Code of Honor

Chapter Five

Augustus Graves drove his Humvee through the barbed wire–topped gate into the FALA compound, eight hundred acres of undeveloped forest, invisible from the air and unapproachable by ground except for a single unmarked, double-track trail carved out of the dense mountainside. The sentries, a man and woman in fatigues carrying assault rifles and sidearms, saluted as he passed. Some of his forces lived full-time on the compound. Others lived off-base, maintaining important outside contacts who could be called upon for munitions and other supplies. And then there were those special ones spread farther afield—the ones who had been groomed since birth for the most important missions of all.

Each time he drove through the gates and saw the training courses, the barracks, and the armory dotting the wooded encampment, his chest swelled with pride and satisfaction. His loins tightened and his heart beat harder. After the massacres at Waco and Ruby Ridge, he’d purchased the tract of land in the unpopulated Bitterroot Range via a series of shell companies with funds contributed by ardent Second Amendment rights supporters across the country as well as some highly positioned politicians who needed him to push the agendas they couldn’t embrace publicly. He’d known sooner than some of his fellow militiamen that a defensible, secure haven to train and plan was essential. And he’d been planning for thirty years, ever since he’d jumped on the last helo out of Saigon as the U.S. forces turned tail and ran in disgrace from the Communists. The U.S. government, and the castrated military that bowed down before it, had failed the nation and wasted the lives of his brothers-in-arms. He’d arrived home with a clear and certain vision of his mission, and at last, victory was at hand.

He’d never wanted public approval, wasn’t interested in the adulation of faceless masses like the politicians who supported him. He wanted to see the conviction burning in the eyes of the men—and now the women—who believed as he did in a free and powerful America, and who were willing to place their honor and their lives on the line to restore the nation to its rightful glory.

A hundred troops occupied the compound at any one time, but he had five times that many at his immediate command throughout Idaho and neighboring states. He didn’t contemplate outright war. His was a guerrilla action, carefully planned strikes designed to maximize destruction and destabilize institutions believed to be unassailable. Violent actions sent a message the public could not ignore: the government was corrupt and had been undermined by those who’d lost sight of the basic principles of the Constitution and Bill of Rights. The evidence was plain—every year saw a further erosion of a man’s basic right to control his own destiny, but the complacent masses refused to acknowledge the dangers. His goal was to change that, to force the truth on those who refused to see. Blood was hard to ignore.

He parked next to the one-story wood-framed headquarters building and jumped out. He could outrun and out-bench-press most of the men half his age. Striding quickly across the snow-packed ground, he dashed up the steps to the timber-floored porch and inside. A beefy corporal with buzzed blond hair and windburned cheeks sat behind a simple gray metal desk, a computer by one hand and a phone by the other. His khaki shirt stretched tight across his linebacker shoulders. Williams—ex-high-school football star, a plumber’s helper before Graves had elevated him in rank and given him a full-time job. He was loyal, fervent, and happy to take orders. A perfect soldier.

“Morning, sir,” Williams said, saluting smartly.

“Anything to report, Corporal?” Grave saluted and unzipped his green nylon flak jacket.

“No, sir. Nothing at all on the news about the…incident.”

Grave’s stomach curdled when he thought about the failed mission in Washington. He’d relied too heavily on mercenaries—men he hadn’t trained, go-betweens who didn’t have the discipline and courage to risk their lives for a just cause. When the plot to release a deadly contagion that would cripple the nation’s leaders had been discovered and foiled, he’d lost not only the element of surprise, he’d lost one valuable asset and had a second severely compromised. Years of careful planning had been wiped out all because of the cowardice of a few key agents. Agents who would pay.

“Very well,” Graves said curtly, as if the report was of little consequence. It wouldn’t do to have the troops know he was upset by this…setback.

“Ah,” the corporal said hesitantly, his gaze cutting to the closed door to Graves’s office.

Graves slowed, narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

“Captain Graves arrived early this morning, sir.” Williams seemed to shrink in his seat. “The captain said not to disturb you, so I didn’t call—”

“Thank you, Corporal,” Graves said, striding to the door emblazoned with the word Commandant in black block letters. He pushed through into his office and shut the door soundly behind him.

Jane, in combat fatigues with a Glock holstered on her left hip, stood by the window, looking out over the compound. It must have been almost two years since they’d last met in person. She was thinner than he remembered, and her profile was harsher. Fine lines radiated around her eyes, as if she’d spent a lot of time outside in the sun. She’d cut her glossy dark hair short, and it curled along her neck in an incongruously delicate fashion.

His eldest daughter turned and saluted. “Hello, Dad.”

*

Cam and Blair left the White House through the northwest entrance. Two SUVs idled in front of the gate. As soon as they exited the building, Stark stepped forward to follow them. Blair said to Cam, “Let’s go to the gym.”

“Feeling a little pent up?”

Blair laughed harshly. “Feeling a little penned up already. I wish there was some way he could avoid this campaign trip.”

“You could always—”

“Please.”

Cam took Blair’s arm. Squeezed gently as she pulled her close. “It’s going to be a long campaign. Plenty of time—”

“I know you have to try, and now you have. Enough.”

“Okay.” Cam wasn’t about to let go, not when Blair’s very life was on the line, but she could pick her battleground a little more wisely. Someone—some ones—had staged a very elegantly planned assault on Blair’s father. Blair was probably angry and frightened and feeling powerless, and her instinct would be to fight back. Maybe a workout would settle her down enough that she’d listen to reason. “I think the gym is an excellent idea.”

“Just remember you said that,” Blair muttered as they climbed into the SUV.

Stark leaned into the back. “Where to, Ms. Powell?”

Blair told her, and Stark climbed into the front passenger seat, relaying the destination to the other agents and the driver. Blair settled back beside Cam. “So, how angry are you?”

Cam cupped the back of Blair’s neck and stroked lightly. “I’m not.”

“So you’re not going to try to kick my ass in the ring?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Blair laughed softly. “I know it’s not what you want. I’m sorry about that.”

“I know.”

“You might not be angry, but I am.” Blair rested her cheek against Cam’s shoulder. She spoke quietly, her body vibrating with tension. “I’m so damn furious that someone we trusted could get so close to hurting Dad. That now we don’t know who to trust. I know there’s always risk, but this seems like such a betrayal. So wrong.”

“It is a betrayal—of the worst kind.” Cam slid her arm down around Blair’s shoulders.

“Do you really think letting him take this trip now is wise?” Blair sighed.

“Not my call.” Cam kissed the top of her head. “But we all know what to do.”

“You didn’t mention anything about having an inside line on the militia in the meeting just now.”

“That’s because I don’t have anything definite yet. I’ve made a few calls and I’m getting stonewalled. I’m not sure why.”

“Sometimes I think we have more secrets from the people who are supposed to be on our side than we do from those against us.”

“Unfortunately, even the good guys are human.”

“Yes.” Blair slid her arm around Cam’s waist and closed her eyes. Human and vulnerable. And that’s what frightened her most of all.

*

Franklin pushed his coffee cup aside and rose from his seat at the head of the formal dining-room table. He kissed his wife absently on the cheek as he passed her at the opposite end, his mind already on the interview he was doing for the Christian Broadcasting Channel that afternoon. Christmas was an excellent time to reinforce his image by linking it to that of the Messiah. His core constituents, far to the right of most Christians, would eventually forget the difference.

His wife’s voice, soft and diffident, reached him just as he was about to step out into the hall. “I know how busy you are, darling, but can’t you stay home this morning at least? Jac said she—”

The muscles in his back tensed and he kept his voice even with effort. “Jac couldn’t manage to be present for Christmas services and missed an excellent opportunity to show the media a united family front. I don’t see why I should change my plans for her today.”

“Perhaps if we had invited her—”

“I’ve made it perfectly clear to Jac that as long as she insists on having this public relationship with another woman, she’ll have to carry it on somewhere else.” He turned and regarded his wife steadily. She shrank back in her chair. “You understand, don’t you, my dear, that I’m only doing what’s best for the family. We couldn’t stop Jac from making the bad choices she’s made over the years, but we must necessarily let the American people know we don’t support her. She hasn’t left us any other alternative. Whatever pain has come of all this, it’s her fault.”

Charlotte looked down at the table, her slender fingers picking anxiously at the fine linen napkin by her plate. “I understand you feel her choice of relationships is a problem, but even the president’s daughter—”

Rage flared in Franklin’s throat. “Yes, the president’s daughter is a pervert. And so is ours. Jac has chosen to make her deviance a matter of public record, and I’ve labored under that black mark in the eyes of my supporters for years. She almost cost me the nomination. But the difference between Andrew Powell and me, among many things, is that I don’t embrace her abnormality. And for that, I will be rewarded in November.”

Charlotte’s gaze rose to his, frightened, but unexpectedly resistant. “I know you must do what you think is best. But Jac is our child, and I want to see her.”

“And that is your choice. It isn’t mine.” He turned and walked out. He’d tried for years to relegate Jac to the background, to keep her out of the public mind, and while she’d been deployed overseas he’d actually been able to put a positive spin on her service as a sacrifice he was willing to make for the sake of his country. But when she’d returned and made the ridiculous decision to become a smokejumper, the best he could do was call in a few favors and have her assigned to a remote outpost.

Even that hadn’t worked. She simply would not remain invisible. Not only had she taken a woman for a lover, this time apparently permanently, but she’d insisted on being open about it. She’d even appeared at one of his fund-raisers with that—woman. Yes, Andrew Powell might choose to parade his dyke daughter around the national stage, assuming, almost certainly falsely, that his liberalism would garner him favor and ultimately votes. But Powell was wrong, and he would realize that sooner or later. Franklin rolled his shoulders, making a note to contact Nora and arrange a few hours alone with her after the broadcast. The tension in his groin reminded him he hadn’t seen her much recently, what with all the necessary family obligations around the holidays. Nora was more than his campaign manager. She understood his needs.

Derrick appeared from the library where he had been researching scripture to pull appropriate quotes for Franklin’s interview that afternoon. He stopped, a sheaf of paper in hand, when he saw Franklin striding toward him. “Is there anything I can get you, sir?”

“Just bring the car around. I want to stop by the campaign office before we head over to the studios.”

“Of course.” Derrick held out a square of note paper. “This is the only call you should return before you leave.”

Franklin took the paper from him. It held nothing except a telephone number. “I’ll see to it.”

Derrick turned away, and Franklin detoured into his study and closed the door. He sat down behind his wide desk and adjusted his trousers absently, his erection uncomfortably restrained. The antique clock on the mantel over the fireplace chimed ten times. Perhaps he would have time to see Nora before the afternoon recording.

Hurriedly, he unlocked the top right-hand drawer of his desk and removed the unregistered phone. He punched in the number on the paper—this week’s burn phone number. Hooker answered immediately.

“What is it?” Franklin asked.

“The mountain men need an infusion of funds.”

Franklin rubbed his eyes and sighed. “Why?”

“Big weapons deal.”

“Are you really sure it’s worth doing business with them? They cost us a great deal with the last fiasco, and we cannot risk exposure.”

“If you want direct action, they’re the ones to provide it. It’s your call.”

“I suppose we have to keep them close for a while. Their methods might be crude, but they are effective. How much?”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“We had better be buying more than just talk.”

“You will be. When you’re ready to point them at a target—if that’s really the way you want to go—”

“Neither our objective nor our target has changed.” Franklin registered a ripple of concern. Hooker seemed to be losing his will, questioning the direction of their shadow campaign more and more recently. If Hooker was growing soft, Franklin would need to find another mercenary to carry out his wishes. Hooker would bear watching. “Is there any word from DC?”

“Nothing so far. The White House will want to bury the story. Any sign of weakness now will hurt Powell’s standing—and probably rekindle the gun control debate. He won’t want that because he can’t afford to look soft, and he can’t support armed retaliation.”

Franklin smiled. He loved closing the vise on Powell’s nuts, and the screws were getting tighter all the time. “And the person responsible? Are we sure they won’t be connected back to us?”

“No way. I used a number of go-betweens, none of whom knew each other or can be traced back to us.”

“What about the woman in Georgia—the one who supplied the agent.”

“She wouldn’t talk. She’d be facing treason charges. Anyhow, she’s disappeared. Gone to ground, probably indefinitely.”

“Good.” Franklin preferred she be under the ground, but that order of business could wait. “See that you’re careful. This isn’t over yet.”

Hooker was silent for a few seconds. “Washington will be expecting something else.”

“Of course. We’ll just have to surprise them. I’ll be in touch.” Franklin clicked off the phone, dropped it into the drawer, and locked it up. When he stepped out into the hall, Derrick was waiting with Franklin’s dark wool overcoat over one arm and his briefcase in the other hand. “Is the car ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Call Ms. Fleming, would you, and tell her I’ll be dropping by for a pre-interview strategy meeting.”

Derrick’s face revealed nothing as he handed Franklin his coat. “Of course, sir. I’ll inform the driver of our change in route.”

Franklin followed him briskly down the hall. Thirty minutes with Nora would put him in top form to meet the press, and any day he had a chance to deliver his message was a good day indeed.