First Strike (10 page)

The sound of the explosion was magnified by the quiet of the early morning. A window in the Vice President's office was blown violently inwards.

Ideally, Captain Roberts would have liked to enter silently and retain the element of surprise. But that wasn't possible. This was the closest point to where they believed the President might be, based on the signal from the Dog Whistle.

Even so, Roberts' plan depended on the raiders inside the White House not knowing if, or when, or where his team would breach their defences.

Before the sound of the explosion had died away, he could hear shouting in his ear—the urgent voice of the mobile HQ.

“A-Force—break off. I repeat, break off. Do not breach at this time!”

“Too late,” Roberts muttered into his throat microphone. There was no way they could stop now—who knew what damage would be done, how the raiders would respond. And they wouldn't get another chance to surprise the enemy after this.

He took the decision. “This is A-Force. We have already breached. We're going in.”

He gestured for the team to continue. The first of the assault squad dived through the shattered windows. They rolled, came upright with their Heckler and Koch 9mm machine pistols levelled. More soldiers followed, moving ahead under cover from their colleagues. There were shouts and cries from deep inside the White House.

The team moved forwards with professional ease and deadly efficiency. One soldier kicked a door open, another lobbed a smoke grenade into the corridor outside.

Last to enter the Vice President's office were the two new members of the team from G Division.

In the Roosevelt Room, Kent looked up at the sound of the explosion.

“We've got company,” said Kate Hunter.

Kent smiled. “About time too. I've been expecting them.”

“Friends?” she asked sarcastically.

But Kent nodded. “Yes, actually. Let's go and greet them.”

“Too late, sir,” the communications officer said. “They've already breached.”

General Wilson did not reply. Like Ardman beside him, he was listening to the sounds coming over the radios of the assault team.

They could hear the breathing of the men; their shouts to each other; the crump of a smoke grenade detonating; gunfire.

Wilson spoke to Ardman without looking at him. “Where's your man Chance?”

“Doing his job.”

Chance was running across the White House lawn. He didn't bother trying to stay out of the floodlights and in the shadows as Captain Roberts' team had done. Speed, not stealth, was the important thing.

He saw the orange and black of the explosion, felt the thump of the shockwave in his chest, even though most of
the blast was directed into the window frame. Ahead of him, dark figures were diving through the smoking windows. The last figure seemed to glance back before entering the White House.

From inside, Chance heard the sound of another, smaller explosion. Then automatic gunfire.

Cursing the fact he was unarmed, Chance hurled himself through the window. “Roberts!” he yelled.

But his voice was lost in the sound of another burst of gunfire. There were two figures ahead of him—standing in the doorway of the room. One was stocky and built like a bull, the other slender and tall. G-division. As the woman turned, the end of her long plaited hair whipped round.

Chance dived for cover as she fired at him. Bullets stitched a trail across the carpet. He rolled, leaped to his feet, and charged at the woman. She was still firing at where he had been a split second earlier. Chance's shoulder caught her gun and knocked it off target as she fired again. Plaster fell from the ceiling. One of the windows still intact after the blast crazed in a spider-web from the point of impact, but did not break.

The woman was knocked backwards, colliding with the stocky man as he turned.

“Out!” Chance yelled into the corridor. “A-Force—get out now!”

The corridor was full of smoke. There were dark shapes lying across it. One of them moved, crawling towards Chance. He ran to help. Another dark figure solidified out of the smoke. A shot from a handgun smacked into the wall close by as dark figures appeared through the gloom at the end of the corridor—the raiders.

Chance and another soldier grabbed the wounded man under the arms and dragged him back into the Vice President's office. The soldier loosed off a burst of gunfire—angry red flashes in the grey air that provoked more shots in return.

Several more soldiers were retreating. There was noise and confusion. But the firing from the raiders inside the White House seemed to have stopped.

“Where's Cyrus?”

“He's down. Art too.”

“Hell! Let's get out of here.”

“You'll be all right, sir,” the soldier with Chance said to the man they had dragged back to the window.

Chance realised the wounded man was Captain Roberts. He was bleeding from just above the knee. All that was visible of his face was the area round his eyes, and
his skin looked deathly pale against the black of his mask.

Another of the assault team took the Captain's arm, allowing Chance to run back and help yell for the rest of them to follow.

But there was no one else.

Eight men had gone into the White House, led by Roberts. Three were coming out again—three and John Chance.

But Chance knew there were two more somewhere in the smoky corridor. Two people who were not part of Roberts' team but had somehow infiltrated the military cordon round the White House. A man and a woman who had turned on the men who thought they were all on the same side.

He saw the distinctive silhouette of the woman in the grey ahead of him, and instinctively reached for his gun. A gun he didn't have.

The air erupted again with gunfire, and Chance sprinted back to the office, and dived out of the window after Roberts and the two other survivors of A-Force.

The noise of the explosion came from the speakers as well as from the floor above. It woke Rich, who had drifted off into a restless sleep, slumped over the control desk. He
had no idea what time it was, but the monitors showed it was getting light outside.

He watched the assault team. The smoke and gunfire. The dark shapes of two of the team who seemed to be firing on their colleagues.

And then another figure—one that Rich recognised—arrived on the scene and changed the course of the fight.

Dad.

Rich almost ran from the room, but he had no idea of the geography. Where was this action taking place?

He could see the raiders, led by the man who had almost caught him on the stairs—Kent. There was no way Rich could get to Dad and escape through the shattered window.

He leaned back in the chair and watched as the smoke slowly cleared and the two black-clad raiders pulled off their masks.

They were oriental, and Rich recognised them both. One of them was a man with close-cropped black hair. He was stocky, but even on the screen Rich got the impression his bulk was muscle rather than fat. His face was round, almost like a baby's.

The woman with him shook out a long plait of jet back hair. Together with the man she collected up the
automatic weapons from the fallen assault team.

Even though he'd seen her only briefly at the hospital in England, Rich knew at once who it was. It was Colonel Shu, and Rich recognised the man with her from the TV news reports.

Marshal Wieng.

Rich turned up the volume as Kent and several of the raiders arrived. Kent and the Marshal stared at each other for several moments. Then Wieng gave a loud burst of laughter and embraced the other man, slapping him heartily on the back.

“I'm glad you and the colonel could join us, sir,” said Kent as they separated. “Our mutual friend made sure your new passports wouldn't arouse interest at the airports.”

“All very efficient,” Wieng said, his English only lightly accented. “And how efficiently are things proceeding here?”

“The White House is secured. I see you've brought us some decent weapons. Thank you. Shame about the hole in the window, but I'll leave two men on guard here in case they try to come back in this way.”

“And the President?” Wieng asked.

Kent turned away. “I'm afraid we don't have him yet,”
he said in his hoarse, whispering voice. “But he's somewhere inside the sealed area of the White House. We'll track him down soon.”

Colonel Shu picked something up from beside one of the fallen soldiers. Rich couldn't see it clearly, but it looked like a black box, about the size and shape of a television remote control. She handed it to Marshal Wieng.

The Marshal hefted the box in his hand. “I think we can track down the President more easily than you imagine,” he said.

“A locator?” Kent rasped.

“The President is fitted with a tracking device,” Colonel Shu explained. “It never leaves him, and this tracker will lead us to it.”

“The American Special Forces intended to use it to find the President and rescue him.” Marshal Wieng smiled. “The device will work just as well for us. Only we do not intend to rescue the President.”

“Hell no,” Kent agreed. “We need him here.”

“Then let's go get him,” said Colonel Shu.

Rich watched the conversation about the tracker in horrified fascination, every word amplified by the speakers in the secret observation room. He had seen the
President, Chuck White and Jade hiding behind a panel in one of the offices. He'd thought they were going to be safe, but now it looked as though they would be found at any moment.

He didn't even know where the office was. And if he did, he doubted he could get there before Kent and Marshal Wieng. But he knew he had to try. He might be safe here in the secret control room, but Rich was doing no one any good. He checked his mobile, and the sophisticated cell phone he'd taken from Steve. Neither of them had a signal.

It seemed unlikely that the phones in the Secret Service offices were working—they'd be easier to cut off than the cell phones. So the only place there might be a line out would be the Situation Room. On the screen he could see the red-haired woman and one of the gunmen working at a computer in there. Another dead end—they'd take him captive as soon as they saw him. If they didn't shoot him first.

Knowing that Dad was out there somewhere spurred Rich on. No way was he going to sit back and watch while Jade was in trouble and Dad was working to rescue them. Rich turned the sound right down on the monitor, and listened at the door for any noise from outside.

Gently, he eased the door open. There was no sign of anyone in the corridor. Just the faint sound of voices from the Situation Room. Rich tip-toed around the end of the stairs and started up them, as quickly and quietly as he could.

At the top he paused again, listening. There was shouting from somewhere in the distance, but it didn't seem that there was anyone nearby.

So far as he could tell, this floor of the White House was a large square. There were several function rooms in the middle—including the Roosevelt Room where the reception had been—and the corridor ran round them, with offices and conference rooms on the outside edge.

Rich didn't recognise the office where Jade was concealed as being one he had seen before, so he set off to the right—along the section of corridor he'd not been down before. At any moment Marshal Wieng or Kent or one of the gunmen might appear as they hunted down the President, so Rich kept close to the wall, ready to dart into a room or an alcove as soon as he heard anyone coming.

He checked every room as he passed, but the problem was, a lot of them were offices. And one office looks very much like another in the same building. He tried to think if there were any particular features of the room where
Jade and the others had hidden. A desk—great. And a large photograph of the White House on the wall. Not helpful—lots of the offices had a picture of the White House. Most of them had similar wooden panelling. None of it responded or opened when he tried to find a hidden door at the point he recalled.

A desk…Of course, they'd dragged the desk over to block the door. He needed to find an office where the desk had been moved…

At the corner of the corridor, Rich paused again. Now he could hear something—voices, and running feet. Were they coming his way? He risked a look round the corner, and saw Kent and Marshal Wieng, followed by Colonel Shu and two other gunmen. They were hurrying towards him, and Rich ducked back out of sight.

But before he could run for cover, the sound of their footsteps stopped.

“In here!” Colonel Shu announced in a loud voice.

“Gotcha,” Kent's amplified whisper was full of anticipation.

Was he too late? Rich risked another look. He saw the last of the gunmen hurrying inside one of the rooms further along the corridor.

“Oh, Jade,” Rich sighed. It looked like he was too late.
He edged along the corridor, desperate to hear what was happening even though he knew he was risking his freedom—maybe his life.

There was a large framed picture on the wall opposite the room where Wieng and the others had gone. It looked like an aerial photograph of the White House, but the light was reflecting off the glass covering the picture. Rich edged slightly closer, and the reflection became clearer. He could see the vague images of the men inside the room.

“Here. Behind this wall.”

Rich was close enough to hear Marshal Wieng's excited exclamation.

“But there's no way in,” someone else said—one of the other gunmen.

“It's a safe area,” said Kent. “A panic room. It'll be locked solid.”

In the reflection, Rich saw the men in the room draw back. One of them raised a gun.

The sound of machine-gun fire echoed from the room.

“See, behind the wood. Metal. A sealed box,” Kent was saying.

“The bullets have barely marked it,” said Colonel Shu.

“Get this wooden panelling off,” Kent growled. “There must be a way to get inside.”

“We'll blow our way in if we have to,” Marshal Wieng decided. “We have him now!”

There was nothing Rich could do here now, he realised. He made his way back carefully towards the stairs, desperately trying to think of some way he could help. Maybe he could cause a diversion—but that would only postpone the inevitable. Marshal Wieng and Kent knew where the President was now. Rich might slow them down, distract them, but they would soon return to the job of breaking into the panic room. Jade and the others were trapped, and there was nothing Rich could do to rescue them.

But, he thought, they weren't the only people in danger here. If Wieng and Kent were concentrating on capturing the President, then perhaps—just perhaps—Rich could help someone else…

Head down, deep in thought, wondering where the hostages were being kept, Rich was soon back at the stairs. He was so engrossed that he didn't hear the sound of footsteps until it was too late.

Someone was coming up the stairs. And Rich had nowhere to hide.

He pressed back against the wall. The dark shape of a man appeared at the top of the stairs. A man holding a
handgun. If he just continued straight on along the corridor, he wouldn't see Rich. But if he turned to go along the corridor in the same direction as Rich had been…

The man turned.

His eyes widened in surprise as he saw Rich standing by the wall.

“Oh, er—hi,” said Rich.

The man's mouth twisted into a smile and he raised the gun.

The sound of the gunfire was muffled inside the secure area. Jade could just make out the shouts of the people outside.

“I think they've found us,” said the President.

“Can they get in?” Jade wondered.

“This place is designed to survive a direct hit from a bunker-buster bomb,” Chuck assured her. “There's no way they can get in.”

“Unless they pick the lock,” Jade told him.

“Not that easy. It's electronic. It has a five-digit code, and after three wrong attempts it resets and locks them out.”

“I bet it resets as 1 2 3 4 5 then,” said Jade.

“How the hell did you know that?” said Chuck. “Just kidding,” he added as he saw Jade's expression.

“Thanks,” said Jade. “You nearly saw what I had for lunch then.”

“You got me too,” said the President. “And I know what the code is. So you're sure we're safe in here.”

“We are, Mr President. We just sit tight.”

“But what about the others—out there?” Jade asked. “How safe are they?”

“Once these people realise they can't get in by brute force,” said Chuck, “then not very. Mr President,” he said grimly, “sooner or later I'm afraid you're going to have to make a decision. Whatever you decide, you have my full support.”

Jade felt suddenly cold. “What decision?”

“Whether I give myself up,” said the President, “or pay the price for my staying safe in here. And Agent White is correct. That price is likely to be in blood.”

“You mean, if we don't give ourselves up, they'll start to kill the hostages?”

The President nodded. “I'm afraid that's exactly what I mean.”