Page 32 of Hawk on the Hunt

“Phoebe is strong,” Michelle commented.

“And Ace can handle a lot more than we think,” Fox said, sitting back down in his chair. “But if push comes to shove, we can cover for him.”

“Well, then we’d better come up with a brilliant idea of how to prevent this disaster,” Dylan said, looking at the others. “So if we can’t disable the bomb, we’ll have to stop the president and the VP from getting onto Marine One.”

“Yeah, but if we disable Marine One somehow,” Tiger said skeptically, “then they’ll take ground transportation. Takes longer, but they’ll still get there.”

“Not necessarily,” Fox suddenly said.

Everybody turned to him, waiting for an explanation to his cryptic words.

“Meaning?” Dylan asked finally.

“I think I have an idea of how to disable all helicopters in the vicinity, and making sure that the Secret Service will take the president and VP to the bunker under the White House,” Fox explained.

Several pairs of eyebrows rose.

“And how are we gonna do that? You know anybody in the Secret Service?” Yankee asked.

“No,” Fox said, “but I know what their protocols are. If they believe there is a direct threat against POTUS and VPOTUS, they’ll follow protocol.”

“What about Polo? Won’t he get suspicious?” Dylan asked.

Fox shrugged. “Secret Service won’t immediately disclose why they’re taking their charges to the bunker. If everything runs like I expect it, we’re buying ourselves a few hours of time. If we’re lucky, enough to snatch Polo.”

“All right,” Dylan said. “What do you need us to do?”

18

Things were moving along at the right pace. Polo looked out the window of his living room in his condo, where only a dim reading lamp provided some illumination. He could observe the goings-on outside without being seen. Not that it mattered right now. Nobody suspected him of any wrongdoing. He’d been careful, making sure that nobody could tie him to the events that would unfold tomorrow.

For the first time in a long time, he felt satisfied. Soon, he would have all he desired, and his enemies and everybody else who stood in the way of his plan, would meet with a swift, but bloody end. The power he’d soon have, was almost palpable now. And nobody would ever be casting him out as if he didn’t measure up. The anger he felt about Henry Sheppard’s betrayal still tasted bitter on his tongue, even now, many years later. Sheppard had been unjust in his treatment of him. He’d preferred his other agents to him, casting him out as if he was a leper, even though his precognitive skills were more pronounced and sharper than those of the other agents. Sheppard had said so himself shortly after Polo had started his training with the CIA. Nevertheless, he’d expelled him from the program after less than six months, claiming he wasn’t suited for the Stargate program.

Bullshit! Polo alone understood that a power like foresight shouldn’t be squandered on a CIA program that had no real goal, but that of preventing disasters. He didn’t give a flying fuck about preventing disasters. He knew that his gift could be harnessed to bring other governments to heel, showing them that the U.S. was all powerful and the only superpower left. A superpower with a leader who understood how to control other nations.

It had taken him longer than he’d expected to put everything in place to ensure that his plan would come off without a hitch. Unfortunately, he’d had to work with idiots like Smith, who’d failed multiple times at the tasks he’d been given. But soon, even that incompetent fool would be taken care of so he could never again throw a wrench into the plans Polo had so carefully orchestrated.

He turned away from the D.C. skyline and walked to the drinks cabinet, where he poured himself a twenty-year old scotch. He drank it down in one gulp, savoring the taste. Maybe a celebratory drink was a little early, but nobody could stop him now. Everything was set and would happen like clockwork, one domino would make the next fall and cause a chain reaction that was inevitable.

A cell phone rang, the sound piercing the silence in his condo. It was his burner, the phone he used exclusively to communicate with Smith. He had a separate burner to contact the few operatives who executed things he couldn’t have Smith handle.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Jones, it’s Smith.”

He’d expected the call. “Mr. Smith. About time you called me back.”

“I’m sorry,” the whimpering fool groveled, “but I was somewhere where I couldn’t talk in private.”

“Hmm.”

“You wanted to talk to me?”

“Yes,” Polo began. “Listen carefully: everything is set. Tomorrow, don’t leave your house if you don’t want to become a casualty in the events I’ve set in motion.”

“But, why—”

He hated to be interrupted. “I didn’t say talk. I said listen.” He grunted in displeasure.