Scott Roarke 01 - Executive Actions Read online

  Teddy Lodge was due to arrive by motorcade from Albany at 12:45 P.M. He would rendezvous at the corner of Front and Union Street with his police escort, just as Bobby had done years before. The local Boy Scouts troop, three high school bands, five fire trucks, and veterans from World War II, Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, Afghanistan, and Iraqi Freedom would accompany him uptown.

  Lodge needed a good showing. The city, the county and the entire state were extremely important to him.

  The primary process recently changed. State officials across the country scrapped the Super Tuesday primaries, which too often catapulted an untested front runner into national prominence. The new approach grouped convention delegates through regional elections, with the East, South, Midwest and West alternating in order every four years.

  Iowa and New Hampshire retained their starting gate positions in the presidential calendar. The new plan contributed to a fairer method, whereby “political heat” would have to develop over time rather than on an arbitrary Tuesday in mid-March.

  Seasoned candidates saw it as an improvement. Those sprinters lacking staying power, who previously benefited from a quick start, did not.

  This year, the East was last to vote. Not all states in a region held their primaries the same Tuesday. Yet, given the fact that there were still many states in any geographic area, bundling still occured. And so it was in June. New York, Connecticut, Delaware, Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, Vermont, West Virginia, and the District of Columbia would cast their votes at various times during the month.

  New York and Rhode Island were last on the calendar. Rhode Island held 32 Democratic Party convention delegates, while New York remained crucial to any candidate’s chance of winning the nomination. Its Democratic primary was worth 294 votes.

  By all accounts, the only one standing between the congressman and his party’s nomination was the respected and seasoned Governor of Montana, who retained the slimmest of leads. Every handshake counted now and the two candidates were due to face off in a debate tomorrow night. Ultimately Lodge believed he would pull Republican votes in a national election. But first things first. He had a busy day.

  At Promenade Hill, a park rising 500 feet above the Hudson River, band members began tuning up. The Hudson High tuba players drowned out the clarinets and the teenage drummers practiced marching, their snare drums bouncing on their thighs. Many of their parents had seen RFK years ago. This was their chance to reconnect with their own childhood.

  A mile up the street, Roger C. Waterman walked out of the St. Charles. He crossed to Sutty’s, a vintage candy, peanuts and soda shop and ordered a cherry cola. Waterman had checked into the hotel late in the evening two days earlier. He had visited Hudson once a month since February, buying antiques for his store in Soho and perusing galleries like TSL, Ltd. housed in an old bakery on Columbia Street.

  Waterman had a self-assured upper crust manner about him. He looked to be about 40 and spoke in only precise, polite terms. His tweed jacket fit him like he was born to wear it and his thin wire frame glasses completed his look. Waterman was a walking advertisement for Sotheby’s and he was well-liked at all of the Warren Street antique shops where he offered very fair prices.

  As Waterman sat and sipped his soda, he casually gazed at the near corner. Workers were putting six bridge chairs in place and testing the microphone.

  The honor of introducing the congressman would go to Mayor Tommy Kenton. Waterman understood he was a popular mayor, casual and friendly; the second in his family to hold the job. His full time job was as a real estate attorney. And since real estate was booming in Columbia County as more and more New Yorkers acquired property, most buyers heard that the Hudson mayor was the man to represent their transaction. Kenton was becoming so successful that he was even thinking of a run for Congress himself.

  Waterman imagined the excitement Hudsonians would be feeling. So much history coming to their quiet city. He smiled. After finishing his last sip he stood and reached into his pocket. He decided to leave a tip for twice the amount of the soda. “Thanks so much,” he told the old owner. “You’ve got the best cherry cola from here to Buffalo. And I’ve tried them all.”

  “Thanks,” was all he got back. The proprietor didn’t speak much.

  “Probably see you in a few weeks. Leaving in the morning.”

  “Gonna watch today?” It was the longest sentence Waterman ever heard out of the man.

  “Maybe a little,” Waterman answered. With that he waved, walked out and returned to room #315 in the St. Charles where he packed the antique picture frames, art deco jewelry and crystal fruit bowls he’d bought which meant absolutely nothing to him.

  Washington, D.C.

  The President despised polls. They only reminded him of the last election and the wrong way politicians make decisions. As a navy man and a senator he’d seen too many presidents and their advisors stick their fingers in the air to determine which way the wind blew. Now he was beginning to hear the same thing about his stand on Pakistan and India. “We can’t do that, we’ll lose the vote.” “What’s this going to mean in November?”

  “Fuck getting re-elected. I’m probably getting too old for these ungodly hours anyway!” he told his chief of staff.

  But, of course, he wanted to win again and he had to look at the polls.

  Right now, five Democrats were left in the running. Only two counted. Lodge and his old navy buddy, Governor Lamden. Lodge pulled closer to the governor day by day but would run out of time to move ahead. That was a good thing. The truth of the matter was that in a head-to-head beauty contest with the president, Lodge might beat him where Lamden wouldn’t. He was younger, more attractive and tougher. That’s why the president counted on Henry Lamden to take New York and the nomination. That’s why he hated the polls. Especially when they were right.

  What did President Morgan Taylor have to show for his first term? More stalemates on the Hill. More terrorist scares. More attacks within America’s borders. Saber rattling between India and Pakistan that threatened to escalate every day. More dead ends in the Middle East. Slow economic growth. Try as he might, he had almost nothing to brag about.

  For now, most polls had him leading Governor Lamden by a good twelve points and Lodge by 24. But he had been in politics long enough to know that those numbers would change.

  Deep down he was worried. Lodge was a dynamic figure and masterful in debates. Some saw him as a force of nature constantly gaining strength in the political storm. To Morgan Taylor he was more like the storm itself; a Category 5 hurricane building in warm waters ready to reek political havoc at landfall.

  Not that the president wasn’t capable of calling up a tempest as well. He had graduated from Annapolis in the top ten percent of his class, served as an F/A-18C pilot assigned to the USS Carl Vinson aircraft carrier battle group, and did a Persian Gulf tour of duty with her. He used his military record as an edge in the last election, though he couldn’t officially talk about his missions much. He wasn’t sure his time logged in the single-seat Hornet would hold sway this November.

  Following his discharge from the service, Commander Morgan Taylor, USN (Ret.) signed with Boeing, the parent company of McDonnell Douglas which manufactured his high performance jet. Other high tech firms pursued the decorated flier, but Taylor felt allegiance to his hometown Seattle and the company that employed many friends. His experience helped him advance, but business was not his calling. Government was. He used his contacts to wrangle an appointment at State Department as a military strategist. This was another part of his life he couldn’t discuss on the campaign trail. Then a Navy friend–turned combat advisor for MSNBC encouraged him to run for the Senate from Washington State. It was a good year to do so. Support came easily, thanks to Navy contractors and colleagues in aerospace. Twelve years later Senator and Lucy Taylor, the one-time head of the United Fund, moved into the White House.

  Morgan Taylor, a fraction under si
x feet, usually appeared in public wearing a black pin striped Brooks Brothers suit. But actually he preferred loose fitting blue turtlenecks, his leather navy flight jacket and khaki slacks. He maintained a rigorous navy exercise routine, which pleased his White House doctors. As a result his weight hadn’t drifted north of 195 pounds for twenty years. He still favored regulation length hair, which kept most of the gray from being too obvious.

  Though he was Chief Executive, his heart remained in the air. Friends said it wouldn’t take much for Taylor, even at age 53, to climb back into the cockpit of his fighter. He always kept the possibility alive by staying current on flight SIMs twice each year at Andrews. More often he played on a special game version the Navy department loaded onto his PC; one you wouldn’t find in any stores.

  Morgan Taylor figured that if his day job didn’t pan out, he always could re-up for the reserves. And he wasn’t joking.

  Reflecting on it all, the president was worried more than he let on. He hadn’t felt quite this anxious since his was shot down in Iraq during a classified combat mission gone bad during Desert Storm years ago. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as he considered the possibilities that lay ahead. Maybe it was the damned McLaughlin Group that set him off today or the morning security briefing prepared by the CIA. Either way, he was in a foul mood.

  “Okay, worst case, Bernsie. Lodge grabs New York in an upset. How do we go after him?” the president asked his chief of staff, John Bernstein, who he always called “Bernsie.”

  Bernstein had been with Taylor since his years in the Senate. He was ten years older than Morgan Taylor. The president constantly told him he needed take some pounds off. Some meant 35. But Bernsie wasn’t the type to go to the gym. Instead, he hid his frame inside pull-over sweaters and loose fitting pants. But his appearance was also part of his deception. He was shrewd, knowledgeable, and daring. He ran the White House and had a direct line to corporate leaders across America. Important ones. That made him an influential fund raiser and a good pulse taker. The joke around Washington was that John Bernstein never slept. Just when people thought they were returning phone calls too late into the night to reach Bernsie, he’d pick up.

  John Bernstein was the man the Morgan Taylor relied on the most even though they rarely agreed on anything. That was part of the attraction. He would willingly engage the president on policy and philosophy. Their differences made Taylor think twice on every critical governmental decision and three times on political ones.

  “Won’t happen. Maybe Lamden’s VP, but I think even Henry doesn’t like him.”

  “What’s his position on India and Pakistan?”

  “Hands off. At least for now.” Bernsie complained. “He hasn’t gotten into it. Personally, I think he’s just not ready to run the country.”

  “You saying we fight him on experience?” the president asked.

  “Inexperience. Hell, he’s from Vermont. Three electoral votes. Not a big springboard to the White House. Just ask Howard Dean.”

  “Correction. He’s transplanted from Massachusetts. And they’ve got 12.,” the president knew political history like the cockpit of an F/A-18. “And Massachusetts has some bragging rights to John Adams, John Quincy Adams and, in case you’ve forgotten, a man named Kennedy.” He was neady to continue, “And…”

  “All right. All right. Then if he gets the nomination we’ll hit his inexperience head on. And his age. And build on it.”

  “It didn’t stop George W., Clinton, or Carter,” Taylor replied.

  “But he doesn’t have much going for him in foreign politics.”

  Again the president said, “That didn’t stop George W., Clinton, or Carter. And it won’t fly because he’s getting more vocal about the Middle East and Israel’s tactics.”

  “Pretty radical for a Democrat,” Bernstein observed.

  The president folded his arms and considered the argument. He recognized it was a personal issue for Bernstein. “You’re right about that. That’s why I think he won’t take New York. Too many Jewish voters and his rhetoric isn’t the typical ‘Rah rah Israel.’”

  “On the other hand, he’s fluent in goddamned Arabic and that gives him a leg up with the Muslim leaders,” the president asserted. “Hell, he gets more fucking airtime than the weatherman in a blizzard. But I don’t know about New York. He could still grab it. If he does we play up his soft support of Israel. America’s not ready to ignore Israel.”

  Bernsie nodded in agreement. Maybe that was the tact to take. He hoped New York voters would make it a moot issue.

  11:50 A.M.

  Today it would be the Galil SAR, an Israeli-made assault rifle. SAR standing for Short Assault Rifle. McAlister didn’t even note that irony in his choice. Israeli. Developed after the 1967 war when the Israeli Army determined they needed a lighter combat rifle. He chose the weapon because it was compact; the shortest assault rifle in the world at only 33.07 inches long. Broken down, his 8-pound, 27-ounce Galil could be hidden in suitcases, passing as ordinary travel items, though he’d never be foolish enough to take it on a plane. It had a collapsible sniper stock with a built-in cheekpiece and a detachable 30-round magazine. However, he planned on firing only one silenced 5.56mm NATO bullet.

  He attached an Israeli Military Industries IMI mount with a M15 rail and a Colt 6x scope. The M15 rail positioned the optics lower making it easier to sight. He preferred his configuration over the bulkier, heavier Elcan scope. Equipped as the rifle was, McAlister had tracked targets 300 to 500 yards away with deadly accuracy. Early this afternoon his intended victim would be barely 215 feet in front of him. McAlister’s single bullet, exiting at 2,953 feet per second, would find flesh and bone before he relaxed his finger.

  When he finished his job, he wouldn’t escape. He would simply disappear.

  CHAPTER

  2

  The Secret Service had an ironic origin. It was established on April 14, 1865, by President Abraham Lincoln, though it didn’t do him any good. Its initial charge was to prevent counterfeiting in the United States, not protect the Chief Executive. So when John Wilkes Booth pulled the trigger on the very same day the United States Secret Service was created, no federal officer was there to protect him.

  It took the assassination of two more presidents, James A. Garfield in 1881 and William McKinley in 1901, for Congress to finally add presidential protection to the duties of the Secret Service.

  Today, authorized under Title 18, United States Code, Section 3056, the Secret Service is guardian of the Executive Mansion and the neighboring grounds, the Main Treasury Building and Annex and other presidential offices. They watch over the president and vice president, members of their immediate families, the temporary official residences of the vice president and foreign diplomatic missions in Washington, D.C., and around the globe. And following the assassination of Senator Robert Kennedy, the Secret Service has been assigned to protect all official, credible, viable, major presidential candidates and their spouses within 120 days of a general presidential election.

  The election was 133 days away.

  Albany, New York

  Teddy Lodge enjoyed it all. The attention and the power. He rarely got enough sleep, but he trained for campaigning like a soldier preparing for battle.

  His routine began every morning at five, with 200 pushups, 200 crunches, and a two-mile run in almost any weather. He didn’t have an ounce of excess body fat. It had been part of his ritual since he recovered from a near fatal van accident as a teenager.

  Following his protein breakfast, Lodge-the-athlete turned into Congressman Lodge, answering constituent’s e-mail and reviewing research on a bill regarding auto emission standards. By 10 A.M. he closed up his Dell laptop, took his last sip of herbal tea, looked to the eastern sky and the Berkshire mountains in the distance, and anticipated the knock at the door a moment before it happened.

  “Congressman, the governor is ready in the lobby.”

  It was his campaign manager Geoff Newman. Ne
wman, cold and calculating, was said to know Teddy Lodge better than anyone.

  Outsiders could never penetrate the inner circle that surrounded Lodge and Newman. Newman had a lock on Lodge’s psyche. And Lodge knew that Newman’s loyalty was unquestionable. It had been that way for years.

  Geoff Newman had transferred to Harvard Essex Academy the same year as Lodge. He was a portly teenager who engaged in a seemingly never-ending battle to keep his weight down. What came easy to him was organizing complex thoughts far beyond his years. They called him “the brain.” While classmates at the elite North Shore boarding school struggled through the rigorous course load, he completed the assignments with ease. Though he was extremely smart, he wasn’t popular. That hadn’t changed in the years since; neither had his weight issues. But Lodge recognized his strengths and relied on him; particularly after his accident.

  According to interviews, it was said that the only reason Newman was alive today was because he didn’t ski. A number of Teddy’s closest friends were killed in a car accident on their way up Mount Washington for a weekend in 1975. Newman wasn’t invited. And Teddy narrowly survived.

  But according to published biographies, Newman visited Lodge in the hospital, the only real friend left to do so. A few years later they reconnected at Yale. During their college years they developed an unusually strong bond. Few words were needed between them. They spoke an almost non-verbal shorthand that served them well over the years. Lodge made Newman his chief political strategist, his principal advisor and now his presidential campaign director.

  Newman was a good deal like Morgan Taylor’s chief advisor. Bullish. Controlling. Determined. Argumentative. But unlike John Bernstein, insiders complained that Geoff Newman ran more than the congressman’s campaign. He controlled a great deal of his life.