Senate Cloakroom Cabal (32 page)

“Nothing, hell!” I heard Rufus say. “When that damn grenade went off and I went down, Johnny covered me with his body. Bullets were whizzing all over the damn place. Johnny got nicked. Then he picked up one of those small machine guns we'd been issued . . . shit, he blew that ass's head right off!” he said, roaring. “Clean as a whistle. That scum was one of only two who got all the way into the compound. Somebody else got the other one.”

I looked at Johnny. “You are a good friend, Johnny.”

He gave me a young boy's
aw-shucks
look and scuffed his foot in the dirt.

“Governor's sure glad to see Miss Roanne,” he said beaming.

“She is real glad to see him too. How are things going here?”

“We started a cleanup, but just around here.”

“Laura,” Ro called out.

She waved for me to join her. “See you later, Johnny.”

“Yes ma'am.”

Ro, Gavin, Frances, and Rufus were with a man in a dark blue, tight-fitting uniform.

Rufus introduced me to the military type. “Laura, meet Chief Driscoll.”

“Chief,” I responded.

Driscoll gave me a very slight nod. “We all together now? We're going down into the bunker,” he said bluntly.

What a grave person, I thought. We entered one of the several small buildings and went down a flight of concrete stairs. Driscoll pushed a button and a thick steel door swung open. We went in, and it closed. We were in a room that was roughly twenty by twenty-five feet.

He explained that we were under three feet of steel-reinforced concrete and six feet of earth. “You may have noticed the mound behind the building we just entered.”

“This is impressive,” Gavin said.

There were twenty-six video monitors on one wall. It looked very much like a military control center we might see in a war movie: a wall filled with monitors and a huge control panel. Johnny appeared on three different screens, views from different angles and distances. He was working alongside two Marines.

“Only two cameras got destroyed in the invasion,” Driscoll said proudly.

“Excuse me, Chief,” I interjected. “What do you rely on for stateside communications?”

“Satellite, ma'am. It's how we communicate with Mr. Rogers in New Jersey.”

“Is that traceable?” Crawford asked.

“It's scrambled.”

Ro asked, “What about talking to the hospital?”

“We have a handset in Mr. Rogers's room.” He punched in a number, but it didn't answer. He tried again with the same results. “Let me call the hospital line.”

It was answered.

“This is Driscoll on C-2; is Mr. Harley Rogers in the area?” He listened, uttered a couple of
unhuhs
, then “Right, will do.” He punched off. “The new medical team that came in with you all is operating on Sherman Rogers.”

“I didn't realize he was that serious,” Ro said.

Rufus took her arm. “Neither did we, sweetheart. Sherman's tough, like his father. He'll pull through.”

“You have done an outstanding job here, Chief,” Crawford said. “You were expecting a war and you got one.”

“Yes sir. Mr. Rogers told us we were here for the long haul and that someday somebody might pay us an uninvited visit.”

We went topside. Rufus, for all his bravado, had to take it easy. The Marines, Johnny, and some of Rogers's employees were busy with the cleanup. I guessed the forensic men must have given them the okay.

“Building materials and construction workers are coming tomorrow,” Rufus said.

Frances, Ro, and I wandered around the compound, talking to some of the Rogers people. They had experienced a harrowing night. We then walked along a packed-down roadway to the top of a slope that led down to a cove, where a white launch was tied up to a small pier.

“From what Dad told me, this is where they probably came in. Look,” Ro pointed, “over there. Gavin and the DOD men.”

“Looks like they're scavenging.”

“Gavin plans to spend the day with them. Hopefully . . .”

“Senator,” a male voice shouted. It was Mr. Shaw. “I'm making a run back to C-1 at 1130 hours. Anybody wanting to go, let me know. Also the President of Carmaya is holding a dinner tonight in honor of your and everyone else's visit.”

“A dress-up? I can't . . . didn't bring . . .”

“That's all right, Laura,” Ro said through a giggle, “just wear the best thing you brought.”

“Yes,” Frances Hartman said. “Casual is very acceptable.”

I hadn't brought a “best thing.” I'd figure it out later. “I'll be going back with you, Mr. Shaw.”

“As will I,” Frances said.

“I'll stay here with Dad.”

“The governor's invited, too, ma'am.”

“I'll see that he gets there.”

“That might not be so easy,” I teased.

Ro grinned. “I've got the Marines.”

We all laughed. A welcome relief in our tension-filled day.

76

F
rances had her own car and driver, so she dropped me off at the hospital. I went straightaway to find Harley, who was in the ICU.

“Ah, Laura, things are looking up. Sherman is responding fairly well. We'll know better in a couple of days.”

It was lunchtime, and I gently convinced him to join me in the cafeteria. I chose a salad, a bowl of fruit, and iced tea. Harley ordered only iced tea. I told him about Senators Kelly and Pembroke, Stanley Horowitz, and the circumstances surrounding the death of Mort Stroble.

“All of this activity came about because Roanne Dalton got you interested in Tutoxtamen and the FDA's
not approvable
of my miracle drug? You seem to be very far out in front of the curve, Ms. Wolfe.”

“I'm second-guessing the hell out of myself, though. It cost Mort his life.”

“There is evil in the world, young lady. There was no way you could anticipate mindless cruelty, especially coming from men of stature; men who spout love of God and country; men who swear to uphold the Constitution and protect American citizens. They are the great actors on this stage we call life.”

I ate. I sensed he wanted to get some things off his chest.

“I don't know where or when our country went wrong. Maybe from its inception. There were bad actors back then too. Duplicitous men make great speeches, propose great social programs, yet continue to shove the poor and uneducated to be even poorer and less educated. We are keeping people alive longer, but the sick and the elderly become more desolate and isolated. This is creating an immense underclass, to which we only give nominal attention, if any,” he said, his despair evident.

“We've developed a drug that can save millions of lives, but for their own personal, evil reasons, selfish men have rejected it. Fortunately, Sherman and I saw that coming and did something about it. Now they come here and try to destroy us and, in the process, kill innocent people, maybe my son. Tom Kelly may not have pulled the trigger, but he encouraged this in all ways possible.

“I'm not faultless. We thought we had a good plan, but two of my people who believed in what we were doing here lost their lives. Others have been wounded.” Sorrow draped his words.

I finished my lunch. “I'm going to visit your wounded and take a tour of the island.”

“Are you going back on our plane tomorrow?” His voice was faint; he was obviously exhausted.

“Yes. There are people from DOD investigating—”

“DOD?”

“Yes. Two of the men who flew down with us yesterday are counterterrorism experts.”

“Oh? Are they going to seek or hide?” he asked dryly.

“Senator Crawford's with them. He's a good guy. I wish you well with your rebuilding.”

He looked away from me, his eyes damp. Even with that, I thought he was holding up remarkably well, being eighty-three years old, getting little or no sleep, and with his son's condition still critical.

I decided to switch subjects, trying to sound upbeat. “I understand we're dining with the Carmayan president.”

“I appreciate your sacrifice,” he said groggily, but with a wry grin and a glint in his eyes. “El Presidente means well. He's done a lot for us. But as I mentioned, our success will mean a lot to him financially. For him to have two United States senators and a Pulitzer-winning writer here . . . well, it's like a royal visit.”

I asked if I could do something for him. He said no and for me to go see the island. I left him and went into the wing where the C-2 survivors were recovering. By presidential order, no media were allowed in the hospital or on C-2. No helicopters were allowed over or near C-2 either. I was traveling with diplomatic papers and a badge Frances had supplied.

I found the patients to be in good spirits, considering. One knew of me from having lived in Washington last year. The word spread fast who I was, and they all received me well. Celebrity does have its benefits.

My satellite phone rang, and I excused myself. “Laura Wolfe.”

“How you doing down there?” It was Riley. “Barton wants to break this story into two reports. The stringer from Puerto Rico, Hernando Rias, should be landing there around 1:00 p.m. Barton wants you to work on the human-interest aspects and have Rias handle the war aspect.”

“Sounds like a plan. I guess I'll need to sneak him onto C-2—”

“What's C-2?”

I explained. “I've been provided a car and driver. I'll meet Rias at the airport.”

“Don't get too spoiled down there,” he said. The line went dead.

On my trip back in the copter with Frances, I had asked her about transportation. She had gladly arranged a car and driver for me, which I could expect to be at the hospital within an hour or she'd call me. She'd reminded me to carry my diplomatic papers at all times. No media would be allowed in our hotel.

The car was waiting out front as promised, and fortunately, the driver spoke good English. I admit to being one of those Americans who expects everyone to speak my language. I had two years of Spanish in school and avoided foreign languages thereafter. Learning to be a journalist was tough enough.

I explained my plans for the afternoon, after we picked up and delivered Senor Rias. The plane was ten minutes late. I was expecting a recycled reporter, but got a thirtyish, good-looking guy about five-ten and fit. He was very respectful and didn't have a libido demeanor. I wondered what Riley had told him about me.

I filled Rias in on the lay of the land and about the media restrictions.

I got him registered and was about to call the Marines when Mr. Shaw and Sergeant Doll entered the lobby. I introduced Rias and explained his presence.

“Because he's one of yours, Ms. Wolfe,” the warrant officer nodded, “he can ride out to C-2 on our next run.”

“Would you ask Chief Driscoll to show Mr. Rias around and give him a verbal picture of how the fighting went? Hernando, not a word to anyone. I'll be back by 5:00. Eh, Mr. Shaw, would you see that he gets back in the hotel?”

“Yes ma'am.”

I thought he was going to salute, his reply was so snappily given. My driver became a tour guide. He chose the perimeter road. The map of the island showed it was about twice the size of the original Washington, DC, roughly two hundred square miles. The trip along the coastline was lovely, and we stopped at vantage points where my guide pointed out places of interest while giving me some island history. The coast was cliffs and rocky beaches on one side and long, flowing, white sandy beaches on the other.

Along the way, I called Riley and told him I'd sent Hernando off with the Marines.

“He's supposed to have something in to me tonight, to run tomorrow.”

“The State Department person with us said a TV network complained about my having access and they didn't.”

“We got a call, too. We told them you were a friend of the family.”

That hit my funny bone and I roared. Riley hadn't impressed me with a sense of humor. My driver almost ran off the road. We finished our tour, and I was back in the hotel early enough to buy a bathing suit and relax in the outside hot tub.

Crawford arrived a few minutes late to the dinner, coming in with the major. He profusely apologized to El Presidente—E.P. as we now referred to him amongst ourselves. E.P. was effusive in his pleasure of having two United States senators on his island. Gavin took his place with Ro at the head table.

Down the table, I sat to Gavin's left, and then Michael, Frances, and Major DeMarco. Across from us, after Ro was Harley, Rufus, and a member of E.P.'s staff. Our terrorism specialists were not present. A few Carmayans sat at a nearby table, looking very official.

The lavish dinner went very well. The food was delicious and plentiful.

Afterward, people spread out into groups. I noticed that E.P. followed Ro everywhere she went. She was aware of it, but gracious, and then she pulled a beautiful maneuver, joining Rufus and Harley and making room for E.P. The two former Rangers regaled him with stories of their exploits. The three got into man-talk, and Ro slipped away.

Michael was telling me about his day on C-2. Frances was sitting with the Carmayans. I saw that Crawford had joined the three men. The cigars were out. I'd lost track of Ro. Michael and I speculated on what might be going on in Washington.

I felt restless and decided to go for a short walk; Michael declined. The evening was pleasant. Most of the tourists appeared to be Europeans. I did know they weren't speaking English. The hotel was beautifully landscaped. I walked past the swimming pool and tennis courts. It was balmy, and I wished Jerry was with me. I hoped to catch Ro before I turned in.

Then it hit me: I had forgotten about Hernando. I rushed to the lobby and called his room. Fortunately, he had called room service for a meal. He came right down, and we went off to the meeting room our group had used earlier. He showed me what he'd written. He had a good account of what took place from Chief Driscoll. We went over his story. Riley was probably biting his nails.