First Strike (11 page)

Without thinking, Rich launched himself at the man. He felt his shoulder slam into the man's stomach and heard him gasp with surprise as the wind was knocked from him. Rich crashed into the wall at the top of the stairs, as the man fell back. Off balance, he threw his arms out to try to save himself. Rich grabbed for the gun—and missed. The man was falling backwards, and Rich could only watch as he tumbled down the stairs.

The gun dropped, clattering after the falling man. His hand scrabbled for the banister rail. He turned a full circle, crashing down head first on to his back. The man then slid and rolled to the bottom of the staircase. His outstretched hand flopped down close to the gun.

Rich prepared to run. He expected the man to recover
the gun and fire, but he didn't move. Was it a trick? Warily, Rich descended a couple of steps. He was ready to run at the first sign of movement.

But the man still didn't move. Rich looked around. Had anyone heard? How much noise had they made? Did his attacker cry out? Rich couldn't remember. All he could hear was the blood thumping in his ears as he hurried down the rest of the stairs.

There was a trail of blood down the last few steps. The man's eyes were wide open, staring up at Rich but seeing nothing. The back of his head was a tangled mess of red. Rich looked away, feeling suddenly sick.

Fighting back his nausea, Rich scooped up the gun while trying not to look at the man's body. He pushed the gun into the pocket of his suit. He couldn't afford for anyone to find the body, he realised. If they did, they'd know someone was still free and hunt him down. They might ignore the blood—there was enough of that around the place already.

Listening for any sign of someone coming, Rich put his hands under the man's arms. Struggling to keep his stomach in check he dragged the man into the Secret Service offices. He was heavy, and Rich was exhausted by the time he got him inside. He dumped the body behind
a desk and hoped no one would look there.

His hands were stained red, and Rich wiped them as best he could on his handkerchief.

“Dragging dead bodies round the White House,” he murmured to himself. “Not something I want to make a habit of.”

The guests from the reception and a couple of surviving Secret Service agents, together with the White House staff—secretaries, cleaners, the press liaison team—and the two Chinese dignitaries were gathered in the largest of several function rooms.

Dark portraits of former presidents looked down from the walls. Ornate chandeliers cast glittering light across the room. All the furniture had been pushed to the walls so the centre of the room was clear.

The prisoners sat on the floor as four of their captors stood guard over them. There were three men and a woman, grim-faced, pacing back and forth. One of the men now had a Heckler and Koch 9mm machine pistol salvaged from the ill-fated assault team.

Halford struggled to get comfortable on the floor. It was difficult with a false leg. He'd been caught in a firefight in Afghanistan and lost his leg below the knee years
ago—it was John Chance who had carried him to safety.

“Keep still,” the woman told him, jabbing her handgun in Halford's direction to make the point. She had close-cropped dark hair so it looked like her head had been stained. Halford had heard one of the other gunmen call her Marcie.

Halford didn't reply. From the sounds of the explosion and gunfire he could guess what had happened—an unsuccessful attack by the US Special Forces. The gunmen would now be elated they had won that encounter, but also anxious and nervous about the future. A lethal mixture.

Without a gun, Halford had known he didn't have a hope against the attackers who were after the President. He had expected to be shot down and killed, but instead of a bullet the gun had fired a tranquiliser dart that caught him in the arm. He pulled it out at once, but immediately felt groggy. The gunmen had been amused rather than annoyed, content to knock him to the floor and kick him savagely before dragging him to join the other hostages.

The leader—Kent—had soon satisfied himself that Halford really didn't know where the Secret Service agents were taking the President, and had lost interest in him. Now Halford was keeping his head down, trying to blend
in with the other hostages and not draw attention to himself. Luckily for him, the gunmen seemed to be keeping a closer eye on the two Chinese. Halford's leg was a problem, though. He tried to relax and ignore the discomfort of sitting awkwardly on the floor, and the residual headache from the drug in the dart. Sooner or later he would get an opportunity to escape or overpower his captors, and he was determined to take it.

The opportunity arrived in the shape of Rich. He was standing outside the open door of the room, out of sight of the gunmen. It wasn't just Halford who could see him, though. A woman gave a barely stifled gasp. People turned to see what others were looking at. In a moment, one of the gunmen would look too.

Halford struggled to his feet. It wasn't easy with his false leg. “We've been here all night,” he announced. “And I need the bathroom.”

There was immediate support and agreement from the other hostages.

In the noise and confusion, Rich had ducked out of sight. Halford hoped he had heard what was happening.

“All right, all right,” the woman called Marcie shouted above the noise. The noise continued, and she fired a shot into the ceiling. Plaster fell in a shower. There was silence.

“We'll organise you in groups of three. Any trouble, you get shot—is that clear?”

There were murmurs of assent.

“I asked first,” said Halford. It was a gamble; they might make him wait till last for causing trouble. But he hoped they'd assume he was getting desperate.

“You and two others.” The woman picked two men close to Halford who'd immediately put their hands up. She turned to the gunman with the machine pistol. “Leon—you take them.”

“I'm a nursemaid now,” Leon complained. He sighed. “Right, come on then. And like she said—don't try anything funny.”

There was a gents restroom diagonally opposite across the corridor. Leon ushered the three men inside. There were several urinals, and a cubicle. Halford made immediately for the cubicle. He pushed the door closed behind him.

“Hey!” Leon shouted.

“Only be a minute,” Halford called back. “Or do you want to watch?”

Rich grinned at the comment. He was sitting on the lowered lid of the toilet, his feet drawn up so they couldn't be seen under the door. Halford smiled back, and put his
finger to his lips. Rich had a pad of paper and a pen he'd borrowed from one of the offices. He showed Halford the first sheet on the pad:

President, Jade and Chuck are sealed in a panic room. But the bad guys know where they are and are trying to get in.

Dad's outside somewhere—bad guys drove back the special forces. Marshal Wieng and Colonel Shu are in charge!

What's going on?!

Halford gave an exaggerated shrug at the last question. He took the pad and pen and scribbled quickly:

They want the President. Must be to do with the Wiengwei rebels' cause.

Guess we have to sit tight till help arrives. Don't do anything stupid.

Rich nodded, and took the pad back.

As if.

I got you a present.

Halford frowned. “A present?” he mouthed.

“Hey you, British guy! Hurry up in there,” Leon shouted from outside. There was a sudden hammering on the cubicle door. “If you're not out in thirty seconds, I'm coming in to get you.”

“Just coming,” Halford called back.

Rich took something from his jacket pocket and gave it to Halford. A handgun.

Halford stared at it. He could take out Leon, get the man's gun…But someone would hear the shots. Marcie and her friends were only metres away across the corridor. He wouldn't last long. So he nodded and smiled and pushed the gun into his waistband at the small of his back.

“See you,” Halford mouthed. He flushed the toilet, then opened the door just enough to slip out without Leon being able to see inside.

“About time.”

The other two men were waiting beside Leon. The Secret Service agent raised his eyebrows at Halford, maybe guessing that he was up to something. Halford kept his expression neutral and walked quickly towards the door.

“Hey!” Leon called after him. “Just a minute.”

Halford stopped. He braced himself, ready to reach for the gun. He turned slowly and carefully, to find Leon walking towards him, gun raised, a look of contempt on his face.

“In this country,” Leon said, “we wash our hands afterwards.”

Halford muttered an apology, and complied.

Rich waited until he heard the door close behind Halford and the others before he came out of the cubicle. He stuffed the notebook and pen into his jacket pocket. It didn't quite fit. He wasn't sure if Halford would get a chance to use the gun, but Rich was sure the ex-SAS soldier was more qualified to look after it than he was.

He slipped quietly out of the restroom. The woman with very short dark hair was organising another group of hostages. Rich needed to be quick to get out of sight before the gunman came back with them. He ran on tiptoe to the nearest corner of the corridor.

Straight into the two men coming the other way. It was Kent and Marshal Wieng.

Rich skidded to a halt, turned and started to run back the way he'd come. But the gunman with the next group of hostages was standing in font of him.

Rich stopped. There was nowhere else to go. He put his hands up and closed his eyes, silently cursing his bad luck.

Marshal Wieng looked from Rich to the restroom door and back again. “He was in there.” He reached out and grabbed Rich's face, holding his jaw tight as he forced Rich to look at him. “What were you doing in there?” he demanded.

“It's the restroom,” Rich gasped painfully. Wieng's fingers were digging into his cheeks. “What do you think I was doing?”

With his other hand, Wieng pulled the notepad from Rich's pocket. “Taking notes?” he mused, opening the cover to examine the first page.

It was blank. Rich felt a wave of relief that he'd torn out the pages he and Halford had written on and stuffed them deep into the waste bin full of paper towels in the restroom when he came out of the cubicle.

Marshal Wieng let go of Rich. “Just a boy,” he said. “I should have you shot for eluding us. But who wants to see a boy die?” He turned away.

But Kent was watching Rich with sudden interest. “You're right, Marshal Wieng. No one wants to see a kid get shot. Not you, not me. And sure as hell not the President of the United States of America.”

Marshal Wieng nodded. “A good idea.”

Kent raised his machine pistol and jabbed it hard into Rich's ribs. “I've got a little job for you to do, son. I've a feeling you might be the key we've been looking for.”

After the disastrous Special Forces operation, General Wilson had convened a meeting with his top advisors. Ardman and
Chance were not invited. Wilson had already made it clear that he didn't believe Chance's account of events and that he must have misinterpreted what he saw in the heat of battle. He refused to accept that the two black-clad special operatives had turned out to be Colonel Shu and Marshal Wieng—though he did at least grudgingly thank Chance for getting Captain Roberts out of the White House.

The Vice President had been flown in by helicopter, and Ardman made a point of pushing through the ranks of troops and bodyguards to greet him like an old friend. The Vice President seemed confused, but shook Ardman's hand before joining General Wilson in the mobile headquarters truck.

“I didn't know you were friends with the Vice President,” Chance told Ardman as they sat in the back of an army truck drinking strong coffee.

“Never met him before,” Ardman confessed. “Just thought I ought to be friendly.”

That didn't sound very plausible, but Chance let it go. “I wonder what he and General Wilson are talking about, closeted away in the headquarters vehicle.”

Ardman put down his coffee on the floor between his feet, and took two small earpieces from his pocket. He gave one to Chance. “Let's find out, shall we?”

Chance shook his head in disbelief. “You put a bug on the Vice President?”

“It must have fallen into his pocket when I shook his hand.”

The voice of the Vice President was loud and clear in Chance's ear:

“…incredible. You're sure about this?”

“We've had positive identification, Mr Vice President. There can be no doubt,” Wilson replied.

“But, on US soil? That's…unacceptable.”

“Chinese Special Forces operate all over the world. We know the leaders in Beijing don't give a damn about anyone else's sovereignty. Look at how they've denied knowing anything about our airmen.”

Chance turned to Ardman. “Wilson's claiming these guys are Chinese Special Forces? That's crazy. I saw Colonel Shu, and she's with the Wiengwei rebels.”

Ardman held his hand up. General Wilson was speaking again.

“I'm afraid there can be no doubt, Mr Vice President. It's been confirmed at the highest levels at the Pentagon. And we know from the information we have from the British MI6 that the Chinese are after the Football. The nuclear launch codes.”

“But why?”

“Isn't it obvious, sir? So they can launch our own missiles against us, and we'll have no way of defending ourselves.”

“But that's unbelievable.”

“Hear hear,” Chance muttered.

“And the Pentagon have confirmed nothing of the sort,” Ardman added.

“Our only option, sir,” General Wilson was saying, “is to strike first.”

There was silence for several moments. When the Vice President spoke, it was in a hushed whisper. “You mean…?”