President of the United States, Dwight Carl Boatwright, a former Brigadier General of the Delta Force, has served his country well. Winding down his final months in the Oval Office after a very successful two term Presidency, his life is about to take a course for which none of his experiences has prepared him. For fifteen years, Israel has been taking an annual missile bombardment from the Hezbollah in retaliation for a top secret mission conducted by a Delta Team that General Boatwright had led to intercept missiles stolen from Israel. After Boatwright's old military dog tags are mysteriously discovered lying in the middle of the Syrian Desert, the retaliation is now focused on the United States, but not by the Hezbollah. Over the years, each member of the Delta Team has gone their separate ways. Their last mission is just a memory of what was. A failed assassination attempt on President Boatwright's life in Berlin suddenly puts the First Family and family members of President Boatwright's former Delta Team as the new targets by unknown forces. While agents and law enforcement officials travel the globe from the Cayman Islands to Berlin and Istanbul to Montreal to track down the assassins, President Boatwright calls on his old Delta Team for one last and final mission that would not only shock the nation, but the entire world as well. POTUS A Novel By Greg Holden AuthorHouse Copyright © 2011 Greg Holden All right reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4520-9863-0 Chapter One Syrian Desert 1993 THE five truck convoy moved through the Syrian Desert taking a profound beating. The shocks were shot, the tires bald, no cool air and the front windshields were removed. Everyone was wearing clear coated goggles, desert BDU's and black combat boots except for one man. The leader of the convoy driving the third truck looked over at his passenger, shook his head and smiled. Hollywood movie star! Of all the years in this business, he had never come across anyone like him. The man was dressed in khaki pants, a Ralph Lauren polo-shirt, a pair of Hush Puppy shoes, a NY Yankees baseball cap and one cool pair of Ray-Ban mirror sunglasses. Americans! "How much longer, Hakeem?" the American asked lighting up another cigarette. "I tell you five minutes ago, my friend, eight hours, yes?" "No, Hakeem, how much longer to the first checkpoint?" "I think ten minutes, yes?" God I hate fucking deserts , thought the American. "Are all the roads this bad?" "No, no, only when you give me shit trucks, yes?" Hakeem said grinning. "If I had better trucks, Hakeem, we'd be driving them." "Yes, yes, driving them." As the convoy continued to struggle through the 120-degree heat, CIA agent Todd Sox couldn't stop thinking about why the director chose him for this assignment. Being with the agency for only seven months, Agent Sox knew there were far better agents with a lot more experience than himself. I'll be sure to ask him why when I get back — "We come to chick point, my friend." "Checkpoint, Hakeem. It's checkpoint, not chick point." Damn rag head. "Are there any contacts here?" "Yes, yes, my cousin, Raheem." "Are the missiles covered?" asked the agent. "Yes, yes. Red Cross flogs on top." "Flags, Hakeem, flags!" Damn! "Yes, yes, flags." Americans must always be correct, no? Sixty clicks southeast of the convoy's location, United States Army Brigadier General Dwight Carl Boatwright, Commander of Delta Team 7, walked his perimeter checking on his men and calling for his communications specialist. "Lieutenant Smith?" "Yes, sir." "How are we looking on communications, son?" "I need another five minutes, sir," said the lieutenant. "I don't have five minutes, Lieutenant. You have two minutes. Captain Morales?" "Over here, sir." "When Smith gets the commo up, make contact with Watchdog. I want him to pay close attention to the Pews covering the westside of zone 2. I don't need any unexpected surprises." "Yes, sir." When the convoy passed Hakeem's cousin at the checkpoint, Agent Sox thought about how his father made it so easy for him to get into the CIA. After graduating from Harvard Law last year, his intentions were to live in New York City. He was more interested in the Anti-Terrorist Task Force. Looking at his driver, Todd started getting the jitters as his stomach began to ache. "How much longer, Hakeem?" Hakeem looked at his watch and once again he smiled at the American. "Six hours, yes?" Another six hours with these hideous rag heads is the last thing I need. General, I sure hope you're on time. "Major Wozniak, is the computer satellite up and running?" "Roger that, sir." "Give me a time and their location." "I estimate forty-eight kilometers and one hour, sir. It looks like they're moving pretty slow." "Good for us," remarked the general. Staring at the monitor, Major Wozniak raised his eyebrow and suddenly looked at the general. "Notice anything about the convo