A former Army Times correspondent who covered the Gulf War, then moved back to his hometown to work for the Denver Post, Jackson had joined the New York Times less than ten days before Gambit announced his campaign for the GOP nomination. What a roller coaster since then, and he was getting tired. Maybe he needed a new assignment. Did the Times have a bureau in Bermuda? Maybe he should open one. Just get through today, Jackson thought to himself. There’ll be plenty of time for vacation soon enough. He glanced up to ask a question about the president’s weekend schedule.
Across the aisle and leaning against the window sat Chuck Murray, the White House press secretary. Jackson noticed that for the first time since he’d met Murray a dozen years ago, “Answer Man” actually looked peaceful. His tie was off. His eyes were closed. His hands were folded gently across his chest, holding his walkie-talkie with a tiny black wire running up to an earpiece in his right ear. This allowed him to hear any critical internal communications without being overheard by the reporters on the bus. On the empty seat beside Murray lay a fresh yellow legal pad. No “to do” list. No phone calls to return. Nothing. This little PR campaign was just about over. Do or die, there was nothing else Murray or his press team could do to get the president’s approval ratings higher than they already were, and he knew it. So he relaxed. Jackson made a mental note: This guy’s good. Let him rest.
Special Agent McKittrick was tired.
He walked over to the Mr. Coffee machine near the western windows of the control tower, out of everyone’s way, itching to head home. He ripped open a tiny packet of creamer and sprinkled it into his latest cup. Then two packets of sugar, a little red stirrer, and voilà—a new man. Hardly. He took a sip—ouch, too hot—then turned back to the rest of the group.
For an instant, McKittrick’s brain didn’t register what his eyes were seeing. The Gulfstream was coming in too fast, too high. Of course it was in a hurry to get on the ground. But get it right, for crying out loud. McKittrick knew each DIA runway was twelve thousand feet long. From his younger days as a Navy pilot, he figured the G4 needed only about three thousand feet to make a safe landing. But at this rate, the idiots were actually going to miss—or crash. No, that wasn’t it. The landing gear was going back up. The plane was actually increasing its speed and pulling up.
“What the hell is going on, Foxtrot?” shouted the senior controller into his headset.
When McKittrick saw the Gulfstream bank right towards the mountains, he knew.
“Avalanche. Avalanche,” McKittrick shouted into his secure digital cell phone.
Marcus Jackson saw the bus driver’s head snap to attention.
A split second later, Chuck Murray bolted upright in his seat. His face was ashen.
“What it is?” asked Jackson.
Murray didn’t respond. He seemed momentarily paralyzed. Jackson turned to the front windshield and saw the two ambulances and the mobile communications van pulling off on either side of the road. Their own bus began slowing and moving to the right shoulder. Up ahead, the rest of the motorcade began rapidly pulling away from them. Though he couldn’t see the limousines, he could see the Secret Service Suburbans now moving at what he guessed had to be at least a hundred miles an hour, maybe more.
Jackson’s combat instincts took over. He grabbed for his leather carry-on bag on the floor, fished through it frantically, and pulled out a pair of sports binoculars he’d found handy during the campaign when the press was kept far from the candidate. He trained on the Suburbans, and quietly gasped. The tinted rear windows of all four specially designed Suburbans were now open. In the backs of each of the first four vehicles were sharpshooters wearing black masks, black helmets, steel gray jumpsuits and thick Kevlar bulletproof vests. What sent a chill down Jackson’s spine, however, wasn’t their uniforms, or their high-powered rifles. It was the two agents in the last two vehicles, the ones holding the Stinger surface-to-air missile launchers.
“Talk to me, McKittrick.”
Special Agent-in-Charge John Moore—head of the president’s protective detail—shouted into his secure cellular phone as he sat in the front seat of Gambit’s limousine, his head craning to see what was happening behind him.
Just hearing McKittrick yell “Avalanche”—the Secret Service’s code for a possible airborne attack—had already triggered an entire series of preset, well-trained, and now instinctual reactions from Moore’s entire team. Now he needed real information, and he needed it fast.
“You’ve got a possible bogey on your tail,” said McKittrick from the control tower, his binoculars trained on the lights of the Gulfstream. “He’s not responding to his radio, but we know it’s working.”
“Intent?”
“What’s that?” McKittrick asked, garbled by a flash of static.
“Intent? What’s his intent? Is he hostile?” shouted Moore.
“Don’t know, John. We’re warning him over and over—he’s just not responding.”
Gambit lay on the floor, his body covered by two agents. The agents had no idea what threats they faced. But they were trained to react first and ask questions later. Moore scrambled over them all to get a better look through the tiny back window. For a moment he could see the lights of the Gulfstream bearing down on them. Suddenly the plane’s lights went out, and Moore lost visual contact.
Glancing to his right, he could see Dodgeball—the decoy limousine—pulling up to his side as Pena Boulevard ended and the motorcade poured onto I-70 West. Both cars were moving at close to one hundred and thirty miles an hour.
The question facing both drivers was whether or not they could get off the open and exposed stretch of highway they were now on and get under the interwoven combination of concrete bridges and overpasses that lay just ahead at the interchange of I-70 and I-25. This would make an overhead attack more difficult, though not impossible. The challenge would be driving fast enough to get there and then being able to stop fast enough—or stop and back up fast enough—to get and stay under the bridges and out of the potential line of fire.
But what if the bridges were booby-trapped with explosives? What if the Denver Metro Police and Colorado State Patrol securing the bridges were compromised? Were they escaping an enemy, or being driven into the enemy’s hands?
Moore reacquired the Gulfstream in his high-powered night-vision binoculars. It was gaining fast.
“Nighthawk Four, Nighthawk Five, this is Stagecoach—where are you guys?” Moore shouted into his wrist-mounted microphone.
“Stagecoach this is Nighthawk Five—we’ll be airborne in one minute,” came the reply.
“Nighthawk Four. Same thing, Stagecoach.”
Moore cursed. The pair of AH-64 Apaches were state-of-the-art combat helicopters. Both could fly at a maximum speed of one hundred and eighty-six miles per hour and both carried sixteen Hellfire laser-guided missiles and 30mm front-mounted machine guns. But both—on loan from the Army’s Fort Hood in Texas—might actually end up being useless to him.
After the suicide airplane attacks against the Twin Towers and the Pentagon, the Secret Service had decided that motorcades should be tailed by Apaches. “Just in case” was, after all, the Service’s unofficial motto. But the White House political team went nuts. It was one thing to keep the president secure. It was another thing to have military helicopters flying CAP—combat air patrols—over city streets and civilian populations year after year after year. A compromise was reached. The Apaches would be pre-positioned and on standby at each airport the president or vice president was flying into, but wouldn’t actually fly over the motorcades. It seemed reasonable at the time. Not anymore. But it didn’t matter now. Moore’s mind scrambled for options.
“Nikon One. Nikon Two. This is Stagecoach. Turn around and get in front of this guy.”
“Nikon One, Roger that.”
“Nikon Two, Roger.”
The two Denver Metro Police helicopters weren’t attack helicopters. They certainly weren’t Apaches. They were basical
ly reconnaissance aircraft using night-vision video equipment to look for signs of trouble on the ground—not the air. But they immediately peeled off the formation and banked hard to get behind Gambit’s limousine. The question was: Could they make the maneuver fast enough? And what then?
The Gulfstream pilot ripped his headphones off and tossed them behind him.
The tower was screaming at him in vain to change course immediately or risk being fired upon. Why be distracted?
He could see the police helicopters beginning to break right and left, respectively, so he increased his speed, lowered the nose and began bearing down on the two limousines, now side by side.
“Tommy, you got an exit coming up?” Moore shouted back to his driver.
“Sure do, boss. Coming up fast on the right—270 West.”
“Good. Stagecoach to Dodgeball.”
“Dodgeball—go.”
“Pull ahead and break right at the 270 West exit. 270 West—go, go, go.”
Agent Tomas Rodriguez imperceptibly eased his foot off the gas, just enough to let the decoy limousine roar ahead, pull in front of him, and then peel off to the right—just barely making the exit ramp.
For the first time, the Gulfstream pilot let out a string of obscenities.
With one limousine peeling off to the right, and two Chevy Suburbans going with it, he suddenly doubted the intelligence he’d been given. Which limousine was he after? Which had the president? He was pretty sure it was not the one that had just peeled off. But now he hesitated.
His heart was racing. His palms were sweaty. His breathing was rapid and he was scared. Yes, he was ready to die for this mission. But he’d better take someone with him—and the right someone at that.
“Tommy, how far to the interchange?” Moore demanded.
“Don’t know, sir—five miles, maybe eight.”
It felt like they were moving at light speed, but Moore didn’t like his odds. After all, they were rapidly approaching the outskirts of Denver. He could clearly see the city skyline and the bright blue Qwest logo, high atop the city’s tallest building. All around him, industrial buildings and restaurants and hotels and strip malls were blurring past him on each side of the highway. In his race to escape he was drawing the G4 into the city and putting thousands of innocent civilians in danger.
“Cupid, Gabriel, this is Stagecoach. Do you copy?” Moore sure hoped they did.
“Stagecoach, this is Cupid. Copy you loud and clear, sir.”
“Roger that, Stagecoach. This is Gabriel. Copy you five by five.”
“You guys got a shot?”
“Yes, sir,” said Cupid. “Ten miles out—2,500 feet up.”
Both Cupid and Gabriel’s eyesight was 20/20 uncorrected. Their night-vision goggles made the G4 impossible to lose against the night sky. Both voices were steady and calm. A former CIA special ops guy, Cupid was extremely well trained, having lived in Afghanistan for years, training mujahedin how to use portable, shoulder-mounted, heat-seeking Stinger missiles in the war against the Soviets in the ’80s. Gabriel was nearly as good, having been Cupid’s understudy for the past six years.
Moore gripped the back seat of the limousine. He didn’t have time to consult Washington. He barely had enough time to give an order to shoot. What if he was wrong? What if he was misreading the situation? If the United States Secret Service shot down a bunch of businessmen in cold blood…
“Sir, it’s Home Plate—line one,” Agent Rodriguez shouted from his driver’s seat.
Moore grabbed the digital phone lying on the seat beside him.
“Stagecoach to Home Plate, go secure.”
“Secure, go. John, it’s Bud—what’ve you got?”
Bud Norris was the gray, stocky, balding director of the U.S. Secret Service, a twenty-nine-year veteran of the Service and a Vietnam veteran who’d driven for U.S. generals and VIPs in Saigon until it fell. In 1981, he’d been President Reagan’s limousine driver the day John Hinckley, Jr. tried to assassinate the president in a vain attempt to impress actress Jodie Foster. In fact, within the Service, Norris was widely credited with helping save Reagan’s life that day. At first, Reagan’s agents didn’t realize he’d been shot—until he began coughing up bright red blood on the way to the White House. Told to divert immediately to G.W. Hospital, Norris slammed on the brakes, did a 180-degree turn into oncoming traffic on Pennsylvania Avenue, and made it to the hospital just moments before Reagan collapsed and slipped into unconsciousness from massive internal bleeding. Norris was a pro. His agents knew it. And having worked his way up through the ranks from one promotion to another to the top spot just three years ago, Norris commanded enormous respect from his team.
“Sir, we’ve got a G4 bearing down on us. Broke out of a landing pattern, pulled up its gear, and cut its lights. We’re racing for cover but right now we’re in the open. Dodgeball broke right but the G4 is sticking with us,” Moore told his boss, surprised by the relative steadiness in his voice.
“Range?”
“Twenty-five hundred feet up, ten miles out, closing fast.”
“Contact?”
“Not anymore. Tower’s been talking to him all night. But now McKittrick’s screaming at them to change course and he’s getting nothing back.”
“Who’s on board?”
“I don’t know. Charter from Toronto. Supposed to be oil execs, but I don’t really know.”
“What’s your gut tell you, John?”
Moore hesitated for a moment. The full weight of responsibility for protecting the President of the United States sent an involuntary shudder through his body. He suddenly felt cold and clammy. His wrinkled, rumpled suit was now soaked with sweat. Whatever he said next would seal the G4’s fate—and his.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Make a call, John.”
Moore took a deep breath—the first he actually remembered taking in the last several minutes.
“I think we’ve got another kamikaze, sir, and he’s coming after Gambit.”
“Take him out,” Norris commanded instantly.
“We don’t know a hundred percent for sure who’s on board that plane, sir,” Moore reminded his boss, for the record, for the audio-tapes being recorded in the basement of the Treasury Building in Washington.
“Take him out.”
“Yes, sir.”
Moore tossed the phone aside and grabbed his wrist-mounted microphone.
“Nikon One, Nikon Two—this is Stagecoach. Abort. Abort. Abort.”
“Roger that, Stagecoach.”
Both police helicopters banked hard right and left respectively and raced for cover.
“Cupid, Gabriel, this is Stagecoach. You got tone?”
The November air and whipping winds caused by speeds upwards of one hundred and forty miles per hour created a wind-chill temperature in the back of the black Chevy Suburbans somewhere south of zero. It also made it almost impossible for any normal person to hear anything. But the agents code-named Cupid and Gabriel wore black ski masks and gloves to protect their faces and hands from Artic temperatures and wore the same brand and model of headphones worn by NASCAR’s Jeff Gordon at the Daytona 500. Moore’s voice was, therefore, crystal clear.
“Standby, Stagecoach,” Cupid said calmly.
The G4 was now only seven miles away from Gambit’s limousine and coming in white-hot.
First, Cupid “interrogated” the Gulfstream, pressing the IFF challenge switch on his Stinger missile launcher. This immediately sent a signal to the aircraft’s transponder asking whether it was a friend or foe. The answer didn’t actually matter at this point. But the procedure did.
Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.
The rapid-fire beeping meant the answer was “unknown.” Cupid sniffed in disgust, turned off the safety and pushed the actuator button forward and downward. This warmed up the BCU—the battery coolant unit—hooked to Cupid’s belt and made the weapon go “live.” Though it only took five seconds, it felt like a
lifetime.
Next, Cupid triggered an infrared signal at the G4 to determine its range and acquire the heat emanating from the plane’s jet engines. Instantly hearing a strong, clear, high-pitched tone, he quickly pressed the weapon’s “uncaging” switch with his right thumb, held it in and the tone got louder. He now had a “lock” on the G4, just three miles away and down to a mere one thousand feet.
“I have tone. I have a lock,” Cupid shouted into the whipping wind and the microphone attached to his headphones. The G4 was now just two miles back.
“Me, too, sir,” Gabriel echoed.
Moore was not normally a religious man. But he was today.
“Oh God, have mercy,” he whispered, then crossed himself for the first time since graduating from St. Jude’s Catholic high school.
“Fire, fire, fire,” Moore shouted.
“Roger that. Hold your breath, hold your breath,” Cupid shouted.
Moore and all his agents immediately responded, gulping as much oxygen as they possibly could. But Cupid wasn’t actually talking to them. As per his intensive training, he was reminding himself and his driver they were about to be trapped inside a live, mobile missile silo, and it wasn’t going to be pretty. Cupid’s driver quickly lowered every other window in the vehicle and threw another switch turning on a small, portable air pump as well. The G4 was now less than a mile back.
“Three, two, one, fire.”
Cupid squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Moore waited, his heart racing, his eyes desperately scanning the sky.
“Cupid, what the hell’s going on?”