The Last Jihad (7 page)

“John, I can’t even tell you—”

“Bud? Bud, it’s Mac—is this…is this another one of your…your exercises?”

At first, Norris was taken back at hearing MacPherson’s voice. Then he began laughing—more from pent-up nervous energy than the president’s lame but noble attempt at humor. The man’s voice faltered, but his spirit seemed strong.

“Yes, sir. Didn’t you get the memo?”

MacPherson laughed weakly, then began to cough.

“Sir, are you—”

But now it was Moore back on the line.

“Are we cleared to move him, sir?”

“Absolutely, do it.”

Norris and his team watched the Apache video feed as the agents on the ground now quickly, carefully, professionally extracted Gambit’s stretcher from Stagecoach and positioned him in the back of the police helicopter. Sanchez positioned herself in the pilot’s seat, beside another agent, once an Army Reserve helicopter pilot. Agents carefully helped Moore climb into the chopper, along with two other plainclothes agents from Dodgeball, one a specially trained medic.

As the chopper began to lift off, it was flanked by the two Apaches, led by the other police helicopter, flown by and packed with agents, and covered by a squadron of F-15s. On the ground, Secret Service vehicles and police cars began peeling away from the scene, going back to the airport to guard Air Force One. A few minutes later, a dozen more police and National Guard helicopters landed to carry away agents and top White House staff. Back in Washington, Norris turned to his team and looked each one in the eye.

“Gambit is alive.”

The op center erupted with applause. People began to breathe for the first time in hours.

“Put me on all frequencies,” Norris told his deputy. “Ball Players, this is Home Plate. We’ve got good news. Gambit is alive. I repeat: Gambit is alive.”

He paused—just for a moment—to let his words sink in, then quickly continued.

“Checkmate is also secure. As is Megaphone. We haven’t lost any principal—not yet. But it was close. And I, for one, don’t think this thing is over. Not by a long shot. So listen up. We’re now at Threatcon Delta. We don’t know what’s out there. You may have your suspicions about who did this. But remember, that’s not our mission. Not tonight. Our mission is to make sure the inmates don’t rule the asylum. Our mission is vigilance, not vengeance. Everyone got that? So stay on your toes. Stay alert out there. And may God help us.”

Roni Barshevsky was almost there.

He pulled his Mercedes onto the jam-packed access road leading to Ben Gurion International Airport near Tel Aviv. As news of the attack on the American president began to spread, an already busy travel season got dramatically busier. Tourists and businesspeople headed to the airport in droves, worried once again that being in Israel might not be safe, and slowing traffic to a crawl in the process.

Unusually, however, Bennett didn’t seem to mind. He was glued to the unfolding drama and grateful not to be getting out of the car anytime soon. As the car inched forward, Erin McCoy in London translated the play-by-play coverage from the TV correspondents in Denver, Atlanta, New York, and Washington to Bennett in Israel.

“Jon, they’ve just airlifted the president away from the scene.”

“Is he alive?”

“They’re not saying.”

“Where are they headed?”

“Don’t know. They’re not saying.”

“What are they saying?”

“They’ve just got video from some local station…hold on…ohmygosh…this is unbelievable…Jon, they’ve got video of the kamikaze plane heading for the motorcade—for the president’s limousine—and then something, I don’t know, something like a rocket or a missile or something comes shooting out of the back of one of the Secret Service trucks and hits the plane and this thing erupts in a fireball like you’ve never seen before.”

“What?”

“The whole sky explodes.”

“Wait, wait—I thought the plane came down and exploded onto the motorcade.”

“I thought so, too. But I’m telling you—some kind of rocket or missile came shooting out of the back of one of those black cars and blew up the plane first. Then it all comes raining down on the motorcade and you can see the president’s car slam into the concrete dividers on I-70 and the whole thing goes up in flames—just keeps flipping over and over and over.”

Bennett began to feel hot and nauseated, and quickly grabbed a bottle of water and began drinking.

“Jon?…Jon—you still there?”

“Yeah…yeah…I’m here…I just…I don’t know…”

“I know…it’s horrible…”

“Have you been able to break through to Iverson?”

“No, not yet. All the lines in the Denver area are jammed. We’re paging him but we’ve got nothing yet.”

“OK, look, get someone on the line to Brooks in New York.”

“OK.”

“Tell him to dump everything at the opening bell.”

“Everything?”

“Everything—go to cash.”

“Cash? Jon, what are you talking about?”

“What are
you
talking about? It’s going to be a freaking meltdown. Somebody just tried to kill the President of the United States—they may have succeeded.”

“I know, but…”

“But what? Erin, the Dow’s going to drop a couple thousand points in a few hours. NASDAQ’s going to tank. What’s the Nikkei doing right now?”

“Hold on, let’s see—just starting to react, down three percent.”

“There you go. What about the Hang Seng?”

“Down two and a half percent.”

“I’m telling you, they’ll both be down ten percent or worse by the end of the day. You watch.”

“Jon…”

“What? You think I’m wrong.”

“I don’t know…I’m just…”

“Just what? Erin, are you kidding? Come on, think. Think. What if the president is dead? Or what if he’s alive but doesn’t pull through? Then what?”

McCoy was silent.

“You think anyone’s going to get on an airplane again? You think they’re going to go out and buy a house next week? You think they’re going to go start their own business?”

“No.”

“You’re damn right—no. Consumer confidence is going to tank. The market’s going to collapse. You know what that means?”

“We’re going to get killed.”

“It means we’re not going to have enough to do this deal. Then what?”

“How can we even go through with the Galishnikov deal now?”

“No. No. I’m not going to let it die. Absolutely not. You get Brooks on the phone and you tell him to dump everything.
Everything.
You got that?”

Bennett was now screaming into his phone.

“OK, OK—I got it…I got it…I got it…”

The two were silent for a moment, McCoy rattled by Bennett’s anger; Bennett rattled by the fear rising rapidly within him. As Bennett listened in, McCoy now awakened Tom Brooks—the Joshua Fund’s head trader—at his home in Greenwich Village. She carefully explained to him over her speakerphone what was happening, told him to page everyone and get them into the office immediately, and to prepare to liquidate all of the Fund’s holdings and go to cash.

Bennett was struck by McCoy’s calmness, her patience as Brooks fumbled around his apartment for his remote control to turn on his TV and watch the ghastly coverage on CNN and then Fox and then MSNBC. There was a genuineness, a sweetness to her he’d never paid much attention to, and it just made him feel worse.

Barshevsky pulled up to the terminal without saying a word, popped the trunk and got out quickly to get the luggage. Bennett hung up his phone, tossed it into his briefcase and got out. The two shook hands, but said nothing. Then Bennett grabbed his bags and raced into the airport for a flight he was now almost certain to have missed.

“Get me the president.”

At least the VP was secure deep underneath the White House.

“Sir, Bud Norris at Secret Service just told me the president is fading in and out of consciousness,” said NSC Advisor Marsha Kirkpatrick, the fifty-three-year-old Georgetown University Russian history professor turned senior White House advisor, seated at the huge conference table and trying to open a secure satellite phone link to the president and his security team.

“Where is he right now?”

“He’s on his way to Crystal Palace and flanked by two Apaches. A team of agents is trailing in another helicopter and two more choppers are picking up the rest of the agents at the crash site as we speak.”

“How long ’til they get to Crystal Palace?”

“Not sure. One second.”

Just then, Kirkpatrick finally connected with the commandeered Denver Metro Police helicopter whose call sign was now “Eagle One,” flying low and without lights southward along the foothills of the Rockies.

“Eagle One—go.”

“Eagle One this is Prairie Ranch—secure code Matrix Delta Tango.”

“Copy that—Matrix Delta Tango. We are secure.”

“Eagle One, this is the National Security Advisor. Whom do I have on the line?”

“Ma’am, this is Special Agent Jackie Sanchez.”

“Do you have Gambit?”

“We do, ma’am. We’re inbound for Crystal Palace.”

“Agent Sanchez, I’ve got Checkmate with me. Stand by one.”

The vice president grabbed the black phone on the console before him as a military aide punched in his secure code.

“Sir, you’ve got Agent Jackie Sanchez on the line. She’s in flight with the president.”

“Agent, this is Checkmate. How is he?” the VP asked calmly.

“Sir, Gambit is alive. He’s in pretty good shape, considering. He asked me to tell you to activate Operation Irish X-Ray immediately.”

“Really?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Fine. Tell him we’ll do it. What else?”

“Vital signs are fine. He’s stable. We’re about to touch down at Crystal Palace and we’ve got a medic team waiting for us. Can I give you a full report once we’re secure inside?”

“Absolutely—but keep this line open, Agent.”

“Yes, sir.”

The vice president hit the mute button and looked back at Kirkpatrick.

“Two things. First, Gambit wants us to execute Operation Irish X-Ray. Can you make that happen?”

Kirkpatrick was taken aback for a moment.

“That quickly?”

“Apparently.”

“OK. I’ll do it right now.”

“Good. Second, how soon ’til you can get me the Counter-Terrorism Task Force on-line?”

“Almost done, sir.”

It was just after eleven in the morning Israel time.

Four in the morning in Washington.

Two in the morning back in Colorado.

Sure enough, Bennett had missed his flight. It wasn’t actually going to leave the gate for another ten minutes. But it would take him at least an hour to get through the long lines and clear through Israeli airport security and he knew he’d never make it.

His phone rang.

“Jon, is that you?”

It was Secretary Iverson.

“Stu? Yeah, it’s me. Where are you?”

“I’m in a helicopter with Corsetti. We’re headed to see the president. But there’s a storm breaking over us right now, so I can barely hear you.”

“Is the president all right? The networks aren’t saying, but it doesn’t sound good.”

“I can’t say much on an open line. But I think he’s going to make it.”

“Thank God,” said Bennett.

“What’s that, Jon? You’re breaking up.”

Iverson was shouting at the top of his lungs as his helicopter shook and rocked in the intensifying storm. Bennett ducked into a corner of the airport and tried to talk as loudly as possible without attracting attention, but it wasn’t easy.

“Can you hear me now?”

“Barely—look, Bob talked to the president a few minutes ago. He wants you out here tonight. He actually wants both of us. That’s why Bob sent an agent to grab me and throw me onto this chopper. He’s gonna get us both killed.”

“Where is he right now?” asked Bennett.

“The president?”

“Yeah.”

“Can’t say,” Iverson told him. “It’s don’t ask, don’t tell right now.”

“What should I do?”

Between the crashing thunder, the pelting rain, and the roar of the rotors, it was a wonder Bennett could hear Iverson at all. He plugged his right ear with his finger, and pressed the phone tight against his left ear, straining to hear every word.

“I think the best thing is to get yourself to New York before they close the airports. The Learjet is out here with me—but it’s locked down at DIA. They’re not letting anything take off or land.”

“OK.”

“So charter a plane out of New York and get yourself to Colorado Springs. Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll leave further instructions on your home answering machine. That ought to be pretty secure for now. If you need me, leave me messages on my home phone. You’ll never get me by cell.”

“OK, I’ll do that.”

“And Jon…”

“Yeah, Stu.”

“Bring the papers with you.”

“OK. Why? What are you thinking?”

“Just do it.”

“You don’t think any of this is connected to the Medexco deal, do you?”

“I have no idea—but, Jon…”

“Yeah, Stu?”

“You remember what the president said to us before you left?”

“The ‘oath’?”

“Right.”

“Of course.”

“Jon, I can’t stress this enough. You can’t say anything to anyone about this deal. You understand that, right?”

“Don’t worry.”

“Jon, I’m telling you…”

“Stu, I said I get it.”

“I’m dead serious. Nothing, to no one. That’s an order from the president.”

“Stu…”

“I know. I know. I’m just saying—no misunderstandings.”

“Don’t worry.”

“OK—look, I’ve got to go.”

“OK—oh, and Stu?”

“Jon, I’ve got to go.”

“One more thing.”

“What?”

“I told Brooks to dump everything at the bell—go to cash.”

“I know. Tom already told me. Smart move, kiddo. But remember, I can’t really talk to you about that kind of stuff anymore. Just get out here fast—tonight. The president’s counting on you. Got it?”

“Got it. Take care of yourself.”

The line went dead. Bennett went numb.

Security was incredibly tight.

Lt. Col. Nick Calloway, an Air Force medical trauma specialist, had never seen it like this. Battle-ready Marines surrounded the perimeter as F-15s circled overhead and three Apaches hovered just a few hundred feet off the ground. The two helicopters carrying the President of the United States and his security team now prepared to set down. Deafening thunder, blinding lightning, howling winds and driving rain made flight conditions perilous at best, and everyone on the ground was soaked to the bone and terrified that one or more of the choppers would crash.

Suddenly, Marine One slammed down on the helipad and its side door ripped open. Calloway rushed in.

“You John Moore?”
Calloway shouted above the whipping winds of all the choppers.

“Yeah,”
Moore shouted back.

“Lt. Col. Nick Calloway—welcome to the Mountain.”

“You guys ready for us?”

“We sure are. Is the president OK?”

“He’s stable, but we need to get him into the medical bay on the double. Let’s move.”

“Yes, sir.”

Calloway turned back to his medical and security teams standing just behind him.

“OK, let’s move.”

The agents—led by Moore and Jackie Sanchez—scrambled out of the two choppers and worked with the Crystal Palace teams to get the president onto a stretcher and into a caravan of one ambulance, two Chevy Suburbans, and seven Humvees. Four minutes later, the caravan was racing down a long, dark tunnel into the heart of the mountain, through two sets of six-foot-thick steel blast doors, which closed behind them with a bone-rattling shudder.