by Vince Flynn
Taking off the flannel shirt, he replaced it with the dark sweatshirt, put on the worn running shoes, and checked to make sure everything was in the trash bag, including the backpack. Backing out of the spot, he drove through the lot and pulled back onto
Wisconsin Avenue. The trash bag could have been thrown away in one of the grocery store’s Dumpsters, but the homeless people would find it, and homeless people talked to cops. The assassin had a small office building picked out about two miles away where the garbage was picked up on Friday mornings. Almost five minutes later, he pulled into the alley behind the small, brick building and stopped. Jumping out, he lifted the lid of the
Dumpster, shifted several bags to the side, and placed his bag inside, covering it up with the others. He gently let the lid of the Dumpster close, not wanting to make any loud noises, and got back in the car.
Within seconds he was back on Wisconsin and headed south. Several minutes later, he was winding through the small neighborhood of Potomac Palisades. When he reached the corner of Potomac Avenue and Manning Place Lane, he parked the car and got out, closing the door gently behind him. The temperature had dropped to around forty degrees, and a slight breeze was rustling the dry, fall leaves. The forecast called for fog in the morning, but there was no sign of it where he was, high on the bluffs above the
Potomac. On the other side of the street was a small boulevard of grass and then thick woods that led down a steep hill to the Potomac Parkway and then just beyond that to
Palisades Park and the Potomac River. He crossed the street and entered the tree line.
Finding a small footpath that he had used before, he zigzagged his way down the steep, forested hillside. Stopping just short of the road, he checked for the headlights of any approaching cars, then darted across the two-lane highway and down into a small ravine. Settling in behind a large tree and some bushes, he looked up at the underside of the Chain Bridge, which ran from D.C. into Virginia. The lights from the bridge cast a faint yellow glow that reached the tops of the trees above him and then faded before hitting the forested floor. Palisades Park was not your typical metropolitan park. There
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were no softball diamonds or football fields. It was heavily wooded with a few jogging trails and some large patches of marshland. The assassin pressed the light button on his digital watch and checked the time. It was nearing 2 A.M. and his accomplices would be arriving shortly. Looking in the direction of the river, he could see a thin layer of fog spreading out across the floor of the forest. The noise of car tires on gravel caught his attention, and he looked up over the edge of the ravine. A blue-and-white Washington
Post newspaper van came to a stop, and a man dressed in blue coveralls quickly got out of the passenger side and slid open the door of the cargo area. Reaching inside, he grabbed two large, black duffel bags and ran to the tree line, setting the bags down about fifteen feet from where the blond-haired assassin was waiting. The man let out three curt whistles and waited for a confirmation. The assassin did the same, and the man walked away and climbed back in the van. Picking up the two large bags, the assassin placed the shoulder straps around his neck and let the bags rest on his hips. Next, he threaded through the woods and crossed under the Chain Bridge. The Potomac River was not navigable by anything other than a canoe or a raft at this point, and the river only ran under the far western end of the bridge. As the assassin worked his way toward the river, the trees became smaller and more sparse. By the time he reached the middle of the bridge, the fog was up to his waist.
Turning south, he walked about thirty yards and found a small clearing.
He set both bags down and opened the one on his right. The fog and darkness made his task more difficult, but he was used to working under strange conditions. Inside one of the bags was a small, gray radar dish mounted on a square, metal box, a car battery, some power cables and camouflage netting. The assassin hooked the car battery up to the radar unit and tested the power. When he was satisfied, he covered it with the camouflage netting and opened the second bag, pulling out a wooden board about three feet long.
Attached to the flat side of the board in an upright position were six plastic tubes about an inch in diameter and twenty-four inches long. Each tube was painted dull green and was loaded with a phosphorus flare. He pulled some small bushes out of the ground and placed them around the tubes so the open ends were pointed straight up into the sky. To the base of the makeshift launcher, he attached a nine-volt battery, and a small transponder.
The assassin checked everything over, making sure the transponders were operating properly, then grabbed the empty bags and started to weave his way back toward the eastern end of the bridge.
The MORNING SUN RISING ABOVE THE EASTERN horizon WAS INVISIBLE
because of the thick fog that blanketed the nation’s capital. Although the streets were quiet, there were signs that the morning rush of’ people heading to work was near. The blue-and-white Washington Post newspaper van pulled up to the corner of Maryland and
Massachusetts at the east end of Stanton Park. Both men got out of the van. The driver opened the back doors, and his partner walked over to the Washington Post newspaper box that was chained to the streetlight.
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He got down on one knee and picked the padlock. A moment later it sprang open, and the chain dropped to the ground. He grabbed the box and carried it to the back of the van.
While he loaded it, his partner took an identical box and placed it where the other one had been. He checked several times to make sure the door wouldn’t open. After being satisfied, he pulled a remote control out of his pocket and punched in several numbers. A
red light at the top told him the small radar unit placed inside the empty box was receiving the signal. He nodded to his partner and they got back in the van. They were thankful for the cover that the fog provided, but were getting anxious. They would have liked to have started this part of the operation earlier but were forced to wait until the real
Washington Post vans had delivered Friday morning’s edition. With one more drop left, they drove around the south end of Stanton Park and turned onto Maryland Avenue. A
block later, they turned onto Constitution Avenue and headed west. As they neared the
White House, both men could feel their hearts start to beat a little faster.
The Secret Service paid close attention to the streets around the White House, and with the current heightened state of security, there was little doubt that they would be on their toes. If it weren’t for the fog, they wouldn’t risk dropping one of the boxes so close to the White House. The driver pulled up to the southeast corner of Fourteenth Street and
Constitution Avenue and put the van in park. The White House was less than two blocks away. Both men pulled their baseball hats down a little tighter and got out to repeat the drill for the last time. This was the fifth and final radar unit. The first two were placed on the other side of the Potomac River in Arlington, Virginia, one to the south and west of the White House and the other directly west. The third radar unit was placed to the north of the White House at the intersection of Rhode Island and Massachusetts. With the final two units in place to the south and east, the trap was completed.
Quantico Marine Air Station is located approximately thirty miles southwest of
Washington, D.C. The air station is divided into two parts: the green side and the white side.
The green side supports the base’s normal Marine aviation squadrons, and the white side supports the special Marine HMX-1 Squadron. The HMX-1 Squadron’s primary function is to provide helicopter transportation for the President and other high-ranking executive-office officials. The squadron’s main bird is the VHO3 helicopter. The VH-3s at HMX-1 are not painted your typical drab green like most military helicopters.
They are painted glossy green on the bottom half and glossy white on top. The
Presidential seal adorns both sides of the aircraft, and inside th
e cabin are a wet bar, state-of-the-art communications equipment, and plush flight chairs. These are the large helicopters that land on the South Lawn of the White House and transport the President to such places as Andrews Air Force Base and Camp David. The helicopter is typically referred to as Marine One in the same way the President’s 747 is referred to as Air Force
One. At first glance HMX-1 would seem like a cushy assignment for a Marine helicopter pilot—nothing more than an airborne limousine driver. In reality, it is the opposite. They are some of the best pilots the Marine Corps has to offer, and they are trained and tested
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constantly in evasive maneuvers, close-formation flying, and zero-visibility flying. If there is an emergency and the President needs to get somewhere, it doesn’t matter if there’s a blizzard or a torrential downpour. HMX-1 flies under any weather conditions.
The squadron consists of twelve identical VH-3s. Two of the twelve birds and their flight crews are on twenty-four-hour standby at the Anacostia Naval Air Station, just two miles south of the White House. This precaution is a holdover from the cold war.
Standard operating procedure dictates that in the event of an imminent or actual nuclear attack, the President is to be flown on board Marine One, from the White House to
Andrews Air Force Base. From there, he is to board Air Force One and take off. As far as the public is concerned, no President has had to take this apocalyptic journey for reasons other than training. Despite the fall of the Iron Curtain, the drill is still practiced frequently by the Marine Corps and Air Force pilots. All ten of the VH-3s at HMX-1
were to be used in today’s flight operations, and their flight crews were busy checking every inch of the choppers, prepping them for flight.
The two helicopters at Anacostia would stay on standby and be used if any of the ten developed mechanical difficulties. It was just after 8 A.M and the rising sun had burned off most of the fog. Small pockets were left, but only in lowlying areas. The visibility had improved enough that the’ control tower decided to commence the transfer of the
CH-53 Super Stallion helicopters from the New River Air Station to Quantico. A total of forty of the dull green monsters were flying up from Jacksonville, North Carolina-four for each of the VH-3s that would be ferrying the President and his guests from the White
House to Camp David. The doors to the hangar were open, and the roar of helicopters could be heard in the distance. Several of the mechanics walked out of the hangar to look at the approaching beasts. It was a sight they never got tired of. The Super Stallion was a tough-looking chopper.
It had the rare combination of being both powerful and sleek and was one of the most versatile helicopters in the world. The CH-53s rumbled in over the tops of the pine trees in a single-line formation at about 120 knots.
The choppers were spaced in three-hundred-foot intervals, and the column stretched for over two miles. Their large turbine engines were thunderously loud in the cool morning air. One by one they descended onto the tarmac and were met by Marines wearing green fatigues, bright yellow vests, and ear protectors. The ground-crew personnel waved their fluorescent orange sticks and directed each bird into the proper spot. As each chopper was parked, the engines were cut and flight crews scampered under the large frames to secure yellow blocks around the wheels.
The traffic between Georgetown and the Capitol was never good, but in the morning it was almost unbearable. O’Rourke limped along in his Chevy Tahoe, thankful that the height of the truck allowed him to feel a little less claustrophobic. Senator Olson’s recent attempts to form a coalition with the President had Michael worried. O’Rourke desperately wanted to talk to his old boss before he left for Camp David. Grabbing his
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digital phone, the young Congressman punched in the numbers for Erik Olson’s direct line, and a second later the Senator answered. “Hello.”
“Erik, it’s Michael. Are we still on for lunch Monday?”
“Yes, I’ve got you down for eleven forty-five.”
“Good.”
O’Rourke took a deep breath. “Erik, I’m a little troubled by this alliance that you’re helping to form. What exactly do you hope to accomplish this weekend?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you guys going to make any effort to cut the budget, or are you all going to scratch each other’s back and put the country another half trillion dollars in debt?”
Olson was caught off guard by the blunt comment. “Michael, things are very complicated right now. and considering our current national security crisis, a balanced budget is the least of my concerns.”
“Erik, the most serious problem facing our country today is the national debt, not the fact that a couple of corrupt and self-serving egomaniacs were killed.” Olson paused before answering. He did not want to be drawn into a fight with O’Rourke. “Michael, I
understand your concern, but the important thing for America right now is to stop these terrorists, and the first step to doing that is to show a unified front. We cannot be threatened into reforms. This is a democracy.”
“So you’re not going to suggest any budget cuts.” O’Rourke made no attempt to hide the disgust in his voice. “Michael, there are more important things for us to worry about right now than a balanced budget.”
“That’s bullshit, Erik. You know it, and I know it. Look at the damn numbers. Now is our chance to do something about it!”
“Michael, right now the national debt is of secondary concern. The important thing is to not appease terrorism.”
“Erik, why are you so dead set on calling these people terrorists?
They haven’t killed any civilians. They killed four corrupt politicians who have abused and manipulated the powers of their office-four politicians who have mortgaged the entire future of this country so they could keep their special-interest groups happy and get reelected.”
“Michael, I won’t listen to you talk about those men that way!”
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Olson’s voice became shaky. “It’s the truth, Erik. Don’t turn these guys into something they weren’t, just because they were assassinated.”
Olson paused for a moment. “Michael, let me tell you something. I love you like a son, but you have a lot to learn. I’ve been in this town for over thirty years, and things aren’t always as simple as you make them out to be.” It was O’Rourke’s turn to raise his voice. “Do you want to hear simple, Erik?
I’ll give you simple. Over the last twenty years, you and all of your colleagues have spent our country into a five-trillion-dollar black hole. During that time we weren’t confronted with a serious economic crisis or a major war. You had no valid reason to spend that kind of money. I know you weren’t a willing participant, but the harsh reality is that you were there and you didn’t stop it. You have run up a five-trillion-dollar tab, and you’re all going to retire and stick us with the bill. That is the legacy that you will leave for your children.” O’Rourke paused for a second. “Shit, even now, with someone threatening your life, you aren’t willing to do the right thing. This is your last chance to do something about the mess you’ve created. Don’t let it slip away!” O’Rourke hit the end button on his phone and swore as he slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting a bicycle messenger who had cut in front of him. The truck came to an abrupt halt as its driver gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands.
Through clenched teeth O’Rourke asked himself out loud, “What is it going to take for these guys to do their jobs?” Olson stared at the receiver and then gently placed it in its cradle. Why were the Irish so damn emotional, he thought to himself. He knew
O’Rourke was right about the debt, but violence was not the answer. The system needed time to correct itself.
It did not need to be jump-started by terrorism and threats. Law and order needed to be maintained. After about ten seconds, he opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a file marked “National Debt.” One of his staffers ga
ve him monthly updates on the debt and the projections for the future. Olson opened it and looked over the summary page.
The official numbers provided by the Stevens administration put the national debt at around $5.2 trillion. Olson knew this number did not represent the total national debt.
Money had also been borrowed from the Social Security fund, and knowing the government’s track record on underestimating the cost of programs, he figured the debt was probably closer to $6 trillion. He quickly glanced over some estimates of what the debt would do over the next five, ten, fifteen, and twenty years.
The numbers were truly horrifying. O’Rourke was right. If it wasn’t confronted, it would eventually bring the country to its knees. A bankrupt America was not the legacy he wanted to leave for his grandchildren, but neither was an America that tolerated terrorism.
Jack Lortch climbed up the last flight of stairs and onto the roof of the White House.
Special Agents Sally Manly and Joe Stiener followed as Lortch surveyed the rooftop
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scene. He was pleased to see that the six counter-sniper agents already on the roof were at their posts and watching their area of responsibility. Lortch was under a lot of stress and was trying his best to look calm. Joe Stiener went into the small guardhouse and filled up three cups of coffee, handing one to his boss, one to Manly, and keeping the other for himself. Lortch walked over to the south edge of the roof and looked up at the gray sky.
Stiener and Manly stood several steps behind their boss and said nothing. After the sun had burned off the early-morning fog, it had looked as if it would be a bright day, but then, just before ten, a thick blanket of high, gray clouds moved in. A slight wind was coming from the southwest at about five to ten knots. Lortch’s gaze shifted from the sky to the treetops, and he couldn’t help but notice the bright fall colors of the changing leaves. While sipping his coffee, he thought about how little he’d slept the past week. He was nearing the end of his rope and was looking forward to handing the President off to the Camp David team and getting some much needed sleep. But before he could do that, he had to get the President to Camp David in one piece.
