THE MORNING SUN RISING ABOVE THE EASTERN horizon was invisible because of the thick fog that blanketed the nation’s capital. Although the streets were quiet, there were signs that the morning rush of people heading to work was near. The blue-and-white Washington Post newspaper van pulled up to the corner of Maryland and Massachusetts at the east end of Stanton Park. Both men got out of the van. The driver opened the back doors, and his partner walked over to the Washington Post newspaper box that was chained to the streetlight. He got down on one knee and picked the padlock. A moment later it sprang open, and the chain dropped to the ground. He grabbed the box and carried it to the back of the van. While he loaded it, his partner took an identical box and placed it where the other one had been. He checked several times to make sure the door wouldn’t open. After being satisfied, he pulled a remote control out of his pocket and punched in several numbers. A red light at the top told him the small radar unit placed inside the empty box was receiving the signal. He nodded to his partner and they got back in the van.
They were thankful for the cover that the fog provided, but were getting anxious. They would have liked to have started this part of the operation earlier, but were forced to wait until the real Washington Post vans had delivered Friday morning’s edition. With one more drop left, they drove around the south end of Stanton Park and turned onto Maryland Avenue. A block later, they turned onto Constitution Avenue and headed west. As they neared the White House, both men could feel their hearts start to beat a little faster.
The Secret Service paid close attention to the streets around the White House, and with the current heightened state of security, there was little doubt that they would be on their toes. If it weren’t for the fog, they wouldn’t risk dropping one of the boxes so close to the White House. The driver pulled up to the southeast corner of Fourteenth Street and Constitution Avenue and put the van in park. The White House was less than two blocks away. Both men pulled their baseball hats down a little tighter and got out to repeat the drill for the last time. This was the fifth and final radar unit. The first two were placed on the other side of the Potomac River in Arlington, Virginia, one to the south and west of the White House and the other directly west. The third radar unit was placed to the north of the White House at the intersection of Rhode Island and Massachusetts. With the final two units in place to the south and east, the trap was completed.
Quantico Marine Air Station is located approximately thirty miles southwest of Washington, D.C. The air station is divided into two parts: the green side and the white side. The green side supports the base’s normal Marine aviation squadrons, and the white side supports the special Marine HMX-1 Squadron. The HMX-1 Squadron’s primary function is to provide helicopter transportation for the president and other high-ranking executive-office officials. The squadron’s main bird is the VH-3 helicopter. The VH-3s at HMX-1 are not painted your typical drab green like most military helicopters. They are painted glossy green on the bottom half and glossy white on top. The presidential seal adorns both sides of the aircraft, and inside the cabin are a wet bar, state-of-the-art communications equipment, and plush flight chairs. These are the large helicopters that land on the South Lawn of the White House and transport the president to such places as Andrews Air Force Base and Camp David. The helicopter is typically referred to as Marine One in the same way the president’s 747 is referred to as Air Force One.
At first glance HMX-1 would seem like a cushy assignment for a Marine helicopter pilot—nothing more than an airborne limousine driver. In reality, it is the opposite. They are some of the best pilots the Marine Corps has to offer, and they are trained and tested constantly in evasive maneuvers, close-formation flying, and zero-visibility flying. If there is an emergency and the president needs to get somewhere, it doesn’t matter if there’s a blizzard or a torrential downpour. HMX-1 flies under any weather conditions.
The squadron consists of twelve identical VH-3s. Two of the twelve birds and their flight crews are on twenty-four-hour standby at the Anacostia Naval Air Station, just two miles south of the White House. This precaution is a holdover from the cold war. Standard operating procedure dictates that in the event of an imminent or actual nuclear attack, the president is to be flown on board Marine One, from the White House to Andrews Air Force Base. From there, he is to board Air Force One and take off. As far as the public is concerned, no president has had to take this apocalyptic journey for reasons other than training. Despite the fall of the Iron Curtain, the drill is still practiced frequently by the Marine Corps and Air Force pilots.
All ten of the VH-3s at HMX-1 were to be used in today’s flight operations, and their flight crews were busy checking every inch of the choppers, prepping them for flight. The two helicopters at Anacostia would stay on standby and be used if any of the ten developed mechanical difficulties. It was just after 8 A.M., and the rising sun had burned off most of the fog. Small pockets were left, but only in low-lying areas. The visibility had improved enough that the control tower decided to commence the transfer of the CH-53 Super Stallion helicopters from the New River Air Station to Quantico. A total of forty of the dull green monsters were flying up from Jacksonville, North Carolina—four for each of the VH-3s that would be ferrying the president and his guests from the White House to Camp David.
The doors to the hangar were open, and the roar of helicopters could be heard in the distance. Several of the mechanics walked out of the hangar to look at the approaching beasts. It was a sight they never got tired of. The Super Stallion was a tough-looking chopper. It had the rare combination of being both powerful and sleek and was one of the most versatile helicopters in the world.
The CH-53s rumbled in over the tops of the pine trees in a single-line formation at about 120 knots. The choppers were spaced in three-hundred-foot intervals, and the column stretched for over two miles. Their large turbine engines were thunderously loud in the cool morning air. One by one they descended onto the tarmac and were met by Marines wearing green fatigues, bright yellow vests, and ear protectors. The ground-crew personnel waved their fluorescent orange sticks and directed each bird into the proper spot. As each chopper was parked, the engines were cut and flight crews scampered under the large frames to secure yellow blocks around the wheels.
The traffic between Georgetown and the Capitol was never good, but in the morning it was almost unbearable. O’Rourke limped along in his Chevy Tahoe, thankful that the height of the truck allowed him to feel a little less claustrophobic.
Senator Olson’s recent attempts to form a coalition with the president had Michael worried. O’Rourke desperately wanted to talk to his old boss before he left for Camp David. Grabbing his digital phone, the young congressman punched in the numbers for Erik Olson’s direct line, and a second later the senator answered.
“Erik, it’s Michael. Are we still on for lunch Monday?”
“Yes, I’ve got you down for eleven forty-five.”
“Good.” O’Rourke took a deep breath. “Erik, I’m a little troubled by this alliance that you’re helping to form. What exactly do you hope to accomplish this weekend?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you guys going to make any effort to cut the budget, or are you all going to scratch each other’s back and put the country another half trillion dollars in debt?”
Olson was caught off guard by the blunt comment. “Michael, things are very complicated right now… and considering our current national security crisis, a balanced budget is the least of my concerns.”
“Erik, the most serious problem facing our country today is the national debt, not the fact that a couple of corrupt and self-serving egomaniacs were killed.”
Olson paused before answering. He did not want to be drawn into a fight with O’Rourke. “Michael, I understand your concern, but the important thing for America right now is to stop these terrorists, and the first step to doing that is to show a unified front. We cannot be threatened into reforms. This is a democracy.”
“So you’re not going to suggest any budget cuts.” O’Rourke made no attempt to hide the disgust in his voice.
“Michael, there are more important things for us to worry about right now than a balanced budget.”
“That’s bullshit, Erik. You know it, and I know it. Look at the damn numbers. Now is our chance to do something about it!”
“Michael, right now the national debt is of secondary concern. The important thing is to not appease terrorism.”
“Erik, why are you so dead set on calling these people terrorists? They haven’t killed any civilians. They killed four corrupt politicians who have abused and manipulated the powers of their office—four politicians who have mortgaged the entire future of this country so they could keep their special-interest groups happy and get reelected.”
“Michael, I won’t listen to you talk about those men that way!” Olson’s voice became shaky.
“It’s the truth, Erik. Don’t turn these guys into something they weren’t, just because they were assassinated.”
Olson paused for a moment. “Michael, let me tell you something. I love you like a son, but you have a lot to learn. I’ve been in this town for over thirty years, and things aren’t always as simple as you make them out to be.”
It was O’Rourke’s turn to raise his voice. “Do you want to hear simple, Erik? I’ll give you simple. Over the last twenty years, you and all of your colleagues have spent our country into a five-trillion-dollar black hole. During that time we weren’t confronted with a serious economic crisis or a major war. You had no valid reason to spend that kind of money.… I know you weren’t a willing participant, but the harsh reality is that you were there and you didn’t stop it. You have run up a five-trillion-dollar tab, and you’re all going to retire and stick us with the bill. That is the legacy that you will leave for your children.” O’Rourke paused for a second. “Shit, even now, with someone threatening your life, you aren’t willing to do the right thing. This is your last chance to do something about the mess you’ve created. Don’t let it slip away!” O’Rourke hit the end button on his phone and swore as he slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting a bicycle messenger who had cut in front of him. The truck came to an abrupt halt as its driver gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands. Through clenched teeth O’Rourke asked himself out loud, “What is it going to take for these guys to do their jobs?”
Olson stared at the receiver and then gently placed it in its cradle. Why were the Irish so damn emotional, he thought to himself. He knew O’Rourke was right about the debt, but violence was not the answer. The system needed time to correct itself. It did not need to be jump-started by terrorism and threats. Law and order needed to be maintained.
After about ten seconds, he opened his bottom desk drawer and pulled out a file marked “National Debt.” One of his staffers gave him monthly updates on the debt and the projections for the future. Olson opened it and looked over the summary page. The official numbers provided by the Stevens administration put the national debt at around $5.2 trillion. Olson knew this number did not represent the total national debt. Money had also been borrowed from the Social Security fund, and knowing the government’s track record on underestimating the cost of programs, he figured the debt was probably closer to $6 trillion. He quickly glanced over some estimates of what the debt would do over the next five, ten, fifteen, and twenty years. The numbers were truly horrifying. O’Rourke was right. If it wasn’t confronted, it would eventually bring the country to its knees. A bankrupt America was not the legacy he wanted to leave for his grandchildren, but neither was an America that tolerated terrorism.
Jack Warch climbed up the last flight of stairs and onto the roof of the White House. Special Agents Sally Manly and Joe Stiener followed as Warch surveyed the rooftop scene. He was pleased to see that the six countersniper agents already on the roof were at their posts and watching their area of responsibility. Warch was under a lot of stress and was trying his best to look calm. Joe Stiener went into the small guardhouse and filled up three cups of coffee, handing one to his boss, one to Manly, and keeping the other for himself.
Warch walked over to the south edge of the roof and looked up at the gray sky. Stiener and Manly stood several steps behind their boss and said nothing. After the sun had burned off the early-morning fog, it had looked as if it would be a bright day, but then, just before ten, a thick blanket of high, gray clouds moved in. A slight wind was coming from the southwest at about five to ten knots. Warch’s gaze shifted from the sky to the treetops, and he couldn’t help but notice the bright fall colors of the changing leaves. While sipping his coffee, he thought about how little he’d slept the past week. He was nearing the end of his rope and was looking forward to handing the president off to the Camp David team and getting some much needed sleep. But before he could do that, he had to get the president to Camp David in one piece.
Late the previous evening, they had met to discuss security arrangements, and Warch had recommended to the president that the meetings be held at the White House instead of Camp David. Garret had shot the idea down before the president had a chance to think it over. Garret had said, “Jim, the public needs to see that you’re not confined to the White House. They need to see you get on board Marine One and fly off to Camp David for the weekend. It will make you look like a leader, and besides, Camp David is more secure than the White House.”
It was debatable whether Camp David or the White House was more secure, but that wasn’t the issue. The real security threat came in flying the president from the White House to Camp David.
Warch had been briefed by McMahon on the assassinations and was mystified that, whoever these people were, they had been able to kill four high-ranking politicians and not leave a single clue worth beans. He was impressed with the skill and professionalism of the killers and afraid that the president would be their next target. These assassins had shown their ability to think and plan ahead, and it worried Warch that, as usual, the president’s itinerary was public information. The assassins would know approximately when the president was leaving the White House and when he would be arriving at Camp David.
In Warch’s line of work he had to assume the worst. For that reason, he was taking extra precautions today. Warch looked down at the reporters and photographers who were staking out positions on the west side of the South Lawn. Warch shook his head in frustration. He hated the press. If he had it his way, he’d ban them from the White House compound. They did nothing but make his job more difficult.
It was 10:48 A.M. and the president’s weekend guests were starting to arrive for the 11 A.M. lunch and photo op. A large black limousine pulled into the White House compound and drove up the executive drive. Warch watched his agents perform their duties with their usual precision. He glanced around the roof to make sure his other agents were staying focused on their area of responsibility and not looking at the new arrivals. The back door of the limo opened and Sen. Lloyd Hellerman stepped out. Four of Warch’s tallest agents surrounded the senator and ushered him toward the White House. The media stayed where they were supposed to, but shouted questions as Hellerman was rushed toward the door. The senator looked toward the media and slowed for a second. The two agents on the left and right grabbed Hellerman by the biceps and kept him moving through the doorway and into the White House. Warch had given his people specific instructions: “I don’t want anyone standing around outside. As they arrive, get them from the limos into the building as quickly as possible.” The South Lawn of the White House was secure, but Warch wasn’t going to take any unnecessary chances. He turned to one of his two assistants. “Joe, how are things going down at Quantico?”
The Secret Service agent put his hand over his earpiece. “They’re going through their preflight briefing right now.”
Warch nodded his head and asked Sally for her binoculars. He started to scan the rooftops of the buildings to the east. “How are our sniper teams doing?”
“They’re in position,” answered Agent Stiener.
Warch turned to the north and continued to look at the rooftops. “What about the ground teams?”
“They’re ready to move out whenever you want.”
Warch lowered the binoculars and thought about it for a minute. “Move them into position at eleven-fifteen. Remind them, if they see anyone carrying anything larger than a briefcase, I want them searched. And don’t forget to remind them not to look at the choppers as they fly in and out. I need them looking at the street.” Warch stopped and looked down at the gate as another limo pulled up. The photographers started snapping photos and the reporters started to speak into the cameras. Warch looked at the news vans that were parked off to the side and pointed at them. “Joe, remind Kathy and Jack to do a lockdown on those vans and take them off their live feeds before the first chopper lands. That’s before, not during.” Warch turned to Agent Manly. “Sally, what’s the situation with the advance team at Camp David?”
“So far so good. The six Marine recon units out of Quantico were inserted by helicopter about two hours ago. They’ve got the hilltops along the approach route secured, and they’re scouting the valleys for any potential hostiles.”
Warch nodded his head. “Nice work so far. Let’s stay sharp.”
HMX-1 did not have a briefing room large enough to accommodate all one hundred pilots involved in today’s flight operations, so folding chairs were set up in the corner of the hangar and the maintenance crews were asked to stop all work on the choppers while the briefing took place. The first several minutes of the briefing were handled by the ODO, or operations duty officer, who briefed the pilots on the weather conditions. The pilots sipped coffee and listened respectfully—some took notes on their knee boards while others memorized the details.
With the advent of shoulder-launched, surface-to-air missiles such as the American Stinger, the Secret Service had been forced to find a safer way to transport the president on board Marine One. In times of heightened security they implemented what the Marine pilots referred to as “the shell game.” This was a tactic developed by HMX-1 during the early years of the Reagan administration. Multiple Marine Ones would land, one at a time, at the White House or wherever the president was, and then take off, every helicopter heading in a different direction. The intended result was to confuse any would-be terrorist or assassin about which helicopter the president was on. This tactic was used often with only two or three VH-3s.
When the president’s itinerary was known in advance, and there was a heightened terrorist alert, HMX-1 called in the CH-53s for escort duty. Escort was a kind description of the Super Stallions’ job. The pilots of the drab green helicopters knew their real job was to shield the president’s helicopter from a missile. This was accomplished by flying in a tight formation with Marine One in the middle surrounded by four Super Stallions. Tight-formation flying with choppers as big as the VH-3 and the CH-53 was not an easy thing. Because of this, the Marine Corps saw to it that their pilots were drilled frequently in today’s exercise. The last thing the illustrious group of warriors wanted to be remembered for was killing the president in a midair collision.
After the weather briefing was finished, the squadron commander, a Marine colonel, took over. He handed out the flight assignments and got down to the nuts and bolts of the briefing. Ten VH-3s were flying today, and they were designated by their order of takeoff as Marine One, Marine Two, Marine Three, and so on. For training purposes the CH-53s were already split into groups of four. The first four that landed this morning were to escort Marine One, the second four were to escort Marine Two, and so on. The batting order was announced, and each division, which consisted of one VH-3 and four CH-53s, was given its bearing on which it was to leave the White House. Because it would take almost twenty minutes from the time the first VH-3 took off from the South Lawn to the time the last one did, the divisions were given different flight paths from the White House to Camp David. If all ten divisions left the White House and flew along the same flight path, it would give a terrorist time to move into position and take a shot at one of the later groups.
The blond-haired assassin was wearing contact lenses that made his blue eyes look brown. Once again his face, neck, and hands were covered with brown makeup, and a short, Afro wig was covering his hair. He exited George Washington Memorial Parkway and pulled the maroon van into the Glebe Nature Center. Finding a space close to the edge of the riverbank, he parked the van by a small, stone wall. About a mile to his south was the Key Bridge, and below him and just to the north was the Chain Bridge. Climbing into the back of the van, he turned on the control board and monitors. The van had been purchased with cash from a bankrupt TV station in Cleveland four months earlier. The small satellite dish on the roof pulled in the broadcast signals from the three networks and CNN. He was only concerned with CNN’s and ABC’s broadcasts. He put those two on the top monitors. CNN was giving a live update from the South Lawn, while ABC was still showing its regularly scheduled program. Reaching to his right, he dialed ABC’s live-feed frequency into the receiver. The signal was fuzzy at first, but after some fine-tuning the picture became clear.
The White House correspondent for CNN was speaking from the South Lawn, so the assassin turned up the volume and listened. “The president’s guests have been arriving now for the last fifteen minutes or so.” The reporter looked over her shoulder and gestured at another limousine pulling up. “Security is very tight and tensions seem to be running high. The president is scheduled to sit down for a light lunch with the leaders of both parties shortly. After lunch, probably sometime around noon, they will be boarding helicopters and flying to Camp David for the weekend.” The anchor in Atlanta thanked the reporter for the story and broke away for a commercial. The assassin checked his watch and leaned against the small back of the control chair. It would be another hour before the action started.
The president and the leaders from both parties were sitting around the large conference table in the Roosevelt Room, while Navy stewards served lunch and photographers from the press pool snapped pictures. They sat in a prearranged order, Republican next to Democrat, adversary next to adversary. This was done to give the impression of genuine unity within the group. Several reporters stood in the corner and shouted questions that were ignored. The event was a photo op, not a press conference, but as was always the case, the reporters who handled the White House beat asked questions regardless of what they were told to do. The constant flurry of questions and the politicians’ refusal to answer them made for an awkward situation as the cameras continued to flash away.
The political leaders sat at the table and smiled at one another, trying to look good for the cameras. As each question was half shouted at the group, the participants looked to the president to see if it would be answered. Etiquette dictated that no one answer anything unless the president answered first or gave the approval for someone else to speak. One of the photographers broke away from the pack and walked around to the other side of the table so she could get photos of the men sitting across from the president. Stevens noticed this and became uncomfortable. During the last several years, the small bald patch on the back of his head had grown significantly. Stevens had become increasingly insecure about this simple fact of aging and as a result made a conscious effort not to be photographed from behind.
Before the photographer could move into position, the president looked up at Moncur and said, “Ann, I think that’s enough.” Moncur stepped in front of the cameras and reporters and escorted them to the door. When the door was closed, everyone looked around the room to make sure none of the reporters had stayed behind. Once they were sure they were alone, the mood changed immediately. The fake smiles vanished and the conversation picked up. There were a lot of deals to be made before the weekend was over.
About twenty minutes later, Jack Warch entered the room and asked for the president’s permission to address the group. Everyone stopped talking while Agents Manly and Stiener walked around the table and handed each person a piece of paper. “Ladies and gentlemen, this sheet lists which helicopter you will be flying on and who you will be flying with. If you’ll notice, the president is not on this list, and there is no one listed as flying on the last helicopter. For security reasons we will not announce which helicopter the president will be on until the last minute. If we decide to put him on the first helicopter, all of you will be bumped to the next chopper, and if we decide to put him on the fifth helicopter, those flying on helicopters five, six, seven, eight, and nine will be bumped to the next flight.” Warch quickly glanced around the room to make sure everyone was with him. “The helicopters will be coming in at quick intervals, so I would ask that you be ready to go when your helicopter lands. When your helicopter lands, Secret Service agents will escort you to the chopper and a Marine will help you get situated and buckled in.… Do any of you have any questions?” Warch again looked around the room and noticed with satisfaction that the mood had become more serious. He turned to the president. “Sir, that’s all I have for now.”
The president thanked Warch, and the agents left the room.
Warch was walking down the hallway, telling Manly and Stiener several more things that he wanted checked, when Stu Garret approached from the opposite direction and stopped them. “Have you decided which helicopter the president is flying on?”
“No, I haven’t.”
Garret looked at his watch. “We’re supposed to start this whole show in thirty minutes and you haven’t made up your mind?”
“No, I haven’t decided yet, Stu, and if you’d please excuse me, I have a lot of things to take care of.” The increasingly impatient Warch stepped around Garret and continued down the hallway. Warch had decided after witnessing Garret’s unwarranted and childish temper tantrum two evenings earlier that it was time to be more firm with the temperamental chief of staff.
The elderly-looking gentleman parked his rental car by the front gate of Arlington National Cemetery and got out. He was wearing a tan trench coat, an English driving cap, and using a cane that he didn’t need. On the lapel of his trench coat was a veteran’s pin and an American flag. He smiled and nodded to the guard at the main gate as he entered the cemetery and started the climb up the hill to the Kennedy Memorial and Robert E. Lee’s house.
He looked at the rows of tombstones as he walked up the slope and said a quick prayer for his fallen comrades as he went. This national shrine, this place of honor, had an unearthly feel to it. He did not see his friends die all those years ago so America could be destroyed by a bunch of self-serving politicians.
When he reached the front yard of Lee’s house, he turned and looked to the east. Beneath him, across the river and beyond the Lincoln Memorial, he could see the White House. He situated himself beneath a large oak tree and leaned against its trunk.
A short while later, he heard a rumble in the distance and turned to the south. Beyond Washington National Airport, he saw the first formation of helicopters moving up the Potomac. The four large, dull green helicopters surrounded the single shiny, green-and-white presidential helicopter. As they reached the Potomac Railroad Bridge, the formation gained some altitude, passed over the Jefferson Memorial, and came to a stop over the Tidal Basin, which sat between the Jefferson Memorial and the Mall. The old man looked back and forth between the five helicopters and the White House. He saw more movement to the south and turned again.
Two more formations were working their way up the Potomac, and the first of these two stopped just on the south side of the Potomac Railroad Bridge. A third appeared farther down the river, and then a fourth and a fifth just where the river started to bend back to the west and out of view. All five of the formations were holding their positions with about two hundred feet of separation. The noise of their large twin turbine engines and the thumping of their rotor blades echoed throughout the Potomac River Valley.
From his perch on the roof of the White House, Warch could see and hear the helicopters just to his south. The Tidal Basin, in front of the Jefferson Memorial, was approximately a half mile away, and the five helicopters held their position directly over it, waiting for the order to proceed to the White House. In the distance Warch could see the second group of choppers hovering. He looked toward the Mall and focused his binoculars on a group of Park Police officers who were in charge of securing the area from the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial. Most of them were staring at the loud choppers hovering over the Tidal Basin. Turning to Manly, he said, “Sally, get on the radio and remind the people on the street that they are to pay attention to what is going on around them and to ignore the choppers.” Agent Stiener was scanning the surrounding rooftops with his binoculars, and Warch tapped him on the shoulder. “Joe, tell Kathy and Jack to take the networks off their live feed.” Stiener lowered his binoculars and spoke into his mike.
Special Agents Kathy Lageski and Steve Hampson were standing by the news vans talking to each other when they received the order from Stiener. Out of habit, both agents brought their hands up and pressed down on their earpieces as Stiener gave them instructions. Without pause, Lageski and Hampson turned and went to work. Lageski started with the CNN van and approached the producer who was sitting at the control board. “Tony, we have to take you off the air.”
The producer nodded to Lageski and then spoke into his headset, “Ann, they’re taking me off the air. I’m going to tape.” The producer waited another couple seconds and then started to flip switches. Before shutting down the live feed, he put in a fresh tape and checked to see if it was recording properly. Lageski watched over him as he turned off the power on the transmitter that sent out the live signal. After the producer was finished, he stepped out of the van and Lageski shut the door.
“Tony, if you need to get back in there, ask me first.” The producer nodded and Lageski moved on.
Stiener informed Warch that the networks were off their live feed, and the special agent in charge looked down at the news vans and then up at the first group of helicopters hovering less than a mile away. “Are our guests ready to go?”
Stiener raised his mike to his mouth and relayed the question to one of the agents downstairs. A moment later he looked up at his boss. “They’re all set downstairs.”
“Good, send in the first group, Sally.”
Agent Manly gave the order and then asked Warch, “Which bird do you want to put Tiger on?” Tiger was the code name that the Secret Service used for the president.
Warch thought for a moment. “Let’s go with number three. Don’t let anyone know until number two lands.”
The old man leaned against a tree and looked intently at the five helicopters hovering by the Jefferson Memorial. He hoped that the pilots flying those things were as good as he’d been told. He did not want to see any Marines die. The choppers started to move north toward the White House, and the old man pulled a digital phone out of his pocket, punched in a phone number, and hit the send button. He let the phone ring four times and hung up.
The assassin looked at the digital phone sitting on the control board and counted the rings. When it stopped after the fourth one, he dialed in a frequency code on the control board and pressed the send button. The signal was received less than a second later, and the transponder that was planted in the ABC van the previous evening kicked in. The power to the transmitter was restored, and the live feed was back on line. A couple of seconds later, the bottom left monitor went from a fuzzy, gray picture back to a clear picture of the South Lawn.
Warch watched the choppers as they flew across the Mall toward the White House. As they approached, the rotor wash became intense. Warch’s tie started to flap up into his face, and he reached down, tucking it into his shirt. The lead Super Stallion hovered directly over Warch’s head as the shiny green-and-white VH-3 in the middle descended and landed gently. The four ominous, loud Super Stallions held their positions hovering about two hundred feet above the ground, waiting for the VH-3 to ascend back into the formation.
Warch looked down and watched eight Secret Service agents escort the first two passengers to the foot of the VH-3. A Marine helped the two VIPs into the helicopter and then pulled up the steps and closed the door. Even over the loud roar of the Super Stallions, Warch could hear the VH-3 increase the power of its engines. The executive helicopter gracefully lifted off the ground and stopped at an altitude even with her escorts. She hovered for a brief moment, then all five helicopters simultaneously banked to the right and headed northeast. As the choppers increased power and passed over the White House, Warch and the other agents widened their stances to steady themselves against the intense rotor wash.
The next group of helicopters was already passing the Washington Monument and moving toward the White House. There was a brief moment of relative silence as the rumble of the first group lessened in the distance and the roar of the approaching group grew. Manly turned to Warch and Stiener. “God, those damn escorts are loud.”
Warch and Stiener nodded their heads in agreement. The next formation swooped in over the South Lawn a little faster than the first, and the VH-3 wasted no time dropping rapidly and performing a quick, controlled landing. Once again the passengers were escorted by Secret Service agents to the chopper and loaded on board. The VH-3 lifted back into formation, and without pausing, all five helicopters banked to the left and continued to bank as they came back around to a southwesterly course, passing over the Reflection Pool. The next formation was moving toward the White House and Warch looked at Manly. “Is Tiger ready?”
Manly nodded her head yes.
President Stevens strode across the South Lawn wearing a dark wool suit with a faint gray pinstripe, a blue pinpoint oxford, and a deep red tie. Surrounding him were six Secret Service agents, the one just behind him carrying a bulletproof tan trench coat, ready to throw it over the president at the slightest sign of trouble. Garret walked on the left side of the president so as to avoid getting between his boss and the cameras. Stevens smiled broadly and waved to the cameras and reporters. He and Garret had debated whether he should give the press his serious and determined look or his happy and excited look before getting on board Marine One. Garret suggested a combination of the two—a happy and determined look. The president, being the consummate actor, understood completely the subtle difference between happy and excited and happy and determined. As they reached the helicopter, Stevens stopped and snapped off a sharp salute to the Marine in dress blues standing at the foot of the steps.
The crew chief, a Marine corporal wearing an inflight headset, tan, long-sleeve shirt, and blue pants with a red stripe, met Stevens at the top of the steps and helped him through the small doorway. Garret, the Secret Service agent carrying the tan trench coat, and another agent came through this door, and the other four came on board through a second door that was located just behind the port-side wheel flange. Normally only one agent would fly with the president and the rest of the detail would follow in the next chopper, but times were far from normal. The two doors, with steps built into them, were pulled up quickly and secured. Everyone took his seat while the crew chief made a quick pass to make sure everyone was strapped in. Before taking his own seat, he spoke to the pilots over the inflight headset, telling them they were buttoned up and ready to go.
The helicopter leapt into the air and rose up into the middle slot of the formation. Stevens looked out his small, starboard window and was surprised at how close the large, green helicopters were. Unlike most military helicopters, the inside of Marine One was soundproofed against the noise of the large engines and the rotors, so conversation could take place without having to shout. The president looked to Garret and pointed out the window. “Stu, did you see how close this thing is?”
Garret shrugged his shoulders. “You know how these flyboys are. They’re probably just trying to show off.”
The digital phone started to ring in the old man’s pocket. He made no attempt to answer it. Staring at the four dull green helicopters that were hovering above the White House, he counted the rings. The call was a signal telling him that the president was on board the helicopter that was about to rise back into the formation. After the third ring he opened the left side of his trench coat. Taped upside down to the inside of his jacket was a small, black box. The face of it contained a number pad, an enter button, and a power switch. The old man reached inside with his right hand and flipped the power switch to the on position. He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, then returned his attention to the helicopters hovering over the White House. He saw the green-and-white VH-3 rise into the air and punched two numbers into the remote, but did not hit the enter button. He had to wait until the formation started to move, otherwise the president’s helicopter would drop straight back down into the relative cover of the White House compound. The noses of the helicopters dipped slightly and the group began to move. The old man hit the enter button and said a quick prayer.
The signal was received a second later by the tiny surface-to-air radar unit that had been placed in the Washington Post newspaper box two blocks to the south of the White House. The unit immediately started to sweep its wide-band search radar over the formation of helicopters. The band narrowed in less than two seconds from acquisition, to track, to fire control.
Simultaneously, inside the cockpits of all five helicopters, missile warning lights began flashing, and the onboard threat sensors came screeching to life. The loud wailing of the threat sensor told them that they were being illuminated by fire-control radar. There was no time to think, only time to react as their training had taught them. Heart rates quickened and heads snapped around to see if a missile was already in the air. Their threat sensors informed them that they were being illuminated from behind, and within seconds all five helicopters simultaneously increased power and moved forward, dropping to as low an altitude as possible. As they screamed over the roof of the White House, the copilots hit their flare-dispenser buttons, hoping to confuse an approaching heat-seeking missile.
Jack Warch felt his heart climb into his throat as he saw the flares come shooting out of the tails of the helicopters. The huge choppers moved just above his head, straining to gain speed, their bright red flares streaming down and pelting the roof of the White House. Without hesitation, his hand mike snapped up to his mouth. Trying to scream above the deafening roar of the helicopters, he yelled, “Sniper teams, look for a missile launch!”
He watched the choppers gain speed as they tore across Lafayette Park, skimming the tops of the trees, and willed them to go faster. The seconds seemed like minutes as he watched and waited to see a red streak and then an explosion. Several flares landed by his feet, and he ran to the north side of the roof, following the choppers. About a half a mile away from the White House the formation banked hard to the left and Warch lost sight of it.
Atop the hill at Arlington the old man tracked the formation of helicopters as they scrambled for safety. Quickly, he punched in the codes for the radar units that had been placed to the east and north of the White House.
Seconds later the helicopters picked up the azimuth of the new threats and banked hard to the left. Heading due west, they raced over the rooftops of downtown, gaining speed quickly and continuing to drop flares. The old man punched in the codes for the last two radar units. They immediately started sweeping the horizon from the west and southwest with their search radar—the trap was complete.
As the pilots reached the Potomac River, they did exactly what their instincts and training had taught them. They skimmed over the top of the Key Bridge and dove almost two hundred feet to the deck. The formation pulled up dangerously close to the blue-gray waters of the Potomac and raced northward, below the tree line and underneath the coverage of the radars that had been harassing them. The warning lights on their dashboards subsided, and the shrill of the threat sensors ceased.
The engine of the van was running and the assassin was standing next to the stone wall waiting for the helicopters. He heard them coming before he could see them. When they appeared, he was immediately impressed by how low they were flying and how tight they’d kept the formation. That wouldn’t last much longer, he thought to himself. Pressing in the code for the flare launchers and radar unit, he placed his thumb over the enter button and waited. As they passed underneath his position, he looked at the blur of rotors spinning below and said, “Now just keep your cool and don’t run into each other. I don’t want any dead Marines on my hands.”
The Chain Bridge, unlike the Key Bridge, was only about fifty feet high and was slung low across the Potomac. The assassin waited for just a moment longer, and when the lead Super Stallion was about two hundred yards from the bridge, he hit the button. The radar powered up and the helicopters were so close that the radar immediately narrowed its search to fire control.
Again the threat sensors on board the choppers came howling to life. Seconds later all six of the bright red phosphorus flares snaked their way out of the tubes and into the sky leaving a trail of smoke behind them. The combination of the visual threat of the red streaks and the fact that the pilots thought they were locked onto by a surface-to-air missile caused the lead pilot to do what came naturally. He’d been trained for almost fifty hours in close-formation escort duty, but he’d also been trained for well over two hundred hours in missile-evasion tactics. All this plus the fact that there was nothing more unnatural for a pilot to do than fly a straight and steady course when being tracked by fire-control radar caused him to jerk his stick to the left.
Upon seeing and hearing the danger that was ahead, the other three Super Stallion pilots had already started to loosen the formation, and when the lead escort broke left, the other three scattered, as much out of the fear of a midair collision as their desire to evade what they thought was an approaching missile. The helicopters in the three and six o’clock slots broke to the right and stayed low, because it was better to pass through a hot zone quickly than to gain altitude and lose speed. The helicopter in the nine slot was forced to pull up to avoid hitting the lead escort, who had cut her off.
All of this left Marine One alone, in the middle of the river, a sitting duck. There was no time or room to react. Marine One passed through the smoke trails of the flares while the helicopter’s threat sensors continued to flash and warn of imminent death. Gripping the controls tightly, the pilots of Marine One braced themselves for impact and cursed their escorts for abandoning them.