Chapter 1
9 am. The Rosy Bottom Golf Course, Sweetfellow, Florida
The President stepped to the tee box wearing a starched, pressed, white, linen, tailor-fitted golf shirt that fell loosely over his full waist and loose, custom, white trousers with cuffs. His white cap was emblazoned with the bold, red logo, POTASS, under which were small-lettered words, Power Of The American Superior Sovereign. Placing his ball on his tee, he stood tall over the others in his group, with his silver hair and wrinkle-free face glistening in the morning sun.
He observed a party of three elderly golfers still putting on the par three, eighteenth hole one hundred eighty yards ahead of him. He frowned and leaned toward a golf cart parked obscurely in the woods, giving it the “thumbs down” gesture. The cart immediately roared away, crashing through a carefully manicured rose and hyacinth garden, knocking down two newly planted magnolia trees, and sped to the eighteenth hole. Jumping from the cart were three men and one woman, all trim, six feet tall, black-suited, and grim-faced, with crew cuts and wearing sunglasses. They confronted the two elderly men and a woman. After a brief exchange of words, these Secret Service officers threw the two old guys on the ground and were attempting to snap on handcuffs when the woman began swatting at them with her putter. Up drove a second cart ordered by The President, overloaded with five more Men In Black who bounced out and threw the old woman to the ground, muffling her screams with a fist full of handkerchiefs. The President ignored the commotion and continued to play.
The newly appointed secretary of state, Michael Emerson, saw immediately that the multitude of black suits and old golfers were in danger of being KO-ed by The President’s ball. Despite his hunched forward posture and bowed legs, Emerson jumped up and down, shouting “Fore! Fore!” The barely five-foot, six-inch tall appointee then saw the ball slice. The green cap with the logo, Rosy Bottom Golf, fell from his head, exposing his red, splotched, bald pate with a puff of brown hair over each ear. He stood momentarily to tuck in his electric-purple shirttail that hung over his paunch, then jumped up and down again. With his right arm held straight out to alert the group ahead that the ball was flying to the right of the hole, he again shouted, “Fore! Fore!”
The President was placing his nine iron in his bag as his low-flying ball landed in the back of a sand trap well away from the green.
Chief of Staff Joe Smith stood with his left leg crossed over his right, showing off his yellow with black squares, thin-waisted, leg-hugging Bonobos. He leaned on his pitching wedge as he waited for the group ahead to do The President’s bidding, rope the old men and woman and, like hunters, lash them to the front of their carts. He wore his bright green ivy cap high on his forehead, showing off his square jaw, rugged cheekbones, and unnaturally black hair for a man of sixty.
The leader of the Secret Service shouted to The President as their carts drove away, “Two bucks and a doe!”
The President raised his thumb, then turned to Smith. “Go on, go on! We don’t have all day.”
Smith placed his ball on the tee and stroked the ball smoothly. The high-arching ball came to rest within a foot of the hole.
Emerson swung as hard as he could with his three iron and sent a low-trajectory ball bouncing along the fairway from thirty feet away to the fringes of the green.
The fourth member of the party, seventy-eight-year-old Labor Secretary Hardy Workman, watched with a rigid, poker-stiff back. He wore conservative, solid black Nike shirt and trousers. His furrowed face with heavy jowls and hanging neck folds was dotted with age spots. With a score already well over 100, he pocketed his ball.
The President jumped in his jazzed-up golf cart with the gold-plated monograms dotted all over it and a custom-made license plate, all marked with only six letters, POTASS. With oversized wheels and a souped-up engine on a 650-amp controller, he roared away at thirty miles an hour. Three golf carts loaded with black-suited Secret Service men and women followed closely.
Emerson, Smith, and Workman crowded into a Rosy Bottom Club cart and followed well behind. The President was already at the hole with his putter as they parked. Emerson walked to the sand trap and pointed. “There’s your ball, Mr. President.”
“No. That ball is marked, ‘POTASS 3’. It’s Workman’s ball. Mine is a . . .” He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a ball, and looked at it. “Mine’s a ‘POTASS 2’.” He walked to the hole with his back to the others and, with the “POTASS 2” still in his hand, reached in the hole. “Look. A hole in one! That’s fantastic. No other president has ever done that! And my score for the match will be under seventy! Eisenhower will turn in his grave.”
Smith and Workman clapped their hands. “Great shot, and a fantastic round of golf!” they said, as Emerson retrieved the “POTASS 3” ball and handed it to Workman.
In a private room in the clubhouse, they were served their beverages; scotch and waters for Smith and Workman, a Virgin Mary for Emerson, and a Diet Coke for The President.
The President turned to his recently appointed secretary of state. “Mr. Emerson, what are your ideas about foreign policy?”
Emerson’s lips twitched as he began to laugh. “You mean ‘Fore-In’? Like our golf today, I yell ‘Fore’! and you say, ‘In the hole.’ Get it? That’s your ‘Fore-in’ policy.” He began an intensifying laughter.
The others looked solemnly at him.
“ ‘Fore-in’ policy. Don’t you guys get it?”
After turning his back on the jokester for a few seconds, the President abruptly twisted, revealing a sour face. “Give me one of your specifics about,” he paused a moment before spelling out, “F . . . O . . . R . . . A . . . I . . . N . . . policy.”
Emerson cleared his throat with an “A-hem” and said quietly, “You are wrong to be so hard on the Chinese. With all their investments in America, they own a considerable part of The United States already. They are our largest business partner. And their trade agreements are a big reason for our current economic success. We . . . you . . . should drop these horrific tariffs on imported goods from their country.”
The President stood and gestured to two Secret Service officers standing outside the door. They brought brushes to wipe lint from his golf shirt. As a Secret Service man opened the door for him to leave, he looked to the wall behind Emerson’s head as he said, “Emerson, you’re fired. I don’t like your foreign policy and you’re dressed like a circus clown. You act like one too. Look at Smith. He’s outfitted like I expect of a man in a prominent White House office.”
Smith smiled as he stood at attention with his drink in his hand.
The President next addressed Smith. “You’ll have to improve your game before we play again. You’re fired too. Use the free time to brush up on your game.”
Smith’s drink slipped, crashing to the floor, without movement of any part of his hand or body.
“Workman, you played a masterful game of golf. I enjoyed having you in my foursome. I’ll see you back at Capitol Hill.”
As the door was closing behind the departing president, Emerson stormed from the clubhouse. When passing the President’s golf cart, he stopped and kicked the tires repeatedly. With his hands making the shape of a megaphone around his mouth, he yelled at the top of his voice, “This cart should be labelled PŎT-ĂSS, not PŌ-TAHSS ! He’s not the Power Of The American Superior Sovereign. He’s the Power of the Asshole Sovereign Supreme! He’s POTASSHOLE!”
Two policemen promptly came and led him away, kicking and screaming, “POTASSHOLE! POTASSHOLE! POTASSHOLE!”
9 am. The Rosy Bottom Golf Course, Sweetfellow, Florida
The President stepped to the tee box wearing a starched, pressed, white, linen, tailor-fitted golf shirt that fell loosely over his full waist and loose, custom, white trousers with cuffs. His white cap was emblazoned with the bold, red logo, POTASS, under which were small-lettered words, Power Of The American Superior Sovereign. Placing his ball on his tee, he stood tall over the others in his group, with his silver hair and wrinkle-free face glistening in the morning sun.
He observed a party of three elderly golfers still putting on the par three, eighteenth hole one hundred eighty yards ahead of him. He frowned and leaned toward a golf cart parked obscurely in the woods, giving it the “thumbs down” gesture. The cart immediately roared away, crashing through a carefully manicured rose and hyacinth garden, knocking down two newly planted magnolia trees, and sped to the eighteenth hole. Jumping from the cart were three men and one woman, all trim, six feet tall, black-suited, and grim-faced, with crew cuts and wearing sunglasses. They confronted the two elderly men and a woman. After a brief exchange of words, these Secret Service officers threw the two old guys on the ground and were attempting to snap on handcuffs when the woman began swatting at them with her putter. Up drove a second cart ordered by The President, overloaded with five more Men In Black who bounced out and threw the old woman to the ground, muffling her screams with a fist full of handkerchiefs. The President ignored the commotion and continued to play.
The newly appointed secretary of state, Michael Emerson, saw immediately that the multitude of black suits and old golfers were in danger of being KO-ed by The President’s ball. Despite his hunched forward posture and bowed legs, Emerson jumped up and down, shouting “Fore! Fore!” The barely five-foot, six-inch tall appointee then saw the ball slice. The green cap with the logo, Rosy Bottom Golf, fell from his head, exposing his red, splotched, bald pate with a puff of brown hair over each ear. He stood momentarily to tuck in his electric-purple shirttail that hung over his paunch, then jumped up and down again. With his right arm held straight out to alert the group ahead that the ball was flying to the right of the hole, he again shouted, “Fore! Fore!”
The President was placing his nine iron in his bag as his low-flying ball landed in the back of a sand trap well away from the green.
Chief of Staff Joe Smith stood with his left leg crossed over his right, showing off his yellow with black squares, thin-waisted, leg-hugging Bonobos. He leaned on his pitching wedge as he waited for the group ahead to do The President’s bidding, rope the old men and woman and, like hunters, lash them to the front of their carts. He wore his bright green ivy cap high on his forehead, showing off his square jaw, rugged cheekbones, and unnaturally black hair for a man of sixty.
The leader of the Secret Service shouted to The President as their carts drove away, “Two bucks and a doe!”
The President raised his thumb, then turned to Smith. “Go on, go on! We don’t have all day.”
Smith placed his ball on the tee and stroked the ball smoothly. The high-arching ball came to rest within a foot of the hole.
Emerson swung as hard as he could with his three iron and sent a low-trajectory ball bouncing along the fairway from thirty feet away to the fringes of the green.
The fourth member of the party, seventy-eight-year-old Labor Secretary Hardy Workman, watched with a rigid, poker-stiff back. He wore conservative, solid black Nike shirt and trousers. His furrowed face with heavy jowls and hanging neck folds was dotted with age spots. With a score already well over 100, he pocketed his ball.
The President jumped in his jazzed-up golf cart with the gold-plated monograms dotted all over it and a custom-made license plate, all marked with only six letters, POTASS. With oversized wheels and a souped-up engine on a 650-amp controller, he roared away at thirty miles an hour. Three golf carts loaded with black-suited Secret Service men and women followed closely.
Emerson, Smith, and Workman crowded into a Rosy Bottom Club cart and followed well behind. The President was already at the hole with his putter as they parked. Emerson walked to the sand trap and pointed. “There’s your ball, Mr. President.”
“No. That ball is marked, ‘POTASS 3’. It’s Workman’s ball. Mine is a . . .” He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a ball, and looked at it. “Mine’s a ‘POTASS 2’.” He walked to the hole with his back to the others and, with the “POTASS 2” still in his hand, reached in the hole. “Look. A hole in one! That’s fantastic. No other president has ever done that! And my score for the match will be under seventy! Eisenhower will turn in his grave.”
Smith and Workman clapped their hands. “Great shot, and a fantastic round of golf!” they said, as Emerson retrieved the “POTASS 3” ball and handed it to Workman.
In a private room in the clubhouse, they were served their beverages; scotch and waters for Smith and Workman, a Virgin Mary for Emerson, and a Diet Coke for The President.
The President turned to his recently appointed secretary of state. “Mr. Emerson, what are your ideas about foreign policy?”
Emerson’s lips twitched as he began to laugh. “You mean ‘Fore-In’? Like our golf today, I yell ‘Fore’! and you say, ‘In the hole.’ Get it? That’s your ‘Fore-in’ policy.” He began an intensifying laughter.
The others looked solemnly at him.
“ ‘Fore-in’ policy. Don’t you guys get it?”
After turning his back on the jokester for a few seconds, the President abruptly twisted, revealing a sour face. “Give me one of your specifics about,” he paused a moment before spelling out, “F . . . O . . . R . . . A . . . I . . . N . . . policy.”
Emerson cleared his throat with an “A-hem” and said quietly, “You are wrong to be so hard on the Chinese. With all their investments in America, they own a considerable part of The United States already. They are our largest business partner. And their trade agreements are a big reason for our current economic success. We . . . you . . . should drop these horrific tariffs on imported goods from their country.”
The President stood and gestured to two Secret Service officers standing outside the door. They brought brushes to wipe lint from his golf shirt. As a Secret Service man opened the door for him to leave, he looked to the wall behind Emerson’s head as he said, “Emerson, you’re fired. I don’t like your foreign policy and you’re dressed like a circus clown. You act like one too. Look at Smith. He’s outfitted like I expect of a man in a prominent White House office.”
Smith smiled as he stood at attention with his drink in his hand.
The President next addressed Smith. “You’ll have to improve your game before we play again. You’re fired too. Use the free time to brush up on your game.”
Smith’s drink slipped, crashing to the floor, without movement of any part of his hand or body.
“Workman, you played a masterful game of golf. I enjoyed having you in my foursome. I’ll see you back at Capitol Hill.”
As the door was closing behind the departing president, Emerson stormed from the clubhouse. When passing the President’s golf cart, he stopped and kicked the tires repeatedly. With his hands making the shape of a megaphone around his mouth, he yelled at the top of his voice, “This cart should be labelled PŎT-ĂSS, not PŌ-TAHSS ! He’s not the Power Of The American Superior Sovereign. He’s the Power of the Asshole Sovereign Supreme! He’s POTASSHOLE!”
Two policemen promptly came and led him away, kicking and screaming, “POTASSHOLE! POTASSHOLE! POTASSHOLE!”
Chapter 50
Keyes drove away from the garage and through the back streets. Her face was red and she was breathing excitedly. “There’s no time to waste, Scott. You promised to help me, and now you have to fulfill that promise. I’ve looked everywhere in the hospital for the drone control center and have tried to follow Waters to it. Even though he stays somewhere in the hospital when he’s firing his missiles, I’ve never been able to find him.”
“I don’t understand why you need me.”
“I’ve been all over his Penthouse and there’s no control station there. I’ve even placed surveillance cameras all over the hospital and the Penthouse. His drones are flying over Iraq now as we speak. He’ll go to his station to fire his missiles sometime today, which means that I’m dead soon if we can’t figure this out.”
“I still don’t know what you want me to do.”
“You know the hospital better than anyone, and you know Waters. Maybe you can think of something I’ve missed.”
Looking at her, I saw something I’d never seen before: Panic.
My head was screaming. “I’m not going to help you bomb the hospital.”
“There may be another way.”
She looked at me.
“Scott, they’re going to kill me.”
“They’re going to kill me, too,” I said, “But if there are missiles somewhere waiting to be fired, and if Waters is in the hospital, then a lot of people will be killed in a missile attack on him. I will not be a part of that!”
Suddenly, Keyes’ phone signaled a text message. She read it aloud. “Celena: Waters has disappeared.”
“Scott, maybe I can kill Waters and deactivate his control center. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe we can find Waters and stop him. If we do that, then maybe they won’t launch the missiles.”
I pleaded with her. “Let’s alert the police. Maybe I can convince them that this is a real terrorist threat.”
She made a sharp turn, which threw me against the car door. “Look, Scott, Farok programmed my cell phone for me. If I press “6” and “Send,” the missiles are sent. But if I press “8” and “Send” a suicide bomber will come. I never had any intention of dialing six and calling for missiles.”
“This is bullshit! These guys want to reap massive destruction on America! They’re just like the 9-11 attackers! And they’re not going to let you get in their way!” I yelled. “Where are these missiles? We have to stop them! Now!”
I picked up her phone to call the police. “Where are the DAMNED MISSILES?!” I shouted.
Keyes looked at me, eyes wide and mouth open. “I … I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me! WHERE ARE THEY?!”
She shook her head. “They don’t tell all their operatives everything. I learned that in the Al Qaeda training. In case someone is captured and tortured, they don’t know certain information. But Anna Duke will know.”
Keyes drove away from the garage and through the back streets. Her face was red and she was breathing excitedly. “There’s no time to waste, Scott. You promised to help me, and now you have to fulfill that promise. I’ve looked everywhere in the hospital for the drone control center and have tried to follow Waters to it. Even though he stays somewhere in the hospital when he’s firing his missiles, I’ve never been able to find him.”
“I don’t understand why you need me.”
“I’ve been all over his Penthouse and there’s no control station there. I’ve even placed surveillance cameras all over the hospital and the Penthouse. His drones are flying over Iraq now as we speak. He’ll go to his station to fire his missiles sometime today, which means that I’m dead soon if we can’t figure this out.”
“I still don’t know what you want me to do.”
“You know the hospital better than anyone, and you know Waters. Maybe you can think of something I’ve missed.”
Looking at her, I saw something I’d never seen before: Panic.
My head was screaming. “I’m not going to help you bomb the hospital.”
“There may be another way.”
She looked at me.
“Scott, they’re going to kill me.”
“They’re going to kill me, too,” I said, “But if there are missiles somewhere waiting to be fired, and if Waters is in the hospital, then a lot of people will be killed in a missile attack on him. I will not be a part of that!”
Suddenly, Keyes’ phone signaled a text message. She read it aloud. “Celena: Waters has disappeared.”
“Scott, maybe I can kill Waters and deactivate his control center. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe we can find Waters and stop him. If we do that, then maybe they won’t launch the missiles.”
I pleaded with her. “Let’s alert the police. Maybe I can convince them that this is a real terrorist threat.”
She made a sharp turn, which threw me against the car door. “Look, Scott, Farok programmed my cell phone for me. If I press “6” and “Send,” the missiles are sent. But if I press “8” and “Send” a suicide bomber will come. I never had any intention of dialing six and calling for missiles.”
“This is bullshit! These guys want to reap massive destruction on America! They’re just like the 9-11 attackers! And they’re not going to let you get in their way!” I yelled. “Where are these missiles? We have to stop them! Now!”
I picked up her phone to call the police. “Where are the DAMNED MISSILES?!” I shouted.
Keyes looked at me, eyes wide and mouth open. “I … I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me! WHERE ARE THEY?!”
She shook her head. “They don’t tell all their operatives everything. I learned that in the Al Qaeda training. In case someone is captured and tortured, they don’t know certain information. But Anna Duke will know.”
Chapter 21
I looked at Keyes and said, “I have to go out on a limb and trust the US Embassy. Maybe they’ll give us the benefit of the doubt.”
She shook her head. “We’re both on the lam, Scott. After what happened in North Carolina, the CIA thinks you’re a cowboy. And believe me, the Haitians are pissed about us giving them the slip at the airport. They’ll throw us in jail. Let’s go it alone for a while, at least until we know what’s going on.”
The phone was already ringing. “This is Dr. Scott James. I need to speak to someone about a matter of national security.”
“Did you say your name was Scott James?”
“Uhm ... Yes.”
“Hold for the Cultural Attache.”
I put my hand over the phone and said, “She’s sending me over to the ‘Cultural Attache,’ for some reason.”
Keyes’ mouth dropped. “Oh my God.”
The phone cut out for a moment, then clicked back on, then repeated the cycle. Keyes started waving her hand frantically at her neck, signaling me to cut the connection.
In a low, barely audible voice that sounded like it came from the grave, a man on the line said, “Hendricks.”
“Yes. I was trying to reach someone at The Department of Defense.”
“You’re from the boat.”
“Uhm. Well, yes.”
“You need to turn yourself over to the Haitian authorities right now or we’re going to come get you, and your illegal, unwanted, operative friend.”
Keyes, seeing the look on my face, lunged at the phone and turned it off. “Scott! Are you crazy?”
“We have to get the US Navy involved! The Coast Guard! Somebody! Anybody!”
“Scott, I’ve been in the spy business for a long time. The guys at the American Embassy with the bullshit titles, ‘Cultural Attache’ or ‘Special Agricultural Assistant,’ or whatever, are CIA. It’s an open secret. That way if anybody wants to sell information, they know which guy to go to. You were just connected to the top one or two CIA guys in the whole country. That means they’re looking for you. And me. They mean business. You want to stop this thing? Get on the Ana Brigette and tell them to come out there to get you. Then they’ll see what’s going on. But if you keep being naive about this, you’re just going to end up in a Haitian prison.”
I thought for a moment. “If we could somehow get aboard the Ana Brigette tonight, we could free Lars.”
“Get me aboard the Ana Brigette tonight and I’ll disarm whatever kind of hardware they’ve got out there,” Keyes added.
I looked at Keyes and said, “I have to go out on a limb and trust the US Embassy. Maybe they’ll give us the benefit of the doubt.”
She shook her head. “We’re both on the lam, Scott. After what happened in North Carolina, the CIA thinks you’re a cowboy. And believe me, the Haitians are pissed about us giving them the slip at the airport. They’ll throw us in jail. Let’s go it alone for a while, at least until we know what’s going on.”
The phone was already ringing. “This is Dr. Scott James. I need to speak to someone about a matter of national security.”
“Did you say your name was Scott James?”
“Uhm ... Yes.”
“Hold for the Cultural Attache.”
I put my hand over the phone and said, “She’s sending me over to the ‘Cultural Attache,’ for some reason.”
Keyes’ mouth dropped. “Oh my God.”
The phone cut out for a moment, then clicked back on, then repeated the cycle. Keyes started waving her hand frantically at her neck, signaling me to cut the connection.
In a low, barely audible voice that sounded like it came from the grave, a man on the line said, “Hendricks.”
“Yes. I was trying to reach someone at The Department of Defense.”
“You’re from the boat.”
“Uhm. Well, yes.”
“You need to turn yourself over to the Haitian authorities right now or we’re going to come get you, and your illegal, unwanted, operative friend.”
Keyes, seeing the look on my face, lunged at the phone and turned it off. “Scott! Are you crazy?”
“We have to get the US Navy involved! The Coast Guard! Somebody! Anybody!”
“Scott, I’ve been in the spy business for a long time. The guys at the American Embassy with the bullshit titles, ‘Cultural Attache’ or ‘Special Agricultural Assistant,’ or whatever, are CIA. It’s an open secret. That way if anybody wants to sell information, they know which guy to go to. You were just connected to the top one or two CIA guys in the whole country. That means they’re looking for you. And me. They mean business. You want to stop this thing? Get on the Ana Brigette and tell them to come out there to get you. Then they’ll see what’s going on. But if you keep being naive about this, you’re just going to end up in a Haitian prison.”
I thought for a moment. “If we could somehow get aboard the Ana Brigette tonight, we could free Lars.”
“Get me aboard the Ana Brigette tonight and I’ll disarm whatever kind of hardware they’ve got out there,” Keyes added.