FOUR BLOCKS AWAY from the White House, in the bell tower of the Old Post Office, Charlie Wicker slid in behind his50 caliber Barrett sniping rifle and was looking through his Leupold Ml Ultra lox scope. On the wooden platform next to him his fellow SEAL sniper Mike Berg was doing the same thing with another of the exact same massive weapon.
The acoustic top was on the shooting platform. Constructed out of plywood and lined with foam, the covers would absorb ninety-five percent of the significant noise when the.50 caliber rifles were fired. Wicker was very confident the shot would work. So confident that he thought he would get the Tango on the first shot. If he didn’t, he knew Berg would.
The odds of them missing from this distance were almost zero.
The only thing that had made him nervous was the weather. Wind and rain did funny things to the flight of a bullet, things that he couldn’t always control and that drove him nuts. The wind had been steadily increasing for the last several hours, but as if they had been given a gift from above, it had just died down. Unfortunately, Wicker knew, the reprieve would only be temporary. They were in the proverbial calm before the storm. The black sky was descending from the east, and the relative calm would not last.
Wicker had been listening to the play-by-play as his team members jumped out of the back of the Combat Talon and was relieved the operation was under way. He would make the shot count. Only Wicker could hear what was being said between Harris and the other three jumpers. Having too many operators on the radio created unneeded confusion. Berg was to take his shot after he heard Wicker take his. There would be no commands, no signals. Nothing to distract the second shot.
Berg would shoot when he was ready.
The two snipers could clearly hear their spotters outside the blind calling out the descent of the four SEAL Team Six operators. Wicker focused entirely on the task at hand. His whole body was molded to the big.50 caliber rifle as the crosshairs of his scope stayed centered on the terrorist’s head.
Wicker felt no remorse over what he was about to do The man he was about to kill had put himself in this situation, and he had miscalculated the skill of his opponent. He naively sat behind the bulletproof glass thinking he was safe.
AT ONE THOUSAND feet Mick Reavers pulled the rip cord on his parachute, and his rapid descent stopped. Looking up, he checked to make sure his double canopy had unfurled itself properly, then maneuvered himself into position for the short glide onto the roof of the White House. Reavers didn’t bother to look to see if his team members were in position above him.
His job was to stay on line so the others could follow.
Harris had also opened his chute as close to one thousand feet as possible. After he got himself sorted out, he did a quick count of the airfoils beneath him and moved in to line up behind Rostein. At the same time he looked over at the tall steeple of the Old Post Office and said, “Slick, this is Whiskey Four. Do you copy? Over.”
“I copy. Whiskey Four.”
“We’re getting close.”
“Just give me the bingo.” Harris floated down looking beyond his men at the street and traffic lights. Suddenly, he felt a gust of wind, and then a raindrop touched his cheek. Looking back to the east, he could see a wall of driving rain marching toward him The heavy stuff looked to be less than a mile away. Harris looked down and tried to judge how close Reavers was to touchdown. Harris checked his altimeter and then looked back to the lead chute.
He waited patiently, watching Reavers glide in from the darkness toward the roof of the White House.
Harris waited to the last possible moment and said, “Bingo, Slick. I repeat. Bingo!”
Wicker heard the call and began a slow, even exhale. He had already lowered his heart rate to fewer than forty beats a minute and was completely at ease. The terrorist was offering him a full-profile shot, and Wicker held the center of the crosshairs just above the man’s ear.
With a steady constant pressure, he began to squeeze the trigger, and with a loud report the bullet was away.
The recoil from the massive rifle jolted Wicker back several inches.
Another round was chambered, and as he maneuvered his scope in an attempt to reacquire the target, he heard Berg’s massive fifty launch its round at the target. Wicker brought his scope back in on the guard booth a second later, but there was nothing to shoot. The only thing in sight was a large hole in the bulletproof glass the size of a fist.
Reavers came in hot. He had felt the wind picking up and had adjusted accordingly, allowing himself to drop like a rock for thirty feet, and then at the last second, he pulled down on the risers and filled his chute with air. When his feet hit the roof, he opened the vents and got enough slack in his canopy to collapse one side of it. Clutching at his shoulder hooks, he pulled them from the main harness and wrestled the chute to the ground. Reavers bundled the chute quickly, threw it out of the way, all the while running for the guard booth. On the way, he reached for his machine gun and said, “Whiskey One is down and on the move.”
By the time Reavers got to the guard booth, his silenced MP-10 was up and ready. As he looked inside, he saw the semi decapitated body of a terrorist lying on the floor. Reporting his findings, he said, “Tango one is out of commission.” Reavers looked up for a second to see how the others were doing and then began to check the guard booth for booby traps.
Clark and Rostein came in much the same as Reavers.
There was a pattern that was developing, though, and as Reavers finished circling the guard booth, he grew alarmed.
Each man overshot the previous man’s landing area by a good twenty feet.
Reavers looked up and saw his CO struggling to get down as the wind picked up. With no time to waste, Reavers began running toward the western edge of the roof.
As he did so, the rain started to fall.
Commander Harris was allowing himself to drop at a dangerous rate in an effort to get down before he overshot the landing area. With less than fifteen feet to go, he pulled on his risers as hard as he could. The chute fluffed with air, and just as the commander’s feet hit the roof, a forty-mile-an-hour gust grabbed the parachute and yanked Harris toward the edge.
RAPP KNELT OUTSIDE the door to Horsepower, intently watching his monitor. Rielly knelt next to him, afraid to speak.
They had been sitting in silence for several minutes waiting when Rapp noticed her look of fear. A little bit of fear was a good thing, but too much could lead to freezing in the heat of battle, and they couldn’t afford that right now.
Rapp pushed the lip mike of his headset up and leaned close to Rielly.
Whispering in her ear, he said, “Don’t worry, Anna.
Everything is going to be fine.” Rapp moved away and smiled. Rielly looked at him with eyes filled with dread. She leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “I don’t want you to die. “Then she hugged him and kissed him on the cheek.
Rapps heart fluttered, and he felt a feeling in his stomach that he hadn’t felt in a long time. With a huge grin on his face, he pulled her close, touching his forehead to hers.
“Don’t worry about me. I’ve been in worse situations than this. Much worse.” He felt like kissing her, but held back.
“Besides, you owe me dinner.”
This finally got a smile from her, and after a couple of seconds, she added, “All right. Just don’t do anything stupid before I get a chance to pay you back.”
Before Rapp could reply, he heard Commander Harris and Charlie Wicker talking on the headset. Rapp pulled his mike back down and pointed to the doorknob.
Rielly nervously put one hand on the knob and the other on the key. Rapp brought his silenced MP-10 up with both hands and clutched the extended stock firmly between his cheek and shoulder. With his eyes on the monitor,
