Coup D'Etat: Seven Days in October

By J. Randolph Smith

Using current historical political background of a dysfunctional government and a persistent increase in global terrorism, Coup D’Etat weaves a tale of powerful political and military figures conspiring to place a man of their choosing at the pinnacle of power in America.

Newly assigned Secret Service Agent Alex Coulter joins forces

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Oct 8, 2019
• ISBN: 9781643457840

J. Randolph Smith

Retired Air Force Major J. Randolph Smith served in the military for twenty-four years as a psychotherapist during the Korean War, the Viet Nam Conflict, and during the years of relative peace in Spain, Turkey, Colorado, Texas, and France where he met and married his wife of fifty-nine years. The couple resides in Austin, Texas, where their two grown children also live with their families. Major Smith published Night Train from Manchuria in 2012, a historical novel based on World War II in the Pacific. He is currently working on his third novel, a historical political thriller.

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Preface

I never associated America with the idea of a military takeover of the government; Americans are tightly bound to the United States Constitution and democratic processes. The America military, from its birth, has been profoundly loyal to the notion of democracy, a duly elected government—a government by and for the people.

A third reason (I thought at the time of my first interest in writing): There had never been a coup d’état in the history of the nation.

Given these truths, a novel about a coup d’état seemed to be a reach too far—until the following:

The political culture in America grew more problematic and fraught with dysfunction. In addition, the persistent threat of terrorism increased the demands for a strong leader to deal with the new insidious kind of war foisted upon the nation. This led to a downward spiral and danger to our democracy.

These new rapidly growing aspects of American life gave me the idea that a coup d’état as the subject of a novel was no longer a reach too far. For the first time in my life, I thought America with its new challenges could be threatened with a military conspiracy, a coup d’état.

While I wrote the novel, I was sure there had never been an American military conspiracy to take over the government. I was so sure it was only after I wrote Coup D’État: Seven Days in October that I searched the internet, expecting I would find nothing.

I was shocked to discover a 1933–1934 conspiracy of wealthy American industrialists to replace President Franklin D. Roosevelt using popular American generals and veterans who served in WWI. The conspiracy was squashed by one of the generals who betrayed the conspiracy in a Congressional hearing. He had the influence and power to command the veterans had he not chosen to betray the conspiracy.

Somehow the plot never made it into the history books. (My guess is because of the international embarrassment it would have caused). Instead of exposing the supporters, the media trashed the reputations of two of the generals involved.

Coup d’état, as fiction, is no longer, I believe, a reach too far after all. Could it happen for real? I think it could.

In recent years, respect for the rule of law, for the Constitution, and for democratic processes has rapidly diminished. A coup d’état has become ever more likely, especially in the form it takes in Coup d’état: Seven Days in October.

Prologue

5 October

Rawalpindi, Pakistan

Abdul Hassan Khalili arrived at Rawalpindi Airport by Emirates Airlines in the early morning hours from New York. Awakened by the stewardess, he quickly stored his computer, repacked his small suitcase, and waited by the exit door for his cameraman to appear.

Born in Pakistan, he gained American citizenship at age twenty; he became the face of CNB’s international news desk at thirty-six. Brilliant and charming, he quickly came to represent the moderate face of Islam to the Western World—an image he quietly pursued for the devious purposes of a Pakistani Muslim extremist group, Al-Qaida.

He had little contact with his controllers, none in the last two years. Over time, Khalili gave less and less thought to Al-Qaida connections. He began to think Al-Qaida’s sleeper program had simply ceased to exist. Except for minor contacts, Khalili had never performed a mission for Al-Qaida.

The lack of contact was not bothersome—it was welcome. The only pressure he had felt came from his father, who was anxious for him to contribute to jihadi; he was unaware of Khalili’s commitment to Al-Qaida although Khalili had occasionally hinted at his involvement.

Khalili’s success in journalism brought him into contact with high levels of US society but also addiction to the worst indulgencies of American culture. Gradually over the years, Khalili drank to excess at numerous cocktail and dinner parties; though never diagnosed nor treated, he was addicted to alcohol, but only vaguely aware of how serious his addiction had become.

This and the hectic lifestyle of his work took him further away from the practice of Islam. He performed prayers facing Mecca on rare occasions, mostly for the benefit of friends.

Khalili had come to Rawalpindi to interview the chief of Pakistan’s intelligence agency; the agency was under fire in the United States for its involvement in protecting Osama Bin Laden and its poor showing in pursuing terrorists along the Afghan border.

Far removed from contacts with Al-Qaida, Khalili’s mind was on thoughts of visiting with his family who would be gathering from around Pakistan to meet with him in Rawalpindi; never would he have dreamed the journalistic mission to Pakistan was a decoy that would propel his existence into an uncontrollable downward spiral.

Khalili’s cameraman struggled with a long line of economy class passengers and pushed his way to the exit door. Without a word, Khalili stepped out in front of him to the exit ramp; the cameraman followed him into the terminal, through passport control, and out to the taxi stands.

Khalili’s presence and demeanor on camera were managed so that his appearance was imposing; in reality, he was short, pudgy, and unimpressive, and he knew it. CNB staff devised numerous devices for hiding Khalili’s lower body. Headshots were the rule; desk shots were used for occasions when he interviewed, and it was impossible to avoid entire body shots.

Standing now, waiting for the taxi, he felt self-conscious next to his cameraman, who was a tall handsome young man. He was relieved when the taxi driver pulled up and opened the rear doors to let them in.

Before Khalili could sit back, the door on his side opened; two men stood behind a third man who had opened the door. One leaned down and spoke in perfect English, Abdul Hassan Khalili, you will come with us, please. The man held out an identification card with the letters ISI in large print, identifying Pakistan’s intelligence service.

Khalili, surprised, leaned forward. I’m expected at the hotel. I prefer to rest before I meet with your chief—

You will come with us, please. The man reached in, took Khalili by the right arm, and lifted him off the seat.

Khalili angrily pulled his arm away and glared at the three men. He stood for a moment; he knew something was seriously amiss, but he saw no recourse but to submit. To leave a trail of his arrival, he turned back to the taxi, leaned in, and spoke to the cameraman with a studied calm. I will meet you later this morning at the Hotel Pearl Continental. Be sure to register us both. Check my bag into my room.

The cameraman nodded.

Khalili was shocked as the men led him to the rear of the taxi stand and shoved him through the double doors of a van. Inside, without a word, they forced him onto a side seat, removed his cell phone, buckled him in, and placed a hood over his head.

Khalili knew these men were making a mistake, but he was not sure whether the mistake would be a small one or a much bigger one. One of the men tied his hands behind his back—a big one. If this was a terrorist kidnapping, they’d soon learn they had the wrong man.

The van drove fast along a highway for twenty minutes. Khalili could hear running water; the van was obviously driving over low hills at frequent intervals. He guessed the van was in the area of the lake with numerous waterfalls around the Margalla Hills in the exclusive Diplomatic Enclave.

He relaxed and was reassured when they went through a security checkpoint, and the security guard didn’t look into the van. Khalili had made the trip from the airport to the Margalla Hills area many times; he knew he had arrived at the Hotel Serena, and the van had pulled into the underground parking garage. One of the men removed Khalili’s hood but left his hands tied behind him; he took Khalili by elevator to the top floor.

The elevator stopped smoothly; his cell phone was handed to him, and he was roughly shoved off directly into the hall of the penthouse suite. He stumbled into the entrance hall; relieved, he immediately recognized Adnan el Shukrijumah. Shukrijumah nodded curtly for the guard to exit by the elevator.

Khalili waited for the elevator doors to close; he grinned. Assalamu Alaikum.

Shukrijumah reached out and embraced Khalili; smiling, he turned him around and untied his hands. Assalamu Alaikum Wa Rrahmatulah.

Khalili and Shukrijumah had attended the same school in Rawalpindi as young boys and had trained in the camps of Al-Qaida together in their teen years. While Khalili went off to the United States, Shukrijumah went under cover and served Osama Bin Laden as a courier in the mountains of Pakistan. They had not seen each other in nearly a decade.

Was this necessary? I was terrified.

For your own good, brother. It is good to see you again.

Khalili leaned over and gave Shukrijumah a heartfelt hug.

Shukrijumah’s reaction was oddly cool. He quickly broke away and announced, Al Zawahiri is here…and Atiyah Abd Al-Rahman.

The explosives expert. I’ve heard of him. The Americans want him badly for the Marine barracks attack. I have never met Al Zawahiri. Is it safe for him here?

The safest place in Rawalpindi, in all of Pakistan probably. They wouldn’t dare send a drone over this area…Half the diplomatic corps of Europe and the Middle East are within a stone’s throw of the Serena.

What’s to stop a Special Ops?

We’re surrounded by security.

Ayman Al Zawahiri stepped into the hall; he stood quietly, staring at Khalili.

Khalili was stunned; Al-Qaida’s new leader was a tiny, shriveled-up old man. Khalili was uncertain how he should greet Al Zawahiri; his body hesitated, then seemingly on its own volition, bent in a low bow. Khalili lifted himself, attempting to stand tall. He spoke softly, Assalamu Alaikum.

Assalamu Alaikum. Al Zawahiri turned aside and waved the two men into the living room. Both men hesitated; Al Zawahiri stood silently waiting, staring at Khalili. Shukrijumah quickly moved ahead, and Khalili followed.

The living room was six hundred square feet, luxuriously furnished. Dawn rose rapidly, filling the room with light from windows and reached across the space on two sides.

Zawahiri moved to the middle of the room and took a seat in the center of a sofa facing a second sofa. Khalili and Shukrijumah took seats beside each other on the facing sofa.

Khalili thought the myths about Al Zawahiri were probably true; he kept people at a distance, refused to be touched or to touch, and never allowed anyone behind him, always only face-to-face. Khalili thought they were surprising obsessions for a man who was also thought to be fearless.

A young girl appeared immediately with a tray, three hot tea glasses, and a teapot. Without making eye contact, she placed the tray on a table between the sofas and vanished as quickly as she had come into the room.

Al Zawahiri filled the three glasses quickly. He wasted no time with pleasantries. You have been in our prayers these many years. You have led a courageous life in the den of Satan, and you have aided our cause greatly.

Khalili leaned forward, eagerly expecting Zawahiri to offer him an unprecedented interview opportunity. An interview with Al Zawahiri would stun the Western world and give his career a huge boost. Al Zawahiri’s next words, instead, stunned Khalili.

That must now come to an end.

Khalili froze. He felt his heart pounding, and blood rushed to his face; his brain shut down momentarily, hiding a rising anxiety.

Al Zawahiri gave no indication he had noticed. "The failure of political power in America has led to a conspiracy of powerful men committed to empowering the military to destroy Al-Qaida.

"Through contacts at NATO headquarters, we have learned a group of senior military officers will soon set into motion a coup d’état to install a leader at the pinnacle of power in Washington. This man will have a mandate to threaten the Islamic world militarily.

Already anticipating the unleashing of military power, the CIA and the military special operations units have begun systematic assassinations of Islamic leaders in Europe and the Middle East.

Al Zawahiri rose, walked over to the windows, turned slowly, and walked back to stand in front of Khalili. He leaned down, reached out as if to touch Khalili on the shoulder, then jerked his hand back. He lifted his body upright and stood for a long moment. With great intensity, he locked eyes with Khalili and spoke with a ferocity that imbued the words with a powerful chill that filled the room.

That leader must die.

Al Zawahiri leaned down once again, nodded his head slowly, rose to stand, turned, and walked back slowly to take his seat on the couch.

You will be the instrument of that man’s destruction. Islam cannot allow the unrestrained onslaught of American military power. This man must be identified quickly.

Khalili allowed himself a moment of confusion, but deep down he knew the answer to his enquiry. Still he bent forward and asked, What can I do to help?

Al Zawahiri nodded to Shukrijumah; without a word, Shukrijumah rose and left the room. Al Zawahiri sat comfortably in silence, waiting.

Khalili allowed his confusion to grow; his mind refused to grasp what was happening. Khalili’s eyes darted about the room, avoiding Al Zawahiri’s steady gaze, which was accompanied by a strange mocking smile that guarded a secret.

Shukrijumah was followed into the room by Atiyah Abd Al-Rahman; he returned to his seat facing Al Zawahiri.

Atiyah Abd Al-Rahman nodded to Al Zawahiri and turned to address Khalili. Assalamu Alaikum.

Khalili’s response was barely audible. Assalamu Alaikum.

Al Zawahiri’s smile broadened. He leaned across the space, his hand once again almost touching Khalili’s shoulder, and drew back with a convulsive jerk; the mocking vanished. He removed his glasses, cleaned them with a cloth, and put them back on. He stared into Khalili’s face and spoke softly, gently, as if bestowing a gift. He is here for you. He will build for you a body mold, thin, lightweight, powerful explosives. We will send the body mold to you in a diplomatic pouch. Al Zawahiri stared at Khalili. The mocking was replaced by a deep, strange laugh. His eyes were hard, forbidding, without compassion.

It was done; the messenger of death had delivered a shocking sentence. Khalili’s mind tried to clear away the confusion and accept the unacceptable. He felt a chill run through his body. He spoke without thinking and regretted it immediately. But what of my interview…my visit to my parents…?

Al Zawahiri shook his head and spoke forcefully, as if addressing a child. "You will have no time for visiting with your family. We understand, you must interview the chief of Pakistani Intelligence. To speed up the process, we have given him responses to questions we have devised for you. He will give you whatever access you require. Film the interview quickly and return to the United States.

Surely this new leader is a man in high political office. You are in a position to locate and assassinate this enemy of Islam. When your body mold arrives, we will send with it intelligence, which will reveal the identity of your target. Waste no time. Al Zawahiri’s eyes narrowed, and the mocking smile returned. He reached to a long table to the rear of the sofa, picked up a folder, and passed it to Khalili. You will find the questions for your interview in the folder. Al Zawahiri leaned forward. I have spoken to your father. He is very proud of you.

Khalili stared at Al Zawahiri. He spoke softly. Surely a quick visit—

Events in America are moving fast. The men behind the military takeover have orchestrated attacks on Al-Qaida across the globe. Our agents are spending their time avoiding American drones. It has become a daily—no, an hourly pastime. There is no time to delay. Al Zawahiri stood; he paused in front of Khalili. You must return to America and prepare yourself to locate your target. We will have your equipment to you in a matter of days.

Khalili lowered his head; he lost track of time. When he looked up, Al Zawahiri was gone.

The room was empty, the elevator door was open, and the guard who had brought him up to the penthouse stood waiting.

I

6 October

Washington, DC

Alex Coulter sat at a computer in a small cubicle at the United States Secret Service office at 1800 G Street, gathering information about a large counterfeit operation working out of the Midwestern states.

He could hear computers clicking away in a dozen cubicles stretched across the rectangular room that ran the length of the Treasury building; the crowded room reminded him of the competition for fieldwork assignment related to the upcoming counterfeit raid.

Secret Service agents in Treasury were always lined up for any fieldwork. When the computer research was complete, Treasury would send out agents to arrest over fifty counterfeiters scattered over six states. It would take a small army of Secret Service agents to corral, arrest the leaders, investigate individual cases, and prosecute.

Alex was hoping to be one of them. Stuck for the most part with administration during the two years he had worked for the counterfeit section, he was counting on being assigned to the field action, searching out, arresting, filing charges, and prosecuting the counterfeiters.

Except for the basic Secret Service training program, which was intense, he had little time for physical exertion. Even so, the training had kept him in good shape, and he felt he was easily up to fieldwork.

Sitting at a computer most of the day was killing. Alex pushed his chair back, got up, and walked out of the cubicle into a narrow hallway, pulled open the nearest window, and leaned out; he used the windowsill to push back and stretch. He lingered for a few minutes, then returned to his cubicle, sat down, and renewed his focus.

Alex’s supervisor touched him on the shoulder and leaned down to whisper in his ear, Barrat wants to see you.

Alex looked at his supervisor as though he had dropped down from Mars. Barrat? John Barrat, the director of Blowtorch?

The same—Blowtorch. You need to get over there now. He wants to leave at five. He’ll be in building 410.

What can he want with me? Confused, Alex thought there must be some mistake; he had struggled for months with numerous applications for assignment to Blowtorch, the Secret Service Protective Unit. He had finally given up the effort over a year ago. He felt excitement mounting; he got up, trying to keep calm. He shut down the computer and gathered his notes.

Leave everything, I’ll take care of it. Get going.

Did he say anything? Alex stood, confusing thoughts rushing ahead; he waited.

Your guess is as good as mine. I’m thinking it could only be one thing. You’re getting assigned to Blowtorch. Now, get going. I’m telling you, he’s in a hurry. In half an hour, traffic will slow to a crawl.

Alex grabbed his coat and hurried down to the elevators. He had first applied for the Executive Protection Command Post when he had started work for the Secret Service right out of law school, going on over two years. His interest in the Secret Service began in high school, always associated with the Protection Unit. He didn’t like admitting it, but his interest had started with a Clint Eastwood movie about the Secret Service.

Years later, the thought of working daily, directly contributing to protecting the nation’s chief executive and his family, was still exciting; you couldn’t get more useful on a daily basis. Assignment to the Counterfeit Section was a disappointment. In recent months, he had started to think seriously of leaving the Treasury for private practice in trial law.

John Barrat was a legend in the Secret Service; his long career included extraordinary acts of courage and professionalism admired by a generation of agents. Alex told himself a man like that needed a serious reason for calling him over. On the surface, he didn’t quite dare believe his luck; at the deepest level of his mind, he rapidly talked himself into the assignment.

Reaching the parking lot, Alex looked out toward the street. The traffic was already beginning to pick up. He decided on hailing a taxi, not wanting to take the time to get out of the parking lot and risk missing Barrat. Alex ran out to the street and hailed the first taxi passing; against all odds, it stopped to pick him up.

He jumped in. Breathing rapidly, he laid his head back and tried to ease his excitement, but his mind had latched onto one thought—Blowtorch.

In less than twenty minutes, he was being directed to the office of John Barrat. His secretary, a petite brunette, gave him a warm smile, looking admiringly at Alex’s dark blond crew cut. She opened the door to Barrat’s office and extended the warmth of a smile, clearly flirting. He interpreted her friendly greeting as evidence he was about to get the assignment.

The office on the top floor was small, but it was a corner space with windows on two sides. Barrat, seated behind a large desk covered with scraps of paper lined up in neatly spaced rows, looked up, rose, and came around the desk to shake Alex’s hand.

Short and compact, Barrat offered a muscular arm and a surprisingly gentle shake. Barrat leaned back on the edge of his desk. Have a seat. He pointed to the only chair not filled with stacks of files.

Alex sat down stiffly in the chair centered on Barrat’s desk.

Relax, Alex. I’ll get right to the point. Your name turned up on the list for our Advance Team—the president’s Madrid visit.

Alex felt a huge sigh of relief mixed with fear, and his breathing returned to normal. He shook his head slightly, surprised to hear the calm in his voice. He blurted out, I don’t understand. I’m assigned to Counterfeit, G Street.

"I know, of course, that’s part of the puzzle. The list came over from the director’s office. I’ve called over there and was told the list is correct. They’re emphatic. Apparently, you’re being reassigned. You’re going to be on the Advance Team. Special training