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Can you guess the type of deception chosen for Death?
Michael Palmer Presents
Unlike some First Ladies who embraced the guilty pleasure of fashion, Darlene did not, and whenever the cameras weren’t rolling, she favored the dungarees and plaid work shirts that were the mainstay of her wardrobe at K State. “Once a farmer, always a farmer,” she had been oft quoted regarding her background as a wheat farmer’s daughter. To the left of the two rows of folding chairs where they were sitting, a broad blue ribbon stretched diagonally across the glass doors of the gleaming new building fluttered gently in the breeze.
The Young People’s Chorus stood off to one side on metal risers, waiting patiently to sing their song, “The Face of the Waters.”
Kim had researched the piece and passed on the information that it was about creation. It was a fitting anthem, thought Darlene, considering that once again, she needed to create an explanation for President Mallory’s absence. Politics aside, his recently unpredictable behavior concerned her the way it would any loving and devoted wife. Martin’s nosedive in the popularity polls was one of the most historic drops in presidential history. But before the economy tanked, he had touted this particular Boys & Girls Club as a symbol of America’s renewed community spirit, and a shining example of the effectiveness of his controversial domestic spending policies.
Now, with the country’s fortunes in free fall, the costly modern steel and glass structure might well become a symbol of his administration’s fiscal excesses. Darlene crossed to the lectern and spoke to the crowd of several hundred. “I’m afraid I have just received a call from my husband. He is tied up in an emergency meeting and regrettably will not be able to attend this magnificent grand opening. However, he is making arrangements for the Young People’s—”
“Is he scared to show his face in public?” Through the glare of the afternoon sun, Darlene could not see the face of the man heckling her, but he was certainly close by. Too close. Kim must have sensed Darlene’s concern, because she immediately went into attack mode and began scouring the crowd for the potentially dangerous protester. The large Secret Service contingent did the same. Meanwhile, Darlene continued with her address. “The president wanted me to let you know—”
The heckler wasn’t finished. “What’s next?” he called out. “Will our tax dollars buy a new football stadium for the Skins?” By this time, Kim had spotted the man and alerted Secret Service agents to his location. The agents acted quickly to cull the protester from the crowd. Darlene was used to hecklers, although their numbers seemed to be increasing at every one of her appearances. It made her sad that the outburst may have eclipsed the real story of the day, which was the children. Perhaps it would turn out for the best that the president had chosen to stay home. Immersed in a forest of angry pickets, most of the anti-Mallory protesters that day were kept at bay behind a sawhorse barrier set up across the parking lot. Darlene estimated their number might be half as many as those attending the ceremony. In addition, signs with unflattering epithets for the president and his administration were nailed to nearly every tree in the area.
The kids were getting a serious lesson in civics, American style. Undeterred, Darlene smiled and was about to start speaking again when she felt a tiny tap on her right arm. She looked down into the wide, tear-filled eyes of a boy, no more than seven or eight. The child was dressed splendidly in a green and blue striped tie and V-neck pullover sweater.
“Please,” he said. “I promised my mommy and daddy the president would be here. Please.” Darlene laid a hand on his tiny shoulder and swallowed at the orange-sized lump in her throat. Kim immediately sized up the situation and led the child back to his parents. “Listen,” Kim said when she had returned. “How about if I cover for you and you try again to get him down here? It’s only, like, a five-minute drive, and the motorcade is probably still standing by.”
Darlene smiled at her friend. “Did you just read my mind?”
“No, I read your eyes—probably the easiest thing I’ll have to do all day.”
Russ Evans has been framed, she kept thinking. Assuming it was true, countless other questions were in need of answering. First, though, there was the matter of proof, and clearly that proof had to be evaluated by the First Lady. Kim’s hands trembled as she inserted the bill into the machine’s narrow maw. The song playing at the moment was “Voodoo Child” by Jimi Hendrix—appropriate, she thought, given the sense that she was being manipulated. The bill disappeared into the slot like a snake’s tongue retreating back into its mouth. As soon as it was gone, Kim felt a vibration from inside her purse. Glancing about once more, she opened her bag and took out her iPhone. A year ago, she’d taken a picture of the White House during an August sunset, and liking it so much, she made it her iPhone’s background image. But superimposed over that image now was a semi-transparent rounded rectangle bordered by a thin white line. In the center of the rectangle was a single-line text message. I’ll be in touch.
From the podium, with the emblem of the presidential seal facing the crowd, she instructed people to take their seats. There was a rustle of movement and the dwindling murmur of voices as the guests settled in. Darlene was seated to the left of the podium. President Callaghan’s husband was seated to the right. Both presidents had musical cues that would instruct them when to enter. “Is POTUS in position?” Kim spoke into her radio. A crackled reply came back, “Ready to go.” “Good.”
Kim nodded to her assistant, and moments later the musicians began to play the Irish march, “Wind That Shakes the Barley.” President Callaghan emerged through the Oval Office French doors to enthusiastic applause. She stood in front of the podium, waving to the powerful and influential guests, many of whom had Irish heritage, strong ties to her country, or both. Scanning the crowd, Kim stepped away from the podium and listened from the lawn nearest to the risers. She was startled by a light tap on her leg and looked down to see a mocha-skinned girl with ebony pigtails, wearing the plaid pinafore and black tights of the girls, smiling up at her shyly. Kim knelt down. “Honey, you’re supposed to be on the riser with the others,” she whispered. “Your song is right after President Mallory makes his entrance.” “But I need to tell you something,” the child said in a honey-sweet voice. “Me? What is it, sweetie?” “A man said to tell you that your present is in your purse.” Kim took in a sharp breath. I’ll be in touch. “What man?” “The one who came up to me right after I got off the bus.” “Do you remember what he looked like?” “He had a red and white Washington Nationals hat on. They’re my favorite team.” The crowd was settled, and Kim realized that the director of the chorus was looking over at them. “Everything okay with Simone?” he said in a stage whisper. “Fine,” Kim said. “You did good, Simone. You did perfect. Now, go back with the kids and give us a terrific concert.” A Washington Nationals cap. Double M seemed to be an expert at disguise by diversion. Give a person like the bartender and this child something easy to focus on, and in all likelihood, that would be all they recalled. Kim glanced quickly around the Rose Garden, just as she had that night in Bar None. The results were the same. Nothing. Yet somehow, Double M had managed to slip something into her purse. The man was sharp, resourceful—and quick.
The Irish march was over, and the musicians had begun “Hail to the Chief.” With the first notes of the James Sanderson march, Martin Mallory emerged from the Oval Office to what Kim considered a polite standing ovation. As he waved to the crowd, she checked her shoulder bag. A small white box, held closed by a red elastic, rested on top of her clutter. It weighed no more than a couple of ounces. Nothing to be wary of. Stepping backwards out of the line of sight of almost everyone, she pulled the elastic off. The box held six compartmentalized pieces of chocolate. It took Kim a few seconds to realize that only five of the pieces were real candy. The sixth small chamber contained something else. Something not at all edible. An earpiece. “Hail to the Chief” was winding down, to be followed by the national anthems, but Kim could hardly hear the music. Her pulse was a kettledrum in her ears. Ahead and to her right, the president was waving and smiling for the cameras. Kim pretended to adjust her earring and fiddled with the small apparatus until it slipped inside her left ear. Immediately, she heard static, then a man’s tinny voice, probably electronically altered. Still, his words, even heard through her pulse, were quite audible. “This is the end of the recording. It will loop for ten minutes more before its contents become permanently erased. Darlene Mallory must listen to this recording and agree to help.”
From just outside where they were lying, they heard Papa Steve whisper harshly. “Lou, Cap, you boys all right down there? Knock on the side. Once for yes, twice for no. It’s safe.” Lou banged once against the side, and battled back the urge to add a few extras. “Good. Now, you just hang tight. A couple more hours is all. The show will feature some short speeches blasting from some pretty intense speakers, followed by a couple of marches accompanied by fireworks. The ‘1812 Overture’ will be last, Howitzers and all, with more fireworks than you can shake a stick at, mixed in with enough of the real deal to get some serious attention.
Soon as you hear the ‘1812 music, head for Brody’s office. By the time things begin to blow up, you better be back at the truck. I unhooked the back, so you can push yourselves out. But listen close. Timing here is critical. If things go right, we’ll be able to drive right off the base without too much trouble. Knock once if you’ve got all that.” Lou knocked. “Hang tough, boys.” Lou felt a gentle tap on his leg. “How else are we supposed to hang?” Cap whispered.
Lou guessed ten minutes had passed when they heard footsteps approaching. Then a voice. “Hey, there, Papa Steve, how’s it going?” Brody! “Getting ready to be offloaded,” Papa Steve said. “I think you’ll be happy with my selection, Colonel.” “Will this be enough to make it a spectacle?” “I’ve got boxes of aerial repeaters, shells, rockets, Thor missiles, display tubes. It’ll be a spectacle, all right.” “Good,” Brody said. “These men are going on a very dangerous mission. They deserve a fitting send-off.” More footsteps. “Papa Steve.” “Major Coon.” Lou did not recognize the new voice. “Ready for the big send-off?” “I have my crew ready to empty this truck and place everything on the firing platform. Then I’ll hook it all up and ka-boom. Fourth of July in December. How about the howitzer gunners, Major. Are they all set?” “Champing at the bit,” Coon said. “Excuse me, Commander, but I wonder if I could have a word with you.” “Papa Steve,” Brody said, “why don’t you give us five minutes, then bring your men to help you unload these boxes.” “Yes, sir.” Footsteps, probably Papa Steve leaving, followed by a minute of silence.
“Okay,” Brody said finally, “what is it, Charlie?” “I wanted to let you know that I’ve decided to handle the notification to the families myself.” “All of them?” “I think it’s better that way, sir.” “I’ll probably go with you to some of them. What’s the final story?” “Just as we discussed. Helicopter crash after the assassinations were completed and the men had reassembled for the trip home. It’s the most believable way for twenty soldiers to be killed at once.” “Makes sense,” Lou heard Brody say.
“This is a major milestone in the evolution of the new war, Charlie. It’s been too long that we haven’t been fighting on a level playing field. Our technology has proved only that we have more money, not more resolve. But all that is going change with Operation Talon. Terrorists everywhere will soon be aware that Americans are willing and ready to replicate every tactic used against us, including those that involve a life for a life.”
“You’ve done a good thing here, sir. In time, this will put an end to terrorism and change the course of the war. And most important, it will alter how our resolve is perceived. These parasites will learn not only to respect us, but more important, to fear us. I just left the men. They’re ready, sir. I also wanted to let you know that we’ve moved the takeoff from the Langley airstrip to Dover, as you advised.” “Better Dover,” Brody said. “Their security is reasonable and I want as few people as possible to know anything about this.” “Understood and agreed.” “Let’s get ready, my friend.” “Yes, sir.” Footsteps … Brody and Coon walking away.
Lou’s stomach had knotted up. Combined with what he saw in the woods while following Brody, what he learned from Papa Steve, and what they heard just now, he had learned enough to put together a truly frightening scenario. Operation Talon was a mass suicide mission. Twenty soldiers, primed by Brody’s ruby drink, ready to die for their country violently and without fear. He might not know the targets or other specifics, but the intent of the mission was as evident as it was ungodly.
Lying in the darkness beside his friend, Lou recalled how easily the cartel man named Pedro had slipped a partially loaded revolver into his mouth and pulled the trigger. Click! Now, Mark Colston’s wonderful heroism, surprising even to his father, made sense. Clearly it was only a matter of time before Elias Colston put all the pieces together.
In megalomaniac Wyatt Brody’s warped mind, the man had to die. But now a new problem had arisen. Instead of trying to prove Brody killed Elias Colston, Lou had the responsibility of at least twenty brave, essentially innocent lives in his hands. The lives soon to be sacrificed on the altar of Operation Talon. He waited until he felt it was safe to talk. “Cap, do you know what that conversation meant?”
“I know that I’m dying in here, Welcome. My limbs have gone completely numb and I’m so damn cold.” Lou could feel Cap shivering beside him. Only then did he realize he was shivering himself. “We can’t quit now, Cap.” “I was just talking, pretty boy. Anything to keep from thinking about my own misery. It sounds like your buddy Brody doesn’t care too much who he steps on.”
“The man’s crazy. Absolutely drunk with power and his misguided theories of patriotism. Unless he’s stopped, a lot of people are going to die.” Silence settled in again, and the seconds dragged on. It was nighttime, Lou thought, more because he wanted it to be than because he was sure. The hours of waiting on the steel platform had taken a huge physical and emotional toll. Papa Steve had long ago returned with a crew from Mantis and unloaded the boxes of fireworks. The moment of action had to be close. “I can’t do it, Cap. I can’t make it another—”
“Gentlemen, this your commander speaking,” Brody’s voice boomed from giant speakers, cutting Lou short. “Tonight we honor the men who will represent Mantis on the most important mission since the founding of our young outfit. From the beginning, Mantis has embodied the virtues of the true solider. Please join with me in affirming those virtues.” “The color of our drink is the color of courage,” seven hundred voices barked out in perfect unison. “It is the color of blood spilled in battle, the color of fire that burns for freedom. For our mission. For valor. For justice. For our country. For God. For Mantis … Whatever it takes!”
Lou felt a tremendous surge of adrenaline and sensed that beside him, Cap was experiencing the same thing. At all costs, the sacrifice of these men had to be averted. “Alone we are powerful,” Brody was saying. “Together we are unstoppable. Let us honor the men who will endure the most dangerous and important mission Mantis has ever had the privilege to undertake, the men of Operation Talon. As I call your name, would you each please climb onto either of the trucks that will transport you to the heliport. “Staff Sergeant Bucky Townsend, Muskogee, Oklahoma.… Corporal Luis Sanchez, Vicksburg, Mississippi.…” The cheers became more rapturous after each name. When the list was completed, Souza’s “Stars and Stripes Forever” blared through the loudspeakers, accompanied by a barrage of fireworks and the rumbling of truck engines.
One more march, some more fireworks. Then, from the massive speakers, the “1812 Overture” began. It would be just what the colonel ordered—three huge Chinook choppers lifting up at once, fireworks exploding around them, with Tchaikovsky’s iconic cannonade providing the soundtrack. Protected by the fireworks, Lou stretched, then rolled to his side, imagining what Wyatt Brody would be experiencing while the pistol was being removed from his fabulous gun collection—the pistol that would help prosecutors put him on death row. Majestic strings, slow and sonorous at first, filled the air. Music to die for, Lou thought. “Get ready, my friend,” he said, no longer confined to whispering. “We’re on.”
Lou and Cap jammed their heels against the rear panel of what had been their prison, and felt it fall away. It landed with a muted but satisfying thud. Sliding backwards, they dropped to the ground in a crouch behind the truck. A rush of cool air bathed their lungs.
From no more than fifty feet away, the nearest huge speaker, mounted on a tall pole, had begun broadcasting the gentle opening string passage of the “1812 Overture.” Cap stood and straightened up, groaning obscenities at his joints. Lou looked to his right and took in a familiar sight. They were parked on the dirt courtyard housing Brody’s headquarters and two smaller structures. Overhead, a variety of fireworks were turning the moonless sky into a fantasy garden. The explosions accompanying the display shook the earth. Aside from the music, the core of the base was ghostly quiet and appeared completely deserted. Windows in the three buildings and nearby barracks were dark. There were no guards on duty, at least that Lou could see. Papa Steve had mentioned that the ceremony was set for the assembly area, some distance away. He was smart to have sped up the timetable. If ever there was a perfect time to penetrate Wyatt Brody’s world, this was it. When he pushed himself off the platform, Cap pulled out a compact knapsack he had wedged by his head. Small length of clothesline, powerful flashlight, leather pouch of tools, headlamp, stethoscope, hunting knife, and a pistol. “Sorry, not my style,” Lou had said when offered a similar weapon.
“I love our soldiers,” Cap replied. “Love ’em, respect ’em, am grateful to ’em, too. But if these Palace Guards are what you say they are, I ain’t going down without making a noise.” MANTIS COMPANY WHATEVER IT TAKES The sign was as Lou remembered from his previous harrowing trip to the base. In a perverse way, Brody was right in his speech to the troops. It was more than just a motto.… For the twenty soldiers of Operation Talon, it was a death sentence. Lou tapped Cap on the shoulder and pointed to the target building. The fighter glanced around, nodded back at Lou, and made a surprisingly limber dash across the hard ground to Brody’s office. He reached the perimeter without incident and waved for Lou to join him. Keeping as low as he could manage, Lou shambled across the open area, giving back all the style points Cap had just won. His legs were still weak and stiff, and he stumbled once. Working for each breath, he reached the short flight of stairs to the porch and flattened against a support next to Cap.
The first bridge of the “1812 Overture,” a series of chromatic runs that depicted anxious Russians anticipating battle, reverberated from the enormous speakers, accompanied by the rumbling of some low-level fireworks. The music precisely reflected Lou’s growing sense of urgency. For a moment, his ultra-odd college roommate’s elegant stereo flashed in his thoughts. Lou set his watch and started it.
“We’ve got eleven minutes before the cannonade,” he said. Cap looked over at him. “You really know the ‘1812 Overture’ that well?” “Some day after this is all in our rearview mirror, I’ll play it for you on kazoo. Come on, buddy, it’s time to do this thing.” They ascended the wooden staircase to the outer door. From the PA system, the strings were now beginning battle with the horns. Distress … worry … mounting panic … determination. War. Cap turned on his headlight and took the lock-pick kit from his backpack. “It’s a dead bolt,” he said, examining the front lock. “Harder than it looks, but a diamond pick ought to get this puppy open.” He removed a long silver wand with a little bend at the end. “Where’d you get those?” Lou whispered. “Online. Where does anyone get anything these days? A year or so ago, I couldn’t find my old kit, so I went to Lockpickingtools.com.”
The fireworks intensified as the horns began the powerful “Marseillaise.” The French counterattack was under way. “An artiste needs quiet,” Cap said, stepping back and gesturing up at the explosions and light. “Seriously, boss. Don’t panic. We’re in.” Lou turned the knob, and the door opened easily. “You hot shit,” he murmured. “La Marseillaise” peaked. The tide of battle had turned. The two friends moved quickly to the shuttered wood door of Wyatt Brody’s office. Outside, the decrescendo of violins played a soft romantic melody.
“Maybe seven minutes,” Lou said. The rustic office triggered unpleasant memories. If not for Papa Steve, this place would have housed his last minutes on earth. They went directly to the case in the small room behind Brody’s desk. Papa Steve’s intelligence was on the button—the polished antique Colt military pistol was at the center of the display, right where he said it probably would be. It would leave a six left twist rifling mark on any bullet it fired. In the distance, the soft sounds of impending triumph. The tide of the conflict had turned. The mop-up was beginning. “Okay, time to get cracking,” Lou said, checking his watch. “We’re at about the five-minute mark now.” Cap spent a few moments studying the situation—a sculptor eyeing a block of marble before putting mallet to chisel. “The case is alarmed with glass-break sensors, anticipating a smash-and-grab, but the actual lock wasn’t a priority. It’s a Yale. Tough but not killer tough.” Cap deftly slid another long hooked tool into the lock. His muscular frame, the body that had battered dozens of fighters in the ring, seemed calm and totally at ease. From his years of suturing facial and tendon lacerations, Lou had no trouble relating to the all-consuming concentration. “The plug hole has beveled edges,” Cap said, speaking much more to himself than to Lou, “and the ends of the key pins are rounded off. I’ve got to do a bit more scrubbing because the driver pins are set on the bevel. Can’t turn the plug if the driver’s caught on the bevel. Shouldn’t be too hard.”
The music outside was intensifying—frenetic string runs, crashing cymbals, horns blaring the French national anthem, a timpani foreshadowing the cannonade to come. Then, the penultimate passages—pastoral melodies, the utter exhaustion of the troops. Lou guessed they had four minutes to get the case open, unhinge the gun, and make it back to the truck. “Damn. I’ve got the pins set, but the lock isn’t opening,” Cap murmured. “Reduce the torque and keep scrubbing over these pins. That’s all I can do.” “Two more minutes, and we’ve got to smash the case and take our chances with the alarm,” Lou said. He shifted on his heels, watching his friend work. Outside, the music was again building. The fireworks explosions were rattling the display cases.
The finale was near. At the instant bells began chiming in the soundtrack, the lock popped with a satisfying click, and the case opened. The Colt, not fixed to the velvet-lined back, rested on a pair of hooks. Cap lifted it free and placed it in his knapsack along with his tools. “We’ve got to move, Cap! Now!” Lou shifted a pistol from the bottom row to fill in the space the Colt had occupied. Then he carefully closed the case and followed Cap through the office to the porch. They reached the courtyard just at the start of the overture’s dramatic climax. The speakers blared out the brass section’s recapitulation of earlier themes. Branches shook as runs by the strings and woodwinds blended in versions of “God Save the Tsar.” The fireworks had slowed. Off in the distance, to his left, Lou saw the lights of three helicopters rise slowly and majestically into the smoke-filled sky.
The moment the choppers lifted off, the cannonade began. The finale. Howitzer booms reverberated through Lou’s chest and seemed to rattle the fillings in his teeth as massive rosettes—red, purple, and blue starbursts—filled the sky. For a moment, Lou was in his college dorm room, getting psyched for finals with Dr. Strange. Up ahead, Papa Steve was standing by the truck, urgently motioning for them to hurry. He was holding something up in his left hand. Lou had no doubt it was a detonator.
Shoulder to shoulder, Lou and Cap had taken three steps toward Papa Steve when a Mantis guard stepped out from a building to their left. “Freeze right there or I’ll shoot!” Lou whirled in the direction of the voice and dropped facedown on the hardened dirt. The overture climax continued, with cannon fire booming from the PA system as though the base were under siege. And then, in an instant, it was. Military vehicles parked along the road began to explode, one after the other. Bright orange flames shot into the night. Glass shattered, sending jagged shards in all directions. Trucks and jeeps thrown into the air landed with a bone-rattling crunch of metal. A pair of smaller explosions sprayed a potpourri of dirt and rocks high into the air. Papa Steve was either going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do, or he was planning on going AWOL before the commander returned. “I said stop!” the guard shouted.
A burst of machine gun fire followed. Bullets slapped at the ground by Lou’s feet. Frantically, he searched for cover, but Cap had other ideas. He rolled over once and then again. The second time, he had the pistol in his hand. One shot, and the soldier cried out, dropped his gun, and fell, clutching his shoulder. “Nice shot!” Lou exclaimed. “Nice shot, hell! I was aiming at his leg.” “Get to the truck!” Papa Steve was hollering. Pistol drawn, he was providing them with what seemed like random cover fire. Small explosions continued to erupt throughout the woods. Assuming chaos and fear were Papa Steve’s goals, he was the Picasso of demolition. Lou and Cap were moving again, hunched over, weaving across the courtyard. More guards had materialized near the wounded soldier. Bullets whizzed past Lou’s head as he angled for the truck. If he tripped now, he’d be dead. Just like that, dead. The situation was surreal. He was on a military base in rural West Virginia, weaponless, locked in a goddamn firefight with highly trained soldiers who were pathologically prepared to die to protect their world. Back in Arlington, Emily was probably in her room, listening to music, getting ready for bed, totally unaware of the horror that was evolving three hours or so to the west. Another bullet struck the ground close by. Lou fought the urge to drop and roll. There was no cover, and he would be shot before he could take another breath. Cap was firing over his shoulder as he ran, the knapsack and its precious contents at times bouncing off the ground. Papa Steve continued to fire, but each series was quickly answered by a return volley. As Lou reached the truck, he heard the distinct snap of bullets against metal. Next there was the thud of bullets against rubber, followed by a loud hiss of air. The left rear tire instantly deflated. Moments later, the right was flat as well. A final burst of speed and Lou reached the passenger door with Cap on his heels. They scrambled inside while Papa Steve fired one last burst and dived behind the wheel. As torturous as their situation was, he seemed exhilarated—a cowboy mounting a two-thousand-pound bucking bull. “You got the gun?” he asked as they lurched ahead. Breathing heavily, Lou nodded. “How’re we gonna get out of here with two flat tires?” Papa Steve, his tan knuckles white from gripping the wheel, glanced over at him. “I thought you were the one with the blond bombshell contingency plan.”
“Let’s get to the guardhouse. I’ll make the call on the way. Can you get any speed from this thing?” “As long as it doesn’t realize it has two flat tires.” Lou had Judy Lemon’s phone number on speed dial. The “1812” was over now, and the smoke from the fireworks was drifting away. Papa Steve’s explosions, too, were on the wane. Bewildered soldiers were emerging from the woods, weapons ready, trying to determine what had happened and whom to shoot. The truck roared ahead, sending up rooster tails of dirt and dust, seeming as if it were stripping a gear every few feet. “Dr. Lou? Is that you?” The voice of Judy Lemon, barely audible, crackled in Lou’s ear. Sporadic gunfire had resumed, and several bullets hit the truck. “Judy, can you hear me?” Lou had no idea if she answered. “Judy!” Lou shouted. “Meet us at the gate! At the gate!” The truck was slowing down, its engine screeching. “Not far now!” Papa Steve yelled. “We may have to run.” Up ahead, Lou caught sight of the end of the road and the guardhouse. The truck was about to breathe its last. Steve pushed a button on his detonator, and to their right, twenty feet or so from Cap, an explosion disintegrated a jeep, sending up smoke, flame and noise. “Jesus!” Cap cried out, ducking from the blast. “I had forgotten about that one until I saw the jeep,”
Papa Steve said, laughing as dirt and stones rained down on the roof. “Truck’s dead. Guns out! We’ve got to run for the gate. Lou, where’s that backup?” As if on cue, up ahead, blue and red strobes appeared. With Papa Steve’s handiwork disrupting the night, the front gate to the Mantis base was unguarded. After a brief sprint, during which Papa Steve easily kept pace, Cap opened the gate to let Lemon’s cruiser inside. The driver’s-side window opened, and Lemon leaned out. Her hair had been tucked under her trooper’s hat, but Lou noticed that she had probably painted on another layer of makeup. “Hey, boys. Need a lift?” The three clambered inside the cruiser just as a small nearby shed exploded. “I know, I know,” Lou said. “You forgot about that one.” “Which of you guys got the fireworks permit?” Lemon asked. “That would be me,” Papa Steve said.
“Operation Talon,” Lou said, breathing hard. “We’ve got to stop it.” “Why?” Papa Steve asked. “We’ve got the murder weapon. Let’s use it to get Brody.” “Talon is a suicide mission. Twenty guys are coming back in body bags unless we do something to prevent it.” “Did you hear where they’re going?” Papa Steve asked. “Dover Air Force Base. They were going to take off from Langley, but they changed their plans. I don’t know where their ultimate destination is, but I got the sense from what I heard that it’s more than one place.” Papa Steve hesitated. The muscles in his face went taut, and he seemed to be having difficulty assimilating the new information. “What’s the deal, boss?” Cap asked impatiently. “We’ve been lucky so far. I don’t think we should be hanging here too much longer.” Finally, Papa Steve shrugged and pointed to a narrow dirt road in front of them. “That’s the road to the heliport. Officer Judy, would you mind taking us there?” “Brody’s gone,” Lou said. “What good’s that going to do?” “Trust me,” Papa Steve said. “Okay, then. Judy, go for it!” The cruiser rocketed forward, fishtailing twice before being expertly brought in line. A minute later, they were at the heliport. A guard, possibly alerted by radio, stepped out from behind a utility shed and trained his rifle on the cruiser car. “Down!” Lemon shouted. The four of them ducked as a bullet struck the front windshield dead center and exited out the back, leaving perfect spiderwebs in the glass. Driving like a NASCAR champion, Lemon hit the brake and skidded into a smoke-and-rubber-filled 360. Then, before the cruiser had fully stopped, she rolled out the door, rising to her feet with lightning quickness, her pistol trained on the center of the Mantis guard’s chest. “Drop that weapon, soldier,” she said. “That’s an order.” Papa Steve climbed out of the car. “Do as she says, son. We got no beef with you.” The standoff was short lived. The baby-faced soldier lowered his weapon, and within moments Lemon had his wrists handcuffed behind his back, and he had shown the three men lockers containing radio helmets for each of them. “I don’t get it,” Lou said. “What are we doing here? We’ve got to stop Brody.” Papa Steve gestured toward a weathered army helicopter, one of two remaining on the helipad. “Gentlemen,” he said. “If we want to stop Wyatt Brody, then we’re going to need to go for a little ride. Follow me, and I’ll teach you boys how to hot-wire a chopper.”
It is hard these days to read any book, albeit fiction, that does not pinpoint the issues facing us daily--men who are in power, and are using any means possible to do what they "think" is the best thing to be done--to ensure they remain in power with concurrent riches! Of course, as we have learned by the Jan 6 Insurrection hearings thus far, most of the actions and decisions are being made--based upon lies! And using Violence to ensure a Win! Surely, the desire for power is addictive and leads, most times, to violence and death... Political Suicide spotlights a congressman and military unit head who plan to use violence to win! Just like those hundreds and more who planned the overthrown of democracy through insurrection!
Michael Palmer has made two diversions thus far from his normal medical thrillers into the political arena, where the danger is or can be much more visible than for medical fiction fans... I just purchased the third in the Lou Welcome series, purely because of that main character.
Dr. Welcome is an ER doc with a side-line job of helping those medical doctors who have succumbed to the easy access of meds and become addicted. Dr. Welcome was one of those men, who when you add personal stress to just the daily medical requirements of trying to help and even save lives, it becomes overwhelming enough for them to consider gaining assistance from drugs or alcohol, whichever works. Dr. Welcome made it through his test with drugs, thanks to his support and friend, Cap, who teaches boxing. You might think that Lou Welcome literally sweated the drugs out of his system, which he did.
But, now, Cap is much more in the latest novel where one of Dr. Welcome's friends who he is also helping through a period of addiction, becomes involved with a woman whose husband has been murdered! And he showed up at her house, drunk, the night of the murder! Yikes!
When Dr. Welcome is asked to discover exactly what happened, neither he nor his friends lawyer, would ever have imagined just how closely, and how many times, they will come to meeting their own deaths!
And the plot to murder? The insanity of the two leaders--one a member of Congress--and the other a head of a military camp--was revealed while Dr. Welcome and his cohorts saved the day!
I loved all of the primary characters, and enjoyed watching as Dr. Welcome and the lawyer for the case consider exactly how they will relate to each other.
I, and so many readers, will greatly miss the books written by this fantastic writer... So, if Michael Palmer continues writing in Heaven, I'll be sure to catch up with his works...some day...
I just want to share a little, first... Hope that is okay with all of you... Had an unusual couple of days. Went to doctor's and had to go through the most significant regiment of x-rays on my body...ever...
Or maybe it seemed like that because I had to deal with the limitations of forced walking, with a walker, in order to get into different positions to have my knees and left hip available and in right positions to be viewed by the machine... Many times, the attendants had to actually move my body into the positions they needed me to be in...
You know folks (yes, I smile when I say that and think of my--our president when I purposely do it...) Anyway, can you imagine having lived for at least seventy years and never been in a hospital...then, to have a complete body collapse and have to start from the beginning and learn how to walk again, building up the muscles in legs and arms to do the things that were usually instinctive, done with no conscious effort. I have come to depend upon the many inventions and creations that have been conceived and created by so many scientists and inventors to make my and our lives easier... We must all thank God for those who care enough to think and make...and heal... all things necessary to help make our lives as comfortable as possible.
I use two walkers routinely. One was mandated when I had surgery to have a tumor removed from my brain. It has no brakes, only wheels on the front. That means, I must actually pick it up to move in another direction. It's light, so it's easy to do and makes me more conscious of what and where I walk.
On the other hand, my niece found a walker which has a seat, brakes and four wheels. I used this for shopping and was quite adept at taking care of myself years ago. By the way, the walker was given to my niece at a yard sale where it had been purchased for her father by the seller who asked why it was wanted. When she learned it was for "me," she gave it to us! I use it now to carry things like food and clothes from one place to another...
Apparently many older items can be found at thrift stores where they are donated when no longer needed in families... Soooo thankful people do this type of thing!
On the other hand, it is heartbreaking to see what is happening in Ukraine. Truly, it is a war between good and evil, especially as Putin doesn't care and is purposely attacking locations which are clearly marked as shelters, schools and other care facilities. Can we not see the difference between a democracy and a country ruled by an authoritarian, wanting only more power and greed being his only reason for committing such murders. Yes, to me, when there is absolutely no reason to kill, then it is murder. Putin is a war criminal as the world knows and watches...
The sad part is that, these days, there are criminals anywhere and everywhere. Their intent is to get what they want, with no concern about harming others to get it...
The book I stayed up reading all night after returning home from the doctor's visit, was an example of good over evil... I love medical thrillers and other mysteries based on this. It is important to see and know that good will win over evil, even if it is fiction. It troubles me because many books are based on truth. But they also inspire me to fight against the evil wherever it is found, especially in our country, America!
The concert hall was sold out. Thunderous applause for her had just died down, and this was the brief interlude before the music began. Her heart beat so loudly she feared the microphone would pick up the sound. She stood alone in the center of a large stage, a spotlight targeting her as if this were a prison break. In her right hand she clutched a violin with a bright amber finish and stunning marbled flame, expertly antiqued. Scanning the hall, she searched for the rangy man with square shoulders and the slender woman who was an older version of herself. There they were in their usual location, third row: Doug and Allison Banks, her parents. Her name was Susie Banks, and she was their only daughter, their pride and joy. Without their support Susie would not be standing on the stage of the Kennedy Center, chosen from hundreds of hopefuls to open the National Symphony Orchestra’s evening performance with a solo piece. This moment had seemed inevitable from Susie’s earliest days. She was two years old when she played her first song on the piano—a ringtone from her mother’s cell phone she had replicated by ear. Soon she began plinking out melodies she heard on the radio. By the age of five, Susie could play Bach’s Minuet in G Major, never having taken a lesson. Words like “prodigy” and “special” got bandied about, but Susie did not understand what it all meant, nor did she care. She had found this amazing thing called music, and the music made her happy. The day her mother put a violin in her hand, Susie’s whole world came into even sharper focus. She felt a kinship with the instrument, understood it in a profound way. One year into her study she flawlessly performed Mozart’s Violin Concerto No. 5 during a student recital.
drew the bow across the strings, and conquered the powerful opening double stop like a pro. The audience, the hall itself, seemed to vanish as she drifted into the other place where the music came from. Her body swayed to the rhythm and flow as Bach’s notes poured from her instrument. The bow and her fingers became a blur of movement. Susie kept her eyes open as she played, but she saw nothing while she felt everything.
A brilliant shrill wafted from the violin, a melody sparkling and pure in triple time, followed by an austere passage of darker, more muted tones. Years of dedication, all the things she had sacrificed, were worth it for this feeling alone, such indescribable freedom. She had reached measure eighty-nine, near the halfway point. Drawing the bow toward her, Susie geared up for the next variation, where the bass became melodic and the diatonic form resumed. Up to that point her playing had been perfect, but suddenly and inexplicably came a terrible screech. Susie’s arms jerked violently out in front of her, the bow dragging erratically across the strings. Her chin slid free of the chin rest as her violin shot outward. A collective gasp rose from the audience. Shocked, unable to process what had happened to her, Susie repositioned the violin. Her professionalism took over. Her reset was more a reflex than anything. She drew the bow across the strings once more, but only a warbling sound came out. The next instant, her arms flailed spastically in front of her again in yet another violent paroxysm, as if her limbs had separated from her body, developed a mind of their own. She tried to regain control of her arms, willing it to happen, but it was no use. The wild movements occurred without her thought, like those body starts she’d been having before she fell asleep: first the sensation of falling, followed by a jarring startle back into consciousness. Only this time she was wide awake. No matter how hard Susie strained, she could not stop her arms from convulsing. It was the most terrifying, out-of-control sensation she had ever experienced.
When the next spasm struck, Susie’s fingers opened. The violin slipped from her grasp and hit the stage floor with a sickening crack. Another gasp rose from the audience, this one louder than the first. Susie was helpless to do anything but stand facing everyone with her arms twitching like two live wires. As suddenly as those seizures came on, her limbs went still, as if a switch had been turned off. She raised her arms slowly, studying them with bewilderment. Then, she directed her gaze to the violin at her feet. For a moment she could not breathe. Murmurs from the audience reverberated in her ears. Bending down, she gingerly retrieved the broken instrument, fearing another attack was imminent. She stood up tall. The violin dangled at her side with a gap in the wood like a missing tooth. She searched the audience for her parents, but could not see them through the haze of lights and the blur of tears.
~~~
Suzie Banks is her name, a brilliant prodigy who recently escaped death at her home, from carbon monoxide. Both of her parents died. She was taken to the hospital where she is recovering... Although she was spared, the doctors are concerned about discoveries made while there...
Distilled to a few words, Karen Ray’s job description was: protect the president’s family with your life. The family consisted of Ellen Hilliard, aka FLOTUS, the first lady of the United States, and Cameron Hilliard, the first family’s sixteen-year-old son and only child. Karen is a Special Agent and supervisor in Secret Service and, right now, her time is concentrated on Cam, the only son of The First Family. As expected, Karen has come to deeply care for the family, and especially Cam. So that when concerns for his health arose, she was immediately just as concerned as his mother.
I'm sure I picked this book which was published several years ago because I wanted to increase my knowledge of both politics and the issues confronting the president and his family. It proved to be both informative for that reason, but also a fantastic medical thriller! Full of suspense, tension, and, of course, intrigue.
Karen is divorced from another main character, Dr, Lee Blackwood, a Family Practitioner. They have a son, Josh, who has a military background, but is presently considering what to do with the rest of his life... All three members of this family take a leading role in the novel.
And it all starts when Karen is concerned enough that she recommends to the First Lady, with whom she has become close, that a second opinion is needed, from that of the White Hall Physician, Dr. Gleason, who wants to start Cam seeing a psychiatrist. Cam does not want to go... From Karen's perspective, she isn't sure that Cam needs to go. And, his mother, Ellen, wants what is best for his son...
One other plot twist is that both Suzie, Cam, and the Family's physician's son all are involved with the True Potential Institute, a unique educational center dedicated to helping D.C.’s most gifted children develop mastery in a variety of disciplines.
You know, I could be wrong, since I had a bias going into this book, but it seemed to me that the writers prefer the time when Family Practice...and having a Family Doctor...was best. I wish that was still the case! I miss having a doctor with whom I can share every issue, and who comes to know me well enough to be able to consider my entire medical history, as it relates to my medical care. Believe me, without going into detail, what they call specialists these days can result in some really bad experiences for patients attended by them. And so, it was, that the Family Doctor, Karen's ex-husband, became the main male character and I loved him and how he was portrayed...
I can still remember my last family doctor who was with me during the time I went into clinical depression. After many years together, when he told me simply..."you must choose between your job and your life," I quickly chose my life! And looking back, all the frustration, turmoil, and anger of what happened to me...when I came back to work...does not make me regret listening to my doctor and heeding his words...
The president is a centrist politically and often has different opinions with his wife. It was interesting to be able to consider what a centrist president is like--you never really know how he's going to react to...just...about...anything. I can see that this could be a good thing if he was able to evaluate each issue and act for the good. But I can also see that it may take him longer to be able to be seen as making the right choice or decision at times of emergencies...
And especially, when Cam, his son, is physically in trouble. In fact, his early symptoms, and later, were similar to Suzie Banks. Cam's predominant skill and love was as a chess champion. But lately, he has been unable to maintain the attention needed...and he has been losing... which could be making him depressed, but not necessarily clinically depressed...
So when Cam acknowledges that he knows something is wrong, but does not believe he needs a psychiatrist, conflict sets off one of the strangest, unusual, complex, and exhaustive medical evaluation that would, perhaps, ever occur... Because crime was happening... But the who, what, where and why of all of it became mind-boggling to everyone! Including me, the reader. And then the murders began. I was able to finally, almost to the end, know fairly confidently who the mastermind behind the deaths was...but not the why! This turned out to be one of the best who-dun-it mystery, suspense, and thrillers I've ever read. And I don't dare add anything further about the story~ You've got to read it to believe it! And it needs to be discovered as you read!
I had read the medical novels by the Palmers, but did go out and pick up two additional political related novels...I must say as an additional incentive, if you need it, I've found that fiction novels are an exceptionally great way to learn more about the inner workings of politics! This is not necessary related to today's headlines, but it does show the frustration and interaction within the family of The First Family and how they prioritize family versus the demands of the nation. A significant reason if readers are interested...so I highly recommend!
Just a few more commends about what's happening with me... I had a number of concerns pre-surgery... I made sure I covered them. I hope you are doing the same. If you don't think you'll remember to ask, write the questions or topics down, like I did. My final question to the surgeon was about the percentage of effective recoveries... It is about 90%! Relief flooded me. Isn't it interesting how you can have something bothering you, but as soon as you know the truth, the reality, you feel like at least 80% of the burden is lifted? When the surgeon told me bluntly that the hip itself is in bad shape, I was relieved to know that the pain was definitely caused by and hopefully will be healed through the surgery. Sure, I'll need physical therapy, but I've been handling that for years... I'm just hoping and praying that I'll one day be able to walk again, even if I still have to use my trusty cane...for security.
Walking...how precious it is... How precious is the body that God gave to us... And here's what I know and want to share with you! I Never Walk Alone!
:"If you are reading this letter, then I am dead...This letter is
a confession of sorts. It does, in my death, what I could not
bring myself to do while I was alive...finally to tell the truth
about..."
Oath Of Office
By Michael Palmer
Whoooa! Palmer's latest has a feel of horror...and you'd never guess why!
Dr. Lou Welcome has great empathy for medical personnel who, for whatever reason, gets hooked on alcohol or other type of substance, including drugs.
Mainly because he's been there...
In fact, part of his own rehabilitation has been to work with others who have the same type of problems. One of those men was John Meacham--and he has just gone on a rampage, killing everybody in his office, including two patients! Lou's boss wants to know what happened, but Lou wanted to know what had happened for his own reasons--he knew Meacham had been clean! So what could have set him off?
You would think that now we are going to investigate how he might have obtained some illegal substance, taking it without even realizing it perhaps. But what that substance is and where his investigation leads is much more scary than some type of new drug... Especially as other people also begin doing illogical activities..
.
Welcome begins his investigation by learning that Meacham had said only one thing, "No Witnesses!" As he pieced things together, he learned that he had become angry with a dangerously obese patient and got her so upset that she had ran out of the office. With Meacham's last words being "No witnesses" Welcome had to assume that Meacham feared that a complaint would be made against him and he would lose his license permanently. That seemed to make a little sense, except that, Roberta Jennings, the woman he had verbally attacked, was still alive...Meacham was not acting rationally in killing everybody else except her.
In the meantime, in Washington D.C. the President of the United States once again had not shown up for an event that was sponsored by the First Lady. She was very interested in a food program for children. Obviously disturbed, she nevertheless went on with the program, but received a message about an old friend, the former Secretary of Agriculture, who had been fired. She had always felt he had been framed and so went to a secret meeting to learn more... And, she learned more than she had ever expected!
Welcome's investigation took him to Meacham's home town next to talk to his wife Carolyn. Meacham had died and now he was riding with Carolyn, only to have her begin to act strangely. She became fixated on a car ahead of them with a back light missing...chasing after it to prevent an accident, only to cause them to have one themselves!
More and more strange behavior was identified and it seemed to be most happening there in the town where the Meacham's had lived.
When they began to think it may be something around that town, it all began to come together, but what was it and how were they going to identify what it was and who was involved?
Reading about what people were doing in that town adds the feelings of horror...doing the exact opposite of what would really be the most logical thing to do...Michael Palmer has topped his other books in this one! The realism of the plot is so potentially possible and probable that you can't help but be hooked, turning the pages, wanting to know more, but becoming even more horrified as more is discovered! Could it really happen? Not the exact activities within this novel, but something else? This one will leave you afraid...and will not be easily dismissed or forgotten. And how is the President and his family involved?!
Forewarned is forearmed? Palmer is sharing a potential reality for all of us. Even if it's fiction, you need to read this one, in my opinion... A thriller like no other!
GABixlerReviews
MICHAEL PALMER is the author of sixteen novels of medical suspense, all international bestsellers. His books have been translated into thirty-five languages. In addition, Palmer is an associate director of the Massachusetts Medical Society Physician Health Services, devoted to helping physicians troubled by mental illness, physical illness, behavioral issues, and chemical dependency. He lived in eastern Massachusetts.
Thank you for your offer to review my 18th thriller, Oath of Office. Media and blogger reviews are an important and fun way for me to engage with the reading and writing community and get the word out about the book. I appreciate your feedback and the opportunity for OoO to be features on your website.
As you may already know, the book expands upon the political and medical ethical themes in A Hearbeat Away, The Lost Surgeon and The First Patient. It was inspired by Robert Kenner's 2008 brilliant documentary Food, Inc. and explores the hidden realities behind food mass production and genetic modification. My hope is that my book will make readers more aware about the importance of being educated in the areas of labeling and the genetic modification of what we eat. I am hosting discussions about these issues on my Facebook and Twitter pages.
Thanks again for taking the time to read and write about my book. Let me know if you have any questions or concerns.
What if a well respected doctor inexplicably goes on a murderous rampage?
When Dr. John Meacham goes on a shooting spree the office, his business partner, staff, and two patients are killed in the bloodbath. Then Meacham turns the gun on himself.
The blame falls on Dr. Lou Welcome. Welcome worked with Meacham years before as a counselor after John's medical license had been revoked for drug addiction.
Lou knew that John was an excellent doctor and deserved to be practicing medicine and fought hard for his license to be restored. After hearing the news of the violent outburst, Lou is in shock like everyone else, but mostly he's incredulous. And when he begins to look into it further, the terrifying evidence he finds takes him down a path to an unspeakable conspiracy that seems to lead directly to the White House and those in the highest positions of power.
If you tried to think of the very worst situation that could happen in America, you would have in your hands the latest book, A Heartbeat Away, by Michael Palmer. The back of the book says it all, "Tense, thrilling, and entirely plausible...will make you reflect, wonder and be truly afraid."
Sometimes I worry that the imaginations of our best authors will truly be followed by terrorists. If this happens in fiction, it would always come out, because we have heroes in fiction books--good guys that make things right. Not so, sometimes, in real life. This time, Palmer takes us straight to the heart of the nation...
Into the Capitol Building where the State of the Union address by President Allaire is about to begin.
President Allaire has just won his second term. Interestingly, his opposition was the Speaker of the House; the President smiles a little because she won't look into his eyes as she is about to introduce him--a bit of smugness at a time like this surely is felt by anyone, including the president of the United States.
But that smugness is soon changed to terror. For as he is reading his speech from the prompter, suddenly it all started happening. Puffs of vapor could be seen exploding across the room. On the prompter, Allaire saw WRX3883...
Immediately Allaire knew what he was facing--after all, he had approved the work on the deadly virus!
And except for the Secretary of Homeland Security who had been the designated survivor to be secured away from this major event, all individuals who had control of the nation were in that room...
And exposed to a virus that the President was fairly certain did not have an antidote!
President Allaire's background was a physician. So he had discussed and fully been involved with the research that had been proposed by Sylvia Chen. He also knew that he had shut down the project.
But the terror was that some of that formula had been stolen months ago and never recovered. In fact, the man who had stolen it was in maximum security federal prison for his terrorist act.
I was not surprised that the President acted immediately to gain control. The terrorist group, Genesis, had been building up to this situation with destruction at other sites, already casualties were claimed, so Allaire knew this was real. He immediately had the entire building closed to the outside, called a group together to discuss the issue and began to direct personnel.
But he didn't include the Secretary of State, noting he didn't trust her. I wonder what might have happened differently if he had included her--for she certainly was a vengeful woman, who quickly began her own activities. Indeed Genesis took advantage of a bitter woman who could not see beyond her personal goals...
President Allaire also pulled Dr. Griffin Rhodes out of prison. While neither trusted each other, Rhodes was promised freedom if he agreed to help combat the virus. And during their negotiations, Rhodes was able to pull in two old friends to help him.
I think one of the most significant results of reading Michael Palmer's book is to study the actions of the characters. Would I have done what the President did? Would you have the ability to make those important and unpopular actions and decisions that were needed to handle the situation?
Personally, I believe this is one of the best books yet from Michael Palmer. His characters are exceptionally well done--revealing the use of power by one versus the abuse of power by another. Then, too, the novel also focuses on the potential imprisonment of individuals who are not guilty of a crime. Fortunately, Dr. Rhodes had the fortitude to accept he had lost almost a year of his life, and move on to respond to the emergency.
Dr. Palmer also uses this book to highlight a need to use computer technology rather than lab animals for research--a very worthy goal that hopefully is in the works if not already available.
The sad part was watching the reactions of many of the individuals who were leaders of their country react as they were forced to respond to the emergency. Each of us must ask, "what would we do?" and pray that we would respond affirmatively to what had to be done.
Michael Palmer puts it right in our laps this time and this one you won't forget for a long time! The book will be out February 15th; I suggest you Pre-order now--don't miss A Heartbeat Away!
Immediately Allaire knew what he was facing--after all, he had approved the work on the deadly virus!