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Rapp stood in the opening, reluctant to move, looking at Adams and wondering what in the hell he had said. Looking to Rielly, he saw that her feisty attitude was gone. After a long moment, Rapp retreated a step and allowed the two of them to enter the stash room.
36
SEALS DON’T LIKE to sit around, especially when there’s action to be had, and even more so when one of their own has been killed. Lt. Commander Harris wanted a piece of that action, and although he would never admit it to the brass, he wanted to put a bullet in the head of every terrorist in the White House. No prisoners.
Now Harris was in the process of exactly that as he strode up the steps of the Old Post Office on the corner of Twelfth and Pennsylvania. He had walked the four and a half blocks from his makeshift command post on the east fence of the White House with the bullish Mick Reavers. They were still there manning the CP, despite the debacle of last night. Rapp and Adams were, after all, still in the building, and the powers that be at the Pentagon had yet to decide on a redeployment, if any. Harris knew that was a distinct possibility. At any minute he could get the order to pack himself and his men up. The press was asking a lot of questions concerning Aziz’s statement that he had turned away an assault. If they pushed hard enough and the politicians started chirping, Six’s plug would be pulled. JSOC didn’t like operating in the light, and if the current trend continued, they would most certainly pull Harris and his men away from the White House and back under cover.
There was one other alternative, but Harris didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to believe that the Navy and ultimately the Pentagon would do the right thing. But he knew from past experience that that didn’t always turn out to be the case. In a crisis, SOP for the Pentagon often was to circle the wagons and offer up a sacrificial lamb. The beast served to the press was usually the unit commander, and that of course was yours truly, Lt. Commander Dan Harris.
Harris was dressed in his fire-retardant black coveralls. Surprisingly, he and Mick Reavers didn’t attract too much attention. By the third day of the crisis, the spectators had grown used to seeing heavily armed men going to and fro in black ninja jumpsuits. The two SEALs had left their submachine guns back at the command post, but both still carried their H&K USP .45 caliber handguns in their thigh holsters.
As Harris and Reavers bounded up the steps two at a time, they were met at the top by Charlie Wicker. Wicker turned and opened one of the heavy old doors. Harris and Reavers fell into step behind Wicker, all three men swiveling their heads as they walked into the large old building. Their discerning eyes took an almost instantaneous inventory of all that was around them. Exit signs, windows, strange-looking people—you name it. They did it out of habit. Always know your surroundings.
Wicker approached a bank of elevators. The one on the far left was held for them by a security guard. As they stepped into the elevator, Wicker looked at the security guard and said, “Al, this is Lieutenant Commander Harris.”
The balding man stuck out his hand. “Al Turly, Commander. Nice to meet you.”
“Same here.” Harris grabbed Turly’s hand and gave him the requisite bone-crushing handshake. Then, pointing to the mound of flesh next to him, he said, “This big fella is Chief Reavers.”
His hand still stinging from Harris’s handshake, Turly decided to skip the nicety with the even larger Reavers. When the elevator reached the top floor, Turly led the way down the hall. At the end of the hallway they came upon a door labeled Bell Tower. Extracting a key, Turly opened the door, and they stepped into a stairwell that appeared to have been built not too long after the Civil War. The narrow staircase was flush against the wall on one side and on the other was only a railing. They were inside the dingy bell tower of the grand Old Post Office.
Turly, not wanting to slow the others down, let them take the lead. He had already taken the wiry little one up to the top once, and he thought his heart might leap from his chest. As Turly expected, the three black-clad men marched up the steps two at a time. Within seconds they were out of his sight, only the echoes of their footsteps letting him know they were above him. Turly slowed his pace. Ten months from retirement. It wasn’t worth it.
The three SEALs reached the top without so much as breaking a sweat. Wicker climbed up the ladder that was bolted to the wall, and with one hand he pushed open the hatch that led to the bell tower. Pulling himself up and through, he spun around on his butt and stood. Harris was next and then Reavers. All three men stood side by side, looking west out the large aperture. The bell tower atop the Old Post Office had the second most commanding view of all Washington after the one from the Washington Monument. From this eagle’s nest they looked straight down Pennsylvania Avenue past Freedom Plaza and Pershing Park, over the southwest corner of the Treasury Building, and there, perfectly bathed in the bright afternoon light, was the White House.
Wicker retrieved a pair of binoculars with a laser range finder from his vest and handed it to his CO. After turning his black baseball cap around, so the brim was out of the way, Harris held the binoculars up to his eyes. The commander of SEAL Team Six zeroed in on the roof of the White House and sought out the tiny rooftop guard booth. After a slight adjustment, the blue hue of the bulletproof Plexiglas was in the crosshairs. Harris paused for a second and watched the hooded man sitting behind the protective glass. Harris’s forefinger pressed a button, and a second later three red numbers appeared. Harris handed the binoculars to Reavers and turned to Wicker.
“Eight hundred and twenty meters?”
Wicker nodded confidently. “Yep.”
“What’s the forecast for tonight?”
“A lazy southeasterly breeze, between two and five knots.”
Harris nodded. That was child’s play for Wicker. He could hit this shot from almost double the distance at five knots. “What about the glass?”
“It’s half an inch. I’ve shot through it before on the range.” Wicker continued his
confident stare, eyeballing the White House with his naked eye.
“That’s the range; this is real life. We need to know how old that glass is, the manufacturer’s testing data, everything we can get our hands on.”
Wicker kept his eyes on the White House, supremely confident in his skills—knowing that there were only a handful of men in the whole world that matched him in skill, and none that could exceed.
“The glass was installed in ninety-two and is due to be replaced within the next year. I studied the manufacturer’s testing data two years ago and have all the info I need right up here.” Wicker tapped his temple with his forefinger. “If that glass was brand-new, I could still do it, but it’s been baked by the sun now for seven years. Its strength has been reduced by at least sixty percent. With two fifties we’ll be able to drill right through it.” Wicker nodded confidently and added, “Hell, the first shot might even get him.”
Harris was a little surprised that Wicker already had the stats. “How did you find out about the glass?”
“I called some of my fellow snipers at the Secret Service.”
“When?” asked Harris.
“Two days ago.” Wicker kept his gaze on the White House.
Harris smiled. He loved it when his men were proactive. “You’ve been thinking about this shot for that long?”
Wicker turned, a devilish grin spreading across his lips. “I’ve been thinking about this shot ever since we ran that exercise eight years ago.”
