The Lions Of Lucerne

6

The icy snow whipped against the Secret Service’s mobile command center, and every agent inside was looking directly at their chief of operations, Tom Hollenbeck.

“We have had no visual or radio contact with either protective detail going on nine minutes. Visibility is also severely impaired. I am upgrading the current situation to Hostile 2 until further notice. I want the president’s residence locked down and all duty agents that are raisable to report in. The perimeter is to be locked and lit. I want the backup tactical units on deck and ready to deploy. The rest of you know your jobs, so let’s move.”

Hollenbeck finished issuing orders and then turned his attention to the window as he tried to peer through the sea of snow. A group of counterassault agents waited outside for their orders, which they knew would be next to come.

For some reason, the radios within a hundred yards of the command center still worked, so Hollenbeck didn’t need to go outside to address the waiting agents. “I want both Hat Trick’s and Goldilocks’s intercept teams to mobilize immediately. You are to assess the situation and report back in person ASAP to Birdhouse unless radio contact can be reestablished. Until then, you are to assume that we are operating dark under a hostile scenario. Your objective is to compile a sit rep and get it to me as quickly as possible. This is not an escort service. I repeat, not an escort service. As soon as you know anything, I want you back here. Don’t waste any time. Any questions?” asked Hollenbeck sternly.

“Negative. Teams One and Two, understood. Out,” came the response from the intercept leader outside the command center. Within seconds, the two four-man teams of Secret Service agents clad in insulated Nomex jumpsuits and medium-weight body armor had their Polaris snowmobiles fired up and were heading to intercept their respective “packages.”

“Can we get anything aloft in this?” asked Hollenbeck of one of his operational assistants.

“From here, no. It looks as if things are supposed to be getting worse. We’ve got the president’s Marine Corps White Top at the bottom of the hill, but even as good as those pilots are, this weather is impossible and their helicopters aren’t made for it. The best we could do is scramble a Black Hawk from Hill Air Force Base.”

“How long would it take?”

“Ten minutes to get it up and twenty to thirty more to get on site, but there isn’t much they can do searchwise with the visibility cut down to less than nothing.”

“Call Hill and have them put one on standby. I want those rotors spinning until I say otherwise.”

The operational assistant turned away from Hollenbeck and patched through on the com link to Hill Air Force Base to order up the bird.

“Longo,” barked Hollenbeck, growing tenser by the moment, “are we green yet on those Motorolas?”

“We are still no go. Situation dark on all communications.”

“Palmer?”

“Sorry, sir. Still nothing on the Smocks either.”

Just when Agent Hollenbeck thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse, he heard the resort’s avalanche sirens begin their low, mournful wail.