Gideon's War/Hard Target (53 page)

Within another thirty seconds, the majority of the people in the room would be dead.

“POTUS is moving. Repeat, POTUS is moving.”

Wilmot felt a steady thrumming that ran through his entire body, as if someone had pressed the lowest key on a very large and powerful pipe organ.

“Give it to me,” Wilmot said.

Collier handed him the switch.

54

WASHINGTON, DC

President Erik Wade climbed out of the limousine in front of the Capitol, paused briefly to examine the facade of the great building as his wife joined him, and then began to walk up the stairs. At the top of the stairs he turned, waved to the small crowd assembled in front of the building, and then walked in.

Although this was his first State of the Union address, he wasn’t nervous. He had given enough public speeches in his life to know that he was no Cicero, but he’d do fine. He had prepared thoroughly and wouldn’t stumble over any words. His team on the House Majority side would make sure the applause was loud and plentiful. There were no major legislative issues at stake.

Yet he felt annoyed and apprehensive about the public reaction to the shootings at Priest River. He had been briefed on them by Deputy Director Dahlgren of the FBI just before heading over to the Rayburn building. It was that damned Gideon Davis again, causing problems where he had no business to be. Now Wade was going to have to address the disaster during what should have been a moment of glory, his place in a long parade of great men who had preceded him. He frowned as he reached the door of the building, and he went one way while his wife went the other. She would be seated in the gallery, nested among firefighters, hero cops, Medal of Honor winners, and guys in wheelchairs.

His cabinet was waiting. He shook each one’s hand, shared a joke or an elbow squeeze or an inquiry after a wife or child. By the time he’d reached the secretary of health and human services, his wife was already ensconced in the gallery and the cabinet officials were beginning to file into the House chamber.

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He took a deep breath. It was almost showtime.

55

WASHINGTON, DC

Tillman and Gideon did a quick reconnoiter of the tunnels, which were full of steam pipes and fat electrical conduits. On any other day, it would have been an extraordinary tour of a secret American history—bricks dating back to the nineteenth century alongside heavy steel doors from the Cold War of the twentieth century next to optical fiber cables from the twenty-first. But today there was no time for reflection.

He glanced at his watch. A couple of minutes, that’s all the time they had before the president began.

They followed the tunnel around a vertical shaft and then found themselves in front of another door. This one read: Basement 2. They were on the floor with access to the HVAC system but had no way to get through the locked door. Above it was a security camera that, no doubt, transmitted their images back to a command post. Gideon hoped that in their tactical gear and caps they wouldn’t be recognizable.

“Agent Busbee, Agent Weiner, radio check,” a voice said over the earpiece Gideon had picked up from one of the agents.

“I’ve got an idea,” Gideon said.

He waved at the camera, then pointed at his microphone, and shook his head. Tillman, getting into the act, waved, too.

“Agent Busbee, we see two agents at an unauthorized location,” the voice on the radio said. “Is that you?”

Gideon kept his head down and pointed at the door, as though discussing something with Tillman. But he gave a big thumbs-up to the camera.

“Agent Busbee, is that Agent Weiner accompanying you?”

Gideon gave another thumbs-up. “Just bang on the door,” he said to Tillman. “They’ll think our radios are messed up.”

Tillman whacked on the door with the flat of his palms.

“Agents Busbee and Weiner, you are not authorized to be in your present location. Return to your post.”

Tillman continued to whack on the steel door. “They may open the door,” he said. “But when they do, there’s liable to be about ten guys with MP5s pointed right at our heads.”

“That’s what I’m counting on,” Gideon said.

Suddenly there was a scrabbling sound on the other side of the door. The door swung open, and four armed men stood around the door, P90s at low ready.

“Oh, my bad,” Tillman said. “No MP5s. They’ve all got P90s.”

After that came a chorus of “Down on the ground! Down on the ground! Down on the ground!”

Tillman and Gideon dropped slowly to one knee as a fifth man, the group leader, approached. He wore a weasly smile, his hair greased back and slick. It was Deputy Directo�einerr Dahlgren.

“Gideon Davis,” he said. “And this must be your brother, Tillman.”

They were just inside a long concrete hallway. And there, about twenty yards down the hallway, was a large red door with a name stenciled on it in black paint: HVAC ACCESS ROOM.

“Dahlgren!” Gideon said. “There are two men in that room who are planning to inject hydrogen cyanide into the heating system. You need to get in there right now and stop them. If I were you, I’d do it quickly because if you don’t, they’re going to kill everybody in this building.”

“You’ll need to come up with a better story if you want to save yourself from an extended stay at Leavenworth.”

“Listen to him, you shithead,” said Tillman. “You’re about to take your last breath.”

“Language,” clucked Dahlgren.

“Look,” said Gideon. “Let me open the door. You have nothing to lose. If I’m wrong, it’s just a few minutes of your time. But if I’m right, and you could have prevented the deaths of the president, vice president, and hundreds of senators and congressmen, you’ll go down in history as the man that let it happen.”

“You’re not opening any door,” said Dahlgren. But Gideon could see that his warning words had worked on Dahlgren as he signaled to two of the men. “Take them to the detention facility.” Then he withdrew his pistol from his holster. “I’ll open the goddamn door, and we’ll end this bullshit once and for all.

Wilmot and Collier heard the commotion outside the HVAC Access Room.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Collier asked as he peered through the keyhole. “There are Secret Service guys arresting other Secret Service guys.”

“Something’s wrong,” Wilmot said. “Initiate the sequence now.”

“It’ll take a minute thirty for the whole cycle.” Collier pecked at his keyboard and began typing.

“I thought you had it ready to go,” Wilmot said.

“I do. But the heat has to cycle on. First the gas, then the air handler heats up. The blowers don’t come on until the air reaches—”

“Okay. Just get it going.”

For the first time in a long while, Shanelle Klotz felt a flicker of hope. “You’re not going to make it, you know,” she said. “They’ll be here in—” She looked at the door. “Never mind, they’re already here.”

The knob on the locked door jiggled, then someone kicked at it.

“Shit,” said Wilmot.

Collier pecked away at the keys. “Just a few more seconds . . .”

Someone kicked at the door again.

Wilmot put down the small box with the red switch on it and grabbed the gun he had taken from the agentt t Athe agent. “We can’t wait any longer. You finish up in here. I’ll hold them off.”

“No, sir.” Collier stood. “Let me do it.”

“But we need you to initiate the sequence.”

“It’s done. I’ve armed it.” He retrieved the triggering device and handed it back to Wilmot. “All you have to do is flip that button.”

Wilmot regarded Collier, then handed him the gun.

Collier didn’t take it. “I’ve got something bigger in mind.”

“Thank you, son, for everything.”

Collier saluted. “I’m proud to have been your son.”

Wilmot mustered a smile he hoped disguised his contempt for Collier. It surprised him that he felt that way, especially in the face of Collier’s sacrifice.

President Erik Wade heard the sergeant at arms call out, “Madam Speaker, the President of the United States!” and he moved through the door into the House chamber.

Since Wade had been a governor before being elected president, he had only visited the House chamber a handful of times before. It was a little smaller, a little less grand than he’d remembered.

His security contingent was under instructions not to come on too strong. The room was full of people with long histories of service to the United States. At the moment this facility was probably as secure as Fort Knox. Wade wanted to press the flesh. He paused, shook hands with a California Democrat, a South Carolina Republican, a senator, a House member. Wade had a near-photographic memory and spoke to each person by name. The House member was a man he’d never met, but he managed to dredge up the congressman’s daughter’s name.

“How’s Christine’s leg, Ted?” he asked, referencing a soccer injury he’d read about in one of the many briefing books he’d absorbed since becoming president.

“Fine, Mr. President. Thank you for asking.” The lowly congressman’s face shone, surprised that the president even knew his name, much less the details of his daughter’s broken third metatarsal.

“Thank you for helping me out on this energy bill,” Wade said.

“I didn’t know I was,” the congressman said.

“Oh, I have confidence you will,” Wade said with a wink.

Then he was moving along, shaking more hands.

When he finally reached the podium, the text of his speech clutched in his left hand, he noticed that the Secret Service agents were whispering intently into their microphones.

They looked stirred up about something. But that was their job. If it was something serious, they’d grab him and hustle him to safety. Meanwhile, he had other things to think about.

The president shook hands with his vice president and smiled broadly. Erik Wade disliked the vice president, and he was sure it was mutual. But this was politics.

He handed a copy of his speech to the vice president, then kissed the Speaker on the cheek. He not only despised the Speaker, but he also feared her a little. An onlooker gauging their smiles might have thought the two were long-lost cousins. “Good to see you, Madam Speaker. You’re looking lovely as ever.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. President.”

Erik Wade laughed loudly. “As demanded by protocol, Madam Speaker, I now present you the text of my address.”

“As protocol demands, I cheerfully accept.” She then moved toward the microphone and said, “I have the high privilege and distinct honor to present the president of the United States.”

Erik Wade turned his back on the vice president and the Speaker and approached the dais.

“Thank you,” he said, holding up his hands as the room burst into applause. “Thank you. Thank you, folks. I thank you from the bottom of my heart . . .”

The president noticed it felt unusually chilly in the room. He wondered if somebody would do something about the heat. But he had no more time to think about it because, just then, a tremendous explosion rocked the room, and he felt himself falling.

56

WASHINGTON, DC

Hydrogen cyanide is an extremely volatile liquid at room temperature. It is highly flammable when mixed with air, and the smallest spark can cause an explosion.

When Dahlgren couldn’t kick open the door, he withdrew his Glock and took aim. But just as he was about to fire several shots, the door burst open and Collier flew out, arms wrapped tightly around one of the canisters. Dahlgren got off one shot before Collier smashed into him, and the two men tumbled to the ground.

Although Collier intended to ignite the tank himself, he didn’t need to. Dahlgren’s bullet struck the metal wall, perforated the tank, combusted the liquid, and caused an explosion. The concussive force killed Collier instantly, and the flames seared Dahlgren’s flesh, sending him into immediate cardiac arrest. Two other Secret Service agents, closer to Dahlgren, suffocated from the lack of oxygen, and a third agent would die later of cyanide poisoning.

Tillman was thrown against the wall while Gideon dived to the floor and just narrowly missed being hit by metal shrapnel. Fortunately, both men were far enough away from the fireball that the flames consumed nearly all the cyanide by the time it reached them. Their eyes stung and burned, and it would be weeks before Tillman could eat anything without the bitter taste of almonds in the back of his throat, but they both survived relatively unscathed.

Gideon stood and found his brother, who was on his knees and coughing into his hands. “You okay?” he asked. Tillman nodded but couldn’t speak. The dead agents lay sprawled by Collier and Dahlgren, and the wounded agent was crawling toward his comrades whom he could no longer help. Gideon knew there were two men in the Access Room, and only one of them was dead, which meant one of them—he assumed it was Wilmot—was still inside. He reached out toward Tillman and pulled his brother to his feet. Theawaaaaaaaaaa D‡n the two men picked their way through the rubble in the hall and headed for the room.

Inside the House chamber, when the blast occurred, Secret Service agents threw themselves against the doors.

Sealing the chamber was SOP, the smart play when there was a possible attack on POTUS. But it was also the worst thing anyone could do. Because the threat was not outside the chamber, but inside. Meanwhile, panicked people tried to rip the doors open. Senators grabbed congressmen, men grabbed women, women crawled over men, the strong pushed the weak, the weak trampled the unlucky. At every door, hundreds of people were smashed together, grunting, screaming, shouting—a serene, organized, and civil pageant reduced in seconds to a chaos of animals scrabbling for survival.

Kate had remained outside the chamber under guard after being questioned by Dahlgren. Now, in the chaos, all she could think about was finding Gideon. She hadn’t given Dahlgren any information, not that she had any that would compromise Gideon. The explosion, she assumed, had something to do with the terrorists Gideon was chasing. It sounded as if it had come from a basement level. Kate shook free of her guard and sprinted for the stairs.