Hunter Goforth
Sending Messages
Chapter 1
The Abduction
Montezuma’s Revenge was the wrong name for it, thought Alan Brennan as he sat in a lone toilet stall. It should be called total evacuation, he said to himself as his insides churned once again. Brennan kicked himself mentally for deciding to eat that salad the day before. Everyone had warned him about eating fresh vegetables in a foreign country but he loved salads and this one was just too much to resist. Now here he was at an international “Sister Cities” conference and unable to finish the final dinner.
Everyone had enjoyed the conference. It was a real chance to work together with other cities on diplomatic levels — something a mere mayor didn’t usually do. The nonprofit Sister Cities International helped broker cooperation between cities, counties and even states with like groups in other countries. As the mayor of Richmond, Virginia, he had already established partnerships with Krakow, Poland, and Nuku’alofa, Tonga. In both cases, the citizens and organizations of Richmond had embraced their “sister city,” and the cultural exchanges seemed to never end.
Brennan’s smile at the thought turned to a grimace as his insides gave one more heave. Now he was in the South American nation of Colombia trying to start another one. The four day event had been amazingly productive. The city of Cucuta had hosted the small conference of 15 mayors from the United States and Colombia and he had befriended the mayor of Maicao, a city near the border with Venezuela. Now he was looking forward to making that friendship a little more formal.
With his stomach finally settling for a moment, Brennan wiped the sweat from his face and cleaned himself up. Flushing the toilet he exited the stall and washed his hands while looking at his face in the mirror. Never again, he thought as he stared at the pale face with slightly bloodshot eyes. Giving a slightly audible sigh, Brennan turned and made his way back to the dinner.
Each of the American participants had received a special invitation just that morning to a dinner with Colombia’s Foreign Minister. No one could turn it down. The dinner was in a large private conference center and the food appeared to be out of this world. Everyone was impressed with the facility and the meal. Unfortunately he hadn’t taken one bite before he had to dash to the restroom.
As Brennan neared the restroom door he heard a shout from the other side. Curious, he eased the door open just enough to see a soldier, dressed in black, dragging one of the waiters across the floor and through another door. Oh shit, he thought as he eased the door back until only a sliver of it was open to see through. After a minute, one set of conference room doors flew open as two more soldiers carried another of the wait staff out of the room. Through the open doors he watched as other soldiers were picking up what appeared to be his unconscious colleagues and taking them out another door at the front of the dining room. The tables were now almost completely empty.
One of the men seemed to be directing the others. He stopped by the table where Brennan had been sitting and stared at the still full plate. Looking around, he suddenly shouted an order and pointed toward Brennan’s direction.
Brennan looked around in horror. They were going to check the bathrooms and he had nowhere to hide. Thinking quickly, he dashed back to a stall three quarters of the way down the line. Leaving the stall door ajar, he climbed up on the seat and squatted down. It wasn’t ten seconds later that he heard the bathroom door open and someone with rubber soled shoes begin moving across the tiled floor.
The young soldier saw a closet door and opened it quickly. The closet was full of supplies on some wooden shelves and a couple of mops. Closing the door, the soldier looked around the restroom. It was very quiet. All of the stall doors were open. Getting down on one knee he glanced under the stall walls and saw no feet or anything else which would indicate someone was there. Standing back up, the soldier moved to the first stall door and opened it with a bang. Then he moved to the second. He was about to go further when he stopped and looked around again. Turning on his heel, the soldier angrily made his way out the men’s room door and over to the women’s restroom.
There was another shout from the dining room and Brennan heard the young soldier quickly exit the women’s room and call out his report. Waiting almost five minutes, Brennan slowly eased off the toilet seat and made his way to the dining room. It was empty. The tables were bare as if nothing had happened. Hearing a truck start outside, he made his way to a window and glanced out. A dingy white panel truck was quickly making its way down the alley next to the building and out to the main street. There were vegetables painted along the sides and, by the roar of the engine, it was obvious that the truck needed a new muffler. The engine popped and growled loudly as the truck pulled away and sped down the street.
Looking around, Brennan made his way through the door at the front of the room where he had seen the others taken. It opened to a preparation room filled with stainless steel tables and stacks of dishes and glasses. Several of the dining room staff lay propped against the tables unconscious. The table linens and all the food contents were heaped in trash cans along the back of the room. There was no sign of any of the other mayors. In the kitchen next to the room, dirty pots and pans lay everywhere but the chefs were nowhere to be seen.
Searching desperately for a telephone, Brennan found they had been ripped from the walls and were useless. Disregarding his physical condition, he took off out the back door, making his way down the alley and headed toward the center of town at a dead run. If he was lucky, he would see a policeman.
President Steve O’Bannon sat back in his favorite recliner on the second floor of the White House and kicked the shoes off his feet. He was completing his first term in office and it appeared he would win the upcoming election by a landslide. The electioneering was still going on by the opposing party, hoping that something would happen which might topple the President from his office. Between the election and the job of running a country O’Bannon was turning in some long hours. Luckily, his friend and Chief of Staff, Jim Butler, had been able to take much of the load off. Ever since the night they had teamed up when the North Koreans had launched their attack three years before, the two had become the closest of friends and allies. They thought alike and didn’t mind tackling any problem. As a result, the White House had become an efficient team, allowing the President to concentrate on his job without getting bogged down in minutia. It also meant more time with the family and getting the rest he needed.
Sipping on his caffeine-free soda, he skimmed through some political briefs that his handlers wanted to make sure he was familiar with. These were mostly about the issues the other side was raising. It was almost boring. Ever since the war with North Korea things had seemed to slow down. The excitement just wasn’t the same each day. Sure, there were interesting things happening all the time, but nothing could compare with that experience.
Lowering the papers, he thought back on all that had happened. The attack had hurt, but thanks to Jim Butler and Roger Hammond they were able to get things together very quickly. Roger had become another good friend. More than that, he had been the one to help get the nation back on its feet and ready for war. As a reward for all he had done, O’Bannon and the Navy leadership had given Hammond command of a battleship. It was the best decision the Navy ever made. Hammond and his ship made history.
O’Bannon chuckled as he remembered the look on Hammond’s face when he saw him aboard USS Iowa, and again when he had presented him with the Medal of Honor. He was like a small boy getting a big gift. He never expected anything for himself, but was glad to get it. As a matter of fact, Hammond had always shied away from receiving praise. Most of the time, he was too busy turning the praise toward others. Now Hammond was the Commander, Naval Surface Forces, Pacific. Although he knew Hammond hated not going to sea on a ship, the President also knew he didn’t have to worry about his Navy on the West Coast. Hammond was a born leader.