Harris pulled the mike back down.
"Reavers, any sign of our bird?"
Reavers had crawled to the edge of the roof to see what was happening on the street. He was looking down at the two dead bodies beneath him when his boss asked about the choppers.
He looked up and scanned the horizon. The helicopters were nowhere in sight.
"That's a negative. Harry," replied Reavers.
"Is the strobe up and running?" asked Harris. The strobe Harris was referring to was an infrared strobe light that was invisible to the naked eye but glaringly visible to anyone wearing night-vision goggles.
From his perch down the block Wicker did a quick check with his night-vision scope and noted the flashing light atop the house.
"The strobe is active."
Harris looked at his watch and turned back to his two men booby-trapping the stairs.
"That's it, everyone on the roof. Lets go!"
The two men connected one last grenade and then scooted up the ladder.
Harris followed them up and rolled onto the dirty flat roof. With his MP-10 in one hand, he closed the hatch. Spinning to check where his men were, the commander grabbed his night-vision binoculars and looked to the northwest, scanning the sky for the choppers. As he searched the horizon, he heard Wicker call, "More Tangos on the move." Wicker peered through his scope as two men, and then a third, appeared from the house across the street. All three were armed. Wicker maneuvered the scope and said, "Everyone stay down. I can handle it." As the first man approached the bodies of the dead men on the street. Wicker centered in on the side of his head and squeezed off a round. He slid the Galil to the left just a touch and framed up the second man, who was now standing in shock while he watched the man in front of him crumple to the ground. Wicker squeezed the trigger again and moved on. The third man was backpedaling for the door, waving his arms and screaming. He never made it.
Harris dropped to his belly and quickly crawled to the edge of the flat roof. With his MP-10 up and ready, he looked over the edge at the bodies in the street. The SEALs were already deployed around the perimeter of the roof. Two covering the alley, and two covering the front. Rapp kneeled over the unconscious body of Harut and searched the sky for the helicopters.
"Boys," barked Harris, "shoot anything that moves."
THE COPILOT OF the Pave Low spotted the strobes when they were about a mile from the beach and alerted the rest of the crew. They had been directed to hit the northern strobe first. The Pave Low alerted the pilots of the Pave Hawk, which was flying in formation at just under one hundred fifty miles per hour and hugging the deck.
Simultaneously the two helicopters broke formation. The larger Pave Low banked to the left and began to slow, while the agile Pave Hawk broke to the right and began a full-speed run to the south.
RIGHT ABOUT THE time Harris detected the noise of the incoming helicopters, the night sky blew open. A sustained burst of machine gun fire erupted from the building across the street. All but two of the twenty-some rounds flew wildly over their heads. The two that hit the lip at the edge of the roof sent chunks of clay flying.
Lying on his side, Harris said, "Bravo Six, this is Whiskey Five. We are under fire! I repeat, under fire! The LZ is hot!"
"Roger that. Whiskey Five," came the reply from the Pave Low.
"Where is the fire coming from?"
"Directly across the street to our west."
"Roger, Whiskey Five. We have your position marked and will be on top of you in about twenty seconds."
Harris stayed flat on the roof. Another burst of machine gun fire rang out with more of the rounds crashing into the side of the roof, and then a second and a third gun joined in.
"Slick," the commander called out over the radio, "can you get these guys off my ass?"
"That's a negative. Harry. The angle is wrong."
Harris rolled onto his back as shouts were heard from below and another volley of bullets rang out.
"Reavers! "yelled Harris.
"I'll draw their fire, and you bag 'em."
While lying on his back, Harris held his MP-10 over the edge and squeezed off four bursts at the house across the street.
A second later Reavers popped up, saw a muzzle flash in the second-story window, and zipped the target with three shots to the chest. Reavers quickly ducked back down as a flurry of return fire rang out.
Wicker chimed in from his spot down the street.
"I think we stuck our hands in the hornet's nest." More targets appeared, and Wicker went to work.
THE PAVE LOW came in much slower than a Hollywood director would have liked, but these big flying buses didn't stop on a dime. The roar of its powerful 3,900-horsepower turbine engines and churning rotors was deafening. As soon as he had targets in sight, the starboard gunner opened up with his 7.62millimeter minigun—hosing down the building across the street. The Pave Low stopped just on the other side of the strobe, but did not touch down. Within seconds of coming to a stop, the smaller Pave Hawk appeared from the south and passed directly overhead, her guns blazing.
Rapp grabbed Harut, threw him over his shoulder, and ran up the ramp of the Pave Low. Harris crouched at the foot of the ramp and picked up the strobe. He counted each of his men by slapping them on the ass as they ran up the ramp.
When they were all in, Harris bounded into the chopper and gave the tail gunner a thumbs-up. One second later the helicopter rose ten feet and began lumbering above the rooftops, all three gunners laying down suppressive fire as they moved out.
Wicker continued to search for targets right up to the last second, but there were none to be found. The miniguns from the helicopters had cleared the street. As the Pave Low neared his position, the sniper saw the escort come screaming down the street for another pass. Wicker grabbed his gear, and as the ramp of the Pave Low neared, he jumped up and into the back of the cargo area.
The second the pilots heard the last man was onboard, they twisted the throttles to the stops and headed for sea. Twenty excruciating seconds later they were feet-wet hugging the water of the gulf, the Pave Hawk back in formation, heading for home.
Washington, D.C.
Midnight
THE PLUSH ROOM was located on the southwest corner of the tenth floor. It was one of the Washington Hotel's finest rooms. A faint gray light from the street below spilled through the windows and reflected off the white ceiling and walls. The sole occupant stood in front of an ornate mirror and stared at his reflection, his fingers gently probing the tender areas around his eyes and then his jaw. He was a handsome man, strikingly so. Even more so since the surgical changes had been made. The more rugged features had been smoothed and refined. He had been looking at this new face for almost a month and had yet to grow accustomed to it. Pulling the cigarette from his mouth, he turned his head to the right and studied his profile. The red scar tissue had healed but was still sensitive in the areas where the skin was thin. The cheeks were more sallow, partially from the surgery but also because he had lost twenty pounds. He was pleased with the results. They were not perfect, but they would be good enough.
Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he stepped away from the mirror and turned.
Through the haze of smoke he looked out the large window at the city before him. His posture was erect; his dark skin and short black hair stood out starkly against the handmade white dress shirt he was wearing.
To his left, the stoic Washington Monument jutted into the night sky, marking the center of the National Mall. Beyond that, the curved dome of the Jefferson Memorial shone just above the trees, while further to the west, marking the end of the mall, were the beautiful alabaster pillars of the Lincoln Memorial, and directly across the street lay the expansive Treasury Department. None of this, however, interested him.
What did, sat just on the other side of the Treasury Department.
He inhaled and then extracted the cigarette with a slow, even motion, letting his hand and the cigarette come to rest at his side. As the dark-eyed man took in the historic landscape, the corners of his mouth turned upward ever so slightly. It was an ominous smile. Rafique Aziz hated everything before him with more passion than any American could ever understand.
The monuments and buildings before him were all symbols of America's imperialism, greed, corruption, and arrogance. The very things that had corrupted his homeland and pitted brother against brother. There were even those who were talking about peace with Israel, the Zionists who, with the aid of the mighty America, had plunged his Beirut into a hell on earth. It was time again, time for another revolution. It was time to ignite the jihad.
Washington, D.C
6:55 a.m.
THE MAJORITY OF the United States Secret Service's five thousand plus agents were assigned to field offices around the country and focused their attention on catching counterfeiters.
But the better known role of the agency was that of protecting politicians and, more specifically, the president of the United States.
The Secret Service's presidential detail carried a roster of approximately two hundred special agents at any given time, and their positions were arguably the most competitive and sought-after jobs in all of law enforcement.
Secret Service agent Ellen Morton was one of the lucky few. Morton walked through the Executive Mansion and stopped at the detail's down room located on the ground floor of the White House. The tiny cramped room was officially designated Staircase; the name derived from the room's location, which was underneath the stairs that led to the First Family's private residence on the second and third floors of the mansion.
Morton poked her head through the open doorway.
"Morning, Ted. How'd the night go?"
The agent leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. With a yawn he gave his one word answer, "Quiet."
In order to give the First Family a certain amount of privacy, the Secret Service did not venture up to the second and third floors of the mansion unless called. They instead relied on a series of pressure pads installed in various areas beneath the carpet to track the president's whereabouts on the floors above. "Is he up?" asked Morton.
"Yep. The steward phoned down and said he's putting on a suit."
On most mornings President Hayes went straight over to the West Wing at seven, but there were times, usually after he had been traveling, when he liked to work out in his private gym on the third floor and then walk over to the office at around eight. The agents on the detail usually had no idea what to expect until the Navy steward called down to tell them the president was wearing either workout clothes or a suit.
The security panel on the wall of Staircase beeped and a red light blinked, announcing that the president's elevator was moving.
Morton nodded to the other agent and raised her hand mike to her mouth.
"Horsepower, from Morton. Woody, on his way down." Horsepower was the designation for the presidential detail's command post located under the Oval Office.
The presidential detail's chief concern and focus was the president, while the actual security of the White House compound was handled by the Secret Service's Uniformed Division.
There was a second command post located on the fifth floor of the Executive Office Building, across the street from the White House, that coordinated and monitored the two group's activities. It was called the Joint Operations Center, or JOC, and was built in the wake of an unauthorized attempted landing on the South Lawn by a single-engine airplane in 1994. JOC monitored the movements of both the uniformed officers and the special agents.
The doors to the elevator opened, and President Hayes emerged wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and paisley tie. The president looked at the familiar face before him and said, "Good morning, Ellen."
"Good morning, sir." Morton moved out ahead of the president, walking down the long hall that led to the Palm Room. As shift leader, or whip, of the day detail, it was her responsibility to coordinate the movement of the president from the mansion to the West Wing. They entered the Palm Room, and Morton spoke into her hand mike.
"Horsepower, from Morton. Woody is approaching the Colonnade." As Morton reached the double glass doors, she nodded to the agent on the other side and watched him move out ahead. Morton held the door for President Hayes, and then the two of them stepped out onto the field stone walkway of the Colonnade.
The president stopped and took in the bright spring morning.
Feeling the warm morning sun on his face for the first time in weeks, he closed his eyes and smiled. After a long moment, he drew in a deep breath. Then opening his eyes, he looked out at the mist-covered grass of the South Lawn. Ellen Morton stood silently behind him, her hands clasped in front of her. Without turning. President Hayes said,
"Beautiful morning, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is, sir." Morton grinned to herself. She was still not used to Hayes's private persona. With all of the security and pomp and circumstance, it was easy to forget that he was a real person—a husband, a father, and a grandfather.
"It makes me wish I was on the golf course." Hayes shook his head.
"Well, it's off to the daily grind." With that he started down the stone walkway. Morton followed a step behind as they headed past Jefferson's pillars. When they reached the doors that led to the West Wing by the White House pressroom, they took a left, continuing past the French doors of the Cabinet Room and then around to the right. As they rounded the corner, Morton looked ahead at the agent by the Oval Office. He was getting ready to insert a key into the door. Over her earpiece Morton heard the agent say, "Horsepower, from Cowley. Authorized break on the Oval Colonnade door. "The agent then stuck the key in the door and opened it, holding it for the president and Morton. The president took a final look at the blooming flowers in the Rose Garden as he walked, and then greeted the agent holding the door.
"Good morning. Pat."
"Good morning, sir."
President Hayes walked into the Oval Office first and Morton second. The president continued straight ahead, passing his desk and then going through the short hallway that led to his private study, bathroom, and dining room. Morton turned to the right and opened the door that led to the secretary's office. She closed it behind her and said into her mike,
"Horsepower, from Morton. Woody is in the Oval."
On the other side of the Oval Office, in the main hallway, two Secret Service agents from the presidential detail relieved two uniformed officers and took up posts outside the door to the president's dining room and the main door to the Oval Office.
Inside the president's private dining room, Hayes took off his suit coat and handed it to a small Filipino man dressed in a white waistcoat and black pants.
"Good morning, Carl."
"Good morning, Mr. President," answered the Navy steward.
Carl closed the door and took the president's jacket, hanging it on an antique wooden valet in the corner.
A circular oak table for four occupied the center of the room. Hayes sat at the seat closest to the Oval Office and pulled in his chair. Folded and laid out in front of him were copies of The Washington Post, The Washington Times, The New York Times, and USA Today. The same four papers were laid out in the same order every day, Monday through Friday.
The president began perusing the headlines.
The steward approached and placed a cup of black coffee next to the copy of the Times. "What would you like for breakfast this morning, Mr.
President?" Without looking up. President Hayes reached out for the cup of coffee.
"How about a half a grapefruit to start with, please."
The steward nodded and retreated into the pantry while the president began reading an article in the Post. Before the grapefruit was served, there was a knock on the door. The Navy steward opened it and greeted the two visitors. Bill Schwartz, the president's national security adviser, entered the room with Dr. Irene Kennedy from the CIA.
The lanky national security adviser greeted the president's steward.
"Good morning, Carl."
"Good morning, Mr. Schwartz. What would you like to drink?"
"My usual please."
"And for the lady?"
"Just a cup of regular, please," replied Kennedy.
Schwartz maneuvered his thin frame across the room and sat in the spot directly across from Hayes. Kennedy placed her briefcase on the floor and sat immediately to the presidents right. The president looked up at his national security adviser and asked, "How was your trip?" Schwartz had just returned from Brussels, where he had attended three days of meetings on the further expansion of NATO.
Schwartz removed his small silver-rimmed glasses and began to clean the lenses with his tie.
"It was slow, boring, and painful."
"It always is with NATO." President Hayes took a sip of coffee and placed the mug back on the table.
"The only organization that's worse is the UN."
"That is true." Schwartz nodded his head slowly and watched Carl place a mug of coffee in front of Kennedy and then himself. Next, the steward gave the president his halved grapefruit and put the other half in front of Schwartz, saying, "Eat this.
I'm going to get you some pancakes too, and see if we can put some meat on your bones." The steward then winked at the president. Carl had worked in the White House for more than twenty years and was an expert at ribbing even the most powerful of Washington insiders.
With his hands clasped in front of his waist, Carl bent forward and, in a much more friendly tone than the one he had used with the national security adviser, asked, "May I get you anything to eat, miss?"
"No, thank you. I'm fine." Kennedy wrapped her hands around the warm coffee mug.
The steward turned to President Hayes. "If you need anything more, please ring."
"I will. Thank you, Carl. "The president watched the steward leave and then leaned back. Looking to Kennedy, he said, "I got your message last night. I'm glad to hear everything went well."
"Yes. So far so good." Kennedy brought her coffee up to her lips and took a small sip.
"Bill, how much do you know about last night's activities?" asked the president.
Schwartz dumped a teaspoon of sugar onto his moist grapefruit and said,
"Irene filled me in on the basics when I got in last night."
"What time was that?"
"Just after midnight" The president looked to Kennedy.
"Have we discovered anything yet?"
"Our man and Harut left Saudi Arabia around two this morning. They are supposed to touch down at Ramstein Air Force Base in Germany"—Kennedy looked at her watch and did the calculation—"in about thirty minutes.
There they will be met by a team of specialists who will board the plane and start to interrogate Harut while airborne for Andrews."
The president thought about asking her what she meant by the term "specialists," but decided he was better off not knowing.
"When can we expect some answers?"
"It's hard to tell. Sometimes the information is extracted easily, but the drugs don't always work the same way on everyone. There are certain precautions we need to take to make sure he isn't lying." Kennedy paused. Stansfield had told her from day one to always be on the cautious side. Especially when dealing with politicians. She looked to NSA Schwartz and then back at President Hayes. "We need to be thorough."
Hayes stacked the newspapers, one on top of another, off to the side.
"Are we talking hours or days?"
"We will start getting information out of him within minutes.
Depending on what he knows and what kind of health he's in, we should have some answers within an hour. But let me caution you that it will take weeks to fully interrogate and debrief him."
"But our priority here is to find out if, when, and where they are planning this attack in Washington."
"Yes." Kennedy nodded.
Hayes looked to Schwartz, whose job it was to coordinate the efforts of all the intelligence agencies.
"I want this to receive top priority, and I want a full briefing on the interrogation."
Kennedy nodded.
"Yes, Mr. President."