“I’m sorry. I’m trying to make a plane. May we…”
Without responding, the officer stepped back again, keeping the license and registration. He returned to his squad car and sat inside.
“What’s he doing?”
“They do this sort of thing. It’s all normal.”
No it’s not, Gonzales thought. No it’s not.
“Step out of the car and put your hands on the roof!”
The State Trooper’s order, amplified through a PA came so suddenly and with such intent, that Gonzales’s chest tightened in the time it took for the policeman to complete his sentence. Gonzales reached inside his jacket pocket for his inhaler. After fumbling for a few seconds he found his medication. He took a fast puff and struggled to say, “Don’t!”
Alley looked in the rearview mirror. The policeman was crouched behind his open car door. He had a microphone in one hand and a shotgun aimed at the back of the car.
“Out, now!” the trooper demanded.
Gonzales responded to the second demand by looking around. The action brought him right into view of the video camera mounted on the dashboard.
“What should I do?” the driver asked.
Gonzales’s chest ached. To get this far. How did they know? I can’t… He figured that by now, other officers were on the way; maybe even with a helicopter. “Back up! Smash him fast! Then go!”
“He’s got a gun!”
“Do it!”
Alley started the car and jammed it into reverse. His foot slammed on the gas pedal. The twenty-five feet that separated the two vehicles immediately disappeared. Before the officer could get off a proper shot, the impact knocked him down. His shotgun discharged in the air and the door broke his arm.
“Go, go! Now!” Gonzales cried out. He filled his lungs with another puff from his inhaler. The acceleration pressed him into the back of his seat and then tossed him to the right as Alley swerved onto the road. He swore in Arabic at the cop, at the traffic, and under his breath, at everyone in America.
“That field! There!” Gonzales pointed about a quarter-mile down the road. “Pull over, I’m going to jump out. Then you keep going.”
“To where?”
“Anywhere. Jamaica.” Gonzales made that up. “I’ll find you. And destroy the computer! You must destroy the computer.” It was in the trunk.
Gonzales whipped around to see if they were being followed. Not yet. He tapped Alley. “Now! Get over!” The driver steered to the side, applied the brakes and came to a quick stop.
“Jamaica?”
“Yes, Jamaica!” Gonzales shouted as he put his hand on the door. “In ten days.” With that he was gone. He ran down an embankment and hid, waiting for Alley to peel out again. When he was certain that his man was a good distance down the Kennedy, and the sirens were well past him, he walked toward an opening in a fence and the world that lay beyond.
Chapter 77
The VC-25, the twin of the downed Air Force One, landed at Andrews Air Force Base without fanfare. The SAM 29000 rolled up to the gangway, and was met by a contingent of Secret Service officers, a marine detail, General Jackson, and one other.
Only one man had seen Taylor as he looked now — Scott Roarke. That was years ago in Iraq.
Taylor held his side and walked slowly. He escaped with three broken ribs, a severely scarred cheek, black eyes, and a gash across his forehead. He’d soon recover from the injuries, but the experience had changed him. He was hardened and eager to help Henry Lamden get on with the business of destroying terrorist camps and weapons supplies.
General Jackson was the first to greet him. “Mr. Vice President, you’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“General, I’m just happy to be alive.” He shook J3′s hand, then hugged him, carefully. “Thank you for getting those boys in there.”
“Sony we called it so close. I think it was the time difference.”
Taylor tried to laugh, but it hurt too much. He saw Roarke standing off to the side.
“Get on over here. I’m sure as hell not coming to you!”
Roarke did as ordered. “I see you’re no worse for the wear. But don’t you think this rescue-behind-enemy-lines-thing is becoming a little old?” Roarke offered lightly.
“No thanks to you.”
“Hey, I had my hands full.”
“So I heard. Nice work.”
“Thank you.”
“Now let’s get going. There’s a hot bath with my name on it wherever the hell I’m sleeping tonight.”
Everyone laughed. Taylor was due to move back into Number One Observatory Circle, the vice president’s residence.
Taylor was escorted to one of the twenty-three new AgustaWestland EH 101 helicopters operated under the Marine One squadron. Like its fixed-wing counterparts in the Air Force, an EH 101 in the fleet assumes a special call sign whenever the president is aboard — Marine One. Today it flew as Marine Two, reflecting the vice president’s position in the political food chain.
As soon as they were airborne, J3 handed Morgan Taylor a sealed file. “It didn’t take much. The president talked to Prime Minister Foss. It’s done.”
Taylor broke the seal and scanned the first page of the secret report. There was Lamden’s name, signed in ink, along with fax signatures by Foss and the leaders of six other Asian nations. The report identified hard targets that the United States was authorized to attack under the terms of “The Southeast Asia and Pacific Anti-Terrorist Act.” The first was the Liberian tanker heading toward Sydney. SAPATA, quickly passed by overwhelming Senate approval, was going active.
Millions of listeners were waiting to hear what Elliott Strong had to say today. Bridgeman had been chased out of the headlines by his nemeses, Lamden and Taylor. How would their bombastic talk-show host respond?
“Good afternoon. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, or with your head in the sand, you’ve probably noticed something very important about the political climate in America…about the leadership issues…about the construction of the government.” He waited for his audience to fill in the blanks, then Strong responded in a booming voice. “Nothing’s changed!”
True to form, Strong ignored what he couldn’t overcome. Instead of even acknowledging the breaking news he redefined the debate. “I’m happy for Mrs. Taylor. I’m glad to see our military demonstrate its might. But members of our Strong Nation, we’re right back with the mess we had before. Worse. We saw yet another example of the arrogance of this administration. They prevented a true man of the people, a man willing to break from the system from taking power — if only for a short time. They stopped Speaker of the House Duke Patrick. And why? They were afraid of him: afraid because he was willing to recognize that General Bridgeman deserves to be the leader of the Free World.”
Elliott Strong smiled into his mirror. He was proud of how he twisted the argument in his favor. Now, with the issue settled for his listeners, it was time to move on.
“So, let’s look at the real news.”
He didn’t know the half of it.
A showered and refreshed Morgan Taylor walked into the Oval Office. He wore khakis, a light blue shirt, and a blue double-breasted jacket without a tie. This was informal for him.
Louise cleared him through, which was, in itself, somewhat awkward. Morgan Taylor thought about what he was going to say. The vice presidency wasn’t for him. A good president needed a good vice president: not somebody who didn’t want to be there. Lamden deserved his own man, from his own party.