Cobra Clearance (3 page)

Amahl pushed the thoughts aside and evaluated his plan. He would remain here for three days. Leaving sooner would draw attention. Next, he would travel by car to Mexico City and let the multitudes swallow him up. Then he would return home by a circuitous route and begin the next phase. What would follow, God willing, would make what he had accomplished seem like the doings of foolish children. It was simple. First cut off the head, then butcher the body. And he had a plan in mind.

H
eath Baker knew about Amahl and briefly wondered where he was. Then he dropped it. He had a meeting to attend, and afterward he would go to Fannex. His team was already en route, but they would wait for him.

Baker wore multiple layers of flannels, wools and twills permeated with tobacco smoke. He peered at a dismal sky and tapped the spent contents of his favorite pipe—a GBD Tapestry made by the venerable but now defunct British company—into a container at the Treasury Building side entrance. A Secret Service agent standing inside the door led Baker through a short hallway and down a set of steps to the basement, where they encountered a locked steel door guarded by two Secret Service Uniformed Division officers. The officers passed them through and Baker found himself inside a familiar ten foot wide, seven foot tall tunnel. After a brief walk they stepped inside a subbasement beneath the East Wing of the White House. The mansion was closed to tourists while the body of President Melchior lay in state beneath the Capitol Rotunda, so they proceeded through public areas overflowing with staffers. Two minutes later he stood outside the closed door of the Oval Office.

A large man, Baker had a ruined potato sack of a face where every one of his sixty-two years had settled. He had retired from the Army as a colonel soon after his fourth tour in Viet Nam, where time after time he ventured into the mountains to recruit Montagnards
in the fight against the Viet Cong. Baker's exploits remained the stuff of legend within the Green Beret four decades later.

He returned to the United States with a Silver Star, a Bronze Star with a V-device for valor, and a Purple Heart with two oak leaf clusters. The medals were colorful but they didn't provide food for his family, so he studied law at Harvard and built a thriving practice in Bethesda, Maryland. But he yearned for the old days, and when additional assets were required in the wake of 9/11, Baker created Vanguard International as a side venture. He organized a dozen eight-person teams similar to Special Forces alpha teams. They often deployed for weeks or even months at a time, then returned to their homes and families across the United States until summoned for another mission.

At first the teams performed surveillance, personal protection, and a variety of other tasks for private clients, but the Iraq and Afghanistan efforts now provided the principal contracts. Although some of Baker's competitors attracted media scrutiny, his outfit remained off the grid. He drafted Joe Tucker from Seal Team Four and put him in charge of Dragon Team. Tucker in turn had recruited Levi Hart as his assistant team leader, after Levi saved his hide outside Baghdad's Green Zone one night.

A moment later the agent ushered Baker into the Oval Office. The off-white room had a new navy blue rug and President Mark Cohen sat at his desk. The clouds parted as if on cue, so that a soft yellow light shone through the large window behind him. He stood and marched forward with outstretched hand. “Heath! How are you, my friend?”

Baker thought the tall, lean man in the dark suit hadn't been this clear-eyed and vital since the death of his son. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

Cohen allowed himself a little smile as they shook hands. “You were my mentor in 'Nam and you saved my bacon on any number
of occasions. We won't stand on ceremony.” He tightened his grip on Baker's hand, then turned grim. “I'm here by succession, not choice.”

“I thought as much, Mr. President. But…”

“But you'll tell me I can handle it?” He released Baker's hand and switched gears. “My schedule's tight so here we go. Our constitutional republic as it currently exists is in dire straits. Economically, socially, militarily. Our troops are barely home from Iraq, and I'm not about to start a new war to go after an assassin. It could only end in disaster.” Cohen held his arms akimbo, his old cue that he wanted feedback.

Baker made a fist. “Failing to deal with the assassins would be a greater disaster. We must hit them in a manner that will deter others.”

“That's why I signed off on your mission, and now that you work for me believe this—I've got your back.” He held a palm against his heart. “I'll brook no criticism of any actions you might be forced to take—the buck truly stops with me.” He worried the end of his nose. “Some of what your people will be asked to do could be distasteful, even repugnant. To that end, I ask that you remember your mission.” He made eye contact with Baker.

“Thank you for your confidence in us.”

The muscles in the president's face relaxed. “We have only a few moments. I also asked you here to thank you once more for all you've done in the past, but most of all for your friendship.” He frowned. “It's a terrible world we live in if we choose to see it that way. But I know you. You see problems as I do—as challenges to be resolved. With humanity if possible, but…” He paused. “Sadly, some resolutions require great peril. If it were up to me I'd send a personal communiqué to the brutes that killed Melchior, and confront them with my old Garand. I wish I could.”

“I know you would, Mr. President.” As the two friends shook hands Baker said, “Your son would be so proud of you.” Then he left for Fannex.

TUCKER TOOK THE EXIT FOR BWI
and drove past a string of motels, fast food joints, and office buildings before he found the industrial park. He braked to a stop at Nursery Road and Elkridge Landing, where a vintage M-51 75mm Skysweeper AA gun and a 50's-era radar unit sat in front of a red brick building. A plaque identified the building as an electronic warfare museum, but locals commented that there never seemed to be any tourists. A sign straight ahead read
FANX
, and the low dun-colored buildings beyond it were surrounded by a high chain link fence topped with razor wire. Tucker drove toward a barrier-protected vehicle entrance manned by armed DoD police. After he and Levi identified themselves, the officers passed them through. He parked in front of the largest building and they stepped inside into an anteroom, where a guard had them place their palms on a biometric reader. Once they were approved, he issued “Fully-Cleared Contractor” badges. Each badge posted its bearer's photo in the center of a green field that signified unfettered access to the facility.

They went through a security door, then walked down a colorless hallway lined with posters warning workers not to discuss work beyond the top secret environs. They passed a cafeteria where an electronic message board warned, “
Don't Spill the Beans. No Classified Talk!
” Two men leaving the eatery wore the blue badges of permanent staff, and they overtly examined Levi and Tucker as if to memorize the new faces.

Finally, they arrived at a door with the number “
3
” on it. A nearby poster bore a tree and a hangman's noose with the caption, “
For Repeated Security Violations
.” Tucker scoffed and opened the door to a conference room. It was richly appointed—dark wood paneling, high-back leather chairs at an elliptical table, and coffee in a steaming service tucked against a far wall. Four men and a woman sat waiting.

One of the men shot up from his chair and went to Levi. Michael Bailey was long, lean and lanky, with thick blond hair and an unlined face. He said, “Hey, little brother. About time you showed.” He gripped Levi's outstretched hand.

Levi smiled. “Good to see you, Michael. How're Nadia and the boys?”

“Nadia sends her love, and the boys sure do miss you. Levi's doing great in school. Nicholas? Still a sports nut.” He clasped Levi's shoulders. “You look better every time I see you. Been what, almost three years since…”

“Since then.” Levi's face turned somber. “I'd rather not…you know.”

Michael blinked and said, “Sure.”

Levi nudged Michael's ribs with his elbow, then greeted his other teammates. Offering a smile to Monica Mastronardi, he embraced her and kissed her cheek. She had been a Hollywood F/X expert and was a lovely, skillfully sculpted, richly evocative woman of thirty—and Levi hoped never to be on the receiving end of her power punches. After releasing her, he shook hands with William “Wild Bill” Dentz, Albert “Tom” Sawyer and Quenton “Hacksaw” Jones. Angela, the eighth Dragon, had recently accepted a Senate staff position and her slot remained unfilled.

Bill Dentz was a large man. His black hair was flecked with gray and he wore a luxurious mustache. Levi thought he resembled the actor Sam Elliott in appearance as well as attitude. He had been Tucker's boss on SEAL Team Four until he retired, and he now served as Dragon Team's training officer.

The tall, solid forty-six-year-old Tom Sawyer hailed from the Bahamian island of Andros. He had emigrated to the U.S. when he was eighteen, got hired by Metro-Dade police, and retired as a detective with a fearsome reputation earned by working Miami's meanest streets. He still spoke with a pronounced accent, and was
doing his last two years on the Joint Terrorism Task Force when he came to Levi's attention.

Hacksaw Jones was a tiny man of Congolese descent, and retired from the NCIS after twenty years as a top investigator. His father had been a locksmith and Hack learned the trade, hence the nickname. He spoke in the relaxed rhythms of the Virginia Tidewater region, cadences that belied his master's in English lit and his fluency in Farsi, and only one member of Dragon Team could outshoot him—Levi Hart.

Levi waited while Tucker put down his briefcase and sat at the head of the table, then sat next to him as the others took their places, leaving the chair at the far end empty. He watched Tucker unlock his briefcase and retrieve a royal blue folder with a gold-embossed Vanguard International logo. Tucker dropped it to the table just as a door behind Levi opened. When Levi smelled vestiges of vanilla pipe tobacco, he knew without turning that Heath Baker had entered the room.

Baker handed Tucker a folder and pointed to the red and white document cover: TOP SECRET—THIS IS A COVER SHEET FOR CLASSIFIED INFORMATION. Then he went to the empty chair, and after settling into it said in a deep voice, “Thank you for making it here on such short notice. Your anonymity is paramount and the NSA has been kind enough to provide this facility.” He flicked his eyes at Dragon Team's TL.

Tucker checked off an item in his blue folder. “We'll conduct some house-keeping procedures first.” He pressed a recessed button on the desk. The lights dimmed. A forty-eight inch flat screen on the wall behind him flickered to life. The image of a nameless official seated behind a steel desk began to speak, delivering the mandatory security lecture. It was clear and concise and designed to reinforce the gravity of the situation: violating the terms of a Sensitive Compartmented Information clearance posed a possible
death sentence. Tucker pressed the button again and the image vanished.

He cleared his throat. “Okay. We're going top secret. Maintain OPSEC from here on.” He waited until everyone verbally acknowledged his call for operational security. “Everyone here holds a Cobra. Each of you has a need-to-know. Now listen up. I'm going to ‘read you into' our assignment.” He opened the red folder, skipped past the abstracts to the analysis and began reading aloud:

“The assassination of President Melchior has precipitated a manpower crisis. Military and law enforcement capabilities throughout the United States were already stretched to maximum sustainable limits prior to this attack, as they addressed a need for increased police presence at major bridges, subways, trains, and other vital elements of our infrastructure. This was instituted last year based upon quality intelligence from a variety of domestic and foreign sources, that an attack by al Qaeda was imminent.”

He turned a page. “Other resources have also been overwhelmed. The 2009 recession did not end as anticipated, and worsened in 2013 with the collapse of Greece's economy. That signaled the vanguard of further economic uncertainty, and as expected, it created a domino effect as one European country after another entered a technical state of depression.

“Renewed fighting in Afghanistan, coupled with a threat of nuclear blackmail by Iran against the U.S. and its allies, has sapped both our military and our economy. In addition, an explosive rise in violent hate crimes has strained law enforcement agencies throughout the nation, and simultaneous demands upon Federal agencies to provide protection for two upcoming National Special Security Events…”

“Not to mention the most recent NSE—the president's funeral.” Baker coughed and said to Tucker, “Sorry.”

Tucker nodded. “…two upcoming National Security Events and threats posed by growing numbers of domestic terror groups
have pushed Federal agents to exhaustion. The NSA's assets are besieged by war, continual surveillance of al Qaeda, and countermeasures aimed at the latest spate of web attacks against Wall Street.” He turned another page. “Furthermore, China's renewed bid to call in its substantial loans to the United States threatens a virtual and irretrievable collapse of our economy.”

Baker grumbled from deep in his chair, “Especially after the Nikkei and Hang Seng took that nose dive last week. Although media pundits have been hinting of late that we're in danger of economic collapse, they've yet to plumb the true depths of our situation. If the public realized just how little it would take to destabilize this republic as we know it…” He jabbed a finger at them. “Absolute secrecy of our dire straits is essential, lest a panic should ensue.”