fierce about protecting her personal life.
She looked at the Football again. It hadn’t moved. Still there, with one end of a steel chain attached to the handle, the other end dangling free, a handcuff ready to be snapped onto her wrist.
Things had been routine around the Oval Office, with a steady stream of visitors coming and going. Then a little after three, the President’s chief of staff threw open the door of his adjoining office and bolted across the narrow hallway, barking at the two Secret Service agents flanking the door. “Code Red! Lock it down,” yelled Steve Hanson. “Evacuate him to the shelter!”
The agents spun and followed him through the door, talking into their wrist microphones as they went. The entire atmosphere of the White House changed in an instant. From calm backwater to hurricane in the blink of an eye. Sybelle unbuttoned her jacket and pulled out the Glock, knelt beside the Football and clicked the steel handcuff onto her left wrist. Then she stood again, with the pistol in her right hand, pointing it toward the floor as her eyes quartered the area.
Two more agents ran up and one dashed straight into the office while the second assumed post at the main door, holding a small machine gun. He and Sybelle exchanged the briefest of glances, and he was startled about how cool she appeared to be in this emergency. The White House was plunging into total lockdown, nobody allowed in or out, the threat unknown and security accelerating to a maximum. Snipers removed their rifles from their cases on the roof, the antiaircraft missile system was activated, and uniformed agents scrambled into defensive positions. The big gates were locked.
Summers stood there unconsciously humming a little tune, her eyes glittering like polished stones. The pistol did not twitch, although it was held in only one hand. It was almost as if she
There was a flurry of activity inside the Oval Office, since the president had been in the middle of a meeting about the upcoming elections in Iraq. He was whisked out, each arm held by a Secret Service agent. One spoke into his sleeve microphone to alert the agents’ command post: “Buckskin is moving.” The code name had been assigned to the president by the U.S. Army Signal Corps because the president was from Tennessee and had constantly used Davy Crockett symbolism during his campaigns.
As the group cleared the doorway, the president looked over at Sybelle, gave her a slight grin, and said, “Major Summers, maybe you had better come along. Bring our suitcase.”
“Yes, sir,” she said. Sybelle holstered her weapon, hefted the forty-five-pound case and wrapped both arms around it as a Secret Service agent pushed her into the fast-moving group heading to the secure shelter beneath the second basement.
7
THE WEARY TRIDENT TEAM called for a ride home as soon as they were safely back inside Afghanistan and a Dark Horse MH-47 helicopter from the 160th Special Operations Aerial Regiment soon arrived overhead to extract them from a long and barren plateau. Once aboard, the two thundering rotor blades of the SOAR bird prevented any attempt at conversation, so they loosened their gear and got comfortable for the long haul back to a forward operating base.
When they reached a safe altitude, the crew chief flashed a white greaseboard on which he had scrawled a one-word question: SWANSON?
Kyle pointed to his own chest and the crew chief struggled over, stepping around the other guys’ boots. “I’m Swanson,” he yelled when the crew chief approached. “What’s up?”
“Wait one,” the sergeant called out, handing over a flight helmet containing a radio.
Kyle pulled the little microphone arm into a speaking position and adjusted the cushioned ear pieces into place. The crew chief flipped a switch, turned a knob, and gave him a thumbs-up.
“Gunny Swanson?” the pilot’s voice was clear, despite the racket, and almost casual in tone. For the SOAR crew, this quick mission was a total milk run and they were all relaxed. No one had shot at them.
“That’s me,” said Kyle.
“We won’t be taking you to the FOB. After your team was on the map again, the brass changed our flight plan. We’re to deliver you straight to Bagram.”
Swanson exhaled in disappointment. Military regulations were looser at a forward operating base, while the huge Bagram facility meant rules and regulations, even though they would be sticking close to the special operations compound. “Any idea why?”
“Nope. Just that a lot of people have been asking about you guys during the past couple of days and were getting pretty antsy. Lots of shit happened while you were out of pocket, partner. When your radio didn’t respond, a VIP flew and really started kicking ass.”
“Batteries got wet. Radio didn’t work.”
The unseen pilot laughed. “Yeah. That does seem happen on these recon missions. What about your emergency radio?”
“Radios don’t work well up in those mountains.”
The pilot laughed again. “Well, you can explain all about it in person to the head cheese in just a little while.”
“Who’s the VIP?” He had visions of some Pentagon staff puke running around with papers that had Kyle’s name on them.
“One of your own Trident people. Major Sybelle Summers, her own pretty little rotten self,” the SOAR pilot said. “I’d like to tell you more about what’s happening, but she ordered me to keep my mouth shut and I’d rather remarry my second ex-wife again than disobey Major Summers. So we are just dropping you off and getting gone.”
“Roger. Don’t blame you a bit. Out.” Kyle peeled off the flight helmet and tossed it back to the crew chief.
THERE WAS A PALPABLE sense of tension when the bird entered the air space around Bagram. Not a shot had been fired, but pre-battle nerves stretched taut as the Marines picked up on the strange and familiar feeling that something was going on. The Dark Horse helicopter leaned into a circling pattern. Special ops helicopters were never put on hold during a landing; they always go straight in, touch down in their private habitat, and hurry out of sight. Now the MH-47 was in a stack, for the skies were thick with allied aircraft. Fighters, bombers, tankers, passenger planes, and other helicopters howled about, both inbound and outbound. During the time that the Trident guys had been out of contact, the world apparently had changed beneath their boots.
Finally, the huge helicopter’s number was called and the SOAR pilot took them in, flared and touched the tarmac. The ramp lowered and the Trident Marines stepped off, grimacing in the bright desert sun. The runway was crowded, the sky busy. In the distance they could see troops marching.
Joe Tipp shaded his eyes for a better look. “Jeez. It’s the day after 9/11 all over again.”
Travis Stone, who had slept on the flight, yawned, stretched. “Look at all that shit. Makes a man feel kind of small.”
“That’s because you
Sybelle Summers threw open the door of a nearby Humvee and got out, adjusting her narrow sunglasses. She wore a plain dark blue baseball cap, tan BDUs and desert boots, and looked like just another soldier or Marine except there were no name strips on her tunic or her butt. She walked to the team and nobody saluted. Task Force Trident was an odd organization. Rank was only acknowledged in public places. Otherwise, it was the equality and respect of first names.
“Hey, guys,” she said. No smile. “Glad you’re all back okay.”
“Jest a regular ole recon,” said Joe Tipp. “Nothin’ special.”
“You can cut the crap, Joe. General Middleton briefed me, and I’m back in the loop as Trident ops officer again. Anyway, your raid is so-well,
