The interior of the cross-shaped cathedral was an awe-inspiring, reflective cavern of hundred-foot ribbed, curved, vaulted ceilings, window scenes in stained glass along both sides of the main nave at both ground level and near the ceiling, an enormous high altar at the east end of the main nave, and balconies in the north and south transepts, as well as the west end of the nave. Above each of the balconies was a magnificent rose window, each depicting a major theme: Creation, the Last Judgment, and the Church Triumphant. As a result of the geographical layout, on a clear day, sun spilled through the stained glass and the rose window on the south side of the cathedral, creating a multicolored collage that glowed and shifted across the limestone.
In addition to the enormous cathedral, the sprawling hilltop contained multiple buildings, a library, its own special police force, and three different elementary schools due east of the cathedral. Several sports fields were built at different heights like multitiered enormous plateaus of recreation that descended down the east side of the hill into the urban Northwest sprawl below.
Former Spanish Army 19th Special Operations Group Capitán Sebastian Bautista glanced out the diagonal-paned window of the south overcroft—what a normal person would call an attic—directly under the roof of the south transept. The brown pools of his eyes and his angular, dark complexion gazed back at him from his reflection.
A veteran of Spain’s foray into western Afghanistan in 2005 as one of the nation members of the International Security Assistance Force, a chance encounter with a US paramilitary team had changed Sebastian’s career. While he and his platoon were enjoying the relative safety of Qala i Naw Airport in Badghis Province as part of reconstruction efforts, a CIA hunter-killer team had swarmed into the area on the trail of a Taliban shadow governor.
The CIA had zeroed in on his bed-down location—they never told Sebastian how—and executed a raid in the middle of the night on the outskirts of the village. The operation had bagged the high-value target, and then Capitán Bautista’s team had provided perimeter security.
For some reason still unknown to Sebastian, a Taliban teenager had thought it would be a good idea to surprise the exfiltrating force on the way to the helicopter extraction point. Sebastian, who’d been providing rear-area security during the movement, had spotted the jihadi as he’d opened fire with an AK-47, the Taliban weapon of choice. Fortunately, Sebastian’s response with his H&K G36 assault rifle was more accurate than the wild rounds that had kicked up dust around the CIA team leader, and he’d mortally wounded the boy, leaving him to die alone on the trail, cursing the Americans and praying to Allah.
Once the assault force had returned to the base, the CIA team leader had made him an offer: if Sebastian ever left the Spanish military, he should contact him before choosing a new career.
Sebastian had thought it a noble gesture between two warriors who’d fought alongside each other, but three years later, the CIA agent—whose real name was Matthew Riggins—had fulfilled that initial promise, indoctrinating him into a clandestine and covert world that Sebastian had never suspected even existed. But once his eyes had been opened to the realities of the global struggle for power, he’d embraced the Organization and never looked back.
The past few years of training had developed his skills to such a level of proficiency that the Organization called on him and his team for especially sensitive missions. But even for him, what he was about to attempt was something else entirely, especially after his three-man team had been ordered not to interfere in the battle at the Udvar-Hazy Center.
Sebastian studied the scaffolding—a permanent fixture following the earthquake that had struck the area—that wrapped around the south apse, as well as the bell tower. It provided a background and legitimized their presence. Who looked twice at a work crew on scaffolding? No one, Sebastian thought. The fact that his entire team also looked like Mexican immigrants helped them blend in with the culturally diverse DC population.
He spoke in English—on the incredibly long chance that someone was listening—into an encrypted Motorola handset. “Five more minutes, and he should be here. Final status check. Go.”
Several voices replied “go” confidently, as he knew they would.
If this goes our way, this will be one for the books . . . books that are never read by anyone, ever, he reminded himself, and smiled. But we’ll be talking about it for years to come.
* * *
Vice President Joshua Baker sat in silence in the back of St. John’s Chapel, which was separated from the main altar by a partition and columns that rose to the vaulted ceiling. The back of the chapel was open and ended at a short set of stairs that descended to the floor of the south transept only a few feet below. Josh looked down at the chair in front of him, noting the red cushion with the large uppercase letters that spelled JOHN F. KENNEDY. Each chair in the chapel had a cushion with a different name of a noted American, as well as symbols embroidered to represent his or her accomplishments.
His ego noted that he’d never have his name on one of these, but he didn’t care. What he did care about was the last “Alleluia” that the St. Albans School fifth-grade boys’ choir sang as one beautiful, singular, harmonious voice. Knowing that it would likely be the last time he heard the magical sound, a tear formed in his eye, reflecting the pain of a father about to lose his son.
The notes echoed off the limestone walls and ceiling, fading into the dusty sun. Finished, the boys stood and began to shuffle toward the rear of the chapel, which emptied down into the south transept.
The boys walked past, a moving mass of sport coats, collared shirts, and ties, and several of the fifth graders nodded politely or acknowledged him with a humble “sir.” While all the boys knew who Jacob’s father was and had seen him several times before, he wasn’t the only powerful parent with a boy at St. Albans. For them, the real treat was his Secret Service detail. All the boys tried to steal a glimpse of the holstered pistols hidden beneath buttoned suit coats. Boys will be boys, Josh thought, as his fresh-faced son stopped in front of him, looking up with awe, love, and admiration.
“What did you think, Dad?” Jacob asked him, his brown hair cascading across his forehead.
Josh knelt down and hugged his son, holding him a second longer than usual. “I thought you were fantastic. You always are.” He released him and stood back up, keeping his hands on his shoulders as he memorized the face he knew he would not see for quite some time, if ever. God forgive me. This is hard.
“I don’t care what those eighth graders say. I think choir is cool,” Jacob said. “And I play soccer and baseball. So if I want to sing, I will.”
At that moment, an emotional rift opened up inside Josh, and an overwhelming sense of pride and love for his son poured forth, threatening to sabotage everything. He looked at his son, seeing the man he would become, and said, “That’s right, Jacob. You do what you want to, and as long as it’s for the right reasons—and I mean the really right reasons—then don’t let anyone dissuade you from what you want to do. You’re the one that has to live with who you are, and as long as you’re happy with it, that’s all that matters.” He paused to let the gravity of the words sink in. “You understand?”
His son looked up at him, as if sensing something amiss. Any other father imparting mature words of wisdom to a fifth grader might have raised eyebrows, but Jacob Baker was no normal eleven-year-old, and his father was the second most powerful man in the country. “I understand, Dad. Thanks for getting it.”
“I always do, son,” Josh said. He suddenly knelt back down. “Come here. One more hug for your old man. It’s been a long day.”
“You bet,” his son said, and wrapped his arms around his father’s neck, pressing his head against his shoulders. “You’re the best, Dad.”
No matter what happens, this is the moment I’ll remember, Josh thought, feeling the suffocating love but dreading the next moment, trying to stretch it out. One more second, please.
His son unloc
ked his arms and stepped back from his father. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Of course I am,” Josh said, smiling. “I got to see you. Now go catch up to your friends, and don’t forget what I said.”
His son grinned, a normal fifth-grade boy once again. “I won’t. See you tonight, Dad.” He suddenly turned and moved quickly down the short stack of steps from the elevated chapel. “Love you,” he said, as he moved away, not realizing it would be the last time he’d utter those words to his father.
“Love you too, son,” Josh said quietly. “Always and forever.”
Silence.
Josh watched his son disappear around a column, moving toward the rear of the cathedral with the throng of boys. He shut his eyes and breathed deeply, trying to calm the raging storm inside. Sounds of the cathedral assaulted him, as if mocking his emotional vulnerability. The knock of a chair. Footsteps on the floor. A door closing. He heard all of it and none of it. I just said good-bye to my son.
“Sir, it’s time,” a soft-spoken voice said from behind him.
Josh—once again Vice President Baker—turned, eyes glistening. Special Agent Thomas Brennan and the other three Secret Service members who were part of the Organization stood quietly, providing him with a moment to gather himself. The hardest part is over, he thought. Shut it all down. You need to be sharp for what’s coming next.
He took a deep breath, exhaled, back in control. “It is. Let’s do this, Tom,” Vice President Baker said.
“This way, sir,” Special Agent Brennan replied, guiding the vice president to the left corner near the back of the south transept, where an alcove entrance was secured by a medieval-period iron gate. A small passageway lay beyond, and Special Agent Brennan pulled the gate open and stepped through. “The elevator is just around the corner, sir.”
Vice President Baker, followed by the remaining three men of his conspiratorial detail, walked behind Special Agent Brennan. “Wow. It’s cramped around here.”
“You should see some of the spiral staircases. There’s only room for one,” Special Agent Brennan replied.
He rounded a corner, stopped in front of what was a solid-gray elevator door, and pressed a gray round button. He looked at the vice president, hesitated, but finally asked, “Are you absolutely sure you want to do this, sir?”
For a surreal and crazy moment, Josh considered walking away, uncharacteristically throwing all caution to the wind. It was the thought of Jacob that triggered the doubt. But then the hard thought of prison pushed it aside, and his determination to stay the course won the internal struggle.
“I’m sure, Tom. Thanks for asking,” Vice President Baker said. “Now make the call.”
“Roger, sir,” Special Agent Brennan said, and lifted his left sleeve to his mouth.
CHAPTER 38
Rule one in any engagement was simple: things never, ever went according to plan.
When the first of the three black FBI Suburbans pulled up to the north entrance to the Naval Observatory, the uniformed division Secret Service officer manning the gate approached the driver’s window. He nearly made it to the window when he realized the driver, a serious-looking African American with a goatee, was outfitted completely in tactical gear. The only thing that stopped the thirty-two-year-old officer from unholstering his weapon and drawing down on the driver was the set of FBI credentials the man held out the window.
“I’m Special Agent Lance Foster, head of the FBI’s HRT, and we’re here directly on behalf of the president. There’s been a threat to the vice president, and for reasons I can’t explain, he dispatched us to locate and secure him. In fact, I strongly recommend you contact the Joint Operations Center, who can patch you through to the White House Situation Room, where Director Mullins—your boss—is right at this moment,” Lance finished.
“Sir, I have no idea—” was all the officer uttered before he was cut off.
“Listen to me very carefully, Sergeant,” Lance said forcefully but quietly. “I have an eight-man HRT team in the two Suburbans behind us, as well as two very dangerous men in this one. Trust me. You want to make that call, and you want to do it right now. This is national security, and we’re not here on a picnic. So please, just make the call, or we’ll have to make it for you, and you don’t want us to get out of these SUVs to do it.”
The young officer never hesitated. He’d seen and heard enough to know the man in front of him was not only telling the truth but was as dangerous as he appeared to be. “Wait one,” he said, and returned to the guardhouse.
“I guarantee you his head his spinning,” Logan said from the passenger seat as he watched the uniformed division officer nodding his head subconsciously on the phone.
Less than twenty seconds later, he sprinted back to the vehicle. Breathless, he said, “Sir, Director Mullins confirmed who you are. I still can’t believe I just spoke to him; however, there’s a problem. The vice president left early twenty minutes ago for the National Cathedral. As far I know, he’s there right now.”
“Of course he did,” Logan said in frustration, a sense of foreboding growing that this would be no easy afternoon.
“Roger that,” Lance said. “You’ll have to excuse us, but we’re going to tear like hell out of here. Thanks for the help.”
Lance yanked the wheel to the left and accelerated, conducting a very sharp turn in the confines of the entrance lanes. Seconds later, the SUV was roaring up Massachusetts Avenue.
“I’m calling Jake. He needs to get Mullins to let the CAT team and other guys out front of the cathedral know that we’re coming in fast. I don’t feel like getting shot at again today by the Secret Service, even if it’s by the good ones,” Logan said.
“Right now, we’re the only guaranteed good guys in this fight,” Cole said from the backseat.
“You got that right, brother,” Logan said as he hit the call button on his cell to connect to Jake. And until we know otherwise, everyone else is hostile. No chances get taken today, not after this morning.
* * *
National Cathedral
Overcroft above the South Transept
The gray door slid open, and the five men in dark suits—four of them holding their FN Five-seveN pistols—exited the cramped elevator. The four Secret Service agents with the vice president in the middle of their group worked their way around a corner, stepping into the gloom of the vaulted-ceiling, attic-like space.
Directly in front of them stood a Hispanic man in a bright-yellow Pepco polo and khaki cargo pants, his arms lowered with his hands crossed in front of him. A large-paned window to his right was cranked open, and Vice President Baker felt the warm air rushing into the musty room. The rest of the space, long and rectangular, which extended toward the center of the cathedral, held an assortment of objects and relics, including a table-sized replica of the cathedral that dated back to the 1920s and once stood on display near the main entrance.
The left side of the room was an enclosed office with CONSTRUCTION ARCHIVES printed on a blue placard. Beyond the office, though, were dark shadows that shifted with the sun-reflected clouds of dust.
Directly opposite the way they’d entered in the other corner of the room was a narrow, circular stairwell inside a limestone tube that disappeared below.
“Mr. Vice President,” the man said, “I’m Sebastian, and it’s my job to make sure we get you out of here safely and quietly. Are you ready for what you have to do next, sir?”
The vice president walked over to the man, nodded his head, and said, “I am, as hard as it’s going to be.”
“Very well, sir. Then let’s get started,” Sebastian said.
Vice President Baker nodded and turned to face his detail, all of whom knew about the Organization and had been with him for the last three years. He wasn’t fond of farewells, especially like this and especially after the loyalty these men had shown him. The four agents faced him as he spoke.
“Tom, there’s no easy way to say it, and you’ve been more th
an a loyal agent. You’ve been a friend, and I’m sorry I have to go, but there’s no other way. It has to be like this.”
Vice President Baker reached out to shake Special Agent Tom Brennan’s hand, initiating the sequence of events he would not be able to undo.
From the shifting shadows behind the detail, three figures silently appeared—one from behind the archive office, one from near the cathedral replica, and one from behind a large statue of Jesus that had once stood in the cathedral below. The men wore bright-yellow Pepco tee shirts and khakis, but more critically, they held black pistols with cylindrical suppressors attached. In one synchronized move, they raised the weapons.
“I’m really sorry about this, Tom. Good-bye,” Vice President Baker said softly, gripping the agent’s hand firmly as three triggers were pulled simultaneously.
Thwack-k-k!
The three shots formed one extended sound, the suppressors minimizing the reports to audible smacks. The three Secret Service agents were each struck in the back of the head, their blood sent spraying in a fine mist in multiple directions, droplets splattering across the facade of the white replica cathedral.
Special Agent Tom Brennan recognized a moment too late that they’d been led into an ambush by the man they were charged with protecting. It was the ultimate act of betrayal. His eyes widened, blue irises flaring in anger, and he yanked his hand out of the vice president’s grasp. He managed to raise the weapon in his left hand slightly and turn halfway around before a round struck him in his left temple, snapping his head to the right. He fell to the ground at his master’s feet, unseeing eyes staring accusingly up at him.
Vice President Baker sighed. So much death. The turncoats on the Council—including you, Josh, don’t forget—should never have let it get this far.
Field of Valor Page 24
