Secession: The Storm Read online

  “Son,” the former president began, his smile and slow drawl managing to keep the term on the politically correct edge of derogatory, “the average American feels sorry for Heidi – right now. The man in the street doesn’t like anyone being shot at… or injured. Polls will indicate outrage over those who lost their lives. But that doesn’t mean they’ll vote with that emotion. A lot of people are going to wonder about Heidi’s mental state, her capability to lead, and how she’s going to handle the entire affair emotionally. Trust me here – this attempt on my wife’s life will ultimately result in doubt, and that’s not a positive thing so close to the election.”

  Aaron was taken aback by the words, Mr. Clifton’s pronouncement going against what his heart alleged and the polls confirmed. On the other hand, Jefferson Clifton was regarded as one of the most astute political minds of the last century. His ability to perceive the electorate’s mood was legendary, his skill at maneuvering through minefields almost mystical. Anyone on the national stage would be foolish to ignore the man’s sage counsel.

  “What would you recommend, Jeff?” Heidi asked from her bed.

  “I would get up from that horizontal position and in front of the cameras as soon as I could walk. I would bring in the best makeup artist I could find and let them paint me up like an Indian brave going into battle. And here’s what I would say…”

  When he had finished, Aaron understood why Jeff Clifton was so highly regarded. His recommendation was straightforward, direct, and extremely poignant.

  “Let me get some people working on this,” the smiling campaign manager stated, pulling out his cell. “It’s brilliant… absolutely brilliant.”

  The FBI, Secret Service, and FAA pulled out all the stops. Within hours, a lab technician was entering forensic data into a computer simulation, creating a 3-dimensional model of the attack on the chartered aircraft.

  The plane’s speed was known from the flight data recorders, as was the exact position on the runway. These parameters, combined with the entry angle of the first bullet, allowed the authorities to determine the shooter’s vector to within a few points on the compass.

  But there were still missing pieces to the puzzle.

  “The digital model shows a downward trajectory of over 20 degrees,” noted one of the FBI specialists. “Either our shooter was a couple of hundred feet in the air, or that bullet was dropping off a cliff.”

  “Maybe he was firing from an extreme distance,” commented another analyst. “Any conventional bullet drops at a significant pace as the energy bleeds off.”

  “That is impossible. That aircraft was moving at over 160 mph and accelerating. There’s not a sniper in the world that could hit a target moving that fast from long range.”

  One of the techs moved to a nearby computer and started pecking on the keyboard. A series of graphs and tables filled the screen. “I’ve accessed the ballistic performance database for all of the standard 30-caliber cartridges. Let’s start running them against the model and see if we can find a match.”

  There were dozens of cartridges that fired a bullet .30 inches wide. Some were household names, such as the 30-06, while others were more exotic, such as the .300 Winchester Magnum.

  One by one, the computer eliminated the options, some attribute of the round’s performance making it unsuitable or extremely unlikely to have been used against the aircraft.

  After an hour of number crunching, one potential match had been identified, but even that result was rejected by the FBI’s experts.

  “There’s no way. None of this data makes any sense. It would take a radar guided, anti-aircraft gun to hit that plane from a mile away. We’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  From the edge of the huddled onlookers, a new voice sounded. “I know a rifle that can make that shot. We’ve been evaluating a couple of them for our hostage rescue teams. It’s called a Trackerpoint, and it’s made by a company in Austin.”

  Again, fingers flew across the keyboard, the monitor quickly displaying an image of a computer-controlled, extreme-range rifle for the gathered techs. During the next 10 minutes, several sets of eager eyes studied the weapon’s characteristics and performance.

  Mumbling, “Holy shit,” the lab’s manager picked up a nearby phone.

  “Get me Judge Mason, please. I need a search warrant.”

  The senior officer at the Austin office of the ATF didn’t need to read the address of Trackerpoint’s headquarters. He was well aware of the small company’s developments, having watched their achievements with mixed emotions.

  On one hand, from a “gun guy’s” perspective, their technology was amazing. He could see incredible advantages for law enforcement and the military.

  As a federal agent charged with enforcing the law of the land, the weapon’s capabilities scared the hell out of him.

  Now, given the headlines and the warrant he held in his hand, there was no doubt that his fears were justified.

  The company’s staff didn’t want to hand over a list of its customers. Even when presented with a federal judge’s signature, the CEO had pressed to call his corporate attorney before revealing a single name.

  “We can do this two ways,” responded the lead AFT agent. “I can walk out of here with every computer, hard drive, file drawer, and box… or… you can hand over that list, and I’ll be on my way. Your call.”

  The thought of having his business ransacked, combined with the potential of a hostile relationship with the ATF, convinced the executive to hand over the customer list. There were 741 names on the printout, many of the disclosed buyers representing government and military agencies. Less than 400 individual civilians had coughed up the money for a rifle costing in excess of $20,000.

  The list of potential assassins was further narrowed by the caliber of weapon purchased. Only four of the newer, modified .338 caliber had been ordered.

  One customer was an 88-year-old millionaire and collecting enthusiast. Another was a civilian contractor charged with evaluating technology for the Special Forces at Fort Bragg. That left two likely candidates.

  When the Houston area address of one Mr. Abraham Hendricks appeared on the computer monitor, all of the agents in the room knew they had their man, but proximity wasn’t enough.

  “I want a complete database search on this individual,” ordered a supervisor.

  The digital report began scrolling in 15 minutes, a multi-screen display profiling every aspect of Abe’s life. When the gathered agents spied the results of the IRS tax audit, motive was established.

  Everything from tax returns to cell phone activity appeared, including the make and model of the late year vehicles registered to the suspect.

  Only five minutes passed before the FBI was on the phone with the company that provided the GPS-controlled, roadside assistance technology that came standard on every one of the automobile manufacturer’s models. Practically all modern cars and trucks were equipped with these features.

  It was a little known fact that these newer vehicles constantly broadcasted their locations, the data normally used to provide convenience services, such as navigation, collision detection, and anti-theft protection. Some units could even have their engines remotely disabled in the event the vehicle was stolen. Abe’s truck was equipped with such technology.

  A stream of data was soon being transmitted to the federal agency, a historical record of everywhere Abe had driven on the day Heidi’s plane had been attacked. The destination and timing of his presence so close to the Houston airport was damning.

  One last bit of information sealed Abe’s fate. His smart phone also squawked its location on a regular basis. For this evidence, the FBI didn’t have to contact the carrier or obtain a warrant - the NSA maintained a complete history.

  A small army of agents was soon on the move, heading with a purpose toward a suburb in Northwest Houston.

  The staff and administration at Bethesda were accustomed to the fact that their patients often required extreme sec
urity measures and large contingents of bodyguards. So common was the requirement, the hospital’s heavily restricted VIP floor was equipped with special lounges set aside for non-medical personnel.

  During Heidi’s stay, Aaron soon discovered that the Secret Service had somehow managed access to a supply of the world-renowned White House coffee. A fresh pot was always on a burner right down the hall from his boss’s room.

  Ignoring the harsh looks expressing the agents’ disdain for his intrusion into their semi-private domain, Mrs. Clifton’s campaign manager had taken to filling his cup with the excellent brew. Aaron was putting the final touches on his third cup of the day when he noticed the open laptop sitting on a nearby table. A quick glance at the nearby restroom’s closed door indicated the computer’s owner had evidently abandoned the machine to answer nature’s call.

  Throwing the plastic stir-straw into the trash can, Aaron made to return to Heidi’s side when the image on the laptop’s screen made him freeze mid-stride. There was a picture of a man… a man he knew from long ago.

  The Secret Service agent opened the door, drying his hands with a brown paper towel. He found Aaron fixated, gaping open-mouthed at his laptop.

  “Sir, that’s confidential information,” the agent began to scold. “I would appreciate it if you would…”

  “I think I know that man,” Aaron whispered, ignoring the agent’s protest.

  “You do? How?”

  Aaron recovered quickly, blinking away the shock. He turned to the agent and said, “You first. Why is the Secret Service interested in this person?”

  “This just popped up not five minutes ago. The investigation team in Houston flashed this profile to see if our protection detail had any experience or knowledge of this individual. I believe he is a suspect in the attempt on Mrs. Clifton’s life. If you know this guy… have any experience with him at all, I need to know about it. Right now.”

  Aaron knew damned well who Abe Hendricks was. In fact, he probably knew more than the FBI and the Secret Service combined. He also knew to keep his mouth shut.

  “I can’t be sure,” he feigned, now hesitating. “Are there any more pictures?”

  “No, at least not yet. Do you know him, sir?”

  Aaron pretended to study the photograph, furrowed his brow as if trying to concentrate. “I just can’t be positive. It seems like I’ve seen his face before.”

  “We should have additional information in short order. If this is the man who attacked the aircraft, he could’ve been stalking Mrs. Clifton for months. Perhaps you remember his face from a campaign event or fundraiser.”

  “Perhaps. Please keep me in the loop, and I’ll do the same. Maybe it will come back to me,” Aaron lied. “I would like nothing more than to see the man responsible for the deaths of my staff to face justice. That, and I’m sure we will all sleep a little better knowing an assassin isn’t roaming around free.” The agent nodded his agreement. Aaron pivoted and left the lounge, forcing himself to walk calmly back to Heidi’s room.

  Despite every fiber of his being screaming for him to rush from the medical complex in a panic, Aaron killed time. Heidi was off having some test performed, her unoccupied room providing a welcome sanctuary.

  While he’d never considered the Secret Service personnel as intellectual giants, they weren’t stupid either. A mad dash from the facility would be noticed, logged, and possibly analyzed at some future date. That was a series of events he simply couldn’t afford. The smart move was to stay put and act like everything was normal.

  Yet he had to do something.

  He used the forced period of inactivity to think, constantly reassuring himself that his mental firepower would eventually provide a solution. Pretending to be consumed by a report retrieved from his briefcase, Aaron flipped the unread pages, all the while considering his options. After plotting every conceivable alternative, he finally concluded there was only one viable course of action. The answer made his stomach heave.

  Finally, Heidi was wheeled back into her room. After being helped into her bed, she made eye contact with Aaron and immediately frowned.

  “You look like shit,” she announced.

  “Just a little tired,” he said, dismissing the observation. “You’ve got to admit, it’s been a hectic couple of days.”

  Mrs. Clifton didn’t buy it. “You look green around the gills, Aaron. Why don’t you go get a few hours rest before the big event this evening.” Aaron pretended to protest while secretly welcoming the opportunity to return to his apartment.

  He dreaded making this call… didn’t want the man who would answer to be involved in his life.

  After the short cab ride, the familiar surroundings of his private abode helped build his confidence. He trudged to the bedroom, digging a no-contract, unregistered cell phone from his underwear drawer.

  “Just when you thought you’d dodged a bullet,” he whispered to the flat, “just when you thought you were free and clear, this bomb explodes.”

  He flipped open the cheap phone, punching the numbers from memory despite having never used them before.

  Heidi Clifton’s political wizard, one of the most powerful men in Washington, had trouble pushing the “send” button. His finger, shaking with rage and fear, finally managed to strike the right key.

  “Yes,” answered a mildly annoyed voice.

  “It’s me. I’ve got a problem, and I’m not sure who else to call.”

  There was a complete change of tone from the other end. “Tell me about it. You know I’m always here to help if I can.”

  “There is a paper trail that I suddenly wish didn’t exist. I thought with your connections, it might disappear.”

  “Go on,” came the reply.

  Poot Terrebonne’s index finger slowly traced the outline of her naked hip, his hungry eyes assessing every aspect of the curve and angle constructed by the underlying bone and muscle.

  “Time’s a wasting, Poot,” she stated with an impatient voice. “I charge by the hour, ya know. Girl’s got to make a living.”

  “Shut up,” he snapped. “I’m flush with cash and intend to take my time. Been a while since I had a lanky one like you.”

  “How’d you fill your pockets so quick? I know you just got out of Huntsville last month. You got work already?”

  “Ain’t none of your business,” he replied coldly. “I did a job over in Houston, so you’ll get paid. Now just lay there and be pretty… and quiet. I hired you for those legs and what’s between ’em – not engaging conversation.”

  Rolling her eyes, the hooker smirked, “No need to be short with me.” She regretted the words immediately.

  Poot inhaled sharply, slapping her face with a lightning-fast strike. “Bitch!” he hissed, eyes wide with rage.

  Rubbing her stinging cheek, she instantly apologized. “I’m sorry, Poot. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just a saying.”

  Like so many vertically challenged men, Poot was well known for his uppity attitude and quick temper. The Cajun’s appetite for tall women was legendary as well, more than a few of the escort services in New Orleans familiar with his tastes and desires.

  Despite the arrogance and obvious compensation for his lack of stature, Poot had a fair reputation among New Orleans’s working girls. He didn’t get too rough, nothing too kinky, paid in cash, didn’t last long, and preferred his female companions to be lean and leggy.

  Her customer’s frustration was further elevated when his cell phone sounded from the nightstand. Already thrown off his game plan, Poot reached for the annoying device as if he was going to fling it against the wall.

  One glance at the caller ID changed his demeanor immediately.

  Holding a “be quiet” finger to his lips while nodding at his companion, Poot answered with a congenial tone. “Yeah.”

  His eyes lost focus as he listened in silence. A minute later, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, losing all interest in the woman beside him. “Yeah, I’m available
,” came his less than verbose reply.

  “Baton Rouge?” the prostitute heard him say.

  “Just the files? That’s all they want?” he uttered a few moments later.

  “I’ll need the money up front to pry them loose,” Poot continued. “Probably take five to ten large for a federal case. Meet me in the Quarter at the usual place… 20 minutes. I’ll head up to Baton Rouge first thing.”

  Poot punched the “end” button, staring blankly at the phone as he gathered his thoughts. He then stood abruptly, reaching for his trousers.

  He flipped three one-hundred dollar bills at the girl, growling, “Get dressed, and get out of here. Right now.”