“The hijacking was about this,” the older man said.
Everyone’s gaze turned to him.
“Politics. The election,” he explained. “Today was supposed to be a shock to wake up the American voter. It was to be a sudden and stark affirmation of President Hawkins’s military strengths.”
The passengers were speechless. Amy looked at the protestors on the street, then back at the man sitting in the passenger seat. The country wanted Hawkins out. Staunch supporters admitted that his election had been a mistake. He’d barely gotten his own party’s nomination for reelection, and even that had come with bitterness about his people’s strong arm techniques.
When it came to the internal affairs and the everyday life of Americans, nothing had been accomplished over the past four years. There was still a lack of decent health care for most of the country. Unemployment rates continued to climb. And many other important issues had been pushed aside while the president kept his focus on his bullying foreign policies. With the exception of a couple of countries who claimed to be U.S. allies, the rest of the world seemed to hate Americans.
It had been four painful years, but people seemed to be waking up. There’d been no doubt that Hawkins would be defeated by John Penn.
“Are you saying that the President of United States ordered this hijacking just to get reelected?” Amy asked.
“This is really nothing new.” Barnhardt told them. “Nervous voters stay the course.”
“Answer the question, Captain,” Sarah demanded. “Was the President of the United States involved in this?”
Barnhardt turned around and looked at her. “Yes.”
“Can you prove it?” Bruce asked.
Amy saw the black SUV that pulled to their right. “I think you should drive,” she urged McCann.
He pressed his foot on the gas.
“I left you a present. See what you can do with it,” Barnhardt said before the passenger window exploded, spattering McCann with the captain’s blood.
Chapter 66
“He’s dead,” Bruce announced after reaching over the seat to check for Barnhardt’s pulse.
Glancing at the body slumped over the center console, McCann had no doubt. Turning on the siren and lights, he gunned the ambulance along Church Street, swerving between cars. Checking the side view mirror, he could see the black SUV was right on his tail.
“Check his pockets. He must have something on him. What did he mean by leaving you a present?”
“Whether he was lying or telling the truth,” Sarah said from the back, “everything he told us is worthless without proof. There’s no way we can repeat any of this to Admiral Meisner without having him hand our heads back to us.”
“Can you trust this Admiral Meisner?” Amy asked.
Neither of the two working for the admiral answered the question.
Nearing the end of the city green, the SUV pulled beside them. Jerking the wheel of the ambulance to the right, McCann buffeted the car into the far right lane and then cranked the wheel to the left, his vehicle bouncing up onto the sidewalk in front of the courthouse before racing along the north side of the green.
Thankfully, most of the foot traffic for the demonstration was in the center of the green. The only things McCann hit were a couple of newspaper boxes, a sign or two, and a mailbox.
Bruce pulled a few things out of the dead man’s pockets. “Wallet, cell phone, pocket knife, house keys. Damn it! There’s nothing.”
McCann took another look in the side mirror. Two cars were chasing after them, now. Both unmarked SUVs. Very much government type, he thought. A police car followed them.
“We can’t get away from them in this thing,” McCann warned them. “And it’s only a matter of minutes before the hospital reports the ambulance stolen. Then, every police car in the state will be after us, too.”
“Remember what Barnhardt said about reporters and cameras?” Amy asked.
McCann spotted a Channel 8 News van in the center of the crowd.
“Police, reporters, cameras,” he repeated. “I wonder how they’re going to explain this chase to them.”
As McCann cranked the wheel again to the left, the ambulance jerked up onto the sidewalk. McCann floored it across the green with his siren blaring.
“What are you going to do?” Sarah asked.
“You two better call someone you trust. You’ve got one minute,” he ordered.
McCann steered around groups of pedestrians toward the parked news vans. Behind them, the black SUVs were making their way more cautiously across the green.
Church Street was ahead, and on the far side, the steps of the newly renovated City Hall were brightly lit.
“Hold on,” he told them as the ambulance crashed through the wrought iron fence bordering the green, tearing across the wide sidewalk.
McCann drove straight into traffic, narrowly missing two cars coming from the right before smashing into two police cars that sat in a line of squad cars at the curb.
Cops came running from everywhere, swarming around the ambulance in seconds.
Bruce turned on his cell phone and started to make a call.
Chapter 67
John Penn threw his reading glasses on the desk and ran a tired hand down his face. “I’m done, boys.”
“Five more minutes. Let me check out this last one,” McCarthy pleaded, taking a fax from Greg and perusing the page.
John knew it wouldn’t be five minutes. They were waiting for the results of the latest poll they were running, based on the unsubstantiated report that the plane crash in Branford Connecticut had Hartford hijackers on board.
This fax was from Oregon. Then they had to wait for Washington State. Then it’d be the big one, California. And it didn’t matter that they thought they had California wrapped up last week.
The inner circle of staff members — and John — had stayed up to make sure the phone surveys matched their expectations. If they didn’t, McCarthy wouldn’t stop whining until John would agree to some last minute television or radio interview.
So much for not campaigning today.
The phone rang. John looked at the display and recognized the number. It was the public line to his office. At this time on any other night, the answering machine would greet the caller. But tonight, one of the weary campaign aides answered the call.
John heard the young woman start her standard screening questions, but she quickly turned to him.
“It’s for you, Senator,” she told him, mouthing that it was important.
John considered letting either Moore or McCarthy handle the call. Whoever was on the phone couldn’t be a family member or a member of any of the Senate committees; they would have called on his private line. But he changed his mind and decided to take it.
“Senator Penn.” The voice was sharp, and John could hear sirens and shouting in the background.
“Speaking.”
“Sir, this is Commander Bruce Dunn, one of the two Naval Intelligence officers put in charge of the investigation of the Hartford hijacking this morning. My colleague and I report to Admiral Meisner.”
Penn knew Meisner and his job at the Pentagon. “What can I do for you, Commander?”
“Sir, we’re presently getting picked up by the New Haven, Connecticut, Police for questioning. In my company is the other investigator in charge of this case, Lieutenant Connelly, and the only two survivors from Hartford, Commander McCann and the Electric Boat ship superintendent, Amy Russell.”