Inauguration Day

by Claude Salhani

  The president-elect was on the move once more. Secret Service agents escorted him into the waiting bulletproof limousine and it sped toward the White House at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW. The presidential limousine was escorted by units of the District Police and several large, black four-wheel-drive Secret Service vehicles, often referred to as the “war wagons.” Each one of these vans carried enough firepower to repel a small army. The convoy remained in constant radio contact with the Secret Service Presidential Protection Unit, whose job was to oversee all movement of the president, vice president, and their families. The accredited White House Press Pool followed in one of the Secret Service vans, never far from the president.

  Chester Higgins, Laura, and Billings were back aboard the helicopter, flying ahead of the motorcade. Laura knew the terrorist would strike today. He had to. The question was where and when would he choose to hit?

  It took the motorcade fifteen minutes to reach the White House. It was only ten thirty in the morning. The president-elect waved to waiting journalists as he and Mrs. Wells were greeted on the steps of the White House by the outgoing president and his wife. The four then disappeared inside for a tour of the presidential residence.

  Omar al-Kheir looked at the television monitor. Most of the guests had arrived and had already occupied their seats. He recognized the secretaries of state, defense, and treasury from photographs he had seen in newspapers and magazines, or on television. The Palestinian opened the large glass door leading to the veranda and laid out a square rug he had purchased a few weeks earlier. The thick, deep wool of the brown shaggy carpet would hold the mortar tube steadily in place, as if he had planted it on grass, or dirt. Omar turned the television set around so he could see it from outside. The cameras were his spotters. He placed the map of Washington and his compass on the floor and calculated his angle once again. He was ready now.

  The outgoing president and his wife arrived on the podium minutes before president-elect Richard Wells and Mrs. Wells. The two vice presidents were already there. It was eleven fifty five and Governor Paul Ricardo of New Jersey was sworn in as vice president of the United States. There was applause, cheers, and a short prayer by a Methodist minister.

  David Peterson, Special Agent In Charge of the president-elect’s Secret Service detail, was well aware of the possible threat against his new boss. He lifted a finger to his ear to hear traffic coming in on his walkie-talkie. Agents were reporting in.

  “Front clear.”

  “Back clear.”

  “East approach clear.”

  “West approach clear.”

  All was clear. “Bring Thunder forward,” Peterson said quietly into the small microphone concealed in his sleeve jacket. This was going to be one hell of a long day for him and his team. And the day was only starting. He prayed silently for it to be over. Get this day over with. Get POTUS safely back to 1600.

  Delphine Muller-Hoeft was back on the streets, back in her element once again, cruising on her motorcycle around the empty lanes of Pennsylvania Avenue and Capitol Hill. The special pass issued to her by the FBI worked wonders. Every police barricade she came across opened up and allowed her through, no questions asked.

  Clayborne meanwhile was standing on the press platform, braving the icy wind. He was looking at the crowds through his powerful camera lens, searching for a face he knew he would not find. He was beginning to regret giving in to the FBI’s demands. He was stuck here until the end of the ceremony, unable to leave, even if he wanted to.

  It was time now. Omar moved the mortar out from the living room and placed it in position on the veranda. It took him barely two minutes to correct his aim and secure the deadly weapon. Next he brought out the ten rounds, placing them on the ground next to each other and within arm’s reach of the mortar. He was ready. Only a minute to go. He had to wait until the new president was sworn in. He could see Senator Wells place one hand on a bible, the other raised as he started taking his oath. Omar turned up the volume. “I, Richard Randolf Wells . . .”

  It was Laura who first noticed it. There was something different about that top veranda. Yet they had just flown over it a moment earlier. The color of the veranda had changed, there was a big dark blotch in the snow. This had not been there moments earlier, and there was something, or rather someone, moving about. She looked towards the Capitol and noticed that the man on the veranda didn’t have a direct view of it, or of the presidential podium. For a moment, she turned her head away, but somewhere inside her, an alarm bell went off. What was someone doing on a veranda in this weather? She looked again and noticed the man run inside.

  “Get lower, get us lower,” she shouted into her headphone to the pilot. “Over there by the beige building to your left, there’s a brown spot on the snow. On the upper floor. I need to take a closer look. Move, now!”

  The pilot banked the chopper to the left, slowing it down and cautiously edging his machine closer to the roof. There was not much room to maneuver and he had to be careful to avoid hitting the chopper’s blades on the opposite building. The man on the veranda had reappeared and seemed to be pointing at them.

  “Gun! Oh my God, he’s got a gun,” shouted Higgins. “Take me down on that roof immediately, now! Move it, man, move, go, go, go, go!” His adrenaline was pumping hard. Higgins pulled his .45 automatic out of his belt holster, glad that he had thought to bring it. He pulled back the chopper’s door and leaned out, letting the cold air swoop inside the cabin. Billings was stepping over Laura, trying to reach the door. “Let me through,” he shouted. “Let me through; move, damn it, move!”

  Laura had already armed the pistol given to her earlier that morning as the helicopter descended, closing in on its prey. The man on the veranda fired an entire magazine into the air, ejected the empty magazine, and reloaded.

  “We’re hit, we’re hit,” shouted the pilot, a Gulf War veteran who kept his cool and control of the bird. “Can’t keep it up here much longer, sir. Mayday, mayday, mayday. We’re hit. Going down. I need a clear place to land, ASAP. Advise, advise.”

  “Just get me on that roof. Get me down there,” Higgins was leaning out of the door, already standing on the chopper’s narrow skids. Billings was close behind him, urging him to move, to jump. They were still too high and too far from the terrace. If he jumped too soon, he risked falling to the street below.

  “Wait ’til I hover the bird, sir,” shouted back the pilot. “I’m having trouble keeping her steady. There’s too much wind. Just a few secs more. Hold on.”

  Billings was frantically shouting instructions into his radio. “Just where the hell are we?” he shouted to the pilot. “What’s the fucking address?” He looked around trying to identify some landmark, to see if he could read a street sign, but they were too high and the helicopter was swerving from side to side.

  “Third southwest and echo,” shouted back the pilot.

  “Third Street and E. Third and echo, southwest,” Billings said into his radio, then removed his gun from his shoulder holster and prepared to follow Higgins down. “We’ve got the S.O.B.,” shouted Billings. “We’ve got the bastard now. Go, go, go.”

  “. . . and to protect the Constitution of the United States . . .”

  Omar was cursing. Damn them. Damn those Americans. Another thirty seconds was all he needed. Thirty seconds more and he could fire his mortars. Just another half minute and he would have delivered his ten mortars and no one would have been able to stop him. Mad with rage, he placed a new magazine in his gun and fired at the approaching helicopter. Omar was determined to complete his mission. No matter what it took, he would fire those mortars. The Americans were too late. He was not scared of them. He had died a hundred deaths already and would die once more, if that’s what it took.

  Delphine Muller-Hoeft first noticed the hovering helicopter. Years of living in war zones had taught her to notice the unusual. She kept her eyes on the helicopter and her ears tuned to the police scanner. Moments later she heard the add
ress come across on the police scanner. “Third and echo, Third and echo, southwest.” She revved the bike and jumped over a curb to get past a metal barrier blocking the street, shouting into her radio as she went. “Chris, I think we have something.”

  Clayborne was still in the press stands with dozens of other press photographers and cameramen, unable to leave.

  Higgins felt the first bullet tear into his thigh. He looked down and saw a large hole in his trousers, then blood starting to ooze out. The pain was intense, but bearable. He had to get that bastard. He was no more than ten feet above the veranda now. That was as low as the chopper could descend. The mortar was clearly visible and Higgins knew he had to stop the man. Laura was on the other side of the helicopter and unable to get a clear shot at the terrorist; her view of the Palestinian was further blocked by Billings’ large shoulders. The helicopter was beginning to swerve violently, its blades narrowly missing the building across the street.

  “Gotta put her down now,” screamed the pilot. Higgins jumped off the skids and landed on the terrace, just feet away from the terrorist. His ankle shattered on impact and he thought he was going to die from the excruciating pain that shot right up to his brain. The terrorist, who had picked up the first mortar round, turned and fired repeatedly at the CIA man. Higgins caught two bullets in his left arm and another in his chest.

  “. . . So help me God.”

  President Wells smiled and waved to the cameras. Now, thought Omar, now! He released his grip on the yellow-labeled round. It fell to the bottom of the short tube and instantly shot skywards with a dull thud.

  Higgins knew there was more than the life of the president at stake. He had to stop this man. Crumpled on the veranda floor, with a superhuman effort he mustered all the energy left in him and yanked as hard as he could on the edge of the rug just as the mortar was exiting the tube. The movement was enough to deflect the mortar’s angle. The Palestinian fired one more shot at the American. It caught him right above the heart and Chester Higgins III collapsed. Omar rearranged his mortar and was preparing to lob his second round when Special Agent Billings lunged out of the chopper, crashing right on top of him and the mortar. The pilot continued to hold his smoking helicopter in place as Laura prepared to jump onto the roof.

  “Ma’am, I’ve got to get outta here or we’ll crash,” screamed the pilot, suddenly veering away to avoid hitting the building across the road.

  “Get me down there first,” screamed Laura back. “Then crash if you have to!”

  Thanks to Chester Higgins’ last effort, the first shell fired from Omar’s mortar landed twenty-two seconds later in the large pool on the west side of the Capitol, between the Capitol’s lawn and Third Street. The mortar round landed almost at the same time as the US Marine gunners fired their first round of a twenty-one-gun salute in honor of President Richard Wells. The mortar shell fired by Omar exploded in the shallow water, sending a geyser of water into the air. The impact also sent deadly shards of shrapnel flying around, killing two bystanders and maiming eight others. Upon contact with water, the lethal combination of anthrax and VX toxins was instantly transformed into a nearly harmless gas. Some within a few feet of the impact would die, and more would suffer nausea and various side effects, while others would recover within hours.

  Bystanders thought it was a shell fired by the Marine Honor Guard that went astray. Some believed they might have mistakenly fired a real shell instead of a blank. People screamed in horror and started running away. A District policeman standing nearby radioed for help.

  Omar recovered faster than the FBI man and fired three bullets repeatedly into Special Agent Billings’ back and head.

  The Palestinian quickly rearranged the tube and was preparing to fire his second round as Laura jumped from the crippled helicopter just as the metal bird struggled to fly away. Laura landed two feet in front of Omar, her sudden appearance momentarily stunning him.

  The Palestinian, still holding his mortar round, rushed at Laura as she fired at him, hitting him in the left shoulder. The shot slowed him down but did not stop him. Omar lifted the mortar with his right arm, and using it as a hammer, lunged at Laura, aiming for her head. Laura turned to avoid the full impact of the heavy object, shrinking her head down between her shoulders, while at the same time closing the distance between her and her opponent. She could feel the Palestinian almost on her. She thrust her right elbow into the Palestinian’s stomach with full force, pushing it further in by pressing with her left hand on her clenched right fist. Twisting her right hand so that her knuckles were now facing upwards, she brought her hand up to a forty-five degree angle, hitting the Palestinian in the face. The Palestinian missed Laura’s head but was able to bring the heavy object crashing down on her ear. Laura stumbled forward, caught her leg on the mortar’s bipod and fell backwards, momentarily stunned.

  Omar looked at Laura as she lay on the floor in front of him. He recognized her eyes. They were the eyes of that dreaded woman! He had seen her before, but where? In London! Yes, that’s right. He thought he had killed her; she was supposed to have died. But did it matter now?

  Omar realized he had only minutes left to complete his mission. Already he could hear the sounds of several police cars converging rapidly towards the building. For the first time, he realized that his plan might fail. He only hoped his first shot had found its mark. He aimed his gun at Laura, now lying dazed on the ground, and shot. The bullet was a fraction of a millimeter too high. It grazed Laura’s skull, causing her to bleed profusely, but caused no real damage. Omar aimed lower and fired again. The gun produced a dull click. He had already fired his last round. He shot a quick glance at the television set to see if his first mortar round had hit the presidential stand, but in the general confusion he could not tell.

  The pain in Omar’s shoulder was getting worse. He looked at his arm. Blood had seeped out of the wound, covering part of his upper arm, and it was still bleeding. He couldn’t tell, but believed the bullet had gone right through his upper shoulder. Damn, it hurt. Damn, damn, damn. Think clearly. Must think clearly, he told himself.

  Laura quickly recovered. She touched her hands to her head. Blood from her wound had covered her clothes and made her hair stick to her head. Her head throbbed with pain, but she was still alive. Then she noticed Chester Higgins’ inert body lying a few feet away. He looked dead. Billings was sprawled next to him. She knew he was dead.

  Laura looked straight into Omar’s eyes. She could see the hate they reflected. The same eyes she had seen in London, full of hate. Her head was hurting, as was her arm.

  “It’s too late,” she said. “It’s too late. You have failed. The president is alive and we know about the Golan.”

  “Shut up, you stupid woman. Shut up, I will kill you, too.”

  What happened next took Laura completely by surprise. Omar looked at her and screamed, “Shut up, you stupid, stupid woman. Shut the fuck up. You have absolutely no fucking idea of what you are getting yourself into. This is far bigger than you and your fucked-up CIA. You have no idea. But I will kill you, too.”

  What surprised Laura was that Omar’s English was . . . well it was ENGLISH. He spoke with a British accent. How could he have suddenly developed a British accent unless he already had it. But this was not the time to ponder such questions.

  Omar lunged at the remaining mortars lying evenly on the shag carpet. He picked up a round and inserted in into the tube. He would kill the president and then he would kill that woman.

  Laura watched in horror as the mortar round descended into the tube. Although the round took less than a second to reach the bottom of the tube and bounce back out, to Laura it seemed like an eternity. She had the impression the scene was being carried out in slow motion. Laura wiped the blood from her face and leapt up at the terrorist. She had to stop him. It was now up to her. Both agents had died and it was up to her. Laura threw herself on the Palestinian, but it was too late. The round flew out of the tube after hitting the b
ase with a sharp bang and exited with a soft swoosh. The deadly round flew into the sky, arched over the buildings and fell with a loud explosion.

  In his haste to fire the round, the Palestinian had failed to rectify his aim. The mortar fell a few feet from where the first one had landed, sending another geyser of water into the air. It killed three District policemen responding to the first attack.

  Laura was sprawled on the ground. The mortar tube had hit Omar on the head, giving her a few precious seconds to react. Both she and Omar knew they were fighting for their lives. Laura spotted Agent Billings’ automatic lying a foot from his hand as he lay dead. She kicked at Omar with all her strength, pushing the Palestinian away from her as she lunged for the weapon. Omar followed her look and realized what she was attempting. He tried to get up, but the last kick from Laura had caught him straight in the face. His nose was bleeding and was probably broken. The throbbing shoulder did not help. Laura picked up the gun, spun around, aimed for Omar’s heart and fired twice. But Omar rose as she pulled the trigger and the bullet caught him in the abdomen.