* * *
By mid-morning the centre of Washington had almost ground to a halt, people streaming in from all directions, the National Mall a sea of people, protestors packed most tightly around the Capitol, everyone sensing that history was in the making. The authorities had reacted by finally calling into service several thousand National Guard, the troops waiting a mile to the north-east and ready to protect major government buildings should the need arise, the Capitol the main concern.
The majority of Senators and Congressmen had arrived well before nine; police escorting them into the Capitol through a well-behaved if vociferous crowd. Dick Thorn was back on station close to the west entrance, a new line-up of influential supporters brought forth to entertain the crowd: musicians, comedians, businessmen, and retired military – it was all building up nicely for the start of the Joint Session of Congress, everyone aware that the only item on the emergency agenda was the confirmation of the Vice-President.
Perversely, Cavanagh was not expected to attend, rumours circulating that he was too frightened of being ridiculed, or that there had been a threat on his life; others assumed it was considered unwise to put all of the nation’s leaders together in one isolated building, especially with a hostile crowd outside.
Four massive screens had been erected along the National Mall to show the live television broadcast from the House Chamber, the Speaker the presiding official, his reputation for being an impatient chairman likely to be put to the test.
The accepted process for confirmation was days of hearings in front of the Senate Rules Committee and then separately before the House Judiciary Committee. Each one would then make its recommendation, to be followed by further debate and a vote; first by the Senate and finally by the House of Representatives.
The urgent needs of the moment ensured that such a long-winded process was abandoned for a simple debate and dual vote. Or perhaps not that simple – no-one doubted it would last hours, maybe even a few days, but presumably not weeks. If it became clear that the President’s nominee would never be confirmed, then Congress would move on to debate Cavanagh’s second-choice; not that he had actually named a back-up option. Although there was no legal reason to prevent Congress pursuing their slimmed-down procedure, the media’s legal experts were in a frenzy over the changes, with many questioning whether such a truncated process could ever be just.
The nomination itself came in the form of a letter from the President, the Speaker reading out aloud the formal and to-the-point text. “Pursuant to the provisions of Section 2 of the Twenty-fifth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States, I hereby nominate Robert Deangelo of Annapolis to be Vice-President of the United States.”
For the watching crowd, it was almost a non-event. Although virtually everyone recognised the name, few knew much about the Secretary of Defence. Was it even legal to nominate someone from the Cabinet?
Apparently it was, the Speaker moving quickly on to read an opening statement from Deangelo. The initial response from the members of Congress was subdued, details of Cavanagh’s nomination only revealed to many of them once they had arrived that morning. Some had had more time than others to digest the details, and senior Democrats had met for some two hours to discuss what to do. Deangelo’s record was more impressive than many had feared: age 48, married, one son; Major in the 69th Armour Regiment, served in Iraq and awarded the Silver Star; Lieutenant-Governor of Maryland; various White House positions under Obama; CEO of a Maryland consulting firm, then picked by Cavanagh to be his campaign manager.
Deangelo’s own presentation to Congress was restrained but confident and over the course of the next two hours, he was quizzed and questioned, the main focus the economy and U.S. external relations. Asked what the President should do to solve the problems of the South China Sea, Deangelo simply replied ‘whatever it takes, even if that means war with China’. When pressed, he refused to be more specific, implying that it was unwise to tell your enemy exactly what you had planned.
The Speaker called a break; it was also an opportunity to get a straw poll as to the members’ views, no-one wanting to put Deangelo’s nomination to a formal vote until the outcome was absolutely clear, whichever way it went. Deangelo had obviously made an impression, but so far he was not the Vice-President Congress wanted.
Sidearm Leader – 23:50 Local Time; 15:50 UTC
The two aircraft flew almost due south through the night, the fighters skimming along barely 40 metres above the waves: no radar and no guiding messages from the Chinese AWACS. Liu wasn’t quite flying blind, the many hours spent adapting to the helmet’s integrated night vision goggles finally put to good use. It was a dangerous game even for experienced pilots, but for Sidearm Flight it was a necessary gamble if they were to have any chance of besting their compatriots.
Twenty kilometres to the east flew Nightowl Flight, a hefty prize available for the first pilot to breech the U.S. exclusion zone. Liu visualised it purely as a psychological barrier around the American carrier, a protective bubble that needed to be burst in order to prove that China could now compete on equal terms with a world superpower.
Liu’s computer display indicated that the edge of the American exclusion zone was no more than fifteen kilometres distant and he scoured the night sky for some sign of American fighters, the image through the goggles always slightly disorientating whenever he changed focus.
Four kilometres to the exclusion zone… Abruptly the radio burst into life, Nightowl Leader screaming out a warning.
“Wei, break left! Two missiles!”
There was a garbled response from Nightowl’s wingman, then silence. Liu was still taking in what had happened when there was a warning tone in his ear. Instinctively, he started to climb, pulling left, wanting space to dart and weave. He flicked on the radar to Raid Assessment Mode, arming two of his missiles, now more concerned with saving his life than winning a prize. His wingman was still on station, the radar revealing a pair of Hornets above and ahead of them, some twelve kilometres distant.
Liu briefly acquired missile lock and then the two Hornets suddenly split apart, the lead Hornet pulling sharply right. Liu reacted instantly, throwing the J-15 after the Hornet in a gut-crunching turn. The Hornet levelled before sweeping almost vertically upwards, the g-force on Liu increasing dramatically as the J-15 gave chase. Moments later the Hornet plummeted back down towards the sea, both aircraft jinking for position in a modern-day dogfight, each trying to outmanoeuvre the other as they weaved random patterns across the sky.
Liu caught sight of his wingman and the flare of a missile, then the Hornet broke to the left, before twisting around to the right and back again to the left. The rapid series of turn-reversals caught Liu out, forcing him to overshoot his target. Even as he wrenched the fighter around, a high-pitched warble sounded, a flashing red light confirming that the Hornet had achieved missile lock.
Liu sensed the two bright stars that came leaping towards him, and he banked sharply, forcing the Sidewinder missiles to try and match his turn. Desperately he pressed the decoy release switch – infra-red and radar decoys would automatically be released until the pursuing missiles lost lock or no more decoys remained.
The two Sidewinders were far too clever to be distracted, but at a speed close to Mach 3 the first missile failed to correct for Liu’s sudden turn and it whipped past the fighter’s tail. The second missile twisted slightly, detonating an instant later in front of the Chinese plane.
The J-15 simply disintegrated.
Washington, D.C. – 11:56 Local Time; 16:56 UTC
Flores and Anderson stood together on the southern edge of Capitol Hill, Anderson still fixated with the idea that McDowell’s task was as yet incomplete. The two men who had escaped from Terrill with McDowell had been identified as Lee Preston and a Martin Lavergne, the latter’s involvement with France’s Special Forces helping ensure Anderson’s earlier concerns had gained a certain merit. It wasn’t so much the buildings surroundin
g the National Mall that were the problem, more their height, Lavergne now also confirmed as Paige Hanson’s murderer. Just to be sure, the FBI had decided to check the integrity of all the buildings with direct line of sight of the Capitol: most were government facilities, the rest similarly high-security, and if McDowell was maintaining his interest in Thorn, then it certainly wasn’t from on high.
Anderson’s gaze swept west to east along the Mall, finally settling on the steps of the Capitol’s lower terrace where Thorn and Henry held court, his view partially blocked by trees. He couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that McDowell was also watching from somewhere close by, waiting for the right moment.
But to do what exactly? The Capitol and the White House were the obvious targets, but surely too well protected for him to have any hope of success. And what would be his objective? Cavanagh was on his way out, which seemed to suggest either the Speaker of the House or maybe Bob Deangelo – not that Anderson was convinced either way.
The demonstrators in front of Thorn were packed a hundred or more deep and McDowell would ideally be positioned somewhere a little less claustrophobic, perhaps even worried that his six-foot-four frame would make him slightly easier to pick out amongst the crowd. The rest of the National Mall was similarly jam-packed, and the only relatively clear area was to the east of the Capitol Building.
“You said earlier,” Flores remarked, breaking into Anderson’s thoughts, “that we should work out who gained most out of all this.” Flores seemed happy to indulge Anderson’s paranoia, the Englishman’s instincts so far proving to be effective if a little last-minute.
“At the moment that doesn’t seem to be Thorn,” replied Anderson. “Not unless he intends to obliterate Congress and American democracy along with it.”
Flores persevered, “Bob Deangelo, then?”
“Not sure; the way they’re arguing it doesn’t look like he’s going to get enough votes.”
“Maybe that’s a good reason for McDowell to be close at hand; just in case he needs to give Congress a bit of encouragement.”
“You mean by attacking the Capitol?” Anderson shook his head dismissively, “The building looks pretty secure to me and the National Guard can always be here in a couple of minutes. At worst, all he’d do would be delay proceedings; maybe force them to postpone for the day – and what’s the point of that?”
“It would keep up the pressure,” asserted Flores. “And maybe swing a few more votes to Deangelo.”
Anderson still wasn’t convinced. “Physically attacking Congress isn’t McDowell’s style and Deangelo would have to be desperate to support it. In any case, McDowell would need a trigger, some excuse to justify such extreme action.”
Flores was still sticking with his idea, just adjusting it slightly. “Okay; what if Thorn or Henry became a target? Shooting one of them would be a pretty good trigger.”
Anderson turned to face Flores, brow furrowed. “I still don’t see how that helps Deangelo get the nomination?”
“As I said, it keeps up the pressure on Congress to take a vote. More so if the shooter’s wearing an FBI jacket or is one the Capitol’s own police – they stormed the Bastille for less.”
Anderson doubted Flores’ history but he understood the logic, and the shooting incident outside the White House had already put the crowd on edge. Abruptly Flores turned away, left hand pressed to his ear.
“There’s been an air battle near the Spratly Islands,” Flores announced. “China’s shot down one of our planes and we’ve downed three of theirs… If McDowell wanted to pick his moment, he couldn’t do better than now.”
He broke off to speak urgently into his radio, ordering in more men, the drone cameras circling over the Mall now having something specific to look for. It might be a foolish notion but to Flores it seemed a perfectly reasonable next step – if not Thorn or Henry, then any innocent victim might do just as well.
Anderson moved closer to the edge of the demonstrators, wondering where on earth McDowell might strike. The adjacent buildings had already been ruled out and the trees to either side would block-off line of sight for a sniper; but if Flores was right, the buildings were irrelevant, the demonstrators needing to at least identify the shooter’s uniform. Maybe it wouldn’t even be a man with a gun. Yet whatever happened, the National Mall was so thronged with people Anderson couldn’t see how someone could hope to escape scot-free, especially if a uniform singled them out.
“We’ve got agents doing a sweep across the Mall for McDowell, Preston and Lavergne,” Flores confirmed, moving to stand beside Anderson. “The Capitol Police will do the same.”
Flores passed across his phone, Anderson trying to imprint the images of Preston and Lavergne onto his brain.
“All the agents in the Mall,” continued Flores, “are only carrying handguns. Maybe we’ll get lucky and see one with an M4 rifle or sub-machine gun – problem solved.”
Anderson wasn’t so confident: FBI agents were hardly welcome in the Mall and the closer they got to Thorn the more awkward their reception. But then that might also make it more difficult for McDowell. The FBI were now having to risk life and limb trying to stop someone who was possibly shooting to miss; not that the bystanders would know that, and Flores seemed equally motivated by the fear that people would be killed in the resultant panic.
Flores and Anderson began to elbow their way through the outer edges of the crowd, heading closer to Thorn. Anderson almost wished he wasn’t wearing his new FBI jacket, but he had no intention of revealing his fears in front of Flores. Unlike the genuine agents, he had no gun and no headset; it could easily be argued that as a foreigner it wasn’t even his fight – or maybe it was everyone’s, McDowell a terrorist by any common-sense definition.
It took almost five minutes to reach the curved terrace which led up to the Capitol’s west entrance. Thorn stood some fifty yards away, talking to his wife; Mayor Henry was a few yards further on, deep in conversation with a small group of elderly supporters.
A small space had opened up around Anderson and Flores, as though the two of them were somehow contaminated. Anderson started looking for similar gaps in the close-packed sea of faces in front of Thorn, Flores using binoculars to pan across the crowd and back towards the Mall, trying to pick out anyone in uniform or a white male taller than those around him.
More agents were starting to push their way through towards Thorn, it merely adding to the problem, with protestors starting to notice and reacting with catcalls and shouts. Even Thorn seemed aware that something was happening, and he called across a young female marshal, the two of them standing together to search out the cause of the disturbance.
Anderson pushed his way closer. Suddenly, there was the double crack of gunshots; Thorn’s left arm was tugged aside and the young woman’s head jerked back, a spray of bright-red clouding the scene. A terrified scream cut through the background noise, the people close by starting to react, some looking confused, a few trying to fight their way clear. Thorn stood frozen, blood dripping down his arm; then slowly he knelt down beside the young woman, her body lying motionless on the terrace.
Two more shots rang out and one of Thorn’s bodyguards collapsed to the ground. The second attack opened the floodgates of panic and within seconds the March for Reform turned into a chaotic scramble to escape.
Anderson had caught a vague glimpse of a raised arm and a gun, and he shouted at Flores before barging his way forwards. He sensed Flores following-on behind, and then he was fighting his way through a pack of terrified people. The noise was a like a torrent washing over him, yet he could clearly hear a strident voice repeatedly shouting out the words “FBI murderers!”
Up ahead, he glimpsed two men struggling with a third, the latter wearing an FBI jacket, his view abruptly blocked as someone stood directly in front of him. Anderson saw a man’s scowling face before a fist was aimed at him, the man barely touching Anderson as he in turn was shoved by someone else.
Anderson
ducked to one side and kept moving. Scuffles seemed to be going on all around him, their FBI jackets a magnet for anyone who had a score to settle. Further back along the Mall, the crowd had heard the gunshots and screams, and were starting to respond. Strangely, many seemed unconcerned that they might be the next to be shot, the assumption made that Thorn had been the target. People were pressing closer towards the Capitol, some stopping to help those that had been knocked to the ground and trampled on; several young children were grabbed by strangers to protect them, their terrified parents struggling to stay in touch.
More shots, this time from nearer the treeline to the north. Anderson finally fought his way to the main disturbance: a man in an FBI uniform lay unmoving on the ground, a second agent held in a bear hug by a demonstrator; in front stood a taller figure, right fist pulling back.
Anderson was momentarily confused, brain focusing on the trapped agent’s face and trying to work out whether it was Preston or Lavergne. Abruptly, he realised his mistake, the taller man the only one to strike a chord.
The pent-up anger of some eighteen months added impetus to Anderson’s charge and he launched himself at the man. Despite some attempt to disguise himself, Anderson knew with certainty it was McDowell. The latter seemed to sense the attack, his fist changing direction to try and fend off Anderson. Bigger, stronger, far more experienced – it should have been no contest, Anderson’s only real advantage his utter determination to win.
The wider fight to left and right dragged in others, Flores amongst them; Anderson’s only concern was McDowell, the two of them rolling around in the dirt, fists and hands used to try and gain some advantage. Anderson was taking punches, but he was scoring as well, managing to land several hefty blows to McDowell’s head and face. Anderson somehow managed to find himself on top; McDowell lying half-stunned. A vicious jab from Anderson bloodied the American’s mouth and nose and Anderson raised his fist once more.
Without warning, his arms were grasped from behind and he was pulled upright, a punch to the stomach doubling him over. He was hit again and Anderson sank to his knees, incensed that McDowell might be allowed to get away.
Around him there were screams and shouts, people brawling; complete chaos. Suddenly, he was grabbed by the arms and lifted up, two men in FBI uniforms half-dragging him away.
He tried to speak and point towards McDowell but all he could manage was a retching gasp, frustrated eyes watching as McDowell disappeared into the welcoming embrace of the crowd.
The Trust Of The People Page 57
