Rogue President. D.K. Wilde
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have a problem,” said the voice.
Aware the two men always tried to limit how much they said on the airwaves Markham replied, “What sort of problem?”
“A four man squad had been deployed from the Bush carrier. They were ambushed, near Dambara, as we had arranged but two got away … one of them is Wade Ross,” came the concerned reply.
“Fuck,” swore Markham as he slapped his hand on the table. “How the hell did we let him get down there and who are the others?”
“We’re not sure. No identification. Plower only knew Ross. But we can guarantee they’re professionals if they’re with Ross. It seems someone got authority through OpNav.”
The two men were quite as Markham tried to gather his thoughts. Twenty seconds passed before he spoke.
“We keep this quite. You use the military to get rid of them. I’ve got some people who can find and take care of Ross’s wife. She could be a good bargaining tool if needed … We meet tonight at Goliath at 10,” then the phones went dead.
Walking from behind his desk he stood and looked out the French doors across the White House lawns. He removed a crumbled and folded piece of paper from his top pocket. The photograph had faded. A tear started to form, as it always did, whenever he looked down at the image of his older bastard brother, Stephen Paultier.
Markham, an only child, and in his first year at university, had noticed the attractive French woman at his father’s funeral. Standing away from others in her drab, cheap clothing, which was in stark contract to the ridiculously expensive outfits worn by the rich and famous attending; he watched the tears flow down her cherry red cheeks. Markham’s father was a very disliked man and not one other person shed a tear even though they all knew they needed to make an appearance. The power of money and position still evident even after death.
At the conclusion of the service he approached the woman.
“Hello. Leo Markham,” he said with his hand outstretched. “Thanks for coming to my father’s funeral.”
“He was a wonderful man,” she said, between sniffs, with her head bowed and dabbing a handkerchief to the sides of her eyes.
“That is nice of you to say but he wasn’t really very pleasant or wonderful at all.”
Markham Snr, was a womanizing self made multi millionaire who hadn’t cared who he trod on to succeed. To the point that many attempts had been made on his life only to be concluded as accidents. His businesses were highly regarded in both the private and public sectors.
Looking up she reached into her purse and pulled out a photo.
“Your half brother. My son. Murdered,” she said handing over the photo and turning to walk away.
Stunned Markham looked down at the face of the twenty four year old man.
“Wait … don’t go … what is this all about?”
“Don’t follow me Mister Markham. I have no answers. It is up to you to find the truth,” she said as she shuffled away like the weight of the world was on her shoulders.
Regaining his composure, he called his aide to organize General Razen, Chief of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Charlotte Bysmith, Secretary of State and Leroy Mackinnon, the new Director of National Intelligence to be in attendance at Camp David that evening.
He then called Hank Jasper, his head of the US Presidential Secret Service.
Hank, a former FBI special agent and leader of a combined agencies special ops department, entered the room and stood at attention on the presidential seal embedded in the rug directly to the front of the president’s desk.
“Hank, please take a seat,” said Markham pausing until both men were settled. “This is off the record,” he said waiting for Hank to acknowledge the importance of the statement. “I need you to find out all you can about a Crystal Carters (nee Ross). She’s an ex US Navy helicopter pilot and I believe her father lives in Maryland. She is the wife of Wade Ross, ex Australian SAS. They live in Australia but she is on route to Maryland. Once you find her I want to know, at all times, what she is doing. I want only your best people on this and they must be prepared to eliminate her if required … is that clear?”
“Perfectly clear, sir.” He replied, not flinching, sitting straight as a board.
“Good. Remember Hank, as per last time, I will definitely make this worth your while. Okay?”
“Yes sir, Mister President.” He stood and headed for the door.
“One last thing. Are you still watching the First Lady?”
“Yes sir.”
“Nothing to report?”
“No sir.”
“Good,” smiled Markham as he waved him out the door.
7.
The sun had been up for two hours. The rain had finally abated. Two bedraggled figures exited the thick jungle. The dirt road was only wide enough for one vehicle and was extremely overgrown. Wade dragged Sammy along on a makeshift stretcher he had built from branches and vines. Sammy’s shirt was again soaked in blood. Wade held a pistol in his hand and tried to remain focused.
Wade was exhausted. His shoulders were collapsing under Sammy’s weight. His legs felt like jelly. His left arm was numb. His hands and face were scratched beyond recognition from the razor sharp grasses.
Both men were so exhausted they did not see the four villagers walking toward them. The three men and the woman realized the bizarre looking duo were not rebels. They approached Wade, who had his head facing the ground and was only moving by instinct. Two of the men grabbed the stretcher branches as the remaining man and woman grabbed Wade’s arms. With the weight of the stretcher gone Wade suddenly sprang up, eyes wide open he tried to lift his pistol and fell.
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A furnace box of humidity had once again arrived. The sun was setting. Wade opened his eyes. His clothes had been removed and he was lying on an old wire sprung mattress in his boxers. An intravenous drip was in his right arm and his left arm had been bandaged from shoulder to wrist. His face and hands had been washed and covered in a cream. He was lying under a mosquito net. A small fan was blowing across his face. Looking around it appeared to be some form of makeshift tent hospital with dirt floors. A generator hummed in the distance. He heard moans and groans coming from behind cloth partitions. Flies and mosquitos, as thick as soup, buzzed around the netting desperately trying to get to their next victim. Sammy was in the next bed and had also been treated.
“Bon jour,” said the voice behind him as the tall dark skinned man stepped into his vision.
With a stethoscope draped around his neck, he raised the netting, entered and placed his fingers on Wade’s wrist. Neither man spoke. He took Wade’s pulse.
“Where am I?”
“You have been bought to an MSF field hospital. You were extremely exhausted and had large cuts to your left arm. We placed you on a saline drip and you seem to have recovered very quickly,” said the man in broken English.
“Thank you,” replied Wade. “And who are you?”
“My name is Nenwon and I am an intern here with Doctor Prue. She will be along in a moment to check on you and your friend. I will remove this drip for you.”
Once finished and Nenwon had left, Wade groggily got to his feet. He found his clothes, now putrid from blood, sweat and grime. Dressed and having recovered his boots he weaved his way out of the mosquito net.
“Hey buddy. Can you hear me?” he asked sitting on Sammy’s bed.
His friend was caked in sweat. The small fan having negligible benefit against the oppressive humidity and Sammy’s body struggling to fight his injury. His face and arms had been covered in the same cream. A wet, dirty