Andrew Britton - The American

I-95 was, for the most part, a seemingly endless stretch of empty road bordered on both sides by towering stands of pine. He had been tempted to open the throttle, to get some fun out of the ride, but the desire was tempered by an unusually heavy police presence and the Virginia State Police Cessna 182s that drifted far overhead. Still, the open air was a huge relief from the confines of the barn, where the locked door and the threat of the realtor seemed to bring the walls closer each day.

He made the turn onto US Route 50, also known as New York Avenue. Vanderveen left Prince George’s County at the same time he crossed the Anacostia, pushing west into the southeastern edge of the District. As the Washington Convention Center loomed large in front of him, he turned left onto 7th Street, the Honda’s big engine ripping through the calm air and bringing some of the more complacent tourists to life. He grinned at their startled expressions as he crossed Independence going south, turning his head ever so slightly to look down the length of the road.

The sight failed to stir any emotion. The debris had long since been cleared, the burnt-out hulks of the vehicles currently resting in a disused airplane hangar at Dulles, where teams from the FBI’s Forensic Unit and the National Transportation Safety Board continued to scrape at the scorched surfaces in vain search of evidence.

Vanderveen’s interest was nothing more than that of a curious motorist turning to peer at a roadside wreck. He turned from the scene even before the open space gave way to an endless procession of parked cars and building fronts.

The Gangplank Marina stretches from the Francis Case Memorial Bridge to the end of Water Street. Across the channel lies the close-clipped grass and brightly colored flags of the East Potomac Golf Club. The 310-slip marina, which is almost always full, is shadowed, as is the club, by the towering presence of the Washington Monument to the west.

There are boats of all descriptions docked at the marina: 29' Boston Whalers, a diesel-powered Catalina, smaller catamarans, sailboats, and a sleek, 58' fiberglass Fairline Squadron — one of the largest motorboats at the port.

One yacht stands out from the crowd, however, and it was this craft that held Vanderveen’s attention as he perused the walkway next to the marina, skirting small groups of tourists while keeping his distance from the slips themselves. The USS Sequoia was slightly more than 100' long, with most of the main deck, including the pilothouse, enclosed by teak-and-glass paneling. It was his first look at the boat, but Vanderveen knew its history. He knew that Nixon sailed down the Potomac eighty-eight times on the presidential yacht, and that it was the setting for Eisenhower’s meetings with Churchill and Field Marshal Montgomery on the eve of World War II. Vanderveen had also learned that the Sequoia was sold into private hands by President Carter in 1977, after which it deteriorated for several years in a shipyard until restoration began in 1984.

Now owned by the Sequoia Presidential Yacht Group, LLC, it is available for charter, but use of the boat by the president or the vice president takes precedence over arrangements made by private citizens.

Will Vanderveen knew all of this, just as he knew that President Brenneman had already reserved, through the White House Office of Public Affairs, use of the Sequoia on the 26th day of November.

At first, he knew far less about Brenneman than he did about the yacht, and was confused as to why the president would want to sail the frigid waters so late in the year. It was not until later that he discovered, by browsing microfiche at the Richmond County Library, that Brenneman was an avid sailor and the proud owner of a Thomason ketch, which is docked at his home in Boston Harbor.

Vanderveen guessed that Italian and French leaders would find the cold wind whipping over the Potomac far less enjoyable. He smiled at the mental image that accompanied this thought and studied the Sequoia through a pair of Ray-Bans, his face partially hidden beneath a faded baseball cap. At one point he had considered an attack on the presidential yacht itself. The assassinations could have easily been carried out with a single underwater mine such as the Swedish Rockan; he had seen the same device used effectively in the Strait of Hormuz and other places. He knew that the Secret Service had no protocol in place for dealing with such a threat, and that by close-tethering the Rockan’s steel case to the Sequoia ’s anchor, he could further reduce its acoustic signature and impede their obsolete countermine equipment.

At the same time, he was leery of the mine’s sensitive electronic components, not trusting a remote device to function correctly unless he had devised it by his own hand. The principle, that he was taught so long ago and lived by still, was “simplicity equals success.” By limiting the number of components, by testing the firing system over and over again, only then could he be sure of his work.

The waterfront made him nervous, too. The few roads leading away from the area would be manned by dozens of Secret Service agents, ready to instantly seal off the perimeter in the event of an attack. He couldn’t abide the thought of being trapped in a tightening noose of Federal agents, even for the chance to see the Sequoia sink to the bottom of the Potomac. Supposing, of course, that he survived the encounter, the ensuing years spent rotting away in a Federal penitentiary would not be worth a few rapturous weeks of national anguish.

No, he much preferred to live through the event. With 3,000 pounds of SEMTEX H strategically placed on the motorcade’s route, survival would be a definite possibility, and success all but guaranteed.

Walking back to the Honda, Vanderveen swung onto the leather saddle and turned the key in the ignition. Kicking the bike into gear, he gunned the engine and sped off down 7th, heading north toward Pennsylvania Avenue. There was still a lot to see and do before leaving the city.

“I can’t fucking believe you, Ryan. Andrews came down on me like a ton of shit for your little escapade in Alexandria. You know what he called it? Untenable. He used that word at least a dozen times. Did you hear me tell you not to leave a mark on him? Did you?”

Once again, Ryan found himself seated across from Jonathan Harper, and once again, the conversation had taken a turn for the worse.

He decided to go on the offensive. There wasn’t a lot to lose either way. “I’ll go willingly, John. I already told you I wanted out, but I’m your-”

“What?” A grim smile played at the corners of his mouth. “You’re my what? Best shot at getting Vanderveen? Is that what you were going to say? Because the director doesn’t believe that anymore, and I’m not so sure of it myself.”

“Nobody else has managed anything-”

“And nobody else has shot dead a well-known businessman on foreign soil, Kealey. Nobody else has assaulted a prisoner in Federal custody. Every time that I tell you to keep things quiet, you turn what should be a simple operation into a fucking spectacle.”

Ryan thought that he had taken it too far this time because Harper was using his last name. It was a rare occurrence. Against his better judgment, he pressed on: “And ninety-two dead on Connecticut Avenue, John? Eight Secret Service agents and a U.S. senator dead? What do you call that?”

“It’s because we don’t play by their rules, Ryan, that we’re better than them-”

“It’s because we don’t play by their rules that we’re fucking losing.” The words were spit out, along with the last of his self-restraint.

A long silence ensued as they stared each other down over Harper’s desk, each waiting for the anger to dissipate in the other.