by Vince Flynn
They were thankful for the cover that the fog provided, but were getting anxious. They would have liked to have started this part of the operation earlier, but were forced to wait until the real Washington Post vans had delivered Friday morning’s edition. With one more drop left, they drove around the south end of Stanton Park and turned onto Maryland Avenue. A block later, they turned onto Constitution Avenue and headed west. As they neared the White House, both men could feel their hearts start to beat a little faster.
The Secret Service paid close attention to the streets around the White House, and with the current heightened state of security, there was little doubt that they would be on their toes. If it weren’t for the fog, they wouldn’t risk dropping one of the boxes so close to the White House. The driver pulled up to the southeast corner of Fourteenth Street and Constitution Avenue and put the van in park. The White House was less than two blocks away. Both men pulled their baseball hats down a little tighter and got out to repeat the drill for the last time. This was the fifth and final radar unit. The first two were placed on the other side of the Potomac River in Arlington, Virginia, one to the south and west of the White House and the other directly west. The third radar unit was placed to the north of the White House at the intersection of Rhode Island and Massachusetts. With the final two units in place to the south and east, the trap was completed.
* * *
Quantico Marine Air Station is located approximately thirty miles southwest of Washington, D.C. The air station is divided into two parts: the green side and the white side. The green side supports the base’s normal Marine aviation squadrons, and the white side supports the special Marine HMX-1 Squadron. The HMX-1 Squadron’s primary function is to provide helicopter transportation for the president and other high-ranking executive-office officials. The squadron’s main bird is the VH-3 helicopter. The VH-3s at HMX-1 are not painted your typical drab green like most military helicopters. They are painted glossy green on the bottom half and glossy white on top. The presidential seal adorns both sides of the aircraft, and inside the cabin are a wet bar, state-of-the-art communications equipment, and plush flight chairs. These are the large helicopters that land on the South Lawn of the White House and transport the president to such places as Andrews Air Force Base and Camp David. The helicopter is typically referred to as Marine One in the same way the president’s 747 is referred to as Air Force One.
At first glance HMX-1 would seem like a cushy assignment for a Marine helicopter pilot—nothing more than an airborne limousine driver. In reality, it is the opposite. They are some of the best pilots the Marine Corps has to offer, and they are trained and tested constantly in evasive maneuvers, closeformation flying, and zero-visibility flying. If there is an emergency and the president needs to get somewhere, it doesn’t matter if there’s a blizzard or a torrential downpour. HMX-1 flies under any weather conditions.
The squadron consists of twelve identical VH-3s. Two of the twelve birds and their flight crews are on twenty-four-hour standby at the Anacostia Naval Air Station, just two miles south of the White House. This precaution is a holdover from the cold war. Standard operating procedure dictates that in the event of an imminent or actual nuclear attack, the president is to be flown on board Marine One, from the White House to Andrews Air Force Base. From there, he is to board Air Force One and take off. As far as the public is concerned, no president has had to take this apocalyptic journey for reasons other than training. Despite the fall of the Iron Curtain, the drill is still practiced frequently by the Marine Corps and Air Force pilots.
All ten of the VH-3s at HMX-1 were to be used in today’s flight operations, and their flight crews were busy checking every inch of the choppers, prepping them for flight. The two helicopters at Anacostia would stay on standby and be used if any of the ten developed mechanical difficulties. It was just after 8 A.M., and the rising sun had burned off most of the fog. Small pockets were left, but only in low-lying areas. The visibility had improved enough that the control tower decided to commence the transfer of the CH-53 Super Stallion helicopters from the New River Air Station to Quantico. A total of forty of the dull green monsters were flying up from Jacksonville, North Carolina—four for each of the VH-3s that would be ferrying the president and his guests from the White House to Camp David.
The doors to the hangar were open, and the roar of helicopters could be heard in the distance. Several of the mechanics walked out of the hangar to look at the approaching beasts. It was a sight they never got tired of. The Super Stallion was a toughlooking chopper. It had the rare combination of being both powerful and sleek and was one of the most versatile helicopters in the world.
The CH-53s rumbled in over the tops of the pine trees in a single-line formation at about 120 knots. The choppers were spaced in three-hundred-foot intervals, and the column stretched for over two miles. Their large turbine engines were thunderously loud in the cool morning air. One by one they descended onto the tarmac and were met by Marines wearing green fatigues, bright yellow vests, and ear protectors. The ground-crew personnel waved their fluorescent orange sticks and directed each bird into the proper spot. As each chopper was parked, the engines were cut and flight crews scampered under the large frames to secure yellow blocks around the wheels.
The traffic between Georgetown and the Capitol was never good, but in the morning it was almost unbearable. O’Rourke limped along in his Chevy Tahoe, thankful that the height of the truck allowed him to feel a little less claustrophobic.
Senator Olson’s recent attempts to form a coalition with the president had Michael worried. O’Rourke desperately wanted to talk to his old boss before he left for Camp David. Grabbing his digital phone, the young congressman punched in the numbers for Erik Olson’s direct line, and a second later the senator answered.
“Hello.”
“Erik, it’s Michael. Are we still on for lunch Monday?”
“Yes, I’ve got you down for eleven forty-five.”
“Good.” O’Rourke took a deep breath. “Erik, I’m a little troubled by this alliance that you’re helping to form. What exactly do you hope to accomplish this weekend?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you guys going to make any effort to cut the budget, or are you all going to scratch each other’s back and put the country another half trillion dollars in debt?”
Olson was caught off guard by the blunt comment. “Michael, things are very complicated right now . . . and considering our current national security crisis, a balanced budget is the least of my concerns.”
“Erik, the most serious problem facing our country today is the national debt, not the fact that a couple of corrupt and self-serving egomaniacs were killed.”
Olson paused before answering. He did not want to be drawn into a fight with O’Rourke. “Michael, I understand your concern, but the important thing for America right now is to stop these terrorists, and the first step to doing that is to show a unified front. We cannot be threatened into reforms. This is a democracy.”
“So you’re not going to suggest any budget cuts.” O’Rourke made no attempt to hide the disgust in his voice.
“Michael, there are more important things for us to worry about right now than a balanced budget.”
“That’s bullshit, Erik. You know it, and I know it. Look at the damn numbers. Now is our chance to do something about it!”
“Michael, right now the national debt is of secondary concern. The important thing is to not appease terrorism.”
“Erik, why are you so dead set on calling these people terrorists? They haven’t killed any civilians. They killed four corrupt politicians who have abused and manipulated the powers of their office—four politicians who have mortgaged the entire future of this country so they could keep their special-interest groups happy and get reelected.”
“Michael, I won’t listen to you talk about those men that way!” Olson’s voice became shaky.
“It’s the truth, Erik. Don’t turn
these guys into something they weren’t, just because they were assassinated.”
Olson paused for a moment. “Michael, let me tell you something. I love you like a son, but you have a lot to learn. I’ve been in this town for over thirty years, and things aren’t always as simple as you make them out to be.”
It was O’Rourke’s turn to raise his voice. “Do you want to hear simple, Erik? I’ll give you simple. Over the last twenty years, you and all of your colleagues have spent our country into a five-trillion-dollar black hole. During that time we weren’t confronted with a serious economic crisis or a major war. You had no valid reason to spend that kind of money. . . . I know you weren’t a willing participant, but the harsh reality is that you were there and you didn’t stop it. You have run up a five-trillion-dollar tab, and you’re all going to retire and stick us with the bill. That is the legacy that you will leave for your children.” O’Rourke paused for a second. “Shit, even now, with someone threatening your life, you aren’t willing to do the right thing. This is your last chance to do something about the mess you’ve created. Don’t let it slip away!” O’Rourke hit the end button on his phone and swore as he slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting a bicycle messenger who had cut in front of him. The truck came to an abrupt halt as its driver gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. Through clenched teeth O’Rourke asked himself out loud, “What is it going to take for these guys to do their jobs?”
Olson stared at the receiver and then gently placed it in its cradle. Why were the Irish so damn emotional, he thought to himself. He knew O’Rourke was right about the debt, but violence was not the answer. The system needed time to correct itself. It did not need to be jump-started by terrorism and threats. Law and order needed to be maintained.
After about ten seconds, he opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a file marked “National Debt.” One of his staffers gave him monthly updates on the debt and the projections for the future. Olson opened it and looked over the summary page. The official numbers provided by the Stevens administration put the national debt at around $5.2 trillion. Olson knew this number did not represent the total national debt. Money had also been borrowed from the Social Security fund, and knowing the government’s track record on underestimating the cost of programs, he figured the debt was probably closer to $6 trillion. He quickly glanced over some estimates of what the debt would do over the next five, ten, fifteen, and twenty years. The numbers were truly horrifying. O’Rourke was right. If it wasn’t confronted, it would eventually bring the country to its knees. A bankrupt America was not the legacy he wanted to leave for his grandchildren, but neither was an America that tolerated terrorism.
Jack Warch climbed up the last flight of stairs and onto the roof of the White House. Special Agents Sally Manly and Joe Stiener followed as Warch surveyed the rooftop scene. He was pleased to see that the six countersniper agents already on the roof were at their posts and watching their area of responsibility. Warch was under a lot of stress and was trying his best to look calm. Joe Stiener went into the small guardhouse and filled up three cups of coffee, handing one to his boss, one to Manly, and keeping the other for himself.
Warch walked over to the south edge of the roof and looked up at the gray sky. Stiener and Manly stood several steps behind their boss and said nothing. After the sun had burned off the early-morning fog, it had looked as if it would be a bright day, but then, just before ten, a thick blanket of high, gray clouds moved in. A slight wind was coming from the southwest at about five to ten knots. Warch’s gaze shifted from the sky to the treetops, and he couldn’t help but notice the bright fall colors of the changing leaves. While sipping his coffee, he thought about how little he’d slept the past week. He was nearing the end of his rope and was looking forward to handing the president off to the Camp David team and getting some much needed sleep. But before he could do that, he had to get the president to Camp David in one piece.
Late the previous evening, they had met to discuss security arrangements, and Warch had recommended to the president that the meetings be held at the White House instead of Camp David. Garret had shot the idea down before the president had a chance to think it over. Garret had said, “Jim, the public needs to see that you’re not confined to the White House. They need to see you get on board Marine One and fly off to Camp David for the weekend. It will make you look like a leader, and besides, Camp David is more secure than the White House.”
It was debatable whether Camp David or the White House was more secure, but that wasn’t the issue. The real security threat came in flying the president from the White House to Camp David.
Warch had been briefed by McMahon on the assassinations and was mystified that, whoever these people were, they had been able to kill four high-ranking politicians and not leave a single clue worth beans. He was impressed with the skill and professionalism of the killers and afraid that the president would be their next target. These assassins had shown their ability to think and plan ahead, and it worried Warch that, as usual, the president’s itinerary was public information. The assassins would know approximately when the president was leaving the White House and when he would be arriving at Camp David.
In Warch’s line of work he had to assume the worst. For that reason, he was taking extra precautions today. Warch looked down at the reporters and photographers who were staking out positions on the west side of the South Lawn. Warch shook his head in frustration. He hated the press. If he had it his way, he’d ban them from the White House compound. They did nothing but make his job more difficult.
It was 10:48 A.M. and the president’s weekend guests were starting to arrive for the 11 A.M. lunch and photo op. A large black limousine pulled into the White House compound and drove up the executive drive. Warch watched his agents perform their duties with their usual precision. He glanced around the roof to make sure his other agents were staying focused on their area of responsibility and not looking at the new arrivals. The back door of the limo opened and Sen. Lloyd Hellerman stepped out. Four of Warch’s tallest agents surrounded the senator and ushered him toward the White House. The media stayed where they were supposed to, but shouted questions as Hellerman was rushed toward the door. The senator looked toward the media and slowed for a second. The two agents on the left and right grabbed Hellerman by the biceps and kept him moving through the doorway and into the White House. Warch had given his people specific instructions: “I don’t want anyone standing around outside. As they arrive, get them from the limos into the building as quickly as possible.” The South Lawn of the White House was secure, but Warch wasn’t going to take any unnecessary chances. He turned to one of his two assistants. “Joe, how are things going down at Quantico?”
The Secret Service agent put his hand over his earpiece. “They’re going through their preflight briefing right now.”
Warch nodded his head and asked Sally for her binoculars. He started to scan the rooftops of the buildings to the east. “How are our sniper teams doing?”
“They’re in position,” answered Agent Stiener.
Warch turned to the north and continued to look at the rooftops. “What about the ground teams?”
“They’re ready to move out whenever you want.”
Warch lowered the binoculars and thought about it for a minute. “Move them into position at eleven-fifteen. Remind them, if they see anyone carrying anything larger than a briefcase, I want them searched. And don’t forget to remind them not to look at the choppers as they fly in and out. I need them looking at the street.” Warch stopped and looked down at the gate as another limo pulled up. The photographers started snapping photos and the reporters started to speak into the cameras. Warch looked at the news vans that were parked off to the side and pointed at them. “Joe, remind Kathy and Jack to do a lockdown on those vans and take them off their live feeds before the first chopper lands. That’s before, not during.” Warch turned to Agent Manly. “Sally, what’s the situation with the advance team a
t Camp David?”
“So far so good. The six Marine recon units out of Quantico were inserted by helicopter about two hours ago. They’ve got the hilltops along the approach route secured, and they’re scouting the valleys for any potential hostiles.”
Warch nodded his head. “Nice work so far. Let’s stay sharp.”
HMX-1 did not have a briefing room large enough to accommodate all one hundred pilots involved in today’s flight operations, so folding chairs were set up in the corner of the hangar and the maintenance crews were asked to stop all work on the choppers while the briefing took place. The first several minutes of the briefing were handled by the ODO, or operations duty officer, who briefed the pilots on the weather conditions. The pilots sipped coffee and listened respectfully—some took notes on their knee boards while others memorized the details.