WELCOME TO

“…but one option.”
by

Bill MacWithey

 

Chapter One

 

Walter Herndon drove toward CIA headquarters, still groggy from being awakened so early.  He squinted at his watch in the dim glow of the dash lights and rubbed his hand across his face.  "Damn, 3:20.  What the hell could be so important for Charlie to get me out of bed in the middle of the night?  Next damn car they give me better have a clock."  When he'd asked if there was an emergency, Charlie said, "No, I just want to chat." 

Chat, hell!  At three in the morning?  Walter knew better.  Charlie never wanted to "just chat."  But the President had given no hint of what was important enough to awaken him at such an ungodly hour.  Walter yawned and shook his head, attempting to clear the shadows from his brain, which wouldn't quite let him come fully awake.  He never had liked getting up early, and this was ridiculous.  If there'd been some sort of an emergency, he could understand it.  But there wasn't a hell of a lot he could do about it.  When the President said "come", you went - like it or not.

He slipped his card in the slot, the heavy iron gate slid to the side, and he pulled into the spot reserved for the Director.  An armed guard just inside the door grinned at him and said, "Good morning, Mister Herndon.  Little early, aren't you, Sir?"

"A little early is a gross understatement, Tom.  How's the wife?"

Walter was still so sleepy he wasn't sure how Tom answered.  When he stepped from the elevator onto the roof of CIA headquarters, the chilly spring breeze awakened his half-functioning mind.  The cold caught him by surprise, he shivered and realized the temperature was a hell of a lot lower than he thought.  Walter felt the goose bumps rise up on his arms.  For the tenth time since Charlie's call, he cussed the President under his breath.  He vigorously rubbed the sleeves of the lightweight nylon jacket he'd been foolish enough to choose over his winter coat and said aloud to the swirling fog, "Damn, it should be warmer this time of year!"

The lights in the elevator had been bright, and he stood atop the roof letting his eyes adjust to the darkness.  The dreary, dampness of the night air seemed to carry a foreboding message.  The only light atop the building was the soft, red glow cast eerily into the fog by the small locator light of the antennae arrayed atop the elevator shaft.

The roof of CIA headquarters could be illuminated as bright as sunlight when needed for normal night helo flights, but now, not a pinch of light gave away the chopper sitting across the roof from the elevator.  It was a typical cloud covered spring in this part of the country.  As Walter squinted, trying to spot the chopper's outline in the gray fog, he shook his head from side to side and wondered, "How the hell could Scott see to set the damn chopper down?"

As he picked his way between all the mechanical equipment hidden by the darkness atop the roof, Walter finally saw the ghost-like outline of his pilot.  Scott's six feet-two inch frame seemed almost ghost-like, framed in the soft glow of the lights on the small instrument panel in the helicopter.  Scott McCallister leaned jauntily, legs crossed, arms folded across his chest, against the side of the chopper in his leather "World War II" style bomber jacket.  A slash of curly gray-black hair found its way from under the "fifty mission crush" hat.

Though not an agent, Scott McCallister was paid a hefty salary to sit around waiting for the Director to call on him.  Walter and Scott both flew choppers for Air America in Vietnam, so there was camaraderie between them, brought about by common experience.  Walter felt safe with Scott at the controls.  He, himself had to quit flying choppers when he was recently appointed Director at the Agency.  No one else in the company knew Scott existed.

The craft wasn't the heavily armed AD4 in which he'd normally fly, but a small, four seat Sk-11 - the kind many radio and television stations used to report traffic conditions.  Three feet high call letters, "KWDC-Channel 10," were splashed down its sides.  The chopper was devoid of weapons and was, indeed, registered to KWDC, though never used by the station.  It was seldom used by the director - only when he wanted to go somewhere without the whole world knowing.

As Walter approached, Scott asked, "That you, Mister Herndon?"

"Who else would be damned fool enough to be out here this time of morning but you and me?"

"Where to, Mister Herndon?"  Scott laughed softly at Walter's disdain of early hours and crappy flying weather.  Hell, time or weather mattered little to him after the flying he did in Nam.  He was living on borrowed time and knew it, so he didn't really give a damned.  But he was curious.  Scott knew the only place they'd be going this early would be to see the colonel.  Who the hell else would be important enough to justify flying in this shit?  A light, freezing drizzle had begun falling, and that only worsened the situation.  The shit would probably freeze on the windshield.  Scott had nearly set down atop a huge air conditioning unit when he landed half an hour ago.

"Camp David."

"This early in the morning?  Man, I just got to my apartment with a real doll when you called."

"Sorry to interrupt your love life, but when the boss calls..."  Walter added, "Besides, you're getting too damn old to be out cattin' around half the night.  And with women half your age."  Of course, he was only teasing his old friend, but smiled and thought, "I should be so lucky."

Scott seemed to always have a smile on his face, as if it was contorted in that position when he was born, and had never changed.  Even when he was mad or concerned about something, the smile was always there.  He asked, "What are you and the President cooking up now?"

"You know better." 

Walter enjoyed the banter that inevitably took place with Scott, and knew if the man had been born fifty years earlier, he'd have probably been a barnstormer.  Walter had always liked him, mainly because when things were shitty, Scott always seemed to have a new joke for him that fit the situation.  Scott didn't give a damned about a person's position or station in life, and often spoke irreverently of those in high places, usually calling the President "the big man."

As Scott held the door open for Walter, he grinned and said, "Don't hurt to ask.  One of these days I'd like to know what the hell really goes on around here.  Damn it's chilly!  Shitty weather for staying under radar."  Of course, this was a question: Did Walter want to stay under radar?  When Walter failed to answer, Scott assumed it meant they did indeed want to fly low.

Even though Walter had a lot of confidence in Scott's flying ability, on dark, overcast nights like this, Scott sometimes scared the hell out of him.  And it seemed more often than not, it was on such nights that he flew with Scott.

They skimmed so low over the rooftops, it seemed they must be blowing shingles off.  "I'll bet we're pissing a lot of people off, waking them up this early.  Think we should be a little higher?"

"You wanta file a flight plan?"

Walter gave him a feigned look of disgust, but couldn't help breaking out in laughter.  Scott smiled like a mischievous little boy.  Of course, he had to stay low to avoid the numerous radars in the area, including defense radar.  But Walter didn't like flying six to eight feet above the rooftops they could barely make out in the murkiness surrounding them.

Walter Herndon, a young fifty-six, had been Deputy CIA Director under Charlie, before Charlie left to campaign for the Presidency.  Walt, as all his friends called him, was now in his second year as Director.  Meeting him for the first time, many people were sure they'd seen him somewhere before.  He never mentioned it was because he bore an uncanny resemblance to long dead actor, Jeff Chandler.  Walter had the same dimples as Chandler when he smiled, the same perfect white teeth, the partially grey, wavy, dark brown hair, the penetrating blue eyes, and the build of a former wide receiver.

As the loud whup, whup, whup of the rotors and the shrill cry of the turbojet engine awakened the countryside, Walter thought about how Charlie had gone from CIA Director to President.  The former President had hand picked Charlie Donnegan to run as his successor, and Charlie was now three months into his Presidency.

He had literally devastated the opposition with one of the most cleverly orchestrated campaigns ever, running on a platform of easing tensions and creating stability around the world.  "The reign of terror the world has lived under since atomic bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki will come to an end!" 

In the few months Charlie had been in office, relations with the republics of the former Soviet Union were extremely warm.  It seemed the Federation of former Soviet Republics bought Charlie's campaign rhetoric as willingly as did the American public.

Charlie's good looks helped, also, assuring him a hell of a lot of the votes cast by women.  Standing six feet, with shoulders as broad as a bull's back, almost-auburn, brown hair, and soft brown eyes, Charlie's smile could charm the worst of enemies.  When he chose to use it, he had more damn charisma than any one man should have.  Most people weren't aware of what a hard nose bastard Charlie could be when he found it necessary. 

And though they knew he'd been an army ranger and fought in Viet Nam, what they didn't know was that Charlie had commanded a group of killers -- not the type who went out and met the enemy on a level field of fire, but a small group of assassins who moved far behind enemy lines and took out targets of opportunity and killed key people in the enemy's military and government.

Charlie grew up the son of well off parents and had just about anything he wanted, including a Harvard education.  Enlisting in the Army as a second lieutenant, because he didn't want to work, he eventually wound up in the Rangers and found a home, rising swiftly to the rank of colonel at age thirty-one.

After Viet Nam, he went to work for the CIA and eventually rose to the position of Director.  When he left that position, his long time friend and first assistant, Walter Herndon, was a natural choice as his replacement.  Even though Charlie seemed like the peacemaker to the world, Walter had worked with the man too many years, and knew him too well to believe all the crap he spouted during the campaign.

Scott McCallister interrupted his thoughts.  "Camp David dead ahead, Mister Herndon.  Sorry to wake you up."

Walter again gave him a feigned look of disgust as he looked ahead for the lights on the helo pad at Camp David and said, "I wasn't asleep, Captain Courageous, just deep in thought."

Scott's boyish grin continued as he dialed up security at Camp David.  "Overflight, this is KWDC on approach for CD."

"Roger, KWDC.  You're cleared."

A heavily armed Apache circled Camp David continuously when the President was there, and if anything got too close without prior notification and clearance, well, one could kiss one's ass goodbye.  One didn't get a second chance.

Scott made a fighter pilot approach, turning the chopper nearly on its side, and dropped it in the exact center of the pad, touching down with only the slightest bump of the skids.  Every time he pulled off such a smooth, high speed set down, Scott looked over for Walter's smile of approval. 

Walter shook his head and said, "You know, Scott, I've finally figured you out.  You're crazy.  One of these days you're gonna splatter us over such a wide area, the angels won't find enough to pin our wings to."

Scott grinned and said, "I don't suppose I could come along to see the big man?"

Walter didn't even answer, as he was escorted away from the pad by a pair of US Army Rangers.  Although he couldn't see them, Walter knew forty or fifty crack US Army Rangers ringed the rustic house the President used at Camp David.  His friend was big on personal security.  Walter glanced as his watch again.  4:05.  As much as he hated being up this early, Walter had to admit it was peaceful among the huge oaks this time of morning.  The only sounds were the tap of his shoes and the soldier's boots on the walkway, and a night bird whistling somewhere in the distance.  The trees ran interference with the breeze, and it didn't seem as cold as the CIA rooftop.

When he walked into the dining room, he shook his head at his friend's obvious delight in getting up early and getting others up in the middle of the night.  Charlie was still in excellent physical condition at the age when most men begin to settle around the middle.  He ran ten miles every day, in spite of his busy schedule.  It had been a lot of years since he left the army, but Charlie still looked the part of a soldier, always seeming to be at attention, standing or sitting.

Walter dropped into a chair at the table and reached for the coffee warmer in front of his plate without even acknowledging there was anyone else in the room.  Had anyone else done this to Charlie..., well, no one else ever did.

Charlie asked, "How about some breakfast, Walt?"

"Thanks.  I'm glad you asked.  I haven't even had coffee."  The disgust in his voice was deliberate.

"Still a little early?"  Charlie laughed softly, knowing how Walter hated getting up early.  "Always enjoyed getting an early start myself."

Walter nodded and muttered, "Sure," as he sipped the coffee and asked quietly, "What's up, Charlie?" 

"Later."  Charlie gave him a look of "forget it for now."

They exchanged small talk while eating, and when they'd finished Charlie said, "Walt, let's go for a walk to settle our breakfast.  It's beautiful in the woods this time of morning.  Seems that's when the birds sing their sweetest."

Walter smiled and damn near laughed out loud, knowing Charlie didn't give a good damn about how the birds sang -- morning, noon or night.

A two mile jogging trail wound around the retreat, and when they were away from the main building, Walter noticed no secret service men followed.  "Where's security?"

"They're back there out of hearing range.  I want this conversation private."

They walked for several minutes in silence.  Walter was anxious to hear what brought on this early morning rendezvous.  He knew if Charlie had known his micro recorder was running when he finally did start talking, he might not have spoken so openly.  Walter had learned a long time before, to cover his ass, even if it was the President.

He sensed from Charlie's mood, he had something important on his mind, but all Walter could do was wait him out.

The President, who usually walked too rapidly for most people to keep up, plodded slowly and deliberately along the asphalt track, covered at his request, with thin, green artificial turf.  His hands were stuck in the rear pockets of his slacks, and they'd walked maybe three hundred yards before Charlie stopped, folded his arms across his chest, and looked at the very first light of a not yet visible sun.  Even though he hadn't meant it, Charlie had been right about the birds.  The early risers were flitting about, limb to limb, in search of something.

The President seemed deep in thought, as if trying to figure out how to broach whatever subject had brought Walter to Camp David.  Hell, was he going to fire him?