Triggers

  “She’s making up for lost time,” replied a female analyst, consulting a desktop monitor.

  “We need the aircraft carriers in position within sixty hours,” Muilenburg said.

  “It’ll be tight for the Reagan and even tighter for the Stennis,” the aide replied, “thanks to that hurricane. But they’ll make it.”

  Muilenburg’s BlackBerry buzzed, and he pulled it out of his blue uniform pocket. “SecDef,” he said.

  “Mr. Secretary,” said a woman’s voice. “This is Mrs. Astley.” The next words were always, “Please hold for President Jerrison,” followed by silence, so he lowered the handset a bit, and—

  He quickly brought the phone back to his ear. “Repeat, please.”

  “I said,” the president’s secretary replied, and Muilenburg realized that her voice was shaking, “Mr. Jerrison has been shot. They’re rushing him to LT right now.”

  Muilenburg looked up at the bank of red digits, just in time to see it change from 74:00:00 to 73:59:59. “God save us,” he said.

  CHAPTER 3

  THERE were always two members of the Secret Service Countersniper Team on the roof of the White House; today one of them was Rory Proctor. The chill wind cut through him. He was holding his rifle in gloved hands and walking back and forth, scanning the grounds between here and the Ellipse, the fifty-two-acre public park south of the White House fence. The Washington Monument was visible, but even from this elevated position, Proctor couldn’t see the Lincoln Memorial, where all of the action had been taking place, although he was listening intently to the chatter in his earpiece.

  Proctor was so used to scanning for things in the distance, he didn’t pay much attention to the rooftop, which had a stunted colonnade around its edges and a few potted shrubs. But a dove happened to catch his eye as it flew into view. It landed a few yards from him, by a squat metal enclosure at the base of one of the rectangular chimneys on the south side. There was some odd scuffing of the white roofing tiles in front of the enclosure. He took one more look at the grounds on the south side, saw nothing of interest, then walked over to look at the enclosure.

  The padlock had been jimmied, and although it had been closed, it wasn’t locked. He swung the lid of the enclosure up, leaning it back against the white chimney, and—

  Oh, shit. Inside was a hexagonal contraption of squat metal about two feet in diameter and, judging by the depth of the enclosure, about a foot thick; it looked like someone had taken a slice through one of the lava pillars from the Devil’s Causeway. Proctor recognized the device from intelligence briefings. The attacks on Chicago, San Francisco, and Philadelphia had been successful—meaning the bombs used there had been utterly destroyed when they exploded. But a planned attack on Los Angeles International Airport had been averted ten days ago when a terrorist from al-Sajada, the al-Qaeda splinter group that had risen to prominence after the death of Osama bin Laden, had been intercepted with a device just like this one in the trunk of his car.

  Proctor spoke into his headset. “Proctor, Central. I’m on the White House roof—and I’ve found a bomb.”

  THE doors to the operating room burst open, and Dr. Mark Griffin, the CEO of Luther Terry Memorial Hospital, strode in, wearing a hastily donned green surgical smock, surgical hat, and face mask. “Sorry, Michelle,” he said to the startled surgeon. “You’ve got to clear out.”

  Michelle sounded shocked. “I’m in the middle of a kidney transplant.”

  “We’ve got a priority patient,” Griffin replied, “and no other operating room is available.”

  “Are you nuts?” Michelle said. “Look at this woman—we’ve opened her up.”

  “Can you stop?”

  “Stop? We’ve just begun!”

  “Good,” said Griffin. “Then you can stop.” He looked at the assembled team. “Clear out, everyone.”

  “What about the patients? They’re intubated and we’ve put them both under, for God’s sake.”

  “Sew her up, then move them out to the corridor,” Griffin replied.

  “Mark, this is crazy. The donor flew in all the way from London for this, and—”

  “Michelle, it’s the president. He’s been shot, and he’ll be here any minute.”

  AS soon as the bullet hit President Jerrison, Secret Service agents swarmed into the Lincoln Memorial. The interior was divided into three chambers by two rows of fifty-foot-tall columns. The large central chamber contained the giant statue of a seated Abe made of starkly white Georgia marble, mounted on a massive oblong pedestal. The small north chamber had Lincoln’s second inaugural address carved into its wall, while the small south one had a carving of the Gettysburg Address.

  Agent Manny Cheung, the leader of Phalanx Beta, looked around. There were only a few places to hide: behind the columns, in the narrow space behind the statue’s pedestal, or somehow clambering up to perch on Lincoln’s back. Cheung held his revolver in both hands and nodded to Dirk Jenks, the thickset young agent on his left. They quickly determined that there was no one else in here, but—

  But the elevator door was now closed. It was in the south chamber, in the wall adjacent to the Gettysburg Address, and had been locked off here at the top with the door open; Cheung knew that Jenks had checked it before the president had arrived. The elevator—used to provide handicapped access to the statue—went from here down to the small exhibit hall in the lower part of the memorial. Cheung barked into his sleeve. “He’s in the elevator heading down.”

  There were security people guarding the entrance to the basement gallery anyway, but Cheung took off, running on the hard marble floor and down the wide outside steps. He passed between the two signs that flanked the entrance. The white one on his right said, “Warning: Firearms Prohibited,” and showed a silhouette of a pistol with a barred red circle over it. The brown one on his left said, “Quiet” and “Respect Please.”

  Cheung hurried down the steps past the seating area that had been erected for the presidential party, rounded a corner, and headed down again to the narrow entrance to the lower level. He had looked through the gallery just yesterday, as part of the preparations for the president’s speech. It had been his first time in it—like most Washington residents, he tended to visit the sites only when he had company from out of town, and there were so many things to see on the Mall, he’d never bothered with this little museum before.

  The exhibit hall, opened in 1994 and occupying just 560 square feet, had been partially paid for by school kids collecting pennies. Since the back of the penny had depicted the Lincoln Memorial then, it had been called the “Pennies Make a Monumental Difference Campaign.” Cheung had read the Lincoln quotes carved into black marble slabs, including one that had startled him: “If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone, I would also do that.”

  He tore past the exhibits, heading to the little elevator lobby in the back. Of course, by the time he got there, the elevator had completed its descent. Three other men—two uniformed DC cops and another Secret Service agent—were already there, with guns aimed at the elevator door. But there was no sign of anyone else, and the brass door was closed; whoever was inside must have a key for the elevator’s control panel, which would explain how he’d started it after it had been locked off on the upper level.

  “Anybody try pushing the button?” Cheung asked. There was just one button, since the elevator could only go up from here.

  “I did,” said one of the uniforms. “Nothing happened.”

  Cheung pushed the button himself. The door remained shut. “He’s definitely got a key, then,” he said.

  “And he’s armed,” noted the other Secret Service agent.

  Cheung judged the brass door sufficiently sturdy that the would-be assassin probably couldn’t shoot through it. He rapped his knuckles loudly against one of the metal panels. “Secret Service!” he shouted
. “Come out with your hands up!”

  CHAPTER 4

  “EVERYONE, attention please! We need to evacuate the White House and the surrounding buildings immediately. Do not assemble at your fire-muster stations; just keep going. Get as far from the building as you can. Exit right now in an orderly fashion. Don’t stop to take anything; just get out. Move!”

  “ARE we sure he’s in there?” Agent Manny Cheung asked.

  “There were guards at the outside door the whole time,” replied the other Secret Service man, “and we’ve looked in the exhibit space and the restrooms. He’s got to still be in the elevator.”

  Cheung spoke into his sleeve. “Cheung to Jenks: make sure the elevator shaft is guarded at the top, in case he tries to ride up again.”

  “Copy,” said a voice.

  “Sir,” said one of the DC cops, “this is bullshit. There are three of us, and dozens more if we need them. Look at that door.” Cheung did so. It was an old-fashioned elevator, and the door consisted of two parts—but they didn’t separate in the middle. Rather, the left part tucked behind the right part as the door opened, and both parts slipped into a pocket on the right side of the elevator shaft. “If we pull on the right-hand part in the middle, there, the left-hand part will draw away from the wall.”

  Cheung wondered at the wisdom of talking just outside the elevator; although the heavy door probably muffled the sound, whoever was inside could doubtless hear some of what they were saying. Nonetheless, the plan made sense. He nodded at the officer, who was the biggest of the three of them, easily six-five and 280 pounds. The man grabbed the right-hand panel by its edge, near the centerline of the door, and put his back into it, pulling it aside so that it slid with a grinding sound into the pocket hidden behind the beige wall. Cheung, the other Secret Service agent, and the other cop, had their guns trained on the left side, which was now showing a crack, then a sliver, then a strip of light from within. The big cop grunted and pulled again, hard, and the door opened to eighteen inches—but no gunfire hailed from the interior.

  Another yank, and the right-hand leaf was now all the way into its pocket, leaving the entire left-half of the elevator’s width open now, and—

  And there was no one inside.

  Cheung looked up, and—ah hah! There was a service door in the roof of the elevator. He tried to reach it but wasn’t tall enough. He gestured to the big cop, who had no trouble pushing the roof door aside. The cop then immediately stepped out of the way, and Cheung craned his neck to hazard a peek. It was dark in the shaft, but—Christ, yes, there was someone there, illuminated from below by light coming out of the elevator. He was shimmying up the thick cable.

  “Cheung to Jenks: the suspect is climbing the elevator cable. He’s about ten feet shy of the top.”

  “Copy, Manny,” Jenks replied.

  The elevator door started shuddering shut. Cheung wheeled around, going for the rubber bumper at its edge at the same time the tall cop moved for the “Door Open” button; they collided, and the cab lurched into motion—

  —and through the open roof Cheung could see the cable moving. There was a massive thud, and the cab shook violently. The assailant must have lost his grip and fallen the twenty feet or so he’d climbed. One of his arms flopped down through the roof hatch.

  There was no stopping the elevator’s ascent now, and Cheung hoped there was enough clearance to keep a downed man from being squeezed against the top of the shaft.

  But, yes, there must be enough clearance! The assailant must have entered the elevator yesterday, when it was announced that Jerrison would give a speech here, and had simply hauled himself up onto the cab’s roof and waited; doubtless when they did finally get to examine the roof, they’d find blankets and whatever else he’d needed to survive overnight in the shaft.

  The elevator came to a stop, and the door opened, revealing a crowd of agents and dour Lincoln off to the right.

  “Who the hell pushed the button?” Cheung demanded.

  “I did,” said Jenks. “I thought—”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Cheung, cutting him off. “You!” he pointed at a female agent. “In here.”

  The woman hurried forward, and Cheung motioned for the tall cop to boost her up. She placed a finger on the wrist that was dangling through the hatch and shook her head. The cop lifted her higher so she could stick her body through the roof hatch. After a moment, she signaled that she wanted down.

  “Well?” Cheung demanded as soon as she was standing again.

  “It’s not pretty,” she said.

  AGENT Susan Dawson spoke into her wrist microphone. “Dawson to Central: Prospector secured in the Beast. Tell Lima Tango that he’s got a severe gunshot wound—shot in the back. His physician, Captain Snow, is with us.”

  The Beast had bulletproof windows and five-inch-thick hull plating. There was a presidential seal on each of its rear doors. A small American flag flew from the right side of the hood, and the presidential standard flew from the left. The vehicle had a blue emergency light that could be attached to the roof; the driver—himself a Secret Service agent—had already deployed it. Motorcycle escorts with sirens blaring were out in front and following behind.

  The car took a hard right onto 23rd Street NW. It was only 1.3 miles to Luther Terry, Susan knew, but the traffic was heavy with the tail end of Friday-morning rush hour.

  Dr. Snow was still trying to stop the flow of blood, but it was all over the president’s gray-haired chest; even with the transfusion, it seemed clear he was losing blood faster than it was being replaced.

  “Where’s the vice president?” asked Agent Darryl Hudkins.

  “Manhattan,” said Susan, “but—”

  A male voice came over their earpieces: “Rockhound is en route to Air Force Two. Will be at Andrews in ninety minutes.”

  Despite the siren—and the driver leaning on the horn—they’d slowed to a crawl. Those motorists listening to the radio might already have heard that the president was being rushed to the hospital, and that might make them slow down for a look: would-be Zapruders hoping to catch the moment of presidential demise.

  “This is ridiculous,” the driver said over his shoulder. “Hold on.” He pulled a hard left onto E Street, and Susan did her best to keep the president from sliding out of his seat as the car careened onto its new course. They were now heading directly toward the Kennedy Center. The limo then took a sharp right onto 24th, and the president pressed against Susan. She gently pushed him back into place, but the hip of her dark jacket was now soaked with his blood.

  A voice came over Susan’s earpiece: “They’ve got a stretcher waiting at the ambulance entrance, a thoracic team is assembling, and they’re clearing an operating room.”

  “Copy,” Susan said. They were doing better than when Reagan had been shot decades ago. Back then, the Secret Service had started taking the president to the White House, not realizing he’d been hit until he began coughing up bright, frothy blood.

  Mercifully, some cars were pulling aside to let the Beast pass. Susan looked into the rearview mirror, catching the driver’s eyes there. “Maybe two more minutes,” he said.

  At last the car made the forty-five-degree turn onto New Hampshire Avenue, paralleling the longest side of the hospital, which was shaped like a right-angle triangle. After some deft maneuvering, the driver got the Beast up the ramp into the ambulance emergency bay. There was indeed a team waiting at the side of the curved, covered driveway with a stretcher.

  Susan jumped out into the cold air, but by the time she was around to the other side, Darryl Hudkins and the two paramedics were heaving the president onto the stretcher. As soon as Jerrison was secure, they rushed him through the sliding glass doors. Susan put a hand on the stretcher and ran—experiencing an eerie echo of all the times she’d run alongside the Beast, holding on to it with one hand.

  “Susan Dawson,” she called across the stretcher to the tall, handsome black man on the opposite side. “Secret Service sp
ecial-agent-in-charge.”

  “Dr. Mark Griffin,” he replied. “I’m the hospital’s chief executive officer.” He looked behind Susan at the president’s physician. “Captain Snow, good to see you.”

  They hustled the stretcher into Trauma, which had two beds separated by an incongruously cheery purple, yellow, and blue curtain. There was a patient in the other bed—a white teenage boy, who, despite having a mangled leg, sat up to try to get a glimpse of the president.

  “On three,” said one of the doctors. “One, two, three!” He and two other men transferred Jerrison to the bed.

  “The bullet obviously missed his heart,” Griffin said to Susan, as a swarm of doctors, including Alyssa Snow, surrounded Jerrison. “But it looks like a major vessel has been clipped. If it’s the aorta, we’re in real trouble; the mortality rate for that is eighty percent.”

  Susan couldn’t see what was being done to Jerrison’s chest, but a new transfusion bag had already been set up on a stand beside him; of course, they had Jerrison’s records on file here and knew his blood type. Four more pint bags were on a tray next to the stand, but she guessed he’d already lost more than that; the backseat of the limo had been sodden.

  • • •

  A DC police helicopter deposited a bomb-disposal robot onto the roof of the White House. Secret Service sharpshooter Rory Proctor was now on the far side of the Ellipse, along with a hundred White House staffers who had decided they had evacuated far enough; many others, though, had headed further south, crossing Constitution Avenue onto the Mall.

  Proctor looked north across the grass at the magnificent building. He’d had binoculars with him up on the roof, and still had them: he used them to watch as the squat robot, visible through the columns of the balustrade, rolled on its treads toward the second chimney from the left. Listening to the chatter on his headset, he gathered that the original notion—just winching the bomb into the sky—had been vetoed, out of fear that there might be a switch on its underside that would detonate it as soon as it was lifted.