plane.” Dennis Bunker owned his own small jet, and though he allowed others to fly him around, he still maintained a current commercial pilot's license. It was one of the reasons the military respected him. He could try his hand at almost anything that flew, having once been a distinguished combat flyer.
“What's the spread on this one?”
“Vikings by three,” the President answered. “That's just because of the home field. The teams are pretty even. I saw Wills against the Falcons last week. He's some kid.”
“Tony's all of that. A wonderful boy. Smart, marvelous attitude, spends a lot of time with kids.”
“How about we get him to be a spokesman for the anti-drug campaign?”
“He already does that in Chicago. I can call him if you want.”
Fowler turned. “Do it, Brent.”
Behind them Pete Connor and Helen D'Agustino relaxed on a couch. President Fowler knew them both to be football fans, and the President's TV room was large and comfortable.
“Anybody want a beer?” Fowler asked. He could not watch a ballgame without a beer.
“I'll get it,” D'Agustino said, heading for the refrigerator in the next room. It was the most curious thing about this most complex of men, “Daga” thought to herself. The man looked, dressed, walked, and acted like a patrician. He was a genuine intellectual, with the arrogance to match. But in front of a TV watching a football game — Fowler only watched baseball when his presidential duties required it — he was Joe Six-Pack, with a bowl of popcorn and a glass of beer, or two, or three. Of course, even here, his “anybody want a beer?” was a command. His bodyguards could not drink on duty, and Talbot never touched the stuff. Daga got herself a Diet Coke.
“Thank you,” Fowler said, when she handed the glass to her President. He was even more polite at football games. Perhaps, D'Agustino thought, because it was something he and his wife had done. She hoped that was true. It gave the man the humanity that he needed above all things.
“Wow! Bradley hit Wills hard enough that we heard it up here.” On the screen, both men got up and traded what looked like an emotional exchange but was probably a mutual laugh.
“Might as well get acquainted fast, Tim. They'll be seeing a lot of each other. Second and seven from the thirty-one, both teams just getting loosened up. That Bradley's a smart linebacker. He played off the center and filled the hole like he knew what was coming.”
“He certainly reads his keys well for a rook, and that Viking center made the Pro Bowl last year,” the color guy pointed out.
“Great ass on that Bradley kid,” Daga pointed out quietly.
“This women's lib stuff is going too far, Helen,” Pete said with a grin. He shifted positions on the couch to get his service revolver out of his kidney.
Gunther Bock and Marvin Russell stood on the sidewalk just outside the White House grounds among a crowd of a hundred or so tourists, most of whom aimed cameras at the executive mansion. They'd arrived in the city the previous evening, and tomorrow they'd tour the Capitol. Both wore ballcaps to protect them from what still felt like a summer sun. Bock had a camera draped around his neck on a Mickey Mouse strap. He snapped a few photos, mainly to blend in with the rest of the tourists. The real observations came from his trained mind. This was a much harder target than people realized. The buildings around the White House were all large enough that sharpshooters were provided with excellent perches concealed by the stonework. He knew that he was probably under surveillance right now, but they couldn't have the time or money to compare his likeness to every photo they had on their books, and he'd taken the trouble to alter his appearance enough to dispense with that worry.
The President's helicopter flew in and landed only a hundred meters from where he stood. A man with a man-portable SAM might stand a good chance of taking it out — except for the practical considerations. To be there at the right time was much harder than it seemed. The ideal way would be to have a small truck, perhaps one with a hole cut in the roof so that the missileer could stand, fire, and attempt his escape. Except for the riflemen who certainly perched on the surrounding buildings, and Bock had no illusions that such snipers would miss their targets. Americans had invented snapshooting, and their President would have the services of the best. Doubtless some of the people in this crowd of tourists were also Secret Service agents, and it was unlikely that he'd spot them.
The bomb could be driven here and detonated in a truck… depending on the protective measures that Ghosn had warned him about. Similarly, he might be able to deliver the weapon by truck to the immediate vicinity of the Capitol Building, perhaps at the time of the President's State of the Union Address… if the weapon were ready on time. That they weren't sure of, and there was also the question of shipping it here — three weeks, it would take. Latakia to Rotterdam, then transshipment to an American port. Baltimore was the closest major port. Norfolk/Newport News was next. Both handled lots of containerized shipping. They could fly it in, but airborne cargo was often X-rayed, and they could not risk that.
The idea was to catch the President on a weekend. It almost had to be a weekend for everything else to work. Everything else. Bock knew that he was violating one of his most important operational precepts — simplicity. But for this to have a chance of working, he had to arrange more than one incident, and he had to do it on a weekend. But the American President was only in the White House about half the time on weekends, and his movements between Washington, Ohio, and other places were unpredictable. The simplest security measure available to the President of the United States was the one they used: his movement schedule, as well-known as it might have been, was irregular and its precise details were often closely held. Bock needed at least a week's lead- time to set up his other arrangements — and that was optimistic — but it would be nearly impossible to get that seven days. It would actually have been easier to plan a simple assassination with conventional weapons. A small aircraft, for example, might be armed with SA-7 missiles… probably not. The President's helicopter undoubtedly had the best infra-red jammers available…
One chance. You get only one chance.
What if we are patient? What if we simply sit on the bomb for a year and bring it into the country for the next State of the Union speech? Getting the bomb close enough to the Capitol Building to destroy it and everyone in it should not be hard. He'd heard — and would see tomorrow — that the Capitol was a building of classical construction — lots of stone, but little structural ironwork… perhaps all they needed was patience.
But that wouldn't happen. Qati would not allow it. There was both the question of security, and the more important consideration that Qati thought himself a dying man, and dying men were not known for their patience.
And would it work in any case? How well did the Americans guard the areas where the President's presence was predictable well in advance? Were their radiological sensors in the area?
You'd put them there, wouldn't you?
Only one chance. You'll never be able to repeat this.
At least one week's advance notice, or you'll never achieve anything beyond mass murder.
Must be a place without the likely presence of radiological sensors. That eliminated Washington.
Bock started walking away from the black iron fence. His face did not betray the anger he felt.
“Back to the hotel?” Russell asked.
“Yes, why not?” Both men were still tired from their traveling anyway.
“Good, wanted to catch the ballgame. You know, that's about the only thing Fowler and I see eye to eye on?”
“Humph? What's that?”
“Football.” Russell laughed. “You know? Football. Okay, I'll teach it t'ya.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were in their rooms. Russell switched the TV to the local NBC channel.
“That was some drive, Tim. The Vikings had to convert six third downs, and two of them required measurements.”
“And one was a bad spot,” President Fowler said.
“Ref didn't think so.” Talbot chuckled.
They're holding Tony Wills to barely three yards a carry, and one of those was his twenty-yard break on the reverse that caught the Chargers napping.'
“A lot of work for three points, Tim, but they did get the three.”
“And now the Chargers get their chance at offense. The Vikings defense is a little iffy, with two of their starters out with minor injuries. I bet they're sorry to miss this one.”
The Chargers' quarterback took his first snap, faded back five steps and hurled the ball towards his flanker, slanting across the middle, but a hand tipped the ball, and it ended up in the surprised face of the Vikings' free
