“He’s moving in your direction, ten yards.”
Black continued to feed him information. Abruptly she stopped and he knew it was because the bogey was close. He couldn’t hear anything except the sound of his own heartbeat. There was the soft whisper of a footstep and through night vision goggles Derek saw a figure move carefully past the boulder. The approaching bogey probably had night vision goggles. Infrared, too? Would he be tracking his heat signature? That was bad enough; movement would only draw his attention.
The bogey moved in silence, slow and stealthy.
Derek lunged. Crack! He stepped on a branch, which snapped under his weight. The bogey was alerted and spun, raising his weapon as Derek drove in hard. There was the sharp rattle of semi-automatic fire, the dazzle of the muzzle momentarily lighting up the woods. Derek hit him with his shoulder, driving up under the rifle, slamming it away.
The terrorist grunted and swung the butt of the weapon, making contact with Derek’s head. The night vision goggles went flying. Blinded, stunned, Derek fell backward to the leaf-strewn ground, rolling as he fell, kicking out and sweeping the killer’s legs from beneath him.
In his ear: “Three bogeys heading for your position.”
The two men crashed into each other, fingers grappling for throats, trying to gouge at eyes. “Air… support,” Derek gasped.
He stayed in close, fighting to keep the rifle between them. If the terrorist could create space between them, bring up the weapon, he would cut Derek to ribbons.
There was the growing thunder of the helicopter, followed by the pok! pok! pok! of the Coast Guard .50 caliber sniper rifle, and the returning chatter of the bogey’s automatics.
The terrorist got his hands around Derek’s throat, squeezing.
Derek, gagging, didn’t bother to attack the killer’s arms. Tightening his fist, he smashed his knuckles directly onto the protruding snout of his attacker’s night vision goggles.
His attacker groaned and loosened his grip on Derek’s throat.
In his ear: “Two down…”
“I… need… light,” Derek sputtered.
The terrorist leaped back from Derek and was swinging his assault rifle up when the helicopter flooded the woods with the harsh glare of the floodlight.
Derek’s attacker involuntarily raised his hands to his eyes. Night vision goggles magnify existing light. Sudden illumination created a brilliant white flash in the wearer’s vision before the circuit breaker could cut in. Light, magnified by a thousand, exploded in his attacker’s eyes, searing his retinas.
Ducking in low Derek slammed his foot against the man’s knee, grabbed the rifle from his grip and turned it on him.
In his ear: “Fourth bogey closing—”
Derek spun as another camo-garbed assailant raced toward him. There was a loud pok! pok! pok! from above and the man collapsed to the ground.
Derek’s attacker was crumpled on the ground, clutching his leg. The helicopter hovered, then lit up the area again with light.
Raising the weapon, a Colt XM-177 assault rifle, he said, “Goggles off. Slowly.”
The man raised his arms and lifted off the night vision goggles, tossing them to the forest floor.
Derek’s jaw clenched and a tremor of disbelief rocked him. His attacker was Sam Dalton, Deputy Director of the Department of Homeland Security.
29
Aaron Pilcher was taking a quick shower in the locker room when an agent he didn’t know dashed in and stuttered, “You — you’re needed in SIOC immediately.”
Aaron nodded. “Something—”
”Full alert,” the agent said. “It’s the White House.”
Hair still wet, back in his begrimed suit, Pilcher arrived in SIOC to find the Command Center a buzzing swarm of high-tension activity. He noticed the difference immediately upon leaving the locker room anyway. Nobody walked, they ran as they moved down the corridors. Voices were either raised in harsh, rushed dialogue, or urgent, confidential whispers. Eyes were wide, faces drawn tight, the sudden tension palpable.
Someone raised the stakes, he thought. But how?
In SIOC, Spigotta was deep in conversation with someone Pilcher recognized as Terrance McIvoy, the Deputy Director of the Bureau.
Then his attention turned to one of the many TV monitors lining the walls. This one was tuned to CNN and it was a live feed at the White House, which was lit by the red and blue flashing lights of civilian and military emergency vehicles.
Spigotta saw him and waved him over. “We’ve got a situation,” he said. “A gas attack — maybe VX, maybe sarin — on the White House.”
Pilcher felt sucker punched. He wanted to sit down. He wanted to wake up and find this to be a nightmare. A really bad nightmare.
“Is—”
”So far the only known survivors are Colonel Zataki from Detrick, Secretary Johnston from DHS, and the President.”
McIvoy said, “Director Boardman is believed dead. As are the Joint Chiefs, the director of the CIA, FEMA, the CDC, the national security advisor and most of the White House staff.” McIvoy ran a hand through his thick dark hair. “We also believe the First Lady and the two children are dead.”
Pilcher blinked, speechless.
Spigotta said, “The Army and our Hazardous Materials Recovery Unit are going to treat the White House as a crime scene. The liaising agent there is Simon Berra. I want you over there to see if there are any leads.”
“Where’s the President?”
“President Langston, Zataki and Johnston are at Walter Reed. The President’s location from this point on is going to be classified. As is the Vice President’s.”
Pilcher ran a hand through his own thinning blond hair and blew out a lungful of air. “Okay,” he said. “What—”
”You’ll go where you’re needed,” Spigotta said. “So first, go to 1600 and talk to Berra, see what the inside teams are seeing.”
“You want me to go in?”
Spigotta frowned. “Do I? No. But if you think it’s necessary to see with your own eyes, yeah, suit up and go in.”
“Yes sir.”
Spigotta was going to suggest something when Agent Unrau, the agent Spigotta had sent to the Russian Embassy, entered SIOC escorting two people over to where they stood.”
Agent Unrau brushed red hair off her forehead and pushed up her glasses. “Director McIvoy…. Agent Spigotta. This is Ivan Sergeyevitch Tetchin, with the Russian Cmbassy.”
Before Unrau could introduce the woman with them, Tetchin stepped forward and offered a big, meaty hand. In his fifties, he was a large, bulky figure with a shaved scalp and ruddy complexion. “I am the security attaché at the Russian Embassy. We understand you believe there is some sort of Russian connection to today’s terrorist activity.”
McIvoy took the offered hand. “Yes, we have information indicating this group, The Fallen Angels, is responsible for today’s attack. We understand further that they are based in Russia.”
The woman spoke for the first time. “The Fallen Angels are not Russian. They are multi-ethnic, believed to be led by a Chechen named Surkho Andarbek.”
“Yes,” Aaron said, jumping in before Spigotta or McIvoy could speak. “That’s our information, too. Just a moment. May I have a word with you two for a moment,” he said to Spigott and McIvoy. They moved out of earshot of the Russians.
“Surkho Andarbek might be Richard Coffee,” said Pilcher. “At least, if anything Stillwater got from Irina Khournikova is accurate.”
“So it would be best,” McIvoy said with a nod, “if we didn’t let the Russians know the Chechen group was actually being led by an American rogue CIA agent.”
Pilcher nodded.
“Excellent advice. Okay.”