Frank's Independence Day (The Night Stalkers) by M. L. Buchman Read Free Book Online Page A

decent, was gunned down in revenge for assassinating the head of his joint chiefs of staff. Of course, he’d had the supreme military commander killed for attempting a coup. And so it went on. In 2012, the latest military ruler had disbanded parliament as a “cost savings measure.” The country had the lowest standard of living in the world, which was really saying something. Something awful.
    Now it sounded as if the Acting President would be next under the gun, after having his two opponents arrested when he’d lost an election against them. Cocaine shifted across the G-B borders in multi-ton quantities, enroute to Europe or the U.S. Just a few months ago, the former head of their navy had been caught transshipping eleven hundred kilograms of cocaine and enough surface-to-air missiles to make a real mess of the DEA helicopters flying in Colombia.
    “Any idea who is ousting who?”
    “No. The last three coups have all been military factions in-fighting for control of the drug trade, so your guess is as good as mine. They always kill off a few top politicians along the way.”
    “When can the French Embassy get someone on the ground?”
    “Their best estimate is five to seven days based on prior upheavals, though they said the worst coup required two weeks. Until then, they’re keeping their people locked down. Russia was able to evacuate their people last night, along with Belgium and Germany. Assets in the country are real thin.”
    “Shit!” Frank let go of the frequency and glared at the secretaries who had turned to look at him. They saw his hot glare and abruptly found work to do on their desks.
    The door beside Frank opened and the President strode out of the Secretary-General’s office.
    “Everything okay here, Frank?”
    “Yes sir, Mr. President.” There’d be a briefing ready within the hour, but there was no point in distracting the President with incomplete information before that time.

Chapter 11
    Beatrice: 1988
    T he key, people,” Beat stood at the front of the training center lecture room. “The key is learning to act accurately and quickly on incomplete information.” Two dozen agent-wannabes slumped in their seats, well past exhaustion. The room was a double-wide trailer, shabby from a hundred training classes and thousands of post-action analyses. The Georgia heat was so concentrated in here that she was surprised the plastic carpet didn’t melt.
    “Most of you pre-judged the roles. Make no assumptions. Ever!” She put a slide up on the screen. “Lynette Alice ‘Squeaky’ Fromme assassination attempt on President Ford during which no shots were fired.” Click-clack of the advancing slide. “Sarah Jane Moore repeated the attempt seventeen days later, actually firing her weapon and wounding a nearby taxi driver.” Click-clack. “Mark David Chapman who had John Lennon sign an album, then gunned him down six hours later.” Click-clack. “Two months after that John Hinckley, Jr. succeeded in seriously wounding President Reagan in an effort to impress Jodi Foster who he was stalking. She was eighteen at the time.”
    Beatrice click-clacked through another dozen slides, all types of would-be and successful assassins operating on U.S. soil, and not a one looked demented or stereotypically terrorist. The slide projector clicking and the hum of the air conditioner that failed to fight back the heat or the body odor of the twenty men and four women struggling to stay awake in their chairs, were the only other sounds in the room.
    “Only one of you recognized the driver was the target of the scenario.” There was no need to point out who, the three paintball stains across Frank’s chest had dried dark red on his shirt and were there for all to see.
    “However,” Beatrice pointed out before he could start to be too pleased with himself. “He made the false assumption that the compan ions of the person-of-interest would think him important enough to keep alive. Instead, they decided