Gideon's War / Hard Target

“Dahlgren!” Gideon said. “There are two men in that room who are pla

“You’ll need to come up with a better story if you want to save yourself from an extended stay at Leavenworth.”

“Listen to him, you shithead,” said Tillman. “You’re about to take your last breath.”

“Language,” clucked Dahlgren.

“Look,” said Gideon. “Let me open the door. You have nothing to lose. If I’m wrong, it’s just a few minutes of your time. But if I’m right, and you could have prevented the deaths of the president, vice president, and hundreds of senators and congressmen, you’ll go down in history as the man that let it happen.”

“You’re not opening any door,” said Dahlgren. But Gideon could see that his warning words had worked on Dahlgren as he signaled to two of the men. “Take them to the detention facility.” Then he withdrew his pistol from his holster. “I’ll open the goddamn door, and we’ll end this bullshit once and for all.

Wilmot and Collier heard the commotion outside the HVAC Access Room.

“What the hell is going on out there?” Collier asked as he peered through the keyhole. “There are Secret Service guys arresting other Secret Service guys.”

“Something’s wrong,” Wilmot said. “Initiate the sequence now.”

“It’ll take a minute thirty for the whole cycle.” Collier pecked at his keyboard and began typing.

“I thought you had it ready to go,” Wilmot said.

“I do. But the heat has to cycle on. First the gas, then the air handler heats up. The blowers don’t come on until the air reaches—”

“Okay. Just get it going.”

For the first time in a long while, Shanelle Klotz felt a flicker of hope. “You’re not going to make it, you know,” she said. “They’ll be here in—” She looked at the door. “Never mind, they’re already here.”

The knob on the locked door jiggled, then someone kicked at it.

“Shit,” said Wilmot.

Collier pecked away at the keys. “Just a few more seconds . . .”

Someone kicked at the door again.

Wilmot put down the small box with the red switch on it and grabbed the gun he had taken from the agentt t Athe agent. “We can’t wait any longer. You finish up in here. I’ll hold them off.”

“No, sir.” Collier stood. “Let me do it.”

“But we need you to initiate the sequence.”

“It’s done. I’ve armed it.” He retrieved the triggering device and handed it back to Wilmot. “All you have to do is flip that button.”

Wilmot regarded Collier, then handed him the gun.

Collier didn’t take it. “I’ve got something bigger in mind.”

“Thank you, son, for everything.”

Collier saluted. “I’m proud to have been your son.”

Wilmot mustered a smile he hoped disguised his contempt for Collier. It surprised him that he felt that way, especially in the face of Collier’s sacrifice.

President Erik Wade heard the sergeant at arms call out, “Madam Speaker, the President of the United States!” and he moved through the door into the House chamber.

Since Wade had been a governor before being elected president, he had only visited the House chamber a handful of times before. It was a little smaller, a little less grand than he’d remembered.

His security contingent was under instructions not to come on too strong. The room was full of people with long histories of service to the United States. At the moment this facility was probably as secure as Fort Knox. Wade wanted to press the flesh. He paused, shook hands with a California Democrat, a South Carolina Republican, a senator, a House member. Wade had a near-photographic memory and spoke to each person by name. The House member was a man he’d never met, but he managed to dredge up the congressman’s daughter’s name.

“How’s Christine’s leg, Ted?” he asked, referencing a soccer injury he’d read about in one of the many briefing books he’d absorbed since becoming president.

“Fine, Mr. President. Thank you for asking.” The lowly congressman’s face shone, surprised that the president even knew his name, much less the details of his daughter’s broken third metatarsal.

“Thank you for helping me out on this energy bill,” Wade said.

“I didn’t know I was,” the congressman said.

“Oh, I have confidence you will,” Wade said with a wink.

Then he was moving along, shaking more hands.

When he finally reached the podium, the text of his speech clutched in his left hand, he noticed that the Secret Service agents were whispering intently into their microphones.

They looked stirred up about something. But that was their job. If it was something serious, they’d grab him and hustle him to safety. Meanwhile, he had other things to think about.

The president shook hands with his vice president and smiled broadly. Erik Wade disliked the vice president, and he was sure it was mutual. But this was politics.

He handed a copy of his speech to the vice president, then kissed the Speaker on the cheek. He not only despised the Speaker, but he also feared her a little. An onlooker gauging their smiles might have thought the two were long-lost cousins. “Good to see you, Madam Speaker. You’re looking lovely as ever.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. President.”

Erik Wade laughed loudly. “As demanded by protocol, Madam Speaker, I now present you the text of my address.”

“As protocol demands, I cheerfully accept.” She then moved toward the microphone and said, “I have the high privilege and distinct honor to present the president of the United States.”

Erik Wade turned his back on the vice president and the Speaker and approached the dais.

“Thank you,” he said, holding up his hands as the room burst into applause. “Thank you. Thank you, folks. I thank you from the bottom of my heart . . .”

The president noticed it felt unusually chilly in the room. He wondered if somebody would do something about the heat. But he had no more time to think about it because, just then, a tremendous explosion rocked the room, and he felt himself falling.

56

WASHINGTON, DC

Hydrogen cyanide is an extremely volatile liquid at room temperature. It is highly flammable when mixed with air, and the smallest spark can cause an explosion.

When Dahlgren couldn’t kick open the door, he withdrew his Glock and took aim. But just as he was about to fire several shots, the door burst open and Collier flew out, arms wrapped tightly around one of the canisters. Dahlgren got off one shot before Collier smashed into him, and the two men tumbled to the ground.

Although Collier intended to ignite the tank himself, he didn’t need to. Dahlgren’s bullet struck the metal wall, perforated the tank, combusted the liquid, and caused an explosion. The concussive force killed Collier instantly, and the flames seared Dahlgren’s flesh, sending him into immediate cardiac arrest. Two other Secret Service agents, closer to Dahlgren, suffocated from the lack of oxygen, and a third agent would die later of cyanide poisoning.

Tillman was thrown against the wall while Gideon dived to the floor and just narrowly missed being hit by metal shrapnel. Fortunately, both men were far enough away from the fireball that the flames consumed nearly all the cyanide by the time it reached them. Their eyes stung and burned, and it would be weeks before Tillman could eat anything without the bitter taste of almonds in the back of his throat, but they both survived relatively unscathed.

Gideon stood and found his brother, who was on his knees and coughing into his hands. “You okay?” he asked. Tillman nodded but couldn’t speak. The dead agents lay sprawled by Collier and Dahlgren, and the wounded agent was crawling toward his comrades whom he could no longer help. Gideon knew there were two men in the Access Room, and only one of them was dead, which meant one of them—he assumed it was Wilmot—was still inside. He reached out toward Tillman and pulled his brother to his feet. Theawaaaaaaaaaa D‡n the two men picked their way through the rubble in the hall and headed for the room.