Term Limits

chapter Ten
Without saying good-bye the Senator slammed the phone down. The line went dead and O'Rourke looked at the receiver, debating if he should call Olson back. He decided against it and set the phone down. He was torn between his loyalty to Olson and his disgust for what men like Koslowski had done to America and its political system. The thought of honoring them in any way made him tense with anger. The decision would be easy if it weren't for the fact that Michael felt more indebted to Erik Olson than any other person in the world. Erik and Alice Olson had been best friends of O'Rourke's parents. After Michael's parents died, the Olsons had stepped in to help fill the void for Michael and his younger brothers and sister. O'Rourke glanced over at a picture on the wall. It was of his graduation from college, and he was flanked by the Olsons. O'Rourke continued to look at the other pictures and noticed that the Olsons were in many of them. They had been there a lot over the last ten years-all of the birthdays and holidays where Erik and Alice Olson had made the effort to act as parents for the parentless O'Rourke family. He drifted to another photo. A large, framed black-and-white his mother had taken just before her death. It was of the lake and woods in front of their family cabin in northern Minnesota. A fresh blanket of' snow covered the frozen lake and hung heavy on the thick, green pine trees, weighing the branches down.

Taken after a snowstorm, the beautiful photo always reminded him of that sad time in his life. In the early years after his parents' death, he had been tempted to take it down on many occasions because of the emotions it evoked, but he had kept it up out of respect for his parents and a belief that it was better to confront the pain and fear than run from it. As he stared at the photo on the wall, he thought about the funeral of' his parents. He remembered standing in the cold cemetery, covered with snow, a crisp, cold wind coming out of the north and a dark, gray sky overhead. He stood over the graves while everyone else waited in the cars so he could say a last good-bye, alone. He couldn't remember how long he stood there, only that it was cold and  that his vision was blurred by the steady stream of tears that had filled his eyes. The memories flooded to the surface, and Michael remembered it was Erik Olson who had come to his side that cold day and led him away from the graves-back to his brothers and sister. Michael turned and saw Liz in the doorway. He held out his arms and they met halfway. Grabbing her tightly, he kissed her cheek and then whispered, I don't ever want to lose you."

FROM 10:30 A.M. TO ALMOST 11:30 A.M. SENATOR OLSON WAS BESIEGED by everyone from his secretary to the President, all trying vigorously to dissuade him from walking in the procession. He stood his ground and refused to change his mind. The President called again just before the procession was to start, and after he failed to talk Olson out of it, the decision was made to let him have his way. At 11:55 A.M. four caissons, each pulled by three pairs of white horses, arrived at the foot of the Capitol steps. Senator Olson stood off to the side and admired the precision of the young military men as they lifted each coffin off its catafalque and marched toward the door. As Olson moved to follow the last coffin out the door, a warm hand was placed on his shoulder. The thin, small Senator turned to see the smiling and apologetic face of Michael O'Rourke. "I'm sorry about last night, Erik." Olson reached up and patted O'Rourke's hand. "Thank you for coming, Michael. This means a lot to me." The two men turned, walked out the door, and descended the Capitol steps. One by one each coffin was carried by its special detail and placed on top of the black, two-wheeled carriages.

As the last coffin was placed on its caisson, the order was given and a lone drummer started to beat out the cadence. Following military tradition, each caisson was followed by a horse and a soldier walking beside it.

O'Rourke, Olson, and four of the Senator's bodyguards fell in behind  the last riderless horse. Another command was given and the procession moved out to the beat of the drum. The street was lined with a large crowd of onlookers and media as the procession traveled down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the White House at a somber, dignified pace.

The commentators covering the event for the networks commented at length that Senator Olson was the only one of the remaining 531 Congressman and Senators who had elected to walk behind the procession.

O'Rourke was dismissed by all as one of Olson's bodyguards. The large, red-brick colonial was located on a secluded four acres of rolling Maryland countryside that overlooked the Chesapeake Bay. There were estates just like it up and down the coast of the Chesapeake, some smaller and some bigger. None of them, however, were as secure.

Several years earlier, the owner had paid close to a million dollars to convert the turn-of-the-century house into a fortress. The bulk of the perimeter security system was composed of night-vision cameras, underground motion sensors, and laser-beam trip wires. The next line of security was in the actual construction of the house. All the  windows were double-paned, bulletproof Plexiglas, and all the exterior doors were triple-hinged, two-inch-thick steel, covered with wood veneer and anchored into reinforced-steel frames. Four bodyguards were present at all times. The owner was Arthur Higgins. To those who knew him or had heard of him, he was known simply as Arthur.

He had unofficially worked for the CIA since its inception, and over the last forty-some years he had done most of the Agency's dirty work.

When Director Stansfield took over, Arthur was ordered to cease all association with the Central Intelligence Agency and all other United States government agencies. He had blatantly ignored the order. In the large library of the house, Arthur sat at his desk and watched the TV coverage of the funeral procession. He knew each of the men who had been killed, several of them well. He felt no sorrow over their deaths, and that didn't surprise him. Arthur prided himself on being emotionless. He believed emotions were something that clouded one's judgment. But when the face of Senator Olson came on the screen, Arthur's eyes squinted tight, as he fought to suppress the anger rising up from within. Not many people in the world could elicit an instantaneous physical response from Arthur, but Senator Olson was one of them. Just before the procession reached the White House, one of the commentators for CBS realized that the man standing next to Senator Olson was not wearing a tan trench coat and sunglasses like the other four bodyguards! He was wearing an expensive black dress coat and a nice silk tie. After informing his producer of this obvious fact, the producer put his assistants to work trying to find out who this unknown man was. Minutes later, as the procession was arriving at the gates of  the White House, CBS announced that Senator Olson was walking with Congressman Michael O'Rourke, who was also from Minnesota. The cameras were naturally drawn to O'Rourke's good looks, and the producers at every network scrambled to find out more about the unknown Congressman.

The procession stopped in front of the White House, and the four coffins were taken by their special details and placed on four black catafalques in the East Room.

The room was packed with leaders of foreign nations, Ambassadors, U.S. Supreme Court justices, and a select group of U.S. Senators and Congressman, with the families of the deceased politicians sitting in the first several rows of chairs. When Olson and O'Rourke entered the room, no chairs were left, so they stood in back with the other people who could not find a seat. After the last special detail had left, the congressional chaplain stood and read a long prayer for the repose of the souls of the four men. President Stevens then stood and gave a surprisingly short, somber, and nonpolitical eulogy. He spoke only of the tragedy of death before its time, the importance of prayer, and helping the loved ones who were left behind heal properly. He was followed by several Senators and Congressman, who mentioned some touching personal moments, but who also stayed away from saying anything controversial.

All of the politicians who rose and spoke avoided the subject that was in the forefront of everyone's mind, the subject that they were all afraid to broach, for fear of falling in the footsteps of the four dead men who lay before them. Senator Olson was the last to speak, and he directed all of his comments to the families of his deceased colleagues. Once again, the flag-draped coffins were carried, one by one, out of the East Room, and this time were loaded into four black hearses that would deliver them to Andrews Air Force Base. From there, they would each be loaded onto a C-141B Starlifter for the flight back to their home states. President Stevens was now taking the time to offer each family member his condolences as they stood to leave.

The crowd was starting to filter out into the hallway, and Olson turned to O'Rourke. "Michael, I need to talk to the President for a minute. Would you like to meet him?" O'Rourke looked down at his friend and then across the room at the President. "No, I'll wait here." Olson looked at the young O'Rourke, as he'd done many times before, and asked himself why Michael had decided to get into politics. "Have you ever met him before?"

"No."

"Well, then come on." Olson stepped away and waved his hand toward the President. "I have no desire to meet him. I'll wait for you in the hallway." Olson knew by the look in the stubborn O'Rourke's eyes that it was worthless to ask a third time. The Senator nodded his head and turned to make his way toward the President.

IT WAS DARK OUT WHEN O'ROURKE PARKED HIS DARK GREEN CHEVY Tahoe in front of Scarlatti's apartment building. He was thirty minutes late. Looking forward to spending some time with her, he' bounded up the steps. He could always put everything else out of his mind and relax when he was with Liz.

O'Rourke knocked on the door, and a moment later it opened. Instead of greeting him with the usual kiss, Scarlatti turned and walked back into the apartment. O'Rourke picked up on the angry signal and tried to figure out what he might have done to upset her. He was almost always late, so it couldn't be that. He followed her down the hallway and into the kitchen. "Liz, are you all right?" Scarlatti did not respond. She stirred the pot of noodles boiling on the stove. Michael grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her around. O'Rourke saw the tears in her eyes and tried to put his arms around her, but she backed away. "What's wrong?"

"You have no idea, do you?" Scarlatti asked with a voice that was far  from steady. O'Rourke looked at her and shook his head. "I can't believe you don't know." She started to shake her head back and forth, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I'll tell you what's wrong, Michael.

You're a Congressman, and if you haven't noticed lately, there's a group of people that are going around killing politicians and you happen to know who they are." She shook her head at him and took a deep breath.

"Well, despite knowing there are people out there who would like to kill you, you decide to walk right down the center of Pennsylvania Avenue in front of thousands of people. Not only did you do that, but you didn't even have the courtesy to call and tell me." Liz paused again and stared at O'Rourke. O'Rourke looked down at her big, brown eyes and thought to himself, God, I don't need this right now. The only thing that kept him from verbalizing it was that he knew she was right. "I was sitting in the newsroom, and someone ran up to my desk and told me you were on TV.

The next thing I knew, the commentator is saying that no one else would walk in the procession because the FBI thought it was too dangerous. I sat there for twenty minutes of hell." Scarlatti stared at him as she tried to stop crying. O'Rourke went to step forward, but she put out her hand. "No, I'm not finished yet. I sat there praying that nothing would happen to you. Pictures of Basset getting his head blown off  kept flashing across my mind. All I could think of was that I wasgoing to lose you." She broke down and began to sob into her hands.

O'Rourke stepped forward and tried to wrap his arms around her. She pushed him away and walked to the other side of the kitchen, trying to gain some composure. "Michael, you have no idea how much I love you."

She looked up at the ceiling and paused. "Just last night you told me you never wanted to lose me. Well, how in the hell do you think I feel? Do you think I want to lose you? Did it ever occur to you to pick up the phone and let me know what was going on? Did you ever stop and think about me today . . . about how I was feeling, wondering if someone was going to shoot you? How would you feel if it was me? How would you feel if I died? That would be it, Michael. Our future together would be gone and none of our dreams would be realized. We would never have the chance to have children and raise them, nothing.

Damn it, Michael, this is my life, too!" O'Rourke moved across the room and grabbed her. She tried to move away again, but he held on and pulled her into his chest. He whispered into her ear, "Honey, I'm sorry. I should have called, but I was never in danger."

"How can you say you were never in danger. It's been open season on politicians for the last week. They could have easily-"

Michael put his finger over her lips. "I know who they are, Liz . . . they would never do anything to harm me."

The sun had risen again, and down in the subbasement of the White House a Secret Service agent opened an obscure door for Stu Garret. The President's chief of staff walked in and sat down next to another Secret Service agent. Garret grabbed a pair of headphones and put them on as he looked up at the bank of monitors.

President Stevens was standing in front of the fireplace in the Oval Office waiting for his breakfast appointment. A moment later, the door opened and Senator Olson entered the room. The President walked over and shook his guest's hand. "Good morning, Erik." Garret could hear them talk as if he were standing right next to the two men. President Stevens led Olson over to a small table that had been set for breakfast, and the two men sat down. A steward entered the room and started to serve the meal. Senator Olson received a bowl of oatmeal with a side of brown sugar and a halved grapefruit, while the President received his usual bowl of Post Toasties with skim milk and a cup of fruit. The steward poured both men a cup of coffee and left the room.

The President dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin and said, "Erik, I would like you to know that I'm happy you've made the effort to come see me, especially in light of the current situation and the poor working relationship between our two parties." Olson nodded his head, signaling a frustrated understanding. "I'm glad you've agreed to see me, sir. I know these are hectic times for you."

"They're hectic for all of us."

"Yes, I suppose you're right," Olson sighed. "That is why I'm here this morning. The situation we are confronted with is bigger than partisan politics." Olson stopped as though e were searching for the right Words to use. "I am very concerned about what might happen if certain members of my party propose that we implement some of the things this group is asking for." The President raised an eyebrow at the comment.

"Considering the philosophical tenets of your party, and the stress that we are all Under, I can see where that might become a possibility, one that I would not welcome."

"Neither would I, sir."

Olson glanced down at his oatmeal and then at the President. The President nodded, implying to Olson that he should continue. "Last Friday we started a new chapter in our country's history, one that is potentially very dangerous. The idea that one small group can dictate, through violence, the policies of this country runs completely against all of the democratic principles upon which our nation was founded.

These acts of terrorism absolutely and emphatically cannot be tolerated if we want to leave a civilized and democratic nation for future generations of Americans." The Senator paused for a second, then continued, "As you said earlier, the relations between our parties have been very strained as of late. Much of that has to do with the recent fight over your budget. It is my feeling that we must put those differences aside and move forward with a unified front. There will be some compromises that will have to be reached, but the important thing is that we cannot, for a minute, entertain the idea of appeasing these terrorists." President Stevens leaned back in his chair. "I agree.

Appeasement is out of the question. That has been my official position from the outset. It does, however, worry me that you think certain members of your party may be willing to exploit this situation for personal and political gain. What do you propose our course of action to be?"

"I think we need to bring the leaders of both parties together and discuss what needs to be changed in your budget to guarantee a swift and resounding passage through both the House and the Senate." Olson placed both elbows on the table and waited for the response. "Erik, I had enough votes to get my budget passed before this whole debacle started.

I'm not so sure I need to change it at all." Olson looked straight into the President's eyes. "Sir, if your budget was put to a vote today, it wouldn't stand a chance of getting out of the House.

Koslowski and Basset are gone, and these assassinations have scared the hell out of the remaining Congressman. I've heard rumors that a few of them are contemplating quitting." Olson paused to let his comments sink in. "The only thing that will get your budget passed is a strong, unified front from both parties, and that means some deals will have to be struck. I'm not saying that drastic changes need to be made, only that you will have to meet us halfway." The President nodded his head positively. The proposal was beginning to make more sense. The two statesmen continued to discuss the formation of their new alliance, while several floors beneath the meeting the wheels were spinning in Garret's head. This might be the perfect way out, he thought to himself. Show a unified front with the President standing in the middle, holding both parties together. The public would eat it up.

Stevens would look stronger than ever. His approval rating would go through the roof, and no one from either party would be able to challenge him for a second term. And that meant Garret could have any position-secretary of state, secretary of defense, whatever he wanted.

McMahon entered Director Roach's office ten minutes late for their seven-thirty meeting. "Sorry, Brian, I got tied up trying to untangle a dispute, a dispute that I don't have the time, energy, or political clout to deal with." Roach was sitting at the conference table in his office. He had stacks of files laid out in an orderly manner in front of him. He preferred the large work surface of the conference table to his desk. McMahon plopped down in a chair at Roach's end of the table.

Roach had a feeling that whatever was bothering McMahon was about to be dumped in his lap. "What's the problem, Skip?"

"The problem is that no one from the President to Nance to the secretary of defense to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, no one, and I mean no one, is cooperating in letting us take a look at the Special Forces personnel files."

"Why?"

"In short, Brian . . . they're in the business of trusting no one."

McMahon shook his head several times. "I suppose they think we're going to walk in the front door of the Pentagon with a hundred agents and start rifling through their top-secret files. Whatever their reasons are, I don't care. I need to start looking at those files, whether the brass is paranoid or not. I'll work in conjunction with them, and try to step on as few toes as possible, but we have to be given access." Roach nodded. I'll look into it this morning and hopefully have an answer to you by this afternoon.

What else do you have for me?" McMahon handed his boss two files.

"These are the ballistics and autopsy reports for Basset. I received them late last night."

"Anything unexpected?"

"One interesting point. The guys down in the lab are pretty sure the bullet was loaded with nitroglycerin." The director's eyes opened wider.

"Really?"

"Yep, it's a pretty sure way to make sure one shot does the job, I suppose."

"How does a person go about getting their hands on a nitro-tipped bullet?"

"We're looking into talking to the people over at ATF, and they're trying to put together a list of people who dabble in stuff like this.

They're obviously illegal in the U.S but some of the guys in the lab seem to think there might be some small manufacturers abroad who do work like this." Roach closed the ballistics report and placed it on top of a pile of files for later reading. "Interesting; you may want to bring the CIA in on this. They've got a much better handle on the international side of this stuff than the ATF does."

"I've already set the wheels in motion, which brings me to my next question. McMahon paused while he shifted in his chair. "I would like to borrow Irene Kennedy from the CIA for a while."

"You mean Stansfield's expert on terrorism."

"Exactly."

Roach wrote himself a note. "I'll call Stansfield as soon as we're done.

I don't think it'll be a problem."

"Good." It was almost noon when Garret left the Oval Office to retrieve something from his office. The morning had been productive, and with the help of Olson, the coalition was coming together faster than expected.

All politicians, regardless of party affiliation, were scared, and the idea of strength in numbers was appealing. Garret entered his office and started sucking on a cigarette.

Several minutes and another cigarette later, Mike Nance entered and closed the door behind him. Nance saw the smile on Garret's face and asked, "What are you so excited about?"

"I'll tell you in a minute. What did you want to see me about?"

"I received a phone call last night from a friend . . . a friend who says he would like to sit down with us and discuss our options."

"Who would that friend be?"

"Arthur," responded Nance in a lowered tone. Garret thought about it for a minute. "Did he say what it was about?"

"He doesn't usually like to talk about things over the phone. He only said that he would like us to meet him at his estate tonight for dinner." Garret shook his head. He wanted to meet Arthur, but tonight was out of the question. "Can't do it, and neither can you. The President is going to read a prepared statement along with Senator Olson and several of both parties' bigwigs tonight at eight."

Garret stopped to see if the news would elicit any emotion from his calm friend. To Garret's slight frustration, Nance's expression didn't change. "The President is going to announce that he's holding a closed-door summit at Camp David this weekend. He's inviting the leadership from both parties. Senator Olson offered the olive branch this morning and we jumped all over it. They're going to back the President in a show of unity against these terrorists and work together to pass his budget through the House and Senate."

"What are they asking for in return?"

"They're going to ask for a few changes in the budget, but the bottom line is we're going to come out of this deal looking like the great unifiers. Stevens's approval rating will go through the roof."

"That's assuming you can keep all of these egos satisfied."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, it's not going to be easy, but considering where we were twenty-four hours ago, this is a godsend." Garret looked hard at Nance.

"Don't ruin this for me yet, I need the energy to get through the day.

It's going to be a long one." Nance cracked a thin smile. "What would you like me to tell our friend?" Garret thought about the response.

"Tell him we'll try to set it up for Saturday night. There's a remote chance we might be able to sneak away from Camp David, but we can't count on it." Ann Moncur had announced to the press, just after 1 P.M that the President would be addressing the nation along with the majority and minority leaders of the House and the Senate at 8 P.M.  Instead of holding the meeting in the drab White House pressroom, Hopkinson had convinced Garret and the President to hold it in the ornate and stately East Room. They would stand where the coffins had been just one day earlier.

Hopkinson had told them the symbolism would not be missed by the press, especially after he spoon-fed it to several reporters who owed him favors. The President would be compared to the Phoenix, the legendary bird that rose out of the fiery ashes, stronger and more pure. The parallel would be drawn that the President, despite  the trials and tribulations suffered over the past week, was rebounding as a stronger and better leader. Hopkinson snickered to himself as he felt the rush and excitement that he got from manipulating public opinion. The media was already present and impatiently waiting for the new coalition to be unveiled. Copies of the President's speech had already been distributed, and most of the reporters were reading it over.

Hopkinson stood in the doorway of the side entrance to the room, and at exactly 8 P.M he signaled the producers to go live. A moment later, the President entered the room with the ranking members of both  parties following closely behind. The President took his place behind the podium, and the party leaders fell in behind, providing the intended backdrop. With the look of a general about to go into battle, Stevens started his speech. "Good evening, my fellow Americans. This past week has been a difficult one for our country. Our nation has lost some of its finest leaders. We have lost four men who gave everything they had to their country. our country. I would ask you,  once again, to please keep these men and their families in your prayers." The President paused and bowed his head briefly.

Hopkinson was standing off to the side, looking more like a stage director for a play than  the White House communications director. Hopkinson nodded his approval that the President had remembered the preplanned gesture of bowing his head as if in prayer. Stevens had practiced the speech  nine times. Each time, Hopkinson had meticulously analyzed every gesture and movement until he felt he had the desired performance. Now he stood and anticipated every preplanned head nod, hand motion, facial expression, and change of inflection in the President's voice. Stevens  looked back up and stared into the TelePrompTer to his left. "During our history as a nation we have been confronted with some very trying times. We have always survived because of our strength and diversity.

We have survived because the leaders of our country have had the courage to put personal beliefs aside, come together, and do what is right for America. That is why we are here tonight." The President turned and motioned to the men behind him. "The group that stands with me tonight represents the two parties that have helped shape America and make it great. During normal times it would be very difficult to get us to agree on almost anything, but when the very fabric that our democracy was woven from is threatened, we agree without a single deviance. That is why we have come together tonight. We have come together to announce that we are putting our differences aside and are going to move forward as a unified group. "We will not cower to the demands of terrorists. The survival of this country's democratic principles is far more important than our individual beliefs.

Tomorrow afternoon, I will fly to Camp David with the leaders of both the House and the Senate. We will spend the weekend going over my budget and putting together a bipartisan agenda for the following year. We are the people who have been elected to run this government" - Stevens again turned and motioned to the men and women standing behind him-"and we will not be blackmailed by terrorists!"

As the President continued to speak, the blond-haired assassin looked at the TV and began to form a mental checklist of the things he would have to do before the sun rose. He got off the couch and went to the basement of the apartment building. He stopped at his storage closet and checked to make sure the wax seal on the bottom door hinge had not been broken. After being satisfied that no one had entered his locker, he walked past four more doors and stopped in front of another closet, which was assigned to an elderly gentleman on the first floor. Again, he checked the wax seal on the bottom hinge, then picked the lock. Entering the ten-by-ten-foot closet, he walked to the back wall and moved several stacks of boxes, uncovering a stainless-steel trunk. It weighed almost  fifty pounds, but the assassin carried it up to his apartment without breaking a sweat. Setting the case down on the floor of his bedroom, he unlocked and opened it, retrieving a red, Gore-Tex ski jacket, a Chicago Cubs baseball hat, a pair of work boots, a brown, shoulder-length wig, a pair of nonprescription glasses, a large video camera, a small, red toolbox, and a large, black backpack. The man placed a pair of running shoes, tights, dark blue sweat-pants, a sweatshirt, and a plain, dark baseball hat in the bottom of the backpack, then packed the rest of the equipment.

When he was finished, he pulled a strand of hair from his head and placed it next to a book on the coffee table. Looking around the apartment, he took' note of where everything was, then grabbed the trunk and backpack. Locking the door behind him, he walked down to the basement and put the trunk back in the old man's locker. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a black candle and lit it. When a small amount of wax had pooled around the flame, the assassin bent over and let a single drop run down the bottom hinge of the door. He checked to make sure the wax had properly dried, then headed up one flight of stairs, through the small lobby, and out onto the sidewalk. He was not a smoker, but he pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket and lit one.

Standing casually, he puffed on the cigarette but did not inhale it.

His eyes narrowed as he methodically studied every window of the three apartment buildings across the street, looking for anyone standing in the shadows behind a curtain or the black, circular shape of a camera lens peering back at him. If the FBI was onto him, that was where they would be. He didn't think they were, but he reminded himself that the whole idea behind surveillance was not to be seen. After finishing the sweep of the buildings, he tossed the cigarette butt into the street and walked away. He walked for almost eight blocks, turning at random to make sure no one was following. After he felt safe, he turned into a narrow alley and ducked behind two Dumpsters. Quickly, he put on the wig, hat, red jacket, and glasses. He emerged from the other end of the alley a different man. His stride was longer but slower, more gangly, less precise and athletic than before. Three blocks later, he stopped at a pay phone and punched in a series of numbers. The phone rang once and he hung up, waited thirty seconds, and dialed the number again. This time he let the phone ring five times before hanging up.

Two blocks later, he climbed behind the wheel of a beige Ford Taurus and drove off.

The two men were leaning on their pool cues and drinking a pitcher of Coors Light in the back room of Al's Bar in Annapolis. Neither of them preferred the taste of Coors Light, but they did like that it had such a low alcohol content. The larger of the two was lining up a combo when the digital phone on his hip rang once and stopped. Both men looked at their watches and counted the seconds. Thirty seconds later, they counted five more rings. Instead of leaving right away, they finished their game and switched to coffee. It was going to be a long night.

Ted Hopkinson strutted into the Oval Office as if he were floating on clouds. The President was being attended to by one of Hopkinson's assistants, who was wiping makeup off his ice. "Sir, you did a wonderful job. I haven't seen the press this together on an issue in a long time.

They bought the whole speech, hook, line, and sinker." Stevens showed a slight grin. "Yes, it looks like it was a winner." The President nodded toward the four TVs that were turned on. Only the sound on the one tuned to ABC was up. The White House correspondents for the three networks and CNN were all standing in different areas around the White House, giving their summation of the President's speech. When they were finished, the anchors took over for their take on the event, and then the special analysts came on to give their two cents. The media loved it. The story just kept getting better and better, and with it, so did their ratings.

The public's desire to watch this real-life drama was insatiable. When all the makeup was removed from the President's face, he buttoned the top button of his shirt and slipped his tie back into a tight knot.

Hopkinson turned his attention away from the TVs and back to the President. "Sir, I really think we're going to see a big jump in your approval ratings tomorrow." Garret and Nance entered the room. Garret slapped Hopkinson on the back and congratulated him on a job well done.

Garret then nodded at the door, and the communications director grabbed his assistant and quietly retreated. Garret turned to Stevens and grinned from ear to ear. "Nice job, Jim." Stevens looked up and smiled.

"Thank you."

"I can't believe the way this thing is coming together. The press is eating it up. If we can pass a budget, we won't even have to hold an election next year." Garret could barely contain his excitement.

The thought of locking up a second term this early was appealing. Not having to crisscross the country for three months campaigning was even more appealing. Sure, they would have to work a little, but not like last time. Instead of three states a day, and a speech every two hours for the last month, they could relax and run a TV campaign out of the White House. It would be so nice not to have to go out and press flesh with every Tom, Dick, and Harry, Garret thought to himself. Nance was standing off to the side, watching the President and Garret. Nance let them continue to speculate about a second term for a minute and then stepped in. "I hate to ruin your little celebration here, but the elections are a long way off, and a lot could happen between now and then." The comment got both Garret's and the President's attention, and both men became more serious. "You've done a great job solidifying this coalition on such short notice, and hopefully, if things go well, we'll pull it off But, we need to understand that this new alliance could fall apart, just as fast or faster than it was put together."

Nance paused for effect. "The New York Times printed a poll today that said over thirty-seven percent of the people they surveyed said the country had not suffered by losing Basset, Koslowski Fitzgerald, and Downes. I'm getting a sense that the common person is empathizing with these assassins. The people are fed up with politics as usual, and if we're not careful, we're going to turn these assassins into dragon slayers. We can't ignore them. They are not just going to go away."

Nance walked over to the fireplace, his hand on his chin and his forefinger tapping his lips. "They will strike again, and they will continue to strike until we give in or they get caught." Nance turned around and looked at the President and Garret. "We'd better hope they slip up, because if they don't, that alliance will crumble. None of those men have the guts to put their lives on the line if this thing gets any hotter." The assassin sat in his car across the street from the local ABC studio. It was not the first time he'd waited for the news van to return from the White House, but it would be the last.

Just after midnight, the van that was assigned to the White House returned and drove into the underground parking garage. The assassin waited for another twenty minutes, then got out of the car, grabbing the video camera and backpack. As he walked across the street, he put the camera up on his right shoulder and tilted his head down. The brim of his hat and the camera screened his face. On his way through the front door, he passed a female reporter and cameraman on their way out.

They were both wearing red, Gore-Tex ski jackets with the ABC logo over their left breast. The assassin kept his head down and headed straight for the stairs leading to the underground parking garage.

When he reached the garage, he waved to the security guard, who was sitting in a room with a large glass window. The man had his feet up on the desk and was watching TV. He casually looked up and, upon seeing the red jacket and camera, turned his attention back to the TV.

The assassin walked through the row of vans and cars and stopped when he reached the one with the right license plate. It took him less than thirty seconds to pick the lock. Casually, he slid the door open and climbed in, closing it behind him. Setting the camera down, he grabbed an electric screwdriver out of his backpack and went to work. A minute later, he popped the cover off the control board and started searching for the right wires. After finding them, he spliced several wires and carefully attached a transponder. When he was done, he tested the transponder several times, then put the cover back on the control board. Packing up his gear, he stepped out of the van and locked the door. Once again, he walked by the window on his way to the stairs, his face covered by the brim of his hat and the camera. Outside, the assassin climbed behind the wheel of the Ford Taurus and drove west on K Street through downtown. It was almost 1 A.M. and the traffic was light.

Several miles later, he turned onto Wisconsin Avenue and headed north.

The pedestrian traffic was quite a bit busier in Georgetown, as the young professionals and college kids tried to get a head start on the weekend. Almost a mile later, he pulled into the Safeway on Wisconsin and Thirty-fourth Street. Even at this hour, the parking lot was half-full. That was what he wanted. If a cop drove by, he wouldn't think twice about a man sitting alone in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour grocery store. He would assume he was waiting for his wife, but if he was seen parked alone on a side street, that would be a different story.

He pulled the car into a spot up front and tilted the steering wheel all the way up. He took the wig, hat, and glasses off, placing them in a large, green trash bag. Next came the jacket, camera, and small toolbox.

Then he quickly took off the boots, followed by his pants and underwear.

He was naked from the waist down and put on the running tights and sweatpants. Taking off the flannel shirt, he replaced it with the dark sweatshirt, put on the worn running shoes, and checked to make sure everything was in the trash bag, including the backpack. Backing out of the spot, he drove through the lot and pulled back onto Wisconsin Avenue. The trash bag could have been thrown away in one of the grocery store's Dumpsters, but the homeless people would find it, and homeless people talked to cops. The assassin had a small office building picked out about two miles away where the garbage was picked up on Friday mornings. Almost five minutes later, he pulled into the alley behind the small, brick building and stopped. Jumping out, he lifted the lid of the Dumpster, shifted several bags to the side, and placed his bag inside, covering it up with the others. He gently let the lid of the Dumpster close, not wanting to make any loud noises, and got back in the car.

Within seconds he was back on Wisconsin and headed south. Several minutes later, he was winding through the small neighborhood of Potomac Palisades. When he reached the corner of Potomac Avenue and Manning Place Lane, he parked the car and got out, closing the door gently behind him. The temperature had dropped to around forty degrees, and a slight breeze was rustling the dry, fall leaves. The forecast called for fog in the morning, but there was no sign of it where he was, high on the bluffs above the Potomac. On the other side of the street was a small boulevard of grass and then thick woods that led down a steep hill to the Potomac Parkway and then just beyond that to Palisades Park and the Potomac River. He crossed the street and entered the tree line.

Finding a small footpath that he had used before, he zigzagged his way down the steep, forested hillside. Stopping just short of the road, he checked for the headlights of any approaching cars, then darted across the two-lane highway and down into a small ravine. Settling in behind a large tree and some bushes, he looked up at the underside of the Chain Bridge, which ran from D.C. into Virginia. The lights from the bridge cast a faint yellow glow that reached the tops of the trees above him and then faded before hitting the forested floor. Palisades Park was not your typical metropolitan park. There were no softball diamonds or football fields. It was heavily wooded with a few jogging trails and some large patches of marshland. The assassin pressed the light button on his digital watch and checked the time. It was nearing 2 A.M. and his accomplices would be arriving shortly. Looking in the direction of the river, he could see a thin layer of fog spreading out across the floor of the forest. The noise of car tires on gravel caught his attention, and he looked up over the edge of the ravine. A blue-and-white Washington Post newspaper van came to a stop, and a man dressed in blue coveralls quickly got out of the passenger side and slid open the door of the cargo area. Reaching inside, he grabbed two large, black duffel bags and ran to the tree line, setting the bags down about fifteen feet from where the blond-haired assassin was waiting. The man let out three curt whistles and waited for a  confirmation. The assassin did the same, and the man walked away and climbed back in the van. Picking up the two large bags, the assassin placed the shoulder straps around his neck and let the bags rest on his hips. Next, he threaded through the woods and crossed under the Chain Bridge. The Potomac River was not navigable by anything other than a canoe or a raft at this point, and the river only ran under the far western end of the bridge. As the assassin worked his way toward the  river, the trees became smaller and more sparse. By the time he reached the middle of the bridge, the fog was up to his waist.

Turning south, he walked about thirty yards and found a small clearing.

He set both bags down and opened the one on his right. The fog and darkness made his task more difficult, but he was used to working under strange conditions. Inside one of the bags was a small, gray radar dish mounted on a square, metal box, a car battery, some power cables and camouflage netting. The assassin hooked the car battery up to the radar unit and tested the power. When he was satisfied, he covered it with the camouflage netting and opened the second bag, pulling out a wooden board about three feet long. Attached to the flat side of the board in an upright position were six plastic tubes about an inch in diameter and twenty-four inches long. Each tube was painted dull green and was loaded with a phosphorus flare. He pulled some small bushes out of the ground and placed them around the tubes so the open ends were pointed straight up into the sky. To the base of the makeshift launcher, he attached a nine-volt battery, and a small transponder.

The assassin checked everything over, making sure the transponders were operating properly, then grabbed the empty bags and started to weave his way back toward the eastern end of the bridge.

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 VHO3 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.