Term Limits mr-1

by Vince Flynn

  “They’re all set downstairs.”

  “Good, send in the first group, Sally.”

  Agent Manly gave the order and then asked Lortch, “Which bird do you want to put

  Tiger on?” Tiger was the code name that the Secret Service used for the President. Lortch thought for a moment. “Let’s go with number three. Don’t let anyone know until number two lands.”

  The old man leaned against a tree and looked intently at the five helicopters hovering by the Jefferson Memorial. He hoped that the pilots flying those things were as good as he’d been told. He did not want to see any Marines die.

  The choppers started to move north toward the White House, and the old man pulled a digital phone out of his pocket, punched in a phone number, and hit the send button. He let the phone ring four times and hung up.

  The assassin looked at the digital phone sitting on the control board and counted the rings. When it stopped after the fourth one, he dialed in a frequency code on the control board and pressed the send button.

  The signal was received less than a second later, and the transponder that was planted in the ABC van the previous evening kicked in. The power to the transmitter was restored, and the live feed was back on line. A couple of seconds later, the bottom left monitor went from a fuzzy, gray picture back to a clear picture of the South Lawn. Lortch watched the choppers as they flew across the Mall toward the White House. As they approached, the rotor wash became intense. Lortch’s tie started to flap up into his face, and he reached down, tucking it into his shirt. The lead Super Stallion hovered directly over Lortch’s head as the shiny green-and-white VH-3 in the middle descended and landed gently. The four ominous, loud Super Stallions held their positions hovering about two hundred feet above the ground, waiting for the VH-3 to ascend back into the formation. Lortch looked down and watched eight Secret Service agents escort the first two passengers to the foot of the VH-3. A Marine helped the two VIPS into the helicopter

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  and then pulled up the steps and closed the door. Even over the loud roar of the Super

  Stallions, Lortch could hear the VH-3 increase the power of its engines.

  The executive helicopter gracefully lifted off the ground and stopped at an altitude even with her escorts. She hovered for a brief moment, then all five helicopters simultaneously banked to the right and headed northeast. As the choppers increased power and passed over the White House, Lortch and the other agents widened their stances to steady themselves against the intense rotor wash. The next group of helicopters was already passing the Washington Monument and moving toward the White House.

  There was a brief moment of relative silence as the rumble of the first group lessened in the distance and the roar of the approaching group grew. Manly turned to Lortch and

  Stiener.

  “God, those damn escorts are loud.” Lortch and Stiener nodded their heads in agreement. The next formation swooped in over the South Lawn a little faster than the first, and the VH-3 wasted no time dropping rapidly and performing a quick, controlled landing. Once again the passengers were escorted by Secret Service agents to the chopper and loaded on board. The VH-3 lifted back into formation, and without pausing, all five helicopters banked to the left and continued to bank as they came back around to a southwesterly course, passing over the Reflection Pool. The next formation was moving toward the White House and Lortch looked at Manly. “Is Tiger ready?”

  Manly nodded her head yes. President Stevens strode across the South Lawn wearing a dark wool suit with a faint gray pinstripe, a blue pinpoint oxford, and a deep red tie.

  Surrounding him were six Secret Service agents, the one just behind him carrying a bulletproof tan trench coat, ready to throw it over the President at the slightest sign of trouble. Garret walked on the left side of the President so as to avoid getting between his boss and the cameras. Stevens smiled broadly and waved to the cameras and reporters.

  He and Garret had debated whether he should give the press his serious and determined look or his happy and excited look before getting on board Marine One. Garret suggested a combination of the two-a happy and determined look. The President, being the consummate actor, understood completely the subtle difference between happy and excited and happy and determined. As they reached the helicopter, Stevens stopped and snapped off a sharp salute to the Marine in dress blues standing at the foot of the steps.

  The crew chief, a Marine corporal wearing an in-flight headset, tan, long-sleeve shirt, and blue pants with a red stripe, met Stevens at the top of the steps and helped him through the small doorway. Garret, the Secret Service agent carrying the tan trench coat, and another agent came through this door, and the other four came on board through a second door that was located just behind the port-side wheel flange.

  Normally only one agent would fly with the President and the rest of the detail would follow in the next chopper, but times were far from normal. The two doors, with steps built into them, were pulled up quickly and secured. Everyone took his seat while the crew chief made a quick pass to make sure everyone was strapped in. Before taking his own seat, he spoke to the pilots over the in-flight headset, telling them they were buttoned up and ready to go. The helicopter leapt into the air and rose up into the middle

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  slot of the formation. Stevens looked out his small, starboard window and was surprised at how close the large, green helicopters were.

  Unlike most military helicopters, the inside of Marine One was soundproofed against the noise of the large engines and the rotors, so conversation could take place without having to shout. The President looked to Garret and pointed out the window. “Stu, did you see how close this thing is?” Garret shrugged his shoulders. “You know how these flyboys are. They’re probably just trying to show off.” The digital phone started to ring in the old man’s pocket. He made no attempt to answer it. Staring at the four dull green helicopters that were hovering above the White House, he counted the rings. The call was a signal telling him that the President was on board the helicopter that was about to rise back into the formation. After the third ring he opened the left side of his trench coat.

  Taped upside down to the inside of his jacket was a small, black box. The face of it contained a number pad, an enter button, and a power switch. The old man reached inside with his right hand and flipped the power switch to the on position. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then returned his attention to the helicopters hovering over the White House. He saw the green-and-white VH-3 rise into the air and punched two numbers into the remote, but did not hit the enter button. He had to wait until the formation started to move, otherwise the President’s helicopter would drop straight back down into the relative cover of the White House compound. The noses of the helicopters dipped slightly and the group began to move. The old man hit the enter button and said a quick prayer.

  The signal was received a second later by the tiny surface-to-air radar unit that had been placed in the Washington Post newspaper box two blocks to the south of the White

  House. The unit immediately started to sweep its wide-band search radar over the formation of helicopters.

  The band narrowed in less than two seconds from acquisition, to track, to fire control.

  Simultaneously, inside the cockpits of all five helicopters, missile warning lights began flashing, and the onboard threat sensors came screeching to life. The loud wailing of the threat sensor told them that they were being illuminated by fire-control radar.

  There was no time to think, only time to react as their training had taught them. Heart rates quickened and heads snapped around to see if a missile was already in the air. Their threat sensors informed them that they were being illuminated from behind, and within seconds all five helicopters simultaneously increased power and moved forward, dropping to as low an altitude as possible. As they screamed over the roof of the White

  House, the copilots hit their flare-dispenser buttons, hoping to confuse an app
roaching heat-seeking missile. Jack Lortch felt his heart climb into his throat as he saw the flares come shooting out of the tails of the helicopters. The huge choppers moved just above his head, straining to gain speed, their bright red flares streaming down and pelting the roof of the White House. Without hesitation, his hand mike snapped up to his mouth. Trying to scream above the deafening roar of the helicopters, he yelled, “Sniper teams, look for a missile launch!”

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  He watched the choppers gain speed as they tore across Lafayette Park, skimming the tops of the trees, and willed them to go faster. The seconds seemed like minutes as he watched and waited to see a red streak and then an explosion. Several flares landed by his feet, and he ran to the north side of the roof, following the choppers. About a half a mile away from the White House the formation banked hard to the left and Lortch lost sight of it. Atop the hill at Arlington the old man tracked the formation of helicopters as they scrambled for safety.

  Quickly, he punched in the codes for the radar units that had been placed to the east and north of the White House. Seconds later the helicopters picked up the azimuth of the new threats and banked hard to the left. Heading due west, they raced over the rooftops of downtown, gaining speed quickly and continuing to drop flares. The old man punched in the codes for the last two radar units. They immediately started sweeping the horizon from the west and southwest with their search radar-the trap was complete. As the pilots reached the Potomac River, they did exactly what their instincts and training had taught them. They skimmed over the top of the Key Bridge and dove almost two hundred feet to the deck. The formation pulled up dangerously close to the blue-gray waters of the

  Potomac and raced northward, below the tree line and underneath the coverage of the radars that had been harassing them. The warning lights on their dashboards subsided, and the shrill of the threat sensors ceased. The engine of the van was running and the assassin was standing next to the stone wall waiting for the helicopters. He heard them coming before he could see them. When they appeared, he was immediately impressed by how low they were flying and how tight they’d kept the formation. That wouldn’t last much longer, he thought to himself.

  Pressing in the code for the flare launchers and radar unit, he placed his thumb over the enter button and waited. As they passed underneath his position, he looked at the blur of rotors spinning below and said, “Now just keep your cool and don’t run into each other. I don’t want any dead Marines on my hands.” The Chain Bridge, unlike the Key

  Bridge, was only about fifty feet high and was slung low across the Potomac. The assassin waited for just a moment longer, and when the lead Super Stallion was about two hundred yards from the bridge, he hit the button.

  The radar powered up and the helicopters were so close that the radar immediately narrowed its search to fire control. Again the threat sensors on board the choppers came howling to life. Seconds later all six of the bright red phosphorus flares snaked their way out of the tubes and into the sky leaving a trail of smoke behind them. The combination of the visual threat of the red streaks and the fact that the pilots thought they were locked onto by a surface-to-air missile caused the lead pilot to do what came naturally. He’d been trained for almost fifty hours in close-formation escort duty, but he’d also been trained for well over two hundred hours in missile-evasion tactics.

  All this plus the fact that there was nothing more unnatural for a pilot to do than fly a straight and steady course when being tracked by fire-control radar caused him to jerk his stick to the left. Upon seeing and hearing the danger that was ahead, the other three Super

  Stallion pilots had already started to loosen the formation, and when the lead escort broke

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  left, the other three scattered, as much out of the fear of a midair collision as their desire to evade what they thought was an approaching missile. The helicopters in the three and six o’clock slots broke to the right and stayed low, because it was better to pass through a hot zone quickly than to gain altitude and lose speed. The helicopter in the nine slot was forced to pull up to avoid hitting the lead escort, who had cut her off. All of this left

  Marine One alone, in the middle of the river, a sitting duck. There was no time or room to react. Marine One passed through the smoke trails of the flares while the helicopter’s threat sensors continued to flash and warn of imminent death. Gripping the controls tightly, the pilots of Marine One braced themselves for impact and cursed their escorts for abandoning them.

  THE OLD MAN WAS BACK BEHIND THE WHEEL OF HIS RENTAL CAR

  AND driving across the Arlington Memorial Bridge. When he reached the east side, he got onto the Potomac Parkway and headed north. Exiting off the Parkway, he entered the

  Foggy Bottom neighborhood of Washington, D.C less than a mile from the White House.

  Parking in a ramp where there would be cameras and attendants would not be wise, so he circled and waited for a space on the street.

  It was just past twelve-thirty and the streets and sidewalks were crowded with people coming and going to lunch. After finding a spot, he got out and left the unneeded cane in the passenger seat. Two short blocks later he found the pre-selected pay phone, inserted a quarter, and punched in a phone number. After several rings, a deep voice answered on the other end. “Hello, you’ve reached Special Agent Skip McMahon. If you’d like to leave a message, please do so at the beep.

  If you need to speak to one of my assistants, press zero.” The old man pulled a

  Dictaphone out of his pocket, placed the speaker up to the phone, and pressed the play button. “Special Agent McMahon, we know you have been placed in charge of investigating the assassinations of Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator

  Downs, and Speaker Basset. We are sending you this message because we do not want to fight our battle in the media. We suggest the President and his people follow suit. We are in possession of several Stinger missiles and could have easily blown Marine One out of the sky this afternoon. You can tell the President that the only reason he is still alive is because we did not want to kill the Marines and Secret Service agents on board.

  “If you continue to ignore our demands and manipulate public opinion through the media, we will have no choice but to escalate our war. So far we have assassinated only elected officials, but we are adding the names of Stu Garret and Ted Hopkinson to our list of targets. We are very well informed about what goes on inside the Stevens administration and know that these two men are responsible for most of the lies that have been spoon-fed to the media over the last week. If you continue to label us as terrorists and the President as the noble defender of the Constitution, you will die. This is our last warning. No matter what they tell you, Mr. President, the Secret Service cannot protect

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  you from us. They can make our job more difficult, but they cannot stop us from ending your life. This is your last warning.”

  Marine One landed on the helicopter pad at Camp David, and a pale-faced President

  Stevens was draped in his bulletproof trench coat and rushed into a waiting Suburban.

  The President sat in the backseat in between two Secret Service agents. No one spoke as the tan truck sped up the narrow, tree lined path. The Suburban stopped in front of the cabin, and again Stevens was rushed inside. Two of the agents went inside with him, and the other four took up posts outside.

  The President stood in the main room and looked at the most senior agent. “Where is

  Mr. Garret?”

  “He’s being brought in another truck.” There was more awkward silence as the agents averted their eyes from the President’s. Again Stevens looked to the senior agent and asked, “How did they know which helicopter I was on?”

  “We don’t know, sir.” Stevens said nothing; he gave no look or expression of emotion. He continued to stand in the midst of his protectors for another minute, then without saying a word he walked in between them and down the hallway. The agents f
ollowed. Stevens entered his bedroom and turned to close the door behind him. The two

  Secret Service agents came to an abrupt halt. The President held up his hand.

  “I want to be alone.” The agents nodded respectfully and Stevens closed the door.

  Walking across the room, he took off his jacket and threw it on the bed. With several yanks back and forth, his tie came loose and dropped to the floor. He stood leaning over the dresser staring into the large mirror on the wall. The reality of what had almost happened was starting to sink in. He felt a cold chill shoot up his spine, and his entire body shuddered. Standing up straight, he quickly walked over to the wet bar, grabbed a thick glass tumbler, loaded it with ice, and filled it to the brim with vodka. After taking a large gulp of the cold, clear liquid, he walked over to the fireplace and noticed that it was stocked with wood and kindling. Stevens set his drink down on the mantel and picked up a box of long matches sitting in a basket next to the hearth. Grabbing one of the twelve-inch matchsticks, he struck it across the coarse strip on the side of the box. The matchstick broke in half, and Stevens tried again, this time holding the match closer to the tip.

  The red tip sparked and then burst into flames. Stevens waited until the wood stem caught fire, then stuck the long match under the logs, lighting the dry pieces of kindling.

  The fire caught quickly and he pulled up a chair to watch the flames spread. Sliding off his loafers, he placed his feet on the hearth and took a deep breath. The warmth of the fire helped him relax and momentarily forget about the afternoon’s life-threatening events. He stared into the fire and watched it burst into a full blaze as the white bark on the birch logs crackled and curled front the flames. The images of the helicopter ride began to surface again, and he took another gulp from his drink. But still he saw the flares

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