Casing the Colors © Week 33

Casing the Colors © Week 33 • • • CHAPTER 51 • • Small crowds had been gathered near the White House for weeks demanding action against the terrorists and refugees along the Mexican border. But, this time it was different. The crowds that arrived almost instantaneously as the bombing in the southwest began in earnest were large and refused to leave. They encircled the White House grounds, carrying flags and posters and shouted General Bennett's name. America was frozen, absorbed by the TV images bombarding them, not sure what would happen to them and their families. Early the following morning, five months after Stuart Wellford had been sworn in as President of the United States, the marchers, chanting for General Bennett, moved inside the fences and onto the White House grounds. For Stuart Wellford, the unthinkable end was at hand. General Gordon exited the White House and met three Army attack helicopters as they landed on the South Lawn. Stu Wellford, along with his wife, Sheila, who had been forcefully recalled from Hollywood, hurried ahead of the General. Troops already stationed at the White House formed a line between the helicopters and the protesters, giving Jim Gordon enough time to load his passengers and lift off. As the marchers reached the White House portico, General Bennett dramatically emerged, waving his arms and smiling. An aide handed him a microphone as Pete Lowell stepped up behind him. The crowd became quiet. "My fellow Americans, we are fighting to hold together this great nation we have built with two hundred fifty years of courage, blood and determination. We will win because we must win, for our children and for the world. No terrorist threat will take away our precious liberty or destroy our way of life." General Bennett's voice was stirring and solemn. "There will be no truce. We will not accept compromise. We will never sell out. America, reborn to its values, to its heritage, that is our goal and we shall achieve it." The crowd roared its approval. Alexei Katerinov, watching it on TV, had the answer he needed. Kate got up to leave the room. "Find my father," she said quietly. General Gordon's helicopter had landed at Andrews Joint Air Base with Stu and Sheila Wellford. "We have arranged to send you to Paris," Jim Gordon told them. "The French will treat you as exiled political leaders. You should find life there pleasant. We will provide all the money you need, Stu, to live as our protected political associate. Sheila, please try to remember that the French do not, despite their image, like to see a political couple publicly at odds. Keep your sexual liaisons under control, if you can't eliminate them. And, for God's sake, Stu, leave Kate alone. She doesn't need any more of your guidance." The pair looked at him meekly. "We made a mess of it," Stu said. "Stu, for once in your life, say what you mean," Sheila snapped. "We didn't make a mess of it, America did. It is no more your fault than mine that we didn't make it work. But, at least I tried. At least I provided an outlet for the other side of the story. Hollywood may seem silly to both of you, but it could have helped us win. Ricardo even told me he was trying to find a way to help you out of your corner, Stu." "For Christ's sake, Sheila, shut up," Stu bellowed, forgetting Jim Gordon and everything else except his rage against a wife who couldn't even be discreet in selecting her lovers. "What in God's name could Ricardo Pelluci do for us? He's nothing more than a worm eating away at the soul of America, feeding it the violence and hate he knows will someday destroy it." "At least he tried to help me," she replied, spitting out her frustration. "Ricardo was the only person who really listened to me, who understood my point of view." General Gordon stopped her. "What do you mean, Sheila. What did you tell Pelluci?" She froze. Suddenly she knew that she had endangered all of them. It all tumbled out, her liaison, the evenings together, his need to hear everything and his offers to help, never carried through to action but always sincere. "Jesus Christ," Jim Gordon exploded, already racing for the hangar, "We don't need to look any further. We have the mole." Minutes later, as the US State Department 747 lifted off and headed to Paris with its cargo of a no-longer needed Supreme Court Justice and sometime President, and his wife, Jim Gordon was on a secure line with General Phil Carlson. "Phil, I need a favor. It has to be without official orders. Can I count on you?" "Just tell me what you want, Jim. You don't need to ask," Phil Carlson answered. • • Later that evening, a black car pulled up to the curb on a street several blocks away from the hilltop mansion of Ricardo Pelluci. Three men got out, quietly closing the car doors. A fourth man waited behind the wheel. The three were dressed in black slacks and turtlenecks and carried small black gym bags. Slithering through the gardens and pool areas of sleeping houses, they arrived at the marked house, disconnected the alarm system and entered its grounds. Ricardo Pelluci never knew who slit his throat, although the man who killed Pelluci carved a "G" on his cheek to let the rest of the terrorists know that it was Gabriel who had hit their invincible leader. Gabriel would find a way, if he lived, to tell the young woman he had protected in Veracruz that she was much more precious to him than Carlos had ever realized. One may even believe that Pelluci never knew that he had been killed, so quiet was the work. Two guards were expedited with him, mute testimony to the evening's efficiency. Back in the waiting car, Phil Carlson rang General Gordon. Target hit," he said prosaically. "Raqqa is dead."