In America, the media immediately went into a frenzy. Reporters were called in and sent out to find anything they could about the FARC. Plane tickets were purchased to head to Colombia and flights were filled with reporters and crews to get down to where the action was. Families of the hostages were re-interviewed and in some cases, reporters camped out near the homes so they could be there in case the worst happened. Images and video from the Iran hostage crisis in the 70’s were pulled out and references made to the longest hostage situation in American history, not to mention how it had condemned the Carter Administration in the next election.
Roger Hammond’s neighborhood had been peacefully quiet. Suddenly a local television news truck pulled up into the driveway. A microwave antenna was extended on the top of the truck and turned to lock into the home station’s receiver. A second truck pulled up, followed by a third and two cars. Reporters rushed to the front door and began ringing the doorbell and knocking loudly. A light came on in a bedroom and in a minute, a groggy man opened the door. Immediately the lights came on and reporters shoved a microphone towards the man, who made the mistake of saying he wasn’t Roger Hammond. When reporters questioned who he was, the man caught his mistake and said there would be no interviews. One of the reporters called back to his technician in the truck saying, “He isn’t here.”
The old man seated in his truck had been the second one to watch Hammond’s house. He heard the comment. Wondering what had gone wrong, he watched as the news reporters ambled around the yard, themselves wondering what to do. He picked up his cell phone and dialed a telephone number to report that Roger Hammond was not in his house. Inside the car of the naval security team, the mobile receiver immediately picked up the cellphone signal and not only identified the number, but recorded the conversation. Of interest, was an instruction to go back to San Pedro and watch ‘the ship.’ The old man started the truck and moved off toward the main road. He didn’t notice one of the several cars moving that seemed to be going the same direction he was.
The morning news brief had turned into a zoo. With the news about the FARC, everyone was clamoring to find out what the United States was doing to bring these people to justice and free the hostages. Greg Messer, the White House Spokesman condemned the act and the apparent conditions the hostages were in. He assured reporters that they were working closely with the government in Colombia to ‘bring a rapid end to this situation,’ but reporters had heard that before and weren’t having it. They wanted details and facts, where there were none. One of the reporters asked why Vice Admiral Roger Hammond was not at home and if he was going to be sent on a mission. The automatic reply that the government did not respond to questions on military operations seemed to indicate that Hammond was being brought in. Nearly every reporter was determined to get the real story and immediately sent out a request to find Hammond.
Roger Hammond’s plane was just landing at Reagan National Airport. It taxied to its terminal ramp and people were asked to remain seated as one person was escorted off. The Marshal and Hammond exited the plane and out a side door to enter a car on the tarmac. Within minutes, they were rapidly making their way through a security gate and into the traffic of Pentagon City. Entering the freeway, his car, with escort, made its way to the Washington Navy Yard and to the senior officer’s quarters that had been prepared for him.
Hammond looked beat. The plane flight hadn’t allowed him to rest much. The drawn face and baggy eyes told that story, but he was invigorated by the thoughts of finally getting involved. After a quick shower and a change into his summer white uniform, Hammond reentered the car and was driven to the Pentagon. Admiral Perry Johnson was waiting for him.
“Roger, it’s good to see you,” Johnson said warmly as he came from behind his desk to greet him.
“Same here, Boss, you doing okay?” Hammond asked.
Johnson could see the wear on the man, but knew better than mention it. “Oh, peachy,” he said with a grin. “You’re still trying to keep us busy around here. You all set up in your quarters?” he asked as the men sat down.
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Just tell me what I need to do to get our people back,” Hammond said.
Johnson noticed that Hammond was thinking about the whole group and hadn’t mentioned his wife. He was on mission. “Did you see the hostage video?”
Hammond nodded. “In Houston. At least they’re alive and well. Do we have any plans yet?”
Johnson nodded. General Richardson has a special operations team gearing up and we have all kinds of eyes on the area, but so far, except for that video, we haven’t a clue. Can’t do much if we don’t know where they are.”
Hammond gave a sigh. “Sounds familiar,” he said, referring to the last war when the USA didn’t know who started it for a number of days.
“Well, the Colombians are going crazy rounding up every FARC member they can get their hands on. Even if it’s a splinter cell, we might have information relatively soon,” Johnson said.
“I doubt it,” said Hammond sitting forward in his seat. “I don’t think the Colombians or the FARC had anything to do with it.”
Johnson got a questioning look on his face. “What do you mean?”
“Because, Perry, this isn’t about the FARC or politics in Colombia. They’re going after our Boss,” Hammond said plainly.
They were interrupted by the CNO’s aide. “It’s time for the morning brief, sir.”
Johnson thought a moment. Hammond had thought something through. He usually wasn’t wrong. He wanted to hear more. Johnson waved to his aide. “Admiral Hammond is coming with us. Contact the White House and let them know he’s coming.” He turned to Hammond. “Roger, tag along with me. Your buddy wants to see you anyway. You can explain it to all of us.”
Jim Mitchell was looking very pale. The heat and humidity were working on all of the people in the room, but it was worse for him. He had already been over a day without his heart medications and he could feel it in his chest. The nitro glycerin tablets helped, but he was going to run out of those soon. He looked around the room which was their prison. The rest of the mayors were sitting in various places with their backs against a wall. Occasionally someone spoke, but most of the time it was quiet. It simply took too much effort to say anything.
Sweat was pouring off each person in the room and already everyone tried to ignore the smells coming from both the people and the chemical toilet in the corner. At least the guards allowed them to change the toilet out every few hours. There was plenty of water too, although it was the same temperature as the room, so there was little refreshment. Most of the mayors were resigned to sit and wait. Only Patricia Crowell made the effort to cheer the others up or be concerned about their well being. She was always going back and forth with an encouragement or simply to offer support. That brought a smile to Mitchell’s face. Of all the people in the group, she was the one he would elect to office. She really was concerned about others.
The pain in his chest started to grow again. As always, he reached for his nitro bottle and began struggling with the cap. A pair of hands took the bottle from him and got the cap off. Crowell smiled as she shook a pill into his hand and he placed it under his tongue. She glanced in the bottle. “Not too many more. Do you have another bottle?”
Mitchell shook his head. “In my hotel room,” he chuckled. Already the pain was subsiding.