of the White House. Aziz turned to the left and started jogging. Dead ahead on the other side of Fifteenth Street was where Salim was supposed to be. Emergency vehicles were lined up, their lights flashing in the pouring rain. Every second counted.
Aziz pressed on. He desperately wanted to take the gas mask off, but it was too big a risk to show his face.
When they reached the intersection of Fifteenth Street and Hamilton, just a half a block away from the White House, another explosion occurred. The circular lid on the concrete trash receptacle across the street shot up in the air almost fifty feet and then came spinning back to earth. It landed with a thud in the middle of the intersection and lay smoldering in the rain.
The few people that were out in the deluge were now running for cover.
Aziz continued through the rain. The man that had been with him stayed behind, fearing more explosions, which Aziz assumed, if Salim had done his job, were occurring all around the area.
Aziz made it across the street and ran down the sidewalk.
He couldn’t take the mask any longer. It was too hard to breathe, and it was fogging up. He yanked the mask up onto his forehead and took his first real breath of air in minutes. It felt incredible in his burning lungs. Aziz pressed on, looking in the windows of the ambulances for a white head of hair. As he neared the end of the row of vehicles, he began to worry that Salim had abandoned him, but there, in the last ambulance, he spotted him.
Aziz ran around the back and pulled open the doors. He quickly climbed in and dropped the woman on the gurney.
Before the door was shut, he yelled, “Get us the hell out of here!”
Salim threw? the vehicle into reverse and hit the emergency lights on the roof. He spun the wheel and yanked it into drive, stepping on the gas. The wheels spun for a moment on the rain-soaked street and then caught. Salim hit. the siren as the ambulance raced forward. The police at the next intersection hustled to move the barricades just in time for the ambulance to pass through.
VICE PRESIDENT BAXTER had just finished bawling out Dallas King. Less than thirty minutes earlier, Baxter had been blindsided by the information that President Hayes was no longer out of the loop and that he himself was no longer in charge. After being humiliated like never before in his life, Baxter had gotten off the phone and started screaming at Dallas King. The vice president went into a tirade, blaming his chief of staff for the entire mess, belaboring the point that he should never have listened to a word of King’s advice.
King had taken the verbal beating without a fight. Secretly he was relieved. Baxter not becoming president wouldn’t end his career, but Abu Hasan making it out of the White House and telling his story to the FBI or media would.
“With Hayes back in charge, the odds were a raid would be ordered.
King let his boss vent until there was nothing left and then turned the tables. Methodically, he made his case, pointing out that they had saved the lives of twenty-five people and had sacrificed what? Some money that wasn’t even theirs and some sanctions that weren’t even working. King stressed to Baxter that there was no way they could have played it any better. And then in an attempt to help bolster his boss’s ego. King proclaimed that history would judge his three days as president as some of the most difficult ever served by the nation’s chief executive. That history would remember him as someone who put the lives of Americans above money and a failed foreign policy.
“Remember, it ain’t over till it’s over.” King was building strength in his position With each passing minute, he could see that he was getting to Baxter. King paced back and forth in front of the desk, and then suddenly stopped.
“This is perfect.
Absolutely perfect.”
“What is?”
“Hayes may have just done you the biggest favor of his career.” King clapped his hands together.
“You’re off the hook, and the timing couldn’t be better. So far you’ve only had to deal with the little demands. Tomorrow Aziz is going to ask for something big, and you are not going to have to be the one to say yes or no.” King was grinning ear to ear. “They are going to have to storm the White House, and Hayes is going to have to give the order.”
The vice president began to see the bright side.
“There just might be a way out of this.”
The door to the study suddenly burst open, and one of the vice president’s staffers rushed in yelling, “Turn on the TV! The White House is on fire!”
Baxter sprang from his chair and grabbed the remote control from his desk. The TV came on almost instantly. Within seconds, images of fire engines racing through the White Houses gates appeared. In the background flames could be seen shooting out of windows. Baxter turned up the volume. The anchor was saying that people on the scene were telling him that as of yet no survivors had been seen coming out of the building.
As soon as the anchor said the words “no survivors,” Dallas King ushered the aide back out of the room and closed the door. The two of them stood for several minutes, watching the live coverage. There were flames everywhere. Firemen were manning hoses from the ground and from the top of hook-and-ladder trucks.
King turned to his boss, unable to hide the smile on his face.
“No one is going to make it out of there alive.”
All Baxter could do was shake his head.
King stared at the TV for a while longer and then said, “We need to let the media know that you are not responsible for this disaster.” King pointed to the screen.
“Hayes is responsible for this mess, and we have to make sure everyone knows that.”
King felt as if he were floating on air. He was going to get away with it.
Baxter looked at his chief of staff and said, “Dallas, this is a tragedy.”
“Life is a tragedy, Sherman. Thirty thousand people a year die in car accidents, another hundred thousand from cigarettes.” King pointed to his boss. “Now, that’s a real tragedy. This is not good. Don’t get me wrong. Some people might consider it a tragedy, but it’s my job to make sure they don’t think you caused it.” King picked up the phone on his boss’s desk and punched in a phone number. When he got the persons voice mail, he pressed zero and got the operator on the line.
“I need to speak to Sheila Dunn immediately! Tell her Dallas King, the vice presidents chief of staff, is on the line.”
King was put on hold. Standing next to his boss, he watched the White House burn on the TV. In the back of his mind, he was chanting. Burn, baby, burn.
PRESIDENT HAYES STOOD in front of the White House, bathed in the early morning sunlight. Reporters shouted questions from beyond the fence line, and he ignored them. The important thing was that the nation see he was alive and well.
He would make a formal speech in the evening and explain the tragic events of the last four days.
Special Agent Jack Warch stood at his side along with a half dozen other Secret Service agents, all of them wearing sunglasses. President Hayes held his hand over his eyes and gazed up at the proud, old building, amazed she was still standing. FBI agents were sifting through the carnage collecting evidence.
Virtually all of the windows were blown out, and there were holes punched in the stone exterior where the bombs had exploded. Fortunately the fire had not burned uncontrolled.
Between the heavy downpour and the firefighters, the blaze had been kept in check and was prevented from engulfing the structure. Priceless national treasures had been damaged beyond repair and lost forever, but the important thing was that the hostages were alive.
Jack Warch reached out and tapped the president on the arm. President Hayes looked down at his watch and nodded.
The troop then moved out across the lawn for the northwest gate.
The president looked to Warch and said, “I bet your wife and kids were happy to see you this morning.”
