The President's Daughter

by James Patterson

  The target house, Ross thinks. There you are.

  Are you in there, Mel Keating?

  Ross asks, “Any chance whoever’s inside might hear or see you?”

  Collins says, “Only if they have next-gen thermal imaging and acoustic detection equipment that even the Chinese and Russians don’t have yet. Kestrel is pretty rad and good at what she does…we’re about ten thousand feet up, damn near invisible…and here we go.”

  Ross is used to the high-quality equipment the DOD has and sometimes lends to the FBI, but this drone footage is so crisp and clear he feels as though he’s hovering above the house. This equipment is so secret he and his fellow HRT members had to sign documents kicking up their classification levels so they could see what it can do. He can even make out splotches of lichen and moss on the edges of the shingles on the house’s roof.

  The camera zooms in even more, dipping and yawing, and the home looks empty. Nobody on the front lawn or rear lawn. Small dirt beach empty. No boats tied up to the dock.

  Collins says, “We got fresh tire tracks in the dirt driveway.”

  Ross checks his watch. How far from this staging area to that dirt road? How many more minutes before the first teams there report back?

  “Hey, Mr. FBI!”

  He turns to Claire—yes, that’s her name, Claire Boone from the NSA, one tough-looking young lady, even with the T-shirt and torn jeans—and she says, “The local electric company is called Liberty Utilities. I’ve accessed their system and got a real-time read off that home’s electrical meter, which is one of those smart meters. It was pretty flat for the past three months but there’s been a fifty percent uptick in kilowatt-hour usage in the past three days.”

  One of Ross’s HRT guys approaches him and says, “Somebody’s moved in.”

  Collins says, “All right, Agent Faulkner, let’s see if we can sneak a peek inside.”

  The Air Force lieutenant works the keyboard, and in a quick moment, the overhead view of the house changes over to a black-and-white spectral ghost image reading thermal heat sources from inside.

  Three fuzzy blobs of white appear.

  Two seem to be together, in the kitchen area.

  The third blob is fainter.

  Ross says, “Lieutenant, what are we seeing?”

  Collins says, “Kestrel is showing two people in the kitchen of the target house. Based on their location, it seems like they’re around a table or something. Maybe having a late breakfast. I’m also seeing a faint heat signature from what appears to be a stove.”

  Ross is trying to keep focused, steady, but his heart rate and breathing are quickening.

  “And the third image?”

  “Pretty faint,” Collins says. “Like the person is in the cellar below the two other persons.”

  “Gus,” he quickly says to his communications officer. “Get the word out to the director. We’ve got a good hit, and we’re responding.”

  Ross raises his voice. “Assault teams, saddle up! We’re going to get the president’s daughter!”

  Chapter

  54

  Saunders Hotel

  Arlington, Virginia

  I open the door connecting the two suites in time to see FBI director Lisa Blair come in via the hallway door, with four agents following her, two of them carrying large black hard plastic cases. They pass Madeline Perry, my chief of staff, and other Secret Service agents and the skeletal staff from my failed reelection campaign from two years ago.

  “Mr. President,” Lisa says, approaching me. “Sorry I snapped at you back there.”

  I open the door wider.

  “I deserved it,” I say. “What do you have?”

  Agent David Stahl stands up from his desk and laptop, and my wife gets off the bed, her face lightening up, hands clasped in front of her, and Blair’s four agents—two female and two male—come in and quickly get to work, unpacking the hard plastic cases, pulling out keyboards, computers, and terminal screens. Madeline Perry comes in as well, her hands clasped, like she’s uttering a silent prayer.

  Lisa says, “A sighting came in from a police officer who located a black Cadillac Escalade in a garage at a remote home, next to a pond, at the end of a long dirt road. Isolated. The police officer says she saw Asim Al-Asheed walk from the garage to the house a few hours ago.”

  My fists instinctively clench.

  Got you, you slippery bastard.

  “Has it been verified?” I ask. Sam comes next to me and I put an arm around her waist.

  Lisa says, “Our HRT section is based at a regional high school near the town of Monmouth. It has reps from the NSA and the Air Force. The NSA has retrieved utility records from the target house. The kilowatt-hour usage was pretty flat until recently. The house should be empty. It’s being used.”

  “And the Air Force?” I ask. “What do they have?”

  On the table I was working from earlier, agents are setting up a thin terminal screen and plugging in a power plug and cables to black boxes and keyboards.

  “Give me a second and we’ll show you,” the FBI director says. “Cynthia, show us the latest feed from the target house.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” a slim FBI agent says.

  To the FBI director I say, “Lisa…don’t get me wrong. I appreciate this more than you know. But why aren’t you back at the White House, or at the Hoover building?”

  She gives me a hard glance. “This is where I want to be. This is where I belong, Mr. President.”

  “Ma’am,” says Cynthia, the FBI agent. “Here’s the current video feed from Monmouth.”

  I instantly recognize the kind of black-and-white footage that pops up on the screen, the overhead view of a good-sized house, the numbers along the side and bottom indicating altitude, time, and date, the longitude and latitude of the spot the drone is hovering over. But what really catches my attention are the three white shapes in the house, two brighter than the third. I think I know what I’m seeing but I don’t want to guess.

  Lisa takes control, tapping a finger on the little white shapes.

  “Thermal imaging. The Air Force liaison officer says the two brighter shapes are people in the kitchen. The third, fainter shape is someone in the basement.”

  Samantha gasps and brings a hand to her face.

  Maddie, standing next to her, grabs Sam’s hand, gives it a comforting squeeze.

  A chubby male FBI officer—a random thought comes to mind: How did he pass the Bureau’s grueling physical requirements?—wearing a headset with a mic says, “Ma’am, I’ve got Special Agent Faulkner on the horn.”

  “Let’s hear him,” she says, and to me she adds, “He’s the HRT section leader in New Hampshire.”

  A hiss and crackling sound comes from the terminal’s speakers, and Lisa says in a louder voice, “Agent Faulkner, this is Director Blair. Do you read me?”

  “Five by five, ma’am,” says a strong male voice, and it’s a type of voice I’ve heard before. It belongs to an experienced and sharp-edged operator, in his zone and ready to get the job done.

  God, do I wish I was there with him and the others.

  Lisa says, “I’ve got President Keating and his wife with me, with others, and we’re getting a visual feed from the Air Force asset. What’s your status?”

  “Ma’am, we’ve got four sniper/observers who are at the property. They’re currently getting into position and will be giving us a report shortly. We’re rolling an assault team and other units to that location now.”

  In a soft voice I say to the FBI director, “Ask Agent Faulkner if we could get the drone imaging to zoom out. I want to see more of the property.”

  “Agent Faulkner,” Lisa says. “Could you have the Air Force liaison zoom out the current imaging to get a wider view of the target area?”

  “Roger that, ma’am,” he says.

  Slowly the black-and-white image on the screen zooms out, revealing a pond, a dock, and what looks to be a dirt driveway, and then I see what I so despe
rately want to see.

  Four thermal images, two on each side of the driveway in the woods, slowly approaching the house.

  As Agent Faulkner promised, four FBI scout snipers are closing in.

  I reach for Sam’s free hand and she leans into me. Maddie is still holding on from Sam’s right side.

  “Sam, look,” I whisper. “We’re getting our girl back.”

  Chapter

  55

  Macomber residence

  Monmouth, New Hampshire

  FBI special agent Chris Whitney is a three-year veteran of the HRT, and even though he’s been on hundreds of training missions and half a dozen real ops, he is working hard to stay focused and work with the team to get this job done, to free President Keating’s daughter, and not act like an FNG getting the shakes.

  No shakes today.

  Get the job done.

  Get the president’s daughter out safely.

  He is firmly hidden in a line of trees and low brush that’s about twenty meters away from the dirt driveway, with a good view of the front of the three-bay garage and the near house. He’s wearing a camouflage Nomex jumpsuit, ballistic helmet, and a MOLLE vest with a Springfield .45-caliber pistol holstered to it, along with a .223 HK416 automatic rifle and spare ammunition for both guns.

  The three other sniper/observers are similarly armed, and prior to their coming here, Chris and those three guys came to an unofficial understanding. The normal rules of engagement are that they’re not to open fire unless one of the two terrorists inside—either Asim Al-Asheed or his cousin Faraj—are holding weapons.

  Screw that. Chris and other HRT operators know of Boyd Tanner from SEAL Team Two, and how he was nailed to a tree in Afghanistan by the bastard inside that house and his friends. So if Chris or anyone else gets a good shot at Asim, even if he’s just holding a kitten, a .308 full-metal-jacket round is going to separate his brain stem from his spine, and to hell with any Monday-morning quarterbacking.

  Chris slowly moves a bit closer, still getting a great view of the front side of the house. Fellow sniper Javier Delgado is up by the garage, and Henry Fong and Tom Plunkett are on the other side of the house.

  From the earpiece snug inside his right ear come the quiet professional words of his fellow snipers.

  “Delgado is on scene.”

  “Fong on scene.”

  “Plunkett on scene.”

  It used to be that these transmissions would be in code, like Sierra One or Hotel Four, but years of experience showed that clear names and clear language reduced the chances of miscommunication.

  Chris toggles a switch. “Faulkner, this is Whitney. All on scene, eyes on target.”

  The voice of the HRT team leader comes through. “Roger that. Immediate Action Team is on station at the end of the road. They’re en route.”

  Chris maintains eyes on target, his customized Remington model 700 bolt-action rifle firm in his grasp. He’s looking through a Leupold Mark 6 3-18x44mm telescopic sight. In every week of training, he and the other HRT operators fire more than a thousand rounds of ammunition at various targets.

  He’s hoping he gets a chance to add one or two more to that total today.

  “Whitney, this is Delgado,” he hears through his radio earpiece.

  “Go,” he says.

  Javier says, “Got a quick peek into the garage. Apparently empty of people. But I saw a black Cadillac Escalade inside.”

  “Roger that,” Chris says. “Faulkner, you copy?”

  “Affirmative,” the HRT team leader says. “Immediate Action Team should be at your location in sixty seconds.”

  Chris takes a moment to check his watch. Nearly noon.

  Surprise, surprise, Asim, he thinks, your demands are going to be answered in less than a minute.

  With love and good wishes.

  A flicker of movement.

  Two groups of three armed black-clad men burst from the near tree line, and in seconds, they are at the bay window in front of the house and at the side door.

  Chris is looking through the scope sight, his finger near the trigger, needing only a few ounces of applied pressure to fire off a round.

  C’mon, Asim, he thinks.

  Come to me.

  Chapter

  56

  White House Situation Room

  President Pamela Barnes is at the head of the table in the Situation Room, her husband, Richard, at her left, and Gary Reynolds, deputy director of the FBI, at her right. Other White House Situation Room staff are in the room, along with two female FBI agents accompanying the deputy director. In normal circumstances, her vice president—Oregon senator Coleman Pelletier—would be here, but thankfully, he’s on a ten-day goodwill tour in South America, far away from the White House media and from Richard, who despises the man. A while back, Richard said, “That fool helped us get into the White House, but to call him an empty suit is an insult to quality fabric.”

  Three large video screens are on the wall at the other end of the table. One is off. The screen on the left shows the end of a dirt road that intersects with a paved road, and that little juncture is filled with New Hampshire State Police cruisers, Humvees, and black Chevrolet Suburbans belonging to the Hostage Rescue Team. A police line with wooden barricades has been set up on the main road, and it seems as though the entire New England press corps is gathering there. Earlier, Barnes received a report that the FAA cleared all the airspace around that part of New Hampshire so no news helicopters will interfere with the unfolding operation.

  The third video screen offers a view of the target house, where thermal imaging shows two subjects on the main floor, and a third, fainter image indicates someone in the basement.

  Deputy director Reynolds is slim and tense-looking in a dark gray suit, and has a hearing bud in his left ear. He’s narrating what is happening, and—for all that’s holy, Barnes thinks—what is about to happen.

  “The HRT team leader reports that the scout snipers are on scene, and that one of them has confirmed there’s a black Cadillac Escalade in the garage.”

  Barnes just nods.

  “The assault team is moving into position. They will be breaching the house and entering in less than a minute.”

  A warm sense of satisfaction and anticipation is beginning to grow within her.

  Richard was right. Refuse to pay the ransom, let the professionals do it.

  She turns and smiles at her husband and chief of staff, but instead of smiling back, he whispers, “I still call bullshit on FBI director Blair going over to Matt Keating’s hotel room. She should be here, not her deputy. That’s her damn job.”

  Barnes whispers back, “It can wait. Let’s just get through the day.”

  That brightens his face. “Told you it would all work out, Madam President. By this time next week, your poll numbers will be up at least twenty points. Then you’re going to fire Director Blair and that idiot clodhopper who’s running Homeland Security.”

  Barnes turns back to the aerial view of the road. Astounding how crisp and clear the footage is. It reminds her again of the tremendous waste and resources hidden within the DOD budget, and how it’s soon going to be time to take a really good look and squeeze out that misuse, no matter how many military contractors squeal.

  Reynolds says, “Assault teams are in position.”

  The warm feeling of excitement and anticipation that Barnes is feeling grows larger. Richard slides out a piece of paper from a leather folder and says, “Madam President, we’ll be having a media availability at 12:30 p.m. in the Rose Garden. Here are your remarks to review when you get a moment.”

  Barnes raises a hand, her signal to her chief of staff for Not now; later, please, and Reynolds says, “Ten seconds, Madam President.”

  “Very good,” she says.

  Focusing on the screen before her, she hears Deputy Director Reynolds say, “They’re moving now.”

  And although she’s been a guest at training sessions over the years for ever
yone from the Green Berets to Marine Recon, all showing off how good they are with their high-priced weapons and military toys in an attempt to get more funding, Barnes does have grudging respect for how fast these FBI agents are.

  Two groups of three men (and why aren’t any women there?) burst from the tree line and go to the house. They split up, and three go to the front, to a large window, and the other three go to the side, where there’s another window and a door.

  Richard whispers into her ear, “We’re going to run this footage 24/7 in our TV spots when you’re up for reelection, Madam President.”

  She smiles.

  It’s going to be all right after all.

  Chapter

  57

  Saunders Hotel

  Arlington, Virginia

  There’s a rush of memories coming at me as I see the clear and crisp color footage from the overhead drone, showing in great detail the HRT team’s assault on the house holding Asim Al-Asheed, Faraj Al-Asheed, and Melanie Keating.

  I’m still holding my wife’s left hand, and Madeline Perry is still on the other side, holding her right hand, and I stare and remember all of my past training drills and ops in Iraq and Afghanistan, remember the cold, calm feeling of doing your job, performing what you were trained for, confident in your skills and those of your team members. Hard to believe that there’s no real fear, just the tunnel vision of realizing what’s ahead, what’s at stake.

  I silently say “Go, go, go” as I see the two three-man squads erupt from the tree line, knowing that there are four snipers in the woods providing overwatch and that there are now HRT vehicles racing up the dirt road to join the action.

  There are radio-crisp messages coming out of the speakers, and even Director Blair remains silent as the operation unfolds.

  The first team reaches the bay window up front, clustered together and working as one, all dressed in camouflage Nomex jumpsuits, helmets, and goggles, weapons and gear firmly strapped to their torsos.