“Sure we do,” Reeder said.
Wade asked, “Who’s he talkin’ about?”
“Just the President,” Rogers said.
Reeder got out a cell phone.
Goggling at him, Hardesy said, “You’re just going to call the President of the United States on the phone? The plan hinges on that?”
Reeder said, “It’s a special phone he gave me.”
Hardesy’s eyes narrowed and he said, “Your mission for the President — to find out who got those CIA agents killed overseas.”
“That’s right. Lucas, maybe you could take care of the check. Reggie, Patti’ll give you the keys — transfer those weapons to the Buick’s trunk... discreetly, okay?” Reeder stood, pushing back his chair. “And if you’ll excuse me...”
In the parking lot, Reeder made the call while Rogers listened on.
After delivering a condensed version of the events and situation that had led to this moment, Reeder said, “Yes, Mr. President — I would select the Secret Service agent you trust most.”
Muffled talk.
“Yes, sir, I’ll text you when we’re in position. Get to the control room, have section A-22 shut down on whatever pretense, text me back, then we’re a go.”
Muffled talk.
“Yes, sir, good luck and Godspeed to you as well, Mr. President.”
Reeder clicked off.
She said, “We’re really going to do this. Invade Camp fucking David.”
“Yes. But it’s all right.”
“Is it?”
“Sure. We have the President’s permission.”
“There’s no bigger task than protecting the homeland of our country.”
George W. Bush, forty-third President of the United States of America. Served 2001–2009.
Nineteen
All four were in the Buick now, Reeder riding up front, Rogers behind the wheel, the other two in back. They were driving through Catoctin Mountain Park, not far from their destination in the Maryland woods, when Hardesy leaned forward like a kid wanting to know how many more miles and asked, “Sure we shouldn’t wait for dark?”
Reeder said, “That would give away what little advantage we have. They have the tactical night-vision gear, goggles, binoculars, rifle scopes, every toy we don’t have. We’d still have surprise, but we have that now.”
The vehicle continued threading through the thick poplar forest, sun cutting through to dapple the shade with gold until clouds rolled in to mute the effect. They encountered a few other drivers, tourists, families. Not many. Reeder pointed to a dirt road off to the right and Rogers veered in that direction, the way proving to be more a trampled path. The car bounced and lurched, jostling them but good, until finally Rogers found a place to park between a chestnut oak and a beech, the latter large enough to all but hide the vehicle behind.
All four wore hooded hunting attire, purchased at a Hanover, Maryland, Walmart, where Reeder had also bought various goodies, including one hundred rounds for the various nine mils the quartet was packing (the two AR-15s had come with plenty of .223 Remington ammo). They had stopped at a gas station to get into the camo gear, as well as the four Kevlar vests that Reeder, anticipating a need, had risked purchasing at a Navy Yard area army surplus store back when they were guests of DeMarcus.
As leaves and sticks crunched beneath their camo-colored boots, and trees rustled and birds sang and cawed, Hardesy procured the two AR-15s from the Buick’s trunk, kept one and handed the other off to Wade. Reeder had decided to use the rifles to protect the flanks, while he and Rogers came up the middle. Without sound-suppressed weapons, the first time any of them fired, the element of surprise would be over and the firefight would be on.
Before they started out, Reeder gathered them into a kind of commando huddle, and said, “The strategy here requires one part stealth and two parts luck.”
Everyone nodded at that.
Reeder went on: “Start by setting your phones to vibrate.”
Hardesy, a little edgy, said, “I think I could have figured that out.”
Reeder ignored that, saying, “Texting is the only secure communication system we have. A text can be used for specific intelligence, or just a few letters of gibberish... because the vibration itself means drop and freeze.”
They all had burner phones in hand now.
“After you’ve hit the dirt,” Reeder said, “check for shared intelligence, when you can do so safely. If it’s just a few scrambled letters meant to alert you to danger, wait it out, then go when you feel you can.”
Wade and Hardesy nodded.
Rogers held up her cell. “I’ve made a group. You should all have a text from me soon. I’m including Miggie, too.”
Reeder felt his phone vibrate, as around him the hum of other cells sang the same song.
He gave Rogers a nod of thanks. With no makeup, under that camo hood, she might have been an adolescent boy. Of course, that would be an adolescent boy with two nine millimeter automatics, one in her hip holster, the other in her right hand.
Like the pines around them, Wade towered over the little group. “How far out are we?” he asked.
Reeder pointed. “Maybe two clicks from the security boundary.”
Craning around, taking in the surroundings, Hardesy said, “Some scenery, huh? Breathtaking, really. You know, if I live through this, I could see taking a week out here with the family.”
Everybody managed a smile, and Rogers said, “Or if we’re caught, when you get out of the federal pen? You can bring your great-grandkids out here.”
“Oh, he won’t be out that soon,” Reeder said.
And now they laughed. Somewhere a bird joined in, somewhat tauntingly.
“All right,” Reeder said in a sigh. “Let’s get moving — stay quiet, and alert. Nothing riding on this except the line of succession and maybe a shooting war with Russia.”
AR-15 in his hands, Hardesy said, “No pressure.”
“Well, at least I left out the Armageddon part.”
Wade, the other guy with an AR-15, said, “Man, as pep talks go, that comes in way behind win-one-for-the-Gipper.”
That got a few chuckles, likely the last levity these four would enjoy for a while.
They moved out, all their attention on the mission. They started slowly, single file, till they got to their real starting position. The afternoon was cool, but the heavy camo clothing with the bulletproof vests was warm. Reeder wiped his brow with the back of a hand, knowing some of it was nerves.
The little group spread out at first, the better to know what they were dealing with. For half an hour or more they walked, every step deliberate and yet the leaves and twigs seemed to scream their approach. But not a phone vibrated, and nothing unexpected emerged.
Then they had closed ranks enough to see each other crouching in the underbrush, just outside what Reeder knew to be the security perimeter of Camp David. Shadows thrown by the canopy of trees on a cloudy day combined to give them some semblance of darkness.
Reeder went from face to face, his eyes saying, Point of no return. What he got back were expressions as blank as the one he so frequently showed the world.
Then he got out the presidential phone and texted: *In position*
He knew, better than anyone, that it would take time for President Harrison to deal with his end, which included an extra responsibility before making his way down the tunnel from Aspen Lodge to the command center. Settling in for the wait, staying alert, keeping calm, might be the hardest part.
Ten minutes dragged by. Twenty. Wade and Hardesy were getting restless, stretching, cracking their backs, their necks. They were FBI field agents, after all, not Navy SEALs.