“You don’t have a choice,” Duncan said.
The commander looked at his watch. “They should have located the hostage by now.” The tone of his voice announced his intelligence section had failed. He picked up the phone and told his operations center where the terrorists had taken the hostage. “I think you’ll enjoy this.”
The commander was right and Bender had to work to maintain a poker face, the dispassionate observer merely recording events. The small, two-room farmhouse where the mock-terrorists had taken the hostage for the exercise was painted bright blue and typical of the ancient farmhouses in the area. But the owners had prospered in recent years and it was deserted in favor of a newer home. Still, it served as a reminder of the not so distant past.
Duncan kept up a running commentary as the exercise unfolded. “Rule number one, General, isolate and clear the area. Look how they sweep the area of booby traps or ambushes before the terrorists are aware they are even here. I’ve seen cops rush up to a situation and get hosed down in a crossfire. That’s not going to happen with these guys. They’re good.”
“And rule number two?” Bender asked.
“Establish communications and bug the place.”
“Then what happens?”
Duncan was enjoying himself and wanted to get involved. But that wasn’t going to happen. “Time, talk, and tear gas.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have time for that.” Then he remembered a similar exercise from years before. “How long will they hold James?”
Duncan laughed. “Well, sir, he is the hostage.” Bender took the mental equivalent of a deep breath. He hoped the exercise was not out of control.
The commander drove up in a U.S.-built Humvee flying antennas and packed with radios. “General Bender, we’re going to assume negotiations have reached the stage where we are giving the terrorists a getaway vehicle.” He pointed to a dark-gray van. He handed Bender a headset. “A team has placed sensitive monitors on the outside walls and we can hear everything inside.”
Bender listened. He could hear a whimpering moan begging for mercy. A husky woman’s voice kept reassuring him it was just an exercise. Then she added, “You’ll get your clothes back in a few minutes.”
Bender’s mental deep breath became a gulp. “Was it necessary to strip him?”
“Well, sir,” Duncan replied, “that’s what happens in real life. He’s probably still got his shoes on and a bag over his head.”
The commander spoke into his radio. On cue, two men moved silently toward the back wall of the farmhouse. “Always find the blind spot,” Duncan said. The men were against the wall and using hand signals to communicate. They attached a ribbon charge of C-4 plastic explosive on the wall, outlining the opening they intended to create. “That’s the diversion.” Duncan explained. “James is in the other room, so he’s safe.”
“I hope so.”
When the charge was in place and the detonator armed, one of the men against the wall raised his hand, his fingers crossed. The charge was armed. The dark-gray van drew up to the front of the farmhouse. The driver got out and opened all the doors to the van showing that it was empty. The driver retreated to safety leaving the engine running.
The back wall of the home exploded in a flash and one of the men threw a stun grenade into the opening. Even in broad daylight the flash was blinding and the roar deafening. At the same time, six men burst out of the empty van and charged into the farmhouse. “Where did they come from?” Bender gasped.
“A holographic image of the van’s empty interior is projected in front of a paper curtain inside the cargo compartment.” Gunfire echoed from the farmhouse. Duncan never missed a beat. “The assault team is hidden behind the curtain and just rips through the paper.” A naked James was hustled out of the farmhouse as more gunfire punctuated the scene. “At this point,” Duncan said, “the terrorists should all be dead or acting very friendly.”
The commander drove back up. “The area is secure.” Duncan and Bender followed him over to the waiting van where James was sitting, a blanket now around his shoulders. “Mr. James,” the commander said, “thank you for volunteering to be the hostage. I hope it was a valuable learning experience for all of us.”
James glared at him. “This was a gross violation of diplomatic immunity. For your information, I am the deputy charge of mission representing the president of the United States.”
“And I’m the ambassador,” Bender said. “There was no violation of diplomatic immunity and this was a worthwhile exercise.”
The commander gave James a sympathetic look. “The first time is always the hardest. Unfortunately, if this were a real situation, you’d be dead. The assault team repeatedly shouted, ‘James, drop! Get down!’ You stood up directly into the line of fire. Luckily, we were only firing blanks.”
“We will lodge an official protest with the ministry of—” The sound of an arriving helicopter drowned James out.
They waited as the helicopter’s engine spun down and the rotor blades slowed. “We’ll talk about it later,” Bender said, ending the discussion.
A lanky figure got out of the helicopter. The commander visibly stiffened as Jerzy Fedor walked up to them. “Well, Mr. Ambassador, what do you think of my SPS unit?”
FIFTEEN
Maddy Turner sat with her advisors as Air Force One descended into Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. Shaw leaned forward in his seat, explaining how Illinois fit into her whirlwind tour of the six states critical to winning a presidential election. “Illinois unlocks the Midwest. The bastards know it, the reporters trailing along sniffin’ up our tail know it, and we know it. So don’t worry about what they’re thinking. Let ’em speculate, percolate, and scramb-a-late while we find out if you’ve got the political base to run in your own right. Think of Chicago as the key to Illinois. But Chicago is a tough objective. We’re talking old-fashioned party politics; rigid organization, precinct captains, organizing the troops, getting out the vote.”
“You make it sound like a military organization.”
“In a sense it is. Chicago has a political machine with a rigid hierarchy and a command structure. The trick is to make the generals want to do what you want them to do.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Now we’re talking leadership. You convince the generals you’re the candidate who can win and Illinois is yours. Show ’em you’ve got the popularity to win and then challenge ’em to deliver the vote.” The FASTEN SEAT BELTS lights went on and they strapped in for landing. The 747 touched down and taxied to the commercial side of the field, well away from the passenger terminals and the interminable lines of airliners waiting for takeoff. Shaw looked out his window. “We weren’t expecting anything like this.”
Turner looked out the window and caught her breath. A huge crowd strained at the barriers and waved crude, hand-lettered signs in the wind. There was a hint of rain and they were bundled up against the cold. Yet, there was a spontaneity and warmth that echoed across the parking ramp. Conflicting emotions tore at her. Ego and vanity blended with pride and satisfaction while purpose and resolution drew her out of her seat and to her feet. And there was awe. But the echo of Maura’s voice reminded her that she was still mortal and fallible.
Joe Litton came forward before the aircraft had stopped. “Madame President, the Secret Service says this is the biggest crowd they’ve ever seen at an airport. The reporters are hounding me for a quote. You might want to say a few words to them first.”