Laycob’s suave delivery had a slight caustic edge to it, prompting Doug Gilbert to alertly intercede. “Lieutenant Colonel Laycob is a most welcome guest, and I emphasize the welcome. His distinguished career with the Royal Marines Special Boat Service makes him one of our own, and I’ll be the first one to say that it’s a sincere honor to get this chance to work together.”
This unusual emotional outburst on Gilbert’s part was met with a hearty round of applause. Throughout it all, Lawrence Laycob hid his embarrassment with a smile, and he bowed at the waist in appreciation of this unexpected welcome.
“Here, here,” he humbly replied, as the applause faded. “I didn’t mean to insult you with the first words out of my mouth, and I must confess that I understand your predicament. We in SBS know what it means to operate independently. That lone-wolf mentality that you speak of is a vital part of our doctrine. It’s what helps make us an effective fighting force.
“As Captain Kram so wisely mentioned, new international realities have led to an unprecedented era of joint military operations. The mere fact of the Polk’s existence is proof of this. Though I can’t speak for the Russian or French submarines, I can personally attest to the HMS Talent’s long record of excellence. Comdr. Mark Eastbrook and his crack gang of pirates are superbly trained submariners, who have gotten me and my lads out of harm’s way on a number of occasions. I’m certain that you’ll find them a most cooperative, competent group to work with.
“As for the reason behind my presence amongst you, I must admit that as far as I can tell, our navies put their heads together and decided that my services could act as an additional asset for SEAL Team Two. This is especially the case, since one of my previous SBS units was formed with the express purpose of providing security backup aboard the Queen Elizabeth 2.”
“The lieutenant colonel was one of two SBS commandoes who parachuted onto the QE2 in the mid-Atlantic, during a terrorist bomb threat in the early seventies,” Gilbert added. “He knows the ship from stem to stern, and will be an invaluable asset should we be called upon to render assistance.”
“As a side note said Laycob. “The other chap who accompanied me on that mission is currently serving as the QE2’s security director.
Robert Hartwell is a hero in his own right, who won numerous citations for bravery during the Falklands conflict. Whenever things get cheeky, old Harry’s the one you want on your side.
“Also, I brought along a new virtual-reality program of the QE2’s interior spaces. All of you are welcome to have a look and see what the Grand Lady looks like on the inside.
“So again, it’s indeed a pleasure to be sailing with you, even though I have to admit that there’s one naval tradition that you Yanks really should follow up on. How in the world can you even think about putting to sea without a proper pub on board? Why, it’s positively uncivilized!”
11
By the time Thomas Kellogg reached BATF headquarters the next morning, the return of summer — which in D. C. meant high humidity and an oppressive, sauna like heat — left him in no mood to deal with the mound of paperwork and phone-message sheets that had piled up as he spent a single day in the field. So it was with mixed feelings that he found the petite figure of Ruth Ann Miller, anxiously waiting for him in the lobby. Ruth Ann was the director’s personal secretary, and had been working for Lawrence McShane throughout his long career with the Treasury Department. Well into her sixties, but mentally sharp as a tack, Ruth Ann was pacing to and fro, with an uncharacteristic troubled look etched on her wrinkled face.
“Oh, Thomas, thank goodness you’re finally here. He’s been asking for you all morning.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It was really quite frightening. The envelope was all part of the morning mail shipment. As usual, after it cleared security, I was the first to open it.”
“I hope you didn’t discover another IED,” interrupted Thomas.
“It was nothing like that. Just a horrible, threatening letter, one of the most repugnant things I’ve ever read.”
As she paused to catch her breath, Thomas decided it was time to see firsthand what had disturbed her so. He excused himself with a comforting hug, and took off for the director’s office.
He found three of his associates gathered in the reception area, where Ruth Ann had her desk. They were in the process of carefully placing a United States Postal Service Express Mail envelope into a clear-plastic evidence bag. Two similar pouches had already been sealed and Thomas waited until his gloved colleagues completed their delicate task before greeting them.
“Morning. What’s this all about?”
Before anyone could answer him, Lawrence McShane emerged from his inner office. “We’ve got the bastard now, Thomas! Did you see it?”
Thomas reserved his response until he began his examination of the contents of the first of the evidence bags. Without unsealing it, he held the clear-plastic pouch before the light. A single 8-by-11-inch piece of white paper lay inside, with the entire front page of the previous day’s New York Times duplicated on its surface. The reduced headline read: 0–7 to set sail stormy economic seas ahead?
Lawrence McShane used the scarred bit of his unlit briar pipe to point to the thin, dark blue cardboard envelope that lay sealed in one of the other bags. The characteristic white-feathered head of a bald eagle graced one of its sides, with the mailing label mounted on the other.
There could be no missing the familiar, cramped printing of the person responsible for sending this piece of mail, nor the fictitious Winchester, Virginia, post office box. Yet this time, the addressee wasn’t the President of the United States or a member of his family, but Director McShane.
“Well,” muttered Thomas. “And there was no hint of an IED inside?”
McShane shook his head no, adding, “The only thing explosive is the letter. But before you read it, check out the top portion of the mailing label.
“As you can see, the envelope was processed at the Winchester postal facility last evening at 4:57. The stamp appears to have originated from that same post office, which means whoever sold it actually saw our suspect or his proxy.”
Thomas tried his best to make out the acceptance clerk’s initials, his best guess being TWL. Their suspect unfortunately hadn’t signed the waiver-of-signature clause, though getting an actual eyewitness to describe this customer would give them just the break they had been waiting for.
“We’ve got to get Mike Galloway over here,” urged Thomas.
“He’s on his way,” McShane said while taking the envelope from Thomas and handing him the remaining evidence. “Inside this last pouch is the clincher,” he added.
Thomas curiously examined the plastic pouch that held another lone 8-by-11 1-inch sheet of white paper. It appeared to have originated from the same computer printer that reproduced the front page of the Times, though this was as far as the similarities went. A basic word-processing program had been used to print the following:
1. Be it known that from this day onwards, the Sons of the Patriots hereby declare war on the sham organization currently doing business as the government of the United States of America. We recognize this entity for what it truly is, an illegal, immoral body, that has taken advantage of its citizens and broken the trust handed down by the original founding fathers.
2. The opening shots of this war have already been sounded, with our battle cry being; REMEMBER RUBY RIDGE. WACO, AND OKLAHOMA CITY!!!
3. In the second stage of our initial offensive, a sign of our might has already been sent to that BEAST of BEASTS occupying our White House.