Term Limits

chapter Eleven
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. "Hello."

"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 Lortch climbed up the last flight of stairs and onto the roof of the White House. Special Agents Sally Manly and Joe Stiener followed as Lortch surveyed the rooftop scene. He was pleased to see that the six counter-sniper agents already on the roof were at their posts and watching their area of responsibility. Lortch 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. Lortch 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. Lortch'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 Lortch 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. Lortch had been briefed by McMahon on the assassinations and was mystified that, whoever these people were, they had been able to kill four high-ra king 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 Lortch 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 Lortch's line of work he had to assume the worst. For that reason, he was taking extra precautions today. Lortch looked down at the reporters and photographers who were staking out positions on the west side of the South Lawn. Lortch 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. Lortch 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 Senator Lloyd Hellerman stepped out. Four of Lortch'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. Lortch 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 Lortch 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."

Lortch 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. Lortch 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." Lortch 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." Lortch 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.

Lortch 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." Lortch 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."

Lortch 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 Lortch 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." Lortch 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?"

Lortch 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 Lortch, and the agents left the room. Lortch 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 Lortch stepped around Garret and continued down the hallway. Lortch 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, Lortch 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 Lortch 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 Lortch 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 Lortch 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 Lortch, "Which bird do you want to put Tiger on?" Tiger was the code name that the Secret Service used for the President. Lortch 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. Lortch watched the choppers as they flew across the Mall toward the White House. As they approached, the rotor wash became intense. Lortch'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 Lortch'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. Lortch 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, Lortch 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, Lortch 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 Lortch and Stiener.

"God, those damn escorts are loud." Lortch 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 Lortch 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 in-flight 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 in-flight 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 Lortch 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 Lortch 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.

THE OLD MAN WAS BACK BEHIND THE WHEEL OF HIS RENTAL CAR AND driving across the Arlington Memorial Bridge. When he reached the east side, he got onto the Potomac Parkway and headed north. Exiting off the Parkway, he entered the Foggy Bottom neighborhood of Washington, D.C less than a mile from the White House.

Parking in a ramp where there would be cameras and attendants would not be wise, so he circled and waited for a space on the street.

It was just past twelve-thirty and the streets and sidewalks were crowded with people coming and going to lunch. After finding a spot, he got out and left the unneeded cane in the passenger seat. Two short blocks later he found the pre-selected pay phone, inserted a quarter, and punched in a phone number. After several rings, a deep voice answered on the other end. "Hello, you've reached Special Agent Skip McMahon. If you'd like to leave a message, please do so at the beep.

If you need to speak to one of my assistants, press zero." The old man pulled a Dictaphone out of his pocket, placed the speaker up to the phone, and pressed the play button. "Special Agent McMahon, we know you have been placed in charge of investigating the assassinations of Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator Downs, and Speaker Basset. We are sending you this message because we do not want to fight our battle in the media. We suggest the President and his people follow suit. We are in possession of several Stinger missiles and could have easily blown Marine One out of the sky this afternoon. You can tell the President that the only reason he is still alive is because we did not want to kill the Marines and Secret Service agents on board.

"If you continue to ignore our demands and manipulate public opinion through the media, we will have no choice but to escalate our war. So far we have assassinated only elected officials, but we are adding the names of Stu Garret and Ted Hopkinson to our list of targets. We are very well informed about what goes on inside the Stevens administration and know that these two men are responsible for most of the lies that have been spoon-fed to the media over the last week. If you continue to label us as terrorists and the President as the noble defender of the Constitution, you will die. This is our last warning. No matter what they tell you, Mr. President, the Secret Service cannot protect you from us. They can make our job more difficult, but they cannot stop us from ending your life. This is your last warning."

Marine One landed on the helicopter pad at Camp David, and a pale-faced President Stevens was draped in his bulletproof trench coat and rushed into a waiting Suburban. The President sat in the backseat in between two Secret Service agents. No one spoke as the tan truck sped up the narrow, tree lined path. The Suburban stopped in front of the cabin, and again Stevens was rushed inside. Two of the agents went inside with him, and the other four took up posts outside.

The President stood in the main room and looked at the most senior agent. "Where is Mr. Garret?"

"He's being brought in another truck." There was more awkward silence as the agents averted their eyes from the President's. Again Stevens looked to the senior agent and asked, "How did they know which helicopter I was on?"

"We don't know, sir." Stevens said nothing; he gave no look or expression of emotion. He continued to stand in the midst of his protectors for another minute, then without saying a word he walked in between them and down the hallway. The agents followed. Stevens entered his bedroom and turned to close the door behind him. The two Secret Service agents came to an abrupt halt. The President held up his hand.

"I want to be alone." The agents nodded respectfully and Stevens closed the door. Walking across the room, he took off his jacket and threw it on the bed. With several yanks back and forth, his tie came loose and dropped to the floor. He stood leaning over the dresser staring into the large mirror on the wall. The reality of what had almost happened was starting to sink in. He felt a cold chill shoot up his spine, and his entire body shuddered. Standing up straight, he quickly walked over to the wet bar, grabbed a thick glass tumbler, loaded it with ice, and filled it to the brim with vodka. After taking a large gulp of the cold, clear liquid, he walked over to the fireplace and noticed that it was stocked with wood and kindling. Stevens set his drink down on the mantel and picked up a box of long matches sitting in a basket next to the hearth. Grabbing one of the twelve-inch matchsticks, he struck it across the coarse strip on the side of the box. The matchstick broke in half, and Stevens tried again, this time holding the match closer to the tip.

The red tip sparked and then burst into flames. Stevens waited until the wood stem caught fire, then stuck the long match under the logs, lighting the dry pieces of kindling. The fire caught quickly and he pulled up a chair to watch the flames spread. Sliding off his loafers, he placed his feet on the hearth and took a deep breath. The warmth of the fire helped him relax and momentarily forget about the afternoon's life-threatening events. He stared into the fire and watched it burst into a full blaze as the white bark on the birch logs crackled and curled front the flames. The images of the helicopter ride began to surface again, and he took another gulp from his drink. But still he saw the flares shooting out of the helicopter next to them, the violent jerking of the craft as it banked and then dropped like a rock, pulling up just short of the river's water, Stu Garret screaming and demanding to know what was going on, the escorts scattering and the red streaks shooting up in front of them. Stevens became unsteady again, and he started to shake. He grabbed his drink with both hands to keep it from spilling, his body trembling as he pulled the glass to his lips with both hands wrapped tightly around it. He took four large gulps, finishing the rest of the vodka, and stood to pour another. As he walked to the bar, the murders of Basset and the others flashed sharply across his mind, and he realized for the first time just how vulnerable he was.

The crystal tumbler with the Presidential seal engraved on the side slipped from his hand and shattered on the stone floor. Stevens continued to the bar and started to pour another drink, the glass neck of the vodka bottle clanging off the rim of the tumbler as his hands continued to shake uncontrollably. Garret arrived at the main cabin just minutes after the President and went straight to the conference room. He grabbed the nearest phone and punched in the number for Ted Hopkinson's office. After several rings Hopkinson's secretary answered and Garret barked, "Get me Ted!" As each second passed, Garret became more and more irritated. With sweat forming on his forehead, he gripped the phone tighter and tighter. According to Garret's watch, which he looked at about every five seconds, he had been on hold for two minutes and thirteen seconds when Hopkinson finally came on the line. "Where in the hell have you been?" Garret spat into the phone.

"Stu, it's a zoo around here! The press is crawling all over the place. They want to know what the hell is going on. A couple of them just asked me if the President is dead!" Shit. "Stu, we've got to get control of this thing!" I know, .just shut up for a minute while I think of the best way to handle it."

There was a moment of silence while Garret scrambled to come up with a plan of action. "We're going to have to put him on TV. Grab a cameraman and a reporter from the press pool and get your ass up here."

"I can't.

The Secret Service has shut the compound down. They're not letting anyone come or go." Garret screamed into the phone, "Screw the damn Secret Service. Thanks to those idiots I almost got my ass blown out of the sky twenty minutes ago. You find Lortch and tell him I said if he wants to keep his job to get a chopper for you pronto. If he gives you any shit, find Mike Nance and have him get one from the Pentagon.

Get moving!"

"What are we going to have him say to the press?"

"Goddamn it, Ted, do I have to do everything around here! You're the damn communications director! You're paid to figure out what he says to the press! Get moving!" Garret slammed the phone down and headed for the door. On his way through the main living room he ran into Special Agent Terry Andrews. Andrews was the Secret Service agent who had been carrying the President's bulletproof trench coat when they boarded Marine One. Garret approached him and said, "Andrews, I don't want any crap, just straight talk. What in the hell happened while we were airborne, and how did they know which bird we were on?" The tall ex-Marine looked down at Garret and replied, "We don't know how they knew which helicopter we were on, sir."

"What about missiles? Were there any missiles launched?"

"We're not sure at this point, sir."

"What do you mean, you're not sure? You get ahold of your boss and tell him I want some answers, and I want them quick!" Without waiting for a response, Garret turned and left.

The SCENE AT THE CHAIN BRIDGE WAS INTENSE, TO SAY THE LEAST. THE media, the Metro Police, the Virginia State Police, and the FBI had all descended on the scene within minutes of each other. McMahon arrived shortly thereafter with an FBI special-response team and ordered that the media be moved back with whatever force necessary, short of shooting them. The Virginia State Police closed off the west end of the bridge, and the D.C. Metropolitan Police were manning the east end. Traffic was being diverted, and the FBI had taken over the crime scene.

Two Park Police helicopters were busy warding off the media helicopters that came swooping in like vultures, trying to get live footage of whatever was so interesting to the FBI. Skip McMahon stood looking over the south edge of the Chain Bridge, watching Kathy Jennings and two other agents carefully inspect the devices they'd found. McMahon had decided to send only Jennings and two other agents down until the special evidence team arrived with their equipment. The fewer agents the better for now. Until they knew exactly what they were dealing with, there was the chance of contaminating evidence. Jennings was pointing at the ground and one of the agents was taking photos, while the other one stuck small yellow flags into the ground. McMahon heard the sound of an approaching helicopter and looked up to see one of the shiny green-and-white Presidential VH-3s approaching. The large helicopter swung in over the bridge and descended, its churning rotors blowing sand into the air. McMahon turned away, shielding his face from the flying debris. When the bird touched down, the pilots cut the engines and the swooping sound of the blades lessened. The swirl of sand started to subside and McMahon turned to see Jack Lortch approaching.

McMahon extended his hand and greeted the younger man. "I'll bet you've had better days, Jack." Lortch shook his head and frowned.

"This ranks with the worst of them." McMahon grabbed Lortch by the shoulder. "Come on, let me show you what we've found."

McMahon led Lortch over to the side of the bridge and pointed down at Jennings and the other two agents. "My agents found a small, gray metal box with a dish attached to the top and a piece of wood with some vertical tubes. Both have batteries and transponders attached, so it would appear that they were activated by remote control. Which of course means the people we're after are long gone."

"Can I take a look at the stuff?." asked Lortch. "Not yet. I have a special evidence team and a mobile crime lab on the way. I want to keep the area as sterile as possible until they get here." Lortch nodded and McMahon changed gears.

"Jack, how did they know which helicopter he was on?"

"I have absolutely no idea. We didn't even know until just minutes before he took off."

"How did they know which route he would take to Camp David? Don't you guys send all the choppers along different flight paths?"

"Yeah, they all fly in different directions, but this was not the route they were supposed to take." McMahon had a confused look on his face.

"Well, how did they end up down here?"

"Right now we think they were forced to fly into the river valley."

"How?"

"Do you have a map of D.C.?" McMahon said yes and the two walked over to the car. Skip retrieved a map from the glove box and spread it out on the trunk, using his gun, handcuffs, and digital phone to weigh down three of the four corners. Lortch pointed to the White House and said, "The squadron commander tells me that when the group left the White House, they were lit up by fire-control radar from the south. About ten minutes ago my people found a small, gray box with a radar dish.

It was concealed inside a Washington Post newspaper box on the corner of Fourteenth and Constitution." Lortch tapped his finger on the spot .just a block to the south of the White House. "The group took evasive maneuvers and fled to the north. About ten seconds after they were lit up by radar to the south, they were lit up again by radar to the north and east. The helicopters headed west away from the threat, and as they approached the Potomac, they were lit up again from the west.

The squadron commander tells me his boys are trained to head for the weeds when something like this happens, and that a river valley offers the perfect protection because they can dive below the radar and an approaching missile. So when these guys reached the Potomac, they went for cover and headed in the only direction that they hadn't been threatened from. to the northwest." Lortch took his hands and set them on the map forming a V, the base located at the White House and the open end at the Chain Bridge. "They created a trap and drove the helicopters into it."

"So what happened when they got here? Did they fire a missile?"

"Supposedly the pilots thought they were in the clear. They have threat sensors that tell them when a missile is locked onto them, and I guess they make this screeching noise. Well, when they dove into the river valley, these things stopped screeching and they thought they'd avoided the threat, and then all of the sudden these red streaks; pop up in front of them and the threat sensors start screaming again.

The lead escort thought they were missiles and he broke formation."

Lortch shook his head in frustration. "Which he's not supposed to do.

The whole idea behind this strategy is that the escorts are supposed to protect the President's bird, and if need be, take the hit." McMahon put his hands up in the air, palms out. "Hold on a minute. I've got a bunch of people telling me they saw a missile, and I've got some other people telling me that they were flares. I'm inclined to believe the second group because no one reports hearing an explosion, and my agents found several warm but burned-out flares. Now, what do your pilots tell you?

Were there missiles launched or not?"

"The other pilots don't think so.