Storming Heaven

Epilogue

The closest undamaged airport to Washington that could be totally secured was Naval Air Station Patuxent River-Trapnell, about forty miles southeast. The airspace for fifty miles in all directions was closed from the surface to infinity, secured with rapidly reactivated Patriot and Hawk surface-to-air missile sites and constant fighter patrols. At precisely nine A.M., Air Force One — the real Air Force One — touched down on Trapnell’s two-and-a-half- mile-long runway. A formation of three VH-53 VIP helicopters was waiting, and the President of the United States, the First Lady, and a group of Cabinet members boarded the middle one, ignoring the small knot of reporters and photographers that had been allowed to cover the President’s arrival. It was obvious to all that the President didn’t feel like talking to the press.

After lift-off, the three Marine Corps helicopters did an aerial shell game, changing position in the formation so that no one on the ground — no gunner, no terrorist, no assassin — could tell which one carried the President. They flew high and fast, heading first toward Arlington to trace the final flight path of the 747 as it crashed into the city. The, only planes allowed to be anywhere near the President were three F-16 fighters — one was on high patrol at twenty thousand feet, the other two orbiting at low altitude, separated from Marine One by three miles. They had orders to shoot any aircraft that strayed within twenty miles of the President, no questions asked, no warnings issued.

The group of three helicopters flew over the impact area near the Lincoln Memorial, then traced the two-mile- long path of destruction across the Reflecting Pool, the Kutz Bridge, the Tidal Basin, and south Washington to survey the damage. The burned, twisted hulk of the 747 was still piled up against the Case Memorial Bridge, but cranes had already been put in to start removing the wreckage — the blue-and-white Air Force One paint scheme could clearly be seen. Fireboats were still spraying water on smoldering boats and buildings at the Capital Yacht Club, the Washington Marina, and other buildings along Water Street, and a thick rainbow of spilled jet fuel could be seen streaming down the Washington Channel toward the Potomac. The Auditors’ Building, the Sylvan Theater, and the Holocaust Museum were heavily damaged. The southwest corner of the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, the Outlet Bridge, the Kutz Bridge, most of the cherry trees on the east side of the Tidal Basin, the Japanese Lantern, the John Paul Jones Memorial, and the Tidal Basin Paddle were completely destroyed. Army and National Guard troops had been dispatched to seal off the Bureau of Engraving and Printing to protect against anyone looting the valuable currency and note plates inside. A few large-scale fires had broken out near Southeastern University and Sixth Street, and the area was alive with emergency lights and streams of water being pumped onto apartments and high-rises.

The three helicopters then flew over to the White House, all three coming in together in formation a thousand feet in the air on a fast, high approach west of the Washington Monument, north over the Ellipse toward the south lawn, duplicating the flight path of the Cessna on its computer-controlled bomb run. The westernmost helicopter touched down first, discharging ten heavily armed Secret Service agents and lifting off again, before the middle helicopter came in, bringing the President and the First Lady, followed by the third helicopter with other presidential advisers, a few reporters, and more Secret Service agents. Army gunners with Stinger missiles and machine guns were deployed on the roof of the White House and in several nearby buildings, scanning the skies in all directions for any sign of trouble.

The White House didn’t look so white that morning.

Its front had been slightly damaged, with some missing stone and long streaks of black and gray across the south side. The Old Executive Office Building, the Treasury Department Building, and the south lawn were battered and heavily blackened, with trees and gardens still smoldering in all directions. A steel helicopter combat landing zone mat had been anchored to the south lawn for Marine One, and a raised walkway had been set up so the President would not have to walk across the scorched earth. A wooden platform had been set up for the members of the press, about sixty yards from where the President would be walking toward the White House.

The Q & A podium had been set up near the press pit, but the walkway did not extend over to it and no one expected the President to make a statement on this very grim occasion. But as he emerged from Marine One, several heavily armed Secret Service agents took positions in front of the press pit, facing toward the crowd with weapons highly visible at port arms, and the President walked across the scarred earth to the podium, with the First Lady on his right side. The bulk of the bulletproof vests they wore under their business suits were obvious to everyone.

“I’m not going to take any questions,” the President said solemnly, “just the following statement: I wish to convey my sincere condolences to the families of all those who lost a loved one in this… this devastating tragedy. I share their pain, and the pain of all Americans as they try to comprehend this disaster.

“I wish to thank the federal agents, District of Columbia Police, and the members of the military who responded when the disaster struck, especially FBI Director Lani Wilkes, who was wounded in an exchange of gunfire with Henri Cazaux himself. The disaster would have been much worse if it had not been for their efforts.

“Finally, I want to ask for the cooperation of all Americans as we work toward rebuilding the capital and as we intensify our efforts to bring those responsible for this disaster to justice. I pledge—”

Suddenly he stopped as something caught his eye and a stirring in the crowd grabbed his attention. The President was staring at…

… a paper airplane that had sailed over the reporters’ heads, bobbing and flitting directly for him. Four Secret Service agents grabbed the President and pulled him and the First Lady toward the White House, and suddenly unmarked Secret Service trucks and D.C. Police cars were racing for the group of reporters from parking areas near the Treasury Department Building. The reporters and cameramen were instantly surrounded by armed agents. “Wait a minute! Wait!” the President shouted, twisting in the Secret Service agents’ arms. “I want that note! I want to see it!” But the Secret Service hustled him and the First Lady away to safety.

The entire twelve-square-block area around the White House was sealed off by the Secret Service and D.C. Police, and all streets were cordoned off. As the D.C. Police got more units into the area, the dozens of Secret Service agents deployed were able to withdraw into the White House compound itself, leaving the D.C. Police and National Park Service officers to deal with the sudden crunch of traffic and the flood of curious onlookers. In the confusion, no one noticed one of the Secret Service agents standing in the shadows near the statue of Alexander Hamilton as he removed his earpiece, then his jacket and tie, and casually walked off down the street toward the Hotel Washington and a waiting limousine.

“That was a really silly thing to do, Henri,” Gregory Townsend said as the limo headed off down Pennsylvania Avenue. He lowered the Browning Hi-Power semiautomatic pistol he held. “We should be a hundred miles from this bloody city.”

“I like Washington, Gregory,” Henri Cazaux said with a glint of humor in his eyes, adjusting the bandages that were tightly wound around his chest and ribs to try to make himself a bit more comfortable. “I think we will set up our new base of operations here. What do you think?”

Townsend motioned to a metal suitcase on the seat ¹ across from them. “I think you should take your cash, use all of the survival skills you possess, and get out of this country as fast as you can,” Townsend said. “You know where Lake’s ranch is in Brazil, you can access his Swiss bank accounts, and you must have a plane or boat stashed somewhere — go to Brazil and relax for a while. The Americans will go back to business as usual soon, and that’s when you can consider coming back.”

“The Devil never takes a holiday,” Cazaux said. “My work is not finished, Gregory. You noticed how easy it was to slip into a closed presidential press conference as one of their own Secret Service agents? They are calling in even more agents, unrecognizable to each other. My goal is to get inside the White House itself, perhaps into the First Lady’s bedroom, fuck her, and finally destroy that place. Nothing will stop me.”

“Henri, the business accounts and contacts Lake set up for you are worth billions to us,” Townsend insisted. “If we go back into business, we’ll be the toast of the international arms market. We’ll command top dollar, and no one will screw with us. You are the top dog, Henri. Why waste all that on a scheme like buggering the Steel Magnolia?”

“Because I have a score to settle, Gregory,” Cazaux said, wincing as a muscle in his chest pulled one of the gunshot wounds wider. “Because I have been blessed with immortality. The money doesn’t matter, don’t you see that? Madame Vega was right — why waste my gift on selling a few weapons or smuggling drugs, when I can use my powers to destroy the greatest nation on earth? No, I have big plans for us, Gregory. I will have hundreds of soldiers that will rally to my side. I will destroy this entire city, and by doing so bring an entire nation to its knees. I will…”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Townsend muttered, rolling his eyes. “Henri, I’ve had enough.” He turned the Browning on Henri Cazaux, pulled the trigger, and squeezed off a halfdozen rounds. Fortunately, the Black Talon super-expanding low-velocity bullets did not bust out of the armored side doors of the security stretch limo. Cazaux looked at the glistening red bullet holes in his chest and stomach, and Townsend saw his eyes flare in red-hot, intense anger as he drew a knife from his behind-the-neck sheath — but Townsend was able to easily deflect Cazaux’s weak stab, disarm him, put one more bullet into Cazaux’s forehead, and topple the body to the floor. Townsend then calmly raised the privacy screen between the cabin and driver and aimed the smoking Browning at the driver.

“Who do you work for?”

“I work for Captain Townsend,” the driver replied immediately.

“Correct,” Townsend said. “Now find me a nice, quiet place to get rid of this mess.”