being illuminated from behind, and within seconds all five helicopters simultaneously increased power and moved forward, dropping to as low an altitude as possible. As they screamed over the roof of the White
House, the copilots hit their flare-dispenser buttons, hoping to confuse an approaching heat-seeking missile. Jack Lortch felt his heart climb into his throat as he saw the flares come shooting out of the tails of the helicopters. The huge choppers moved just above his head, straining to gain speed, their bright red flares streaming down and pelting the roof of the White House. Without hesitation, his hand mike snapped up to his mouth. Trying to scream above the deafening roar of the helicopters, he yelled, “Sniper teams, look for a missile launch!”
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He watched the choppers gain speed as they tore across Lafayette Park, skimming the tops of the trees, and willed them to go faster. The seconds seemed like minutes as he watched and waited to see a red streak and then an explosion. Several flares landed by his feet, and he ran to the north side of the roof, following the choppers. About a half a mile away from the White House the formation banked hard to the left and Lortch lost sight of it. Atop the hill at Arlington the old man tracked the formation of helicopters as they scrambled for safety.
Quickly, he punched in the codes for the radar units that had been placed to the east and north of the White House. Seconds later the helicopters picked up the azimuth of the new threats and banked hard to the left. Heading due west, they raced over the rooftops of downtown, gaining speed quickly and continuing to drop flares. The old man punched in the codes for the last two radar units. They immediately started sweeping the horizon from the west and southwest with their search radar-the trap was complete. As the pilots reached the Potomac River, they did exactly what their instincts and training had taught them. They skimmed over the top of the Key Bridge and dove almost two hundred feet to the deck. The formation pulled up dangerously close to the blue-gray waters of the
Potomac and raced northward, below the tree line and underneath the coverage of the radars that had been harassing them. The warning lights on their dashboards subsided, and the shrill of the threat sensors ceased. The engine of the van was running and the assassin was standing next to the stone wall waiting for the helicopters. He heard them coming before he could see them. When they appeared, he was immediately impressed by how low they were flying and how tight they’d kept the formation. That wouldn’t last much longer, he thought to himself.
Pressing in the code for the flare launchers and radar unit, he placed his thumb over the enter button and waited. As they passed underneath his position, he looked at the blur of rotors spinning below and said, “Now just keep your cool and don’t run into each other. I don’t want any dead Marines on my hands.” The Chain Bridge, unlike the Key
Bridge, was only about fifty feet high and was slung low across the Potomac. The assassin waited for just a moment longer, and when the lead Super Stallion was about two hundred yards from the bridge, he hit the button.
The radar powered up and the helicopters were so close that the radar immediately narrowed its search to fire control. Again the threat sensors on board the choppers came howling to life. Seconds later all six of the bright red phosphorus flares snaked their way out of the tubes and into the sky leaving a trail of smoke behind them. The combination of the visual threat of the red streaks and the fact that the pilots thought they were locked onto by a surface-to-air missile caused the lead pilot to do what came naturally. He’d been trained for almost fifty hours in close-formation escort duty, but he’d also been trained for well over two hundred hours in missile-evasion tactics.
All this plus the fact that there was nothing more unnatural for a pilot to do than fly a straight and steady course when being tracked by fire-control radar caused him to jerk his stick to the left. Upon seeing and hearing the danger that was ahead, the other three Super
Stallion pilots had already started to loosen the formation, and when the lead escort broke
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left, the other three scattered, as much out of the fear of a midair collision as their desire to evade what they thought was an approaching missile. The helicopters in the three and six o’clock slots broke to the right and stayed low, because it was better to pass through a hot zone quickly than to gain altitude and lose speed. The helicopter in the nine slot was forced to pull up to avoid hitting the lead escort, who had cut her off. All of this left
Marine One alone, in the middle of the river, a sitting duck. There was no time or room to react. Marine One passed through the smoke trails of the flares while the helicopter’s threat sensors continued to flash and warn of imminent death. Gripping the controls tightly, the pilots of Marine One braced themselves for impact and cursed their escorts for abandoning them.
THE OLD MAN WAS BACK BEHIND THE WHEEL OF HIS RENTAL CAR
AND driving across the Arlington Memorial Bridge. When he reached the east side, he got onto the Potomac Parkway and headed north. Exiting off the Parkway, he entered the
Foggy Bottom neighborhood of Washington, D.C less than a mile from the White House.
Parking in a ramp where there would be cameras and attendants would not be wise, so he circled and waited for a space on the street.
It was just past twelve-thirty and the streets and sidewalks were crowded with people coming and going to lunch. After finding a spot, he got out and left the unneeded cane in the passenger seat. Two short blocks later he found the pre-selected pay phone, inserted a quarter, and punched in a phone number. After several rings, a deep voice answered on the other end. “Hello, you’ve reached Special Agent Skip McMahon. If you’d like to leave a message, please do so at the beep.
If you need to speak to one of my assistants, press zero.” The old man pulled a
Dictaphone out of his pocket, placed the speaker up to the phone, and pressed the play button. “Special Agent McMahon, we know you have been placed in charge of investigating the assassinations of Senator Fitzgerald, Congressman Koslowski, Senator
Downs, and Speaker Basset. We are sending you this message because we do not want to fight our battle in the media. We suggest the President and his people follow suit. We are in possession of several Stinger missiles and could have easily blown Marine One out of the sky this afternoon. You can tell the President that the only reason he is still alive is because we did not want to kill the Marines and Secret Service agents on board.
“If you continue to ignore our demands and manipulate public opinion through the media, we will have no choice but to escalate our war. So far we have assassinated only elected officials, but we are adding the names of Stu Garret and Ted Hopkinson to our list of targets. We are very well informed about what goes on inside the Stevens administration and know that these two men are responsible for most of the lies that have been spoon-fed
