Without Warning Page 5

  10

  Our driver hit the gas.

  We peeled out, fishtailing on the ice. Harris was in the front passenger seat, on his phone and already briefing someone back at the bureau on the nightmare unfolding around us. Matt was sitting to my right, staring out the window as round after round of mortars smashed into the roof and the walls of the north wing of the Capitol, where the Senate offices were located. I had my phone out. I was speed-dialing my bureau chief, Allen MacDonald, over and over again but kept being directed to voice mail.

  Unable to complete a call, I opened Twitter instead and started writing dispatches, 140 characters at a time. I quickly described the scene I’d witnessed inside the Capitol moments before and what was unfolding outside as well, putting specific focus on the fact that the attack was being waged by mortar fire, something I couldn’t remember ever happening inside the continental United States. Then I tweeted out my “breaking news” exclusive: authorities had arrested members of an alleged ISIS sleeper cell in Alabama that was stockpiling hundreds of mortar shells. I didn’t say where I’d gotten the information. Nor did I add other details. I hadn’t, after all, had the opportunity to find a second source. But I trusted Harris; he hadn’t steered me wrong yet. Given that the site of the State of the Union address was now under mortar attack for the first time in U.S. history, it seemed imperative to me to get the word out there that the U.S. government knew for a fact that ISIS operatives had apparently been in possession of—and thus had presumably been experimenting with—mortar rounds on American soil.

  Those were all the facts I had at the moment. But I hoped that by my getting them out there, other enterprising reporters would pick up the trail and hunt down more.

  Suddenly the driver stomped on the brakes and turned hard. We found ourselves twisting, turning, sliding twenty or thirty yards across the ice- and snow-covered pavement, barely coming to a halt in front of a Capitol police cruiser. Our driver put his window down and demanded to be let through. But he was told this exit on the north side—leading to Constitution Avenue and from there to Pennsylvania Avenue—had been sealed off until the president’s motorcade made it safely back to the White House. Harris flashed his badge and explained we urgently needed to get back to FBI headquarters, but the officer told us there was nothing he could do. The orders had come from the top. The only way out, he told us, was on the opposite side of the Capitol grounds.

  Infuriated, Harris ordered the driver to backtrack. He did, slamming the sedan into reverse, spinning the car around, and racing for the southeast gate, swerving to avoid the craters caused by errant mortar rounds.

  As we spilled onto Independence Avenue and headed west, lights flashing and siren blaring, I looked back at the Capitol. The scene was surreal, like something out of Hollywood. The entire north wing—the Senate side—was ablaze. Through the blowing, swirling snow, I could see additional mortar rounds arcing in from multiple directions. Several smashed into the great dome, which was soon engulfed in flames as well. Police cars, fire trucks, ambulances, and hazmat teams were racing to the scene from all directions, even as we raced away at ever-increasing speed.

  Our driver took a hard right turn on Third Street and headed for the intersection with Pennsylvania Avenue just a few blocks ahead. Matt and I were riveted on the Capitol out the window to our right. But when we heard Harris gasp and drop his phone, we both turned to see what in the world he was reacting to.

  Then I gasped as well. The president’s motorcade—what was left of it, anyway—was straight ahead, trying to advance westward on Pennsylvania, back to the White House. But it was under attack from RPG and automatic-weapons fire. At least four of the police cruisers that had been in the lead had smashed into one another. Now they were a raging inferno piled up in a way that blocked the path forward for the rest of the team, including the Beast and the decoy car. Both limousine drivers were trying to back up, but they had at least a dozen Chevy Suburbans behind them, also trying to back up and creating a logjam.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a brilliant flash of light. It originated from a high window of a large office building to the right of the Labor Department. Next I saw the contrail, and then one of the Suburbans behind the Beast erupted in a massive explosion. The SUV was lifted into the air and then flipped over, landing on its roof. A fraction of a second later, there was another flash of light, another contrail, and another Suburban was blown sky-high.

  Our driver slammed on the brakes and we went skidding for a good thirty or forty yards. Fortunately, with all the roads blocked off and cleared of traffic, there was no danger of smashing into anyone else. But we still were watching the president’s motorcade come under assault, and we were horrified at the sight.

  With a clear view of everything that was unfolding, I used my phone to take multiple pictures of both the motorcade and the Capitol and immediately tweeted them out. Just then I saw members of the Secret Service’s tactical unit open fire on the office building. Two agents fired RPGs into the window from which the incoming fire was emanating. At the same time, another agent popped out of the roof of one of the remaining Suburbans. He was armed with a .50-caliber machine gun. He pivoted toward the office building and let her rip, though not before a final rocket-propelled grenade was launched at the Beast. Switching my iPhone to video mode, I was filming as an RPG hit the side of the lead limo and burst into a ball of fire, even as both that limousine and the one behind it maneuvered to get out of the kill box, onto a sidewalk, and around the burning wreckage of the lead cars in front of them.

  Our driver started shouting into his wrist-mounted radio. He was explaining what he was seeing, and while I couldn’t hear what he was being told in return, it soon became obvious. We were now supposed to act as the lead car, a blocking force to get the president back to the White House. Our driver gunned the engine, and we raced for the intersection, fishtailing when we got there but narrowly making the left onto Pennsylvania Avenue. We couldn’t see anything but the snowstorm ahead of us. Luckily the boulevard was clear of traffic. D.C. Metro police cruisers blocked most of the access streets on either side of us, and several massive white-and-orange D.C. snowplows and salt-spreader trucks blocked the remaining ones. I figured we ought to be home free once the presidential limos worked their way around the burning vehicles currently blocking their path.

  “Here they come,” Matt said as the first limo found an opening and began to catch up with us.

  Harris and I craned our necks to get a look. For a moment, I saw only one of the limousines, but soon the second emerged through the flames and billowing smoke as well.

  “Floor it!” Harris shouted, and the driver did just that.

  Soon we were racing west on Pennsylvania, past the Canadian embassy, past the Newseum on our right and the National Gallery of Art on our left. But when we got to the Navy Memorial, all hell broke loose. I heard automatic gunfire erupting to our right. It seemed to be coming from one of the adjacent office buildings. But before I could pinpoint the exact location, one of the D.C. snowplows blocking a side street suddenly surged forward and pulled directly into our path. Our driver mashed the brakes and swerved left, but I knew instantly there was no way we were going to clear it, and I was right.

  11

  We slammed into the driver’s side of the enormous truck.

  There was a deafening crunch of metal on metal, and the windows in our car blew out. We all lurched forward. I saw the air bags deploy in the front seats, but in the back, neither Matt nor I wore seat belts. In the intensity of our exit from the Capitol, neither of us had even thought of it, and now we were being thrown around like rag dolls. The limousine behind us tried to swerve out of our way but couldn’t turn fast enough. It clipped the rear of our Lincoln Town Car, sending us spinning out into the middle of the street, where we were then broadsided by the second limousine seconds later.

  When we stopped moving, everything grew quiet. We were all choking on the smoke emanating from the explosive char
ge of the air bags, badly rattled by the crash. But we were still alive, and as best I could tell, I hadn’t broken any bones.

  “Everyone okay?” I asked, kicking open my door.

  We were hit by a frigid blast, but at least we could breathe.

  “I’m good,” Matt said. “But my door—it’s stuck.”

  I glanced over at him. Matt wasn’t good. He’d cracked his head. Blood was pouring down his face. I offered to help him, but he waved me off. He insisted he must look worse than he felt. He pulled out a handkerchief and applied pressure to the gash across his forehead.

  “Get out on my side,” I said, gritting my teeth against the bitter wind and snow.

  As my brother scrambled across the broken glass covering the backseat and exited through my side, I checked on Harris. He said he was fine and focused on our driver.

  “He’s not moving,” Harris said.

  “Does he have a pulse?” I asked.

  Harris checked, then shook his head. “No, he’s gone.”

  Just then I heard gunfire erupt again. It wasn’t close, but it wasn’t far enough away for comfort either. I scanned the sidewalks and the buildings around us but couldn’t find the source. Harris drew his service weapon, a Glock 9mm handgun. That wasn’t going to provide much protection if our attackers stormed into the street with automatic weapons, but it was better than nothing.

  Suddenly a pistol fired. This was close, directly to my left. I turned quickly and stared in horror as the driver of the snowplow—clad in a black parka and black ski mask—climbed out of his cab and fired twice more, aiming at Harris. The FBI agent wheeled around and fired once but then went down.

  The snowplow driver had also been hit by Harris’s return fire. He landed with a crash on the crumpled hood of the sedan. He was groaning in pain, but he was alive and began pulling himself to his feet. To my right, I saw Matt hit the deck. I knew I should have done the same. The gunfire to our right was getting louder by the second, and the snowplow driver with the pistol was no more than ten feet away. But with Harris down and in mortal danger, I instinctively climbed back into the car. I reached for our driver’s service weapon and yanked it from its holster under his jacket. The assailant was on his feet again and stumbling toward Harris. I didn’t know if Harris was dead or alive, but there was no time to hesitate. I fumbled for the safety, flicked it off, aimed through the shattered windshield, and fired four times. At least one and maybe two of the rounds hit their mark. The man snapped back violently, then went crashing to the snow-covered pavement.

  I immediately got out of the car and raced around the rear, the pistol in front of me, ready to fire again. But before I could, I saw Harris—on his back, on the freezing pavement—firing three more rounds into the hooded man.

  “Clear on this side!” he shouted.

  “Clear on this side too!” I shouted back.

  Harris scrambled to his feet. He grabbed the gun from the man. There was no doubt he was dead. A crimson pool was now growing around him.

  Harris tossed the terrorist’s gun to me. Harris himself was covered in snow and ice, but he was moving with ease. He didn’t look injured. It took me a moment, but then I realized he hadn’t been shot; he’d merely slipped on the ice while whirling around. The fall had probably saved his life. He urgently signaled for me to double back and move around the front side of the snowplow while he went around the other side, just in case the driver had a wingman. I quickly did as I was told. I motioned for Matt to stay down and gave him the extra pistol, just in case someone got by me.

  Then, as I peered around the front of the truck and the giant orange plow, Harris’s instincts proved right. There was a wingman. Standing no more than two yards from me was an enormous figure—at least six-foot-five—also wearing a black parka and a black hood and holding a submachine gun.

  He opened fire. I was able to duck just in time, but I could hear the rounds pinging off the cab and engine block. I could also hear the man running toward me, his heavy boots crunching in the snow. I crouched down and aimed around the corner, my hands trembling in fear as much as from the cold.

  But just as the man approached, I heard Harris shout into the night. “FBI—freeze!”

  The man didn’t comply. A split second later I heard three shots ring out and a body crashing to the ground.

  Again Harris yelled, “Clear!”

  My heart racing, adrenaline coursing through my system, I forced myself to stand. Then I cautiously stepped out around the front of the plow to find Harris standing over the corpse. He kicked the machine gun in my direction and pulled the hood off the dead man. He looked Libyan to me, or perhaps Algerian. Either way, with the dark eyes and the oversize beard, it was obvious he was either from North Africa or the Middle East, and I had no doubt he was ISIS, working for Abu Khalif.

  Two black Suburbans quickly arrived on the scene. In the distance, I could hear sirens coming from every direction. At first, I assumed the FBI had sent a team to help us. But the Suburbans didn’t come to a stop. They weren’t from the bureau. They were from the Secret Service. They’d come to rescue the president and get him and the First Lady back to the White House safe and sound.

  But no sooner had they arrived than automatic gunfire erupted again. This time the source was clear: an upper floor in a nearby office building. Again I could hear rounds pinging off the snowplow and the Suburbans. Harris and I ran for cover, but just then I heard the sizzle of another RPG streaking through the air. The force of the explosion sent Harris and me flying. I landed flat on my back and hard, in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue.

  The wind had been knocked out of me. Burning pain shot through my back and legs. Wincing, I forced myself onto my right side. I looked back at the Capitol, now completely engulfed in flames. I could see Harris several yards away, closer to the plow, dazed and trying to get to his feet.

  Then suddenly I found myself blinded by headlights. One of the limousines was headed right for me, but I was in too much pain to move. With bullets whizzing by us, I felt someone grab me and pull me aside just as the first of the two limos whooshed by. When I looked up, I found Matt standing over me. But over his shoulder I saw another flash of light, another contrail, and another RPG streaking through the air.

  “Matt, get down!” I yelled.

  The second Suburban exploded on contact. It flipped through the air, landing not more than twenty feet from us and directly in the path of the second limo as it was roaring by. This time it was I who grabbed Matt and pulled him toward me as the second limo rushed past, missing Matt’s left foot by inches. The driver of the second limo then hit the brakes, fishtailing past us. Right behind them were the Secret Service tactical units. They were returning fire, engaging the terrorists in the building beside us. But the president and his team were boxed in. With the storm, there were no choppers in the air. There would be no air support. Sharpshooters were trying to suppress the RPG fire, but they weren’t having much luck.

  How was this possible? I wondered. We were just blocks from the White House. But that didn’t really matter just now. All I knew for sure was that we had to get off this street, and fast.

  12

  These were not amateurs.

  Someone had been planning this attack, likely for months.

  I forced myself to get up, despite the pain. I could now see that Harris was, in fact, wounded. His trousers were shredded, and he was holding his leg. Matt rushed to his side and assessed his wounds. Then he took off his scarf and wrapped it around Harris’s left leg as a tourniquet. They were both hunched down behind the smoking wreckage of the sedan as the bullets kept flying in all directions.

  Clearly the sedan we had been riding in was undrivable. It had been totaled. It was also leaking gasoline, putting us in additional peril. Just as clear was that none of the other vehicles on this street were going to stop for us. They had one mission only—to protect the president of the United States—not to get us to safety.

  I turned to the snow
plow. The lights were on. The windshield wipers were still running. So was the engine. I scrambled across the icy pavement, opened the door of the cab, and then returned to Harris’s side.

  “Matt, let’s get him in the truck,” I shouted across the firefight. “We ought to be able to punch our way through in that.”

  Matt looked back at the snowplow. He said nothing. I could see the skepticism in his eyes. But he nodded. This was our only shot, and he knew it. He also knew there was no time to overthink it. We had to move fast. Harris was losing blood, and if another RPG was fired at this sedan, we’d all be finished.

  Careful to stay low, out of the line of fire, we dragged Harris through the snow, then lifted him up and laid him along the bench-style front seat. Matt climbed over him, shielding Harris’s body while at the same time taking care to keep his own head away from the passenger-side window. Once they were in, I climbed into the driver’s seat, put my seat belt on, revved the engine, and threw the Western Star 4800 into reverse. We jolted forward rather violently. I’d never driven anything so big and lacked any finesse whatsoever. It was all Matt could do to keep Harris from sliding off the seat. When I hit the brakes, we were thrown back. Grinding the gears something fierce, I finally jammed the stick into first gear, and now we were lurching forward—slowly, but we were moving.

  That said, my driving was the least of our worries. The bullets were coming hard and fast, as if we were heading into a rainstorm of gunfire. The longer we stayed on this street, the sooner we’d be dead. So I hit the gas, using the massive engine and the plow blade to push the fiery wreckage of the Suburbans out of our way. That, in turn, cleared a path for both limousines, and as I braked, the first limo shot forward immediately. To my surprise, however, the second limo pulled alongside us. I waited for it to catch up to its decoy. Instead, as I looked down through the blowing snow, I saw the agent in the front passenger seat frantically waving me to move forward. Baffled but in no position to ask questions, I depressed the accelerator and again we lurched ahead, heading west down Pennsylvania Avenue. Rather than drop in behind me, however, the Beast hugged my left flank, and then it became clear. This limo held the president, and the Secret Service driver was using us as a shield.