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“Boys,” barked Harris, “shoot anything that moves.”
THE COPILOT OF the Pave Low spotted the strobes when they were about a mile from the beach and alerted the rest of the crew. They had been directed to hit the northern strobe first. The Pave Low alerted the pilots of the Pave Hawk, which was flying in formation at just under one hundred fifty miles per hour and hugging the deck.
Simultaneously the two helicopters broke formation. The larger Pave Low banked to the left and began to slow, while the agile Pave Hawk broke to the right and began a full-speed run to the south.
RIGHT ABOUT THE time Harris detected the noise of the incoming helicopters, the night sky blew open. A sustained burst of machine gun fire erupted from the building across the street. All but two of the twentysome rounds flew wildly over their heads. The two that hit the lip at the edge of the roof sent chunks of clay flying.
Lying on his side, Harris said, “Bravo Six, this is Whiskey Five. We are under fire! I repeat, under fire! The LZ is hot!”
“Roger that, Whiskey Five,” came the reply from the Pave Low. “Where is the fire coming from?”
“Directly across the street to our west.”
“Roger, Whiskey Five. We have your position marked and will be on top of you in about twenty seconds.”
Harris stayed flat on the roof. Another burst of machine gun fire rang out with more of the rounds crashing into the side of the roof, and then a second and a third gun joined in. “Slick,” the commander called out over the radio, “can you get these guys off my ass?”
“That’s a negative, Harry. The angle is wrong.”
Harris rolled onto his back as shouts were heard from below and a another volley of bullets rang out. “Reavers!” yelled Harris. “I’ll draw their fire, and you bag ’em.”
While lying on his back, Harris held his MP-10 over the edge and squeezed off four bursts at the house across the street. A second later Reavers popped up, saw a muzzle flash in the second-story window, and zipped the target with three shots to the chest. Reavers quickly ducked back down as a flurry of return fire rang out.
Wicker chimed in from his spot down the street. “I think we stuck our hands in the hornet’s nest.” More targets appeared, and Wicker went to work.
THE PAVE LOW came in much slower than a Hollywood director would have liked, but these big flying buses didn’t stop on a dime. The roar of its powerful 3,900-horsepower turbine engines and churning rotors was deafening. As soon as he had targets in sight, the starboard gunner opened up with his 7.62-millimeter minigun—hosing down the building across the street. The Pave Low s
topped just on the other side of the strobe, but did not touch down. Within seconds of coming to a stop, the smaller Pave Hawk appeared from the south and passed directly overhead, her guns blazing.
Rapp grabbed Harut, threw him over his shoulder, and ran up the ramp of the Pave Low. Harris crouched at the foot of the ramp and picked up the strobe. He counted each of his men by slapping them on the ass as they ran up the ramp. When they were all in, Harris bounded into the chopper and gave the tail gunner a thumbs-up. One second later the helicopter rose ten feet and began lumbering above the rooftops, all three gunners laying down suppressive fire as they moved out.
Wicker continued to search for targets right up to the last second, but there were none to be found. The miniguns from the helicopters had cleared the street. As the Pave Low neared his position, the sniper saw the escort come screaming down the street for another pass. Wicker grabbed his gear, and as the ramp of the Pave Low neared, he jumped up and into the back of the cargo area.
The second the pilots heard the last man was onboard, they twisted the throttles to the stops and headed for sea. Twenty excruciating seconds later they were feet-wet hugging the water of the gulf, the Pave Hawk back in formation, heading for home.
Washington, D.C., Midnight
THE PLUSH ROOM was located on the southwest corner of the tenth floor. It was one of the Washington Hotel’s finest rooms. A faint gray light from the street below spilled through the windows and reflected off the white ceiling and walls. The sole occupant stood in front of an ornate mirror and stared at his reflection, his fingers gently probing the tender areas around his eyes and then his jaw. He was a handsome man, strikingly so. Even more so since the surgical changes had been made. The more rugged features had been smoothed and refined. He had been looking at this new face for almost a month and had yet to grow accustomed to it. Pulling the cigarette from his mouth, he turned his head to the right and studied his profile. The red scar tissue had healed but was still sensitive in the areas where the skin was thin. The cheeks were more sallow, partially from the surgery but also because he had lost twenty pounds. He was pleased with the results. They were not perfect, but they would be good enough.
Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he stepped away from the mirror and turned. Through the haze of smoke he looked out the large window at the city before him. His posture was erect; his dark skin and short black hair stood out starkly against the handmade white dress shirt he was wearing.
To his left, the stoic Washington Monument jutted into the night sky, marking the center of the National Mall. Beyond that, the curved dome of the Jefferson Memorial shone just above the trees, while further to the west, marking the end of the mall, were the beautiful alabaster pillars of the Lincoln Memorial, and directly across the street lay the expansive Treasury Department. None of this, however, interested him. What did, sat just on the other side of the Treasury Department.
He inhaled and then extracted the cigarette with a slow, even motion, letting his hand and the cigarette come to a rest at his side. As the darkeyed man took in the historic landscape, the corners of his mouth turned upward ever so slightly. It was an ominous smile. Rafique Aziz hated everything before him with more passion than any American could ever understand. The monuments and buildings before him were all symbols of America’s imperialism, greed, corruption, and arrogance. The very things that had corrupted his homeland and pitted brother against brother. There were even those who were talking about peace with Israel, the Zionists who, with the aid of the mighty America, had plunged his Beirut into a hell on earth. It was time again, time for another revolution. It was time to ignite the jihad.
5
Washington, D.C., 6:55 A.M.
THE MAJORITY OF the United States Secret Service’s five thousand plus agents were assigned to field offices around the country and focused their attention on catching counterfeiters. But the better known role of the agency was that of protecting politicians and, more specifically, the president of the United States. The Secret Service’s presidential detail carried a roster of approximately two hundred special agents at any given time, and their positions were arguably the most competitive and soughtafter jobs in all of law enforcement.
Secret Service agent Ellen Morton was one of the lucky few. Morton walked through the Executive Mansion and stopped at the detail’s down room located on the ground floor of the White House. The tiny cramped room was officially designated Staircase; the name derived from the room’s location, which was underneath the stairs that led to the First Family’s private residence on the second and third floors of the mansion.
Morton poked her head through the open doorway. “Morning, Ted. How’d the night go?”
The agent leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. With a yawn he gave his one word answer, “Quiet.”
In order to give the First Family a certain amount of privacy, the Secret-Service did not venture up to the second and third floors of the mansion unless called. They instead relied on a series of pressure pads installed in various areas beneath the carpet to track the president’s whereabouts on the floors above.
