by Joe Nobody
“This just went from bad to worse,” Mitch chuckled. “I don’t know who I want to see riding to the rescue, the western redneck or the ultra-chic vagabond. Seriously though, you do look like a man down and out on his luck. Amazing.”
“Let’s hope my fashion sense fits in with Washington’s homeless crowd,” Dusty replied with a slight grin. “I would be terribly embarrassed to meet the president wearing last year’s designs.”
A few minutes later, Dusty motored off, a small wake of white water boiling to the surface behind the Texan’s stern. Mitch stood and watched until he could no longer discern Dusty’s outline across the moonlit surface of the river. “God be with you, brother. Please come back.”
When the rental house’s phone rang, Millard wasn’t quite sure about the source of the noise. It was the first time the device had sounded since they’d occupied the structure.
“Yes,” the ex-operator answered.
“This is Stan….”
“I don’t care who you are, sir,” Millard interrupted. “I will only speak to the man in charge of your HRT team that I’m sure is deploying against my position. Would that be you?”
“No. My role with the FBI is that of….”
“Then we have nothing more to say to each other,” Millard stated, cutting the man off and disconnecting the call.
The FBI’s Hostage Rescue Teams often trained with the CAG, exchanging techniques, tactics, and methods. Both were elite units, each understanding and respecting the other.
A full ten minutes had passed before the phone rang again. “This is Mike Griffin, Sergeant Millard. I can’t recall if we’ve met down at Bragg, but I know who and what you are. You wanted to speak with me?”
“That’s good news, Griffin,” the ex-operator stated without hesitation. “I was hoping they’d send the A-team. So if you know my background, then you know my little holdout here isn’t going to crack like an egg. We planned for this contingency, and my team is ready, willing, and able to engage should your superiors decide to order an assault.”
“I assumed as much,” came the serious response. “But you also have to know you can’t win. Our sheer numbers alone will eventually overwhelm everyone inside that house.”
“And you’ll have a dead hostage on your hands, Griffin. Now nobody wants that, do they?”
“What is it you want?” asked the FBI man.
“Before I answer that, let me explain a few things, sir. First of all, we have installed excellent perimeter security. If you attempt to plant listening devices or video snooping technology, we’ll detect it immediately. Secondly, I have shoulder-fired, anti-armor weapons. So tell the local SWAT boys their military surplus, mine-resistant vehicles aren’t the answer. In addition, this place is wired with enough C4 to lower the level of Lake Travis. And finally, I have anti-air capability as well. If I even get a whiff of you guys deploying air assets against us, I’ll start blowing things up, and everybody will lose. Are we clear?”
“Yes, the message is entirely clear, Sergeant. Now, what is it you want?”
“That’s easy, Griffin - we want the Olympus Device.”
There was a pause on the other end, Millard visualizing a huddle of frustrated FBI agents surrounding Griffin’s phone, trying to agree on a response.
“But we can’t offer that,” came the reply. “That weapon isn’t in our possession. How can you expect us to deliver something we don’t even have?”
“Then you better be getting the word out, sir. I’m sure Mr. Weathers would be happy to trade his little toy for his son’s life. I’ll even let him get close enough to our humble abode to do the exchange. Have a good day, Griffin.”
“But wait…” the FBI agent said, trying to follow his instructions and keep the suspects talking.
It didn’t matter; Millard had already disconnected the call.
After staring at the now-dead cell for a moment, Griffin scanned the solemn faces surrounding him. “He hung up.”
“So what are our options?” Monroe asked, sure he wasn’t going to like the answer.
“We don’t have a lot of options,” Griffin responded. “I know the caliber of man who’s running the show inside that house. I’ve trained and worked beside them. If his team is even half as skilled as Millard, there’s not much we can do. If we attempt an assault or breach, he’ll cut us to pieces on the approach. If we try to drop in via fast-roping from helicopters, he’ll blow our birds out of the sky. We are facing one of the world’s most highly trained shooters, a man who knows our tactics and capabilities. He’ll kill the hostage and a lot of my guys and won’t be taken alive. You can count on it.”
“So what?” Monroe hissed, not liking what he was hearing. “Are you saying we don’t have any options?”
“I think we had better get on the phone with Washington, sir,” Griffin responded. “There’s no obvious answer that I can see, only scenarios that produce negative consequences. I think making a decision on our course of action is far above any of our pay grades.”
Admiral Armstrong’s convoy idled on a side street, less than a mile from the White House. Occupying his time with listening to military radio traffic, his mind drifted back to other times in his life where the waiting had been far more difficult than the actual mission.
“It’s the magic hour,” the driver offered, checking the heavy watch on his left wrist. “They should be in position about now.”
“We’ll wait for the confirmation before jumping off,” came the response.
A few moments later, the radio announced Group B had reached its staging area. That broadcast was soon followed by the confirmation that Group C was ready as well.
“Do it,” Armstrong commanded stoically.
The ex-SEAL put the Humvee in gear, pulling out of line and accelerating to the front of the convoy. All up and down the column, engines revved, weapons were charged, and men prayed. The operation was “a go.”
At President’s Park, just beyond the White House’s south lawn, the convoy split into two separate formations. Less than a minute later, another division occurred, with one Abrams tank and accompanying vehicles heading north on 14th Street towards Lafayette Park.
Again, there was a pause as Armstrong waited for his units to reach their positions.
The plan was simple. The rebels would assault the White House grounds from the southeast and southwest corners. The third formation would squeeze any resistance from the north. Not that Armstrong expected much in the way of defense.
While touted as one of the most protected structures in the world, the actual capability of the Secret Service to provide security was extremely limited.
Designed to deny the lone assassin, keep truck bombs at bay, and protect the Commander in Chief from even small bands of radicalized attackers, the facility wasn’t capable of withstanding a full-on armored assault. In fact, there were few structures anywhere on the planet that could.
“Fixed fortifications are a monument to the stupidity of man,” Armstrong mumbled to his driver.
The SEAL grinned, “General George Patton. Now there was a warrior.”
The admiral nodded as a sign of respect to the highly regarded World War II general but didn’t comment further. His comrade’s use of the term “warrior” reminded Armstrong that they still faced a significant opposition. The men protecting the president would fight like rabid dogs.
In fact, it was one such agent manning a rooftop observation post that noticed the military activity on three sides of his position. “Sierra 1 to CnC,” he said into his radio, “I’ve got armored tanks and APCs all around me up here. I don’t recall seeing any authorization or request for military hardware on a tight perimeter. Any idea what these guys are doing out there?”
In the bowels of the Executive Office Building, the shift supervisor working the “Command and Control” room for the Service received the call. “No,” the senior agent replied, flipping through the pages of daily briefing. “I don’t see anything on the ope
rational orders. Probably some private over at the Pentagon gave somebody the wrong address.”
“There’s an awful lot of firepower in our vicinity. Way, way too close. See if you can light a fire under somebody’s ass over at….”
The tank closest to the south lawn interrupted the agent’s broadcast, its smooth bore cannon erupting with a night-splitting blast. Before the agent could recover from the shock, two of the admiral’s other tanks rocked back on their haunches, their main guns spitting flame like mythical dragons breathing red death.
Concrete barriers on three sides of the White House grounds were the targets, the Abrams making short work of the protective barricades. Less than three seconds later, the Secret Service uniformed division suffered its first casualties, a guard post obliterated by a Hellfire missile launched from a charging Stryker.
“Code red! Code red!” screamed the rooftop observer, reaching for his long-range rifle. “We’re under attack by tanks and armored vehicles. Repeat, we’re under attack!”
His hand never made it to the weapon, one of the Humvee’s rooftop-mounted .50 caliber machine guns blitzing the agent’s position with its deadly hailstorm of lead.
Throughout the White House and surrounding facilities, alarms began sounding. Sleepy agents poured from ready-rooms while the president’s protection detail burst into the executive bedroom. The four brawny men didn’t waste any time trying to wake or warn the snoozing Commander in Chief. Instead, they simply lifted the drowsy man from his mattress and made for the elevators leading to the underground situation room.
Sub-machine guns, sniper rifles, and M4 carbines were no match for the armor-protected, massive firepower brought to bear by the rebels. Of the two shoulder-fired rockets available to the defenders, only one hit its mark, barely scarring the Abrams’ paint. The president’s defenders were outgunned, outnumbered, and unable to maneuver. Within 90 seconds of the first shot being fired, Armstrong’s dismounted infantry had completely surrounded the White House.
The admiral knew the fight was far from over. While he could have easily taken the physical structure, his plan had been very specific – no one was to enter the actual building until he specifically ordered the breach. After giving his assault teams a few minutes to clean up any pockets of resistance on the grounds, he ordered half of his force to pivot and face outwards. Every cop in Washington, DC would be rolling for Pennsylvania Avenue, as well as the two companies of Marines from the Washington barracks. He didn’t want to put himself in the same untenable position as his foe, trying to hold a fixed location. As long as they remained outside, they could maneuver.
After receiving a satisfactory progress report from groups B and C, the admiral sat quietly in his command Humvee, waiting for the reaction that was sure to come.
Despite the constant drone of the watercraft’s engine, the Texan heard what sounded like the rumble and crack of a major fireworks display. “Odd,” he whispered. “Who is setting off firecrackers at this early hour?”
Hugging the darkened shore, Dusty quickly developed a routine of scampering from one point of cover to the next hiding spot. The first was a tall plot of cattails near the eastern bank. Next was a private pier jutting out into the waterway. A few times the darkness prohibited his ability to discern the next cover, so he’d motor ahead until spotting a good place to hide.
It was during one of these blind runs that the first police boat came into view. Dusty had been running open water for nearly a quarter mile, desperately looking for someplace to pause, listen, and scout. Out of nowhere, he heard a screaming motor and spotted the patrol boat coming up from behind him, apparently running full speed in an effort to return to Washington. If the crew noticed him, they didn’t show it.
The Texan was pretty sure the second unit was a Coast Guard boat. For a brief second, he thought they’d detected him, but then it too turned and gunned its engines, heading back for the capital. “Must be a shift change,” Dusty shrugged, continuing up river and making reasonable time.
His landing spot in the District of Columbia was a marina that his map labeled the Washington Channel. Idling up the narrow opening, Dusty soon spotted row after row of large, bristling white private yachts, some larger than his house back in Fort Davis.
He’d seen pictures of such vessels before and remembered that the owners of the lavish craft often carried along “water toys” for the enjoyment of family and guests. The very machine he’d stolen was a popular choice.
Acting as if he was a yacht mogul out for an early morning ride, Dusty turned into a row of mega-boats and quickly idled up to an open mooring. A few moments later he’d tied off and was strolling up the pier with the rail gun under his overcoat.
He was about to cross Maine Avenue when a harsh voice startled the Texan.
“I’ve warned you bums to stay the fuck away from this marina,” growled a man in the shadows. “I need this job, and my boss said if I didn’t keep you homeless nuts out of here, I’d be fired. Now, I’m going to teach you a lesson so you can go tell all your friends to stay the fuck away.”
Wearing a blue uniform and brandishing a nightstick, Dusty spied the big watchman moving in for the assault. The Texan initially backed away from the sentry, holding up his hands in surrender and saying, “I’m sorry, man, but I got lost.”
“That’s what you all say. I’ve had enough of this bullshit.”
The large fellow kept coming, backing Dusty into a pool of illumination from the streetlight above. It became evident he wasn’t going to let the Texan be on his way. Making a snap decision, Dusty decided he’d release a little of his pent up frustration at the oncoming security guard.
Expecting a cowering, undernourished foe, Dusty’s attacker was stunned when the homeless bum turned and charged with unbelievable speed. Ducking under the nightstick’s poorly aimed arch, the Texan stepped in close and unleashed three quick jabs to his opponent’s face.
Again the nightstick contacted its target, but Dusty was too close, the short stroke landing with little force against the gunsmith’s shoulder. Old fights and lessoned learned returned to the Texan’s thoughts. It’s hard for the other guy to throw a punch if he’s busy ducking yours.
Dusty unleashed a flurry of jabs, uppercuts, and haymakers, his fists beating a steady cadence against the stunned guard. They weren’t pretty or well aimed. Most didn’t land squarely. There was little chance any boxing coach would describe the Texan’s style as graceful.
The watchman outweighed his foe by a good 15 pounds and was almost as many years younger. But the Texan’s fists felt like sledgehammers against his skull, driven by ranch-chore hardened muscles and a built-up internal rage that wouldn’t be denied.
The security guard went down, his head receiving more punishment after bouncing off the pavement. Dusty stood over the man, his chest rising and falling as he replenished badly needed oxygen. “You should learn to treat your elders with a bit more respect, young man,” the Texan chided between breaths. “I’m not going to kill you tonight, but I will give you a bit of advice. Find another line of work.”
And with that, Dusty faded into the shadows, heading north toward the White House.
Other than the Metro Police, the single largest force facing Admiral Armstrong was the two companies of Marines stationed a short distance away.
While mostly assigned parade and ceremony duties, the naval officer was well aware that the Corps kept all of the men allocated to the post at combat-ready levels of training. One of their standing operational orders was as a backup to the Secret Service.
The early hour and lack of threat warning gave the rebel forces time to consolidate their positions. It was 15 minutes before the admiral’s observers spotted the lead elements of the Marine counter-attack moving toward the White House grounds.
Just as he knew they would, the responding jarheads came in fast and hard. Instead of trying to stop them at the perimeter, Armstrong’s men separated, allowing the nearly 200 heavily armed infantry
to enter the White House compound unopposed.
For a moment, the captain commanding the Marines thought he’d been rousted out of bed for a whole mountain of nothing. Watching as his rifle squads crossed in front of the massive Treasury building bordering the south lawn, he was puzzled what all the fuss was about.
His lead elements had just made it to the southern edge of the Jacqueline Kennedy Garden when all hell erupted.
Two well-hidden Stryker Fighting Vehicles opened up with their machine guns, showing no mercy as they raked up and down the unprotected lines of Marines. Light weapons soon joined the fray, over a dozen of the admiral’s shooters peppering the new arrivals from well-concealed positions throughout the south lawn.
Several Marines went down in the initial salvo, but they didn’t break. War-hardened sergeants, tested on the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan, rallied the survivors, screaming at the shocked riflemen to get their weapons into the fight. The return fire was sporadic at first, gaining ferocity with every passing moment.
The Marines were also equipped with more potent weapons than their Secret Service comrades. Squad automatic weapons joined in, resulting in a blizzard of screaming lead and glowing tracers across the White House grounds.
But it was the shoulder-launched multipurpose assault weapon or SMAW that concerned the admiral’s forces the most. Similar in size and shape to the famous WWII bazooka, the modern version fired potent anti-armor rockets. It didn’t take long before a Stryker suffered a direct hit, the explosion sending a boiling cloud of flame and black smoke skyward while blowing several windows out of the nearby executive office building.
