Chapter 42

December Twenty-fourth 5:30 p.m. EST

John Duckworth entered the White House grounds through the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance, flashing his identification and waving at the agent on gate duty. The gate guard returned the wave and kept his hand raised as he exited the guard house.

"Merry Christmas, John," the guard said with broad smile. "I just wanted to let you know that we all appreciate what you're doing. It's damn nice of you to take all of these night shifts in a row so some of the married guys can have a little more time with their families. You ever need anything, just let me know."

Forcing a smile onto his face, John replied, "Merry Christmas to you, too. I've always been a bit of a night owl, so trading for the evening shifts hasn't been any problem at all. Besides, it seemed like the right thing to do."

With a final nod and a smile, the guard let him in. John entered the building itself through the North Portico. After following the tail end of the last tour group of the evening across the entrance hall, he exchanged a polite nod with the agents who kept an eye on the visitors, and descended to the ground floor offices of the Secret Service. Joe Gull, the Special Agent in Charge, was in the room chatting with John's supervisor and the supervisor's second in command, or whip.

"Hey, Joe," John greeted the SAIC.

"Hi John. I'm putting you on Gaff tonight," Joe replied, using the Service's nickname for the Vice President. "He's in town for the holidays, but he promises that he'll stay put in Number One Observatory Circle for the night. Oh. Another thing. Just to give you a heads up, you're scheduled to go to Beltsville next week for refresher training. Sorry for the delay in getting you there, but the AWOLs have made a mess of the schedule."

"Sounds good. Do I have time to hit the can before heading to the VP's house?"

"Sure. You don't have to be there until six."

John walked quickly to the west wing and the larger room that the Service maintained there. Inside, four men watched row upon row of monitors, speaking occasionally into their headsets. Sticking his head in the room, John gave a little wave with his left hand while reaching into his trench coat with the right.

With the home made suppressor mounted at the end of the barrel and the subsonic .22 caliber long rifle rounds in the clip, his semi-automatic pistol barely made more noise than a man clapping his hands as it spoke four times. After a brief pause, it fired again when one of the first shots proved to be non-fatal.

"You guys okay?" a voice said from the direction of Homeland Security's office a short distance down the hall.

"Yeah, we're fine," John called back.

Despite his assurances, he heard footsteps coming down the hall. Moments later his pistol barked again. This shot was louder than those before it: the poorly made suppressor was already starting to break down. He concealed the five bodies the best that he could before speaking a code word into the radio. He watched on the monitors as the other two agents he had recruited for Arthur approached the snipers on the opposite corners of the roofs of the east and west wings. As they had been instructed, they used their knives before taking the snipers' places.

After shutting down the communication system, he did a quick sweep of the rest of the west wing's ground floor. The situation room, photo and video rooms, and navy mess were all empty. The small Homeland Security office was also vacant: the one agent he had already taken care of was apparently the only one on duty at the White House during the holiday.

He double timed back to the SAIC's office. All three men were still there. They looked up curiously when he entered.

"Forget some... ," Joe began before the hollow tipped bullet hit him in the throat and silenced him forever.

John fired twice more.

"Sorry, Joe," he said sadly as he dragged the bodies behind the desk.

Returning to the surveillance room, he waited for the agents who would inevitably be sent to determine what the problem was with the communications system. By the time the fifth had arrived, the suppressor had ceased functioning completely. Unscrewing it, John threw it aside and waited to see if anyone else would come, whether to investigate the gunfire or the communications failure. The odds of the former weren't very high: even without the suppressor, the subsonic ammunition wasn't very loud and the walls were thick.

After ten minutes with no new arrivals, he made a quick call to Arthur before hiding a knife in his sleeve and heading out to pay a visit to key fixed sentry points.

After nodding at the closest of the fledglings who surrounded to White House to prevent anyone fleeing the building from making good on their escape, Arthur entered using the same route that John had earlier. The gate guard didn't even glance up as he triggered the switch that released the locks. After Arthur had passed, the guard went back to his dutiful surveillance of the street, not retaining any memory of the entry.

Arthur and John met in the Cross Hall that ran the length of the first floor before descending a flight of stairs to the Center Hall. Because of the holiday, the usual bustling crowds of administrative aides and minor functionaries were almost absent. That was one of the reasons that Arthur had chosen this day to act.

The few people who remained passed without so much as a curious glance; the reassuring presence of an agent forestalled any suspicion. They passed quickly through the Palm Room and along the West Colonnade until they were outside the President's secretary's office.

Arthur checked his watch. It was just past six: news of the disasters on the other side of the pond should be starting to arrive. With a gesture, he indicated that John should precede him. There were four Secret Service agents in the room: two by the door to the Oval Office, and the others by the door that Arthur and John came through. They became tense and alert as the pair entered, and only relaxed slightly when they recognized John as one of their own.

"Whatcha need, John?" one of them asked curiously.

Claws springing from his fingers, Arthur rushed forward in a blur. None of the four had time to shout a warning.

"You know what needs to be done next," Arthur said to John.

A look of disgust crossing his face, John nodded and returned to the colonnade. His first stop was the helicopter pad on the north lawn. The Marine pilot looked up expectantly from his checklist as John approached. John shot him three times: two to center mass, one to the head.

He winced as the shots echoed loudly. Too loudly. Grabbing the Marine's M9 sidearm, he raced back into the White House and sprinted up the steps to the second floor of the residential section, the place where the First Lady was getting ready for a charity event that the family was scheduled to attend that evening.

The agents assigned to the First Lady and the children were ready and waiting for him. He threw himself to the floor when shots rang out the moment he exited the stairwell. They had him caught in a crossfire from positions inside the West Sitting Hall to his right and the doorway to the Yellow Oval Room in front of him. Bracing himself, he stood and charged the agent by the Yellow Oval Room. As he raced across the hallway, most of the hail of bullets directed at him pulverized plaster and well polished wood in his wake, but others tore into his chest and limbs. Staggering and in agony, he shot his fellow agent at point blank range, the M9 roaring far more loudly than the .22 to which he had become accustomed.