First Strike (31 page)

“What if some smart arse journalist has heard about the bomb? Colombian scribbler maybe? Even a Brit or a Paddy?”

“Then we’ll have to stonewall, old son. Play the thick Paddy. Shouldn’t be too difficult for you, and it always goes down well with the Anglos. Do you think the Fifth Amendment applies to us foreigners?”

At 2.17 p.m. McGuire and O’Rourke were ushered out of the safe house, their faces and upper bodies shrouded under blankets. They wore bullet-proof vests and army issue helmets. The two huddled figures hastened into the armoured limo, crammed between Agents Brown and Sondheim. Wharton sat in the front next to the driver. Police marksmen were positioned on every rooftop with line of sight. Four cops on Harleys rode point. An AH-IG Cobra, on loan from the Pentagon, hovered overhead.

The journey from the safe house to the Embassy was fourteen city blocks. It took less than two and a half minutes. Every cross street was blocked. Every light was green. There were cop cars on every corner. Inside the bulletproof limo nobody spoke. The entrance to the Embassy was packed with TV cameras and reporters from every major news channel, American and foreign. Armed police in helmets and flak jackets lined the pavements, controlling the clamorous crowd. Hordes of placard-waving protesters hurled abuse. A group of IRA supporters bayed for their comrades’ immediate release. In the confusion nobody noticed the army Colonel on the opposite pavement nervously fingering the scar on his right cheek. As the limo pulled into the pavement ready to disgorge its passengers he put a cell phone to his lips and uttered the single word, “Fire.”

Two streets away a truck-mounted mortar discharged three rounds in quick succession. The targeting was very nearly perfect. The limo exploded. A black and orange fireball filled the sky. Panic was unconfined as the hurt and bleeding ran yelling for cover. But the collateral damage was minimal, maybe a couple of dozen fatalities and a few score seriously wounded, mainly among the press corps and police. The Colonel was splattered with blood, but it wasn’t his.

“Great shooting guys,” he chuckled into the phone. “Every round on target.”

As he hurried along the street he glanced up at the Cobra whirring overhead and stuck his thumb in the air.

Colonel Arthur Preston of the Joint Special Operations Command entered the Pentagon as gridlock jammed the city. The sentry glanced at the blood-splattered uniform, noted the ribbon of the Distinguished Service Cross, checked the Colonel’s security pass and stood at attention to salute the war hero. The Colonel hurried down to the situation room three floors under ground where the Secretary of Defence and a dozen senior officers had gathered to watch the confusion on a giant TV screen. Herzfeld glanced up when Preston entered.

“Great targeting, Colonel,” he beamed. “That really was impressive.”

“Nothing to it, Mr Secretary. At that range there was no way we could miss. All we did was press a button. Technology did the rest.” He took his seat at the table. “We ready to roll?”

“We’ll have tanks on the White House lawn within the hour. Capitol Hill is surrounded. Washington is ours.”

***

45

“Holy shit!” President Santos stared open mouthed at the television screen. “What the fuck?”

He could barely comprehend what was happening. He stood up and began to pace about the room, waving his arms in grandiose meaningless gestures. Then he sat at his desk, picked up the secure Satcom phone and dialled the Taoiseach and the Prime Minister in a conference call.

“Bert? Did you see that?”

“Yes, Mr President.” The Irish voice was barely audible. “I saw it.”

“Your guys do that?”

“My guys?” The Taoiseach’s tone was instantly defensive. “Whadaya mean my guys?”

“You know what I fucking mean. The Goddamn IRA. Mortars are their trademark.”

“Could be the Colombians?” The Taoiseach was trying to be helpful.

“It’s possible,” President Santos agreed. “But if so, Bert, who trained them? And where’d they get the Goddamn equipment? Whichever way you look at it, this has IRA stamped all over it.”

“Aren’t you missing the obvious?” the Taoiseach reasoned. “What about Al Qaeda?”

“I’m no ballistics expert,” the Prime Minister chipped-in, trying to be helpful. “But I do know the IRA. They’ve got some pretty sophisticated kit, but I’ve never known them achieve that degree of accuracy. You ask me, Mike, I’d say those shells were laser guided. The IRA doesn’t have that sort of technical capability. And neither does Al Qaeda.”

“So who the fuck do you think it was?” Immediately he framed the question, President Santos knew the answer. “Look, fellas, I need to consult with my advisors. I’ll have to go on national television within the hour, address the American people. You can watch me on CNN. Hear what I have to say.”

***

Not even 9/11 surpassed the shock of the mortar attack on the nation’s capital. Washington was bedlam. So was Wall Street. The dollar went into free-fall. Stock Exchanges and currency markets were closed. Military jets were scrambled. Commercial flights were cancelled. Offices and factories shut down. Roadblocks were set up around DC solidifying the gridlock and adding to the pandemonium.

Every member of every intelligence agency, the police and National Guard, reported for duty. All leave was cancelled. The President imposed a news blackout in the interest of national security. Martial music filled the vacuum on every radio and TV station. Tanks surrounded the White House and Capitol Hill. Air Force One stood by at Andrews Air Force Base, fully fuelled and ready to fly. The Vice President and his family hurried from the capital to a secure underground location in Nebraska. Against this chaotic background President Santos prepared to address the nation.

Along with almost every other American citizen, Bob Jennings had watched the events unfold on television. But unlike every other American citizen he understood exactly what was going on. His first thought was to rush to the White House to be at the President’s side but getting through the security cordon would be impossible. The TV screen showed tanks and armed personnel carriers rumbling up Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House and along the Mall towards the Capitol as Herzfeld tightened his control of the city.

Jennings tried the phone but the White House switchboard was jammed. He was wondering what his next move should be when his cell phone rang in his pocket. The President was calling him.

“Look, Bob.” The President’s voice was calm. “Aside from Herzfeld and his people you and me are just about the only two Americans who know what’s going on. What do you think our next move should be?”

“Depends what you plan to tell the American people, Mr President.”

“I haven’t worked that out yet. What’s your advice?”

“I wouldn’t mention the Dirty Bomb. There’s chaos out there now. Dollar’s sinking fast in Tokyo and Europe. If you cite the bomb there’s no telling what will happen. I were you, I’d blame the attack on the IRA and the Colombians. At least that has credibility; it gels with the two Irish guys. And then I’d announce you’re relieving the Secretary of Defence of his responsibilities. You can claim the attack was a major intelligence failure, just like 9/11. Responsibility for that lies squarely with Military Intelligence. That means Herzfeld. Nail the bastard. Case closed.”

“The American people won’t buy that, Bob. It’ll look like a knee-jerk reaction. What about due process? After 9/11 every head of every intelligence agency stayed in post. Nobody resigned. Nobody got fired. Dismissing the bastard on the eve of battle would have worse consequences than the Dirty Bomb. No, Bob, Herzfeld’s position is more secure now than it’s ever been. The man’s untouchable.”

The President looked out of the window and watched armoured personnel carriers manoeuvre onto the lawn. Special Forces were digging in. President Santos was a prisoner in his own White House.

“I just have to come up with a way to out-manoeuvre Herzfeld so he takes the fall. Question the bastard’s honour. But that won’t be easy, Bob. Right now he’s about the most respected politician in America. Meantime what news of your man Bowman and the bomb?”

“Not good, Mr President. Military Intelligence is way ahead of us. They may even have made contact with O’Brien.”

***

At 6 p.m. Eastern Standard Time every TV set in America and around the globe was tuned to the same signal. In London and Dublin the Prime Minister and the Taoiseach sat encircled by their military and intelligence chiefs. At Trujillo’s apartment in Baltimore Bob Jennings and Special Agent Hoolahan had joined Bowman, Ambrose and Moreno. In the nuclear shelter buried deep below the Pentagon the Secretary of Defence had convened a group of officers from the Joint Special Operations Command. Senior among them was Colonel Arthur G. Preston.

On the TV screen Old Glory fluttered disconsolately over the White House. The martial music playing in the background was cut short in mid-stanza and a disembodied voice announced,

“Ladies and Gentlemen, the President of the United States.”

The Stars and Stripes faded from view as the camera zoomed in on the ashen face of President Michael Santos. Beads of sweat showed on his brow but his gaze was steady. He spoke without notes. Faint traces of his Hispanic roots were evident in his firm clear voice.

“My fellow Americans, our Nation is in grave peril. Once again the forces of evil are ranged against us. Once again we are called upon to defend ourselves. Today’s attack in the Nation’s Capital was an assault on Liberty itself. I must now warn you that intelligence sources have revealed that further yet more dastardly aggression may take place. We must expect another more deadly attack. Casualties next time may be numerous. The economic consequences could be catastrophic. I have therefore instructed Secretary of Defence Herzfeld to mobilize the National Guard. Our capital must be defended. For the first time since the Civil War armed troops will patrol our streets. Every Public Building and National Monument will be protected. Extraordinary events call for unprecedented measures. As of now Secretary of Defence Herzfeld will personally assume full responsibility for all military and intelligence matters. Against the counsel of my advisors I will remain at the White House as your Commander in Chief. The First Lady will stay by my side. I have given instructions that no resources be devoted to our protection which might be better deployed elsewhere. In case of adverse developments I have directed the Vice President and his family to leave Washington for a secure location removed from harm’s way. Secretary Herzfeld will remain at the Pentagon for the duration. What I ask of the American people is to be vigilant and not to panic. Stay calm. Go about your normal daily business. Demonstrate to the forces of evil that the American people will not bend to the cowardly attacks of a treacherous few. Beyond that I ask only for your prayers.”

The screen faded to Old Glory fluttering above the White House.

Martial music once more filled the airwaves.

***

“Bastard.” Herzfeld pummelled his right fist into his left palm, got up and began to pace about the room. “The fucking bastard.”

“Mr Secretary?” Colonel Preston ran a finger down his livid cheek.

“Don’t you see? The bastard’s backed me into a corner.

Making me responsible for everything that happens. If that bomb goes off I’ll have no option but to resign, or commit Hari-Kari. Down here I can survive a nuclear blast. But if that bomb detonates I won’t survive the wrath of the American people.”

There was silence in the windowless tomb-like room. Then Colonel Preston cleared his throat and said,

“What the President announced was quite specific, Mr Secretary. Every Public Building, every National Monument must be defended. But what if it’s not a Public Building? At least, not an American one?”

Herzfeld came to a halt opposite the seated Colonel and scowled at him across the table.

“Like what?”

“Like the British Embassy.”

Herzfeld froze. Then he smiled. Then he began to laugh.

“The British Embassy? But, my dear Colonel, that’s sovereign British territory. The American government has no jurisdiction there. It’s outside my remit!”

***

46

Many of America’s most respected journalists and commentators had died outside the Irish Embassy and many more of the survivors were either wounded or in shock. So the presence in Washington of a respected English columnist was fortunate. Though primarily a print journalist, Melanie Drake had worked in television often and was undaunted by the occasion. She had interviewed Prime Ministers and Presidents before.

Melanie had met with the President’s Press Secretary and been over the difficult ground, so there could be no misunderstanding. Nothing the Press Secretary said was binding but Melanie was not to mention Saddam or Al Qaeda and the words “nuclear” and “Dirty Bomb” were banned. But Melanie thought her job was journalism not propaganda. Guidance was acceptable. Instructions were not.

At 10 a.m. the next morning an official car collected Melanie from her hotel and drove her to the White House. After a thorough security check and body search she was ushered into the Oval Office by an intern and told where to sit. She had chosen a sombre grey business suit without lapels that revealed a mere suggestion of cleavage. Her hair was tied back and she wore a silver broach Bowman had brought back from Morocco. She wondered if he was out there somewhere, watching her performance. She hoped so. She liked to think he was close.

The Oval Office was a muddle of cables, lights, cameras, technicians and security personnel. It was uncomfortably hot. A young woman from make-up dabbed at Melanie’s face with a cosmetic brush. Someone held a light meter to her face and took a reading. Melanie flicked through her notes and practiced her yogic breathing. Suddenly the room went quiet. The minions scurried away and Melanie was left alone with the cameraman and the President’s Press Secretary, out of shot. The silence was palpable. A Secret Service agent hurried in, quickly followed by the President and two more guards. The President smiled and nodded at Melanie but addressed his Press Secretary.