Six Seconds

59

Seattle, Washington

Rick Mofina

Six Seconds

A King County sheriff’s helicopter thudded above the city in the clear morning sky.

People filled Pioneer Square and several surround ing blocks for a glimpse of the pope. Thirty-five thou sand, according to estimates coming through Blake Walker’s earpiece.

He scanned the faces at barricades and windows overlooking the square.

This was it.

His team’s turn to protect the pope.

Everyone on the Secret Service’s advance team had been pulling nineteen-hour days for this leg of the papal visit. Drawing from the watch list and working with local police, they’d studied the Service’s Trip File and The Album, they’d interviewed all the people who had ever uttered a threat against the pope, or the president.

No major security breaches had happened in Boston, New York, Miami, Houston or Los Angeles, the previous cities on the papal visit.

In New York, a seventy-six-year-old grandmother

354 Rick Mofina wrapped her arms around his neck and refused to release him as she broke down with emotion. In Los Angeles, a poor construction worker, whose wife had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, broke through the barricade and tugged at the Holy Father’s vestments before security escorted him back. Later, the pope met privately with the man and prayed with him.

Investigation and analysis of the marine border pene tration up the coast at the Strait of Juan de Fuca was ongoing. Preliminary reports had yielded nothing con clusive to constitute a threat.

Walker and senior agents continued working with all intelligence agencies. Nothing had emerged to corrobo rate the information from the capture of terror suspect Issa al-Issa obtained by secret operatives in the U.S.

U.S. and foreign intelligence desks continued to scour all chatter, reports and known activities of foreign terrorist organizations.

Walker knew that not every threat could be antici pated.

Not every action could be stopped.

But with hard work and vigilance, risks could be reduced. Unknown to the public, the traffic of threats against the pope was increasing.

Security in Seattle was overwhelming.

Uniformed officers were everywhere, along with armed officers and federal agents in plain clothes who blended with the crowd. Secret Service agents in suits formed a protective box that moved with the pope.

Sharpshooters and spotters from Seattle, King County, Washington State Patrol and the FBI and ATF lined the rooftops. Heavily armed officers patrolled the streets.

Six Seconds 355

High and unseen overhead, jet fighters provided top cover to guard against any aircraft attempting to pene trate restricted airspace in a suicide attack on the pope’s stage. Such a plan was outlined in computer records found two years ago with captured Algerian terror suspects.

Walker took another deep breath and reviewed the major events on the day’s agenda.

The pope would bless a shelter in Pioneer Square run by an order of nuns. His blessing would honor a devoted sister who’d recently been murdered while performing religious duties at the shelter.

Afterward, he would meet the public at the barri cades outside the shelter as he made his way to the popemobile for the half-mile parade down 1st Avenue to Qwest Field, home of the Seahawks. Use of the infield expanded the stadium’s capacity to allow him to celebrate Mass with some one hundred thousand people.

That evening the Holy Father would have a private dinner at the residence of the archbishop for the Arch diocese of Seattle, where he’d spend the night. The next morning, he would fly to Montana for events there before going on to Chicago to conclude the tour.

Walker checked his earpiece.

The pope had just finished inside the shelter and would exit.

Agents outside the shelter stiffened.

Walker was on “the shoulder” as he scanned faces at the barricade. He assessed a tall, thin, long-haired man. Next to him, an elderly man in a ball cap, eye clenched behind a camera that had been inspected. Then a small woman wearing a kerchief and white gloves. Next to her, a young man, but Walker couldn’t see his eyes. The guy had dark glasses, blond hair and was smiling. Maybe a little too much. Where were his hands? Walker watched him as some in the crowd began to sing and cheer.

“Is he coming? Do you see him?” asked a woman wearing gold-framed glasses and clutching a tiny U.S. flag.

Walker’s stomach tightened.

Secret Service radio transmissions crackled softly in his ear.

“Halo advancing to Chariot-”

Halo was Secret Service code for the pope. Chariot was the popemobile. The alert rippled along the perimeter. Agents braced. Walker swallowed. His pulse quickened.

“There he is! I see him!” a woman in the crowd shouted, triggering deafening cheering that rose like a shock wave.

The pope emerged from the building, smiling and waving as agents escorted him along the barricades toward the waiting motorcade.

Walker studied faces. The woman with the glasses, the long-haired man, the old man with the camera. People waved, shouted. Necks stretched, they elbowed for a glimpse. Where was the young, blond-haired man? Walker had lost him. He’d moved.

The blond-haired man had moved closer to the bar ricade’s closest point. But something wasn’t right. This guy was close but Walker couldn’t see the guy’s eyes behind those dark glasses. His unease grew with the crowd’s cheering.

Walker’s heart was racing. The pope was shaking hands, reaching for people, touching people, heads, faces, cheeks, smiling, allowing himself to be touched, taking his time.

The agents wanted him to move faster to the protec tive bubble of the popemobile.

The young blond-haired man looked all wrong in his military jacket. His smile was not right and, dammit, why couldn’t Walker see the guy’s right hand tucked in his jacket pocket? The guy’s shoulder muscles started moving and his mouth opened as he called to the pope.

“Holy Father! Over here, Holy Father, please!”

His hidden hand sprung from his pocket.

Walker’s heart stopped.

Gun?

Was he leveling a gun at the pope? It looked like a barrel and fingers were positioning on the grip and trigger.

Walker’s training took over; he alerted the sniper commander, pulled at the pope’s shoulder to shield him just as two plain-clothed officers materialized, seized the suspect’s hand and took him to the ground amid shouting, screaming and chaos in the immediate area.

Walker and the other agents rushed the pope toward the popemobile, glancing back to see an agent hold up the weapon.

A wooden cross.

Likely wanted the pope to bless it.

False alarm.

Walker exhaled.

As they moved the pope to the popemobile, Walker’s earpiece crackled with a report from a spotter.

“…glint of a scope between the curtains of a window due south overlooking the square…”

Cursing, Walker glanced at some of the nearest high buildings-the Smith Tower and Columbia Center.

Both were in sniper range.

Agents encircled the pope and, in a calm orderly manner, moved him back inside the shelter. “An unex pected delay, Holy Father.”

The pope nodded.

It was done so smoothly no one in the crowd was aware. The spotter locked on the building on 1st Avenue South overlooking the route, then the precise location, twenty-fifth floor, northeast window.

Security moved with lightning speed, those on the ground and those on the roof.

While Walker and the other agents moved the pope out of the line of fire and back into the shelter, SWAT members stormed the suspect building, seized the ele vators and ascended to the twenty-fifth floor.

Helicopters thundered over the buildings. Much of the action was lost on the public. However, some news crews detected the sudden activity and cameras were trained on the building, and reporters began making their way to it.

Something was happening.

Sharpshooters locked on the window’s exterior. Inside, SWAT members rushed from the elevator to the room. Heavily armed agents kicked the door, rushed inside to find a boy and his grandfather, watching the pope with a telescope.

The old man cursed.

His traumatized grandson stood frozen with his hands in the air and his eyes wide open.

“I’m sorry. Please don’t kill me. I’m sorry.” Then the boy started to cry.

The old man was a retired architect.

Walker’s team had argued strenuously for the win dows and curtains in all buildings overlooking the pro cession route be shut or closed. But local anger forced Seattle city officials to push back.

Later, at Qwest Field, the pope’s open-air Mass for one hundred thousand people took place without any security incidents. As did the evening’s events at the Archdiocese.

Long after the pope had retired, Walker and the other agents continued working with updates, debriefs and briefings on the Montana site.

It was well past midnight when they’d finished.

But Walker couldn’t sleep. Adrenaline from the day’s drama pumped through his system.

He soothed himself, anticipating that the next day’s events in Lone Tree, Montana-the middle of no where-would be easier than Seattle. Just as his eyes began to flutter, Walker’s BlackBerry vibrated with a bulletin.

A rancher had reported a mysterious flash explosion at the northeast edge of Malmstrom Air Force Base. Cascade County Sheriff’s Office and the base military were investigating.

The specialized unit from Indian Head had been dispatched.

Walker’s heart rate wouldn’t be normal again until the pope’s jet lifted off for Rome.