The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (22 page)

Michael made a mental note to himself that if he made it out of this, he would give that sniper an AAR—after action review—about how to properly conceal oneself: the spotter, too.

Shit,
he thought to himself,
I hope I get the chance.

Outside of his home, four men carrying short-barreled MP5Ks approached in teams of two from both sides of his home. They walked slowly and carefully; the black of their uniforms and protective Kevlar helmets did little to blend them into the lush vegetative surroundings. They didn’t care. The signal would soon be given, and they would move fast once it was received. It was supposed to be a smash-and-grab mission.

Michael crawled through his first-floor hallway and opened a closet. Inside, he lifted one of the Italian tile squares and exposed a chasm of dark space. Reaching in, he pulled out his diminutive, short-recoil Kel-tec P32. He put in a loaded cartridge and grabbed a second from beneath the floor.

From the roofline, the sniper watched through his scope as the two-man teams made their way toward the front of the house. From the back, two more two-man teams approached. Overhead, a silent OH-58 Delta helicopter hovered.

In the front yard, the teams were only feet from the door. They crept closer in order to get into position. One of the armed men stepped forward, unaware that a trio of pawpaw fruits lay waiting. As his foot came down, he didn’t have enough time to stop the inevitable. He crushed the fruit, and three loud bursts resonated through the quiet air.

Michael heard the pops and jumped to his feet. His instincts were on fire; he knew that there was a team on his front lawn. No longer worried about being seen, he ran through his house, but not toward the backyard. He knew that there would be a team there, too. He knew the tactics that they would use, because he had been one of them early in his career. He had literally written the book that they now followed.

Outside and three hundred meters away, the spotter watched through his thermal scope as Michael ran through his house. The spotter shouted into his bone mic, “Target on the move; he is going upstairs. North side of the home!”

The team’s commander wondered what the hell a seasoned paramilitary officer was doing running up the stairs. They had him cornered; he knew that there was nowhere to go; there would be no escaping. He gave his order.

“Eagle Eye, engage!”

The sniper peered through his scope and eyed his target. The trigger needed less than one kilogram of pressure to engage the firing pin. He controlled his breathing and slowly squeezed. The round quietly exited the short barrel and spiraled through the air. Within a moment, the reinforced deadbolt of Michael’s front door exploded into nothingness.

The leader of the two-man teams shouted, “Go!”

In the backyard, one man fired his silenced rifle into the glass of Michael’s sliding doors. A second man kicked in the glass.

All four pairs of SAD officers simultaneously entered the house—two teams from the back, two teams from the front—and cleared each room on their way to the stairs. The spotter on the roof continued shouting Michael’s location, guiding the teams.

Stacked in a formation for urban warfare, the men listened as they were told to climb the stairs and head down the long hallway to the room at its end.

In a synchronized manner, the black-clad men climbed the stairs; each had the muzzle of their MP5K trained forward.

Down the hallway they moved, half-expecting their boss to fire at them at any moment. At the end of the hallway, they stopped. The door in front of them was slightly ajar; a crease of light spilled between the edge of the door and its frame. The team’s leader nodded toward the point man. The point man kneeled so that he was underneath the barrels of his teammates. With his own barrel still pointed forward, he reached out and pushed the door open.

Inside the bathroom, Michael had heard the teams’ approach.

He knew there was nowhere to run.

He knew that he would be caught.

He wouldn’t fight back.

These were his men.

Innocents.

He did the only thing he could think to do. Sprawling to the floor, he rummaged through the cabinet space underneath the sink. He found the small sewing kit that his wife left there. Opening the plastic box, he grabbed a heavy size-eighteen sewing needle.

He set his pistol on the floor and then reached up and yanked a rag from the sink’s edge and shoved it into his mouth. He had no time to prepare. With the needle in his right hand, he pushed on the thick end of the needle; he let out a long, low grunt that was muted by the rag in his mouth. With one agonizing movement, he buried it deep into the flesh of his right hip.

The pain caused him to scream out through the rag; his eyes rolled back into his head.

On the other side of the door, the man at point stood at the sound of the scream and kicked fiercely, sending the door from its hinges.

Inside, on the floor, sat Dr. Michael Sterling. Their boss looked at his men and said through panting lips, “Hey, guys. Glad you could drop by, but the housewarming party isn’t for another week.”

Slowly the men crept forward with their muzzles trained on their beloved leader. The point man shoved away the pistol with his foot.

“Sir, please put your hands out in front of you and turn to your stomach.” The officer’s words came out uneasily. He hated what he was doing, but his orders had been clear.

“I know the drill, guys,” said Michael as he complied. “Lou, is that you?”

The moment he turned over, the man at point dropped his weapon to his side and cuffed Michael’s hands behind his back. Carefully two men raised him to his feet.

The team’s leader stepped forward and said, “Sorry, Michael. But I have to put this on you.”

“It’s okay, Lou,” Michael responded, “but answer me this: official or unofficial?”

Lou paused, and then answered, “Unofficial, Michael.”

Michael thought about this. He knew full well that an unofficial apprehension meant that whoever issued the order didn’t have any hard evidence. They were fishing, and he was the catch. But they didn’t want it known. Michael looked at Lou and said, “You have your orders, now follow them.”

“Yes, sir.” Lou looked at his longtime friend and hesitated. The two men had gone through training together and had been on the same team; Michael had saved Lou’s life during a mission in Algeria, carrying him down the side of a mountain. Lou was the closest friend that Michael had.

Lou placed the black burlap bag over Michael’s head, but he didn’t tighten the drawstrings. It was the least he could do for his friend. Then, he spoke into his bone mic, “Target acquired. Extraction in thirty seconds.”

Outside, a black Tahoe with even darker windows sped up Michael’s driveway. The team exited Michael’s home and was careful to treat their boss with respect as they hurried him into the waiting SUV.

Lou gave Michael’s shoulder a squeeze and said, “Hang in there, Michael. All of this has to be some sort of mistake.”

The guard in the waiting Yukon helped Michael climb inside.

Moments later, all of the black-clad men were gone; the circling helicopter was nowhere in sight.

The neighborhood was once again quiet.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CNN STUDIOS
WASHINGTON, DC

T
he studio was buzzing. Producers were moving fast and shouting out instructions. Behind the desk, the two CNN correspondents readied themselves. They wanted to be the first to break the news.

In the control room, a lithe man—the executive producer—stood over his staffers and stared out of the bay windows of the expansive glass, down onto the studio floor below. His hands were on his hips, and his demeanor was calm. To the casual eye, the man appeared no different than any other man. He was not of an imposing height, a bit under average actually; he looked as if opening a jar of anything would take some effort on his part.

But in this room, in this studio, he was a god. Some say that if it weren’t for his methods and his ideas, CNN would no longer exist. His direct guidance had made, and broken, the careers of many journalists.

When he spoke, his words reverberated.

Rumor was that he had a direct line to Ted Turner himself.

He put his hand on the senior controller that was sitting in front of him. Immediately, the man paid attention.

Calmly, he said, “Give me the intercom.”

With a nod and a push of the button, the senior controller complied.

“Listen up, people,” boomed the executive producer’s voice, “get into your places and shut your mouths. We are live in five, and four, and…”

The floor director knew the cue, so did everyone else. As fast as everyone was moving, they were soon in their places. The two television journalists sat upright and waited for their own cues.

Between two cameras, unseen by the viewers, the floor director took over the countdown from the executive producer and mouthed the words while counting down with his fingers: “three, and two, and one.” He pointed at the political analyst sitting behind the news desk.

The red light on camera one illuminated.

The elder journalist, a sharp and refined-looking silver-haired man and CNN’s top political analyst, looked at the camera, and said, “To our viewers: You’re in the Situation Room, where news and information are arriving all the time. Around the United States and the world, CNN is the first to bring you the day’s top stories. Happening right now and right here in CNN’s studios in Washington, DC, is breaking news: Senator Robert Steinman has just announced that Senator Matthew Faust will replace Senator Elizabeth Door as the challenging party’s candidate for president of the United States.”

In the control room, the executive producer pointed to one of the junior producers and said, “Cue the visual of Door’s face, superimpose it over the upper corner of a visual of Notre Dame.”

The man did as he was told.

The executive producer spoke into his headset to the floor director, “Sam, cue Cynthia; move to camera two.”

Within moments the commands were received and acted upon. The light on camera two illuminated and Cynthia Gray—a beautiful amber haired and green-eyed correspondent who had been recently promoted and transferred from the Atlanta office—spoke. Over her left shoulder, the viewers saw Senator Door’s face along with an image of the once imposing Notre Dame. “As the world knows, Notre Dame was destroyed earlier today by a devastating explosion. Both the president of France and Senator Door were in the cathedral, and both were killed. Senator Door was the head of the powerful Intelligence Oversight Committee and had been working to clean up the country’s intelligence community. Having just won the primaries, it was predicted that her path to the White House would be without resistance. Senator Door was believed to be the next president of the United States—the first female to hold the office of the presidency.”

She paused for a moment, as if genuinely distressed, and then looked at her colleague sitting beside her. “Jack, along with her death, scores of innocent civilians perished in Notre Dame’s destruction. The world hasn’t yet had time to grieve, is the challenging party making a mistake?”

Gregory “Jack” Springs responded to the staged question. “No, Cynthia; no, I do not think so.”

Jack raised his hand slightly toward his coworker and continued, “While some may be shocked at the suddenness of the announcement, I think it was a brilliant and calculated move by Senator Faust and his party. What they are doing is sending an unambiguous and direct message to the world. A message that says the world needs clear leadership, clear direction, and clear action by the United States in the wake of this tragedy. We all remember the tragedy of 9/11—”

Jack lowered his head slightly and for a brief moment as if he, too, was stalled by emotion; it was his own calculated movement. He then raised his head, his voice even deeper, and said, “The tragedy of 9/11 was even greater when amplified by the tragedy of the failed leadership in the White House and its ineffective response to it. Because of his failures, the reputation of the current president of the United States regressed greatly in the eyes of the world community. His inability to lead soured immensely the reputation and the position of the United States as the strongest nation on this planet. America took a number of very large steps backward. No, Cynthia, it is not a mistake. Senator Faust is neither wasting any time nor is he acting impetuously. To the contrary, Cynthia, he is telling the world that it is he that should lead us out of this tragedy; that the United States needs a leader, and it is he who should be that person.”

Jack turned his attention away from Cynthia and looked directly into camera two, saying, “Senator Faust’s move was brilliant. I think we may be looking at the next president of the United States.”

In the green room at the studios, Senator Faust and Justine sat on a comfortable brown suede couch and watched the monitor that hung on the wall across from them. The breaking news of their announcement had just finished.

Justine looked over at her boss. Senator Faust’s lips were pursed tightly into a long, narrow smile. She could tell that, in his silent solipsism, he had thoroughly enjoyed the last words from the CNN anchorman—
Senator Faust’s move was brilliant. I think we may be looking at the next president of the United States.