“Horsepower One, Cactus here,” Thiesse’s radio crackled.
The unanticipated message galvanized the head of PPD. Whatever the command center wanted, it was urgent. He moved quickly for his push‑to‑talk switch to acknowledge the transmission. Some of the press noted his reaction, and wondered what was going on. The President was right up there in front of them. Everything seemed fine.
“We can’t raise Champion Two.” Thiesse’s mind ran down the list of call signs and positions–Champion Two was the team at the fire watchtower. Suddenly the pieces dropped into place. The attack that he had figured would materialize from someone at the news conference would come instead from the forestry service’s fire watchtower.
. . . . . .
1100 Hours
John Grant smoothed the folds of his shirt where soon the rifle would nestle against his shoulder. He flicked off the safety, and brought the gunstock up and into position. Sighting through the scope, he positioned the top of the vertical post in the reticle on the center of the President's chest, and then quartered his target.
Grant finally had the right man in his sights. In his mind, he envisioned the path the heavy round would take as it left the gun barrel to begin its nearly mile‑long journey. Daniel Varrick would be dead before he hit the ground, a fitting end to an ignoble career.
Ever so slowly, Grant applied the pressure on the trigger needed to start the bullet on its lethal journey. Carefully he controlled his breathing. Even a slight quiver would throw the trajectory of the high powered round off–no time for a second shot.
As Grant’s finger tightened on the trigger, the cabin door burst open. The firing pin shot forward, striking the shell’s primer; the bullet began its deadly supersonic flight.
CHAPTER 50
The mass of lead thundered over the heads of the gathered reporters, newscasters, and TV technicians, the sound of the bullet’s shock wave preceding the crash of the gunshot by a mere fraction of a second.
The heavy round crashed into one of the video monitors behind the President’s table. The noise of the shattering glass and the flash of shorted electronics added to the overall pandemonium. Bedlam broke out as the reporters couldn’t decide between running for cover or trying to catch a better glimpse of the history taking place in front of them. A few screamed in futile protest; others maneuvered for a better camera angle.
The television signal originating at Camp David was carried by hardwire outside the compound to a large white van. On top of the truck, a medium‑size dish antenna, pointed skyward, passed the signal to a communications satellite fixed in a geostationary orbit.
From there, it was downlinked to the networks, where after suitable editing, the process was repeated until the same signal was finally released into the ether for all to see. Across the nation, people remained glued to their television sets, watching, waiting, and praying that this nightmare would soon be over–and that when it was, President Varrick would be alive and well.
The safety of the President their prime concern, two Secret Service agents instinctively rushed forward, placing their bodies in direct line of fire. Huddled around the President, they prayed that they wouldn’t have to find out if their Kevlar vests could withstand a fifty-caliber onslaught. Two agents in the rear swung around, their weapons drawn, facing the direction they thought the shot had come from.
The head of PPD had barely begun to react to the message from the command center when the round tore past him. Allen Thiesse rushed toward the President, elbowing slow moving media people out of his way while dodging the video and sound equipment. His first objective was to ensure the President's safety, even before concerning himself with the capture of the would‑be assassin.
Daniel Varrick appeared shaken by the explosion of the television monitor. Not realizing it was a gun shot, he began to stand, making himself an even larger target for the assassin’s second shot. Thiesse wanted him on the ground, and fast. He was relieved to see that other agents, having gotten to the President first, had already forced him down below the conference table.
As soon as he reached Varrick, Thiesse ran his hands over the President's body searching for bullet wounds, and praying he wouldn’t find any. He felt for blood on the President's shirt and slacks, but his hands came away clean without the telltale sign that would signify a grievous, and possibly mortal wound. “Keep him down until we get a handle on the situation,” he yelled at his two team members whose bodies now shielded the President’s.
Thiesse’s earphone came alive with the sound of communications going back and forth between the command center and the various security posts. As soon as the frequency cleared, Thiesse hit his push‑to‑talk button. “Get the War Wagon up here now,” he barked the first of a stream of orders.
They’d chance moving the President as soon as the armor plated vehicle was in position. Thiesse wasn’t sure whether he was dealing with a single assassin or whether he was in the middle of an elaborate conspiracy played out by a sophisticated group intent upon ending the Varrick presidency. In either case, his plan was the same. Get the President out of harm’s way, and then deal with the threat. “Sound off, arm’s reach consideration, cover and evacuate”–the protection manual’s litany ran through his head.
Knowing that Allen Thiesse was handling the situation at the scene, Mary Neill took the first steps toward apprehending the would‑be assassin. She hit the push‑to‑talk switch for her transceiver, then barked into the mike, “Get Falcon in the air, and over to that tower.”
Falcon was the call sign for the air cover unit assigned to the Secret Service. She too had been monitoring Baker channel and knew the shot had to have come from the fire tower. “I want three Checkmate teams to hit that tower,” she said, dispatching six more agents by car.
“Horsepower One, War Wagon’s on its way,” Thiesse heard on their channel.
While the detail protecting the President waited, Thiesse covered Daniel Varrick with the Kevlar topcoat PPD always kept nearby. Developed by the R and D Division, it contained several layers of the bullet resistant material.
Thiesse didn’t know what caliber weapon the sniper was using, but given the distance he had to be shooting from, Thiesse was betting on something heavy, possibly fifty caliber. The special coat might not stop the high caliber round, but whatever protection it did afford was better than none at all.
Thiesse saw the War Wagon screech to a stop. “Ready to move out?” he asked the four agents who knelt in front of and alongside the President. They nodded, almost in unison.
“All right, let’s do it.”
Like a well‑rehearsed ballet, the PPD team, staying low to the ground, guided President Varrick toward the Secret Service vehicle. A fifth agent, securing their departure, had an Uzi submachine gun at the ready.
As the team guarding the President neared the car, one of the agents yanked open the rear door. Shoving Daniel Varrick into the back seat, they piled in after him. Allen Thiesse kept the President's head and shoulders below window level. Even though the vehicle could withstand everything short of a rocket attack, he’d play it safe. They’d move Varrick back to Aspen, and then secure the entire area.
Thiesse really would have preferred the White House, the safest possible place, but it was too risky to consider a return flight to Washington. If this was a massive conspiracy, the would‑be assassins might have sophisticated ground‑to‑air missiles. Besides, the two support helicopters hadn’t been dispatched from Anacostia.
With the door closed, Thiesse yelled, “Get us to Aspen.” The big car was already on its way.
. . . . . .
The sniper wheeled to face the door, still swinging on its hinges from the force of Payton's entry. Payton found himself facing a man in some kind of camouflaged colored mask. At first he wasn’t certain it was the same person who had started him on this deadly odyssey–until he saw the cold blue eyes staring back at him.
As Payton brought the Remington around, the assassi
n glanced over his shoulder, searching for something. It had to be a gun.
Payton held his fire, waiting for a clear shot. Already his enemy was poised, ready to strike. As the shotgun came around to the sniper’s general direction, Payton fired. The paneling on the far wall splintered as the buckshot tore into it. The explosion was deafening in the cabin’s closed area, echoing off the walls, floor, and ceiling. Unaccustomed to the report of a gun fired inside such a small room, Payton felt his head ring with the echo of the blast.
Just as Payton pulled the trigger, the sniper dived for the floor, closing the distance between the two men. Had he remained where he was, the spray from the buckshot would have cut him in two. As it was, Payton's first shot missed.
Payton chambered another round, but the sniper, already back on his feet, managed to get his hands around the barrel. For a brief second, both men stood face to face, locked in a deadly contest, separated only by the gun. Each struggled, vying to wrestle the Remington from the other’s grasp. Neither would give up; neither could.
Payton prayed for help. The Secret Service had to know the shot came from the tower. If he could only hold on a little longer, the sniper would still be there when the agents got there. If not, they’d arrive to find Payton dead.
Grant twisted the shotgun in an attempt to force Payton to release his hold, but the lawyer’s vise-like grip was too much for Grant to break simply by trying to wrestle the shotgun away.
For an instant, the two men were trapped in a stalemate. Then Grant rolled backward, bending his knees, and bringing the shotgun and Payton down toward the floor of the cabin. Payton immediately lost his balance, and sailed over Grant toward the other wall of the cabin. If he stood any chance of avoiding a broken neck when he hit the floor, he had to let go of the gun.
Payton landed with a loud thud, his back taking the brunt of the fall. He was desperately afraid of hearing the sound of the Remington’s slide working back and forth, racking another shell. But the shotgun had slid across the cabin floor, and was nowhere near the sniper. As quickly as his tortured muscles and bones would let him, Payton got to his feet and turned to face the man he had pursued since he had first come face to face with the assassin in Pine Lakes.
He knew that he was no match for the assassin in any kind of hand‑to‑hand combat. Payton looked around quickly for something, anything, to use as a weapon. His eye caught sight of the rifle. He had to get it before the sniper could move in for his final attack.
In a feeble attempt to ward off the inevitable, Payton lunged for the rifle, and swung it at the sniper. The barrel slammed into Grant’s ribs forcing a pained grunt from the man’s lips. Payton had put all the force he could muster behind the blow, yet Grant refused to go down.
Readying another swing, Payton moved in again. As he swung, Grant feinted to the side, allowing the gun to arc past his body. With his right hand, Grant snared Payton's wrist and levered it downward pulling him off balance. Payton's last means of defense fell from his hand.
There was no doubt in Payton's mind that Grant was going to kill him–none whatsoever. Payton looked into Grant’s face and saw only rage in the icy blue eyes glaring back at him–eyes that would signal the next, and probably final, move of this deadly ballet the two of them had been choreographing. If only he had another weapon.
As Grant moved toward him, ready for the final act, Payton saw death clearly. He knew he couldn’t win this battle. Yet he was damned if he was going down easily.
When Grant got within striking range, Payton struck directly at Grant’s face. With his left arm, the sniper parried the blow, and then plunged the two leading knuckles of his right fist into Payton's solar plexus.
In a split second, the air was forced from Payton's already‑exhausted lungs. The pain of Grant’s strike grabbed at Payton's insides. He wasn’t sure if the solar plexus hit was fatal, but then he didn’t care. The fight in him was gone, expended like the air in a paper bag after it’s been popped.
It was over; he had lost. Payton dropped to his knees, leaving his head and upper body open to Grant’s follow-up blow. In that position he was vulnerable to any one of a number of fatal strangle holds or karate strikes. Yet the sniper delayed finishing him off.
Payton's lungs begged for air, but there was none to be had, the pain in his chest demanding immediate attention. A wheezing sound came from Payton's lips as Grant towered above him. Grant looked at him, with a sadistic but all‑knowing smile. In spite of Wingate’s promises that Payton and the Phillips woman wouldn’t interfere with his op, he had.
“Mr. Payton, I presume,” he said gloating over his prey. “It’s time we part ways. . . permanently.”
Grant stepped behind Payton, and picked up a gun. Taking careful aim, he fired one shot into Payton's back. “Checkmate, Mr. Payton.” Payton slid mercifully into the darkness.
Grant’s mind ran through the options still open to him. In minutes the Secret Service response teams would arrive at the tower. The mission was a bust, but that didn’t mean that he intended to be a trophy on anyone’s wall. Grant had waited years to even the score with Daniel Varrick. All that had been lost in an instant, thanks to the man whose body lay on the floor before him. Grant bent over Payton's body for a second.
Rising, he quickly inventoried the items he had brought with him. He placed his Smith & Wesson back into his shoulder holster. He shoved the cellular phone and computer terminal, along with the laser rangefinder and rest of his gear, into his pack. The custom‑made, and therefore possibly traceable, rifle went into its case. He couldn’t chance leaving it behind. The pack and the gun case Grant slung over his shoulder. He glanced about the room, and then headed for the door.
Grant wasn’t sure Payton had made the trip to the tower alone, and he didn’t want any more surprises. Even if the Phillips woman was with Payton, she’d be powerless to stop him. Nonetheless, he had no intention of using the steps. Grant fastened a climbing rope to a supporting member on the catwalk on the far side of the tower, tossing the rest of the rope under the catwalk railing. After testing the knot, Grant slid under the railing and rappelled down the side of the tower.
Grant hit the ground and immediately took stock of his situation. Yanking the nine millimeter from his shoulder holster, he moved toward the trees and out of the clearing. Quickly, he glanced around to see if anyone was waiting for him. Nothing caught his eye.
The whomp of the approaching helicopter caused him to stop and remain motionless for a few seconds, but the intrusion detector’s audible alert drove him further into the woods. The response teams were converging on the tower. Grant knew the Secret Service used canine patrols for security, and he wanted to put as much distance between him and the tower as possible.
Even with Camp David’s Marine contingent, the Secret Service wouldn’t have enough manpower to cover the entire area north of the retreat. Bordered by Manahan Road and Route 550, the area was sufficiently large to keep them searching for days.
He was certain he could make it back to where he had stashed the car and get out of the area before the Secret Service had time to close all the roads. In the meantime the more confusion he created, the more time he’d have to escape. At least Payton and his woman friend would serve some purpose.
CHAPTER 51
Janet had heard the roar of Grant’s rifle just as Payton entered the cabin–and, a short time later, the shotgun blast. After the two reports, she heard nothing. With bated breath, she hoped and prayed that Payton had somehow gained the advantage.
In spite of Payton's instructions, Janet headed for the stairs. Gazing up, she tried to figure out what she was going to do–obey Payton’s instructions or find out what happened at the top of the tower.
Just as she was about to make her way up the tower, she saw someone fling open the cabin door. She watched as the man went around to the far side of the catwalk, and then disappeared from view. Janet hesitated. Steve’s words echoed in her head. If he didn’t come back for her, she w
as to get out of there. Even when he had told her, Janet had known that she could never turn her back on the man she loved.
The rush of the three Checkmate teams Mary Neill had dispatched to the tower ended Janet’s predicament. While Janet was emerging from the woods, the cars encircled the tower base. Before they even came to a stop, the vehicles disgorged the agents. One saw her right away, and called out to the others.
As three agents covered Janet with their weapons, the first commanded, “Lady, keep your hands up where we can see them. Walk toward us, but don’t make any sudden moves.”
Obediently, she did what they had told her. When she got to a point halfway between the cars and the trees, the agent yelled, “Stop where you are. Now turn around and face the woods. Clasp your hands behind your head.”
Janet paused, unsure of what they wanted her to do first. Things were happening too fast. Where was Steve?
Other agents were now covering the tower with their guns. One Secret Service agent had drawn some sort of submachine gun from a black nylon case. He was pointing it at the cabin.
“Don’t shoot. Steve’s up there,” Janet pleaded. She didn’t know what condition Payton was in–whether he was alive or dead–but she knew the agents would shoot first and ask questions later. The last thing she wanted to see was Payton appearing on the catwalk, a shotgun in his hand.
“Clasp your hands behind your head, Lady. Now turn around and face the woods,” the agent yelled, gesturing with his gun.
Janet turned around, then did what she was told. She stood there like that, waiting. Were they going to shoot her in the back? No, she decided, these were the good guys.
“Drop to your knees,” the agent directed her harshly.
The Cassandra Conspiracy Page 37
