State of Rebellion

pointed so the judge could have a look. Both men instantly recognized the bright orange strip running from bow to waterline at a vertical angle.

“Coast Guard,” Granata said. “We’re pretty far north for a drug interdiction run.”

“They seem to be following in our wake. If they’re looking for us, maybe we should drop the kite.”

“Right,” Granata nodded.

Pug moved forward and released the halyard, dropping the spinnaker. He hastily pulled it in, hand over hand, before it could be sucked under and become fouled beneath the keel. The Coast Guard cutter pulled along Granata’s port side and slowed her advance. An officer in a gray foul-weather jacket came out of the bridge and raised a bullhorn.

“Is Judge Granata aboard?” he inquired.

Granata raised his arm, acknowledging.

“Your Honor, please stand by to heave to,” the officer shouted.

With a bit of maneuvering, the cutter pulled alongside and threw a line, securing the two vessels close aboard.

“Sir, I’m Lieutenant Sparks,” the officer said, standing outside the cutter’s small bridge. “We’ve been asked to see you safely ashore, where a helicopter is waiting to transport you to Camp David. Would you care to come aboard, sir?”

“I’ll come about, Lieutenant, and return to port,” Granata said.

“Sir, I’ve been instructed to transport you and your guest as quickly as possible, if you please. We can man your craft, with your permission, of course.”

“What’s the urgency?” Granata asked.

“Sir, all I know is that there’s a helicopter waiting to transport you and Colonel Connor to Camp David.”

Granata looked at Pug.

“Not a clue,” Pug said, shaking his head.

“Sir, permission for one of my officers to come aboard,” Lieutenant Sparks requested.

Granata nodded and waved his arm again.

Another weather-jacketed officer stepped over the sideboard, followed by two deckhands in foul-weather gear. When they were aboard, Granata looked into the face of the young officer.

“Son, you know anything about this class of yacht?”

“Yes, sir. Ensign Scott Argeris. Born on Martha’s Vineyard and crewed two seasons in various international races with Russell Coutts.” The young man smiled. “Plus one run on the Sydney to Hobart, four years ago.”

Granata smiled and relinquished the helm. “Another traitorous Yank gone over to the Kiwis.” He laughed. “Let’s go, Pug. From what I read yesterday, the president was headed up to Camp David for a weekend retreat. He probably got angry when he heard we were going sailing while he had to work.”

“Could be,” Pug said, grabbing his dark-blue Hood sea bag and tossing it to a waiting crewman on the cutter.

“Take her home, son,” Granata said to Ensign Argeris, “and enjoy yourself. It looks as if my sailing is over for the weekend.”

“Yes, sir, Judge,” the ensign smiled. “I’ll take good care of her.”

Colonel Pug Connor had to think how long it had been since he’d seen the president personally. He’d given briefings the president had attended, but since Pug had completed his tour of duty with the NSA, there had been little direct contact with President William Eastman. He shook his head and grinned. To be literally jerked off the water and flown to Camp David aboard Marine Two seemed a bit theatrical, but everyone knew that one of President Eastman’s trademarks was keeping people off balance.

A three-minute ride in an electric golf cart, driven by a marine in cammies, brought Pug and Granata from the helipad to a rustic log cabin nestled in a stand of pines. Pug knew the place well and experienced a wave of nostalgia as they pulled up in front, thinking about the time he had spent here in the presence of the joint chiefs during a previous Iraqi crisis situation while he was working at the National Security Agency. Ambassador Prescott, General Austin, and the president had been involved on a daily basis in that crisis, and Pug had participated in most of the meetings.

They were met on the porch of the cabin by Clarene Prescott, who for nearly six years had served as national security advisor to the president.

“Well, Colonel Connor, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it? And Judge Granata, it’s good to see you again,” she said, offering her hand to both men.

“It’s been several years, Ambassador Prescott. You’re looking very well,” Granata replied.

Prescott, formerly ambassador to the United Nations and confidante to four sitting presidents of both parties, opened the door to the cabin. Pug and the judge were electronically screened for weapons, and then they stepped into the cabin. The last time Pug had been in a small gathering with the president-an occasion that had occurred in the Oval Office-was when Eastman had, without fanfare or public acclaim, pinned the Silver Star on him for valor in a daring, covert, behind-the-lines operation during the second Gulf war.

President William Eastman entered the room, stepping forward with a bright smile and thanking them for coming.

“Please have a seat,” Eastman said. “I’ve finally rounded up the Senate votes I need, George. With your permission, we’ll begin the hearings next week to see if we can’t get you in the driver’s seat over at the FBI.”

“I’m still in shock, Mr. President. I was about ready to step aside and let some of the younger jurists handle the load. In fact, I’ve recently purchased a new yacht, and just this morning-”

Eastman nodded. “So I hear. Sorry about that, George. But Colonel Connor here was probably just checking on the American competition with the intent to sell our nautical secrets to his New Zealand kinsmen.”

Granata laughed in reply. “Truth be told, Mr. President, it was the other way around. I was trying to steal his racing knowledge.”

Eastman nodded and smiled again at Pug. “What do you think of my choice for FBI director, Pug?”

“It will be good to keep him in the saddle, sir. . and off the water.” Pug grinned. “In actuality, Judge Granata is one of the finest men I know, as well as a great neighbor. He even cuts his own grass, Mr. President.”

“A shirtsleeve jurist. High praise. Well, then, let’s get the ball rolling. Clarene, if you please,” Eastman said to Prescott, who stood quietly in the corner. “What say we arrange the hearings with Senator Thompson and get the Senate committee in gear?”

“Right away, Mr. President,” she replied.

“And now, Colonel, you’re probably wondering why I asked for you to accompany Director Granata today.”

“I’m at your disposal, of course, sir.”

Eastman stepped to a small table in the corner of the room, where he gathered several pieces of paper before returning to the seating area. His face and body language reflected a more serious demeanor. “In my hand, I have an original, unsigned copy of your resignation from the CIA. I’d appreciate your signature.”

Pug stood silent for a moment, glancing quickly at Granata and then Ambassador Prescott.

“That would come as a surprise, would it not, Pug?” Eastman said seriously.

“Mr. President, uh, I’m not certain. .”

Eastman raised his hand, palm facing toward Pug, and nodded.

“Let me finish. Are you familiar with the name Hudson? Commander Avril Hudson?”

Pug thought for a few moments and came up blank.

“Commander Hudson is currently the American military attache in New Zealand,” the president said.

Pug nodded. “Sorry, Mr. President, I do recall him. I met Commander Hudson about two years ago, I believe. In Wellington.”

“Colonel,” the president said, “in addition to your resignation from the CIA, I have here your appointment as military attache to the American Embassy, Wellington, New Zealand. I know this is all quite sudden, Pug, and it might appear that I’m putting you out to pasture. In truth, Commander Hudson will remain at his post for another six months or more. You’re heading down that way next week, I understand. For a vacation with your family?”

“Yes, sir. I had planned to be gone four weeks, but-”