First Strike (9 page)

They had moved the bodies out of the Situation Room and dumped them in the Secret Service offices.

“Close the door,” Kent told Tom. “I don't want to have to look at that mess every time I go past.”

“Sure thing.”

Back in the Situation Room, Lorraine was at the main control desk. “You'd think they would have surveillance
inside
the White House,” she said. The monitors were flashing up a succession of images—mostly of the outside of the house, but also CNN, Fox News, and other TV channels. Weather information appeared, then satellite pictures. A feed from a computer gave an error message that there was no input connected. None of the screens showed the corridors and rooms of the house's interior.

“Just a few of the main access areas.”

“We got all the Secret Service agents?”

“I think so. It's gone quiet. There might be the odd loner, but we're properly armed now.”

“And no sign of the President?” Kent asked.

“He's still inside, that's for sure. We got the place locked down tight before he was out of the Roosevelt Room.”

“Then we'll find him.” Kent hefted the Secret Service pistol he was carrying. “Guess we'll just have to do this the old-fashioned way. At least till help arrives.”

“If it does,” Tom muttered.

One of the monitors was showing a distant view of Pennsylvania Avenue. They could see tanks and army trucks parked on the street.

“Hey—they've been right so far. We'd never be here if it wasn't for them. They have some serious contacts.”

“What if the army drive a tank into this place? Or start shooting missiles at us?” Tom asked.

“And risk killing the hostages, maybe even the President? They won't do that. We know they won't do that. So far as they are aware we have the President. Remember, there's a lot riding on this for a lot of people.”

“Vested interests,” said Lorraine. “Power plays.
Politics
.” She said it like it was a swear word.

“Whatever works,” Kent told her. “You think I want to be here, doing this? Hell, I'd rather be raising my kids and holding down a proper job. But those Chinese will lock up good Americans without trial and steal the food out of our mouths as easy as they're taking our jobs and stifling our industry. Someone's got to make a stand.”

“Yeah, right.” Lorraine turned away. “The million dollars our friends from Wiengwei are paying each of us will help too, of course.”

Kent grinned. “Of course. But then our goals and aspirations dovetail beautifully.”

The top of the sofa lifted up. Inside was a large storage area filled with packets of dried food, bottled water, and various other supplies. Chuck opened a panel in the wall, and took out a box of ammunition. He reloaded his gun.

“Worried about your friend?” the President asked Jade quietly. “And your brother?”

Jade nodded. “I hate not knowing what's going on.”

The President nodded. “I know. I'm just glad my wife and kids are out of town. But I've got some good friends out there, as has Agent White. It's difficult, but Chuck's right. We sit tight here and wait for help.”

“If it comes,” said Jade. “I just wish there was something we could do. We don't even know if this dog whistle thing is being heard. Maybe they think we're all dead.”

Rich would do something, Jade thought. He'd have a plan. He'd work out some way of getting a message to the people outside—to Dad, even. But how?

“They'll know where we are,” Chuck was telling her. “And they know the President is alive and well. The watch detects the President's pulse and transmits his vital signs as well as the mayday signal. They'll come for us.”

Jade nodded. “I know.” But she still felt helpless. What would Rich or Dad do, she wondered. She looked round the plain, almost empty room. What
could
they do?

The whole wall was covered with screens. There were a dozen of them, operated from a control desk. Rich sat in one of the two office chairs at the desk and stared in amazement at the pictures.

Each screen showed a different part of the White House. He guessed there was a way of controlling which camera's image was fed to each screen, but for the moment Rich just stared.

On one screen he could see the two men and the red-haired
woman in the Situation Room. Another showed the carnage in the Secret Service offices. A third screen showed the stairway above him. Other screens showed rooms he didn't recognise. Maybe they were in the main house, or another wing…But he could see the Roosevelt Room—music stands overturned, buffet food scattered with broken crockery across the floor. The raiders seemed to have made this their base—Rich could see several people talking and waving guns…

And he watched Jade, Chuck White, and the President close the hidden door set into the wood panelling of the Chief of Staff's office. At least they were safe—for the moment, anyway.

At the side of the wall, one of the monitors gave a view of a large room with a sparkling chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The guests from the reception—including the two Chinese delegates—sat on the floor, hands on their heads. Rich could see three of the raiders, two men and a woman with close-cropped dark hair, standing in the room, pistols at the ready. Rich breathed another heartfelt sigh of relief as he saw a fourth gunman shove a groggy looking Dex Halford into the room to join the other hostages.

The control desk had a number pad set into it, and
Rich saw that each of the screens had a number printed on its frame. Beside the number pad was a joystick like a games console, and several buttons and knobs.

One of the men was leaving the Situation Room. He walked past the camera, going out of frame. The man didn't seem to see the camera, and Rich didn't recall noticing them in any of the rooms. They must be concealed. The woman who was lying dead outside had been monitoring events in the White House for the Secret Service.

She must have seen what was happening and run for help, Rich realised. Her cell phone and radio would have been jammed just like all the other communications.

Rich pressed 7 on the keypad—the number on the edge of the screen showing the Situation Room. Then he moved the joystick. As he had hoped, the camera moved in response, the image panning across as it followed the man who was leaving.

The man appeared on another monitor on the other side of the wall—the corridor. Rich keyed the joystick to this camera, and followed the man's journey. He went up the stairs, and Rich could hear the faint sound of his tread above him.

At the top of the stairs, the man continued towards the
Roosevelt Room. On another screen, the people in the room turned as the man came in. Rich could see their faces now. One of them was Kate Hunter.

There was a triangular volume graphic printed beside one of the knobs. Rich keyed the controls to the Roosevelt Room camera, and turned the knob.

“I'm glad someone has time to waste,” a voice said. It came from right behind Rich—a rasping, husky whisper loaded with authority and disdain.

Rich whirled round in the chair. But there was no one there.

“In case you hadn't noticed, we appear to have mislaid the President of the United States of America.” The voice came from a small speaker set high on the back wall. “So can I humbly suggest that you get out there…” The husky voice rose to an angry snarl, “…and find him!”

There were murmurs of apology, and people hurried from the room. Rich saw them emerge into the corridor, setting off in different directions as they hurried to search each of the rooms in the West Wing.

“Not you.”

Kate Hunter stopped, and turned to face the man. She was as tall as he was. Her expression was unreadable on the grainy monitor.

“I'm still not sure about you,” the man went on. “You seem so helpful, so willing, so amenable. But you know, I haven't seen those words converted into actions. I haven't witnessed your commitment.”

“You want me to help, then give me a gun,” Kate snapped back.

The man ignored her comment. He walked slowly around the room, not even looking at her as he spoke. “You know, when I told you all what the target really was, there was excitement. Exhilaration, even. From everyone—except you.” Now the man did look at Kate. “Why
was
that?” he demanded.

She shrugged. “The White House—it's a big thing. More than gatecrashing some senator's party.”

“But you weren't scared. I could tell that. You knew we could do it. Maybe it comes back to that commitment I mentioned.”

“Maybe it comes back to being angry you didn't trust us with the truth.”

“You're a clever lady. Did it not occur to you that holding a senator hostage was never going to get us very far? Oh, we could insist on the return of our airmen. And we could make our little demands for trade sanctions and official support for the freedom fighters
in Wiengwei. But what would that really achieve?”

“What does
this
really achieve?”

“Once we have the President safe and sound, I'll show you.”

“The President? What can he really do about your friends in Wiengwei?” Kate asked. “You'll just have the same petty demands for him too.”

“Oh no.” The man had stopped by the table where the buffet had been laid out. There was something on the table, and Rich moved the camera to see what it was.

A metal briefcase. Slumped in a chair beside it, Rich recognised Steve. He hoped the man was just unconscious.

“When we get the President,” the man said, “we can use the launch codes. Our demands will be far from petty, I can tell you. And if the Chinese government refuses to recognise Marshal Wieng and the state of Wiengwei, then we'll wipe Beijing off the map.”

Kate just stared. “You're kidding. They'll never believe your bluff.”

But Rich could tell she knew as well as he did that the man wasn't kidding. He drummed his fingers on the top of the briefcase.

“It's no bluff,” he rasped. “But maybe you're right.
Maybe they won't believe it. Maybe they won't believe we're really serious until the first missiles drop from the sky, and they start to count the dead.”

General Wilson was not a happy man. John Chance could tell that at once. The first light of dawn was streaking the sky behind the White House, throwing tanks and armoured vehicles into silhouette. Soldiers stood like dark statues against the brightening horizon.

Many of the curtains were drawn in the West Wing of the White House, and the glass was specially treated so that directional microphones couldn't pick up sounds from inside. There was no vibration that could be turned back into sound waves.

The general shook his head, like he couldn't believe that his superiors at the Pentagon had really agreed that this annoying Brit and his even more annoying boss should be involved in events.

Chance smiled. He knew just how irritating Ardman could be, and he was glad that he wasn't on the receiving end of it for a change. He was also glad that Ardman had come in person. He was all too aware that whatever was happening inside the White House—and no one seemed to know what that was—Rich and Jade were right in the thick of it.

Ardman turned a slow circle, making a point of examining the assembled troops, tanks, trucks and other equipment that General Wilson had just been describing.

“Yes, it's all very impressive,” Ardman said. “Troops, equipment, a complete—and very effective—media blackout. But tell me, what exactly do we know about what's going on? And what precisely have you done about it?”

“Not a lot we
can
do,” Wilson said. “We've lost all contact with the staff and guests inside the West Wing. The whole place is locked down, which can only be done from inside. The Secret Service agents on duty at the doorway between the West Wing and the Mansion House reported gunfire as the blast shutters came down.”

“So you don't even know if the President is alive?” said Chance.

“Oh, he's alive. At least, his heart's still beating.”
Wilson turned and strode over to the enormous truck that was his mobile HQ. He didn't look to see if Ardman and Chance were following, but he carried on talking. “We call it the Dog Whistle. The President wears it at all times, and it relays his vital signs. Measures his sweat, his body temperature, his pulse.”

The inside of the truck was a large operations room. Work stations down each side were manned by uniformed troops. There was a background buzz of noise from the equipment, from the soldiers updating each other as the situation developed, and from the radios and video-communications links.

Halfway down, General Wilson stopped at a screen. He pointed over the shoulder of the female soldier sitting at the work station in front of the main screen.

“That's his temperature. This trace is his heartbeat. If we can get close enough with this…” He picked up a small black box similar to a TV remote control but with a small screen set into it above the various buttons. “…then we can track the President to within centimetres. We can get a satellite fix too, of course. But that's only accurate enough to tell us which side of the building he's on.”

“So, apart from knowing he's alive and well, we're none
the wiser,” Ardman said. “I assume he
is
well?”

The woman turned from the screen. “His heart rate is slightly up. But I imagine he's in a stressful situation.”

“I imagine he is,” Ardman agreed.

The woman turned her attention back to the monitor. Almost at once a buzzer sounded insistently. The peaking line that was the President's heartbeat went flat—a single point of light running sideways across the monitor.

“We've lost him!” the woman exclaimed.

“Test the signal,” Wilson ordered.

“Signal's fine, sir. There's no heartbeat. His temperature's dropping.”

The light jumped. Then it was flat again.

“What's that?” General Wilson demanded. “Is he arresting?”

The woman shook her head. “Not a cardiac arrest. Not like that,” she went on as the light jumped again. It traced a frenzy of peaks and troughs like an earthquake monitor.

“What the hell? It's all over the place.”

The heartbeat stopped again. Then it bleeped in a steady rhythm. But not the rhythm of a normal human heart.

“What is that?” Ardman asked. “There's a pattern.”

Chance was staring at the screen. “Can you get sound?
Like on a hospital machine?”

The woman glanced at Wilson, who nodded. She adjusted a control and the sound of the President's heart monitor came clearly from a speaker beside the screen. Three steady pulses, then another three longer bleeps, followed again by three shorter ones. The pattern repeated.

“I don't think that's the President's heart,” said Chance. “Not unless he can make it beat in Morse code.”

The President's watch lay open on the desk in the Secure Area. Chuck White was tapping carefully inside with the edge of the blade of his pocket knife. Every time he completed a connection between two tiny terminals, the watch's tiny transmitter sent a signal. The longer he held down the connection, the longer the signal. He hoped. He had no way of knowing for sure if it was actually working.

“Let's hope that got their attention,” said Chuck. “You got the message yet, Mr President?”

“My Morse is a little rusty, but maybe they can make sense of this.” The President put down a sheet of paper on the desk beside the watch. The message was written out in capitals, with the Morse code beneath each letter.

As Chuck set to work, the President smiled at Jade.
“Good idea, Miss Chance. You might just have saved our lives.”

“Lucky we had someone here who could write Morse code,” said Jade.

“A skill I learned long ago, in another life,” said the President. “I used to fly jets off aircraft carriers, and they teach you Morse code in the navy. Or used to, anyway. Didn't think it would come in handy again.”

“Let's just hope there's someone out there who can understand it,” said Chuck.

Chance was leaning over the workstation scribbling down the dots and dashes as the heart monitor bleeped.

“There must be someone round here who understands Morse code,” said General Wilson. He marched off along the headquarters truck.

“It obviously hasn't occurred to him that us useless Brits might know how to read it,” said Chance.

“Clearly not,” Ardman agreed. “You know he's a member of the same golf club as the Vice President?”

“Is that important?” Chance was working his way through the Morse code message, writing the translation beneath each set of dots and dashes.

“Probably not. But it's interesting that the Vice
President chose last night to make a speech about how the Chinese should recognise the independence of Tibet and Wiengwei, and to demand they release those airmen they claim they don't have. He's rather less liberal than the President. Quite a hard liner in fact. And of course he'd take over if anything were to happen to the President…”

“Good job General Wilson's in charge then,” said Chance quietly. He handed Ardman the decoded message.

White House Sealed. Estimate 12 raiders now with Secret Service handguns. Communications jammed. POTUS.

“Looks like he's all right for the moment,” said Ardman as he read the last word on the paper. The signature: POTUS—President Of The United States. “Let's try and keep it that way.”

General Wilson briefed the assault team in person. He had told Ardman and Chance in no uncertain terms that they were not to become involved in ‘operational matters'. So while Ardman made a point of complaining, Chance slipped away and sat in the front of the assault team's plain black truck, listening through the partition.

He had heard more assault briefings than he could remember—and given a fair few as well.

“Obviously we want the hostages out safe and sound,” Wilson was saying as he summed up. “But your number one priority is the President. You have a portable tracker that will lead you to the Dog Whistle, and it sounds like the President is wearing it again after signalling to us. We're as positive as we can be that the heartbeat is his. Oh, and before I hand you over to Captain Roberts, two operatives from G Division will be joining you for the breach. They'll keep out of the way, but act as backup.”

Chance frowned. It was unusual—not to say dangerous—to add in people from another group to a team that had trained and operated together.

Sure enough, Captain Roberts was making the same point in the back of the operations truck.

“You have your orders, Captain,” the General snapped. “I want belts and braces on this one. No foul-ups. G Division is there in case they're needed. Otherwise they'll keep well out of the way. Got it?”

“Sir.”

“Very well. Brief your men. You've been over the plans and drawings. You've drawn up several possible scenarios. I want you ready to affect a breach in half an hour.”

Chance waited until the General had gone before he climbed quietly out of the truck's cab. He waited with
Ardman a short way back from where the assault team was preparing. The members of the team gathered in the shadows, talking quietly to each other, going over their plan again and again, checking and double-checking plans and blueprints…

Half an hour passed quickly, despite the tension and anticipation.

Just as Captain Roberts was giving final instructions to his team, two more figures in black combat uniforms, heads covered by dark balaclavas, pushed past Chance and Ardman and hurried to join the assault team.

One of the figures was a man—stocky and powerfully built. The other was a woman, slim and athletic and tall—a contrast to her companion. She glanced at Chance as she pushed past him. For a moment his eyes met hers—visible for a second through the narrow slit in her black mask. Then she was gone.

Chance wished he was going with her—with the assault team. It went against the grain, but there was nothing he could do now except hope and pray Captain Roberts knew his stuff. He was impressed by the man's reputation, but a lot of it would come down to luck as well as meticulous planning. Of course, the team's priority would be the safety of the President, but Chance's
children and his best friend were in there somewhere and he felt powerless to help them.

It wasn't a feeling he was used to, or that he liked, which was maybe why it took him a while to realise what he had just seen.

The team was moving into position. Quiet, calm, efficient orders were relayed over a radio link to the mobile HQ. Ardman and Chance listened in as they followed Wilson inside the truck.

Chance hesitated, one foot inside the operations room, the other on the step outside.

“What is it?” Ardman said, sensing the sudden change in Chance.

“Those two from G Division that General Wilson sent to join the team…The woman.”

“What about her?”

Chance frowned. What indeed—there was something, something that made him suddenly uneasy and cold inside. He could see her again in his mind's eye—the quick glance at him, maybe a flash of recognition, then she was gone. Mind's
eye
…

“Her eyes,” said Chance. “Tell Wilson to stop the breach. Her eyes were different colours.”

And then he was running.