Cinco De Mayo

By Robert E. Cook

Robert George is the new president, placed there after the sudden death of his predecessor. A controversial veto of the Omnibus Immigration and Border Control Act has California taking the border troubles into their own hands. Cascading events including a deadly bombing bring federal agents to the scene. A fast-paced investigation by treasury inspector Richard Ringo Starr and his team, including US Deputy Marshal Manny LaRussa, a San Diego native drafted into the investigation, begin to expose the depth of the conspiracy and certainty of traitors in government. How to stop terrorists and their weapons becomes the focus. Israels Mossads most successful agent, Levi, enters the fray with the knowledge that God is with him. Levis secret information is President Georges best chance to save America. The breakneck pace of the race to save the country and Israel moves from San Diego to Los Angeles to Mexico City and Monterrey, Mexico, and eventually to Washington, DC. Richard Starr and his team spare nothing to stop Juan Carlos Kluver, the spirit of Adolph Hitler, and his weapons of mass destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Mar 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490825915

Robert E. Cook

Robert E. Cook is married and lives in Florida. He and his wife of forty-five years have three children and six grandchildren. He is a former police detective and businessman, currently working in the oil fields of south Texas. He is a lover of good stories, and this book is his first work. His desire in writing has been to provide one of those “good” stories. His focus is on real people. Developing characters that most readers would like to know. At the same time, he wanted something that his granddaughters could read and not be embarrassed.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

North Atlantic March 15, 1945

I T SEEMED LIKE A DEAD mans vessel. Oscar Kluver stood alone on the narrow passageway that ran in front of his cabin. He faced forward with his eyes cast down to the ships deck two levels below. Except for the occasional pipe or door that protruded upward, it was remarkably barren, flat. He saw nothing living. No crew, no birds, no life what ever. It had been that way for four days. Ever since they had slipped out of a north Atlantic port in complete secrecy, under cover of darkness. Secrecy was the operative word. It was a secret that they were on the ship. So they were alone. No one seeing them and they seeing no one. But that of course was the plan. He knew that others were aboard. The ship was not sailing herself. He had also eaten well. Each day at the appointed time, breakfast, lunch and dinner were delivered to the cabin’s door, simply left on the catwalk to be picked up. There were scheduled times each day in which they were allowed time outside- for fresh air and exercise. The remainder of the day they were exiled to the cabin. The portholes had been blacked out. Not really for them, they were merely the beneficiaries of measures taken because of the war.

It was still cold but they had been assured prior to sailing, that as they neared the Caribbean, air temperatures would rise. It was obvious they were still sailing somewhere in the vast waters of the north Atlantic. He tugged at the thick heavy collar of his coat. He tried to draw it tighter around his neck but frigid air was still sneaking in and then rushing down inside his shirt reaching his chest. Pneumonia was nearly a certainty. So he thought.

The prospects of South America had been tossing in his mind since the first day the idea was suggested. He had been having a general conversation with a member of the high command. He at first could hardly believe that such a plan had been in the works. Members of the most inner circle had actually thought they might flee. The very idea that they would need to consider such a thing was shocking. They were winning. It was only a matter of time and the allied forces would fall to the superior weapons and fighting men of his beloved Germany.

He heard the door click behind him just as he was lifting his eyes from the dirty steel deck, fixing them now on the rolling black water of the Atlantic. The sky was a dark gloomy sort of dark gray and it was difficult to tell exactly where the sea and sky separated. He continued to gaze across the emptiness quietly considering the purpose of the trip.

Hulda moved up beside him, snuggling close to block the cold wind. While the closeness was mutually warming, they did not speak. She threaded her arm though his while his hand remained tucked deep in the pocket of his heavy sea coat. They stood together for several long moments watching the small ship make its way though the large swells. She had suffered the first two days at sea. The heavy swells were seemingly too much for her. He had other ideas as to the cause of her discomfort, but she had assured him that those days had passed and she was simply seasick. He ate his meals alone then, when the sea had taken her appetite. Finally he spoke. You feeling better?

Yes, I think I beat it. Then another long silence.

I hope it warms up soon. He shivered as he spoke.

But I do like the air, it’s fresh, clean.

His thoughts returned to their days in Germany. He had talked with the people in the command center, those that seemed to meet almost daily with the Führer. It had started so innocently. Then, within days, he had become the most popular man at headquarters. Now, as he stood on the narrow passageway of the cargo ship, he considered the truth. He had only been a pawn. A pawn in a seemingly diabolical plan to extricate the Führer from what most were calling certain defeat. The debate had gone from when to expect victory to who would be the first reach Berlin? The Americans or the Russians? It had been an incredible turn. Certain people in the German high command were actually, albeit very privately, cheering for the Americans. For if any Germans were to survive, the Americans had to arrive in Berlin ahead of the Russians.

She had been talking but he did not hear what she said. I’m sorry Dear, I was day dreaming.

I was asking what you were thinking.

Nothing really. Then another long moment of silence.

Was it the baby? She pulled on his arm to get him to face her.

No, not really, he lied.

Do you still love me? Do you still want me? Her voice was soft.

Of course. He tried to look at her as he spoke, but failed.

You have not been with me….as a husband since… She turned away, gazing back at the empty sea. She sensed that same emptiness was filling his heart.

She wondered if she had made a mistake. The idea was something she could never have dreamed of herself. She was not wired that way. She was a married woman, happy, content. But she was also very loyal. Yes, very loyal. A patriot. A German.

We should be happy when we finally get off this pathetic boat. His voice was low, looking for something to be excited about.

It’ll be warm. They said it would be warm.

Yes, yes they did. He tried to put it out of his mind. He thought he should be proud, but he wasn’t. He only wished he could forget, forget everything. But it was done now, regardless of what he wished. He would live with it. He had to, so he would make the best of it. He sighed at the finality of it all.

Are you hungry? He turned to face her. He could only see her profile. She was watching the rolling waves.

She remembered the idea when it was first presented. Her husband was there, but he did not speak.

The doctor did all the talking. Blessed are you among women, he said.

She was flattered of course. Not sure if she should be, but the idea, the purpose, the righteous purpose seemed to out weigh any personal feelings she was having. She thought at the time, how could she possibly say no. She was asked to do something mighty. Something for the homeland, for Germany. How could she say no? Thousands upon thousands of men, young and old, had not said no. They had gone, they had served, and they had sacrificed. Why should she be different?

What? she said, suddenly aware that he was speaking to her.

Are you hungry? We have a few bites left from lunch.

She shook her head, her gaze returning to the dark sea. No, not right now.

He watched as she lost herself in thought. Was she feeling as he was? Was she having second thoughts? Would she like to have been able to change her mind? Would they ever be normal again? Blessed are you among women. He remembered the line like it was yesterday. He knew he had heard it before that, but could not remember when, or where.

He recalled the approach they had used. They had showered him with praise for his lovely, loyal, Aryan wife. She was faithful. To him, to Germany, and…to the Führer. They told him they did not think Germany would win the war. They told him that the Führer would not survive if he were captured. They pointed to Italy and Mussolini. They even murdered his girl friend, they told him. They said there was a way. There was one way to see that the Führer would survive.

How? He asked. After that, it was only a question of time. And timing. The sales pitch to his wife was short and swift. He said nothing.

The Führer will reign they had told him, if not today, then tomorrow. The Allies can take his life, and they most certainly would, but his spirit would live on. Then they said it. It was the doctor. He told them that the Führer needed an Aryan to which he could return. A pure loyal Aryan, a German who would accept the spirit of the Führer. A man that would rule the world. Yes, rule the world. Blessed are you among women. That’s what they said. Hulda Kluver treasured in her heart the thought that she carried the inheritance of Germany. A ruler of mankind.

CHAPTER 1

Los Angeles, California February 14, 1997

T HE SLEEK BLACK LIMOUSINE STOPPED at the curb directly in front of the long dark blue awning that stretched out from the front door of Hogan’s, Los Angeles’ newest, and for tonight, hottest night spot for the ultra rich. It, in a short run of just a few weeks, had become the favorite for fine dining with Hollywood’s movie elite.

Even before the tires of the big car had stopped turning, a young man dressed in a dark business suit, opened the right front door and stepped out. As quickly as he did so a black Chevrolet Suburban came to an abrupt halt directly behind the limousine and two more men, also dressed in business suits, jumped out and took positions surrounding the limousine.

Jessica Malone was finishing the final drops of wine, giggling as she did so. Her escort for this Valentine’s evening was all that he had been reported to be. Charming, witty, good looking of course, and able to ask just the right questions to make her feel comfortable and relaxed. She was impressed, perhaps more so, and more quickly, than at any other time she could remember. And that was saying a lot. The former beauty queen and now top drawing film star, in her short twenty four years of living, had managed to spend what might be called, quality time, with some of the hottest men in Hollywood. Some available, and some that were not. Tonight’s Valentine’s dinner companion was not.

Jessica was still laughing when Willard Davis Penn nodded to the driver indicating they were ready. As quickly as the driver was able to raise his arm to his mouth, the limousine’s right rear door was opened by one of the men standing guard over the car and it’s occupants.

What could have been called the press corps, was acting and sounding like paparazzi. When the door of the shiny black limousine opened, they instinctively began to press in with a displeasing hunger for the best photo shot. Cameras whizzed, flashes where continuous. Those with video cameras were yelling, calling out to the couple with questions that could not be understood over the multiple shouts. All they really wanted was the sound of any greeting the couple might offer. Jessica Malone tried to look her best and was anxious for a good shot. Willard Davis Penn appeared to all but ignore them. As it ended up, only Jessica offered a wave and a big smile.

Within seconds, the duo, plus security, were safely inside the recently popular Hogan’s, and a waiting table. The owner, perhaps overly aware of his special guest for the evening, was waiting their arrival. He personally took care of the greeting, and escorted the couple to what he considered the best table in the house.

Willard Davis Penn was not interested in the best table in the house. He was only interested in Jessica Malone. He tried desperately not to stare, or at least not get caught. The object of his attention was Jessica’s deep purple, shimmering ribbon pattern dress, cut several inches above the knee and just as many below the neck. The form fitting designer dress, probably from Rodeo Drive, showed more than a hint of her ample breasts, as the front was cut deep down the middle. The design was to be worn of course, without the benefit of any extra support, not that Jessica Malone required any. There was the problem for Willard Davis Penn. He only hoped that he would make it through the night.

Jessica had been down this road before and she knew what she was doing and where she was going. She had Willard Davis Penn exactly where she wanted him. The security men, quietly waiting in the background, watched all that took place inside Hogan’s. They did not miss the game being played between Jessica Malone and their charge. It was a source of amusement for them, helping to pass what, except for it’s importance, could be a very boring job.

The service offered by Hogan’s was exact. The waiter, two assistants and the wine steward, all tending to this table and this table only. The two special guests of Hogan’s waited or wanted for nothing. Glasses were tended almost to the point of intruding on the privacy of the guests. With service as good as this however, no one complained.

Jorge Ojeda was one of the two assistants who tended to the filling of glasses, water that is. The wine steward tended to the wine, and what a show he put on for Ms. Malone. Jorge had practiced this moment for hours, knowing full well the out come and the repercussions should he not perform flawlessly. Jorge carefully watched the water glasses of his patrons. When he observed them to drop an inch or maybe a little more below the full mark, he quietly moved in and exchanged them for freshly filled glasses with plenty of ice. It had been decided that refilling the glasses at the table would be too intrusive to the guests.

Willard Davis Penn and Jessica Malone had been dining, drinking, laughing and exchanging secret looks for nearly an hour when Jorge Ojeda determined it was time to complete his job. Without the slightest hint of nervousness or conscious, and with the adeptness of a slight of hand master, he swiftly emptied the contents of a small vial into a freshly filled water glass.

He walked out of the kitchen and into the dining area. Without hesitation, he headed straight towards the table. One of the security men standing duty watched him move cross the thick carpet just as he had countless times over the course of the evening. As on previous visits, the waiters assistant picked up the partially consumed water glasses and placed them on his serving tray, first Jessica Malone’s and then that of Willard Davis Penn. Jorge then returned to the bus station near the kitchen, still able to observe his quests. He deposited the used water glasses just collected, into a bus tub, just as he had done all evening. The second assistant had only moment’s earlier, retrieved two dishes that the guests no longer needed, and he too was standing in the server’s area waiting the need to further assist the guests.

Company policy was that the two were not to talk except while in the kitchen proper. The two stood quietly.

Jessica Malone had obviously consumed most of the wine this evening and it was really beginning to show. Willard Davis Penn, of course, considered that fact to be his good fortune. Jessica Malone was past warming up to her Valentine escort and appeared to be enjoying herself in the company of a man old enough to be her father.

Willard Davis Penn lifted his water glass, having past up any further wine for nearly thirty minutes. He had decided Jessica could have all she wanted. He sipped his water as if it were wine and stole yet another look at the plunging neckline of Jessica’s lovely dress. Then, before setting the glass on the table, he took a long healthy sip.

Jorge Ojeda appeared yet again with two more water glasses, quickly did his job and this time returned to the kitchen.

Jessica Malone was talking again but Willard Davis Penn was not listening. Jessica didn’t know he wasn’t listening because she was playing with a spoon and not looking at her date. Willard Davis Penn reached his finger inside his collar and pulled, hoping to loosen it a little without unbuttoning the top button or pulling on his tie. He was feeling flushed, then… suddenly… very flushed. He pulled on his tie, this time not caring how it might look. He took a long drink of ice water and after setting the glass on the table, loosened his collar. He began to feel faint. Light headed. Then, quickly, more flushed then just seconds earlier. He began to experience a series of sensations, like giant waves, one following another in rapid succession. Then something new. Like nothing he had ever sensed. It swept in with one of the huge waves. Fear… for the first time in his life he was scared. Really scared. Something was happening. Something was going on, and he did not know what. Nor did he know what to do.

Jessica Malone finally realized that her escort, the distinguished Willard Davis Penn had not commented on her last remarks. She looked up from the spoon she had been twirling on the starched white cotton tablecloth. She could only grasp her mouth when she saw the face of Willard Davis Penn. She did so with both hands. She wanted to scream, to cry out, but she couldn’t. She was frightened, horrified at the look on the face of her St. Valentine’s date.

As Jessica Malone stared at the now very much distressed Willard Davis Penn, She watched him grab at his chest. Then he threw his head back, and without uttering a sound, fell backwards in his chair, disappearing from her sight.

The site did not escape the men there to guard him, nor anybody else in the restaurant. The tablecloth went with him when he went, as did the dishes, all very fine china. Every bit of it crashing to the floor, some resting on top of Willard Davis Penn. With seemingly no visible movement, bodyguards were at his side. Two more men wearing dark suits stood watching the others seated nearby. One of the men lifted his arm and began to talk into his sleeve.

***

Washington, DC

It was nearly three a.m. in the Eastern Time zone when the phone rang.

Robert George answered. Hello, His voice obviously of one who only moments earlier had been sound asleep.

Sir, I need to talk with you right away, I’ll wait down stairs. The familiar voice of the caller was calm, yet somehow sounded urgent.

Very well, I’ll be just a minute. Moment’s later Robert George, wearing a heavy dark blue bath rope, made his way down the long carpeted stairway of the recently remodeled home at the Naval Observatory. The official residence of the Vice President of the United States.

What is it Roger? He asked Roger Dunlap of the Secret Service. It was he who had awakened the vice president.

Not good news sir, respond the Secret Service agent.

I didn’t expect good news to wake me at three a.m. Tell me what’s going on. Robert George was not sarcastic nor did he sound rude. He was only stating a fact.

We have just received a report from Los Angeles, Sir, I am afraid that President Penn is dead. The agent stood motionless, waiting for Robert George’s response.

The Vice President ran his hand through his uncombed hair and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, almost moaning as he did. His eyes were cast down to the dark emerald green carpet where he stood bare foot. Then, finally, as he looked up, How?

Looks like a heart attack Sir, at least that’s what they think right now. He never made it to the hospital, he was transported, but they believe he was dead before he left the restaurant.

God have mercy on him, whispered Robert George. He then turned and sat hard into a straight-backed chair near the stairway. He placed his open hands over his face and rubbed. He took a deep breath and held it. Seemingly longer then was safe. He finally exhaled. Slowly.

Roger Dunlap watched, wondering what would be an appropriate response. Sir?

Robert George did not respond. He lowered his hands and looked blankly at the Secret Service agent who had been in charge of his safety since taking the oath of office just before Christmas.

The front door opened and two more Secret Service agents entered the House. Roger Dunlap turned to see them. He then returned his attention to the VP. Sir?

I guess we have a procedure for this?

Yes sir, we do.

What happens next?

We have a judge on the way Sir. It will be just a couple of more minutes.

Okay Roger, let me get some cloths on.

Very good Sir, but we can not delay this once the judge gets here. Roger Dunlap was attempting to be sensitive. He as much as anyone, felt the emotional loss with the death a president, but he also knew his job. His career had been spent training for moments such as this.

While Robert George was receiving the bad news concerning the death of the president, a call went out. One that was received with as much enthusiasm and excitement as the vice president’s notification was with sadness and grief.

Bueno

Bueno Juan Carlos, please excuse my poor Spanish. Both men spoke Spanish through out the conversation.

Of course, I assume you are calling me with the good news I am expecting?

Yes Señor that I am. The caller betrayed himself with the tone he used to respond to the last question of Juan Carlos Kluver. The caller did not share the same feelings regarding the sudden death of The President of the United States. Everything has gone just as you would have liked.

Thank you for calling me so soon, I have been waiting.

I am glad I can be of service.

Yes, and of course you realize that it is also part of your job. Juan Carlos had quickly changed his tone. He was ruthless when he chose to be. I expect results from those who benefit from my business.

Very well then, I wish you a pleasant evening.

Juan Carlos Kluver hung up without acknowledging the final salutation of his caller.

CHAPTER 2

San Diego, California March 5

T HE DAY WAS DESTINE TO be a hot one, at least that was the opinion of Jesús Canales. San Diego had a temperate climate, not to hot and not too cold. It was after all, the weather that attracted so many to live and many more to vacation in southern California. Today however, it would be hot. Just plain hot.

Canales was impatient as he waited outside the non-descript warehouse in but one of San Diego’s many commercial and industrial parks. The truck from Mexico was due at anytime. In the mind of Jesús pronounced ‘Hay zeus’ it was perhaps even a little late. He knew however, that timetables were never exact when dealing with shipments coming across the border from Tijuana. Even with the sweetheart deal of which he was a part, waiting and being nervous was something that had to be endured.

This shipment was special and he was finding it difficult to merely sit inside his temperature controlled Mercedes Benz. He was nervous that something might go wrong. The results of that would be disastrous for him, maybe even fatal. That thought had crossed his mind on more than a few occasions and thus he found himself beginning to perspire, even in the cool, almost cold comfort of the shiny black luxury automobile.

Meticulous in his appearance, Jesús Canales was becoming agitated, almost angry at the fact that the wait was causing him to perspire. He was sweating. Perspiring to the degree that his shirt might become soiled. An issue that he would not want to endure.

Jesús received some of his greatest satisfaction in knowing that his appearance was above reproach. He wanted, he needed his appearance to be perfect, Gentlemen’s Quarterly perfect. Canales was not an ordinary guy from the Barrio. He had received his bachelors from UCLA, looked prosperous and sported not a single tattoo. He wore a heavily starched long sleeved white dress shirt with French cuffs and expensive ivory cuff links. He had on a power tie, tailored suit pants and imported Italian loafers. The double-breasted coat that went with the tailored slacks lay neatly folded on the front right seat of the Mercedes. He could have been mistaken for a corporate vice president or a successful real estate broker.

This shipment was the first for the new clients. They were big, really big, with lots of cash. This would be the wrong time for a screw up, regardless of how it might come about. There would be no place to lay any blame.

He didn’t hear the large older model semi tractor. Not from inside the super quiet S Class. The first clue that the truck was arriving came when it turned off the street and into the parking lot of the NAFTA success story, identified by a sign in front of the building, Subsidiary of MAR. Jesús Canales recognized the truck as one of a handful that was used for special shipments. The driver, a Mexican national, knew the program and never asked questions. He never so much as stepped from his truck. When the big rig pulled into the lot, Jesús stepped out of his car and into the heat. He pointed to the loading dock door where he wanted the truck to unload. The driver, a young man, was proud of his truck. It was a big rig any used truck dealer would describe as vintage, but it was his. He waved to Jesús that he understood and began the task of backing the trailer into the proper loading dock.

Jesús Canales returned the wave and then entered the warehouse. He would personally supervise the unloading. When he heard the air brakes being set on the truck outside, indicating that it was parked at the door, he began to shout instructions in Spanish to two young Hispanic men.

One of the young workers raised the dock door by pulling on a chain until the door was at its full height. Then, using a large bolt cutter, he cut the heavy round seal on the trailer door allowing it to be opened.

Jesús Canales had wondered just who these new clients might be. He had been advised that they were from the Middle East and that they had been more than willing to pay the premium to enter the United States. As he watched the two young warehouse workers, he again considered just who was to greet him when the trailer was opened. He had a stereotype of anybody coming from the Middle East. Jesús had the mental picture of an Arab, dressed in typical desert garb including long white linen robes. They would be wearing a head dress that might look like a sheet secured to the head by a wide cord, more of a rope wrapped around the head and tied in the back. He imagined them armed with daggers that had long curved blades. They would have large jewels, maybe red rubies set into the handle. Jesús conjured an image straight out of Lawrence of Arabia.

The two young workers opened the trailer door and immediately turned to walk away. They had thought that with shipments such as this, it was best not to look. The workers had once been advised that they would never be asked to identify someone they had never seen. The idea probably would not hold up, but for these two young men, it made sense. Besides, they were making to much money living in the United States illegally to argue the facts.

Jesús Canales approached the now open trailer, waiting for the cargo to make themselves known. For a long moment there was nothing. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the difference in light, Jesús saw two men raise up from behind the wooden crates they had accompanied across the border. He was surprised, and maybe relieved that the two men were not dressed like he had imagined. Aside from the beards each wore, they were dressed no different than perhaps a million other people within fifty miles of the warehouse.

The two moved slowly as they stepped from behind the boxes and approached the end of the trailer. Jesús had anticipated this moment. He knew that language would likely be a problem. He spoke none of the Middle Eastern languages and he was certain that these men did not speak Spanish. That left only English as a possibility of having any chance at normal communications.

Welcome, said Jesús in his most pleasant voice. Welcome to the United States. He smiled widely, his arms stretched out, open, hoping that his expression would convey the point if his words did not.

The two men looked at each other and then looked at Jesús Canales. If Jesús was to be the typical looking American, then the theory all Americans are rich, was heavily advanced. Jesús Canales’ appearance almost smelled of money.

As theories go, Jesús had one of his own, and it was being confirmed in these first few moments of the new business relationship. The two Arabs, as Jesús called them, also smelt of something. Not money. Not oil. Maybe camels.

United States? asked Ali Bozar, pointing to the ground as he said it. He then turned to his companion, Mohammed Al Shurlan and shouted, United States. This time it was not a question. His accent was heavy. One that Jesús would not have been able to identify without advanced notice.

United States? Asked Mohammed as he looked directly at Jesús Canales.

Yes, United States. America, answered Jesús nodding his head as he spoke.

America, they said in unison. Jesús, listening hard, was barely able to understand the words United States, but the word America was clear and crisp.

The two Arabs embraced and began a small dance, jumping up and down inside the trailer. They were shouting something in what Jesús considered Arabic. He watched with a sense of amazement.

Come, Jesús said, finally interrupting the small celebration. He motioned with his arms, Come, we got’ta get this stuff unloaded.

The two men danced a little longer before finally noticing Jesús who was repeating the plea to get back to business. He voice had raised to nearly shouting, attempting to get their attention. Ali Bozar and Mohammed Al Shurlan stopped their celebration and looked at Jesús. He was motioning wildly with his hands for them to step out of the trailer and into the warehouse. From their appearance, and the dreadful smell, Jesús had assumed the newest arrivals to the United States via his business arrangement would welcome the slightly cooler air in the warehouse over the hot stale air inside the trailer.

Do you speak English? Asked Jesús, once both men were out of the trailer. He was hoping against hope.

English, a little, answered Ali.

Good, English then, we need to unload your boxes.

The two men gave Jesús a blank look.

Unload the boxes, Jesús repeated, louder, as though speaking louder would help them understand. He then motioned with his hands as though he were lifting the boxes and setting them on the floor of the warehouse. He then shouted to his two workers in Spanish, telling them to get the forklift.

It was probably the appearance of the forklift that allowed the two Arabs to understand that Jesús wanted the wooden crates still in the trailer, unloaded and stored in the warehouse. The plan was for the boxes to remain in the warehouse for as long as the Arab customers felt it necessary. As the orange Nissan forklift came to a stop near the dock plate between the warehouse and the trailer, both Arabs instantly showed that they knew what needed to be done. They re-entered the trailer and began to motion to the operator, assisting him in placing the forklift tines in the proper place to lift the crates and remove them to the warehouse. The process was repeated several times, until some fifteen crates of various sizes had been off loaded and stacked neatly on the smooth cement floor. The number of crates was certainly far less than the trailer was capable of carrying. It was, none the less, a very valuable cargo.

Mohammed Al Shurlan began to shout, asking Jesús for something, but Jesús was at a loss to understand what. After several attempts to communicate, the Arab finally made a motion around the edge of one crate indicating that he wished to open it. Jesús, shouting in Spanish, ordered the workers to track down a crow bar.

There was of course, once the crate was open, no way for Jesús to have known how the item held up by the Arab was procured. He did know that it was American. The box was plainly labeled in black-stenciled letters, UNITED STATES MARINES, 1 EACH, MAN PORTABLE/SAM. There was little doubt as to its significance. Jesús was only able to watch in astonishment as the two Arabs again began a dance just as they had in the trailer earlier. As he watched, Jesús could not get one question out of his mind. What was the purpose for so many weapons? Particularly the shoulder rocket launcher that was the center of the Arabs attention.

CHAPTER 3

Sacramento, California Easter Sunday

B ENJAMIN BROWN SAT HALF-NAKED ON his motel bed staring at the TV. He had been watching CNN Headline News.

Anti-christ. He blurted the words. They were barley audible, but the thought raged in his head.

What should he do next? He knew of course, they had been planning for weeks, just for this event. The news now changed to something else, but Ben didn’t hear what it was. The TV had lost his attention, his thoughts moving from the story, to his planned responsibilities. Given the actions of the president, the next move, several actually, where already planned. Now, knowing the course of events, it made sense that he was here in Sacramento rather than San Diego where he could have enjoyed Easter with his mother.

Anti-christ, that’s what he is. Ben repeated the words, louder this time. He was serious. He had often thought of Willard Davis Penn in that fashion, but now, Robert George was measuring up. Ben was grateful that John Simeon, the Governor of California, had seen it coming. He had made certain that the state would be ready if just such a thing occurred.

Ben attempted to find more information but his channel surfing was unsuccessful. He put the idea out of his head for a moment in favor of a donut and some coffee. He slipped on a pair of sweats and headed down stairs. The lobby was empty except for a sleepy clerk who looked to be a college student. Ben thought this was probably a good way of getting some school work done while earning a little extra money. He poured his coffee ignoring the sweetener and creamer. He considered small talk with the clerk but had second thoughts when it appeared she might have dosed off. He grabbed a second donut balancing it on top of the first, then quietly retreated up the carpeted steps to the upper level of the two level motel and down a barren hallway to his room.

The place was not like the five-star Western Plaza where he had spent so much time over the past weeks. Benjamin Brown, a United States Congressman from California, along with other political figures, had taken part in a series of meetings designed to perfect a plan proposed by Governor Simeon.

No, this motel was not the Western Plaza, it was a chain and Ben was convinced that once inside, you could not tell what city you were in. It was presumed to be a budget saving motel. Nice, neat, clean, and for Ben this Easter Sunday, inexpensive.

Back in his room, he placed both donuts and the coffee on a small round table with a fake wood top. He pulled back the drapes giving him a splendid view of traffic exiting the I-Five freeway, some probably making their way east to the capital area. Even on Easter there would be workers moving about the various buildings that were the nerve center of the largest state in terms of people, in the Union.

He thought for a moment and considered the view. He made a comparison with the one he had just two weeks earlier while in Augusta Georgia, where he spent one very costly night in a similar motel, just to have the opportunity to see the Masters golf tournament live and up close. The view out that window was of I-520, better known as the Bobby Jones Expressway, a Ford dealer and the Waffle House.

As Ben sipped from his Styrofoam cup he recalled his first visit to the Waffle House. It had truly been a new experience. The waitress, who proved to be friendly and easy to talk to, shouted good morning as he entered, something he soon realized was a Waffle House tradition. At first he had trouble with the southern drawl and some of the vernacular used in the heart of Dixie, but all in all he enjoyed the small cafe atmosphere of the place.

Ben leaned back in the blue fabric chair of his Sacramento motel room and looked around. He lifted his coffee and sipped. He slipped off his shoes and stretched out his legs resting his feet on the bed.

Anti-christ, he muttered again as his thoughts returned to the president. He was more than upset in knowing that Robert George had managed to destroy several months of very hard work. The results in California would be immeasurable.

Surfing the limited channels on the television, Ben was able to find more news.

He watched the talking head read, This morning White House press secretary Jane Albert announced that President George has vetoed the Omnibus Immigration and Borders Control act. She stated that the president did so late Saturday night while alone in the oval office.

A file photo of the president appeared on the screen as the reporter continued, The bill had been hailed by many as the last hope for border States to receive relief from the overwhelming cost of illegal aliens flooding across the southern border. The bill called for billions of dollars to go to customs and immigration services in an attempt to take back control of the border. The White House statement said that the bill had been vetoed because it would be devastating to Latin American relations and the appropriations called for was more than the nation could afford.

Easter Sunday and Benjamin Brown was alone in a tiny motel room watching the news that was telling him his efforts of more than a year were gone. Done by a distasteful president, who was seemingly, just a continuation of the previous obscene administration. His act, Ben thought, had been gutless. Carried out in the middle of the night, under the cover of darkness. Ben tried to push the idea out of his mind yet he knew that his day, and many more to come, would be consumed with fallout from this single presidential veto.

***

I’m almost there now, We’ll make some calls and see who knows what. I imagine it’s only a matter of time and the press will want some reaction. Have you spoken to anybody yet? Kyle Chase was speeding west on the I-80 freeway, heading for the capital. He was simply the best a governor could ask for in a chief of staff and John Simeon was the first to realize that fact.

That’s fine Kyle, I’m sure the General has seen the news, he’ll be moving already. We’ll all do what needs to be done. John Simeon, a Reaganite style governor had worked hard, along with Benjamin Brown and much of the California congressional delegation, to pass the desperately needed border reforms. California was suffocating under illegal immigration and smuggling and there seemed to be no relief from Washington. At times Simeon wondered if Washington might actually be the problem.

Washington was ignoring the people of California and their needs. It had appeared, albeit briefly, that perhaps the federal government, with new legislation, might help rather than hurt the situation, but the new president had put that thought to rest. The veto could literally cause the state of California to be bankrupt in as little as a couple of years.

In his heart however, the sixty year old, silver haired native Californian had known that Robert George would not stand up to those who gave him his power. The appointment of George had been a sweet heart deal from the beginning and the governor had been making plans.

***

Norman Anderson was perhaps and anomaly in the press secretary business. He was truly a press person. He was a hard working reporter that had traveled most of the roads in the media, and that included some dusty ones. He had actually once worn a felt fedora hat with a PRESS card stuck in the band. Since those early days he had filled the roll as an editor in a small town newspaper, done correspondent work in Vietnam for The Saturday Evening Post and had a short stint as a TV reporter before returning to print. Norman Anderson knew the news business and had made friends all over the country. He was respected by nearly all that knew him. He had a reputation, as the governor’s press secretary, of being honest. He told the truth or simply had no comment. It had been these very qualities that sent the governor seeking Anderson for the position of press secretary.

Norman Anderson was at home when he and Kyle Chase hooked up for the first time since the veto.

You’ve seen the news?

Would have been hard not to Kyle.

We’re getting things rolling here, said Kyle Chase. You’ll be ready with the press packet this afternoon?

There ready now, all I need is the word and they’re on the way.

Okay, the Governor intends to take a strong position against the White House. It’s important that he has as much information on what is already being said before making any statements. Kyle and Norman had been in this position before. Being three hours behind Washington when things like this broke was a horrible disadvantage.

I have some ideas, said Norman. Let me call you back in thirty minutes.

CHAPTER 4

The White House, Washington DC

T HE WHITE HOUSE PRESSROOM HAD not been this busy this early on a Sunday morning in a long time. All of the network people had been instructed to do what ever it took to find someone who could and would appear on the Sunday morning TV shows. It was Easter, it should not have been this way. But the veto of the Omnibus Immigration and Border control bill had been a bombshell. Certainly the biggest bomb shell to date for this administration. President Robert George had been in office less than sixty days, and arrived without the benefit of being elected. Gerald R. Ford was the only other president with the distinction of serving while never having been on a ballot as a presidential or vice presidential candidate.

Scandal had been the operative word for the previous administration. Yet, in spite of it, they had enjoyed amazing popularity. Some had attributed that popularity, at least in part, to the mainstream press giving all but a full pass on nearly everything that came to light. Eventually however, even the press could not ignore the facts and aided in the fall of the vice president.

In a well orchestrated move by the president’s party and it’s national committee, the vice president had resigned. Then, as required by law, the sitting president appointed a successor who was then confirmed by the Senate. Robert George, a Senator from Minnesota, had been the choice for the new VP job. His confirmation was only a formality by his former colleagues.

Nobody however, not Robert George and certainly not Willard Davis Penn had anticipated the abrupt accession to the White House. President Penn had died suddenly from an apparent heart attack on Valentines Day.

Now President Robert George had created what was very quickly becoming the first tempest of his young administration. The press corps was having no luck finding takers in the White House for the Sunday morning shows and were beginning to turn to other avenues to get a read on what had taken place. Nobody from the administration had been seen any where close to the White House, but the president and his chief of staff, Arthur Williams were in the oval office and had been since very early.

If we don’t send some one over there and spin this thing our way, they’ll get some one to talk, and it’s going to come from Brown and his guys, said the president. He paced across the giant seal of the President of the United States that was a part of the carpet in front of his desk in the oval office.

I’ll have Jane Albert make another statement this morning and field a few questions on this, responded Arthur Williams. He was a career politician but a relative new comer to White House politics. He had arrived in the last days of the Penn administration. Brought in to try and stop some of the fall out from the vice president’s resignation. The same problems had tried to make their way to the president.

This will not be any big deal in a couple of days. Mr. President, we both know the people of this country want spending cut, they know we need to tighten our belt just like they have done these past months and the billions this would need is just to much. Williams picked up his china coffee cup, one designed specifically for the White House. He took a sip and set it back on the coffee table before him. Mexico has just gotten spooled up on the NAFTA thing, you heard what Omar said, referring to Omar Kline the ambassador to Mexico. This is no time to send them reeling with all those new border protection clauses.

The President walked behind his desk and looked out the window. Everything was green. Winter was definitely gone, and for this he was grateful. But a late season snowstorm would have been more welcome than what he knew was now coming because of what he had done late last night. He turned and watched his chief of staff. He wondered if Arthur really knew how to handle this. Robert George stood behind his desk and considered the nagging thought that lingered in the very back of his mind. Do I really know this guy?

For fifteen years he had served the people of Minnesota as their Senator, and for the most part had success in the Senate. Now the game was new and it had happened very quickly. He had not sought this job. They came to him. He of course knew that once he was appointed vice president it would be only a matter of months, perhaps a year and the president would also step down. Then he, Robert George, would take a second oath of office. When it happened he thought he was ready. Now he was not so sure. The president sank into his high back leather chair. Leaning forward over the large desk, his hands folded, he took action.

Okay Art, we asked for this fight, let’s get busy. Put your release together, meet with Jane and take control of the press and do it now. I don’t want to see Brown’s face on TV this morning before we get things looking our way first.

Yes Mr. President, and Arthur Williams slipped out the door.

Robert George watched the door close behind his chief of staff. He sat behind his desk, alone in the office except for Roger Dunlap, Secret Service who had slipped in as Williams left. The president sat motionless for several seconds considering all that he and Arthur Williams had gone over together. Then, looking up to meet the eyes of Roger Dunlap. Is the First Lady ready to go?

Dunlap raised his arm towards his mouth to speak into a small microphone that seemed to come from his sleeve. The president did not hear what was said, but seconds later Dunlap nodded. Yes Mr. President.

Okay, give me one more minute. The president slid back his chair and stood. Roger Dunlap was again speaking into his arm. The president walked a few steps across his office and disappeared through a door and down a short hallway leading to his private bathroom just steps from the oval office.

Robert George stared into the mirror. Is Arthur Williams right on this? he asked softly to himself. He considered several ideas. Was the team he inherited completely trustworthy? Were their own private agendas more important than his? Was his cabinet willing to speak the truth on all subjects or were they going to play politics and feel out the new guy? Tell him what he wants to hear until they had a better read on him.

For the most part Robert George believed that the cabinet was here to serve. The crooks, and there had been some, were in jail. The self-seekers had been found out and were long gone. Now, hopefully replaced by people who wished to do a good job in working to advance the agenda of their party. Sure, he thought to himself, I wasn’t elected to this office, but the people did speak at the last election saying they wanted this party in the White House. That means they want what we stand for and that is what we will work to give them. Brown and his gang may raise a lot of stink over this thing, but it won’t last long, and they certainly don’t have the votes for an over ride.

His thoughts again returned to his cabinet. Morgan Froth, the Secretary of the Treasury was firm and for the most part blunt on what he thought of this bill. Not even the billions called for would cover the cost of increased customs work on the Mexican border. Search every vehicle? Passports required of anybody crossing out of Mexico into the United States?

Hamilton Ledger, Secretary of the Treasury made it quite clear that NAFTA would fail completely with the signing of the bill.

The President considered these two opinions for a moment more. While he did not know either man well, he was aware of who they were. Both were considered heavy weights, not only in the party, but in business as well.

Froth had a deep history in New England money. Not only did he have a lot himself, he had also managed it for others most of his career. He owned his own seat on the New York Stock Exchange. He is a past chairman of the board of one of the countries biggest and most prestigious banks, and prior to accepting the cabinet position he now holds, was a director on the board of not less than five fortune five hundred companies. The fact that he has all the connections of a Harvard man didn’t hurt either.

Ham Ledger, while on a different path is just as impressive. President and CEO of an automotive manufacture with a track record of running a business both here and over seas. He spent eight years in Europe running that division before coming home to be named CEO. His health had been a question when first nominated for Secretary of Treasury, a position he held before moving to Commerce. But the doctors gave him a clean bill of health and he allowed his medical record to be released. He had heart surgery consisting of a triple bypass procedure. After he quit smoking and lost sixty pounds he was pronounced good as new.

No, Robert George felt that what he had was sound advice and was ready to standby the veto.

The president stepped from the bathroom nodding to his Secret Service agent. Roger Dunlap headed for the door. Check and see if she has my jacket would you Roger. The agent nodded, opened the door to the oval office, and the President of the United States passed in front of him.

Roger Dunlap was again talking into his sleeve. The president heard him say Hawkeye and new that Roger was announcing to the other agents in the building that the president was on the move. George had come to learn that Hawkeye was in reference to the Iowa Hawkeye’s, where he had gone to college. It was now a name used inside the Secret Service when referencing the president.

Robert George had been born and raised in Minnesota but only a few miles from the Iowa line. He spent a great deal of time in his youth, across the border in Iowa where many of his friends lived.

Hawkeye was used by the Secret Service so that there was no chance of confusion in communications referencing the president. The name never intended to be a secret or a code word for the president. It was used readily. When working in an interagency setting such as a Secret Service agent speaking to the FBI, he was referred to simply as POTUS, President of The United States.

They met the First Lady at their car that was waiting. The First lady was holding the presidents suit jacket and helped him slip it on as they walked out of the White House and into the waiting presidential limousine that would take them the twenty minutes to Easter services at their church located just outside the beltway in Maryland.

CHAPTER 5

Sacramento, California Easter Sunday

E DGAR MINCHEW IS A WASHINGTON insider who knew everybody but had the added blessing of being a media type who was well respected. A free lance journalist for television news. He and his cameraman, or in some cases, camerawoman, make a good living shooting breaking stories around Washington. Often they are stories that others had missed. He then sold his work to TV newsrooms across the country. It was a form of syndication and it is very lucrative.

Edgar is television, but viewers watching only network news would not know him. His work is for local newsrooms all across America. For the local stations, he is our man in Washington. He is a small, neat appearing reporter with a clear strong voice absent of any discernible accent. He appears to have no personal politics and his work shows it. He is in the business to make a good living and will make others look good to do it.

Morning. He felt lucky to reach Edgar on a Sunday morning, Norman Anderson hear.

Norman my friend, answered Edgar. A broad grin broke across his face. He knew how it was when a train leaves the track. I can only imagine why you should call me this morning. Has your governor calmed down yet?

He’s just fine, but it’s still early here and we haven’t seen any of the Sunday shows yet. I was hoping you might give us an idea of who is talking and what they’re saying. Norman waited for a response.

You know. began Edgar, It’s really quite amazing back here. Nobody’s said a word. Oh sure, Jane Albert made a quick statement, but I’m sure you saw that already.

What about all the Sunday shows? Norman asked again with a puzzled tone to his voice.

That’s what I mean Norm, nobody’s talking, no questions and no answers.

You mean like, I’ll come on your show but no veto questions?

That pretty much covers it, said Edgar. What’s your governor saying?

Probably just what you’re thinking, anyway, your man, Michael Salisbury is still with us, he’ll get what we do on tape. In the mean time can you keep me up to speed on who says what. Norman had his fingers crossed.

I’ m not into politics, you know that, responded Edgar. No special deal, no secret off the record stuff, but I’ll keep you up to date on what I find out. Both men hung up.

When Norman reached Kyle