass son of a bitch. We’ve been working our tails off while you’ve been lounging around on your lazy convalescing butt, enjoying life. How the hell have you been?”

“Aw, hell, Jerome, I’ve been all right. A little bored though. Sitting around drinking beer and banging broads is fun and all, but I’m a physical mess and need to get some discipline back into my life. I’m all rested up and rarin’ to get back into shape and hone my kill skills. Have to get cleared first, though.”

“I’d like to be able to accommodate you on that, killer, but you’re gonna have to get cleared by the surgeons. I’ll set up an appointment for you ASAP so you can get back into circulation.”

“Thanks, buddy. I’d appreciate that.”

“No problemo, amigo.”

“Where are the rest of the guys? The place looks like a ghost town out there with no one around.”

“They’re out in the boonies training up for our next deployment.”

“Any idea when that’s coming up?”

“No telling. Everything’s hush-hush right now. All I know is that it’ll be somewhere in the Middle East or maybe Africa. No one’s really saying.”

“Well, no barfing buzzard shit. I would have never guessed we’d be going into that part of the world,” Ryan mused sarcastically.

“Yeah, well, we may not be if this thing up in Washington gets any more heated up than it already is.”

“What thing?”

“Shit, man, you
have
been out of circulation. You must have had your head up your fourth point of contract and your ears plugged while you’ve been gone. Haven’t you heard about all the murders taking place throughout the country?”

“Murders? No. What murders?”

“It’s been all over the news. Scores of left-wing assholes being bumped off, blown up, and blown away by what appears to be a group of assassins. Reports are circulating around that the hits may have been ordered from the White House.”

“No kidding?”

“No, I’m not kidding. They’re already calling it ‘Murdergate’ and there’s talk of a Justice Department probe.”

“Sounds bad.”

“Yeah, and if the president or any of his people are involved, there’s a good chance we’ll be getting a new commander in chief sooner than expected, which may
disrupt our deployment and any others that are being planned.”

“I’d hate to see our deployment postponed. On the other hand, if that happens as a result of that fraud in the Oval Office having his communist ass kicked off the throne, it might be a small price to pay,” Ryan said.

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Not to change the subject, Jerome, but I think I’ll head over to the team room and clean up. What say you we go into Clarksville tonight and have a few horns?”

“Yeah, sure. That sounds like a good idea.”

“Good. I’ll swing by and pick you up around 1800 hours.”

R
yan left Segelke and walked across the company area to the shack that served as the team room. Finding that he had the room to himself, he went to his locker and took a large framed photograph from the shelf.

Tears filled his eyes as he gazed at the burly uniformed cop holding a small redheaded boy. The picture had been taken on Ryan’s fourth birthday. His grandpa had just come home from work with a cap gun and badge that he’d picked up for Ryan at the toy store.

After dusting off the photo, he placed it on the bench and reached back into his locker to retrieve a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a glass.

Pouring himself a double shot, he picked up the photo, looked at the smiling face of his grandpa and, as he raised his glass in salute, exclaimed, “You may now rest in the gold of peace, Grandpa, for I have avenged you with the iron of war.”

Ryan downed the drink and was satisfied with the knowledge that the delayed justice delivered on behalf of his beloved grandpa, Mortimer Dermott O’Hara, had finally been achieved.