At first the bombs fell like ungainly bowling pins, tumbling through the air. But after a second of free fall, spring-loaded wings and tail fins popped out of their fuselages and they caught the air, pulling out of their spins like diving birds. They settled into long, shallow trajectories as if they wanted to take their time and enjoy the breeze.
The bombs lacked jet engines or propellers, but by adjusting their fins they could change their course radically after they were deployed. One by one they turned away from the path they’d been on, the same path the Gray Eagle had flown. They sniffed the air for the signals they were designed to follow, the GPS coordinates programmed into their tiny brains.
But something was wrong. There seemed to be two signals, with very different values. The two targeting solutions were nearly a kilometer away from each other.
Which signal was correct? There was no way of knowing. For the first few seconds of their descent, the bombs’ fins twisted back and forth helplessly and their warheads swayed like dogs choosing between two perfectly identical bones.
An insoluble problem for computers as simple as those inside the bombs. They might have just kept twisting back and forth until they simply fell out of the sky. But then the problem solved itself, as things always do — for better or worse.
Little by little, one of the GPS signals grew stronger. Little by little the computers grew sure and certain of where they should go.
Down on the Mall a quarter million people waited to hear what the president had to say. One of the GPS signals indicated that the bombs’ target was right in the center of that crowd. Right where their explosions would do the most damage.
Kill the most people.
The protesters might hear a whistling sound, in the last moment. The bombs would be moving too fast for them to see their deaths streaking toward them.
At least… that might have happened. But the second GPS signal was stronger. At the critical moment, the bombs twisted away from the crowd and headed west. They stretched their wings as wide as they could to gain distance as they slid toward the ground, their noses coming up as they tried, desperately, to reach their new target, nearly a kilometer away. They flicked over the roof of the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, just barely avoiding a collision, then nosed down to strike their target with pinpoint accuracy.
Their computer brains were not smart enough to wonder why. Why they had been told to attack a target fifty feet below the surface of the Tidal Basin, the nearest body of deep water. They were deeply submerged when they detonated. The high-explosive warheads sent a shock wave through the water, a concussive blast of incredible magnitude. The whole surface of the basin lifted and then a plume of water shot fifty feet up into the air.
Those few people who had gathered outside the Jefferson Memorial, perhaps to see the famous cherry trees, were soaked to the skin. Some of them screamed in panic — some ran for shelter. Most stared at each other with wide eyes, wondering what had just happened.
Antiterrorist units and uniformed police were mobilized and they raced to the scene, but there was nothing for them to see when they arrived except for some very wet, very confused tourists.
The attack was already over.
Meanwhile, over in the Capitol building, the president took the podium to enthusiastic applause and began to deliver the most important speech of his career.
Patrick Norton’s cell phone rang inside of his jacket.
Hollingshead did not know at the time about the ECM pod mounted on the Gray Eagle. He did not know that for the last ten minutes or so not a single cell phone in Washington had been able to receive a call. He did not know that the drone had now switched off its jammer, specifically so that this phone call could get through.
Nor could he know who was calling or what they had to say. He could only hear Norton’s side of the conversation, which was limited to a scant few words. “What? What do you mean — I see. All right, just stand by for now. Soon.”
That was all the information Hollingshead had. Those few words. But it was enough to let him inhale deeply for the first time all morning.
He waited for Norton to put the phone back in his pocket.
Then Hollingshead asked, “Things not going exactly to plan?”
Norton was too good a politician to let his face show any real emotion. Still, he couldn’t quite control the tic that made his left eyelid jump. “You didn’t come here to talk me out of the attack, did you?”
“No, I knew from Charlotte that it couldn’t be aborted,” Hollingshead agreed.
Norton lowered his head a fraction of an inch. He appeared resolute and determined, though, when he looked up again. He went to the window and looked down into the street. “Those protesters of yours are still down there. I’ll have to go out the back way. I’m sorry, Rupert, but you’ve pushed me too far. I don’t have any more time to talk.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid this is it for you. I still have a chance, I have plenty of people in sensitive positions who can arrange another attack, but—”
He stopped because there was a knock at the door.
Norton stared at the door for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he called out, “Come in,” in a clear voice.
The door swung open.
Jim Chapel stood there, covered in blood, holding a pistol tight in his right hand.
He took a staggering step inside the room, lurching like an incarnation of red vengeance.
“I didn’t come here to dissuade you from the attack,” Hollingshead said. “I came here today to make sure, when the attack was foiled, that you didn’t get away. This has to end, Patrick. It has to end this instant.”
Norton watched Chapel carefully. He licked his lips, as if they were suddenly very dry. Hollingshead wondered if the man would try to run. Force Chapel to shoot him. Suicide by field agent might seem better, perhaps, than facing what was to come.
Norton surprised him, however. The SecDef set his face very carefully. Then he lifted both hands in the air in surrender.
For a moment no one moved.
It was like they couldn’t believe it was over.
Eventually, though, Hollingshead decided the time had come to speak. “Mister Secretary, you’re under arrest for the crime of treason. Captain Chapel, would you please secure the prisoner?”
Chapel took out a pair of plastic handcuffs and locked Norton’s hands together. He frisked the man and took away his phone. Then he told the SecDef to sit down while he went over and cut Hollingshead free.
“Are you hurt?” Chapel asked.
“Son, you’re not the one who should be asking that question,” Hollingshead whispered back, while rubbing at his chafed wrists. “Are you going to—”
“I’ll be fine, for now,” Chapel told him.
He handed the SecDef’s phone to Hollingshead, then went back to watching Norton. Hollingshead made a few quick phone calls. Within minutes a squad of military police arrived at the safe house. They stood down Norton’s security guards — the ones out front, still arguing with Top — then came up the stairs to the room where Hollingshead waited for them. Their commander, a second lieutenant, blanched when he saw who he’d come to arrest.
“It’s all right,” Hollingshead said. “He’s been removed from office. You can take him into custody.”
Hollingshead didn’t technically have the authority — or the rank — to do that, but Norton didn’t protest. The MPs took him away without another word.
Only when they were gone did Hollingshead see Chapel sway on his feet.
“Is it hot in here?” Chapel asked. “It feels really hot.”
Hollingshead went over to his agent and placed a hand on his forehead. Chapel was burning with fever. “Son — maybe you should sit down,” he said.