“Yes! Who the hell are you?”
“Go to the Washington Monument now,” the deep, deadly serious voice intoned. “Your girlfriend is approaching the west side. She is in great danger. If you expect to save her, you must get there immediately. She will be dead by fifteen-thirty.”
“What? Who…” His caller disconnected. Roarke caught a clock straight ahead. 1517 hours. Thirteen minutes!
The Washington Mall
“Our defenses are down at our borders, too,” Bridgeman exclaimed. “Foreigners easily walk across, taking American jobs and exhausting American resources. Our defenses are down on our morals. The media programs indecency as it deprograms and desensitizes our minds. Our defenses are down on our values. We have divorced ourselves from the traditional family unit. And, our defenses are down on our faith, for we have taken God out of our laws, our schools, and our lives. But, here, in this place, now, where we stand, we will lead a new American revolution.” The crowd could feel where he was going. The cheering started anew. “And no one will be able to rise above our defenses!”
Jesus! Katie exclaimed to herself after pushing through at least a hundred Bridgeman supporters. That was simply to cross Constitution Avenue. She couldn’t imagine getting through the crowd ahead and making her way to The Washington Monument. But Roarke said—
After enough “Excuse me’s”, she gave up on pleasantries. The only good thing about trekking toward her destination was that she could at least see it. Why in the world did he pick this spot? And today? It suddenly didn’t seem right.
She twisted and turned her way through the crowd. Katie heard General Bridgeman echoing across the Mall, amplified through speakers under the television projection screens. All in all, she hated it. It was hot and muggy. She wished she had worn lighter clothes and her heels were absolutely ridiculous. She felt like turning around. But according to the guy on the phone, Roarke said… When another person bumped her from behind, she cursed. This was too much. Fuck it! I’m calling Scott.
Katie stood in the shadow of the Washington Monument and dialed. She thought she heard Scott’s “Hello,” but no matter how high she turned up the volume or how hard she pressed the phone to her ear, she couldn’t hear.
“Scott! I can’t hear you. I’m on my way. Are you coming?”
He wore a loose-fitting March2Washington sweatshirt and faded jeans, and size 12 cowboy boots. His stature gave him more mobility than most others. And yet, he remained invisible. No one paid attention to the man with the ponytail stuck out the back of a Washington Nationals baseball cap. No one saw that he kept his right hand under his shirt. He was very close to where he wanted to be; close enough to do what he’d been contracted to do; precisely the way he’d been told. Everyone else wanted to press nearer to Bridgeman or a TV monitor. He wanted to stay where he was…until it was time.
Katie still had a few hundred yards to reach the Washington Monument. While she made her way, she tried to catch some of what Bridgeman was saying…why the crowd was cheering.
“America is watching us. America is listening to us. We are the new voice of politics. The new face of reason. Together, we are a mighty instrument of change.”
So many people came out for this?
“Congress! Can you see us? Do you hear us? If you don’t now, you will! Look across the street. To the Supreme Court. Those great justices. Do you see us? Do you hear us? If you don’t now, you will! Now look to the White House, to Henry Lamden who sits again in his chair. Do you see us? Do you hear us? If you don’t now, you will! For we are here to stay!”
Katie tuned out. She finally saw some breathing room that led to the west side of the monument. That’s where she was supposed to meet Scott. It looked fairly open. Probably because the view sucks. She looked at the time. Come on Scott, spare me from being a political casualty out here!
Roarke flew through the halls, hitting his speed dial to Katie when his phone rang. He stopped.
“Katie!” He could barely make her out over the rumble of sound. “Katie!”
“Scott! I can’t hear you,” she said. “I’m on my way. Are you coming?”
“Katie!” It was useless. Too much noise.
As soon as Roarke was out the door he spotted a Capitol Policeman’s motorcycle.
“Keys! Where are the keys?”
The officer stood by the cycle. “No way.” He was waiting for orders to lead a motorcade across town.
“Keys! I need your bike.”
“I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.” Roarke flashed his badge. “And you can get me backup! Send them to the Washington Monument, west side.
“Now. Give me the fucking keys!”
The Capitol police officer hesitated.
“Now!”
He took them out but still held them. Roarke shot his hand up from under the policeman’s arm: a karate move from his training years ago. The keys flew up. Roarke snatched them midair and saddled the motorcycle. “Get that backup to the Washington Monument!” He turned the key, gunned the engine, and lurched forward.
The shortest distance was across the White House lawn, but he couldn’t jump the gates. So Roarke peeled out of the driveway, making a right onto Pennsylvania Avenue and another quick right at 15th St. NW.
Marchers at the corner of 15th and Constitution blocked his way. He stopped, bolted forward, slowed, stopped, then jumped the curb. The White House was directly north of the monument, but he had to come up from the west where there were fewer people and a better line of sight.
What’s she wearing today? What the hell is Katie wearing? He tried to recall.
Roarke stood up on the bike to see over the crowd as he raced down Constitution. Just before 17th street, he made a sharp left onto the Mall, avoiding a marcher, but catching the corner of a table full of commemorative t-shirts. The goods went flying and the vendor screamed a stream of obscenities, which Roarke ignored. He was bearing down fast on the base of the 550-foot-high, Egyptian-style obelisk: the largest masonry structure in the world.
Haruku Island
the same time
With a slight hand signal, Nolt ordered his men down. Now they were ahead of schedule and the schedule ruled. He cupped his hand over the display of his PDA. Once again, the GPS-relayed pulse confirmed the objective. Nolt would take his next cue in thirty seconds.
The Washington Mall
She was twenty-five feet away. He decided to walk right up behind her, pop the woman twice with his Heckler & Koch Compact USP 45, let her collapse into his arms, and lay her on the ground. He could accomplish this quickly and invisibly, then be on his way.
The woman looked about nervously and turned to him. She froze as if she recognized him. But how? Her eyes darted about as if asking for help.
That man? She’d seen the look before. Roarke taught her to pay attention to everything. Now the lesson was paying off. He looks like…
He sped up. Twenty feet. She was staring at him. He had his gun under his loose shirt. Fifteen feet. People were walking past, getting closer to the nearest screen. Another few feet and he’d bring his gun up. The speech was the only sound filling the air except for a yell and the roar of a motor behind him and to the side.
“Cooper!”
He distinctly heard the name, but he didn’t turn around. He was ten feet away. The woman hadn’t moved. He should shoot now. He slid his 45 out.
“Cooper!”
He kept going. His gun came up.
“Cooper, stop!”
He wasn’t going to get closer, as planned. But it didn’t matter. Too much noise, too much activity, too much attention elsewhere.
“Katie, down!”
That registered.
The woman instantly dropped and he adjusted his aim.
The detonation of an unsilenced gun rose above the speech and the cheering. What? That was the first of three confused thoughts. The second was that the woman was not looking at him, bu
t beyond—to someone else. And the third, was that he was feeling cold and disoriented. What? he asked himself again. He heard the name Cooper from someone behind him, but he couldn’t turn to it. He looked at his gun. That simple, direct act was answered by another bullet to his side, from a different direction.
He dropped to his knees with the most perplexed expression. Then he fell backwards, his pupils reflecting the monument honoring the first president of the United States.
Chapter 75
Haruku Island
The shock was overwhelming. A sonic boom. Then another. A pair of Super Hornets overflew, barely above tree-top level.
Komari’s men instinctively threw themselves on the ground and covered their ears and opened their mouths. It was completely reflexive and exactly what Nolt counted on. But the distraction was not yet complete. A second, then a third wave of Navy F/A-18s buzzed the camp, keeping the terrorists pinned. As each crossed above, they flared out and released AGM 65 Maverick missiles, further terrifying the untrained troops. The missiles shot through the air to the offshore target, but the very proximity of the jets—only meters above them—kept the rebels down. The noise, the photoflash bombs, chaff, and flares blinded and deafened the terrorists. The spectacle numbed them.
“Go, go, go!” radioed Nolt. Shaughnessy and Nolt were the first through the tent flap. They moved wide to the left and right. Showalter and Pintar were footsteps behind, and split ten feet apart. Roberts and Polonsky backed them up and were prepared to enter if any of the first team went down. Chaskes and Lopez fired at any of the huddled terrorists who dared raise their heads.
Komari had killed the lights on the first assault: a quick and smart decision. But the SEALs, with their night-vision goggles, could see perfectly.
Nolt’s PDA told him exactly where the president was. Two-o’clock, twenty-two feet ahead.
Lopez, looking through his own night-vision goggles, dispatched two guards standing inside the tent.
Now, Nolt’s way was clear. The president was ahead, and apparently bound back-to-back with another captive. Even through his infrared sight, he could tell that the president was injured…and in danger. A man stood over President Taylor with a machete raised high. Someone to the side was yelling an order. The blade started sweeping down. Nolt fired his laser-aiming handgun. The guerilla took three hits between the eyes. The blade fell to the side, barely missing the president, but catching the man behind him in the leg.
Another guerilla stood close to the first man. The one who gave the order! He wore a beret and held a gun with one hand and a riding crop or whip in another. His eyes burned with hatred, but his reaction time wasn’t as great as his fury. His pistol came up.
Nolt didn’t have the angle to take him out. Another rebel was coming toward him, blocking his shot. He fired. The man dropped to his knees. The SEAL angled sideways. The man with the beret was laughing. He had his shot.
“Lieutenant, down!” It was Shaughnessy’s voice from the opposite end of the tent. Nolt dove as a shot rang out. It hit the rebel and continued through his shoulder to where Nolt had stood. The terrorist spun around thinking the shot came from Nolt. Not finding him, he re-acquired his target—the president. He took aim. But Shaughenessy’s final shot went through his left eye socket. All that had been Commander Umar Komari ceased to be.
Roberts and Polonsky finished off the rest of the terrorists in the tent. Chaskes and Pintar found two targets of their own outside. They were dead in the time that it took Komari to hit the floor.
Washington, D.C.
Roarke slid the motorcycle to a stop and maneuvered over the borrowed vehicle. He kept his pistol on the dead man. He knocked the would-be assassin’s gun to the side and checked for a pulse. It’s over. He thanked God for the tip that saved Katie’s life. But who fired the second shot?
Katie rushed into Roarke’s arms, but he suddenly angled her behind him. He heard someone running toward them from his left and he sensed that a gun was on him. Roarke swiveled, still offering his body as a shield. He took quick aim at the man approaching.
“Jesus!” he yelled.
“Put that thing down! You could hurt someone,” Shannon Davis said.
Roarke was completely surprised to see his friend, but he knew who fired the shot that ended it.
“How did you…”
“Katie called me,” the FBI agent explained. “Smart thinking, too.” He kept his gun trained on the dead man. “Said you might be in trouble.”
Roarke sighed. “Me? But she was the one…”
Katie looked up. His unfinished thought brought her to tears.
“Everything’s all right. It’s over. It’s all over,” Roarke said looking around her to make sure. Davis was doing the same. “Cooper’s dead.”
Haruku Island
Nolt radioed the Essex. “Clear, clear, clear. Objective achieved. Top Gun secure. I repeat, Top Gun is secure.” He then sent out a verifying instant message on his PDA. “TG—okay. Send birds.” That was the signal for the five Seahawks, which had been hovering out of the target area, to converge on the camp. They arrived with lights aimed at the now-frightened guerillas, huddled in three groups.
A handful of rebels foolishly tried to take on the first helicopter. They, and their compatriots nearest them, were cut down in a hail of fire from the Seahawk’s M240 7.62 mm machine guns in flexible door mounts.
While the SEALs swept the ground for any remaining dangers, Nolt went to aid the president. He lifted his night-vision goggles, holstered his gun, and put out a welcomed hand.
The ear-pounding sound of the Seahawks made it necessary for Nolt to shout. “Mr. President, my name’s Nolt, lieutenant, U.S. Navy. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.”
“SEALs?”
“Yes, sir. Proud of it.”
“Clemson’s?”
“Affirmative. Directly under Admiral Zimmer.”
“Well, thank you, son. But the man you really want to meet is right behind me. He needs some attention.”
“I’m doing okay,” Rossy volunteered, though his leg was badly cut by the machete.
Nolt radioed for Chaskes to come back and treat the wound.
Morgan Taylor gestured to the ties. “And as close as we are, I’m sure he’d be happier than a clam at high tide if you cut these damned things off.”
Nolt laughed. “No problem.” He sliced through the plastic ties with his knife.
“Now get the others free, will you?” the president asked.
The SEAL obliged.
Five minutes later, Nolt and the SEALs of Team THREE accompanied the hostages out to a designated LZ. Two new platoons of special forces rappelled from the forward Seahawks and took control of the area, while the other three Seahawks kept their weapons trained on the captives.
“I can only imagine how you found me, Lieutenant,” the president said.
“Your personal Lo-Jack, sir.” He was referring to the low-powered transmitter doctors implanted in Taylor’s backside. The signal told the GPS satellites and command where Taylor was, right down to one meter. “The AWACS tracked you all the way. Let’s just say your butt preceded you, sir,” Nolt joked.
For a second, Taylor vowed never to complain about anything again.
Chapter 76
Chicago, Illinois
Kennedy Expressway
Gonzales listened to the news on the car radio. He was furious. Patrick’s speech revved up the crowd. Bridgeman mesmerized everyone. But what happened?
The answer was nothing.
What happened to the two MANPAD missiles? They should have been fired into the crowd. Hundreds, if not thousands, were supposed to have died. The deaths were intended to cause a riot. In defiance, the mob should have stormed the Capitol Police or fired on them. And what happened to the cell phone text messages? Gonzales planned for team leaders to unknowingly steer the crowd into the line of fire.
Something went wrong, terri
bly wrong. The day was an unmitigated disaster.
Cooper failed to fulfill his contract. Instead of the media reporting from the worst riot in American history, they simply described how calm the marchers remained. Instead of furthering Gonzales’s personal cause, the crowd lined up for the portable potties and left.
Gonzales expected commentators to draw direct comparisons with the attack on the Bonus Army in 1932. He counted on the press to draw a parallel between Henry Lamden and Herbert Hoover. He expected the administration to take a hard and instant fall. He anticipated Robert Bridgeman’s immediate rise to mythical stature.
Instead, Bridgeman walked off the stage to cheers and people went home peacefully.
The handheld missiles? The spark that was to start a political war? Nothing?
Gonzales ordered Alley to switch radio stations, hoping he’d find better news. “Change it! Get me something else.” But all the reports were the same.
A calm and orderly protest.
Fox radio reported that some marchers voiced dissatisfaction with the Lamden-Taylor White House, but there was hardly any real negative commentary. Even Elliott Strong noted that, “the day fell short of expectations.” He left it at that.
Gonzales kept demanding his driver find better coverage. “Again!” A mistake. Alley was so distracted that he failed to notice that an Illinois State Trooper who clocked him at thirty miles per hour over the speed limit on the Kennedy Expressway.
“Mr. Gonzales…behind us.”
Gonzales craned his neck. “What?”
“A police car. He’s got his lights on.” Gonzales saw him. “Why?”
The driver’s foot was on the break. He slowed down considerably.
“I don’t know.”
“Of course, you do, you idiot. You’re speeding.” The speedometer was still over 80.
“What should I do, sir?”
“Pull over, of course. Show him your license. Take the ticket and don’t say anything other than you’re sorry.”
Executive Treason Page 54