Act of War

CHAPTER NINE

York, Pennsylvania

That same time

The place looked deserted; the doors were locked. The rather small red-brick colonial building half-hidden in a clump of oak trees out near York Airport, a small general aviation airport about ten kilometers from the city, looked as if it had been built a hundred years ago. There was a forty-acre fenced storage lot behind the building topped with razor wire, with a collection of green camouflage trucks, trailers, service vehicles, Humvees, helicopters, and even some larger armored vehicles such as Bradley Fighting Vehicles. There was even what appeared to be a multiple rocket launcher or two out there—a pretty impressive collection of weaponry for a little Pennsylvania National Guard unit.

At the rear of the storage lot was a six-bay service building and three aircraft hangars, and one of the hangar doors was open about a meter or so, so that’s where Special Agent Ramiro “Rudy” Cortez decided to look first. He and the agent accompanying him on this trip, Agent Jerome Taylor from the Federal Bureau of Investigation office in Philadelphia, went around the side, looking for a gate. The large taxiway gate leading to the runway was doublechained with fresh-looking chains and locks. “Hello!” Cortez called out. “Anyone in there?” No response.

“What do you want to do?” Taylor asked.

“I’d sure hate to come out all this way and not speak with someone at this unit,” Cortez said. “It looks to me like someone’s in there.”

“How about I call the state military bureau in Harrisburg?”

“That’ll take all day—I’ve got to be back in D.C. by three o’clock,” Cortez said. He thought for a moment, then asked, “We don’t need permission to go onto a National Guard installation…do we?”

“You got me.”

Cortez shrugged. “At the very least, this compound is not secure—it’s our responsibility to secure it,” he said.

“If you say so,” Taylor said. He pulled out a cigarette and lit up. “I’ll watch from here.”

“You’re not going in right behind me?” Cortez asked.

“I haven’t climbed a fence since the academy, Cortez. I’ll watch.”

Cortez pulled his car up to the gate, removed his jacket and tie, and retrieved a thick quilted packing blanket from the trunk. He climbed up on the hood of his car, threw the blanket over the razor wire, and started to climb. He was halfway over the fence and ready to throw a leg over the top, surprised at how well he was doing, when he heard, “Hey, yo, what do you think you’re doin’ there?” A guy in camouflage trousers, spit-shined combat boots, web belt, and olive drab T-shirt, carrying a very large Crescent wrench, came trotting out of the garage. His hair was a little on the long side, and his T-shirt had large drips of oil on the front—in short, he looked like a typical mechanic.

Cortez climbed down from the fence, thankful he didn’t rip his suit trousers on the razor wire or dent the hood of his Bureau car. He retrieved his badge case from a trouser pocket and opened it. “Cortez, FBI. We came here to talk to the CO.”

“FBI?” the soldier asked. “What’s the FBI want with us?”

“I’d rather talk it over with the CO.”

“Why were you climbin’ the fence?”

“I saw the hangar door open and thought I’d better check it out.”

“Why didn’t you just use the front door?”

“It’s locked. No one up there.”

“What? No, the secretary’s there.” He motioned with a couple fingers at the badge and stepped toward the fence. Cortez showed it to him again. “Did you knock or what?”

“No, I didn’t knock, but I didn’t see anyone up there. It looked like you were closed.”

“Well, you got that right.”

“Say again?”

“Closed. I mean, we’re closin’. The unit’s moving, back to Fort Indiantown Gap. Annville.”

“When?”

“End of the fiscal year, I guess,” the soldier said. “That’s better than an hour from where I live. Right now it’s easy for me to just get off from work and go to drills, but with the move, it’s a real hassle to…”

“Can you let us in so we can talk to the CO?” Cortez interjected.

“Oh. Oh, sure. C’mon over. The CO, he ain’t here, but the first shirt is around here somewhere and he can fill ya in. Right over here.” The soldier walked toward the rear of the red-brick building. Cortez jumped off his car and retrieved his jacket, and he and Taylor went to the front entrance. A few moments later, the soldier opened the front door and let them in.

The reception area looked neat and tidy, just deserted. The floor was polished to a high sheen, the computers were on, there was no dust built up anywhere; the live plants looked well cared for. Obviously it was geared heavily toward recruiting, with lots of posters and brochures around touting the educational and training opportunities in the Pennsylvania National Guard. “What’s your name?” Cortez asked.

“Conway. Eddie Conway. Sergeant First Class. Helicopter maintenance specialist, Troop F, First Battalion, One-Oh-Fourth Cavalry.” He turned to Taylor and motioned again with two fingers. “Do you mind?”

“Troop F?” Taylor asked as he showed his badge and ID card again. “You mean, ‘F Troop’?”

“The first shirt, he don’t like the negative connotation,” Conway said. “I just learned what the big gag was, and I still don’t get it—F Troop, the TV show, that part I get—but he’s a baby boomer so he’s pretty sensitive about it.”

“You guys usually closed on the weekdays like this?”

“We usually open a couple days before a drill weekend,” Conway said. “But with the unit relocating, the schedule’s all dicked up. The CO hasn’t been around since, oh hell, I don’t know—I haven’t seen him in a while. I just see the first shirt. I try to stay out of the old man’s crosshairs, know what I mean? But the choppers still need the maintenance, know what I mean?”

“Sure,” Cortez said. “We’ll just check in with the first sergeant and get out of your hair, let you get back to work.”

“Heck, I like the break, know what I mean?” Conway said with a smile. “I got credit for a training day whether I crawl under one bird or six, know what I mean?” Cortez thought that this was the kind of guy who needed lots of supervision, but he remained silent as they headed toward the offices in back.

“What do you guys do?” Taylor asked.

“We’re a maintenance unit detached from the rest of the aviation battalion,” Conway said. “We fix ’em all—Apaches, Kiowa Scouts, Black Hawks, Hueys, everything, even the vehicles like the Bradleys and Humvees. We’re not really a combat unit but we can do field maintenance behind enemy lines if necessary.”

“What about the rocket launchers?”

“Oh, that’s just here for chassis maintenance—the carrier vehicle has the same chassis and drive train as a Bradley,” Conway said. “It’s been unloaded, safed, and secured twelve ways to Sunday or we don’t touch it. I don’t know nothin’ about those things, the business end of it at least, know what I mean?”

“Sure. Are all these helicopters and armored vehicles armed?”

“Nope,” Conway replied. “We can do field maintenance on the weapon systems if necessary, but usually that’s just R&R—‘remove and replace.’ We expect all the choppers and vehicles that come here to be completely unloaded, disarmed, and safetied, but we find ordnance in them all the time. So what are you guys looking for?”

“We’re investigating National Guard units who have reported losses in the past few months,” Cortez said. “This unit’s reported losses have spiked, and I was hoping to get some indication as to why that might happen.”

“Well, I’m not exactly sure why, but I’d bet it has to do with the move to Fort Indiantown Gap,” Conway said. “Things get misaudited all the time—drive a Humvee to Annville and log it into their TO&E, then forget to fill out the transfer sheet back here. Part of the unit got back from the Middle East just two months ago too.”

“The move might explain a lot,” Cortez agreed.

They passed a few more offices, went through the unit meeting room, and then to a door with two flags on either side of it. Conway knocked on the door. “Come!” they heard.

“Good. He’s in there. Right this way, gents.” He led the way through the doors, and Cortez and Taylor followed. Inside were several metal shelves and a large set tub—it looked like a janitor’s…

Cortez heard several loud thummps! behind him—and then his vision exploded into a field of swirling shooting stars. Crushing pain shot through his head and neck, and he hit the linoleum floor hard. Another blow to his rib cage took the breath out of him. He felt several more sharp blows to his head and neck…then nothing.

“Hey!” Conway shouted. “You didn’t say nothin’ about killin’ these guys!”

“What the hell did you expect us to do—sit ’em in the corner and tell them to be quiet and behave themselves while we rip this place off?” the assailant asked derisively. “They’re FBI, for chris-sakes!”

“Our job was to just get the vehicles and choppers ready to roll…!”

“Then get your ass out there and finish up while I clean up this mess,” the assailant said. “We don’t get paid unless those vehicles are on the road by sundown.”

“They said they were investigating losses at National Guard units,” Conway said nervously as the other man started checking the bodies for weapons and ID. “Think they’re on to us?”

“If they were, this place would be swarming with cops and troops,” the assailant said. “I know of at least a dozen other units involved in this scheme too, and they haven’t been investigated yet either. But after tonight, we’ll be done and on our way to Argentina with our money.” He looked at Conway, who had frozen in place looking at the dark blood and brain matter oozing out of the FBI agents’ heads. “What’s up with you? You never seen a dead guy before?”

“Sure. Two tours in the Sandbox in five years, I seen plenty. Just not one clubbed to death right before my eyes. One second I was talkin’ to the guy, the next…whammo. I didn’t sign up for this to kill our own, know what I mean?”

“Get real, Conway,” the assailant said. “You signed up for this because they’re paying us a shitload of money and a free airline ticket out of the country. What do you think they’re going to do with all this equipment—have a fuckin’ Fourth of July parade? They’re gonna blow somethin’ up with it. Banks, the IRS office in Philly, a bunch of raghead mosques, who knows? I don’t give a shit as long as I get my money and I’m not around to watch it.”

“But we killed two guys…!”

“First of all, Conway, you didn’t kill nobody, hear me?” the other man said. “You don’t know who did it, you didn’t see or hear nothin’. Second, we’ll be out of here by tonight. Third, you made a deal. You back out now, and those crazy motherfuckin’ Russians will be back for your eyeballs. Now get finished and let’s get the choppers and tracks ready to roll so we can get the hell out of here.”

The White House Press Briefing Room, Washington, D.C.

Two days later

The President of the United States emerged from the back of the White House Press Briefing Room in the west colonnade of the executive mansion and took the dais, followed by Harold Kingman of TransGlobal Energy, National Security Adviser Robert Chamberlain, White House Chief of Staff Victoria Collins, and other members of the President’s staff. The reporters in the packed briefing room got to their feet as the cameras clicked and whirred furiously.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, good morning,” the President began, the indication for everyone to be seated. He waited a few moments while the White House press corps found their seats; then: “It gives me great pleasure to announce today that Mr. Harold C. Kingman, president and CEO of TransGlobal Energy Corporation, will be the keynote speaker, panelist, and honored guest at the first annual American Energy Conference, to be held next month here in Washington.

“As one of the world’s, and certainly one of America’s, largest, most diverse, and most technologically advanced energy providers, TransGlobal Energy’s role in shaping, defining, and implementing strategies to providing the energy the world needs is pivotal,” the President continued. “In today’s highly competitive energy industry, however, few companies wish to share their vision for fear of giving away their company’s blueprint for profitability. But there is one American not afraid to share his vision with us, and that is this gentleman right here beside me, my friend Harold Kingman. He’s not afraid to tell us what the future holds in store for him and his company because he is a leader in the industry. As a leader, he’s not afraid to take new directions, explore new possibilities, and challenge the conventional notions of service to humanity versus profitability, responsible stewardship of the environment, and natural resources versus innovation.

“I know there are still many concerns about security for this energy summit,” the President went on. “Our hearts and prayers go out to the victims of the terrorist bombings in the San Francisco Bay area, and more recently over in Cairo, Egypt, near the Great Pyramids. However, thanks to Robert Chamberlain, my National Security Adviser, along with Attorney General Wentworth, Secretary of Homeland Security Calhoun, and National Intelligence Director Kallis, I believe America has never been more secure and more aware, and we are strengthening our security every day with the help of the American people. Our country is safer and more secure because of you. I thank you for your efforts, and I urge you to keep up the fight. I and my administration stand shoulder to shoulder with you.

“I’d like to invite Mr. Kingman to say a few words and then we’ll take a few questions. But we have a tee time here soon at an undisclosed location, where I assure all of you that I will try my best not to look like the duffer I am. Harold?”

Kingman took his place behind the microphone, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Thank you, Mr. President,” he began. “I am honored and privileged to be a part of the energy summit, and I hope I can contribute something to the discussions.” Off to the side a clerk handed Victoria Collins a note; she read it, stared blankly ahead for a few seconds, then stepped up behind Kingman as he was speaking and whispered into the President’s ear. The President adopted that same blank stare for a few seconds, then nodded reassuringly to his chief of staff.

“I’ll have much more to say during the summit,” Kingman was saying, “but for now, my primary goal and the goal of everyone at TransGlobal Energy is energy independence for America. It can and will be achieved. Thank you.”

The press corps started tossing questions to the podium, but at that moment Collins took Kingman by the sleeve and escorted him off the dais. The President stepped to the microphone and said, “Unfortunately there’s a development that warrants our attention, so we’re going to cut the press conference short. I ask all of you to follow the staff’s directions in a calm and orderly fashion. Thank you.” The President left the dais, which was immediately occupied by a tall, burly Secret Service plainclothes agent. The press corps immediately erupted into bedlam as the reporters scrambled to get more information and contact their bureaus.

“What in hell is going on, Robert?” the President said between clenched teeth as they were escorted by the Secret Service to the west wing of the White House. It was not quite an evacuation, but the Secret Service agents were making all of them walk very quickly indeed.

“Homeland Security issued a code red terror warning for Washington, D.C., and the surrounding area, sir,” Chamberlain said, reading the notes passed to him by an aide. “Two National Guard armories in Pennsylvania and Maryland and the Marine Corps base at Quantico had quantities of weapons and vehicles stolen recently, and two FBI agents were found bludgeoned to death at one of the National Guard armories. The Pentagon is setting THREATCON Delta and the Secret Service is recommending the same for all government buildings, including the White House. The thefts fit the same pattern as just prior to the attack on San Francisco.”

“Oh, my God…”

“The problem is, there are so many Guard and Reserve units deployed around the city that it’s hard to tell which ones are the real ones and which are bogus,” Chamberlain went on, “so Secretary Calhoun decided to call a Code Red until everything can be straightened out. Unfortunately, that means evacuating the leadership, sir. I hope you concur.”

“I most certainly do not concur, Robert!” the President said. “I am not going to evacuate the capital just on a suspicion of danger!”

“Sir, I don’t think that’s wise,” Chamberlain said. “Victoria?”

“I agree with the President—there’s no concrete reason he should evacuate right now,” Chief of Staff Collins said. “We don’t have troops stationed around the White House, for God’s sake! If we did, it would be active-duty forces, and they’d be properly vetted. This is nonsense, Robert…!”

“It’s not nonsense. It’s prudent and wise. We should…”

“I’m sorry, Robert, but I’m not leaving the White House,” the President said firmly. “I’m going to monitor the situation in the West Wing. If anything happens we’ll go to the Situation Room and we’ll put the contingency evacuation plan into effect. But I’m not leaving the White House unless there’s an attack in progress.”

“This is insane!” Harold Kingman exclaimed. “What in hell is going on?”

“Relax, Harold, this is just a precaution,” the President said. “You’re perfectly safe here in the White House.”

“Your confidence in your people is reassuring, Sam, but I’d prefer my own security forces, if you don’t mind.”

The President looked at his primary Secret Service escort, who immediately shook his head. “Let’s wait until the situation stabilizes before you run off, Harold,” the President said. “Watch my boys in action. You’ll be impressed.” Kingman was obviously still not convinced, but he fell silent and allowed himself to be hustled down the corridors to the West Wing of the White House.

No one at all challenged the convoy of two Humvees and a military tractor-trailer as it made its way south on Interstate 95 through Maryland to the District of Columbia. The military convoy raced down Interstate 95 at speeds sometimes exceeding seventy miles an hour. Upon reaching Exit 27 in the southbound lane near Powder Mills, Maryland, just before reaching the Beltway, the convoy stopped—right in the middle of the freeway. Traffic immediately began backing up behind it, and soon traffic in the northbound lane slowed to a crawl as “rubber-neckers” strained to see what was going on. One Humvee in the convoy went on ahead and blocked access to the southbound freeway from the Capital Beltway on-ramp, while a second Humvee unloaded three soldiers and then covered the mounting traffic behind them in the southbound lane. A few cars that were already too close to the convoy were allowed to pass, but all others were kept at least a kilometer away.

While the Humvees set up a perimeter, the crews on the tractor-trailer in the middle of the convoy removed the chains holding an M270 Multiple Rocket Launcher System to the trailer and drove the vehicle off. It maneuvered in front of the tractor and turned. Two soldiers got into the fire control cab, while two others stood guard outside. The crowds on the northbound side of the freeway started to leave their vehicles—they were stopped anyway in what had quickly become an immense parking lot—and stood by the guardrails to watch.

The rocket platform on the M270 soon swiveled until the launcher was facing south-southwest, and soon the onlookers saw the platform elevate. A few of those watching applauded, and one of the soldiers in the cab waved. Police sirens off in the distance sounded like they were getting closer, and a few onlookers got back in their cars although the traffic jam, now over a kilometer long in both directions, wasn’t moving at all. This was a pretty unusual demonstration, all right, but this was the District of Columbia, some thought; they were pretty close to the Naval Surface Weapons Center, and maybe these guys had broken down. Maybe the military guys had to practice doing things like…

Suddenly there was a tremendous fwoooosh! and a huge cloud of smoke, and five rockets ripple-fired off the M270 and streaked toward the capital. The launcher platform turned and elevated once again and a few seconds later another four-round salvo flew off into the distance. Then, as casually as if they were street performers just finishing a juggling act, the soldiers got out of the cab of the M270, loaded up into the Humvees, and drove off at high speed onto the Capital Beltway, abandoning the empty M270 and its tractor-trailer on the freeway.

The first salvo of rockets landed just south of The Mall between Fourteenth and Fifteenth Streets south of the Washington Monument, right along Independence Avenue, hitting just outside the Department of Agriculture Building and the Auditor’s Building. The second salvo landed along Seventeeth Street northwest of the White House near the New Executive Office Building, with one rocket making a direct hit. Fires erupted almost instantly from natural gas leaks and burning vehicles.

The attacks did very little actual damage and did not hit the White House or any strategic or tactically important sites, but the fear and confusion factors were enormous. First responders reported the gas leaks as a chemical weapon attack and stayed away from the impact areas; panicked citizens clogged the streets, adding to the confusion. Soon the entire western Mall area was closed off as government buildings were evacuated and the streets filled with terrified citizens, confused politicians and government workers, and helpless police and firefighters.

The attacks had one purpose: slow or stop any response from the two army bases in the Military District of Washington whose responsibility it was to respond to attacks in the capital region: Fort McNair in the District of Columbia, and Fort Myer adjacent to Arlington National Cemetery in Arlington, Virginia. Fort Myer was the headquarters of the Third U.S. Infantry Regiment, the Old Guard, the unit specifically tasked with defending and protecting the capital. Although the Old Guard’s day-to-day duties were mostly ceremonial, including providing honor guards at Arlington National Cemetery, marching in parades, and wearing Revolutionary War–era costumes in welcoming ceremonies for foreign dignitaries, the Old Guard’s primary mission was as a light infantry unit capable of defending the capital against attack, insurrection, or riots. Fort McNair is the home of First Battalion, Alpha Company, called the Commander in Chief’s Guard, an army rifle company specifically trained to respond to threats to the White House and Capitol; it also had several military police units capable of deploying in support of the Metropolitan Police Department’s Special Tactics Branch.

The MRLS attacks would not stop the Old Guard or the Metropolitan Police Department of the District of Columbia for very long, but it didn’t have to—the second and third phases of the attack on the Capital were already underway.

Two convoys of four Humvees left hiding places in Anacostia and traveled across the Anacostia River, one convoy taking the South Capitol Street Bridge and the other taking the Interstate 295 bridges to the Frontage Road off-ramp to Twelfth Street. Police and firefighters did not stop either convoy—the Capitol Street convoy even had a police escort for several blocks. Once on surface streets, both convoys made it to The Mall, then traveled westbound on Madison and Jefferson Drives, going off the paved roads if necessary to circumnavigate traffic and fleeing panicked pedestrians now clogging the streets and parks. Once at the Washington Monument, the two convoys headed north, one on Fifteenth Street and the other on Seventeenth Street, again going around traffic or obstructions by simply going onto the park itself—the Humvees even cleared curbs and short one meter walls with ease. They raced up through The Ellipse with National Park Police looking on in amazement before reaching for radios to report the military vehicles heading toward the White House.

Their first significant barricade was at E Street and Executive Avenue, outside the South Lawn of the White House, where massive concrete planters had been placed to prevent anyone from parking near the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the South Lawn. But the lead Humvee in each convoy was equipped with a TOW missile launcher on the roof, and when the convoys came upon the barricades on E Street, they simply blew them apart with one TOW missile shot each. The wrought-iron fence was child’s play to breach with the Humvees.

Once on the South Lawn, the Humvees maneuvered west and north around the South Lawn Fountain toward the White House. Except for the lead TOW-missile-equipped Humvees, each of the other Humvees was armed with either a 50-caliber machine gun, 7.62-millimeter machine gun, or an Mk19 automatic grenade launcher mounted on the roof cupola. The units equipped with grenade launchers started peppering guard units on the roof of the White House from long range, while the units equipped with machine guns began raking the South Portico of the White House and West Wing with bullets. One of the TOW gunners got off a shot at the West Wing, blowing apart the gracefully curved windows of the Oval Office itself.

Shortly after the second salvo of MRLS rockets hit Seventeenth Street between the Old Executive Office Building and the Corcoran Art Gallery, four Secret Service Presidential Protection Detail agents burst into the Oval Office and escorted the President, Harold Kingman, and Chief of Staff Victoria Collins from the room. “What in hell is going on here?” Kingman thundered as he was half-pulled, half-dragged out of the office.

“Just follow along, Harold,” the President said, the tension in his voice obvious. “Let the Secret Service do their jobs.”

They were taken quickly along the south hallway through the West Wing, past the National Security Adviser’s office, and down a flight of stairs to the basement area of the West Wing. The Secret Service was busy clearing the area of nonessential personnel, so the group was escorted to the Situation Room to wait. The President immediately picked up a telephone and punched a button. “Robert? Where are you?”

“Still in my office, sir. I’m getting the latest from the Secret Service right now on the other line.”

“We’ve been brought down to the basement. Find out what in hell’s going on and then meet up with us in the Situation Room.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

The President hung up the phone…and at that moment they heard the first explosion of grenades hitting the roof of the White House. “Holy shit!” Wentworth exclaimed. “We’re under attack!”

The President pushed another button, this one direct to the PPD. “What’s happening, Carl?” he asked.

“A few minutes ago the Old Executive Office Building and The Mall near the Washington Monument were hit with heavy rocket fire, sir,” the chief of the Presidential Protection Detail said. “No reports of casualties or damage yet. Then the National Park Police reported military vehicles going across The Ellipse heading toward the White House. They—stand by, sir—” There was a long pause, then: “Mr. President, there appear to be six Humvees on the South Lawn. They blew up the barricades on E Street and crashed through the fences. They…sir, they are launching grenades at the White House. Our security forces on the rooftop are under attack. They…gunfire, they are hitting the Oval Office with machine gun fire…!”

“My God,” the President breathed. “My family…?”

“The First Lady was in the Correspondence Room—she’s being taken to the evacuation tunnel, sir.” A series of tunnels and emergency bunkers had been constructed under the White House during its expansion in the early years of the Cold War to protect the President from sneak attack. The tunnels were mostly used by the sixty-agent Secret Service Presidential Protection Detail to move in and out of the White House grounds but were also used by the staff on occasion, most notably on 9/11 to house the Vice President and National Security Adviser during the first confusing hours of the terrorist attacks. “The children are on their way to school but are being diverted to a secure location—no indications at all that they are targets. We’ll be ready to evac you all in just a few minutes, sir. We’re checking to see which egress routes are best. Please stand by.”

The President hung up the phone, a worried expression on his face. “Well?” Kingman demanded. “What are they going to do?”

“We’re evacuating the White House,” the President said.

Collins gasped aloud. “My God…”

“There are military vehicles up there on the South Lawn shooting at the White House.”

“Don’t you have any goddamned security in this place?” Kingman thundered.

“The army has sharpshooters and infantry units on the roof, but they’re under attack,” the President responded.

“Well, how do we get out of here?”

“There are pedestrian tunnels connecting the White House to several other government buildings,” the President said. “The Old Executive Office building was hit by a rocket, so that’s not an option…”

“A rocket?”

“There are other tunnels connecting the White House to the Treasury Building and the New Executive Office Building,” the President went on. “There’s also an underground rail system that connects the White House to the U.S. Naval Observatory and the Capitol. If necessary, we can get out via the Metro subway system, which we can access from the New Executive Office Building or the Treasury Building. We can be out of Washington in ten minutes.”

“What if they have a nuke, like in San Francisco or Kingman City…?”

“The Situation Room isn’t protected, but the bunker under the Treasury Building is protected against anything but a direct one-megaton hit,” the President said. “We’re safe, Harold. Relax.”

A few minutes later, Robert Chamberlain came trotting into the Situation Room, wearing a dark gray trench coat and breathing heavily. “We’re ready to go, Mr. President. Follow me, please.” He hurried out of the Situation Room, past the White House dining facilities, and through the door to the tunnel system, which had already been unlocked.

“Where are we headed, Robert?” Collins asked.

“The New Executive Office Building,” Chamberlain replied.

“I thought it was hit by a rocket!” Kingman exclaimed.

“It was only slightly damaged,” Chamberlain said. Every ten meters or so there was a soldier in full combat gear standing at port arms in the tunnel or a man in a bulletproof vest marked POLICE or U.S. SECRET SERVICE. “There are a number of police and firefighters up there, and they’ll screen us as we come out.”

“Why don’t we just go to the Treasury Building?” Victoria Collins asked.

“That route’s been compromised,” Chamberlain said. “We need to hurry.”

After a jog of about two blocks, they reached an elevator and a staircase, guarded by another soldier in black fatigues. He had a hand up to an earpiece; when Chamberlain reached out to touch the Up button for the elevator, the soldier stopped him. “Stand by, please, sir,” he said. “It’s not secure upstairs yet.” Into his sleeve microphone, he spoke, “Four protectees have arrived, we’re secure.”

“Catch your breath,” Chamberlain said. All of them were breathing heavily, as much from the terror as the job. He turned to the soldier. “How long?”

“Status?” he spoke into his microphone. A moment later: “Armored vehicle will be in place in sixty seconds, sir.”

“How in hell could this have happened?” Harold Kingman asked hotly. “A rocket attack against Washington, D.C.? How could anyone get rockets into the capital?”

“They were apparently launched from well outside the city, outside the Beltway near Knollwood,” Chamberlain said. “Mobile rocket launcher.”

“But how can they get close enough to the White House to shoot grenades and machine guns…?”

“We don’t know that yet, Harold,” Chamberlain said. The soldier reached out and touched the Up button on the elevator. “All right, follow me through the doors into the parking garage—the Suburban should be right there waiting for us.”

“Where are the PPD guys?” the President asked as the doors to the elevator slid open. “Where’s Carl? I thought he’d be escorting me.”

“He’s up above, sir,” Chamberlain said. “He’ll be right beside you all the way. He’s recommending we go to the Naval Observatory first, then fly out to Andrews and go airborne.”

The President nodded and removed his tie. “This is a damned nightmare,” he said. “I want some answers, dammit, and I want then now.” The doors to the elevator slid open…

…and they stepped into the center of an inferno. The entire parking garage was filled with smoke, and several vehicles were still on fire. Parts of the ceiling of the underground parking structure had collapsed, and bare wires and broken pipes were everywhere. “What in hell…Chamberlain, what did you do?” the President shouted. “The building was hit, and you led us right into it!”

“It was the only way I could be certain we’d be alone, Mr. President,” a voice said through the crackle and roar of the fires all around them. They turned…and saw none other than Yegor Viktorvich Zakharov standing before them, his ever-present Dragunov sniper rifle cradled in his arms.

“Welcome, all, welcome,” he said with a broad grin on his face. They turned and saw Pavel Khalimov standing behind them with an M-16 rifle at the ready. “Welcome to your worst nightmare.”

The White House South Lawn

That same time

It took only a few minutes for the uniformed Secret Service and the National Park Police to respond to the attack on the White House, but they were far outgunned. After initially responding only with small arms fire, the Secret Service finally brought agents with assault rifles into the fight, but they were still no match for the armed Humvees. While the Humvees with the Mk19 grenade launchers continued to pummel the White House, the other Humvees turned their guns on the defenders, driving them to cover.

But moments later heavier-caliber bullets started to hit their location. “From the roof of the Treasury Building!” one of the terrorists shouted. “Machine guns!” The Secret Service had finally retrieved their heavier weapons and were returning fire.

“How much longer do we have to sit here like this?” another gunman shouted.

“Just shut up and keep firing!” the first terrorist shouted. At that moment he received another radio call: “Here they come! Watch out!” They looked to the south from the area of the Washington Monument a saw a pair of Apache attack helicopters racing in from very low altitude. The gunners on the Humvees dropped down inside their vehicles, but they knew that if the Apaches’ thirty-millimeter cannon shells hit them, they’d be toast—the Humvees’ thin armor would never protect them against a devastating Chain Gun attack. The Apaches raced in and the Chain Gun in the chin turret opened fire…

…but not on the Humvees, but on the Secret Service machine gun locations on the roof of the Treasury Building! One pass by both helicopters was enough to destroy the hastily formed Secret Service machine gun nest. After they finished that pass, the Apaches hovered over the White House and fired the Chain Gun and 2.75-inch Hydra rockets at the army and Secret Service positions on the roof.

The terrorists in the Humvees were yelling and screaming in joy. “Yibis ana v rot!” one of them yelled in Russian. “Nail those…!”

“Watch out!” someone yelled. “Off to the right! Get him!” The terrorist swung his gun right…and centered his sights on a large robot figure standing in the tree line between the South Lawn and the Treasury Building, about twenty meters away. Just as he began to squeeze the trigger to his machine gun, the muzzle of the cannon on the robot’s right shoulder flared…and the terrorist was blown completely apart by a forty-millimeter grenade fired at him from point-blank range.

“Another robot, off to the west!” But just as the warnings started coming, the Humvees one by one were pummeled by grenades. Two Humvees were destroyed within seconds.

“Splash two,” Captain Frank Falcone radioed. “Two Hummers burning!”

“Move, Falcon!” Lieutenant Jennifer McCracken radioed. She was in CID Five near the Old Executive Office Building. “Those Apaches are on you!”

“I got ’em, Jen,” Falcone said. He had been watching the Apaches approach with the help of the Goose drones orbiting over the White House. He ran several dozen meters south and fired a grenade at the first Apache, then dashed to the west. “Ready, Jen?”

“Ready,” McCracken replied. She had fired grenades at two more Humvees in front of her, then started tracking the Apaches. The lead Apache helicopter fired a volley of Hydra rockets at the spot where Falcone had been moments earlier, then wheeled hard right to line up again as he ran west. But when the Apache made its hard right turn it slowed considerably, making it a perfect target for McCracken. Two grenades hit precisely in the center of the Apache’s rotor disk, blowing it out of the sky easily. It landed in a fiery heap at the very southern edge of the South Lawn.

The second Apache helicopter had enough. It kept on flying south, getting out of the kill zone as quickly as possible. It made it as far as the Tidal Basin…when it was shot down by an AIM-120 radar-guided missile fired from an F-22 Raptor jet fighter that had launched from Andrews Air Force Base just minutes earlier.

“We need some prisoners, guys,” Ariadna Vega radioed from her command position in the Treasury Building. She had been up there for days, coordinating the task force’s defense against the expected attack on the capital.

“Roger,” Falcone responded. Instead of destroying the other two Humvees, he and McCracken in CID Five simply walked over to them before they could flee and overturned them. The survivors were quickly apprehended by the Secret Service.

“Thanks, guys,” Ari radioed. “Rendezvous with Jason at the New Executive Office Building on the double.”

“Who in hell are you? Put that gun down!” Victoria Collins demanded.

“That’s Colonel Yegor Zakharov,” the President said in a remarkably calm voice. He motioned over his shoulder. “The man behind us is certainly Captain Pavel Khalimov. The whole attack on the White House was a setup.” The President nodded as he saw the confusion on Zakharov’s face.

“I should have known,” Harold Kingman said. “How could I be so damned blind?” He turned to National Security Adviser Chamberlain. “Now let me guess: who among us would be clever yet twisted enough to engineer something like this, just to get to me?”

Robert Chamberlain smiled…and stepped over and stood beside Zakharov. “That would be me, Harold,” he said.

“What?” Collins cried. “Chamberlain…you set us up?”

“Vicki, I could be the biggest moron in D.C. and still be clever enough to put one over on you,” Chamberlain said, pulling a Secret Service MP5K submachine gun out from underneath his trench coat. “Your immense ego kept you from seeing this plan, Harold.”

“So Richter was right,” the President said. “There was only one person who knew where Task Force TALON was headed in Africa—you, Robert. Only you could have sent Kristen Skyy to the exact place where TALON was headed. But why? Why send her all the way into a battle zone?”

“The only thing I could think of that could stop Richter and his robots was not a bigger explosive, but Kristen Skyy,” Chamberlain said. “I thought that sap Richter would try to sacrifice himself to save his lady love. It almost worked. I knew in the back of my head that it was strange that I hadn’t heard from the task force after they finished with the Egypt job, but at that point I didn’t really care. My mistake. So where are the major and his robots?”

“They’ve been stationed at the Treasury Building ever since they returned from Egypt,” the President said. “They figured out that Washington had to be your next target—it was just a matter of when. He thought the press conference with Kingman was the perfect moment.”

“He’s a lot more clever than I gave him credit for,” Chamberlain said.

“Davajte vyhodit’ zdes’, Polkovnik,” Khalimov growled.

“Captain Khalimov is getting impatient,” Zakharov said. “Harold, at first I was just going to shoot you through the head and get it over with, but now I think you’d be more valuable as a hostage. The President, his chief of staff, and Harold Chester Kingman as my hostages—if I have a chance of getting out of this city, this is it.” Chamberlain led the way out of the parking garage, with Khalimov following behind.

“There’s no way you’re getting out of Washington alive, Zakharov,” the President said.

“You forget, Mr. President—the National Security Adviser, the man everyone calls your ‘copresident,’ arranged everything for us,” Zakharov said. “Let’s go.” Chamberlain removed his trench coat, threw it over the President’s head, and held him tightly around the waist on one side while Khalimov held him from the other side, half-dragging him along.

They emerged from the parking garage surrounded by a phalanx of soldiers—more of Zakharov’s men, dressed in army uniforms and Secret Service protective vests taken from the agents they executed—and were escorted past Blair House across Jackson Place to Lafayette Square. There, an Army UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter had just touched down right on Pennsylvania Avenue; a second Black Hawk was across Lafayette Square on H Street in front of the Hay Adams Hotel. Smoke was still rising from the roof of the White House. Metropolitan Police and National Park Police cruisers were arrayed along Pennsylvania and New York Avenues and H Street, but their confusion as to why regular army helicopters were on the ground in front of the White House was obvious. The starboard side door of the Black Hawk opened up, and more gunmen in battle dress uniforms with automatic weapons were visible inside. Zakharov and his captives were just a dozen meters from that door…

…when Khalimov shouted, “Yop tvayu mat!” and pulled the hostages even faster. There, standing just a few dozen meters in front of the Black Hawk, was one of the CID units. “Otkrytyj ogon!” Khalimov shouted. “Open fire!” The Russian terrorists surrounding the Black Hawk opened fire with grenade launchers and automatic weapons. But the CID unit didn’t move. It deployed a grenade launcher from its backpack and drew a finger across its throat, a clear signal to the helicopter’s crewmen to shut down. “Nyet!” Khalimov shouted. “Prepare to lift off, now!” The chopper pilot rolled up the throttle to liftoff power and held in a tiny bit of collective, just enough to make the Black Hawk dance on its wheels…

…but just before the hostages made it to the chopper, the CID unit fired a grenade directly into the Black Hawk’s wind-screen. The hostages were blown backward by the explosion, hugging the ground as shards of flaming metal and shattered rotor blades flew in every direction.

Jason Richter, piloting the CID unit, turned just as several uniformed Secret Service agents, Metropolitan Police Special Services, and U.S. Army soldiers ran up behind him. “Freeze! Secret Service!”

“This is Major Jason Richter, Task Force TALON! Don’t shoot! I’m part of the President’s protection detail…!”

Someone yelled, “Drop the weapon!” but they didn’t wait for him to do so—they opened fire with automatic gunfire and what felt like a grenade launcher or LAWS rocket. The sustained gunfire on the backpack weapon unit did the trick—the second rocket hit made one of the grenades inside cook off, and the backpack exploded. Jason was thrown onto his face, the backpack burning, still attached to his back.

He immediately tried to eject the burning backpack, but it seemed to be fused tight. Warning tones and messages were flashing in his electronic visor, then everything went dark, and smoke began to fill the interior. Oh shit, he thought, I’m burning to death in here!

“Jason!” he heard someone shout. “How do you open this damned thing?”

It was Ray Jefferson! Jason motioned behind him to his left belt area. Jefferson struggled through the smoke and heat coming from the backpack and felt around the waist area, finally locating the ridge and the two buttons underneath it. He pressed them both simultaneously and held them until he heard two loud pops! The burning backpack disengaged and the rear hatch flung itself open.

“Richter!” Ray climbed atop the stricken CID unit and pulled Jason out of the machine through a cloud of smoke. “Are you all right?”

“What…what about…the President?” Jason croaked, gasping for breath.

Jefferson looked over to where the President, Kingman, and Victoria Collins were huddled on the street, surrounded by Secret Service agents. “They’re alive.”

“Where’s Zakharov?” He looked around and saw Zakharov, Chamberlain, and Khalimov running across Lafayette Square toward the other Black Hawk helicopter. “I’m not letting that bastard get away,” he said. “I’m going after Zakharov.”

“Khalimov is mine, Major!” Jefferson growled, and he picked up his M-16 rifle and ran off after them.

Pavel Khalimov pushed Zakharov ahead, ran away from the helicopter, took cover behind the statue of Andrew Jackson, and opened fire on Jefferson when he was less than twenty meters away. Jefferson’s bulletproof vest protected his torso, but a bullet tore into his right shoulder, and he went down. Jason went over to him. “Jesus, Ray, you’re hit…!”

“Don’t you let that chopper get away, Jason!” Jefferson said through teeth clenched in pain. He looked at Richter in surprise. “You didn’t bring a gun, Major? I knew you’ve spent too much time in those robots.” He pushed the M-16 rifle into Jason’s hands. “Don’t let that traitorous bastard Chamberlain get away.”

Jason hesitated—he knew Khalimov was nearby, and the sergeant major was helpless—but the increased roar of the Black Hawk’s rotors told him time was running out, and he hurried away.

When Richter ran off, Khalimov came out of cover, his weapon raised, and approached Jefferson. “Why, it’s the old sergeant,” he said. “I owe you something, Sergeant.” Khalimov shouldered his rifle and started to trot as if he was a soccer player lining up for a game-winning penalty kick. “I believe you said, ‘Hey, asshole,’ just before you kicked me in the head back in Brazil. Hey, asshole sergeant, this one is for you.” He aimed carefully at Jefferson’s unprotected head…

…but at the last instant Jefferson caught Khalimov’s boot centimeters before it landed and twisted it as hard as he could. The Russian cried out as his right foot was twisted at an unnatural angle and went down hard. He came up, roaring like a wild animal, with a huge knife in his right hand. Just as Jefferson was trying to get up to face this new threat, Khalimov lunged at him…

…but when the Russian tried to put weight on his right foot to make the final thrust, his broken ankle collapsed. Jefferson grabbed Khalimov’s right hand and twisted the knife out of his fingers as he fell. Using the Russian’s own momentum, he rolled on top of Khalimov, twirled the knife around in his left hand, and jammed it into Khalimov’s unprotected throat.

“That’s Sergeant Major to you, asshole,” Jefferson growled. He didn’t let him go until he felt the last liter of blood pump out of his body.

It was the first time since Officer Candidate School that Richter had even held an M-16 rifle. The Black Hawk began to lift off, just a few dozen meters away now. He could see Chamberlain and Zakharov in the troop compartment—Chamberlain cowering in fear behind the sliding door, and Zakharov waving gaily and mugging Jason’s awkward running with the rifle.

Jason dropped to one knee, raised the M-16, and squeezed the trigger. Nothing. He looked at both sides of the weapon before remembering the selector switch, found it, moved it from safe to auto, raised it again, and pulled and held the trigger. He saw the Black Hawk in his sights for just a split second before the muzzle suddenly took on a life of its own and jerked wildly into the air.

For Christ’s sake, Jason admonished himself, he couldn’t hit a huge helicopter just spitting distance in front of him! Jason fought to remain calm, and found when he did that he remembered sitting in on a couple of lessons Doug Moore gave Ariadna on the firing range. To his surprise, Doug’s words came back to him, reinforcing his own shooting lessons from so many years back: relax; focus on the front sight; squeeze, don’t pull the trigger; calm down and just do it.

Jason flipped the selector switch from auto to semi, lined up on the Black Hawk’s open cabin door, took a deep breath, let some of it out, and started to gently squeeze the trigger. The weapon’s sudden report startled him. To his surprise, he saw the Black Hawk starting to swerve in the air, and he also saw Robert Chamberlain lying on his side, his hands clenched on his stomach, his mouth and eyes wide open in obvious agony…and a dark stain spreading quickly on the front of his body.

Yegor Zakharov scrambled for his Dragunov sniper rifle—Jason could scarcely believe how fast he had it on his shoulder. He could practically feel Zakharov’s eye on him through the Dragunov’s telescopic sight, feel the crosshairs aligning on his forehead…

No! Jason screamed at himself. Remain calm! Remain focused! He lined up again on Zakharov, took a deep breath, and started to let it out…

He saw a wink of light from the helicopter door and knew it was the Dragunov’s bullet heading for him…but he forced himself to relax, and squeezed the trigger, and again the M-16 barked before he expected it. Jason thought the sudden burst of air he felt across the right side of his forehead was the muzzle blast from his M-16—it was probably a good thing he didn’t know it was the Dragunov’s 7.62-millimeter round whizzing just millimeters away from his head. He fired three more times before he forced himself to look, expecting a Russian bullet to obscure his sight as it zeroed in on his brain.

Instead, what he saw was Zakharov writhing in pain in the door of the Black Hawk helicopter, both hands over his left eye. He was kicking and thrashing in agony, yelling something hysterically at the pilot. The Black Hawk did a steep left turn over Lafayette Square, quickly picking up speed and altitude, and was soon lost to view.

“Good shooting, Jason.” Jason lowered his rifle and saw Ray Jefferson walking painfully over to him. He knelt down and motioned to a large patch of disturbed lawn where Zakharov’s round had hit—well within the shadow of Jason’s head cast on the ground. “I’d say that one had your name on it, all right.”

“Doug Moore was talking to me, Sergeant Major,” Jason said. “I could hear him coaching me.” He looked at the M-16 rifle in his hands, then slowly, deliberately, moved the selector switch back to safe. He turned it over a few times experimentally, then nodded in mock wonderment. “So this is an M-16 assault rifle—a real infantryman’s weapon, huh?” he remarked.

“That’s right, sir,” Jefferson said. “No batteries, no air data sensors, no targeting computers—but in the right hands, every bit as deadly as a CID unit.”

“Cool,” Richter said. “Maybe you could teach me how to use it sometime, Sergeant Major?”

“Be glad to, Major,” Ray Jefferson said with a smile. “Be glad to.”