“You should give it up,” said Anderson, hoping for a miracle. “Three men against Thorn’s protection detail – it’s a suicide mission. The Capitol is crawling with police and FBI; the first shots and you’ll have a hundred more armed men to deal with.”
“You’re probably right,” McDowell responded, his tone still annoyingly complacent. “But with a ringside seat, it’d be a shame to miss all the excitement.”
Anderson couldn’t work it out, it sounding as though McDowell was happy just to stand and watch. “You’re leaving it to Lavergne and Preston?” he said, unable to hold back his surprise.
“The art of delegation; you should try it sometime. My face is too well-known to take unnecessary risks. But don’t worry, Mike; if Thorn turns up, we’ll make sure he gets a suitable welcome.”
* * *
The five-car motorcade swept into the Mall and pulled up along the east side of 3rd Street, police already in place to establish a safe zone with people kept back a good ten yards. In a well-practiced routine, the protection detail closed up around the Secretary, the crowd parting to allow Thorn free access towards the main speakers standing close to the Capitol Reflecting Pool. It was a narrow channel of relative security, a dozen agents guiding Thorn forward, but within seconds the initial murmurs and words of support had turned into a spontaneous ripple of applause. Thorn slowed, almost embarrassed and unable to hide his smile of appreciation, reaching out to shake peoples’ hands.
Cameras flashed but the media had long since gone, the majority of the public still favouring Thorn’s hard-line stance. A middle-aged woman stepped forward into his path and an agent instantly blocked her view, strong hands half-guiding half-pushing her backwards; she almost stumbled and Thorn instantly reached out to hold her upright, getting a smile and a few words of thanks in return.
It took Thorn a good five minutes to walk through the crowd to reach the earlier speakers, the Vietnamese mother one of the first to be introduced. He shook the woman’s hand warmly, a few suitable words of sympathy offered before he moved on to the next person in line. He never quite felt comfortable in such an environment but his words were sincere, Thorn not someone who found it easy to act out a role. Paul Jensen would no doubt argue that’s what he had been doing for the past few months but Thorn had been true to his ideals, pushing as hard as he could for America to re-assert its power and curb China’s drive to control South East Asia. An assertive China, an unpredictable North Korea – it was a lethal combination, and a war in Asia was a price that at some stage would have to be paid. Thorn might be a long-time Democrat but that didn’t mean he was afraid to confront China, and for far too long America had warned and condemned but been reluctant to act, her military and technological superiority an underused threat which others had learnt to ignore.
The petulant nature of Congress’ two-party system was a major part of the problem, the essential difficult decisions invariably meeting delay and rancour, a feeble alternative the best that could ever be achieved. Without the shackles of Congress, problems such as China and North Korea would never have arisen, every U.S. president since Richard Nixon held back from doing what was right.
Thorn’s new vision for America was one Bob Deangelo had once shared, the two men reaching an understanding despite differing as the magnitude of the problems. Yet within days of taking office the President had stepped back from the easy promises of the past, and the relationship between the two men had quickly grown fractious, Thorn determined not to water-down America’s response and settle for an unclear victory; for Deangelo, the weight of responsibility was proving a heavy burden, his commitment to a strong and forceful America apparently more fragile than Thorn had hoped. The nomination of Jack Shepard for Vice-President had been another surprise move by Deangelo and the President was evidently working to his own specific agenda, one over which Thorn had minimal influence.
When Yang Kyung-Jae had proposed an alliance, Thorn had regarded it as a one-time opportunity to change history; now the conspiracy had turned into a struggle of personal aspirations over the needs of the nation, the weak – like Ritter and Yang – discarded along the way, and in the end even Golubeva had proved unworthy. Thorn himself felt as if he had been stabbed in the back: he had willingly played second fiddle to Deangelo but that agreement was now in ruins, the President’s change of heart clearly revealed by the Secretary of State’s presence in Astana.
Thorn couldn’t – wouldn’t – allow China to escape so easily. Many would see his actions as dishonourable, a betrayal of his country; yet it was the only way to protect America’s future status. The conspiracy might be stuttering towards an eventual collapse but the Ronald Reagan Strike Group had its new orders and Thorn was confident they would be carried out to the letter; if anything, he was just surprised it was taking so long to hear back from Admiral Lucas, Deangelo’s peace initiative soon to be blown apart along with the Liaoning.
It was a second-rate solution but better than nothing. A month ago Thorn had been riding high on outrage, China and Congress both within his sights – now he was having to sacrifice a good friend’s reputation in order to force Deangelo’s hand, a limited victory over China the best he could hope for. Congress was certainly out of reach, the tightened security making it too much of a risk even for the D.C. National Guard, and Thorn was left wondering whether that too was down to Deangelo. Allies once, now effectively bitter enemies, the similarities between what had just happened in Russia were not lost on Thorn. Morozov’s victory was a lesson in perseverance but the spectre of a full military takeover in America was never an option, it a step too far even for Thorn.
Jensen’s blind refusal to let matters take their course had been unfortunate and Thorn had been pushed into a hasty response; as yet there had been no confirmation as to the outcome and Thorn genuinely regretted the need for such draconian measures. Adams for one was a respected colleague, Jensen capable enough if naïve.
To show any prior knowledge as to their potential fate would be foolish and Thorn had stuck with his earlier schedule – despite what the cynics might think, the scenes from Vietnam had affected him as much as anyone, the vigil simply an affirmation as to his own actions.
Handshakes and words of condolence completed, Thorn duly lit a candle and stood with head bowed as a final prayer was said. There were then more people to acknowledge and speak to before a whispered word from one of his security team urged Thorn to cut it short, the car chase west of the White House already starting to create waves.
* * *
Anderson had watched Thorn’s arrival with a mix of concern and hope, certain that Flores would eventually try to phone. He hadn’t heard the familiar ringtone but McDowell could have easily turned the phone off. Flores would be suspicious if it were ignored or went straight to answerphone – either way, McDowell could have a problem.
Yet a good five minutes had passed and there had been nothing. McDowell was obviously aware that Flores was hovering nearby, overconfidence one of his many annoying traits, and Anderson was still struggling to understand how Lavergne and Preston could possibly succeed.
Distracting McDowell seemed as good as ploy as any, Anderson still hopeful Flores was creeping ever closer. “Martin Lavergne might be good,” he said, heavy on the sarcasm, “but unless he’s grown wings, he’s got no shot to take out Thorn.”
McDowell frowned, his concentration wavering between Thorn and Anderson, left hand pressed to his earpiece. “Who said it was down to Martin; he’s just the diversion. And all Lee’s got to do is turn the clock back – shouldn’t be that hard.”
Anderson was fast losing faith in Flores and he needed to keep McDowell talking. His right hand edged across the front of his body, the sacrifice of a good and faithful friend perhaps his one chance to save himself.
“Turn the clock back,” Anderson repeated softly, finally understanding something of what McDowell meant. “It’s still a suicide mission; one shot’s all he’ll get.”
Ande
rson kept his gaze focussed on the police standing close to the motorcade, needing McDowell to think they were his only concern. Any of the six officers could be Lee Preston, his uniform and badge no doubt compliments of Sean Kovak, and his past profession as a cop would make it easy enough for him to fit in. All six were well bundled up against the snow, their attention mainly directed at the crowd surrounding Thorn.
“Whatever you say, Mike,” said McDowell. “We all know…”
It was now or never. With the camera strap held right-handed, Anderson swept his beloved Pentax round, it arcing upwards towards McDowell’s head. McDowell sensed rather than saw what was happening, firing and trying to twist aside at the same instant.
Anderson felt the bullet slice across his chest, the pain razor sharp, then his whole body seemed to shudder as the camera glanced off McDowell’s shoulder to smash into the side of his face. McDowell stumbled backwards, arms flung wide to try and keep his balance. Anderson’s chest felt as if it was on fire but he was on adrenalin overload and he launched himself at the bigger man, his prime aim to somehow wrest the gun free.
McDowell was slow to react, still stunned, blood pouring from his face and forehead, barely able to see. The sensible money was still on McDowell, his size and weight advantage bolstered by his training and level of fitness. He tried to fend Anderson off and the two men crashed to the ground, the gun knocked from McDowell’s hand as his elbow hit.
Anderson still had his camera, close to two kilograms of metal, plastic and glass. Desperate now to end the fight, he struggled to his knees, grabbing the camera and swinging it down hard. McDowell’s arms came up to protect his face and the camera lens smashed down onto his right forearm, an agonised cry dragged from his lips. Anderson swung again but doubled over as the pain lanced through his chest, desperately rolling left to scrabble for the gun.
A vicious kick slammed into his thigh, McDowell’s left arm stretching out to make a grab for the back of Anderson’s jacket, anything to stop him from reaching the gun. Despite the gut-wrenching pain and part of his mind screaming for him to give up, Anderson ignored it all to twist around, the gun pulled left-handed from under his body. He fired twice, not even sure where the gun was aimed, just hoping for a lucky hit.
McDowell had levered himself to his knees and he looked wide-eyed in shock at Anderson, a deep shuddering sigh dragged from his lips. He tried to get to his feet then his body simply gave way, toppling sideways to crash back down onto the ground.
Anderson’s every gasping breath was like a knife slicing deeper but he didn’t dare release the gun, not yet certain that he was safe. He stared down at McDowell, simply watching and waiting for any sign that he was still alive, fully prepared to empty the clip into McDowell’s chest.
Abruptly, he heard movement behind him and he half-turned to see Flores approaching at a run, gun held one-handed, it pointing down at McDowell’s lifeless body.
One look was enough for Flores to know there was no longer any danger from McDowell and he moved quickly across to check on Anderson.
“Sorry, Mike,” he said breathlessly, “I should have realised earlier…” The rest of the sentence was lost as the chatter of gunfire erupted from away to their right; six or more shots.
Flores instantly turned back towards the vigil, the routine sounds of the crowd changing to shrieks of panic as chaos took control, at least one person lying motionless.
Anderson grabbed Flores’ arm and gestured weakly in the direction of the motorcade while struggling to speak, every syllable a red-hot needle of anguish. “Diversion… Get Preston… 3rd Street cop…”
Flores nodded as if in understanding, gun thrust back into his pocket as he reached for his phone. Moments later, he was racing towards the motorcade, ID card and badge held out in front of him as though it were some sort of shield. There were no more shots, Lavergne’s job already complete, escape his new priority.
Anderson pulled himself to his feet and leant against the tree, his breathing gradually slowing. The sharp pain seemed to suggest at least one broken rib but he wasn’t spitting up blood just yet and he looked out at the turmoil overtaking the Mall. Hundreds lay cowering on the ground, apparently unhurt; the rest were desperate to find safety and a river of people streamed north while trying to keep well clear of the motorcade, Thorn clearly the gunman’s target.
Thorn’s protection detail had closed ranks, the Secretary escorted by two agents as they ran in a half-crouch back towards the safety of his armoured limousine. The attention of the other agents was directed to the south-east, the police also moving to protect against the same threat, one at least shouting something at Flores.
A single officer stood close to Thorn’s limousine on its western side, gun held ready – it had to be Preston. Flores was still a good forty yards away, arms waving, shouting out a warning, the cries of others drowning him out. Preston was already starting to back away from the motorcade, his gaze seemingly more focused on Thorn’s car than what was happening elsewhere, no hint that he had even noticed Ray Flores.
Thorn’s bodyguards were clustered around the car, guns drawn, the priority to get him safely away from the Mall. As the rear door to the limousine was pulled open, Preston abruptly turned and started to run; an instant later there was a bright flash, the rear of the limousine leaping a foot into the air, smoke and flame bursting outward to engulf Thorn and his security detail.
The deep-throated boom of the explosion rolled across the Mall and Anderson stared appalled at the carnage surrounding Thorn’s limousine, eight or more bodies lying alongside, several people still trying to crawl to safety. He searched but couldn’t see Flores, the black smoke moving south across the Mall an ever-expanding sign as to Lee Preston’s handiwork.
The blast wave would have likely rattled the windows of the Oval Office, Anderson left wondering whether Deangelo even realised it was down to McDowell. Would the President experience a twinge of regret at the lives lost or would he consider them a fair exchange for removing the headache that was Dick Thorn?
It might seem illogical but Anderson was angry at himself for having let it happen, and even if the sacrifice of ten or twenty helped save ten times that number in the South China Sea, it was an immoral justification for murder, Bob Deangelo no better than Pat McDowell.
* * *
Jensen came to as he was being laid gently down onto the sidewalk, the blood cautiously wiped from his eyes and face, strong hands moving over his body to try and work out the extent of his injuries. Still disorientated, it felt as if he had been unconscious for hours but it could just have easily been a few seconds, his mind struggling to remember what exactly had happened.
Jensen’s eyes flickered open and he watched almost mesmerised as the snowflakes cascaded down from the night sky; he was just so cold, his breath casting a fine mist over his face. It took the loud squawk from a fire truck’s horn to break into his reverie and he tried to speak, it coming out as a meaningless croak.
“Mr Secretary,” said a male voice close beside him. “An ambulance is on the way; you’re going to be okay, Sir.”
Jensen struggled to sit up, his rescuer having to help; the latter was Secret Service, Jensen recognising him by sight even though he couldn’t quite place the man’s name. Jensen’s body felt bruised all over but there were no sharp pains or numbness, and most of the shiny splashes of blood staining his clothes were likely from Admiral Adams.
Jensen turned to look at the Buick, it sitting upside down with two Secret Service agents struggling to wrench open the passenger door, several firemen running to help, no sign of Adams. Another agent stood a few yards further on, tasked with keeping a small crowd of bystanders well away from the scene of the crash. At least three other vehicles had been involved, one struck side-on and totalled, a wisp of smoke trailing up from somewhere inside. Only now did Jensen realise it was the black sedan that had been chasing the Buick and he stared in confusion at the two bodies lying sprawled a few feet from it, their face
s covered, the dark suits marking them out as anything from businessmen to security agents, even FBI.
“We got them both,” said the agent, seeming to expect Jensen would understand. “But I’m afraid Admiral Adams is badly hurt.”
Jensen used his helper’s arm to get to his feet. He was unsteady but could stand unaided, his still-hazy brain finally remembering the urgency of his task. “Your name,” he said hoarsely, “what’s your name?”
“Howard, Sir.”
“Very well, agent Howard; it’s imperative I get to speak directly to the President.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the White House. “Now, agent Howard.”
Howard didn’t argue, the events of the past few minutes speaking for themselves. He spoke briefly into his wrist mic before helping Jensen towards a black Chevrolet SUV, a second agent moving across to join them.
Abruptly there was a bright flash in the sky to the south-east and Jensen instinctively stopped mid-step before Howard urged him forward, neither agent making any comment as they heard the muffled sound of an explosion. Jensen sat in the Chevy and tried to make sense of what was happening, worried now that Thorn was going for broke, the explosion signalling the start of some attack on the Capitol Building or even the White House.
With lights and siren it was barely a minute’s drive to the White House; three more for Jensen to be helped inside and reach the final barrier of the President’s personal secretary. The West Wing was in turmoil, close to lockdown, Deangelo in a meeting with the National Security Adviser, Morgan Woodward. The Capitol at least seemed secure, the Secret Service already informing Jensen that the explosion had been a bomb targeted at Thorn, no indication yet as to casualties.
Jensen could feel the secretary’s eyes on his bloodied clothes, the brighter lights of the office merely emphasising what he had gone through, her call to the President reinforcing that fact.
The Rule Of The People (Conspiracy Trilogy Book 3) Page 31