by Randall Wood
He was soon seeing a growing police presence the closer they got to the Capitol Building. With the State of the Union address tonight, security would be at its highest level. This would be the biggest test of Paul’s and Sam’s false documents to date. He had reserved the room over a month ago. Had they run a background check to the point it would discredit his identification papers? He would soon find out.
He recognized the building from the promotional pictures he had downloaded. He had actually stayed here many years ago while passing through during his days with the army. He had decided to splurge on a room right on the Mall, with a view of the Capitol. The Holiday Inn DC on the Hill was not the best hotel in town, but it had a certain charm about it which Sam had found appealing back then. The hotel’s location was its strong point. Across the street from the Capitol Building, it was walking distance to every government office and tourist attraction. The Holiday Inn DC had also undergone a major remodeling in recent years, something Sam took note of as he exited the cab.
Sam was examining the front of the building when he was approached by the doorman. The man looked into the cab and, seeing the luggage and case, turned to wave over a bellhop. Sam quickly waved him off and, peeling a bill from his money clip, explained, “I can handle it, thank you.”
“Yes, sir,” the doorman replied, quickly pocketing the cash and moving to the next cab.
Sam peeled off more bills to pay the cab driver, leaving a healthy, but not too generous, tip. No need to stick out in the man’s memory. He turned and proceeded up the stairs and inside to the check-in desk. A beautiful young girl smiled at him from the other side.
“How can I help you, sir?”
“Mr. Dorraugh. Dan. I have a reservation.” Sam produced his passport and driver’s license and laid them on the counter.
“One moment, sir.”
Sam read her name tag: Olivia. Pretty name for a pretty girl. He watched her face and scanned the lobby behind him in the mirror. If it was going to happen, it would happen now.
“Mr. Dorraugh, I have you in rooms 608 and 610. Top floor on the front of the building, as requested. Should I keep this on the Visa you used to make the reservation?”
“Yes, please,” Sam replied.
“I’ll just need your driver’s license, sir. The other room is for?” She smiled, as she pulled his license from under his passport with a perfectly shaped fingernail while eyeballing his luggage.
“My daughter; she’ll arrive later.”
Sam quickly retrieved the passport and pocketed it in his coat. No need for her to scrutinize it if she didn’t need it. This was going very easy.
A few keystrokes later, she placed a form in front of him, along with a keycard. He quickly signed at the indicated X and slid the form back. He noticed her quickly check the signature against his driver’s license before handing it back. Good thing he had practiced.
“Are you playing at the Kennedy Center?” She asked.
“No, not me. My daughter is tomorrow night,” Sam explained. “I just brought her back-up with me.”
“I’m sure she’ll do very well, sir.” Olivia smiled. “Would you like some help with your bags?”
“No, thank you. I can manage.” Sam returned the smile.
“Very good, sir. The elevators are just across the lobby. Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you. I will.”
Sam stooped and picked up the trombone case with one hand, and his garment bag with the other. A bellhop would have surely noted the excessive weight of both. As he turned to face out the elevator door, he caught sight of the desk girl checking in another man, same smile and courtesy. He felt bad for the inconvenience she would have to endure because of him. Perhaps she would be home by the time everything got started.
Sam rode to the sixth floor alone and quickly found his rooms. After his usual fight with the keycard, he found himself in a pushily adorned room. A large bed dominated the room with a small seating area in front of the window. Sam strode across the room and pulled the curtains, cutting off his view of the Mall. Only then did he return to turn on the lights.
Locking the door behind him, he walked to the adjoining room door to find it unlocked. He opened it to a mirror image of the room he’d just left. He looked the room over carefully before locking its door and returning to the first room. The bed was quickly stripped of its bedspread, and the mattress lifted off and leaned against the headboard.
From the trombone case, Sam pulled the rifle. The stock was folded into position, and the scope was swiftly mounted and tightened into place. Sam then began unloading the rest of his items and laying them carefully out on the box spring. Wires were connected and tightened down, batteries placed and checked. An hour later, Sam was satisfied.
He turned on CNN and placed the volume at a level where he could hear it from the bathroom, where he showered while listening to the commentators’ predictions of what the President might say tonight.
“Oh shit!” Sam laughed at his own prediction. He checked his watch: time to get moving. After carefully replacing the mattress and bedspread over the gear, he left his room, leaving the Do Not Disturb sign on his and his “daughter’s” room.
The stairs were five feet from “her” entrance. He descended and wandered across the lobby toward the restaurant and bar, while he mentally noted the layout and exits. The basement stairs serviced a constant traffic of hotel maids with piles of linen in their arms. He watched the waiters come and go through the kitchen entrance, before pushing the door open himself.
He quickly wandered around the room, looking like a lost guest. After finding what he wanted, he made for the exit in the back, and found himself in the alley, which he followed to the street. Taking a right, he casually walked down the Mall, taking in the sights of the nation’s capitol.
Several street vendors were in attendance, and he purchased a hot dog with chips and a large drink. He took the bag and continued walking, working on the drink as he moved with the crowd of tourists dominating the foot traffic. A group of protestors, complete with signs, coolers, and folding chairs, rushed past in the direction of the White House, their breath visible in the cold January air.
While Sam looked like he was just another tourist, his interests were focused elsewhere. While others looked up at the Washington Monument, he looked down at the welded manhole covers in the street. He noted the cameras mounted on the buildings and watched workers empty the many trash bins in the area. One of them was carefully checking the interior of the bin before replacing the bag. He counted the number of police on horseback patrolling the Mall and made mental notes of their equipment. He scanned the rooftops and saw people watching the streets through binoculars. As he neared 7th Street, the crowd grew thicker. He moved over and found a bench to observe the area.
Sam sat quietly and watched the crowds. Despite the January temperature, the sidewalks were full, and he wondered what it would be like during the summer. Today was a rare sunny day for DC with the wind at a minimum, just cold. The crew emptying the trash cans pulled up and headed toward the bin next to his bench. With a fluid motion, the bin was quickly opened, emptied, inspected, and relined by practiced hands. He even got a nod from the worker as he moved on to the next one.
Perfect.
Sam wiggled his butt on the cold bench to stimulate some blood flow, and watched the crew move down the Mall. When they had moved a safe distance, he scanned the area for police. The nearest was over fifty yards away. Sam’s only remaining worry was unseen cameras. They had to be there, and there was no way of knowing if they were watching. The DC Mall was monitored like a Vegas casino. He would have to be very careful.
First, Sam positioned the food bag on his lap with the open end toward his aching gut. He then made a show of reaching into his inner coat pocket to retrieve a handkerchief. He palmed an object in his gloved hand along with the handkerchief, and accidentally dropped it in his lap as he pulled it out. Sam used the fact that people tend to look away fr
om a person blowing their nose to nudge the object into the bag. After several follow-up wipes, the handkerchief was deposited into the bag as well. The bag was then wadded up and deposited into the empty trash bin. With any luck, the bin would not be changed until tomorrow. Step one was done.
Sam rose and resumed his stroll down the Mall. As he paused at the gap between the National Gallery of Art and National Museum of Natural History, he could make out the building housing the Department of Justice.
Are you listening? He silently asked. He turned his gaze to the building behind it across Pennsylvania Avenue. How about you?
He spun on his heel and continued down the Mall. The Washington Monument appeared on his left, followed by the White House on his right across the ellipse. He was forced by a crowd to cross over to Constitution Avenue. By the time he reached the Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial, he was ready for another bench. His stomach was not cooperating, and prompting him to start thinking about a bathroom. He paused until the feeling passed and examined the area. Unfortunately, all the benches were taken. This was Washington’s most popular memorial.
The crowds were thick, the mood somber. People spoke in low tones and showed no signs of being in a hurry. Sam stood some distance away and watched the crowd inch past the wall. Several people were looking for a particular name. Many left cards and mementos at the base. It was before Sam’s time, but he understood. They had yet to erect monuments to his wars. He wondered if they ever would.
Sam shook his head to clear his mind, took a few deep breaths of the cold air, which was followed by a self-directed order to stay focused. He turned and continued his reconnaissance of the Mall, crossing over to the Lincoln Memorial via Bacon Drive and on to the Korean War Memorial. A steady stroll soon brought him to Jefferson Drive, passing the Smithsonian, and the Air and Space Museum. Here, he slowed his pace to take in the view of the Capitol Building.
He stopped to perform the tourist thing, and snapped some photos with his digital camera. He was careful to include the security fence, the rooftop with several people visible, and the police cars at every intersection, a few with dogs occupying the rear seats, and looked for the bomb squad.
Deciding the police presence was too great on First Street, he elected to cross the Mall on Third. Taking a right on Constitution, he walked past Capitol Plaza till he was in front of the Senate office building. Here, he paused to play tourist again before moving up Delaware. He paused again in front of his hotel, and used the camera’s flip screen to take several shots of his hotel across the plaza without anyone seeing him aim.
He noted the height of the trees and the flow of traffic, trying to predict what it might be like this evening. When he had committed it all to memory, he crossed Delaware and found a secluded spot on the plaza.
He had a decision to make. One he had been thinking about ever since Paul was captured. They had made plans for that, but things had changed. Time was no longer what it use to be. The pain in his gut was only a reminder.
Using the traffic noise as cover, he pulled the cell phone out and powered it up. He quickly dialed Paul at home. After several rings with no answer, he thumbed the off button. Sam decided to maybe call again in an hour. He replaced the phone in his pocket after turning it off, and set out for the hotel.
He had just given away his position. It was a cardinal sin in his profession. But, if he was going to be chased, Sam preferred it to be Jack doing so.
The state of South Carolina holds 23,719 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 15,891 are repeat offenders.
—FORTY—
The young operator looked up when his computer started beeping. One of the flagged numbers he had been assigned was active. The color code changed as the phone received a call. He watched as the computer automatically ran a trace and then cataloged the number and location. The call was never answered, and the caller quickly hung up and powered off the phone. The technician didn’t know what the number was being traced for, but he did know it was a priority-one file.
The computer soon spat out the information. The carrier was a pre-paid phone with limited service, purchased in the Chicago area about a month ago. The call was made to another pre-paid phone purchased at the same time and place. He punched additional keys and scrolled to the information he wanted. The call had originated at tower #1318—the southwest corner of the northeast section of Washington DC—and had ended a few blocks away in the northwest section.
He saved the file, logged it in, and then sent the information to the email addresses listed at the bottom of his instructions. Done. He looked at the clock on his cubicle wall: three more hours until quitting time. Another exciting day at the NSA.
• • •
“What do you have, Jack? I only have a few minutes.” Special Agent Greg Whitcomb had a full plate today. This was his second time leading the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team for tonight’s State of the Union address, and things were going as usual. Juggling coordination with the Secret Service, the local police, border patrol, and the new Department of Homeland Security people was a nightmare. Especially when everyone thought they were in charge.
He had just gotten off the phone with the local police captain, who had been ordered by the Secret Service to park an EMS unit on the Capitol Building’s south side, despite the fact that it blocked the view of one of his sniper/observer teams. It had taken twenty minutes to straighten out. Now Jack was here to add to his problems.
After a ten-minute account of Jack’s adventures over the past two months, Greg was not happy.
“So, you’re telling me I have an ex Special Ops sniper who’s been running around the country picking people off and now has the President on his list? And not only that, you also know him personally?”
“Yeah, we served together. He was my instructor at Bragg. He’s the best I’ve ever seen. It gets worse.”
“How’s that?”
“He has terminal cancer—less than a few months without treatment. He’s got nothing to lose.”
“Great, Jack. That’s just great. What did the Secret Service say?”
Jack grimaced. “They’re downplaying it. I really don’t have too much that says he’s coming here. We found some newspaper articles and some downloads. Evidently, he is not happy with the President and his failure to pass a decent crime bill. I had the FBI Director brief them while I was in transit. The President refuses to change his schedule; they claim their security is sufficient, but you know about guys like this one.”
“True,” Greg replied. What Jack had just described to him was the Secret Service’s worst case scenario: a lone gunman with no fear of being caught or killed while achieving his objective. To top it off, this man was a professional.
“Any proof that he’s here?” Greg asked.
“No, just my gut,” Jack replied.
Greg thought about it for another few seconds before making his decision. He pulled the radio from his vest and keyed the mic.
“This is Whitcomb. I want the Blue Team alerted at Quantico and sent to Reagan to meet the birds. Have the Gold Team members there come to the Hoover Building for new instructions.”
“What should they bring?” a voice answered.
“Everything.”
Greg looked at Jack. “You better be right on this, Jack; I just blew a lot of tax dollars. What have you done so far?”
“I have pictures being sent to you and the Service; they should be in the deck soon. We’re rechecking all hotel reservations in the area. NSA has a few phone numbers to track. We have his brother, but he’s not talking. Trying to break into his computer. Other than that, well . . . we’re reading a lot.”
“Okay, I’m gonna tighten this area down till it’s ready to pop. The deck is over fifty-two cards now, but we’ll add yours.” The deck was actually a stack of card-sized photos of people who had threatened the President or government at some point. Each agent had a deck they referred to as they scanned the crowd around the President.
Jack watched Greg as he fell silent for a moment, no doubt putting himself in the sniper’s position again. Something Jack himself had done many times before. The Mall between the White House and the Capitol Building was surrounded by tall buildings. Most of which were very old and had windows that opened. Although many had been sealed shut for just this reason, it was not hard to reopen one. Most of the buildings were also government offices, but the shooter could well be a government employee or pose as one. Jack had also mentioned that he used explosives. The coverage included dogs and electronic explosive detectors. But dogs got tired, and the electronic devices gave too many false readings. On top of all this, you had countless protestors from countless causes on every nearby street, with the press everywhere to cover it all, every one of them wearing heavy clothes and long coats that could be concealing anything.
It was a losing battle. The fact that it would be dark at the time of the speech would only aid the shooter. There was one thing that would help.
Greg looked up and saw Jack watching him.
“Sucks, don’t it,” Jack said.
Greg smiled and shook his head. “I was about to ask if you could arrange to have it rain tonight. A nice cold torrential downpour. Something to drop visibility to around . . . oh, I don’t know . . . ten feet or so?”
“Wish I could. That would solve a bunch of problems. Listen, I have to go find my crew and see if we have anything new. Can I borrow a radio?”
Greg reached to the small of his back and produced his backup radio. He spun the dials for a few seconds and then placed it in Jack’s hand.
“My backup. It’s encrypted. You can reach me and any of my team, and the Secret Service monitors it at all times. Next channel is Washington P.D. followed by EMS and Border Patrol, State of Maryland, State of Virginia, and on down the line. Batteries are good till tomorrow. For God’s sake, don’t lose it. I’d be in paperwork for a year. Need some 5-50?”
Jack smiled. Greg was asking if he needed any parachute cord to tie the radio to himself. Something they did in basic training with new recruits and their weapons.
