The Last Jihad

by Rosenberg, Joel C.

  Eight-five percent believed Saddam would try to use weapons of mass destruction again. And a stunning 81 percent supported the use of nuclear weapons if the president felt it were necessary to protect the national security of the United States.

  Not that he necessarily would, thought Corsetti. But he could. That couldn’t be more clear.

  They didn’t have much time.

  It was two in the morning in Washington. The Saturday memorial service was just twelve hours away. Bud Norris and his team gathered to go over last-minute details, triple-check the motorcade routes, and review the latest intel from the FBI, CIA, and the Secret Service’s Protective Intelligence Division.

  Norris’s big concern was the threat of new airborne-attack scenarios. So all airspace over Maryland, Virginia, and Washington, D.C. would shut down from noon to four, including Reagan National, Dulles, and BWI. F-15 Strike Eagles would fly combat air patrols, and AWACs would help Norris coordinate all air activity. But that wasn’t enough. Not today.

  Norris picked up the phone and ordered in two more Stinger missile operators. They’d ride in the motorcade, in one of the Suburbans behind the president, while Norris would put Cupid—his best Stinger operator—in the Cathedral’s bell tower along with two sharpshooters. The Cathedral was, after all, the highest point in the city. From there his special ops guys could see anything and everything—and hunt them down if need be.

  FOURTEEN

  The president slept like a baby.

  He knew the stakes. He knew he might have to order a nuclear strike, the first since Truman. And now the world knew, too. But he also knew something the rest of the world didn’t. People were gunning for him. Possibly someone on his own staff. Yet, somehow, he didn’t feel plagued by fear. Instead, he could feel the prayers of a billion souls lifting him up, and a peace that seemed to pass all understanding.

  The alarm went off. It was a few minutes after six A.M. Eastern—time to put the finishing touches on the eulogy he’d deliver in a few hours. He called Corsetti—catnapping on the couch in his office—and asked him to bring up Shakespeare’s latest draft up to the residence.

  The call snapped Corsetti awake at his desk.

  Yes, sir, Mr. President. Right away, Mr. President. How high? Mr. President.

  It was time to quit this job and go make some real money, thought Corsetti. Growing up, he’d never dreamed he’d make $140,000 a year. It would have sounded unreal in the sixties. Now it felt like slave wages. Recently, he’d done the math. Sixteen-hour days. Seven days a week. Fifty-two weeks a year. That was 5,824 hours a year. At that pace, he was only making twenty-four dollars an hour. Not horrible. But if Iverson hooked him up with some Wall Street firm, he could be making five hundred an hour. He could cut back to only four thousand hours a year, only seventy-seven hours a week—a vacation, by Corsetti standards—and still clear a cool two million a year. Not a bad gig for a plumber’s kid from Fort Collins.

  So that was it. When World War III was over, Corsetti knew his mission: Get out of Washington and get a real job. For now, rather than hoof this speech all the way up to the president, he’d simply fax it upstairs. Work smarter, Corsetti told himself, not harder.

  The clock was ticking.

  D.C. Metro cops began blocking streets, towing unauthorized vehicles, and diverting traffic away from the motorcade route, though there wasn’t really that much traffic to divert. Most Washingtonians anticipated the security headache the memorial service would cause and made sure to steer clear of it. And if that weren’t enough, an intense electrical storm was descending upon the capital, driving even the homeless indoors.

  Helicopters circled overhead, carrying surveillance agents sporting high-powered binoculars and looking for any signs of trouble. Local hospitals were double-checked to make sure they had ready stocks of the president’s blood type on hand. Just in case. D.C. police headquarters were again checked for any signs of missing uniforms, badges or patrol cars. Meanwhile, Secret Service technical teams carted off mail boxes and trash cans along the route, checked underground tunnels for terrorists and explosives, and sealed up manhole covers. They also swept the National Cathedral buildings and grounds yet again for unauthorized people, weapons, explosives, and biological and chemical weapons. Just in case.

  Around eleven, the sharpshooter and Stinger teams arrived and began taking up positions in the bell tower as well as on rooftops across the street, facing the Cathedral. Weapons were loaded, checked and rechecked. Scopes adjusted and glass cleaned.

  Finally, the fifteen-vehicle motorcade was assembled in the driveway and loaded with the necessary weapons and portable communications equipment. A white tent was set up between the back door of the White House and the two identical limousines so the president couldn’t be seen, shot at, or—more likely—drenched.

  Bud Norris was thinking of everything. Everything, that is, except what the FBI still hadn’t told him.

  Downing grabbed the phone on the first ring.

  “Downing—go.”

  “It’s Reed. Talk to me. What’ve you got?”

  “Nothing, sir. Zero.”

  “Nothing? Come on. Is it possible he’s using a different email system?”

  “It’s possible. We’re tracking everything digital coming out of Russia and Iraq right now. We’ve got all the phone trunk lines tapped. NSA’s watching the satellite communications. But so far, nothing.”

  Reed slammed down the phone. He nervously ran his hands through his thinning hair. Maybe “Mr. C.” didn’t exist. Maybe he’d somehow gotten wind of Iverson’s arrest. Maybe Gogolov and the Iraqis had been spooked off for some other reason. Maybe, thought Reed. Or maybe they’d just missed him.

  Harris moved into position.

  He entered the FBI’s Strategic Information Operations Center on the fifth floor of the Robert F. Kennedy Building and took his seat. He scanned the THREATCON board and the banks of computer screens tracking every facet of the president’s imminent departure from the White House. He also kept track of the five large-screen video monitors above him, tracking the latest coverage of the war against Iraq.

  He was taking no chances. He had part of the FBI Hostage Rescue Team pre-positioned on the helicopter pad at the Pentagon, fully briefed on the delicate situation, on standby and ready to move at a moment’s notice. And unbeknownst to Bud Norris, the Secret Service, or anyone else, Harris also had teams of HRT snipers hidden strategically along the motorcade route, shadowing every move the Secret Service made—just in case.

  Doug Reed and his team—including Maxwell and Downing—were also on standby, just a speed-dial away. Now there was nothing else to do but worry and wait.

  At 1:45 P.M., the president still sat in the Oval Office.

  He was finishing the ninth and final draft, and he liked what he saw. Shakespeare—his chief speechwriter—had finally gotten it right. And not a moment too soon. Doron would be watching. Saddam would be watching. The world would be watching. It had to be right. And now it was.

  Corsetti poked his head in the door and told the president it was time to go. Sanchez radioed the driver of the newest addition to the Secret Service fleet: a specially built, armor-plated, top-of-the-line Cadillac limousine known as “Bull Market,” which had arrived just in time to replace the recently totaled “Stagecoach.”

  MacPherson needed a few minutes more. He asked Corsetti for his BlackBerry, typed in a quick note, and hit send.

  Now he was ready. It was show time.

  “Blowtorch to Sierra One, copy?”

  Ed Burdett, in HRT sniper position one—an apartment building across from the Cathedral—immediately radioed back.

  “Copy, Blowtorch,” he whispered.

  “Status check.”

  “Read you five by five. In position. All clear. Over.”

  “Copy that, Sierra One. Blowtorch to Sierra Two, copy?”

  Daryl Knight, in sniper position two—high up in another apartment complex across from the Cathedral—quickl
y responded as well.

  “Copy, Blowtorch.”

  “Status check.”

  “Same here, Blowtorch. I read you five by five. In position. All clear. Over.”

  Harris continued with all seven FBI snipers along the route. Everyone was in position, and everyone was giving the “all clear” sign. No signs of trouble. Not yet, at least.

  “Gambit is moving. I repeat, Gambit is moving.”

  The president left the Oval Office and headed towards the motorcade, with Agent Sanchez and a dozen other agents at his side. Word came in that Saddam Hussein was about to make a radio address to the people of Iraq. But MacPherson would have to hear it later, or listen to it on the car radio. He had his own speech to give. If he didn’t leave now for the memorial he’d be late, and like his predecessor in the Oval Office, Gambit was never late.

  “Copy that, Gambit is moving,” Norris confirmed. “Status on Checkmate?”

  “Checkmate is secure in the Bunk House,” replied the VP’s body man.

  “Copy that, Checkmate secure. All sectors, give me your status. Cupid, do you copy? Status check.”

  “Roger that, Home Plate. This is Cupid. I read you five by five. The heavens are clear. The lawn is dry. We are good to go.”

  A blinding flash of lightning lit up the bell tower momentarily as thunder rumbled ever closer and rain soaked every sharpshooter in the area. The heavens definitely weren’t clear and the lawn was anything but dry. But codes are codes, and the airborne environment was secure. Norris moved on.

  “Home Plate to Crossbow leader. Status check.”

  “Roger that, Home Plate,” the SWAT team commander responded. “Crossbow team good to go.”

  “Home Plate to Candlestick. Status check.”

  The mobile communications command center replied instantaneously.

  “Roger that, Home Plate. Candlestick good to go.”

  “Home Plate to Nighthawk,” Norris radioed to the pilot of Marine One, fully powered and ready to lift off from Bolling Air Force Base at a moment’s notice, should the call come in. “Status check.”

  “Roger that, Home Plate. Hell of a storm. But Nighthawk is in position and good to go. Let’s just hope this is business as usual today, boss.”

  “Roger that, Nighthawk. Home Plate to Blueprint. Status check.”

  Silence. No response, just the crackle of radio static. The technical team leader inside the Cathedral wasn’t responding. Norris checked his radio and frequency and repeated himself. “Home Plate to Blueprint. I repeat. Status check.”

  Norris winced and held his breath. Then, finally…

  “This is Blueprint. Sorry about that. Yep, I’m here. Just cleared through the last of the guests, sir. We are good to go.”

  Norris breathed a sigh of relief. He was in no mood for anything but precision. Not today. But he quickly reminded himself that he needed to be careful not to betray the rising anxiety he felt in the pit of his stomach. Everyone needed him to set the pace and keep communications clear and confident. And that’s what he intended to do.

  “Home Plate to Half Back. Status check.”

  “A-OK, Home Plate. Half Back good to go, boss.”

  The president’s follow car—packed with six heavily armed agents in full Kevlar and combat gear—was in place and ready to roll.

  “Home Plate to Dodgeball. Status check.”

  “Roger that, Home Plate. Dodgeball locked and loaded. Let’s do it, sir.”

  “Home Plate to Bull Market. Status check.”

  “Roger that, Home Plate. Gambit is secure. Bull Market is good to go.”

  That was it, thought Norris. There was nothing more to be done now than drive fast and pray hard.

  “Bamboo Pincer, this is Home Plate. Package is wrapped. You are clear to roll.”

  The heavy, black steel White House gates now unlocked electronically and swung open slowly. The massive metal road barriers—designed to stop the kind of truck bombs Islamic extremists once used to kill two hundred and forty-one Marines in Beirut in 1982—retracted into the ground, and the motorcade began to move through into the storm.

  Bennett was transfixed by SkyNews when the email came in.

  Everyone in Dr. Mordechai’s home was huddled around the television, watching the breaking news coverage as both President MacPherson and Saddam Hussein prepared to make major addresses.

  The world was still in shock from the speech MacPherson had given the night before, laying out the case against Iraq while sitting next to the remains of an Iraqi nuclear warhead. Now the Butcher of Baghdad was about to speak publicly, the first time since the U.S. bombing campaign had begun.

  Bennett grabbed the BlackBerry off his belt and began reading the new message. It was sent from Corsetti’s Blackberry, but it was written by the president.

  “jon—you guys ok?…i’m about to head to the memorial service…have to admit, don’t feel quite worthy for the task…it’s a humbling thing to know a man has freely given up his own life—the most precious gift he could possibly give—that you might live…the worst thing is, i know how unworthy of that gift i really am…the best i can do, i guess, is be grateful, and try live a life worthy of that sacrifice…but how can that be easy?…hey, we could sure use your good humor around here right now…we miss you guys—you, mccoy, deek…julie and the girls and i are praying for all of you…you have no idea all that burt, jack, marsha, and the team are doing to keep you guys safe…in time you will…but for now, please try to trust me…i know it’s not easy…but you’re doing a great job, jon—you’re making a difference—don’t get weary in well-doing, all right?…hey, thought you might be interested in the two verses i’ve chosen for my eulogy for the agents who died for me—matthew 16:26—jesus asks: ‘for what does a man profit, if he gains the whole world, but loses his own soul?’—and john 15:13—jesus tells his disciples: ‘greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends’…my dad used to call this VOSA—the ‘voice of sound advice’…chew on these, young man…they’ll serve you well—your friend, mac.”

  The motorcade snaked its way through streets gushing with rivers of rain.

  The president sat in the back of Bull Market, listening to a live broadcast from Baghdad, a blood-curdling speech by Saddam Hussein, hunkered in some bunker.

  “It is said we are part of some ‘axis of evil’—but the world can plainly see that America and Israel are evil personified—they are the Sons of Satan—and they must be destroyed,” fumed the Iraqi leader. “The MacPherson and Doron regimes are terrorist regimes—seeking to eat our flesh, drink our blood, annihilate our sons, and destroy our way of life. These cancerous tumors will kill us unless they are removed. They threaten the Arab world, the world of Islam. But their reign of terror is almost over. Allah, we beseech thee, please destroy them with your wrath, which is like a sword. Make their blood flow like a river of justice through your holy city of Al Quds.”

  That was the signal.

  Azziz lit up a new cigar. He let the smoke slowly fill his lungs and curl around his head and drift towards the ceiling. Then he reached for his computer and began typing.

  It was time.

  An involuntary shudder rippled through his body.

  The president quickly considered scrapping his own remarks and responding directly to Saddam. The problem was that those inside the Cathedral weren’t listening to Saddam’s speech.

  The discreet “little” memorial service had swelled to more than eight hundred mourners, including the agents’ families, friends and colleagues, Congressmen, Senators and international dignities. At the moment, the audience was listening to a guitar solo. They were expecting a tribute to some of America’s bravest public servants. And they deserved nothing less. And yet, how could he not respond when the rest of the world right now was listening to Saddam, translated and simulcast around the globe?

  As the motorcade headed north on Massachusetts Avenue, then turned right on Wisconsin, he picked up the p
hone and called the vice president, secure in the President’s Emergency Operations Center underneath the White House. He only had a few minutes, but he desperately needed “Checkmate’s” advice.

  The U-2 streaked across the night sky at 80,000 feet.

  Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.

  American warplanes were pulverizing Saddam’s military assets far below. But the president’s orders were crystal clear. Photograph every square inch of Iraq over and over and over again in a feverish hunt to find weapons of mass destruction.

  Downtown Baghdad was an unlikely place to find them. But it wasn’t this pilot’s place to question the orders. His mission was to get in, snap those shutters, and get out before an Iraqi SAM site could lock on to him and fire its missiles.

  So far, so good.

  “Bull Market approaching. Secure the perimeter.”

  The motorcade pulled onto the Cathedral grounds as another flash of lightning lit up the black and stormy sky.

  “Snapshot, this is Peso. Prepare for arrival.”

  The lead advance agent moved to the front door and alerted his team inside.

  “Roger that, Peso. We are in position. Choir Boys, stand by one. Gambit is pulling up. I repeat, Gambit is pulling up. Stand by one.”

  “You’ve got mail.”

  Downing gasped.

  “Oh my God.”

  She quickly checked her diagnostics and ran a trace. This was it. They had a hit. She grabbed her phone and speed-dialed Harris.

  “Pick up. Pick up.”

  “Harris—go.”

  “We got him. He just transmitted.”

  “What’s he say?”

  “It’s coming through now, sir. Hold on.”