“I’d enjoy that,” said Thomas, who realized that he’d have to be on his way as well. “It was a pleasure seeing you, Commander.”
“Special Agent Kellogg,” said Brittany in her most official tone.
“Speaking for the First Cat, keep up the excellent work!”
She left with a warm smile and a crisp salute. Thomas watched her shapely figure disappear up the walkway, headed toward the North Gate parking lot. Trying his best to refocus on his own duty, he turned in the opposite direction and continued on through a grove of majestic elms originally planted by Theodore Roosevelt and his family.
Upon emerging from the tree line, he found the South Lawn bustling with activity. Nearest to the White House itself, a group of temporary tents were still set up. They had sheltered the First Kid’s gala birthday party on the previous evening. Now, the caterers could be seen at work preparing for a much more intimate affair, comprised of the birthday girl and a select group of schoolmates and friends. Unlike the previous party, adults and members of the press weren’t invited, with the First Lady promising to make only a brief visit, and the President totally absent of course.
Thomas could see that the afternoon’s festivities included a rock band.
An elevated stage with a wall of amplifiers had been set up near the tents, with a temporary dance floor in front of it. A roadie was in the midst of a sound check. His drone: “Testing, one, two, three, four,” echoed over the grounds.
Approximately three hundred yards due south of the tents, another group of individuals were busy making last minute preparations for an upcoming event of their own. A small reception area was being prepared near the South Lawn’s central fountain. Several lines of folding chairs had been set up, all facing a portable lectern whose microphone and attached PA system were also being sound checked.
Directly behind this makeshift podium was a wide, circular clearing.
Several permanent landing lights were set into the ground here, as well as a limp wind sock, all belonging to the President’s personal White House helipad.
Thomas spotted a tall, broad-shouldered black man, dressed in a well-fitting, dark gray suit, standing at the extreme southern edge of the helipad. A good three inches taller than the trio of similarly dressed men who stood at his side, this individual was in the process of studying the large group of tourists who were gathered on the sidewalk behind the South Lawn’s seven-foot-high, wrought-iron security fence.
Samuel Forest Morrison II was Special Agent in Charge of the presidential protection detail. A legendary character, with over two decades of Treasury Department service behind him, Morrison achieved heroic stature long before he signed on with the Secret Service.
Cut from the same mold as Danny Lane and Thomas’s own brother, Morrison initially showed what he was made of as a devil with a painted face, a Green Beret, in the jung led hell of Vietnam. He was assigned primarily to the Mekong Delta, where he earned a chestful of decorations in the early seventies, for operations that remained classified to the present day.
At the end of the war, no hero’s welcome awaited him as he came home to a divided country. He left the Army and decided to continue fighting for the America too many brave men had sacrificed their lives for, by dedicating his remaining years to law enforcement. Much like Vince, he went from a local police beat to the highway patrol before finally finding his true vocation as a U. S. Treasury Department agent.
Morrison earned his reputation as a solid, no-nonsense, dependable agent, through hard work and countless hours of dedication. He was an agent’s agent, the type of leader who got results by first earning the trust of his subordinates. In such a manner, he rose through the ranks, with his attainment of the position of SAIC the pinnacle of his long career.
Because Vince worked directly for Morrison, Thomas knew him better than most outside agents did. He had even gotten a chance to party with the man last summer, during one of Vince’s infamous backyard barbecues.
Thomas thus felt at ease as he made his way down to the southern edge of the helipad and greeted the SAIC.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Glad that you could make it, Special Agent Kellogg,” returned Morrison, his practiced gaze still scanning the South Lawn’s expansive grounds, his voice a deep bass James Earl Jones would envy.
The deafening strains of an overamplified rock power chord reverberated around them. Morrison quickly turned toward the stage and addressed one of his three associates angrily.
“Damn those freaks! Moreno, get your keister up there and get that sound man to cut that PA feed. For Christ’s sake, this is the White House, not Woodstock!”
One of the agents who had been standing beside the SAIC nodded alertly, then took off for the party site. His two associates looked on as Morrison next vented his wrath on them.
‘ This whole frigging thing is going to fall apart if we don’t get cracking. You guys better get up to grounds keeping and find out why they haven’t roped off the helipad. And then get me that list of every soul that’s going to be down here for the sen doff.”
Thomas knew both of these agents personally, and he watched as they flashed him the slightest of ‘business-as usual” looks before excusing themselves. This left Thomas alone with their boss.
“See what your brother missed out on by being the first one on the QE2?” said Morrison, who in reality thrived on such pressure. “I bet he’s sitting on board right now, sipping champagne and wondering which condiments he’s going to pick to accompany his caviar.”
“If I know my brother, he’ll go for the works — sour cream, onions, as well as the chopped egg,” Thomas quipped.
“You Kelloggs certainly know how to live,” offered Morrison, who abruptly turned serious. “Now tell me all about this latest IED addressed to the House. When Mike Galloway first called me yesterday, he seemed almost certain that it was a twin of last month’s device.”
“For the most part, Mike was right,” Thomas replied.
“It indeed appears to have been sent by the same suspect. Once again, the device was placed inside a Priority Mail box and designed to be triggered by photocell. Even the handwriting on the address label looks to be an exact match, with the same fictitious Winchester, Virginia, post office box listed as the return address.
“There were two major differences, the most significant of which being that this latest device was armed with a good deal more than a blasting cap. We’re still waiting for lab confirmation, but the package appears to contain enough plastic explosive to create an incredibly powerful blast. And instead of the President, the package was addressed to his daughter.”
“I bet the bastard was hoping to sneak it through with her birthday presents,” Morrison said.
Thomas somberly nodded. “At least this time we’ve got a complete set of evidence to work with.”
“How did you keep the photocell from activating?” Morrison asked.
“Danny Lane gets the credit. We illuminated the holding cell with safelights. Then, as an additional backup, before opening the box, Danny froze it with liquid nitrogen, to deaden the batteries.”
The SAIC smiled. “I’m sure glad the Sarge is on our side. What’s next for the IED?”
“It should be arriving shortly at BATF headquarters, where Les Stanley and his team will be picking it apart piece by piece.”
“I imagine that you’re anxious to join this effort, Thomas. I realize that you were looking forward to going to sea with Vince, but it was my call to Director McShane that got you pulled off the crossing. Right now, I need you here, on the trail of that frigging madman.”