by Carla Cassidy, Evelyn Vaughn, Harper Allen, Ruth Wind, Cindy Dees
The agent answered dryly, “Yes, sir. We practice scenarios like this all the time. We’ve got it under control.”
“Fifty people down damn well doesn’t sound under control to me,” he’d snapped. He’d paused. Taken as deep a breath as the two-hundred-pound man on his back allowed. “I’m sorry. Stopping nutcases isn’t your responsibility.”
The agent replied shortly, “It is when they’re coming after you. At least we did the most important part of our job. You’re alive.”
“Thanks,” Gabe replied seriously.
“Thank Owen Haas. He’s the guy who dived for that charge and lobbed it away from your car.”
“I will. The moment I see him.” And then a horrible thought had struck him. “He is okay, isn’t he?”
“If you look up over your right shoulder, sir, you’ll see him through the back windshield.”
Gabe had looked up, startled. Haas was plastered across the back of the car. “Is he hurt?” he’d asked his bodyguard in alarm.
“I dunno,” the agent answered.
“Well, hell’s bells. Stop the car, man, and find out! If he’s hurt, we’ve got to get him to a hospital!”
“Sorry, sir. The prime directive is to get you under cover and safely secured. Haas would have my head on a platter if I stopped this car for him right now.”
Gabe had subsided underneath the agent. The guy was right. Haas was absolutely single-minded in his pursuit of keeping Gabe safe.
The car drove for what seemed like forever while those first few minutes after the blast ran through his head over and over.
He closed his eyes yet again. Jesus. Fifty people. Diana had been right. She said the Q-group would try to nail him today. Good Lord! Was she hurt? When he’d called her, she said she was on the parade route near the National Art Gallery, searching for the terrorists. That was right near where the bomb had gone off. Had she found the terrorists? Was she one of those fifty people lying hurt or dead on the ground?
“I’ve got to make a phone call,” he grunted. “Any chance you could get off of me so I can do it?”
“Sorry, sir. You can’t make any calls right now. But, FYI, the protocol in a situation like this is to notify and lock down the current president. The members of both the old Cabinet and your Cabinet will be scattered and taken to secure locations, and NORAD will be notified to raise the DEFCON status. Like I said, everything’s taken care of.”
“It’s a personal call,” Gabe replied wryly. “But thanks for the information.”
“Sorry. No calls. Not until you’re off the streets.”
“And how long is that going to take?” he asked sharply, none too pleased at being told he couldn’t call Diana to check on her.
“A couple more minutes, sir. We’re almost there.”
Where in the hell “there” was, was anybody’s guess. These guys knew what they were doing and had all sorts of contingency plans for situations just like this. It was their show until they deemed him safe. And until then, he was only along for the ride. Little more than precious cargo. Hell, he wasn’t even President yet.
The bastards had tried to kill him before he took the oath of office. Why were they so damned worried about him becoming President, anyway? It wasn’t as if he had any big agenda where Berzhaan was concerned, other than doing what the Berzhaani people had been screaming for the U.S. to do already. What was it about him that had these guys so pissed off?
The limousine made another sharp turn but this time it decelerated after it straightened out. The engine noise echoed as though they’d just driven inside a building of some kind. Then it stopped altogether.
“If you’ll just stay put and stay down for a moment, sir, we have to secure the area before we move you.”
Thankfully, the big agent got off him. Gabe drew his first deep breath since this whole thing started. The passenger door opened briefly as the agent slipped outside. Gabe caught a glimpse of what looked like an oversize garage, dim and concrete.
He lay there for perhaps a minute. A guy could get damned paranoid after someone tried to kill him a second time. First Chicago, and now this. It didn’t help to have these fanatical Secret Service agents hustling him around as though the sky was about to fall on his head, either.
The car door opened abruptly, and despite himself, he jumped.
Owen Haas stuck his head in the door. “It’s all clear, sir. If you’d please come with me.”
He sat up, grateful to be vertical. As he slid toward Haas, he asked, “How’re you doing, Owen? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, sir,” came the implacable reply.
Right. As if the guy would admit it if one of his limbs was falling off and he had a sucking chest wound. What had he been thinking to even ask? Gabe followed the agent across the expanse of gray concrete toward a lighter gray door. A half-dozen agents ranged around the space, which was probably a small warehouse of some kind, their guns drawn. The sight of their weapons in hand reminded him sharply of the gravity of the situation.
An agent opened the door as he and Owen reached it. He reached out to touch its surface as they hustled past it. It felt like stainless steel. In a warehouse? Clearly this wasn’t any ordinary warehouse they’d brought him to.
Haas, already starting down the staircase that descended away from the door, looked back over his shoulder. “Hurry, sir,” the agent said quietly.
He picked up the pace, practically running down the steps to keep up with the Secret Service agent. Lightbulbs mounted high on the wall in mesh cages lit the way at regular intervals. The stairway went on forever, down and down and down. Where in the world were they taking him?
Finally, they reached the bottom, and another stainless steel door. Haas reached for the doorknob. “Stay here, sir. I’ve got to go check on our train, and then I’ll be back to collect you.”
Gabe frowned. Train? And then it hit him. The Metro! They’d just gone down into the D.C. subway system.
Four agents closed ranks around him in a tight formation on the tiny landing. It was a good thing he wasn’t claustrophobic or he’d be flipping out right about now. The door burst open, and he jumped, along with the Secret Service men. He’d never seen this bunch so edgy. And that was saying a lot. They made tense a way of life.
“This way,” Haas directed the phalanx of men.
Carried along in the agents’ midst, he was swept out into the dim light of a subway station, miraculously cleared of anyone except a line of police officers. They must’ve been sent down here ahead of time to clear out the civilians.
A sleek, white subway train sat at the platform, completely empty. Haas and company hustled him onto the train and made him lie down on the floor. They all stood around him, facing outward, their weapons still drawn, while he got a cockroach’s-eye view of their shoes.
The train ride was short. It proceeded down a straightaway for just a few minutes, and then it angled off sharply.
“You can sit up now, sir,” Owen told him. The agent held a hand down to help him up.
He stood up and looked outside the window. He’d never seen any subway tunnel that looked like this before. It was narrow and dark, its walls barely wider than the train. “What is this? Some sort of maintenance tunnel or something?”
Haas nodded grimly. “Something like that.”
Gabe grabbed the metal pole beside him as the train lurched, slowing down abruptly. It stopped and the doors slid open. A tiny platform, only big enough to hold maybe a half-dozen people stood before the opening. Another stainless steel door gleamed dully at the back of the cement platform.
Haas stepped forward and keyed in a code on a number pad beside the door.
The other Secret Service agents stepped aside to allow him to proceed. They were finally starting to relax a bit around the gills. He stepped forward and followed Haas into a room that could practically be a carbon copy of the Situation Room at the White House. Television screens lined the walls, and a dozen clocks announced the time in
different capitals around the world. A large conference table dominated the center of the room, and telephones ranged all around its highly polished surface.
Haas walked around the table to the far end of the compact briefing room and stopped beside a closed door. “There are quarters this way if you’d like to clean up or rest a little.”
He probably looked like hell. But he didn’t give a damn at the moment. “Can I make a phone call now?” he asked Owen.
“To whom?”
“Diana Lockworth. The woman who had breakfast with me this morning. She was at the parade and I want to make sure she’s all right.”
Haas spoke a little less emotionlessly than usual. “I think she may have been the one who shouted the warning to me that the bomb was incoming.”
That wouldn’t surprise Gabe. She’d struck him as highly intelligent and highly competent. It would be like her to have found the Q-group cell in that crowd of tens of thousands. But it also confirmed his worst fear. She’d been at ground zero when that bomb went off, and without the benefit of an armored car to protect her. He swore violently under his breath.
Haas’s eyebrows shot up at his rare outburst. “You’ll have to use a land line, sir. We’re too deep for a cell phone to work.” Haas stepped to the table and picked up one of the phones. He spoke quietly into it and then handed the receiver to Gabe. “The White House operator is standing by to connect you if you’ll give her the number.”
Gabe took the receiver Haas offered him, but paused when the big man spoke again.
The agent pitched his voice in a low murmur for Gabe’s ears alone. “She knew something about that attack, didn’t she?”
Gabe nodded once in silence.
Haas murmured, “I’d like to talk to her when you’re done, sir. I want to know everything she can tell me about what happened up there.”
Gabe nodded again. He’d entrusted his life to this man, and the guy’d just saved it. If he couldn’t let Owen in on his secrets, who else could he trust? Gabe pulled out his cell phone and read Diana’s number off its display to the operator. He waited impatiently while the call went through.
In a moment she announced, “I’m sorry, sir. All the circuits are busy. I’ll keep trying until I get through and then I’ll ring you back.”
“Thank you.” It figured. Everyone and their uncle was calling relatives to make sure loved ones were okay.
The phone rang on the table and he picked it up eagerly. “Diana?”
A deep male voice replied, “Sorry. It’s James Whitlow. You all right, son?”
For once, the term “son” didn’t sound like an insult coming from his soon-to-be predecessor. Always before, President Whitlow’s incessant use of the term had set his teeth on edge.
Gabe answered the guy’s question. “I’m fine, Mr. President. How about you?”
“As well as can be expected in the circumstances. I’m going on television in a few minutes. You’ll be able to see it as soon as they’ve got the bomb shelter up and running.”
Gabe looked around in surprise. So that’s what this place was. This facility had been mentioned in one of the dozens of briefings he’d gotten over the last couple of months to bring him up to speed on the nation’s security apparatus. As he recalled, this bunker was pretty outrageously outfitted. He could run the country from down here. For a long time.
Gabe asked, “Do you want to contact the families of the dead with condolences, or shall I?”
“The FBI won’t have a complete casualty list for another several hours, and then notifications to the next of kin will have to be made. It’ll be tomorrow before the condolence calls can go out. Looks like you’re stuck with the job.”
Gabe winced. It certainly wasn’t a duty he was looking forward to, but it was appropriate that he make the calls. After all, it was him the attackers had been after when they killed the bystanders. At least Whitlow wasn’t going to try to usurp this one last Presidential duty.
The president interrupted his grim thoughts. “My press secretary wants me to tell the nation I’ve spoken with you on the phone and that you’re completely unharmed and in good spirits. Any messages I can pass along?”
“Tell them my prayers are with the people injured in the attack, and that I share your determination to apprehend whoever did this.”
“I will.” There was a brief pause while he spoke to somebody nearby. Whitlow came back on the line. “As for your inauguration. How do you feel about rescheduling it for early this evening in the rotunda of the Capitol Building? My Secret Service people say that building can be made secure, but it’s still big enough for the press to be there and holds enough guests so it doesn’t look like we’re running scared. My people think the inauguration needs to be televised live so there’s no doubt about the handoff of power having happened in a smooth and timely manner. Wouldn’t want any crazy rumors to get started about your presidency before you’re even in office.”
Right. As if there hadn’t been rumors swirling around him ever since the first Q-group attack, compliments of his erstwhile running mate, Thomas Wolfe. “That sounds fine. I’ll pass the suggestion on to my people and have them get back with your people. But I don’t anticipate any problems with it.”
Ah, the joys of changing administrations, particularly when there was a change of political party involved. It had been a tough campaign, and the outgoing president had been bitter throughout the transition phase.
Gabe asked, “Where will you be during the swearing in? I assume our security teams want us in separate locations?”
“I’ll stay here in the White House until you’re sworn in. And then the job’s all yours, son. This mess reminds me of why I’m glad to be retiring from politics.”
Gabe mentally snorted. Come tonight, Whitlow would have to be peeled out of the Oval Office with a crowbar, kicking and screaming the whole way. As it was, he had no doubt his predecessor was tickled pink to get an extra five hours on the job.
Gabe hung up the phone and turned to Owen Haas. “For lack of any of my other staff or advisors, I guess you get to be ‘my people.’”
Haas grinned, although it looked more like a crack in concrete than an actual facial expression.
Gabe continued. “Whitlow’s people want to hold my inauguration in the Capitol Rotunda at seven o’clock this evening. That okay with you?”
Haas shrugged. “Works for me. I’ll need to get a detail of men over there to start clearing the building ASAP.”
Gabe looked over at the other Secret Service agents huddled in a far corner of the room. “Would one of you guys call the White House and let them know the plans for tonight are a go?”
A burly blonde peeled away from the group and reached for a telephone. Haas gave a couple of short orders and several of the men sat down at other phones. Soon, they were in deep conversation with their people. Funny, but he didn’t have a blessed thing to do. He sat down at the end of the table and noticed a small slide-out tray under the table. He pulled it open. An elaborate TV remote controller sat there, along with various writing utensils and a pad of paper.
He pulled out the remote and pointed it at the wall of monitors. One of the televisions blinked on, startling Haas. Gabe grinned at the disgruntled agent. “Down, Tonto. I just want to see how the news networks are spinning the attack.”
Haas scowled and went back to his phone calls.
Gabe stared at the television screen as it replayed in slow-motion, full-color detail the last few moments prior to the attack. The voice-over and a digital arrow added by the network pointed out a blurry object sailing through the air, frame by painfully slow frame, toward his limousine. Hell of a move Owen made there. Gabe flinched as the satchel charge blew up the backup limousine in vivid living color. Good God, that was a hell of a blast! He watched the ensuing carnage in dismay, gruesome even after being edited for home viewing.
And Diana had been caught in that?
Holy Mary, Mother of God. He picked up the phone. In
stead of a dial tone, a female voice said immediately, “White House secure operator. May I help you?”
“This is Monihan. Any luck getting through to that phone number I gave you?”
“Not yet, sir. We’ve gotten through to the phone once and it rang, but there was no answer. As soon as the party you’re trying to contact picks up, we’ll forward it through to you.”
“Thanks.”
Dammit, where was Diana? Why wasn’t she answering her phone? What had happened to her? His gaze swiveled back to the screen. He stared at the bloodied and torn bodies of dozens of victims lying on the ground in various stages of triage and evacuation. He was about to be the President of the United States, for God’s sake, and he couldn’t find out what had happened to the courageous, feisty, funny woman who’d been willing to sacrifice her life for him?
He picked up the phone again.
“What can I do for you, Mr. President-elect?”
This operator was slick. He replied, “I need the names of the victims of the bombing. One name in particular. Who should I speak to?”
“At the moment, that would be the Chief of the Washington Metro Police Department. By this evening, the Director of FEMA—the Federal Emergency Management Administration, and the Director of the FBI should have that information.”
“Connect me to the Chief of Police.”
Without comment, the operator patched him through.
“What?” a voice snapped in his ear without preamble. The poor man sounded harassed beyond belief, and Gabe felt a twinge of guilt for bugging him. But he was really worried that Diana hadn’t answered her phone. If she’d indeed been the one to shout the warning to Owen, she’d saved his life. He owed her. Big-time.
“This is Gabe Monihan. I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have an initial casualty list yet?”
The police chief sputtered. “Uh, forgive me, sir. Didn’t mean to be rude, there.”
“You’re authorized under the circumstances. I’d be more worried if you weren’t short with me. How’s it looking?”
