Judgment Day

Judgment Day

Copyright © 2006 by Sam P. Perone

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-41261-7 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-67884-6 (cloth)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-85615-2 (ebk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-41261-0 (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-67884-X (cloth)

ISBN-10: 0-595-85615-2 (ebk)

Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Christmas Morning

Part 1. Yesterday

Chapter 1: Christmas Eve Mendocino

Chapter 2: Christmas Eve—East

Chapter 3: Christmas Eve—San Francisco

Chapter 4: Christmas Eve—The White House

Chapter 5: Christmas Eve-Russian Hill

Chapter 6: Christmas Morning-Mendocino County

Part 2. Inquiry

Chapter 7: Interrogation

Chapter 8: Washington Heat

Chapter 9: Mendocino Heat

Chapter 10: Negotiations

Chapter 11: Getaway

Chapter 12: Intrigue

Chapter 13: Lawyering Up

Chapter 14: Other Targets?

Chapter 15: Entrepreneur

Chapter 16: The Unexpected

Part 3. Personal Messages

Chapter 17: Sweet Dreams

Chapter 18: Holy Name

Chapter 19: Paparazzi

Chapter 20: Brainstorming

Chapter 21: Revelations

Chapter 22: Jail Time

Part 4. Confrontations

Chapter 23: Transactions

Chapter 24: Storm Warning

Chapter 25: Conspiracy

Chapter 26: Both Sides Of The World

Chapter 27: Complications

Chapter 28: Ukiah

Chapter 29: Air Force One

Chapter 30: Change Of Plans

Chapter 31: Interview In The Air

Chapter 32: Insight

Chapter 33: Getting Answers

Chapter 34: Oval Office Secrets

Chapter 35: Disturbing Information

Chapter 36: More Revelations

Part 5. Judgment Day

Chapter 37: Good Bye

Chapter 38: Race To Destiny

Chapter 39: Confrontation

Chapter 40: San Francisco Appointment

Chapter 41: Speech Contest

Chapter 42: Power Of The Press

Chapter 43: Dedication

Chapter 44: Church-Goers

Chapter 45: Confession Is Good For The Soul

Chapter 46: Crosswind

Chapter 47: Teamwork

Chapter 48: Hole-In-One

Chapter 49: Straight Talk

Chapter 50: Loose Ends

Chapter 51: Dilemma Or Destiny?

Epilogue

Washington, D.c. Two Years Later

Other Novels by S. P. Perone

Murder Almighty

Einstein’s Tunnel

Crisis on Flight 101

The StarSight Project

For George

Acknowledgments

I must acknowledge, first, the inspiration for this novel—those politicians of every persuasion who promote personal ideology or pander to elite special interests … with little regard for the greater good of the country. How else can we explain the recent spate of irresponsible and disastrous public policy? What is more puzzling, how do we explain the voters (and non-voters) that keep these figures in power?

These unsettling concerns provided motivation to spin a tale that might be provocative as well as entertaining. For this endeavor I relied on the inputs of a number of people. I thank Mark Machado for providing expert technical review of the general aviation topics that became a crucial part of this novel. (He is hereby absolved of responsibility for the flights of fancy I insisted upon retaining.) I thank Jim Birk for sharing his personal experiences regarding the nation of Iran, and for his strong encouragement that I channel into the writing of this novel my disenchantment with the body politic.

I want to thank especially that loyal group of readers—Amy, Carol, Dale, Don, Dorene, Jack, JR, Keith, Linda, Lyle, Mark, Melanie, Mike, Nancy, Nora, Ole, Sammy, Sandy, Stephanie, Susan, Sylvia and Vita—that suffered through the early versions of this novel and provided the critical feedback that molded the final product.

Finally, I must thank my wife, Sylvia, for her unfailingly honest comments and consistent encouragement at every stage of producing this novel.

PROLOGUE

CHRISTMAS MORNING

Roxanne Markley sat upright in bed. She could see now the pounding surf whose sounds of rage had filled the night. Through the wall of glass spanning one side of the bedroom, she peered at the rugged coastal pillars of red rock slowly emerging from the darkness. It was like the majestic sandstone spires of Monument Valley had been transported from Utah to the Mendocino coast and surrounded with angry, boiling seawater.

Roxanne loved winters on the Northern California coast, especially the fierce rainstorms that pummeled the glass walls of the sea-cliff home her husband, Glenn, had built for them just north of the quaint village of Mendocino.

Glenn hated the storms. Nature’s revenge, he often proclaimed … ever since the tsunami-like devastation of 2009.

How she missed Glenn at this moment. She wanted him to be there, on Christmas morning, holding her close and listening to the surf. For an instant, Roxanne regretted choosing this isolated setting for their home.

But Glenn was not there. He had left her alone on Christmas Eve. For the first time in their short married life he had left her behind on one of his 24-hour trips to San Francisco. Though her husband traveled frequently to locations around the world, he had never failed to include Roxanne on one of his quick trips to San Francisco.

Yesterday, on Christmas Eve, she lamented.

Markley had piloted his own corporate jet out of the Ukiah airport 25 miles east. His company, MarkleySoft Corp., had funded the airport upgrading so that Markley could avoid the 70-mile trek over the treacherous mountain-coast roads to the larger Sonoma County Airport. His regular pilot, Jack Dawson, had gone with him.

Being left behind did not bother Roxanne so much as the fact that she did not know the purpose of Glenn’s trip. It was a secret he had said with his boyish grin, suggesting he might be picking up a surprise for her in the City.

But Roxanne remained unconvinced. She had overheard her husband’s conversation with Dawson. They would take the Gulfstream 7, the larger of two Markley jets hangared at the Ukiah airport. It had a cross-country range and could carry over a dozen passengers. Why not use the smaller Learjet? Why use the Gulfstream on a quick trip for only two people?

Does Glenn know? she fretted silently. Did he find out?

She winced at a fleeting pang of guilt.

But Roxanne shook the tortured emotions from her head. She returned her attention to the pounding surf below. The early morning darkness was being chased away by the slowly rising sun. She glanced at the green digits of the bedside clock. It was half-past seven. Glenn would be home soon.

A wave of relief washed over her body.

She jumped from the bed, shedding the flannel pajamas as she strode to the dressing room adjacent to the bath. Rummaging through a number of choices, she selected a full-length satin nightgown with a slit cut to the thigh. She slipped it on over her head and examined herself in the full-length mirror.

The pale-green gown complemented Roxanne’s ivory complexion and long dark-red hair. From her jewelry chest she pulled out the diamond choker from Paris. It never failed to turn Glenn on … especially when it remained the only item of apparel.

She struck a provocative pose, exposing one long leg while peering seductively into the mirror. With a wicked grin, Roxanne turned to run back toward the bed.

But something caused her to stop short. Inside the dressing room, on the wall, was one of the control panels for the home’s security system. The bright red display indicated the alarm was armed. Roxanne frowned. Glenn could never remember the entry code. She would have to run down to let him in … spoiling the mood. No. She wanted him to find her propped up in bed, with one shapely leg exposed, and a flimsy satin fabric barely concealing her breasts.

That will teach him to leave me behind!

She punched in the disarm code. After all, it was almost daylight.

She turned once again and ran to the bed. She propped up the pillows and threw back the covers. Placing her back against the pillows and extending her legs, she lifted one knee brazenly through the long slit of the nightgown. Then she picked up a novel from her bed stand and attached the tiny battery-powered reading lamp.

The pounding surf subsided temporarily, and Roxanne was certain she heard the muffled click of the front door. She smiled and buried her nose in the novel, pretending to read. Instead she pictured in her mind her tall, handsome, sandy-haired husband walking through the bedroom door. He would be wearing his black leather flight jacket.

She could smell the leather and feel the hard body underneath, as he rushed to the bed and crushed her beneath him. She could feel his lips on hers and his sensitive hands caressing every inch of her body.

Roxanne’s pulse quickened. She lifted her exposed knee another inch, revealing a little more of the creamy thigh. She waited, barely breathing, purposely avoiding any glances in the direction of the bedroom doorway.

*         *         *         *

The dark figure inserted a key into the door lock then turned to the keypad on the right. Hesitantly, a gloved index finger extended toward the numbered keys. Abruptly, the finger poised a few inches from the keypad.

The red light above the pad had gone out. The green light next to it was lit.

A thin smile. The timing was perfect.

The dark figure unlocked the door and walked in. There was no hesitation. Closing the door behind, the figure turned to the left and eyed the stairway.

On an automatic timer, the Christmas tree in the great room sprang to life behind the intruder. Flickering spots of light and shadow reflected from the walls around. The distraction was ignored.

The dark figure walked softly on rubber-soled shoes toward the short staircase that led to the upper level … and the master bedroom suite. After two steps the figure hesitated, regarding the home’s main circuit breaker panel on the left wall. A moment later the lights went out.

Then … fingers flexing inside tight black leather gloves … the dark figure resumed its path, slowly ascending the steps to the upper level. A black ski mask was pulled from a jacket pocket and stretched over the head. Hiding the face did not matter. But the unseen would cause terror … and fuel the heat that was already building with each step.

At the top of the stairs there was a pause to listen. Then the shadowy figure slipped silently down the darkened hall to the master bedroom door.

It would be a quick Christmas morning surprise … but not at all what the beautiful redheaded creature in the bedroom was expecting.

PART 1.

YESTERDAY

CHAPTER 1

CHRISTMAS EVE—MENDOCINO

Roxanne Markley could hear the wind-swept morning rain beating against the bedroom windows. The roar of the surf had subsided. It must be low tide, she thought as her eyes opened.

It was still dark. She saw nothing but the soft green glow of the bedside clock. It was early. The alarm had not sounded yet. Glenn was still asleep. And it’s Christmas Eve! she recalled.

Roxanne slid sideways in the king-size bed until her hip nudged her husband. He slept on his side with his back to her. In one fluid move she rotated her nude body under the covers to cling tightly to every curve of the warm motionless form beside her. She crushed her breasts to his back and wrapped one arm over his side.

Merry Christmas Eve, darling, she whispered. Her hand caressed his bare chest and moved slowly down to the abdomen.

Are you awake? she asked just as her hand thrust between his thighs. Glenn Markley grunted softly and thrust his buttocks back. What does that mean? she teased. It means you’re killing me, he mumbled.

"You better make love to me before you take off for San Francisco, you beast." She bit his shoulder.

Oww! That hurt. He turned to face her. "You’re not going to get nasty, are you?

She smiled and kissed his nose. Not if you treat me nice this morning.

Didn’t we screw our brains out last night?

That was last night. This is now.

Markley pulled back to look at her in the dim light. Are you still upset?

She shook her head. Not really. But I’ll miss you today.

I’m really sorry, honey. If there were any other way—

She put a finger to his lips. Shhh. Just kiss me, idiot. I still love you.

Roxanne felt the tension release from the warm body she held in her arms. His lips crushed hers then moved quickly to her breasts. They brushed against the sensitive area around her belly button. She clawed at his back and shifted position, so that her husband could have his way with her.

Christmas Eve was starting out really well.

*         *         *         *

The trip to SFO was short, and the layover was brief. By 10 a.m. Pacific Time, the Gulfstream was well on the way to its next destination. Cruising at 49,000 feet just south of snow-covered Salt Lake City, Glenn Markley occupied the left seat of the cockpit. Jack Dawson was in the right.

Unlike its predecessor, MarkleySoft’s recently acquired Gulfstream 7 was one of a new breed of corporate jet. The skyrocketing costs of fuel had given birth to an aircraft that could fly higher, faster, and more efficiently than before. At 50,000 feet and over 600 mph, the G-7 burned slightly more than 200 gallons per hour—nearly half the burn rate for the MarkleySoft Corp. G-5 it had replaced. Aside from its performance, however, the exterior and cockpit of the G-7 aircraft could hardly be distinguished from the G-5.

On the other hand, the flight plan filed with the FAA did not describe accurately the scene in the G-7 cockpit today. The FAA believed this was a training flight for Dawson and a new co-pilot.

Markley’s name did not appear.

But the flight plan had not lied about the destination—Washington, D.C.

CHAPTER 2

CHRISTMAS EVE—EAST

A skeleton staff managed the White House, but the Secret Service crew was at full strength. The President remained in town. It was evening.

Inside the dimly lit Oval Office, the Reverend Bernard R. Comstock, President of the United States, stood alone at the window, staring at a fresh blanket of snow across the Rose Garden. Christmas lighting reflected blue, red, and green against the black sky. In his hand was a half-filled glass of twelve-year-old scotch. His wife had departed a week earlier for the family’s ranch in Webster County, West Virginia.

Damn this war! Comstock sputtered aloud. Then he took another long sip of the scotch, silently cursing the Iranians for fostering a massive terrorist outbreak in Iraq that was targeting American troops during the Christmas season. CIA operatives on the ground in Iran were predicting definite but unspecified horror to follow. Comstock had remained in Washington to deal with whatever military action might be required.

A knock on the door startled Comstock, and his secretary, Donna Engel, entered.

Comstock turned to glare at her.

Is there anything you need before I leave, Mr. President? she asked.

Christ, Donna. You still here? It’s Christmas Eve.

You’re still working, sir.

Get the hell out of here!

Yes, sir. She winced and turned to leave.

And, Donna—

Yes, Mr. President? she asked, turning her head back.

Have a nice Christmas, you and your family.

Merry Christmas to you too, Mr. President. She offered a half-smile then looked away, closing the door behind.

Within seconds Secret Service Agent Donald Logan knocked and entered. Special Agent Logan was dressed in the traditional black suit and tie. But his tall, muscular frame and crew-cut dark-red hair always reminded the President of NBA ruffians masquerading as gentlemen.

I’ll be right here, Mr. President. No one’s allowed in. Right?

Comstock nodded, and the agent left.

Comstock turned back to the window. Christmas Eve, he thought. Fifteen years ago I was back in West Virginia conducting my first televised church service. How the hell did I end up here?

Comstock took another sip of scotch, reminding himself that this had been his choice—the ultimate ministry.

He recalled with satisfaction his popular televangelist venture. This had bred the phenomenally successful National Christian Caucus. Reverend Comstock had become a celebrity—appearing on talk shows, press interviews, and speaking tours.

Comstock’s folksy West Virginia ways and earthy coal miner’s language had bridged the gap between the heartland’s born-again fundamentalists and those with a strong moral compass on either coast. His appeal had spread far beyond the reach of the Pat Robertsons and Gerry Falwells.

He smiled, recalling his landslide election two years earlier. The smile quickly disappeared though as the recent disastrous slip in popularity came to mind.

Damn this war! Damn the politics! he muttered sourly, as his thoughts returned to the hardball strategies he would put in play this very day. Hard-nosed, bullheaded confrontation, that was the only way to win this war on terror. It was the only honorable way to end the Middle Eastern conflict. Those treasonous pacifist idiots were the real danger here.

There was a knock from the other door, the one that led to a small library and office in the West Wing. It was through this path that unofficial visitors could be secreted in and out of the Oval Office. This visitor had arrived at the back portal of the White House in a limousine driven in and out of a hangar at Ronald Reagan airport within the past hour.

Comstock turned from the window.

One burly agent entered, followed by the tall, sandy-haired figure of Glenn Markley. A second agent followed. Both agents were dressed in black suits, white shirts, and black ties.

Comstock walked to the door and extended his hand.

Glenn, it’s good to see you. Thanks for coming. Sorry to mess up your Christmas.

Don’t mention it, Mr. President.

Turning to the Secret Service agents, Comstock said, Stay outside the door. I’ll call when I need you.

The shorter, gray-haired Comstock reached around and put a hand on Mark-ley’s shoulder. Let’s get you a drink, Glenn. Have a seat on the sofa. Scotch neat OK?

Just soda and lemon, Mr. President.

Comstock gave Markley a curious look, then his face cleared and he said, Sorry. I forgot. You pilot that damn jet of yours, don’t you?

Yes, sir, Markley replied, as Comstock fixed the drink.

I hope Robinson briefed you on the trip from the airport, inquired Comstock, as he walked to Markley and handed him the glass. Comstock took a seat on the sofa opposite Markley’s and sipped his scotch.

Yes, he did, Markley responded. But I’m confused. I thought Charlie Robinson was your Chief-of-staff. He said he was the new Chairman of the Republican National Committee.

After last month’s mid-term election debacle, we needed a new RNC Chair. Charlie’s it, but he’s still acting Chief-of-staff until I find a replacement.

I have to tell you, I was shocked when Robinson told me your plans.

What did Charlie tell you?

He said you wouldn’t run for re-election. He said you wanted me to throw my hat into the ring.

Does that surprise you?

Hell yes! You’re no quitter.

My people tell me I can’t win. Look at what happened in last month’s election. We lost both houses.

It’s the war, Mr. President. It never ends … Afghanistan, then Iraq, now Lebanon. Iraq’s become a bloody civil war. We’re stuck in the middle, and all along Iran has been calling the shots.

After 9/11 we had no choice—

Bullshit! Markley blurted. "Excuse me, Mr. President, but we chose to eliminate Saddam’s Iraq."

Yes … we chose to go after the terrorists over there. We’re killing hundreds of terrorists every single day.

And there’s a hundred more to take each one’s place—with Iran’s support. They don’t want us to pull out.

What do you mean?

Look at the history. In ‘06, Iran goaded Hamas and Hezbollah to attack Israel. Then they unleashed Hezbollah strikes in the U.S. so we would be sucked into Lebanon. Now, they’ve incited full-fledged Sunni-Shi’a civil war on Iraqi soil. All our allies have pulled out. We’re the only ones left.

You want us to abandon the Middle East, Glenn? Give up the war on terror?

Mr. President, we’re a long way from fighting terrorism. We’re in the middle of a religious war. And we’ve squandered two trillion dollars and sacrificed thirteen thousand American lives. Meanwhile, Iran has probably developed nuclear weapons. And North Korea, India, and Pakistan are doing god-knows-what with theirs!

You know the problem, Glenn. Our pullout would leave a worse mess. I won’t cut and run.

I’ve heard that same song for years. It doesn’t play, and you know it. Two years ago, when I spoke for you at the convention, you said we should undercut terrorism with incentives, not bombs.

That was when I was nai’ve enough to think we could negotiate. I was wrong. Brute force is the only way to deal with those fanatics.

Brute force was all you had left. We abandoned diplomacy years ago.

Markley paused, but Comstock could tell he had more to say. Comstock waited.

Finally, Markley frowned and said, Mr. President, Charlie Robinson is a Pentagon insider. Norm Foley, your Defense Secretary, was an advisor to the Israelis and belongs to some religious militant group. You’re a Christian minister. People are calling this your ‘holy war’.

Balderdash! Every single act in this war has been forced on us … and approved by Congress.

You mean Congress rubber stamped whatever you wanted, Mr. President.

Comstock paused a moment before responding. As Markley took a sip of his soda, Comstock took a mental measure. Here was a bright young man—in his mid-forties and well on his way to becoming one of the richest in the country. He had built the MarkleySoft company from a moneymaking sideline while a grad student at Stanford into a high-tech giant employing a hundred thousand worldwide.

Despite his wealth, Markley’s aversion to publicity had kept him under the public radar until he had endorsed Comstock during the last presidential election. Many believed that was the key to Comstock’s win. Markley’s straightforward, youthful appeal had charmed a national audience, and Charlie Robinson now believed that only Markley could preserve the presidency for the party.

Comstock had insisted that Markley didn’t have the political smarts to win the Republican ticket. But Robinson had countered by predicting Markley would run as an Independent, guaranteeing a Democratic victory.

But there was more than one way to handle Markley, Comstock mused.

Look, Glenn, let’s cut to the chase. Some people say you’re planning to run against me as an Independent. Is that true?

Markley paused for a moment, looking directly into Comstock’s eyes.

Mr. President, I have been approached about running as an Independent. But I’ve made no commitments.

Glad to hear that, son, Comstock nodded approvingly. How about running as a Republican?

Markley looked surprised and paused for a moment. I can’t satisfy the base. I’m a fiscal conservative, but I’m against the war. I’m pro-choice. My best friends are gay. And I detest organized religion … so … how could I run on the Republican ticket?

Charlie Robinson heads the RNC now. He thinks you could win.

What about you, sir?

Comstock took a deep breath. He swirled the scotch in his glass for a few moments, then took a large sip. He leaned over toward Markley, holding the glass with both hands across his knees.

I haven’t decided to quit yet, Glenn, he began slowly. But maybe we can agree on one thing. I need your promise that you will not run as an Independent. In return, if I decide to quit, I will back you with those unfriendly Republicans.

It was Markley’s turn to sit back and think for a few moments. He did not avert his eyes. Comstock matched his gaze.

With all respect, Mr. President, I think I should defer my answer until you decide whether you will run or not.

Comstock smiled thinly and nodded. Spoken like a true poker player.

Markley remained silent, and Comstock rose to his feet. Understanding the message, Markley rose also. Comstock reached out an arm, grabbing Markley’s shoulder. He nudged him toward the door behind which awaited the two agents.

Let’s leave it this way, Glenn. I’ll give you my decision in ten days. Will you hold off until then on your decision about running as an Independent?

Yes, sir. I will.

Good. And would my support persuade you to run as a Republican?

That would be very hard to turn down, sir.

Comstock smiled broadly and said no more until they reached the side door. He knocked sharply three times on the door, and the agents quickly appeared.

"Charlie