“You two are ex-military,” I say. “If you were planning to attack Camp David, how would you go about it?”
“I served at Camp David when I was a new boot,” Mullins says. “I know the place well. It’d take an army.” He shakes his head. “When the President is in residence the marine detachment is doubled, plus you’ve got the President’s Secret Service security detail. If Reinhardt is there then her detail will also be there.”
“That’s a lot of guns,” I say.
“Enough to hold off an army long enough to call in reinforcements,” he says. “They’d have jets overhead in less than three minutes, with pinpoint missile accuracy. Attack helicopters would be a couple of minutes behind them, and troop reinforcements within a quarter hour. You’d need an overwhelming force to get through all those marines and security details before then, and a force that size would be spotted on satellite long before it got close to the place. Plus, there are cameras and sensors hidden in the forest all around the camp. You couldn’t do it.”
“Find a way,” I insist.
“There isn’t one,” Robin says.
“Figure it out,” I say. “They have. Maybe it’s not about the missing C4. What about gas? A nerve agent. Release it downwind and let it blow over the camp.”
“They’re well prepared for that,” Mullins says. “Gas and biological sensors all around the perimeter. The buildings are gas proof and there are full MOPP suits and decontamination facilities within the camp. Plus to get a high enough saturation of gas into the camp you’d need a truckload of the stuff, allowing for wind dispersal, and then you’d have to count on the wind not changing. It’s theoretically possible, but there’d be no guarantee of success. Far from it.”
“The Puppetmasters would want a guarantee of success,” Robin says. “They don’t take chances.”
We all study the map for a long moment.
“A nuclear weapon?” I ask.
“That’d do it,” Mullins says, “But you’d have to get one.”
“Not too much problem for these people,” I say.
“You’d have to fly it in,” Mullins says. “All roads near Camp David are closed while the President is in residence and there’s a six mile no fly zone. Violate that and jets would be on your tail within seconds. Ignore their warnings and they won’t hesitate. You might penetrate a mile at the most before you got shot down.”
“What about a really big nuke?” I ask.
“Even the biggest has a blast radius of less than five miles,” Mullins says. “Your plan would depend on getting closer to the centre. It’s not a good plan.”
“And not their kind of game,” Robin says. “Not if they’re trying to pass the blame. What other options are there?”
A thought occurs to me.
“Reinhardt arrives this afternoon,” I say. “How? By car?”
“Highly unlikely,” Mullins says. “She’d use the helicopter.”
“Marine One?”
“They don’t call it that unless the President is on board,” Mullins corrects. “But yeah. It’s a helluva drive otherwise.”
“What if they put a nuclear weapon in the helicopter? They’d fly it right into the heart of Camp David.”
“Could be done,” Mullins says. “But there’s a whole bunch of very ornery marines that look after those birds up at Quantico, and I doubt they’d let you waltz in with a nuke.”
“Is there any other way in or out of Camp David?” I ask, studying the map.
“Just the main gates,” Mullins says, “And you wouldn’t even get close to them while the President is at home.”
“What about this road?” I ask, pointing to a track that appeared to lead out from the north of Camp David, through the double security fences.
“You can’t get in that way,” Mullins says. “That’s the emergency evacuation route only.”
“Tell me about that,” I say.
“In the fifties that was the way of evacuating the President in the event of a nuclear attack, or some kind of natural disaster that threatens the President’s life,” Mullins says. “That track leads right here.” He points to a small clearing in the forest less than a mile from the fence line. At the north end of the clearing a flat concrete structure can be seen. “That’s the entrance to the tunnel.”
“Into some kind of bunker?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “That tunnel extends for six miles underground. All the way to Raven Rock.”
“Raven Rock?” I ask.
“The emergency military command centre,” Robin says. “They call it the underground Pentagon.”
“Why is the tunnel entrance outside the fence line?” I ask.
“Beats me,” Mullins says. “I’d guess they were going to extend it further. They finished Raven Rock in ‘53, but by ‘57 they had started using Marine One to transport the President. In the event of a nuclear attack or a natural disaster they’d chopper him out of there and take him straight to Air Force One.”
“But it could still be used for an evacuation?”
“As far as I know that tunnel is still open,” Mullins says. “It’s still considered an alternative evacuation route. Say there was a natural disaster, and they couldn’t get the President out by chopper.”
We sit there staring at the map for a while. The digital clock on the nightstand ticks over and I feel that seconds are ticking away while I am too stupid to see the obvious answer. It has to be Camp David. It is the only opportunity to catch both of them together.
“Forget a nuke, or bio weapons,” Robin says. “They’d use the C4 to tie it in with the other attacks.”
I stand, to think. I don’t think well when I am sitting. I walk over to the window and stare at the disaster scene below. It is like a disco with all the coloured flashing lights.
A movement on top of a nearby high-rise catches my eye, silhouetted briefly by the moon. I stare in that direction for a moment, but there is no further movement. A trick of the light, a figment of my imagination, or just someone like me, watching the show from a high viewpoint.
I look back to the bridge as a fire truck manoeuvres around debris on the bridge approach. I wonder where it is going. There is no sign of a…
“Fire,” I say as the clock ticks over again.