Triggers

Chapter 3

There were always two members of the Secret Service Countersniper Team on the roof of the White House; today one of them was Rory Proctor. The chill wind cut through him. He was holding his rifle in gloved hands and walking back and forth, scanning the grounds between here and the Ellipse, the fifty-two-acre public park south of the White House fence. The Washington Monument was visible, but even from this elevated position, Proctor couldn’t see the Lincoln Memorial, where all of the action had been taking place, although he was listening intently to the chatter in his earpiece.

Proctor was so used to scanning for things in the distance, he didn’t pay much attention to the rooftop, which had a stunted colonnade around its edges and a few potted shrubs. But a dove happened to catch his eye as it flew into view. It landed a few yards from him, by a squat metal enclosure at the base of one of the rectangular chimneys on the south side. There was some odd scuffing of the white roofing tiles in front of the enclosure. He took one more look at the grounds on the south side, saw nothing of interest, then walked over to look at the enclosure.

The padlock had been jimmied, and although it had been closed, it wasn’t locked. He swung the lid of the enclosure up, leaning it back against the white chimney, and—

Oh, shit. Inside was a hexagonal contraption of squat metal about two feet in diameter and, judging by the depth of the enclosure, about a foot thick; it looked like someone had taken a slice through one of the lava pillars from the Devil’s Causeway. Proctor recognized the device from intelligence briefings. The attacks on Chicago, San Francisco, and Philadelphia had been successful—meaning the bombs used there had been utterly destroyed when they exploded. But a planned attack on Los Angeles International Airport had been averted ten days ago when a terrorist from al-Sajada, the al-Qaeda splinter group that had risen to prominence after the death of Osama bin Laden, had been intercepted with a device just like this one in the trunk of his car.

Proctor spoke into his headset. “Proctor, Central. I’m on the White House roof—and I’ve found a bomb.”

The doors to the operating room burst open, and Dr. Mark Griffin, the CEO of Luther Terry Memorial Hospital, strode in, wearing a hastily donned green surgical smock, surgical hat, and face mask. “Sorry, Michelle,” he said to the startled surgeon. “You’ve got to clear out.”

Michelle sounded shocked. “I’m in the middle of a kidney transplant.”

“We’ve got a priority patient,” Griffin replied, “and no other operating room is available.”

“Are you nuts?” Michelle said. “Look at this woman—we’ve opened her up.”

“Can you stop?”

“Stop? We’ve just begun!”

“Good,” said Griffin. “Then you can stop.” He looked at the assembled team. “Clear out, everyone.”

“What about the patients? They’re intubated and we’ve put them both under, for God’s sake.”

“Sew her up, then move them out to the corridor,” Griffin replied.

“Mark, this is crazy. The donor flew in all the way from London for this, and—”

“Michelle, it’s the president. He’s been shot, and he’ll be here any minute.”

As soon as the bullet hit President Jerrison, Secret Service agents swarmed into the Lincoln Memorial. The interior was divided into three chambers by two rows of fifty-foot-tall columns. The large central chamber contained the giant statue of a seated Abe made of starkly white Georgia marble, mounted on a massive oblong pedestal. The small north chamber had Lincoln’s second inaugural address carved into its wall, while the small south one had a carving of the Gettysburg Address.

Agent Manny Cheung, the leader of Phalanx Beta, looked around. There were only a few places to hide: behind the columns, in the narrow space behind the statue’s pedestal, or somehow clambering up to perch on Lincoln’s back. Cheung held his revolver in both hands and nodded to Dirk Jenks, the thickset young agent on his left. They quickly determined that there was no one else in here, but—

But the elevator door was now closed. It was in the south chamber, in the wall adjacent to the Gettysburg Address, and had been locked off here at the top with the door open; Cheung knew that Jenks had checked it before the president had arrived. The elevator—used to provide handicapped access to the statue—went from here down to the small exhibit hall in the lower part of the memorial. Cheung barked into his sleeve. “He’s in the elevator heading down.”

There were security people guarding the entrance to the basement gallery anyway, but Cheung took off, running on the hard marble floor and down the wide outside steps. He passed between the two signs that flanked the entrance. The white one on his right said, “Warning: Firearms Prohibited,” and showed a silhouette of a pistol with a barred red circle over it. The brown one on his left said, “Quiet” and “Respect Please.”

Cheung hurried down the steps past the seating area that had been erected for the presidential party, rounded a corner, and headed down again to the narrow entrance to the lower level. He had looked through the gallery just yesterday, as part of the preparations for the president’s speech. It had been his first time in it—like most Washington residents, he tended to visit the sites only when he had company from out of town, and there were so many things to see on the Mall, he’d never bothered with this little museum before.

The exhibit hall, opened in 1994 and occupying just 560 square feet, had been partially paid for by school kids collecting pennies. Since the back of the penny had depicted the Lincoln Memorial then, it had been called the “Pennies Make a Monumental Difference Campaign.” Cheung had read the Lincoln quotes carved into black marble slabs, including one that had startled him: “If I could save the Union without freeing any slave, I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing all the slaves I would do it; and if I could save it by freeing some and leaving others alone, I would also do that.”

He tore past the exhibits, heading to the little elevator lobby in the back. Of course, by the time he got there, the elevator had completed its descent. Three other men—two uniformed DC cops and another Secret Service agent—were already there, with guns aimed at the elevator door. But there was no sign of anyone else, and the brass door was closed; whoever was inside must have a key for the elevator’s control panel, which would explain how he’d started it after it had been locked off on the upper level.

“Anybody try pushing the button?” Cheung asked. There was just one button, since the elevator could only go up from here.

“I did,” said one of the uniforms. “Nothing happened.”

Cheung pushed the button himself. The door remained shut. “He’s definitely got a key, then,” he said.

“And he’s armed,” noted the other Secret Service agent.

Cheung judged the brass door sufficiently sturdy that the would-be assassin probably couldn’t shoot through it. He rapped his knuckles loudly against one of the metal panels. “Secret Service!” he shouted. “Come out with your hands up!”