She’s got the proof and with Colonel Rison dead, we’re up shit’s creek.”
“Is there any other information you have that might be helpful?” Boomer asked. Skibicki had gone over to Fort Shafter the previous evening and, without going to the tunnel, had checked in with some friends to see what was going on.
“ADDS from Special Warfare Group One is missing along with a Mark IX Swimmer Delivery Vehicle. No one knows who’s got it,” Skibicki said.
“You mean the SEALS who own it don’t know where it went?” Boomer asked incredulously.
“Roger that,” Skibicki said.
“Someone from Pacific Fleet came in and loaded it up on a cargo truck and wheeled it away. They could have taken it anywhere and mounted it on the Sam Houston.”
“But isn’t the Sam Houston controlled by Navy Special Ops?” Boomer asked.
Skibicki shook his head.
“Negative. All those ships are under control of Fleet Headquarters. My buddies in Navy Spec Ops have no idea where the Sam Houston is.”
“So it looks like your idea about the DDS and SDV is correct,” Boomer said.
“We got to go to someone,” Vasquez said.
“There’s an advance security detail from the Secret Service here already,” Boomer said.
“I suggest we go to them and tell them what has happened so far.”
“We might as well pack our bags for a prison stay, then,” Skibicki said.
“Or are you forgetting those two men we killed out at Kaena Point?”
“Like you said — this is bigger than Trace; this is also bigger than us,” Boomer replied.
“We know something’s going on. Let’s turn it over to people who can handle it better than we can. We agreed last night that if we didn’t hear from Trace we would act.”
“But if they don’t believe us, we end up in prison, and that leaves no one out here in the real world who knows about the plot and can try to do something about it,” Skibicki countered.
“What can someone do by themselves?” Boomer asked.
“Well, we could have fucked up their jump into the island,” Skibicki said.
“Maybe with a little better idea of what we’re up against, we can do a better job. We can’t go out to sea to check out these subs, but if they’re planning anything in Pearl Harbor we can go down there and check things out.”
Skibicki closed his eyes in contemplation. When he opened them his mind was made up.
“All right. I agree someone has to go to the Secret Service, but only if someone stays out here in the real world and does the best they can to stop this thing if the Secret Service doesn’t react in time.”
Boomer could read between the lines.
“I guess that means this’someone’ “—he pointed at himself—“goes to the Secret Service, and that’someone’ ” he — pointed at Skibicki—“stays out here.”
“Pretty good figuring for a West Pointer,” Skibicki said, slapping him on the back.
“Take me downtown,” Boomer said.
“Excuse me, the lady at the front desk said you were with the Secret Service, and I need to talk to you.”
Stewart looked over the man who had approached him from across the lobby and decided he didn’t like what he saw. Whoever he was, this man spelled trouble — the eyes that were flickering around the lobby, taking in everything, the untucked shirt with slight bulge underneath the right shoulder that suggested a concealed weapon and, most importantly, the uneasy feeling Stewart picked up. an instinct that he’d learned to trust.
“I’m Agent Stewart. How can I help you?” Stewart edged sideways, looking over the man’s shoulder. The rest of the lobby was clear, and Stewart could see two of his men watching them carefully, so he felt somewhat more at ease.
Boomer dug out his special Federal ID and showed it to Stewart.
“Major Boomer Watson, Delta Force.”
Oh shit, Stewart thought. Not a gunslinger from Bragg.
He’d dealt with Delta before and had not enjoyed the experience.
He hadn’t been told that any of them were going to be involved here.
“Special Agent Mike Stewart. Presidential security detail.
What can I do for you?”
“Is there somewhere we can talk?” Boomer asked.
Stewart checked his watch. He had an appointment with his counterpart in the Honolulu PD in thirty minutes.
“Reference?” ‘
“Reference security for the President’s trip,” Boomer replied.
“I’ve got a meeting in thirty minutes,” Stewart said.
“You need to be more specific. I wasn’t briefed that your unit had any jurisdiction or responsibility here on the island.”
“We don’t,” Boomer acknowledged.
“I’m not here in an official capacity. I showed you my ID to let you know I am legitimate.”
“What can I do for you?” Stewart asked, weary of the roundabout conversation.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Boomer asked.
Stewart frowned. There was something familar about the man.
“I roomed with your second detail Beast squad leader,” Boomer said.
“You’re class of’eighty-one?” Stewart asked.
“Third company in Beast?”
“Right.”
“So — I repeat my question — what can I do for you?”
“Can we talk somewhere private?” Boomer repeated.
“You just told me you’re not here in an official function,” Stewart said.
“I am here on official business and I don’t have time for games. You got something for me, lay it out.”
“I think there’s a military plot against the President,” Boomer said in an even voice.
Two hours later. Boomer was exhausted. He was seated with Agent Stewart in a room on the floor below that reserved for the President.
He’d laid out the story from the beginning, including his part in the killing of the two men found at Kaena Point — leaving out Skibicki’s name. Stewart had made several phone calls to check on their story.
Boomer wasn’t certain how well his theory had been received but he knew one thing — he had crossed his Rubicon and he could not recross. The fact that Stewart was a West Pointer had worried him when he’d first spotted him from the hillside in Waiwa, but the more he thought about it, the more Boomer realized this might be a good break. He very much doubted that Stewart was in the employ of The Line.
If he was. Boomer would find out very shortly.
“You’ve heard nothing from this Major Trace who supposedly has evidence of the existence of this organization called The Line?” Stewart asked.
“Nothing since she called after leaving the stadium,” Boomer said.
“Philadelphia PD has no report of a shooting at the Army-Navy game,” Stewart said, giving him the results of at least one of his phone calls. The only confirmation I have of your story is that two bodies were found up at Kaena Point and that they were killed with 9mm rounds.”
He looked hard at the man across from him.
“But that does little other than make your confession of murder legitimate.
It says nothing of a plot against the President.”
Boomer had said all he could.
Stewart leaned back in his chair, then picked up his special Satcom phone. He punched in a special code and accessed the special link with Air Force One.
“This is Agent Stewart. Is General Maxwell on board?”
There was a brief pause, then Stewart continued.
“General, this is Secret Service Agent Mike Stewart in Honolulu. We talked at Fort Myer at General Faulkner’s funeral. I have a rather strange situation here that I’d like to run by you.” Stewart proceeded to succinctly relay what Boomer had told him in about five minutes, with a few interruptions as he was obviously asked a question. When he got done, he listened for several minutes then put the phone down.