AN: I've received several requests to continue this story, thank you for your interest. My other story, Secrets and Sacrifices has been taking up most of my writing time, but I've never forgotten about this one.
Honor's Loss 4/?
Day 1832
Secure facility, just outside Washington, DC
1005 Zulu
With breakfast before them and interviews behind them, AJ, Mac and Webb are taking a few minutes to regroup before returning to the observation room.
"All right, Webb; you told us you'd tell us what happened," AJ requests.
"What is it you want to know?" Webb asks wearily.
"Given a choice of how he ended up in here and how you let us believe he was dead five years ago, I think we'll pick the former for the moment. You can tell us the rest later."
"Great," Webb says sarcastically.
Day 379
January 13, 2005
White House
The day is crisp and cool, the sky a breathtakingly clear blue, providing no impediments to the brightly shining sun. In honor of the mild winter day, the informal gathering of the top military personnel is taking place in the garden of the presidential residence.
A tall man in the uniform of a Naval Commander strides purposefully through the gardens toward the gathering. No one slows his approach, but word is sent ahead to warn the attendees of his arrival. The atmosphere of the meeting is relaxed; even the news of an unexpected visitor does little to change that; although had the agents at the front gate of the property not been involved in dealing with an unruly crowd that appeared almost from thin air, someone would have though to question the presence of the commander; he didn't exactly enter through the front gates.
Some distance away, another man is watching the tall commander with satisfaction. As each of the details fall into place and the moment he's been waiting for draws nearer, Jasim begins planning his next undertaking. This mission has taken much longer than he'd originally planned—and he's let a few other opportunities slip by—but he's certain the results will be worth it. He turns his attention back to his current mission as it nears its end.
As predicted, the CNO intercepts the newcomer. Only slightly slower than anticipated, the commander salutes the senior officer, pausing for just a moment before returning to his original course. Perturbed, the CNO orders the younger man to stop; orders that shouldn't make a difference to this man, but for a reason unknown to the unseen watcher, they do. At that moment, the blank mask vanishes and confusion blossoms on the Commander's face. He looks at his hand and then the man he's come to see, emotions flickering across his face like Christmas lights on Speed. Everyone around him freezes, surprised. No one sees him move, but somehow he's no longer standing by the CNO; he's now standing in front of the President. Warring emotions again play across his face, something flickers in his cold, dead eyes and, at the moment movement returns to the others, he's carrying out his task. Like a video being played in slow motion, two gunshots ring out, the President falls backwards, and less than a heartbeat later another half dozen or more shots break the silence, propelling the commander to the ground.
From afar, Jasim is satisfied with what he sees; both the target and his agent lay in the melting snow. He gathers up his equipment and hurries back to his hotel room. With this victory he has much planning to do for his next project.
Back in the garden, the President rises shakily to his feet and regards his would-be assassin. "He's still alive," one of the men crouched around the crumpled form announces. The rest of the group tightens their hold on their weapons, only to relax a bit when the gun is finally freed from the unresisting hand. It is a very short time later that the man is loaded into a newly-arrived helicopter and flown away, leaving behind a man in an impeccable gray suit.
"Mr. President? My name is Clayton Webb. I need to ask you a few questions."
"I can't believe he'd do something like that," Mac protests.
"Do you want me to finish telling this or not?" Webb asks, grumpy at being interrupted.
"Sorry, please continue."
"I have some questions I want answered before I answer yours," the rookie President, Jonathon Worth, states.
Webb looks uncomfortable; this is one person he can't give his standard 'classified' answer to. "Yes, sir," he says hesitantly.
"Who do you work for?"
An easy one. "The CIA."
"How did you get here so quickly?"
Easy, but tricky—he must tread carefully here. "We received a message about 30 minutes ago that there was to be an attempt on your life. It was more of a taunt that we couldn't do anything to stop it than a warning it might happen."
"Why didn't you just inform the Secret Service?"
Good question. "To my knowledge, some of my coworkers were dispatched to do so. I'm surprised no one got the message here."
"Do you know who the would-be assassin is?
Simple. "That information wasn't given to us, and I didn't have a chance to take a look at him."
"Where are they taking him?"
Complete blank. "I don't know for sure, but I would assume a facility where they can identify him."
"They won't treat him?" Worth asks, astonished.
"What?" He certainly didn't expect that. "He's alive? After what happened, wait….what did happen?" Webb asks; he needs a few answers of his own.
"In a nutshell, he approached the group, saluted the CNO, hesitated a moment before he brushed past him. I didn't pay much attention to him until then—I thought he was here to talk to Gerald. Gerald ordered him to stop; it was only then that I realized he was armed. He was suddenly next to me, shoving me to the ground and turning the gun on himself. The agents must have thought he shot me; they fired at him before I could get up." He's reliving the moment, seeing the entire thing happen again in his mind's eye. "I saw the expression on his face as he fell—in the midst of his confusion he looked relieved."
An impossible thought tickles the back of Webb's mind. "Can you describe him?" he asks urgently.
"Tall, dark hair; women would probably call him handsome. According to the uniform, he's a Naval Commander and a pilot," Worth remembers, dredging up more details from his memory. His eyes are closed to 'see' more clearly. "I believe there is a Silver Star among his ribbons…and if I'm not mistaken, he's not wearing the star of a line officer." As he tries to concentrate further, the image retreats, along with the adrenaline sustaining him. He slumps a little, only to be caught and supported by one of the agents.
"Mr. President, we need to get you inside and have you looked at," the agent breaks in.
Webb begins to move away without protest; Worth's voice calls him back, "You know who it is, don't you?" he asks, shaking off the hands trying to help him. "I want to see you in my office before you leave here," he orders, finally allowing his guardians to have what they want—him inside.
Webb ignores the question and acknowledges the order with a wave of his hand. If he's going to reveal what he suspects—especially considering it is completely impossible—he wants more proof. Selecting his next 'interview' he steps into a conversation and introduces himself.
"I knew he wouldn't do something like that," Mac declares confidently.
"Do you want to hear the rest of this or not?" Webb grumps again.
"Sorry." This time, it's said without contrition.
Nearly eight hours later he's finally finished his interviews, and he's not sure if the news is good or bad. A call to his office nets him the news the 'mystery man'—as he's being called—was rushed into surgery upon arrival at the hospital. The agents who accompanied him there promised a call as soon as they received word. He's almost positive his impossibility has somehow become possible; the only thing he wants to do now is personally and visually confirm his suspicions—the man he suspects it is has been dead for over a year.
One of the secret service agents ghosts up to his side, startling him out of his thoughts. "There's a rumor going around that the shooter from this morning is still alive. Do you know anything?" he asks Webb anxiously.
"He's in surgery last I heard," Webb responds, meeting the haunted eyes of the young agent—he wonders if the kid's heard the shooter didn't actually shoot at the president as well.
There is a hint of relief in his eyes at the revelation he hasn't taken a life—yet. "The President said to send you in when you arrived," he mentions belatedly.
"Thank you, Agent…" Webb's not sure if he's been introduced to the kid or not, but at the moment he's drawing a complete blank for the name.
"Nichols," the young agent supplies.
"Thank you, Agent Nichols," Webb repeats. There's nothing like a little courtesy to remain off the black list of certain agencies. He gives a perfunctory knock on the door and enters.
"Agent Webb," Worth greets Webb when the door is once again closed. "I was just about to send someone to look for you."
"Mr. President. I just finished up," Webb returns warily.
"Well, what did you find out?"
"I don't have anything concrete, just speculation at this point," Webb hedges.
"And?" The word is drawn out.
"Before you took office, there were a number of assassinations in countries around the world. Men and women without any history of violence would disappear for a month or two, suddenly reappear without any explanations and carry out the assassination. In every one of these cases the assassin was killed; we've never been able from them why they did it; the consensus is a third party is involved, either converting the assassins to their way of thinking or forcing them by more drastic measures. It's been nearly a year since the last assassination."
"And you think this mysterious third party is behind this? The man didn't even point his weapon at me, he used it on himself!"
"As I said, it's all speculation at this point."
"Have you gotten an ID on him yet?" Worth asks.
"I haven't heard anything more than he was taken into surgery when the helicopter landed at the hospital at Georgetown University. Once he's out of surgery we'll start the ball rolling on getting him ID'd."
Something in his expression must have given him away. "You know who he is," Worth accuses.
"I'd rather not speculate at this time, Mr. President. To do so may simply tarnish the memory of a good and honorable man."
"If he's been used as you say, there's no reason that this should affect his…memory?" The last part comes out as a question. "What do you mean memory?"
Webb sighs, he's tired and let things slip that had he been rested would never have been mentioned; there's no way he's going to be able to get out of telling Worth his suspicions, the man is too perceptive and persistent.
"A year ago, a Naval Commander who fits the descriptions I've gotten was killed in a warehouse explosion. There were only two bodies recovered—it was assumed at the time that one was the officer and one was the man he was there to meet. I can't say any more about that except he was on a sanctioned assignment at the time."
"I take it there was no way to positively identify the bodies?"
"His dog tags melted in the fire; that's how the body—or what was left of it—was identified."
I thought you said the people who went missing would turn up a month or two later. You just said this man was missing for a year. It doesn't add up. Why would the time table have changed?"
"That's what I would like to know. Again, it's only speculation, but the man I knew lived and breathed honor; it would have been difficult at best to entice him to shoot his Commander-in-Chief."
Worth files the knowledge of a personal relationship away for perusal at a later time. "So what happens now?"
"I'm going to the hospital to see this guy for myself; even if it is who I suspect, we'll need to run his prints and verify. After that, what happens will depend on whether he lives or not."
"At this time no one knows of the attempt. While I can't say I enjoy being a target, the fact that he never fired his weapon at me makes me reluctant to treat him as an assassin, especially if what you believe checks out. What would you recommend if he is who you think he is?"
Webb ponders the question seriously for a few minutes, weighing both sides of the equation. He finally comes up with what might be a workable solution. "Until we know what happened, he needs to be kept in a secure area. I hesitate to leave him in an open hospital, but at the same time I don't believe it is necessary—or particularly wise—to put him in a prison facility. I do know of a secure facility outside the city where we could create an acceptable compromise. It would give us an opportunity to get the information we want from him, if things are as they seem."
"How quickly can you get this arranged?"
"Two days at the most, should he survive the surgery."
"Keep me informed. Anyone has a problem with the arrangements, they can speak to me," Worth offers.
"I almost hope these plans are unneeded, but thank you for the support"
"Like I said, keep me informed," Worth reiterates, handing Webb a card. "Call me at this number anytime—you won't have to deal with my overprotective staff if you do."
Webb thanks him again and heads for the door. Time to see if the uneasy feeling he's had since the beginning of this whole fiasco is some sort of psychic knowledge or if it's just that his lunch didn't agree with him.