Welsh looked over his shoulder. It was the commanding officer of Team 6. Captain Al Hasford was tall and lean, with a carefully maintained moustache and the glittery eyes of an all-pro linebacker.
Welsh was glad Hasford was there. Normally Team 6 kept one assault group in Afghanistan, one in Iraq, and one home in the U.S. on training and standby. Delta did the same with its squadrons. With that kind of rotation the commanding officer was quite often forward-deployed. Welsh had been worried that this detachment would be under Team 6's executive or operations officer, who'd insist on getting on the satellite phone with the CO before every decision. "Just checking out the scene."
"You look worried," said Hasford.
"I am."
"Well, you're the guy who should know. What else do we need to do to be ready?"
Welsh felt comfortable around Hasford. The man was a real leader, and secure enough to listen to any point of view. As far as Welsh was concerned, that was what got the job done. "Smash all that shit," he said, gesturing toward the office down the hall where the SOCOM communications detachment had set up what looked to be two of every type of radio in existence.
Hasford laughed. "No, really."
"I mean it," said Welsh. "If comm with Washington goes out at the right time, we might just make it."
"I signed for it all," Hasford said with mock horror. "My kids would have to forget about going to college."
Welsh smiled in spite of himself.
"Seriously, though," said Hasford. "Did we forget anything?"
"We're as ready as we can be," Welsh replied. "But you know as well as I do that it's always some staff puke who fucks you up."
"You don't worry about something that's out of your hands. All you can do is make sure your shit is together."
"It chills my balls when I think about the consequences of a screwup."
"We're locked and cocked," Hasford said confidently. Then he whispered, "I'm not even worried about Clark."
The commanding officer of Joint Special Operations Command, a 3-star SEAL admiral, was currently in Afghanistan. His second in command, Army Major General Clark, was in operational command at Andrews.
"Not bad for an Army general," Welsh conceded. It was common knowledge in defense circles that even though the Army had a whole lot of generals, talent-wise their bench had been very thin as of late. One of the reasons why Petraeus was seemingly doing every job in the world.
"Amazing anything gets done at all, ain't it?" Hasford said with a grin. "But Clark'll be fine."
"Seems to know his shit," Welsh admitted. "But he sure gets Van Brocklin uptight, though." Lieutenant Colonel Van Brocklin commanded the detachment of the 160th.
"Nervous as a whore in the front pew of church," said Hasford. "Brock's worried about his fitness report, wants to be a general too. Look, chill out. You got us that database of federal building blueprints in record time. That was a really nice job."
"It wasn't easy," said Welsh with typical military humor. "I nearly had to suck every dick in Washington."
"That," Hasford said emphatically, "is exactly what liaison officers are for."
They both burst into laughter.
"I know," said Welsh, shaking his head. "I've been a real downer lately. And I've got no right to be, since you guys are a hell of a lot more fun than the FBI. But I am fucking sick and tired of watching firsthand while these bastards do a job on us."
"Where do you think they'll hit next?"
"D.C," said Welsh. "My money is all on D.C.."
CHAPTER 30
The traffic around the White House was light at 4:00 in the morning. Hafiz and Karim made excellent time as they methodically toured the streets in their sporty little Toyota van. Resting on the bench seat behind Karim was a collection of jars and bottles. The containers were filled with PETN explosive from a fresh batch they'd made in Fredericksburg, each one primed with an electric blasting cap wired to a nine-volt battery and a simple watch timer. Whenever they passed a trash receptacle near street poles carrying traffic lights or electrical transformers, Karim would wrap a bomb in newspaper, jump out the passenger door, and bury the device deep in the trash can. They had no illusions that the bombs would disrupt operations at the White House—the building had its own self-contained power supply. The explosives were intended to cause confusion and snarl traffic around the executive mansion at the appropriate time.
After seeding their packages at all the crucial intersections leading to the White House, they turned down Constitution Avenue and crossed the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge into Arlington, Virginia.
Except for Karim's occasional orders, it had been quiet most of the ride, though the atmosphere was not unfriendly. Hafiz was in a magnanimous mood; Ali had told him the day before that he would not be participating in the attack.
"I just want you to know," Hafiz said, as they were crossing the bridge, "that I wish you every success."
Karim did not reply.
"I realize there have been hard feelings between us," Hafiz persisted. "But I want to tell you I am sincere; I really do wish you the best"
"That is good of you," said Karim. "Pull in here," he added quickly, pointing to an exit at the end of the bridge.
Hafiz was glad there was no traffic; the van was moving fast and he barely made the turnoff. They circled around the brightly lit Iwo Jima Memorial on the edge of Arlington National Cemetery. Hafiz followed Karim's finger to a narrow road that separated the memorial from the cemetery. "Turn around," Karim ordered. "Pull in behind that tree and stop.
"Turn off the headlights," Karim said in exasperation. "We are trying not to attract attention."
"Sorry," Hafiz said apologetically, turning the switch. "What are we doing here?"
"We have one more package to drop off," Karim said, producing a brown paper bag from under his seat. He sat back for a moment, as if thinking. "Say, would you mind doing this for me? I feel a bit tired from all the running around."
"Of course," said Hafiz.
"There's a good fellow," said Karim, handing him the bag. "It's all ready to go. Just put it next to that bush, on the other side of the wall."
Hafiz got out on the driver's side. He walked in front of the van and gave a little wave to Karim in the passenger seat. Karim cheerfully waved back. A low brick wall bordered the cemetery. Hafiz carefully laid the package on top of it before climbing over. It took some time—he showed no evidence of muscular coordination. Watching from the van, Karim could only shake his head in disgust. Once he was safely on the other side, Hafiz retrieved the bag and headed for the bush. What he saw made him pause for a moment. The moon was setting, and its last reflections illuminated the endless symmetrical mounds of white stone. The light made it seem that the tombstones were leaning forward, straining to reach the nearby hill that dominated Washington. After an uneasy shiver, Hafiz hurried to the bush.
Karim had opened his passenger door before the van had come to a stop. During the conversation with Hafiz, he had held it slightly ajar with one hand. The interior lights had been disconnected to avoid attracting attention. Once Hafiz was over the fence, Karim slid silently out of the van. He sprang over the brick wall without making a sound.
Hafiz was gently laying the bag on the grass when he heard the quiet snap of fingers behind him. He whirled about and, incredibly, Karim was standing before him pointing a pistol at his face. Karim was far too experienced to say anything melodramatic, or give Hafiz time to cry out. By all rights he should have shot the spy in the back of the head while the man was leaning over. But he indulged himself by letting Hafiz see what was going to happen.
Two shots to the head, and the only noise the Russian PSS pistol made was a slight metallic click of the action cycling. Karim methodically emptied Hafiz's pockets and removed the watch and rings, putting everything in the paper bag. There was no bomb there, only trash. Karim rolled the corpse under the bush and made a last check of the ground. After peering cautiously over the wall to look for any passing
cars, he leaped over and got into the van, throwing the paper bag into the back. Whistling, Karim guided the van around the cemetery and onto Route 66. He thought he hadn't felt so good for a long, long time.
Arriving back at the house, Karim found Ali staring out a picture window facing the backyard. A working party of Guards were dragging the plastic wrapped bodies of Mehdi, Ghulam, and Mahmoud down to the basement.
"I want you to know that this was done according to the orders I was given," Ali said, still staring out the window.
"I understand," said Karim. "The secret of our country's involvement cannot be known. We all understand."
"Did you have any problems?"
"None at all," said Karim. "But you were right, I did need him to drive. The route was very complicated."
"I am only sorry I had to leave that job to you."
"Think nothing of it."
"Where did you leave the body?" Ali asked. Karim told him. "Fitting," Ali said, with a slightly bemused look. "Very fitting. You should get some sleep."
"I will. Just an hour or two."
Karim ordered the guards to wake him in two hours.
* * *
The bill-signing ceremony was scheduled to begin at 10:15 in the morning, in the Oval Office.
At 5:00 Ali was lying on the couch, checking online for any changes to the President's schedule and trying to get the taste of breakfast out of his mouth. Once again he had ignored the signals from his stomach, which was always the one part of his body to desert him under stress. He stretched out with his arms tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His repose was interrupted by Karim, who announced that the Guards were assembled in the recreation room for the final inspection.
The men were lined up in their team organization. During the training in Iran, they had been broken down into four assault teams, three support teams, and a mortar team.
Three of the Guards in the four-man assault teams were armed with the M-249 squad automatic weapon and as many fragmentation and smoke grenades as they could carry. The fourth carried an M-4 carbine and an AT-4 rocket launcher.
Each of the three-man support teams had one Guard armed with an M-240 machinegun, one with an M-16/M203 grenade launcher and an AT-4, and a third with an M-16 and three AT-4s.
The two-man 60mm mortar team would use one mortar and M-16s. The team would operate from its own van.
The Guards were dressed in khaki trousers, sneakers, a variety of civilian shirts, and blue nylon windbreakers of the kind American law enforcement wore. Theirs said 'Secret Service' in gold letters across the back. The Russian PSS silent pistols were secured in holsters beneath their clothing. To identify each other in the confusion of the attack, they wore red bandanas on their heads.
Even though it had not been a part of their training in Iran, Ali felt it would be foolish not to use the Marines' body armor vests. All the pouches for rifle and SAW magazines and grenades were mounted on them, the walkie-talkie radios were clipped to them, and in the back a pair of homemade firebombs were snapped into canteen pouches.
Since Ali felt that the Americans would use tear gas, the Guards had done all their training wearing gas masks. They used a French model with a wide bubble faceplate; high-capacity filter; and a valve that allowed the breathing of outside air, if desired.
When the inspection was over, Ali took the Sergeant Major off to one side. "Bring everyone up to the first floor," he said. "There is not enough room here."
"Will you give them a talk before we leave?"
"No, the time is long past for that. They are more than ready, and they have no need of any speeches I could give."
"Then why do you wish them all together, if I may ask?"
"To hold prayers," Ali said. "We will pray for victory in battle and the destruction of our enemies."
CHAPTER 31
At 9:40 in the morning, two vans filled with Iranian Revolutionary Guards were parked on H Street near the northern side of Lafayette Park, directly across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House.
Ali had been passing the time gazing at the White House through the trees. It was almost a letdown seeing it for the first time, since every small detail of its plan had already been committed to memory. A seven-foot iron fence surrounded the mansion grounds, to Ali's left was the East Wing; in the center the famous visage of the North Portico, with its four massive supporting columns. The portico was fronted by a fountain that was ringed by flowers just beginning to bloom. The main driveway was a semicircle; the two open ends began at vehicle gates spread far apart on Pennsylvania Avenue and joined in front of the North Portico. Branching off from the right side of the main driveway was a smaller drive leading directly to the West Wing entrance. And the West Wing was their target. Projecting off from the main White House, it held the offices of the executive staff and the Oval Office of the President of the United States. To the right of the West Wing, separated by a fence and a parking lot, was the old Executive Office Building, home to executive branch staffers not important enough to rate an office in the West Wing.
Ali did not see architecture. He saw fields of fire, cover and concealment, and obstacles. The wait had compacted his stomach into a tight knot, and he had to urinate though he had done so barely a half hour before. The bench seats of the van had been removed to facilitate a quick exit. The Guards looked otherworldly in their gas masks. Ali and the driver would not don theirs until the last minute.
Agent Dan Latimer strolled back and forth across the Oval Office carpet while a camera crew assembled its equipment. As was usual for televised events from the Oval Office, most of the furniture had been moved out into the hall to make room for the cameras. Today even more space was needed because the President, seated at his desk, would be flanked by key members of Congress and his cabinet while he signed legislation. As usual only one network camera crew would provide the pool broadcast of the event.
Latimer was assistant leader of the 7:00 to 3:00 shift of the White House Secret Service detail. As the number two man, he normally found himself directly responsible for the President's safety. It was the last month of his White House tour, and Latimer couldn't wait to get back to the relatively stable schedule of a field office and get reacquainted with his wife and kids.
The President was in the small private study just off the Oval Office, getting his makeup done. Another agent was with him. Along with the TV crew, various aides were flitting about, making sure the Teleprompter was loaded and spreading out the legislation and note cards on the desk. Others were putting down tape so the various VIPs surrounding the President would know where to stand; it wouldn't do for anyone to get crowded out of the picture. The White House chief of staff was moving about the room supervising everything—the man was all raw nerves before a television appearance. Latimer kept a careful eye on everything but still remained cool and impassive. He liked to think of the Secret Service as the eye of the hurricane when White House hysteria really cranked up.
The armored glass door leading to the Rose Garden was closed. A few TV crews were set up in the garden, but most waited near the driveway on the other side of the West Wing to record the impressions of the congressional participants.
Corporal Brian Hawkins, in full-dress blue uniform, stood at rigid parade rest outside the West Wing entrance. The Navy and Marine Corps Medal for gallantry hung over his left breast pocket and, beside it, the Purple Heart. He had received both, along with a meritorious promotion to corporal, for his actions on the USS Makin Island. Hawkins considered the hardware more a curse than a blessing. The general who pinned them on had come to the sudden conclusion that such an outstanding Marine should be assigned to the ceremonial unit at Marine Barracks 8th and I, in Washington. In the revelry over his inspiration, the general neglected to ask Hawkins's opinion. So Hawkins—who had previously considered it a major effort to shave daily, put on a fresh uniform, and clean off his boots—now found himself in the most rigidly spit-and-polish outfit in the Corps. He hated it.
Now Hawkins was sweating in his blues, the heaviest article of clothing known to man, and mentally cursing the lance corporal whose flu had put him on the door. He sighed wistfully, remembering how uncomplicated life had been as just another snuffy. Now, in addition to those whose only concern in life seemed to be the length of what little hair he was allowed to retain, the Corps was divided into two kinds of Marines: those who had heard about Makin Island and expected daily proof that he really deserved the medal and the armchair experts who thought he hadn't done anything special.
At least the White House detail was better than burying people at Arlington or drilling eight hours a day back at the barracks, but it was still a pain in the ass. It pissed Hawkins off that his sole occupation was to open a door and salute people who paid less attention to his physical presence than they did the color of the carpet. At least it was only a couple of hours at a time.
At 9:55, Ali clicked the transmit button of his walkie-talkie five times, and Selim, one of the three remaining shaheed, was let out of the van and began walking slowly across Lafayette Park toward the White House. Selim wore a baggy trench coat over a business suit and carried a briefcase. He had what appeared to be stereo headphones over his ears.
Ali clicked the transmit button three times. He would not make a radio call before the attack began. He assumed that the American Secret Service monitored all radio frequencies in Washington.
Van 3 was the Toyota, driven by the second shaheed, Houshang. He was parked on 17th Street, across from the Ellipse and southwest of the White House. He clicked his transmit button three times to acknowledge that he was ready.
Ali clicked four times.
Van 4 was the Aerostar, driven by Mustafa, the third shaheed. He was parked on 15th Street, near Ellipse Road, southeast of the White House. He clicked back four times.
The minute hand of Ali's watch moved agonizingly slowly toward 10:00. He could see Selim between the trees. The shaheed had crossed the street at the light and was walking past the Executive Office Building toward the White House. The second hand swept to the final minute. "Start the engine and pull out," Ali commanded the driver. They crept toward the traffic light at the Pennsylvania Avenue intersection. The second Econoline van followed behind.
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