Murray McDonald - Critical Error

“Remember the target is Tim Wilkinson, Room 216 and watch out for the woman he’s with. She may be armed.” He reminded his team of the instructions he had received on the voicemail.

Normally, the four would have gone in, weapons up, shooting. But this was America not a third world war zone, so they exchanged fatigues for slacks and sports jackets which, truth be told, were far better camouflage than they had ever worn. Amongst the thousands of businessmen travelling through New York, they quite literally disappeared. The clothes were not the only change in operational procedure for these men. Their weapons were rather more discreet. They were silenced, concealed and, thanks to whoever had arranged the mission, South African in origin. Each man had a BXP silenced sub machine gun, a South African version of the Uzi and a Vektor SP2 silenced pistol. It seemed no stone was left unturned to ensure that the mercenaries would not be confused for Americans.

“We’re in!” Jen’s ear piece alerted him to Team Two’s progress.

“Excellent, take the back stairs and come up from the emergency exit. We’re just coming into the lobby and will come in from the opposite end of the corridor,” said Jens as though he were talking to the man next to him. As they entered the lobby, both laughed quietly and headed casually to the elevators, just two businessmen returning to their room after a meal.

***

“Sir, you’re going to wear a hole in the carpet,” said Clark taking the Chairman’s arm and guiding him back to the small sofa in the corner of their king-sized room. The Senator had objected vehemently to the hotel’s view of what constituted a King-Sized room. Even the TV was small. However, there was nothing small about the impact the screen was having on the Senator as the news network continued to play the footage of a tanker exploding in Maine.

“It’s him, I know it is,” he said to himself, transfixed by the burning forest in the background.

“Come on, whatever’s happening doesn’t involve tankers in the middle of a highway.”

“You have no idea,” he said shaking his head.

Their train journey had passed off without incident and a quick cab ride had taken them to the Howard Johnson where, as directed, Senator Baker had checked in as Tim Wilkinson. He used the driver’s license that Sam had given him six years earlier as ID. He had offered to take two rooms but Clark had refused. She made it very clear that she would not leave his side until they could get help. It had been four hours since they had arrived and over seven hours since Sam had warned his brother.

“Something has happened to him. I’m telling you, there is no way he would take this long to get to New York. We need to reach out to someone we can trust.”

“I’m sure he’s fine.” But Clark’s protestations were wearing thin. “I think we should give him another hour.” She checked her watch. “If we’ve not heard anything by 10pm, we’ll make a move.”

Senator Baker was unconvinced. If there were a person in the world you could rely on, it was Sam Baker and if he were coming, he’d have been there by then.

Hay Adams Hotel

Washington

As the door to the Federal Suite closed, the bedroom door opened and the Governor of Idaho, John Mellon, joined the Horsemen. He had listened in on the meeting and wasted no time in offering his opinion.

“The little shit’s hiding something, you know,” he announced to the group as he took a seat.

Mellon was unknown to Russell. He was the fifth member of the group. He also, unknown to Russell, would be his running mate on the Vice President’s ticket. Mellon was the richest, most obnoxious and right wing politician in the land and had no chance of becoming President but as Russell’s Vice President, he would be the proverbial heartbeat away from the seat. As much as people loved Russell, they loathed the old bastard from Texas. The young Russell would be doing a Dick Cheney, just using the old war horse as an adviser and bringing some experience to his young presidency.

Everything had been running perfectly smoothly until Senator Baker had thrown his hat in the ring. The loose cannon Baker was a vote winner and had his allies. Of course, Russell had the support of the President thanks to the Horsemen’s funding support. Unfortunately, their influence over the sitting President did not extend further. He was his own man and had made it clear to them on many occasions. Russell had ingratiated himself as instructed but again his influence only went so far. They tried in vain to discredit Baker but nothing stuck, despite their control of the media. They had tried to get him to accept the Vice President’s ticket, much to Mellon’s objections, but the idea was just to get him off the Presidential ticket. Mellon’s Vice Presidency ticket could have been resolved at a later date. Baker had flatly refused. As the numbers started to swing in his favor, it was, as ever, Lawson who had voiced the need for a permanent solution. Senator Charles Baker was in their way and had to be removed. Mellon agreed without hesitation. Russell was informed and tasked with the job. Normally, they would have dealt with it quietly but it was agreed that a strong message would be sent to all those in Russell’s camp. Plus, of course, when Russell was assassinated, three months into his presidency, as was the plan, Mellon would be made President. Mellon would have something on each of Russell’s team to ensure complete loyalty and compliance.

“Perfect,” said Lawson as he laid out his plan to the group.

“Well, we’ve been assured it will be dealt within the next 24 hours,” reminded Walter.

“Jesus, Walter, don’t be so fucking naive. The CIA could fuck up a piss up in a brewery,” said an irritable Lawson. “However, I’m confident it will be dealt with in the next twenty four hours but only because I had arranged an insurance policy for just this eventuality. A certain contractor who has worked for me on a number of occasions is on the case.”

The White House

Situation Room

Johnson, the Director of the CIA, grabbed Russell by the elbow as they made their way into the room and guided him to a corner, away from prying eyes and ears.

“We have our target cornered.”

“Excellent, where is he?”

“Our face recognition software picked him up at Newark train station as he was rather stupidly hailing a cab. Amateur. Anyway from there, we tracked the cab, discovered he was dropped off at the Howard Johnson and from the timings, found he checked in as a Tim Wilkinson. No idea where that came from but anyway, we have a team about to take him out.”

“Make sure your guys don’t fuck it up again,” warned Russell, starting to regain his authority following his meeting with the Horsemen. “So what’s the story here?” he asked looking back at the Situation Room.

“The Palestinians have got their hands on another nuke. I don’t understand how careless people can be with these things. I blame the Commies personally,” replied Johnson conspiratorially.

“How good is the intel?”

“We’re told they’re 90 % certain it’s real. When the Israelis give you anything over 50 % it means it’s serious. 90 % means they bloody well know it’s coming.”

“Shit, any ideas where they’re targeting?”

“Nope, not a clue. America is all they can give us. But I have to say we would normally have heard something ourselves. There’s been no increase in chatter which we would expect when they’re trying to pull off something this big. So I’m not sure they’re right.”