When they stopped at the red light, Ali shouted into the microphone: "Begin! Begin!" There was rattling in the back of the van as the Guards shifted anxiously and checked their weapons. Their quickened breathing could be heard in metallic rasps through the gas-mask voice transmitters. Ali and the driver put on their masks, secured earphones, and tied on bandanas.
When the command came over his radio, Houshang pulled out of the parking space and aimed the Toyota van down 17th Street. He took a right onto E Street, driving toward the vehicle-access checkpoint there.
The gates were thick reinforced steel, designed to withstand the impact of a vehicle the size of a tractor trailer, to keep a truck bomb from crashing through and driving on to the White House. Six members of the Secret Service Uniformed Division were stationed outside the gates, and more manned the three guard posts inside.
Traveling at about twenty miles per hour, Houshang guided the Toyota van past the entrance chute, as if he were merely continuing on State Place. Steering with one hand, he picked up a fragmentation grenade wrapped with detonating cord. The cord led back to the passenger compartment, where five hundred pounds of PETN rested on the floor, secured against one of the bench seats. He pulled the pin from the grenade and held it tightly.
Approaching the exit, Houshang slowed down and dropped the grenade to the floor, letting the spoon fly free. He swung the van left, then cut the wheel sharply to the right. Even with the extra weight, the vehicle handled well. It slid through the exit space in the concrete barrier. Jagged stars appeared in the windshield; they were shooting at him. Houshang tried to make it around the concrete island, but the side of the van scraped it, slowing him down. No matter, he thought, close enough. Then the grenade went off.
There was a huge blast and fireball. It took more than a minute for the dust to settle and reveal what had occurred.
The van had completely disintegrated, leaving a twenty-foot-wide crater in its place. The island was destroyed, and the nearest guardhouse blown apart.
The gates were designed to withstand impact, but not the equivalent of a five-hundred-pound bomb. The blast bent the thick steel frame of the gate around the central locking mechanism as if pushed down by a heavy wind. Large chunks of concrete were scattered about. Trees were knocked over, and both drives were blocked. There were many casualties among the gate guards and pedestrians, and most of the cars parked on the street were wrecked or on fire.
After receiving Ali's signal, Mustafa, parked near the opposite side of the White House, began driving north on 15th Street. Inside his Aerostar van was a bomb identical to Houshang's. Mustafa turned left on E Street and headed toward the Southeast Gate of the White House, a lesser-used vehicle gate directly across the South Lawn from the gates Houshang had been assigned.
Mustafa was approaching the gate, a grenade tightly grasped in his fist, when Houshang's bomb went off. The shock wave buffeted the van, and Mustafa automatically stepped on the brake. Recovering, he dropped the grenade and stepped on the gas, swinging around the concrete barrier and coming to a stop with the front end of the van resting against the center of the gate. A uniformed Secret Service guard began firing at him from behind one side of the guardhouse. Mustafa sat upright in the driver's seat, eyes straight ahead and fingers tightly gripping the steering wheel, as if to support himself against an inevitable impact.
The blast crumpled the gate and the guardhouse like aluminum foil. The closest trees were blown down. High velocity fragments swept across the South Lawn, cutting down anyone out in the open.
The guards and plainclothes Secret Service agents who had been running to reinforce the Southwest Gate were knocked off their feet by this second explosion. Now they had to split up and cover both gates.
Ali's deception plan had succeeded brilliantly. Not only did the two shaheed block all vehicle access to the grounds and kill a number of guards, but the explosions focused the attention of everyone in the vicinity on the two gates and the area south of the White House.
The alarms came in automatically over special lines to the communications center of the Washington D.C. Metropolitan Police. A sergeant first class from the Joint Special Operations Command communications section, who had been standing by on duty, made an excited call to Andrews over his secure voice line. The phones were working, so he didn't have to use the backup satellite phone.
The metro police dispatched every available radio car to the White House. Then they set about informing the numerous law enforcement agencies of the nation's capital: the National Park Service Police, the Capitol Police, the FBI, and the small security units that protected installations such as the Pentagon. Secret Service headquarters had already received the alarm over their own lines.
At 10:00 the trash-can bombs Karim had planted began exploding. The bombs maimed nearby pedestrians, knocked over traffic lights and electric lines, and smashed passing cars. Not a great deal of damage was done, but the streets leading to the White House were effectively blocked. Only police on Constitution Avenue or on foot patrol could get through.
The van carrying the mortar team sped onto the road circling the Ellipse, the small park facing the south lawn of the White House. They rammed a Honda out of the way and went up onto the grass. As soon as the van came to a halt they grabbed a piece of scrap steel from the back and set it up on the dashboard to block the windshield. And not a moment too soon, since they were immediately engaged by the Secret Service counter-sniper team on the White House roof.
The van had been modified in Fredericksburg. A large section of the roof had been cut away in Fredericksburg and covered by a removable piece of plastic. One of the 60mm mortar baseplates was welded to the floor of the van, along with metal cups to hold the two legs of the mortar bipod. To roughly aim the mortar, the front of the van was pointed toward the target. The gunner would then sight through the windshield and dial in any fine adjustments. Accuracy was less important than concealment and using minimal manpower.
The two Iranian mortar men threw off the plastic roof cover and adjusted the azimuth, placing the vertical line of the sight on the West Wing. Then they dialed in the range, converting to elevation in mils with the help of the firing-table card thoughtfully included in each can of mortar ammo. Since the range was so short, all but one of the explosive increment disks from the fins of the shells had been removed. The fuses were set for ground burst, also called HE quick.
The first explosion was their signal. The gunner began dropping bombs down the tube in a slow but steady rhythm. The observer watched with his binoculars through a rearview mirror bolted on the roof for the first rounds to land. They were aimed at the White House roof, to drive the counter-sniper teams back into the building. Then they would drop their elevation slightly to the Rose Garden lawn.
At 10:00, the President was sitting at his desk in the Oval Office, preparing to give the television crew a sound check. The members of Congress and the cabinet were scattered about the room, casually chatting until the time came to get before the cameras. Present were the speaker of the house, the house whip, the senate majority and minority leaders, and the vice President. Most of the line of Presidential succession.
When the first vehicle bomb detonated, the floor rocked and everyone standing fell over. The President reflexively grabbed the top of his desk to steady himself. After a moment of disorientation, Agent Latimer quickly bounced back on his feet and made a wild running leap over the desk, knocking the President off his chair and onto the floor. Ignoring the President's protestations, Latimer jammed him under the desk. Alarms began to sound. Some of the VIPs were just getting to their feet when the second bomb went off, throwing them back onto the floor.
A Secret Service agent crawled over to the door leading to the Rose Garden and made sure it was locked. The news crews in the garden had been scattered by the explosions. Most ran in the direction of the blasts. Some were calmly filming. Others had run in search of cover.
Two Secret Service agents burst in from the
outer hall, MP-5 submachineguns in their hands.
"What is it?" Latimer shouted from behind the desk.
"Explosions on the two side gates," shouted one of the agents. "Radio's so jammed with people screaming I can't find out anything. It's a mess out in the hallway, everyone's running around and knocking into the furniture."
The first mortar bomb hit the roof, and small pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling. The two agents reflexively dropped to a crouch. "Jesus Christ!" one of them exclaimed, much louder than he intended. "That sounds like a mortar."
"We're getting shelled," the other said in disbelief.
"Okay," said Latimer. Ten years of waiting and here it was. "We're not going anywhere until I find out what's happened. I'm not walking into any ambush. Pull the curtains," he ordered the agent near the door, who hurriedly moved to comply. He pointed to the two with the submachineguns. "Both of you secure the outer office. When you're set up get me a couple more people in here."
The VIPs began to get very vocal, raising the noise level. "Listen up!" Latimer bellowed. Not accustomed to being spoken to in that fashion, they fell silent. "Everyone move against the walls," Latimer ordered. "Right now. Sit down on the floor, and be quiet until we find out what's going on. Sir," he said to the President, still under the desk, "I want you to stay here."
"Okay, Dan," said the President, quite calmly, though his voice from beneath the desk was slightly muffled. "But can I at least come out from under this thing? It just doesn't look right."
"Sure, sir," Latimer said, relieved that he wasn't going to have any trouble with the boss.
At the West Wing entrance, Corporal Hawkins automatically hit the deck at the first explosion. Looking up, he saw the news people still milling about near the driveway. "Get down!" he yelled at them. They weren't listening. He thought to himself: Jesus Christ, Hawkins, you went and stepped in it again.
The JSOC command detachment at Andrews Air Force Base handled the alarm with admirable calm. Every day they had run two full-scale drills that included loading the helicopters and circling the base. The commanders quickly decided on the number and mix of helicopters they would use, and the flight crews dashed off to get them warmed up. The SEALs strapped on their personal weapons and gear and got into their helicopter teams. The support personnel began moving the SEALs' palleted equipment out to the big MH-47 transport helicopters that would follow them in.
There was only one problem. Major General Clark, the detachment commander, was not present. He had flown one of the MH-6s to the Pentagon for a 9:30 meeting.
Welsh stood beside Lieutenant Colonel Van Brocklin, the helicopter commander, watching Captain Hasford trying to get in touch with the general on the secure phone to the Pentagon. Precious minutes ticked off. When the general came on the line, Hasford quickly described the situation. After a few seconds he fell silent, obviously interrupted. He began to protest, and was cut off again. The SEAL's face took on an expression of absolute fury. "Yes, Sir!" he shouted into the phone. He slammed down the handset and turned to Welsh and Van Brocklin. Veins were standing out on his neck. "We're not to move until the general gets here," he told them. "He's flying back right now."
Welsh's stomach dropped. The stupid bastard wasn't going to let anyone else lead the fucking charge and get the credit. He'd rather have it all go down the toilet than pass up his chance at glory. The other officers in the room were practically crying with frustration. Welsh began pacing back and forth, furiously trying to think of something. "Do you know what the country is going to do to us if the President dies because we didn't move?" he asked them.
They didn't have to say anything. They just gave him the look that said—we got a direct order, asshole, what do you think we can do?
Welsh stopped pacing. He remembered a major at officer candidate school saying that someday people's lives would hang on a decision they made, and that they'd better not choke. Welsh dashed over to one of the desks and grabbed a legal pad. He put down the date and time and wrote: As the personal representative of the Secretary of Defense, I authorize SEAL Team 6 and Det.160th Av. Regt. to conduct non-exercise operations on this date. No rules of engagement. I assume complete responsibility for this order. Richard S. Welsh.
Welsh tore off the sheet and handed it to Captain Hasford. The captain read it, passed it over to Lieutenant Colonel Van Brocklin, and looked Welsh in the eye.
Welsh knew it took a wild sweep of the imagination to picture him in the chain of command. And the captain knew it, too. Lieutenant Colonel Van Brocklin looked dubious, but Hasford was the senior man—it was his call. Welsh was counting on the SEAL mentality; he knew he wouldn't stand a chance with an army officer.
Captain Hasford thought about it for a few seconds, then folded the paper carefully and put it in a pocket of his flight suit. He smiled at Welsh. "Let's go," he said.
North of the White House, on Pennsylvania Avenue, the shaheed Selim walked toward the pedestrian entrance directly opposite the West Wing. He was twenty yards from the gate when the first bomb went off. Recovering his balance, he sprinted toward it. Ten yards away, he placed his briefcase between two shafts of the wrought-iron fence and pulled the fuse igniter dangling near the handle. He leaped back and ducked into the pedestrian entrance.
Access through the gate could be gained only by entering an electric door on one side of the guardhouse that abutted the gate, presenting identification to a guard protected behind bulletproof glass, and then waiting for the guard to electrically open a second door onto the White House grounds.
Immediately after the explosion both doors were sealed. As the guard watched through a bulletproof window and alarms sounded, Selim ran up, pulled the pin from the hand grenade in his pocket, and plastered himself against the door. Four seconds later the plastic bags of PETN strapped to his body, twenty pounds in all, detonated. The explosion blew in the side of the guardhouse, killing the guard inside. Seconds later the bomb in the briefcase went off, opening a four-foot gap in the fence.
The two Econoline vans were already up over the curb and speeding straight across the green lawns of Lafayette Park. Pennsylvania Avenue in front of the White House was closed to vehicle traffic, but there were no barriers on the Lafayette Park side. Both the rear and side doors of the vans were thrown open. A plainclothes Secret Service agent on foot patrol in front of the Executive Office Building fired from behind the sidewalk barrier as they sped by him. Both vans squealed to a stop opposite the gap in the fence. The Iranian Guards poured from every available door as soon as the wheels stopped moving, leaping over the concrete barrier onto the wide sidewalk and screaming in Farsi that God was Great. The first ones over directed automatic fire down the length of the sidewalk. The Secret Service agent never had a chance. Neither did any of the people nearby.
The drivers of the vans, the last men out, threw grenades behind them into the vans as they ran toward the fence. The vans exploded, and the burning hulks blocked the street.
The Sergeant Major and the three support teams were first through the fence. They spread out in a wide fan along both sides of the gap and beside the ruined guardhouse. A machine gunner dropped, shot in the head. Another man took up his weapon. The two gunners on either side of the path began shooting parallel to the fence, then sweeping their fire inward toward the White House, at knee height. The third machine gunner concentrated on the West Wing.
Corporal Hawkins barely made it through the West Wing entrance before the first machine-gun rounds hit. He locked the door and dropped down as the slugs impacted above him. He chanced a look out the window beside the door. The TV crews had been shot down where they stood. The few survivors crawled away as the attackers concentrated on more important targets. Hawkins thought it was about time to get the hell out of there. He began crawling down the hall.
The Iranian AT-4 gunners ran awkwardly across the grass, with the rocket-launcher tubes slung in clusters under their armpits. Laying their rifles and extra rockets down, they kneeled, expo
sing the sights. Each nestled a launcher easily onto his shoulder, cocking the mechanism, sighting carefully and holding his breath, and then smoothly squeezing the firing button. The rockets blew from the tubes at high velocity, flame and backblast shooting out the rear. The firer had no sensation of recoil, nothing but the noise and the sight of the rocket to tell him he had actually fired. The men threw the empty tubes away and took up new launchers.
The first pair of rockets streaked off to the right, aimed at the guardhouse straddling the walkway between the West Wing and Executive Office Building. Because of a fold in the ground, the gunners could only see the post from the windows up. One rocket missed; the second hit a window dead center. Designed for use against infantry fighting vehicles, the armor-piercing shaped charge of the AT-4 incorporated a high-pressure rise and flash, creating an incendiary effect to deal with protected troops and stored ammunition. The guardhouse windows blew out with a crash and a quick blaze of white light. Another rocket did the same damage to the guardhouse serving the vehicle gate on Pennsylvania Avenue, off to the far left. Other rockets were aimed at the windows of the West Wing, or wherever heavy return fire was coming from. Some smashed against the building walls, or went high or low, but enough hit their targets. Few inside survived when a rocket hit their window. The blasts pockmarked the formerly unblemished white facade.
The third leg of the support teams, the grenadiers, fired 40mm grenades as fast as they could work the single-shot launchers. They aimed at the depressions in the lawn, behind the hedges and ruined guardhouses, and the raised curbs where the guards who had survived the initial machine-gun fire were taking cover and firing back.
Warriors of God Page 24