Abrams listened intently for the sound of rotors. At a quarter past the hour, flight plan Slasher was due to bring the President’s helicopter directly overhead. With five shooters and four helicopters, Abrams had eliminated the need to identify Marine One from its decoys. They would simply destroy all of them.
At six-foot-six, Abrams was easily the crew’s tallest member. And as his sleeveless vest revealed, he also appeared to be the most ripped. But in actuality, Abrams wasn’t as healthy as he appeared. His body fat was perilously low, and in addition to adjusting the medication that kept the HIV virus in check, his doctor had just put him on a ten thousand calories-per-day diet — as much as some Olympic athletes. He was one of the few 34-year-old men in America for whom dessert was a necessity.
A Carolina Wren landed in the tree next to Abrams and launched into a loud, looping melody. Abrams shook his head and rubbed his shaved scalp. A reasonably quiet forest was essential to the mission. The rust-bellied, notoriously high-decibel wrens had pumped out a bumper crop this year all over the Southeastern U.S., and Abrams had brought a pump-action air pistol specifically for this reason. He pulled it out for the sixth time this morning, pumped it several times, leveraged it at the wren’s white eye stripe and fired a pellet deftly into it. The songbird tumbled from the tree, gasping and fluttering on its way to rest in a heap of feathers beside the others that Abrams had killed that morning.
At exactly 11:10 a.m., Abrams pulled out a cocktail of HIV and metabolism-slowing medicine. He swallowed the four pills without water and pulled out a protein packet, knowing it might be at least two hours before he would have time to eat again. He was already thinking about his next meal. He wanted to celebrate. He wanted short ribs from Rocklands Barbecue over on Wisconsin Avenue, where the smoke coming off the grill was so powerful that you would smell like barbecue for two days. It was the best barbecue in D.C. The best anywhere.
But Rocklands was off-limits now. Earlier in the year, Abrams had eaten there every time he went to the city to meet his Pentagon contacts. The last time, the server had surprised him by asking to put Abrams’ picture on the wall. He said that the staff had taken to calling Abrams “Trip,” short for “Triplicate,” because he always ordered and ate three courses. But Abrams didn’t let them take his picture. He wouldn’t even tell them his name. He just took his three bags and got the hell out of there. After that, he never visited anyplace more than once, no matter how good the food was.
Now the faint mechanical humming — like a thousand far-away bees — registered in Abrams’ eardrums, growing louder by the second. To Abrams’ trained ear, it was the unmistakable sound of four VH-71 Kestrel helicopters flying in formation. They were slightly ahead of schedule. He stuffed the granola bar in his pocket and readied himself.
“I hear rotors,” Abrams said in Muskogee into the Bluetooth on his lapel. He repeated the phrase to make sure there were no misunderstandings. His four-man crew each knew only about fifteen hundred words of Muskogee, and he was far from fluent himself.
While these woods were typically unbearably thick with foliage in summer, this area had been chosen specifically for its thin canopies, the result of a beetle blight the year earlier that had killed off about half the area’s hickories. Abrams had been assured that Marine One would fly directly overhead. They were just outside the six-mile no-fly zone, so they were unlikely to be spotted by patrolling F-35s.
Abrams listened closely, timing the growing decibel level of the rotors with his watch. “They’re coming too fast,” he said in broken Muskogee. He and his men had trained in these very woods during two previous Presidential fly-overs. During those sessions, the President’s airborne convoy had flown 120 mph at most. He could only assume that some other part of the operation, which he had been in the dark of, had tipped Marine One off.
The rotor sound grew loud enough for all five men to hear it. Timing would be critical. Given the choppers’ low altitude and relatively high speed, they would have a second or less for the Stinger to lock onto its target, emit its distinctive high-pitched buzz, and pull the trigger. Plus, they would have to fire at roughly the same time, ensuring that all four VH-71s were destroyed. There would be no opportunity for second chances. Should one missile strike a target too early, the other heat-seeking Stingers could converge on the exploded target, or worse, the real Marine One could release its anti-SAM countermeasures and escape amidst the mid-air fracas.
He stashed his air pistol, pulled out his field scope and watched as his men took the Stingers out of their five-foot long tubes, rose on their tree stands, placed the Stingers on their right shoulders, and pointed them skyward. Abrams’ was like all the others, except for one detail — he had a tiny camera mounted on his scope.
“Get ready boys,” Abrams growled in Muskogee. “Here they come.”
Aboard Marine One
11:07 a.m.
“This is Santa Monica and Seattle all over again!” President Hatch complained into his skyphone. He had just learned of the bombing in Monroe. Dressed in a tweed blazer and dark denim jeans — Camp David attire was decidedly informal — the President sat aboard Marine One en route to meet the Iranian Ambassador. They were accompanied by three identical VH-71 Kestrels flying in an inverted V formation. To minimize their exposure, the pilots were maxing out at 190 mph and flying so low that they practically skimmed the tops of the power lines.
The unlucky bureaucrat on the receiving end of the President’s rant was Homeland Security Deputy Director Devon Davis. Davis was on vacation in Fort Lauderdale, and had only learned of the incident seconds before the President himself. Davis’ boss had been fired after the Seattle car bombing earlier in the year, and Davis was the Acting Director until a replacement was found.
“Mister President,” Deputy Director Davis said as he tried to get off the phone, “I’ll call you as soon as I have details.”
“You’ve got a helluva nerve. Don’t you dare cut it short on me at a time like this.”
“Sorry, Mister President. It’s just that — “
“Any intel pointing to Iranian involvement in this?”
“Not that I know of, sir. Do you have reason to believe they did? “
“Let’s just say the timing is odd,” the President replied, thinking of the sudden, out-of-nowhere request by the Iranian Ambassador. So far, Eva was the only cabinet member whom he’d alerted about the meeting with the Iranians, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to explain it to the very green Davis now. He hung up and looked out the window as Marine One banked at high speed.
His phone rang again. It was Julian Speers. “Congressman Bailey is dead,” Speers blurted out. “He was killed in the blast.”
The President was stunned. “I just got off the phone with Homeland Security. They’ve got nothing on that.”
“I was there!” Speers shouted so loudly that the President had to pull the phone away from his ear. “I’m ninety-eight percent sure. The explosion was so big. Nothing could’ve survived that.” President Hatch got a breathless earful as Speers confessed that he had disobeyed the order to take a vacation, and had instead gone down to Monroe this very morning to talk to Congressman Bailey.