by Bryan Devore
* * *
The siren screamed through the central firehouse of the Paris Fire Brigade on the north side of the Seine River. As the firefighters rushed through the building in their heavy, clanking gear and turquoise helmets, the announcement came over the speakers: “Dépêchez-vous! Alarme d’incendie dans un hotel. Dépêchez-vous!”
The men and women spilled into the garage, the large front doors opened, and the mid-size red fire engines roared off into the night.
12
REBECCA REID LEFT THE ROOM where three young GIs on leave had been partying noisily enough to attract the Secret Service. Beforehand she had grabbed Ferrara, one of the floor’s three post agents. They had just finished checking the young men’s identities and suggested they dial back the revelry a notch. They promised to quiet down and even asked if she could tell the president hello for them. She assured them that she would.
Just as the door closed and she was back in the hallway, the coded transmitter on her belt started beeping and flashing red. She held up her hand for Ferrara to hold position as she flipped the transmitter switch. “Reid here,” she said into her sat phone, using the encrypted GSM mode for indoor reception. “Go ahead.”
“Special Agent Reid, this is JOC. Be advised there are reports of a hotel fire at the Montparnasse Tower, one mile west of Shield One. Local fire crews are responding. The incident is beyond the outer perimeter of the protection bubble, so no threat to Firefly. The fire is containable and shouldn’t spread. Will give a situation status every five until first responders give the all clear.”
“Cause of fire?” Rebecca asked. Ferrara stepped closer after the question.
“Unknown,” said the voice from the Joint Operations Center. “No reports of explosion or other suspicious sounds. Alarm box indicates single-room fire was triggered first. Other alarms on floor triggered afterwards. Probable cause is electrical problem or guest accident.”
“Okay. Keep us updated. Over.”
She looked at Agent Ferrara, who was plainly curious. “Hotel fire close by, but no current threat. They’ll keep me informed.” She switched from the sat phone to the small microphone clipped inside her sleeve, at the wrist. “Agent Alexander,” she said, “this is Agent Reid. JOC just informed me of a developing situation in the area: hotel fire about a mile west of Shield One. No current threat to Firefly. Paris responders are at that site. Joint Ops will keep us informed of developments.”
“Roger that,” Alexander replied.
She didn’t especially like the coincidence of the fire and the president’s trip. Fires were real concerns for the Secret Service, and for many years it had been considered too risky for presidents ever to stay in a hotel anywhere above the eighth floor—the highest point a fire engine ladder could reach at the time. But over the past few decades, that policy had eased considerably because of the advances in fire suppression systems for large hotels. Still, a building only a mile away was now blazing, and that made her a little uncomfortable.
“Alexander doesn’t think we should move POTUS to a lower floor?” Ferrara said, showing an eagerness to contribute more to the protection team other than just standing post.
“She’s on a call with the Joint Chiefs. It could have national security implications.”
Ferrara said, “I guess if we’re monitoring the fire, we’ll have plenty of time to move her if it gets more serious.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Just seems a little strange . . .”
A small fire a mile away wasn’t justification for moving the president. But there was one precaution she could take.
On her wrist microphone, speaking into the encrypted radio connected to all agents and transportation units, she said, “Commander Robinson, this is Agent Reid from Command Center. What’s the status of HMX-one?”
Two seconds later, Commander Robinson’s flat, almost lazy-sounding voice came through her earpiece. “I have three White Tops with one escort resting next to Air Force One in our DL zone at de Gaulle. Pilots are on call and on-site. All active crew on standby.”
Robinson was the HMX-1 White House Liaison Officer on-site, responsible for helping coordinate the four-helicopter lift package sitting at Charles de Gaulle: three HMX-1 White Hawks and one King Stallion. They had been flown in on Air Force C-17s from Quantico to Paris a week earlier with the president’s entourage, as was done with all HMX-1 lift packages for presidential trips.
“Call the pilots in and have them prep one of the White Tops and the escort. Maintain on hot-evac standby for one hour. Contact the French military and request permission for possible flight activity for POTUS on Marine One over Paris.”
“Roger. Marine One White Top and Secret Service escort King Stallion will be on hot-evac standby in four minutes. Over.”
Ending the communication, Rebecca noted Agent Ferrara’s intense look.
“You sense a threat?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Increased risk factors, but no threat. I just want to leave as little as possible to chance.”
Ferrara nodded. “For a moment, I thought you were going to issue a Crash POTUS alert.”
“Are you serious?” she said. “I analyze threat potential and maintain communication with Joint Ops to monitor and manage risk, but this situation is nowhere near a Crash POTUS.”
He sighed. “Bad joke. Sorry.”
She nodded, then said, “Want to hear a punch line to all this? I need you to head to the roof. I know we have countersnipers already up there and on surrounding buildings, but I’d like your assessment of the fire. Can you see it? Smell it? Will the snowfall help the firefighters? What does the city sound like? How many sirens and emergency vehicles are moving in the area. Give me the trained eyes and ears I need up there that the JOC updates can’t provide.”
“Yes ma’am. How long would you like me up there?”
“Twenty minutes. Things are quiet enough in the building anyway.”
“Except for a few GIs on leave having a little too much fun,” he said with a grin. “I loved the look on their faces when you said the president was asking if they could keep it down.”
“If those guys are the biggest problem we have in this building tonight, we’ll all feel like joining them. Now, go tell me what you see across the Paris skyline. And stay sharp.”
While Agent Ferrara walked to the stairs, she turned down the hallway, wanting a better vantage point of the area between the hotel and the distant fire. She was missing something. Something wasn’t right.
13
COL. JOSEPH MAZURSKY RACED PAST Air Force One in the secured hangar at Charles de Gaulle. His fellow Marine HMX-1 copilot, Maj. Aaron Parker, in a leather flight jacket matching his, ran next to him. Bright lights gleamed off the buffed wax finish on the president’s jet, which was surrounded by a dozen Air Force guards and Secret Service CAT agents.
The hangar doors were opened just wide enough for any of the dozens of Secret Service or Air Force security vehicles to pass through. Mazursky ran out into the snow flurries—his first true glimpse of the weather system he’d been monitoring on radar all evening.
“Be better if it were a clear night,” he said.
“Yes sir,” Parker replied, running at his side.
“The others coming?”
“Twenty seconds, sir.”
He saw one of the most expensive helicopters in the world waiting thirty yards in front of him. The green and white fifteen-million-dollar custom Black Hawk—known, oddly, as a White Hawk—was a beautiful aircraft, with a long, sleek body like a shark’s. Large and powerful in the front, with a long tail, it looked built for speed and agility. It was just one of over twenty helicopters in the Marine HMX-1 fleet used to fly the president, and he was proud to be its pilot. Inside the United States, the Marine Corps used either the old Sikorsky VH-3 Sea Kings or the newer Lockheed Martin VH-71s. But overseas, they used the White Hawks, which were slightly smaller and more easily transported on the Air Force
C-17 cargo jets, yet had the same communications and defensive capabilities as the larger Sea Kings.
“Warm her up,” Mazursky ordered. “I’ll do the walk-around.”
The White Hawk had been buttoned up in the hangar, but the support crew had pulled it back out after getting the call from the HMX-1 White House Liaison Officer.
He turned on his flashlight and began examining the exterior. The HMX-1 mechanics were the best in the world, and they kept the president’s birds in perfect condition. There had never been an in-flight mechanical failure in the history of the HMX-1 fleet, dating all the way back to the Eisenhower administration, so he had no concerns about the White Hawk’s readiness. It was by far the best-serviced helicopter he had ever flown. But a quick preflight walk-around was a safety precaution drilled into him since his first days of flying, decades ago.
The cold wind was picking up, and thick, wet snowflakes hit the side of his face. Ducking under the tail, he touched the smooth, moist metal. After examining the tail rotor, he moved down the right side and circled around the bubble nose. Seeing no imperfections, he pulled the door latch handle and climbed in the right side of the warm cockpit.
Parker was flipping through switches, lighting up the large instrument panels in an array of crimson-lit square buttons and soft-green glowing displays.
Mazursky pulled the dual shoulder strap over his head and snapped the harness buckle to secure him in the seat. Putting on his white helmet, he said, “Comm check.” He punched in the radio code of the selected channel into the square keypad on the large instrument console between the seats.
Flipping through the small, four-inch-thick VH-60 operating manual to the proper page, he began running through the checklist items for the pre engine start cockpit procedures. Once their harnesses were strapped, he continued through the long series of challenge-response steps. Reading through the checklist, he said, “Circuit breakers and switches—set.”
“Back me up,” the copilot replied.
Parker reached above his head and checked several indicator LEDs. Then he checked “CD ESS BUSES” on the aft portion of the overhead console, and “BATT/BATT UTILITY BUS” on the lower console.
Then they went through the avionics-off frequencies set. Mazursky verified each against the checklist as Parker performed the set actions with the COMM cont-transmitter, GPS/Doppler mode set, transponder master switch, and other settings. Finishing the routine, the copilot flipped another switch above his head and said, “Blade deice power switch, OFF.” Then, checking a few more items, he said, “APU control switch, OFF. APU fire T-handle, IN.”
“Fuel Pump Switch, APU boost,” Mazursky said, still reading from the checklist.
“APU boost,” Parker replied, moving the fuel pump switch.
“APU generator switch, on,” Mazursky read.
“APU generator switch, ON,” Parker responded.
They moved through the rest of the preflight and engine start checklists. Mazursky knew by heart the procedures that his co-pilot was going through, but he still read them off the sheet as Parker performed them. When he read off the last one, he said, “Engines on to idle.”
He reached above him and grabbed the baseball-size knob at the tip of the throttle lever for engine two. Parker mirrored his movement, grabbing the throttle for engine 1 above him. They both pulled them down slightly to the white “IDLE” line between the levers. Each pilot’s green RPM gauge rose slowly toward 70, just below the level that would give them lift.
With his left hand, Mazursky grabbed the collective next to his seat, which would control the pitch angle of the main rotor blades. With his right hand, he grabbed the cyclic stick between his legs, for controlling the pitch of the main rotor disk. He put his feet up against his left and right antitorque pedals, for controlling the pitch of the tail rotor blades. Parker had matching controls on his side, but the only things he would operate when Mazursky was piloting would be the engine 1 throttle and the comm and navigation equipment.
Mazursky patched into the control tower, where the White House Liaison Officer was already in contact with flight control. “Tower, this is United States Colonel Mazursky, requesting flight standby for Alpha Niner One Four Seven.” Just as with the Boeing VC-25s used for Air Force One, the presidential transport helicopters used only the “Marine One” call sign when the president was on board.
“Request granted, Colonel Mazursky,” an American-accented voice said through his headset. “Hot departure for POTUS exec lift granted at will. Advise when hot.”
“Roger, tower,” Mazursky replied.
A hundred feet away, he could see another pair of Marine pilots boarding the much larger Sikorsky CH-53K King Stallion support helicopter. A dozen Secret Service CAT agents rushed across the asphalt in their heavy tactical gear and jumped in behind them. The massive black escort helicopter could carry enough men to secure any emergency exec lift.
The main rotor blades were now spinning in a soothing purr, with barely any vibration in the cockpit.
“Sitting warm, sir,” Parker said. “Ready and waiting for hot.”
“Waiting for hot,” Mazursky confirmed.
Snow flurries wafted and circled outside the large cockpit’s windows, blurring the fluorescent glow of the surrounding ground lights in a bright wintry cloud. He sat in silence beside his copilot, waiting for the possible emergency call from the president’s protection detail—a call that he prayed would never come.
14
MAXIMILIAN LOOKED AT HIS WATCH: only ninety seconds before the first explosion. By now his men in the other tunnel should already have started cutting into the pipe system, which would trigger the emergency cutoff protocol when the water utility’s main computer detected the sudden drop in pressure. He stepped forward and addressed the crowd of headlamps and the ominous silhouettes of heads and shoulders and assault rifle barrels stretching back down the tunnel.
“Men!” he yelled. “When Hannibal finished crossing the Alps and entered northern Italy, the Romans still believed they could quickly destroy his army. They believed their enemy would fight them head-on in the open field, as armies of that time did. But Hannibal was a military genius, now considered the father of war strategy. And he used the Romans’ arrogance against them. He used misdirection and deception to win battles in which he was heavily outnumbered. Now, the Americans are well trained and well equipped—much like the Roman soldier once was. But we will use surprise and deception and strategy to destroy them. They will not be prepared for our maneuvers!”
The tunnel filled with cheering.
Maximilian stepped up onto a large fallen stone from the underground ruins and placed a hand on the rock wall for balance. “You all know your roles. And like Hannibal, I will be right in the middle of the battle, fighting with you!”
The men cheered again.
He stepped back down and knelt behind the protruding rocks of the tunnel’s right angle. He looked at his watch: ten seconds from detonation. He closed his eyes and smiled.
The exploding C-4 split the air like a thunderclap. A gust of stale, dusty air brushed past him through the tunnel. He could smell a trace of chlorine, and when he opened his eyes, a blue haze glowed in his headlamp beam.
“A perfect cut, General,” Mozgovoy shouted at him out of the cloud of rock dust.
The shaped charge had blown through the building’s outer concrete foundation.
His army had been well trained in what to do after the explosion. Before the cloud of concrete dust had settled, the line of men was already rushing through the breach, into the upper sewer tunnels. And these would lead them to the outer wall of the hotel’s basement corridors.
15
SPECIAL AGENT IN CHARGE JOHN Alexander raised a finger to his earpiece and said into his wristband, “Please repeat that.”
“Sir,” the voice said, “we’ve just received a vibration hit on the EK-one.”
“What’s the magnitude?”
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br /> “Zero point two. Lasted zero-point-four seconds.”
John knew that any earthquake would be at least 0.6 in magnitude if the epicenter was within a few miles. But Paris had no known fault lines in or around the city. The closest subway station to the hotel was far away—one of the reasons the Secret Service had selected this hotel. It shouldn’t put out even a 0.1-magnitude vibration unless a crash happened on the tracks. The advance team had scouted the tunnels under the hotel, and because of the sealed passageways, he had determined a low risk of unauthorized access near the hotel. Thus, they had installed EK-1 seismometers in a perimeter along the basement, to serve as an early-warning system beyond the hotel’s secured area. John had agents in the basement, monitoring the devices.
Agent David Stone looked at him with raised eyebrows. The other agents would also have heard every word over the comms. John turned away and stood by the narrow floor-to-ceiling window at the edge of the antechamber. The snow was falling thicker than a half hour earlier. The clumped white flakes turned to slushy drops after hitting the glass pane. He looked out at the blurred city lights, studying the horizon as if he might discern a threat somewhere out there, coming this way.
The EK-1 readings didn’t make much sense. Advance team agents with their bomb dogs had been sweeping every inch of the hotel, surrounding buildings, and sewer systems twice a day for the past week, and every four hours since the president arrived in Paris, so a bomb seemed unlikely.
“Agent Perez,” John said into his wrist microphone. “I want you and the other agents down there to check out the northeast corner of the basement where the first EK-one hit registered. I’ll have HQ analyze the magnitude data and give us a better idea what might have caused it.”