Roarke slid the motorcycle to a stop and maneuvered over the borrowed vehicle. He kept his pistol on the dead man. He knocked the would-be assassin’s gun to the side and checked for a pulse. It’s over. He thanked God for the tip that saved Katie’s life. But who fired the second shot?
Katie rushed into Roarke’s arms, but he suddenly angled her behind him. He heard someone running toward them from his left and he sensed that a gun was on him. Roarke swiveled, still offering his body as a shield. He took quick aim at the man approaching.
“Jesus!” he yelled.
“Put that thing down! You could hurt someone,” Shannon Davis said.
Roarke was completely surprised to see his friend, but he knew who fired the shot that ended it.
“How did you…”
“Katie called me,” the FBI agent explained. “Smart thinking, too.” He kept his gun trained on the dead man. “Said you might be in trouble.”
Roarke sighed. “Me? But she was the one…”
Katie looked up. His unfinished thought brought her to tears.
“Everything’s all right. It’s over. It’s all over,” Roarke said looking around her to make sure. Davis was doing the same. “Cooper’s dead.”
Nolt radioed the Essex. “Clear, clear, clear. Objective achieved. Top Gun secure. I repeat, Top Gun is secure.” He then sent out a verifying instant message on his PDA. “TG — okay. Send birds.” That was the signal for the five Seahawks, which had been hovering out of the target area, to converge on the camp. They arrived with lights aimed at the now-frightened guerillas, huddled in three groups.
A handful of rebels foolishly tried to take on the first helicopter. They, and their compatriots nearest them, were cut down in a hail of fire from the Seahawk’s M240 7.62 mm machine guns in flexible door mounts.
While the SEALs swept the ground for any remaining dangers, Nolt went to aid the president. He lifted his night-vision goggles, holstered his gun, and put out a welcomed hand.
The ear-pounding sound of the Seahawks made it necessary for Nolt to shout. “Mr. President, my name’s Nolt, lieutenant, U.S. Navy. It’s a real pleasure to meet you.”
“SEALs?”
“Yes, sir. Proud of it.”
“Clemson’s?”
“Affirmative. Directly under Admiral Zimmer.”
“Well, thank you, son. But the man you really want to meet is right behind me. He needs some attention.”
“I’m doing okay,” Rossy volunteered, though his leg was badly cut by the machete.
Nolt radioed for Chaskes to come back and treat the wound.
Morgan Taylor gestured to the ties. “And as close as we are, I’m sure he’d be happier than a clam at high tide if you cut these damned things off.”
Nolt laughed. “No problem.” He sliced through the plastic ties with his knife.
“Now get the others free, will you?” the president asked.
The SEAL obliged.
Five minutes later, Nolt and the SEALs of Team THREE accompanied the hostages out to a designated LZ. Two new platoons of special forces rappelled from the forward Seahawks and took control of the area, while the other three Seahawks kept their weapons trained on the captives.
“I can only imagine how you found me, Lieutenant,” the president said.
“Your personal Lo-Jack, sir.” He was referring to the low-powered transmitter doctors implanted in Taylor’s backside. The signal told the GPS satellites and command where Taylor was, right down to one meter. “The AWACS tracked you all the way. Let’s just say your butt preceded you, sir,” Nolt joked.
For a second, Taylor vowed never to complain about anything again.
Chapter 76
Gonzales listened to the news on the car radio. He was furious. Patrick’s speech revved up the crowd. Bridgeman mesmerized everyone. But what happened?
The answer was nothing.
What happened to the two MANPAD missiles? They should have been fired into the crowd. Hundreds, if not thousands, were supposed to have died. The deaths were intended to cause a riot. In defiance, the mob should have stormed the Capitol Police or fired on them. And what happened to the cell phone text messages? Gonzales planned for team leaders to unknowingly steer the crowd into the line of fire.
Something went wrong, terribly wrong. The day was an unmitigated disaster.
Cooper failed to fulfill his contract. Instead of the media reporting from the worst riot in American history, they simply described how calm the marchers remained. Instead of furthering Gonzales’s personal cause, the crowd lined up for the portable potties and left.
Gonzales expected commentators to draw direct comparisons with the attack on the Bonus Army in 1932. He counted on the press to draw a parallel between Henry Lamden and Herbert Hoover. He expected the administration to take a hard and instant fall. He anticipated Robert Bridgeman’s immediate rise to mythical stature.
Instead, Bridgeman walked off the stage to cheers and people went home peacefully.
The handheld missiles? The spark that was to start a political war? Nothing?
Gonzales ordered Alley to switch radio stations, hoping he’d find better news. “Change it! Get me something else.” But all the reports were the same.
A calm and orderly protest.
Fox radio reported that some marchers voiced dissatisfaction with the Lamden-Taylor White House, but there was hardly any real negative commentary. Even Elliott Strong noted that, “the day fell short of expectations.” He left it at that.
Gonzales kept demanding his driver find better coverage. “Again!” A mistake. Alley was so distracted that he failed to notice that an Illinois State Trooper who clocked him at thirty miles per hour over the speed limit on the Kennedy Expressway.
“Mr. Gonzales…behind us.”
Gonzales craned his neck. “What?”
“A police car. He’s got his lights on.” Gonzales saw him. “Why?”
The driver’s foot was on the break. He slowed down considerably.
“I don’t know.”
“Of course, you do, you idiot. You’re speeding.” The speedometer was still over 80.
“What should I do, sir?”
“Pull over, of course. Show him your license. Take the ticket and don’t say anything other than you’re sorry.”
Alley slowed and eased onto the shoulder. He came to a gradual stop. Gonzales slid back into his car seat. He wanted to disappear, or at least look like a fare on the way to the airport.
“No problems,” Gonzales reminded Alley.
“It’ll be okay.”
The officer pulled up behind the BMW, but he didn’t get out of his vehicle.
“What’s he waiting for?” Gonzales asked.
“He’s checking our plates. It’s normal. We just sit tight.”
Gonzales tried to relax.
“Here he comes,” Alley said.
The State Trooper motioned for the driver to roll down the window. Alley complied.
“Is something wrong, officer? We’re on our way to the airport.”
“May I see your license and registration, please.” The please wasn’t necessary.
“Our flight is…”
“Your license,” the trooper demanded.
Once he had Alley’s license, he stepped back, behind the car.
“What’s he doing?” Gonzales whispered.
“Just checking. Everything will be fine.”
The officer returned to the car and peered inside. “Mr. Alley, you were traveling at more than thirty miles per hour over the limit.”