"Yes, sir," all three echoed.
"When will you start these Coast Guard inspections?"
"We are assembling the secondary teams now as a follow-up to the primary inspections," answered Rockford. "We are bringing in personnel from all three of our agencies to assist in the operation. We also have the Coast Guard checking any yachts capable of long-range cruises within a two-hundred-mile radius."
"Let me know what you find, and gentleman, find something!"
"We will, sir. You can count on it."
The president gave a halfhearted nod and dismissed the three with a wave of his hand. The door had no more closed when a second one opened, and Irving Vickers entered.
"What do you think, Irving?"
"The plan seems sound, sir. I also agree with your assessment that I doubt anything will be found linking a group to this horrific act."
"I know that those three are doing everything that they can, but I can't help but worry it's simply not enough."
CIA agent Martin Larrow had stopped by the hospital to check in on Robert Randall, who was lying in a hospital bed. He was awake, semialert, and sedated, but inside, he was in a rage. He could not get the face of the man who had put him where he was out of his mind. With great effort, he could speak slowly between his teeth, a fact that bothered him even more. The overall team leader, Marty Larrow, was attempting to question him.
"I'm not going to waste time asking you how you are. I can see that for myself. I want to know if you can give a description of the man who attacked you. One of your group got a glimpse of him but because of face paint could only give a very general description. Can you do any better?"
Randall only grunted in rage.
"Look, right now we've actually got more important items to deal with besides how pissed off you are. Look at it this way. If you can help ID this guy, you're closer to getting back at him." Larrow was trying to use Randall's arrogance to his advantage.
Randall glared fire at Larrow before responding painfully, "Trained. Good. Military or better. Scar on left side of face. Hard to see. Real fast. Accurate."
"That's good. Anything else you can think of?"
"Both hands."
"You mean he was ambidextrous?"
Randall nodded slightly. "When do I get out?"
"Not for a while. We'll fly you back home when you can travel. Probably be at least six more weeks."
Randall only stared daggers at him.
"Sorry, but it's the doctor's call. I'll check on you again."
"Don't bother."
"Your choice," Larrow replied as he got up to leave.
"Yes," Randall said as loud as possible.
Larrow only nodded and left. Walking down the hall toward the parking lot, he called Backersley.
"Sir, I just spoke with Randall. The only information he could provide was the guy was six feet tall, about two hundred pounds, and has a scar on the left side of his face. He had a tough time talking. He did mention that possibly the guy was top military trained."
"Not much more to go on. I'll start running a facial against anyone who might fill the bill," he responded.
"I'm on my way back to Langley."
"Report to me as soon as you get here."
"Absolutely."
After the conversation with Larrow, Backersley called Myra Banks.
"Where do we stand?"
"We're about 80 percent. The new servers are up; now it's a matter of loading programs and intel. I'm going back to my office and sleep. Bernie, I don't care if the damned world comes to an end, do not wake me up." She was still incredibly angry with him.
"Thanks, Myra. I won't." He wasn't quite sure what to do, which was rare. He knew he could use some help, but his options were limited. Since he was in the middle of something he'd been ordered out of, he had to do everything on the sly. He finally decided to try to utilize his unknown cyber contact. Trying to find info on an unknown operative with highest skill in hand-to-hand combat. Scar on side of face. Six feet tall, two hundred pounds. Probably military. Any help appreciated.
Just under an hour later, he received an answer. Will take time.
Despite everything in the world that the CIA was involved with, at that particular moment, Bernard Backersley felt like he was standing still.
Aboard the second Coast Guard boat that had approached the Oceaneer, two members from the FBI were huddled together. Albert Haines had been specifically assigned to head up a six-man team to assist the Coast Guard in the search for any clues regarding the assassination of President Robert Williams. He held a PhD in criminal psychology and was blessed with a near photographic memory. He had personally chosen the team and had assigned Del Forbanks as his partner.
Forbanks excelled in cyberwarfare, and Haines thought it prudent to have a computer expert as half of each team.
"Anything about that team we just ran across bother you?" Haines asked Forbanks.
"Nothing stood out. Why? Did you pick up on something?"
"The clothes the guy in the boat was wearing. It wasn't the latest CG issue."
"Do you think that is pertinent? Maybe the guy just has old stuff left. The Guard is a little more relaxed in their dress code."
"True. It just stood out, and that's what we are here to find, anything that might stand out."
"So you want to go back and ask that guy about his clothes? Al, I'm not sure what a shirt might have to do with shooting down the president."
"That wasn't the only thing. The AR the guy had. It was equipped with an EOTech holographic sight system. That is definitely not standard Coast Guard issue. I think we should follow up on anything that is out of the ordinary, and those two items were."
"So what is your thought process here?"
"What if that bunch isn't Coast Guard?"
"Then who the hell are they? It looked like they were doing exactly what we're supposed to be doing. They were in a Coast Guard boat. It's your call, but I think it's a waste of time."
"I'd rather waste a little time than to be wrong about something."
"I can't argue that."
Agent Haines got up and approached the Coast Guard commander of the small craft.
"Sir, I want to go back and check out that other team on the large yacht we just left."
"Any particular reason?"
"No, just a hunch, I guess."
"You are aware we have other boats to check."
"I know, but it will only take a short time. I'm just doing my job."
"As you wish," and ordered the boat's return.
The second Coast Guard boat containing the two FBI agents tied off against the craft that Styles and crew had used, which was tied off against the rear of the Oceaneer. Styles and Christman were each standing off to one side of Starr, flanking him.
"I'll handle this," he had emphasized.
One of the FBI agents looked at Starr and requested, "Permission to come aboard?"
Testily, Starr replied, "Permission denied."
"Huh?"
"Permission denied. We are conducting an authorized military operation. Permission denied."
Holding up his credentials, the agent said, "We're the FBI, here on probably the same mission. We need to come aboard."
"I don't care if your Santa's helpers. You are not in my chain of command." Looking at the commander of the second CG vessel, Starr demanded, "Where do you stand on this?"
The commander was obviously uncomfortable. "I was ordered to bring these two agents with us to assist in secondary reconnaissance of foreign-registered vessels and work with them, but I am in command of this boat. Give me a second." He immediately got on his own radio. A short conversation ensued; then he looked at the two FBI agents. "According to my commander, this is an ongoing operation."