General Moore took a long time to answer. He’d known he’d be asked this question. It was the reason he’d been called to the White House. One of those pivotal moments history is so fond of throwing our way. The president’s safety versus the country’s need to see presidential resolve and courage in the face of adversity. By chance, Moore’s gaze fell upon the small bust of Churchill standing at one end of the great Lincoln Desk. The set of his shoulders, that bulldog expression. He looked at his old friend of thirty years.
“Grab your hat, Mr. President. We’re going to the Capitol.”
“Thank you, Charley. Either way.”
“I hope and pray it’s the right answer, sir.”
The president stood and straightened his tie. “Want a ride? I’ve got plenty of room in the limo. No former presidents full of phony platitudes this time.”
Moore smiled and said, “One call, Mr. President. I’ll be right behind you.”
McAtee strode from the Oval Office. Betsey Hall and Scott McComsey, the White House Press Secretary, were waiting to hear what they would now tell the world. Moore reached over and picked up the phone from the coffee table. He speed-dialed the president’s direct line to the JCS office at the Pentagon.
“This is General Moore. Belay my previous orders. The president has decided not to go to Zone R. The swearing in will take place as scheduled on the Capitol steps. No delays. I want a combat air patrol scrambled and over the city. I want the surface-to-air-missile batteries at both the Capitol and the Pentagon activated. And I want to expand the no-fly zone around the city. Take it sixty miles. Anybody find that goddamn sub? Harbor Police? No? Good God, somebody better start praying.”
Moore stood, and spent a minute gazing around the Oval Office, remembering happier times in this room.
What is happening to our country? the general thought, and headed for the door.
“YOU FEELING okay, now, sir?” the blond kid said to him. He looked around. Dixon didn’t feel too good. His head hurt, for one thing. He reached up to rub his forehead and felt something wrapped around it. Bandage of some kind.
He was half-sitting, half-lying in the street, his legs straight out in front of him. Bloody. There was a line of vehicles in the street. A motor-cade of Black Suburbans. Lights flashing. Men were standing at all four corners of each vehicle with guns drawn, pistols and submachine guns. Big men, all wearing some kind of black jumpsuits and body armor.
“Who are they?” Dixon asked the blond kid.
“CAT, sir. Counterassault team. Secret Service.”
“Where’s Agent Hernandez?”
“He didn’t make it, sir. I’m sorry. You want to try and stand up again? You tell me.”
“Hernandez is gone?”
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid so.”
The door to the vehicle right next to him was open and he could hear scratchy voices on the radio. “Roger, Rawhide is rolling. Repeat, Rawhide is on the move. Rolling to the Punch Bowl.”
“Everybody copy that?” the blond kid said into his sleeve. “Rawhide is rolling. Looks like it’s going to be showtime after all.”
“Who are you?”
“Agent in charge, sir. Andy Hecht. We’ve been ordered to move you to a secure location, sir.”
“You’ve got to look inside that building first. I’ve got to show you something.”
“What building, sir? It’s gone.”
Dixon craned his head around and looked over his shoulder. Half of the building where he’d last remembered being had collapsed to the ground. There was a smoking pile of rubble two stories high. The site was crawling with men wielding axes and picks, digging through what was left of the garage. He must have been out for quite a while.
“You want me to get in that truck?”
“Yes, sir, I’d appreciate it. We’re going to get you further medical attention.” Hecht helped the sheriff get to his feet. He swayed a bit, then steadied himself and looked back at where he’d been when the truck exploded.
“Inside that building were three vehicles exactly like this one. Except they weren’t. They were remote- controlled bombs. And I found evidence in there of a lot more. If you keep digging, you’ll find it.”
“We believe you, sir. We’re looking for those trucks right now. Step this way, sir. Take it easy.”
It was a struggle just to stay on his feet. Dixon was determined to climb up into the back seat under his own steam. He had a lot of work to do yet, finding those things. He was the only one left who really knew what to look for.
“What will you do if you do find more of these things?” Dixon asked.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that. I’m going to close the door now, sir. Agent Ross is going to take care of you from here on in. Good luck, sir.”
Hecht went to close the door but Dixon put out a hand and stopped it mid-way. He leaned halfway out, his red-rimmed eyes searching the rubble across the street. Then he looked down at his boots and his whole body seemed to sag.
Dixon said, “I’m sorry.”
“Something wrong, sir?”
“Where’s the dog?”
“Dog?”
“Dutch? Did he make it?”
“Sheriff, maybe you better lay back down for a little—”
“Hernandez had a dog, son. His name was Dutch.”
“Oh, okay, hold on a second,” Hecht said and spoke into his sleeve once more. “This is Agent Hecht. Anybody at the scene find a K-9 dog? Answers to the name of Dutch? What? Repeat, I didn’t copy that…yeah, got it.”
He looked at Dixon, shaking his head.
“Gone?” Dixon said.
“Wait a minute…no. I believe that might be him over there, sir. Some of my men were patching him up and getting him some chow.”
Dixon swung his boots out of the back seat and looked back down the street.
Dutch was trotting slowly toward him. He was bandaged up pretty well, and he was limping a little bit, sure, but he looked darn good, all things considered. At least his tail was still wagging.
“Good boy,” the sheriff said, bending down to hug the dog around the neck. “Good boy, Dutch.”
81
THE BLACK RIVER
H awke’s radio squawked.
It was bloody tough going on the river. Driving rain, icy cold. The four canoes kept getting pinned against boulders by the raging torrents. Hawke pulled his paddle from the turbulent water and picked up the field radio lying between his feet. It was Saladin, reporting in, to Hawke’s great relief.
“Hawke. Do you copy? Is that you?”
“Go ahead, Saladin,” Hawke replied, “I told you I’d come back. Glad you’re still with us. I was beginning to worry. What’s your current position?”
“We just blew that primary west bridge. A lot of armor and troops went into the drink.”
“Well done!” It was the first good news in a long time. “Casualties, Saladin?”
“Minimal, but that could change rapidly. We are going up the side of the ravine en route to our scheduled rendezvous with Froggy. We are taking heavy fire now, but we should be there in twenty minutes. Some of us, anyway.”
