Under Siege (5 page)

Ardith’s car was in their parking spot when he arrived at the condo. He parked in the visitor’s lot and hurried inside. She had just taken a beer out of the refrigerator and was about to pop the top when he came into the kitchen.

He stopped a dozen feet from her and stared. Long blond hair, a svelte in-shape body, with a face so beautiful he couldn’t believe it. Now she was curious and afraid and it showed in her eyes.

“I’m Navy, and I go where they send me. I just got transferred to the Pentagon in DC.”

She opened the beer and took a swallow. He liked the way she let the bottle top rest on her upper lip not sucked up inside her mouth.

“Sailor, is that all? I thought maybe this was some really, really important announcement.” She laughed at the surprise showing on his face. “Old habits, darling. I called Dad the Senator just after you called me. The authorization to form the new department went through his senate committee last week.”

“But …”

“Of course I’ll go with you. We can sell the condo for five or six thousand more than we paid for it. Dad did some nosing around for me. He says the Pentagon section of JAG is looking for a civilian lawyer with lots of congressional experience to handle some JAG cases that involve Congress. He put my name in for the job this morning.”

Murdock grabbed her and nearly squeezed the life out of her with a bear hug. When the kissing was over she leaned back in his arms.

“You were expecting maybe that I wouldn’t want to get back to Washington? Remember, I was raised there and have had full exposure to the Beltway experience. I love it back there. The seat of our government. Everything is so exciting and alive. We’re making history every day.” She smiled
broadly at him. “Have you had lunch yet? No? Good, let’s eat out and celebrate with lobster, steak, and shrimp.”

The lunch-dinner was delicious. When they got back to the condo, they decided to enjoy the luxury of the king-sized bed while they could.

“We can clean out our desks tomorrow and put the place up for sale,” Murdock said. “Glad now we didn’t buy all of that new furniture we’ve been looking at.”

“Don’t worry yourself about that furniture money. I’ll spend it all and more on furniture when we hit Washington. This is so exciting! I get to get back to Washington in government and you’ll be there in the Navy and still with Special Warfare. I wonder if I’ll get the job at JAG?”

“With your dad pushing, I’d say it’s as sure as anything ever is in Washington.”

Arlington, Virginia

Captain Blake Murdock sat on the couch in the Suites Grand Hotel five miles from the Pentagon in Arlington and patted the spot beside him.

“Little lady, you look weary right to the bone,” Murdock said.

“At least. I had three interviews today for that job at JAG. During the last one I felt like I was being grilled on the witness stand by three Supreme Court Justices. The last person asked me why I’d take a pay cut from a hundred and fifty thousand a year to a hundred. I gave him my best closing argument, which lasted almost five minutes and had him checking his watch to be sure it was still running.”

She leaned against Murdock and his arm went around her. Ardith looked up and built a half smile. “So, Captain Murdock, how did your third day on the job go?”

“Good for a paper-pushing billet. I sent a new order to Little Creek, Virginia, where I’m to get one of my staffers. I told them I wanted a highly experienced, field-tested, First-Class Petty Officer, not a commissioned man. I’m getting an army Ranger/Delta Forces captain and a Gunnery Staff sergeant from the Marines Quick Strike/Recon outfit. They all should report within three days. In the office, I have two Navy women, a lieutenant (J.G.) lawyer as my executive assistant, and a second-class yeoman as our secretary and researcher. A huge staff.”

“Sounds like your kind of mix. You like the input of the enlisted guys. Any hot spots showing up in your daily briefings?”

“Not so far. How did you know about the briefings?”

“I’m a lawyer, I figured it out. Extrapolation. We eating out or ordering in?”

“Not hungry.”

“You email Master Chief MacKenzie and I’ll order.”

“How did you know that I …” He paused and chuckled. “Yeah, you’re a lawyer and you’ve been messing with my laptop. He said yesterday Masciareli finally broke down and let Ed DeWitt take over the Third Platoon of the Seventh. I’ll be using them whenever I can.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday. Neither of us works, so let’s go house hunting.”

“My assistant, Lieutenant Harriet Engle, suggested some sections of Arlington or out a little farther that we might like. We can start with them in the morning.”

“We have two weeks here in the hotel with maid service before the Navy kicks us out?”

“Right, and they pick up the tab for moving our furniture.”

“I still can’t believe you gave your car away.”

“It was eight years old, worth maybe two thousand. Anyway I sold it. I flew in here and you drove your little Plymouth PT Cruiser. It’s a strange-looking little car, by the way.”

“Yeah, you sold your Honda to the master chief for ten dollar. Big sale!” She slid a smile over her pseudo scowl and headed for the phone. She nodded to herself. “Yes, I think Italian tonight. Then you can have the phone.”

Two weeks later they had moved into an older single-family home in Fairfax County out near Linconia. They were near the off-ramp to the Henry G. Smiley Memorial Highway and about a half hour from the huge Pentagon parking lot. Murdock had worked out a routine at the office. He had his
own daily briefing by his eyes and ears and had assigned each man to a section of the globe where things could go wrong. Then he and Sergeant Warnick of the Marines went in to the briefing with the CNO. It took them a week to select Ardith for the new position at JAG and then they hired her on, gave her a secretary and an office. She had a month to observe, become familiar with the military approach to the law and the various military checks and balances. She was as happy as a green frog floating on a brown lily pad in a sky-blue pool.

Over Angola, East Africa

Cruising at 43,000 feet

Mrs. Eleanor Hardesty, wife of the president of the United States, settled back in her private quarters onboard Air Force Two, the look-alike jet liner usually reserved for the vice president and visiting dignitaries. Mrs. Hardesty considered herself a working First Lady. This was her third world tour of countries where the president and the State Department thought that she could do the nation some service by visiting, listening to problems, bringing financial aid and service, and generally being a goodwill ambassador for the president.

So far, the First Lady, her husband, and State had been pleased by her work. She looked around the big plane. It was larger than the first two houses she lived it. It had over 4,000 square feet of living/working space and looked more like an executive office than an aircraft. She had her own private quarters with a bedroom bath, workout room, and office area. Her newly appointed chief of staff, Tracy Arneson, 28, watched the First Lady.

“Is there anything I can get for you, Mrs. Hardesty?”

“No, dear. We just left Luanda, and you said it was about seven hundred miles on to this new nation of New Namibia. When will we be arriving?”

“Shortly after one
P.M.
, Mrs. Hardesty. That’s local
time. Do you want to have your lunch before we land? There is only a small reception planned before you go to the Presidential Mansion.”

“I’ll do ten minutes on the treadmill before lunch, Tracy.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll get it ready.”

“This small, new nation. I understand it split off from Namibia two years ago. Is that right?”

“Yes. They’re struggling to come up with a democratic form of government. The people don’t really understand yet that they can be part of the governing process. It’s the far northern part of the old country.”

“I can certainly speak to the people about how they can have a part in the process of government.”

The president’s wife was a large woman, standing five feet, eleven inches, and had broad shoulders. Some in the press had called her “horsy.” Eleanor Roosevelt was her hero. She had read everything the former First Lady had written and the biographies and many books about her when she was the First Lady of the nation for almost twelve years. Eleanor came from a working-class family in Iowa, worked her way through college, and was awarded a full scholarship to Harvard for an advanced degree in political science. It was an unheard of major for a woman in those years. She met her husband at Harvard and they were married a year after both graduated.

She was most proud of her three sons, all grown now, one in politics in Iowa, one into electronics, and the other a medical doctor. After her sons went away to school she took on community service projects as her husband worked his way from state Senator to the House of Representatives and then to the governorship of Iowa. She worked mostly with underprivileged children. Lost causes, her husband had often called them in private. Now that she was fifty-two years old, she had expanded her agenda to helping these small lost nations. Everyone agreed that she
was quite good at doing it. She had even received congressional support. It was often said that her popularity was somewhat greater than that of the president.

A little under an hour later, the big jet came in for a landing at the marginal airport at New Namibia’s largest city and capital, Natabi. The Air Force general flying the plane touched down at the very start of the runway and rolled the plane out less than a hundred yards from the end of the hard surface. He turned the plane and taxied toward the pair of new hangars on the north side of the field where the tower had instructed him to go.

Air Force Two was thirty yards from the hangars when automatic gunfire erupted.

“Code Red, Code Red,” Secret Service lead man Funister shouted. Every speaker in the plane brought the message. “We’re being attacked by ground forces. All security measures in place and activated.”

General Wilson, the pilot, struggled with the plane but realized quickly that at least half of the tires on the big craft had been shot out. He was riding on the rims. He cut all power and the plane ground to a slow and rough stop.

“Everyone remain in place,” the speakers said. “Security is in charge now. No one,
no one
is to move without our orders. Under no circumstances are any of the outer doors to be opened.”

Mrs. Hardesty looked at her aide, who sat frozen in her big chair, seemingly unable to move. “Tracy, this sounds serious. I thought they told us that New Namibia was a friendly country.”

Tracy came unfrozen. “Yes, ma’am. That’s what they told us. I’ll try to find out what’s going on.”

On the third level of the big craft, in the state-of-the-art communications center, Secret Service agent Lon Henry punched up the frequency to the agency’s headquarters in the White House. All transmissions were encrypted for security reasons.

“Major Bowes, this is Flying Lady One. We have been fired on upon landing at New Namibia. No apparent damage that I can see. We stopped abruptly, so the tires may have been shot out. No casualties. Standing by for instructions.”

“Roger Flying Lady. Is this a terrorist hit and run, or are the nation’s small military forces involved?”

“Don’t know. I’ll check with the tower. Hold.”

He keyed another radio and heard chatter from the speaker. He broke in. “Tower at Natabi. This is First Lady One. We have been attacked. Do you see the attackers? Who are they?”

A heavy British accent came back: “We know nothing of the attackers. We see that your craft is now surrounded by forty to fifty men with uniforms and weapons. Our army commander is in the tower and he has no idea who the men are. Suggest you keep buttoned up while we try to handle the situation.”

Lon went back on the satellite radio. “Major Bowes. The tower knows of no army involvement. He said we’re surrounded by a large group in uniform, though. It may be a dissident group. The tower guards are trying to handle the situation.”

More ground fire erupted. Lon heard several rounds hit the plane’s skin and evidently ricochet off.

Lon checked out a window and could see some of the attackers. They were prone, the big plane in their sights. From the tower, a Jeep raced forward with five or six soldiers in it. When it came within two hundred yards of the men surrounding the First Lady’s plane, ground fire blasted the oncoming rig with deadly rounds. The Jeep spun and turned over and all but one of the men riding in it were thrown free and cut down by a new barrage of firing. Lon reported this to Washington.

“Sir, we aren’t equipped to fight a whole army. I just don’t know what the hell to do.”

“Get all of your security men with weapons primed and
cover all three access doors. The insurgents will probably try to force open a door. Meet them with deadly force. Good luck.”

On the third deck of the Boeing 747, two men desperately worked the radios trying to make contact.

“No sir, we have had no communications with whoever attacked your aircraft,” the commander in the tower said. “First we noticed them was when your tires were shot out, then they streamed across the runways and surrounded your plane.”

Head Secret Service officer Major Roland Funister worked an international hailing frequency.

“This is United States Air Force Two aircraft calling those men who have attacked our plane. Tell us what you want. There is no reason for any more violence. Please respond on this international hailing frequency.” Major Funister checked his watch. After two minutes he repeated the message, and again had no response. He went back to the tower frequency.

“Who is in charge there?” he asked.

“I am, Lieutenant Luscow,” came the response from the tower.

“Lieutenant, order a company of your army out here at once to drive these attackers away from our plane. Do it at once! This is an international incident we can’t tolerate.”

“Sir, I have only two men left in the airport with weapons, and they don’t have any ammunition. Our army is small and not well-equipped.”