Without Warning Page 6

  We were taking withering fire on our right side, but we pressed on. Suddenly the passenger window exploded. Glass flew everywhere and I tromped harder on the accelerator. Despite the snow and ice, I had no problems with traction in this massive truck. Likewise, the Beast had no problems keeping up. We soon passed Freedom Plaza on our right and the Ronald Reagan International Trade Building on our left.

  Fifteenth Street was coming up fast. I had a decision to make. Should I be taking a hard right by the Willard Intercontinental hotel and the Treasury Department, heading eventually for the northwest gate of the White House? Or should I continue straight through the southeast checkpoint? The former was the classic route, the usual route, but for that very reason I suspected it was also the most perilous. It would snake us through a canyon of hotels and office buildings, any one of which might have more terrorists waiting for the president. I had no way to contact the Secret Service team in the presidential limo. But I did have Harris. I gave him both options, and he ordered me to go directly to the southeast checkpoint and then slam on the brakes, letting the Beast blow through the lowered gates, and then using the snowplow’s bulk to seal off the checkpoint from anyone else who might try to crash through.

  That was fine with me. The only problem was that I had now built up a head of steam and badly miscalculated how long it would take to stop.

  “Hold on!” I shouted as I slammed on the brakes.

  We all braced for impact, and the last thing I remembered seeing was Secret Service agents diving out of the gatehouse before we hit it directly, smashing it to smithereens.

  13

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  I awoke groggy and disoriented.

  “Welcome back,” said a kindly looking older gentleman.

  I said nothing, and he didn’t press me. I just stared at him and tried to figure out where I was. The man was probably in his mid- to late sixties. He was clearly a physician, wearing a white lab coat and a stethoscope around his neck. He was standing over me, holding a clipboard and checking my pulse.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  Again I said nothing.

  “Can you tell me your name?”

  I tried to form words, but nothing came out. He handed me a cup of room-temperature water. I took a small sip, and he asked me again.

  “Collins,” I whispered.

  “Is that your first name or last?”

  “Last.”

  “And your first?”

  “J. . . .”

  “J. what?”

  “J. B.”

  “What’s that short for?”

  I stared at him blankly.

  “What’s your full name, son?”

  “James,” I said finally. “James Bradley.”

  “Do you remember your birthday?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a brief pause while the doctor waited for the answer, but I said nothing. A moment later, with great patience, he asked me again to tell him the exact date of my birth.

  “Oh, uh . . . May—May 3.”

  “Good,” he said, apparently checking my answers against whatever was written on his clipboard. “Where?”

  “Where what?”

  “Where were you born?”

  “Maine,” I said. “Bar Harbor.” I was finally starting to feel more like myself, my head clearer and the answers to his questions coming more easily now.

  “What’s your mother’s name?”

  “Maggie.”

  “And your father?”

  “Next question,” I said tersely.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I need it for the files.”

  “No, you don’t,” I said, then noticed his name badge. “I’m not a minor, Dr. Weisberg. My father hasn’t been in the picture for over thirty years.”

  “Okay,” he said, shifting gears. “Do you know what day this is?”

  That took me a moment. “Tuesday—er, no, Wednesday, probably.”

  “Good,” said the doctor. “What’s your brother’s name?”

  “Matt—Matthew—where is he? Is he okay?”

  “A few stitches, a slight concussion, but yes, he’ll be fine,” he said.

  “Can I see him?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Weisberg said, nodding. “He’s in the room next door. You can see him in a few hours. Now, the other man you came in with? Do you remember his name?”

  “Harris?” I asked.

  “You tell me.”

  “Yeah, Harris,” I said. “Arthur Harris. Works for the FBI—and how is he?”

  “He’ll be fine.”

  “He was shot,” I said.

  “True, but he was lucky—only grazed,” Weisberg said. “It was a bit messy, but we patched him up. He’ll be good as new in no time.” He shone a penlight in my eyes and checked to see if my pupils were properly dilating.

  “So where exactly am I?” I asked.

  “GW,” he said, apparently knowing that I lived in the area and would understand that he meant George Washington University Hospital on Twenty-Third Street, just minutes from the White House. “It’s been a tough night. Considering the rest of the folks I’ve seen tonight, I’d have to say you guys are pretty lucky.”

  It was all coming back to me.

  “The president?” I asked. “Are he and the First Lady safe?”

  The doctor said nothing.

  “I’m not asking for anything confidential,” I insisted. “I don’t need to know where they are. I just want to know if they’re okay.”

  “They are,” he said. “Now, just a few more questions. Do you have any allergies?”

  “No.”

  “Do you have a heart condition?”

  “No.”

  “Diabetes?”

  “No.”

  “Are you currently on any medications?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you use any illegal narcotics?”

  “No.”

  “What about alcohol?”

  “What about it?”

  “Do you drink?”

  “I used to.”

  He waited.

  I didn’t want to say any more, but I knew he could already see where this was going. “A lot.”

  He said nothing.

  “I’m a recovering alcoholic,” I conceded.

  Again he waited patiently. So finally I told him. There was no reason not to. “Two years, five months, and twenty-eight days.”

  “Good for you—one day at a time,” he said. “Now look: you need to get some rest. There’s a team of agents from the bureau outside your room, and your brother’s room and Agent Harris’s room, to make sure you’re all safe. I’ll check back on you in a few hours, when the sun comes up. In the meantime, if you need anything, press this button and the nurses will take care of you.”

  “Got it,” I said. “And, Doc . . . I’m going to be okay, right? I didn’t lose a limb or a lung or something?”

  “Nothing so dramatic,” Weisberg said, writing a few final notes on my chart. “You got banged up pretty good out there. You have a mild concussion—certainly understandable. Still, given the injuries you sustained in December in Iraq—bullet wound to the right shoulder, significant burns due to a hand grenade, significant loss of blood, dehydration, and the like—I’d like to keep you for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours for observation, just to be safe.”

  There was no way that was going to happen. Too much was at stake. I had a story to chase and I couldn’t do it from a bed at George Washington University Hospital. But I knew better than to get into an argument I was sure to lose with my attending physician. So I just nodded. “Can you at least bring me my phone and turn on the TV?”

  “No, Mr. Collins,” he replied. “Right now you really need to rest.”

  “I realize that, Doctor, but I’m a reporter. I need to know what’s happening out there.”

  “The worst of it is over,” he said. “But there’s nothing you can do about it right now in any case. You don
’t work for the Times tonight. Tonight you’re a patient. My patient. So get some sleep, and I’ll see you in a few hours.”

  I glanced at the wall clock. It was 4:23 a.m. The sun would be coming up in about two and a half hours over a capital and a nation traumatized by the deadliest terror attack on American soil since September 11, 2001. But the question that kept haunting me was: What was coming next?

  14

  I was awakened by two investigators from the FBI just after 6 a.m.

  They had come to get a complete statement from me as to what I had seen and heard as the terrorist attacks unfolded the previous evening at the Capitol building and along Pennsylvania Avenue. The “taciturn twins”—they were about the same age, nearly the same height, similar build, similar off-the-rack suits (ugly ones, at that), with equally dour demeanors—interviewed me for about thirty minutes. They took detailed notes. They covered every conceivable angle but refused to answer any of my questions in return.

  “You sent out a Twitter message last night about an ISIS sleeper cell in Alabama,” one said.

  “Alleged ISIS sleeper cell,” I clarified.

  “Fine, alleged ISIS sleeper cell,” he replied. “You reported that authorities found hundreds of mortar shells in the perps’ apartment.”

  “And?” I asked, unclear where he was going.

  “How did you know any of that?” the investigator asked. “The news wasn’t public yet. No press release had been issued. You don’t live in Alabama.”

  “That’s my job, gentlemen,” I said. “That’s what I do—report things other reporters haven’t yet.”

  “But where did you get the information?”

  “Nice try,” I said. “You’re not really asking about my sources, are you?”

  “Mr. Collins, we need you to cooperate.”

  “I am cooperating,” I noted.

  “We need you to cooperate fully. We’re asking how you knew when so few people did at that point.”

  “Lots of people knew,” I countered. “The state police knew. The local authorities knew. The bureau knew. So did the White House, the CIA, Homeland Security, and the Joint Terrorism Task Force.” I was spitballing, trying to throw them off the trail. But I had no idea if it was working.

  “So, Mr. Collins, does it ever seem odd to you?” the lead agent now asked, trying a different tack.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That you keep winding up in the middle of terrorist attacks?”

  “No,” I said calmly.

  “Why not?” the agent asked, incredulous.

  “I’m a national security correspondent for the New York Times,” I responded. “I cover war and terrorism. I don’t expect to live a simple, easy life. If I did, I’d be writing for Travel + Leisure or Better Homes and Gardens.”

  “And it doesn’t worry you?” his partner pressed.

  “Of course it worries me,” I shot back. “It worries me that ISIS operatives are able to slip across our borders and make it to Washington and fire mortar shells at our Capitol, and nobody stops them. It worries me that you guys can’t protect the seat of our government from an attack everyone knew was coming. It worries me that the president of the United States doesn’t seem to have the will to crush ISIS once and for all even though they took the man captive, put him in a steel cage, threatened to douse him with kerosene and set him ablaze. It worries me that they tried to convert the entire country to their insane vision of Islam. It worries me that Abu Khalif is on a genocidal killing spree and the U.S. government doesn’t seem to have a plan to hunt him down and put a bullet between his eyes. Should I go on? You got all that? Or am I going too fast for you guys?”

  “We’re guessing you’re done talking?” said the lead agent.

  “Oh yeah, I’m done,” I snapped.

  “Here’s my card,” he said. “Please let us know if you think of anything else.”

  I took the card and put it down on the bed without looking at it.

  When they were gone, a nurse brought me a Styrofoam cup of black coffee. It wasn’t the worst I’d ever had, but it was close. I drank it anyway. It was going to be a long day, and I needed all the fuel I could get.

  Then came a knock on my door and my brother popped his head in. “You decent?” Matt asked.

  He looked pretty banged up—scrapes and bruises all over his face and nine stitches on his forehead—but when I asked, he said he felt fine. I waved him over and gave him a hug, grateful we were both still alive.

  When he asked about me, I was tempted to lie and say I was fine too. I didn’t want to look weak. Least of all in front of my big brother. Instead, I told him the truth, what I hadn’t even told Dr. Weisberg. I felt horrible. My neck was in wrenching pain from whiplash. One of the disks in my lower back was pinched and it was killing me. The muscles in both my legs were severely cramped. My backside was bruised. I wasn’t trying to complain, I insisted. I was just answering his question.

  Matt stared at me for a moment. I think my candor caught him off guard. Then he said, “Well, the good news is you don’t really look like you’ve been through a major terrorist attack.”

  At first I thought he was being sarcastic. But that wasn’t Matt’s style. It was mine. I hadn’t actually looked in a mirror yet. Now I did. I pulled myself out of bed, walked into the bathroom, and stared at my reflection. Behind my designer prescription glasses, my eyes were bloodshot. My salt-and-pepper goatee needed a trim. My bald head needed a fresh shave. But Matt was right. I had only the mildest of scrapes and contusions on my face. What injuries I’d sustained were real enough, to be sure, but my bruises and contusions weren’t immediately visible. In a day without much to be grateful for, I would take it.

  Harris came in just then. He was hobbling around on crutches, but as Dr. Weisberg had predicted, he was going to survive. The look on his face, however, told me immediately there was trouble.

  “Turn on the television,” he said without any pleasantries.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “The president is about to address the nation.”

  15

  “This is CNN Breaking News.”

  I moved over to the bed and sat down and urged Harris to take the chair to the right of the bed, as it was the only one in the room. He hesitated, but when I insisted, he finally accepted. It was clear he was in more discomfort than he was letting on. Matt came over and stood in the corner to my left.

  Soon we were transfixed as CNN showed a split screen. On one side was a live shot of the still-smoking U.S. Capitol; on the other was a view of the East Room of the White House and an empty podium bearing the presidential seal. On the lower portion of the screen, scrolling headlines noted various world leaders sending condolences to the American people. Moments later, Harrison Taylor—looking somber yet resolute—stepped to the podium and began to speak. It was surreal to think that I had been with him just a few hours earlier. How fast the world had changed.

  “My fellow Americans,” the president began, staring directly into the camera and looking like he hadn’t gotten any sleep at all. “Last night, enemies of the United States unleashed a cruel and cowardly attack. The attack occurred without warning. The terrorists targeted the heart of our capital, intending to decapitate our national leadership. But I am pleased to report that they were completely unsuccessful.”

  I was shocked. “Without warning”? How could he say such a thing? How much more warning did he need? A blind man could have seen ISIS coming. Abu Khalif couldn’t have been clearer. I’d published his words verbatim, for all the world to read. Surely the DNI and the directors of the CIA and DIA and FBI and Homeland Security and their tens of thousands of employees had read them. I knew the president had read them. Last night I’d practically taken a yellow highlighter and pushed them in his face in the Oval Office. Okay, so Khalif hadn’t given us the exact place and time of the attack, but was Taylor really so naive as to think he would?

  “Fortunately, I am safe and unharmed,” the president
continued. “As you can see, I am here in the White House, at my post, doing the work of the nation. The vice president is also safe and unharmed, as is the Speaker of the House. Neither are in Washington at the moment. Both are currently in secure, undisclosed locations, but I can assure you that they, too, are hard at work. Indeed, during the night, I conducted a secure video conference with both of them, as well as the National Security Council and the Joint Chiefs of Staff, assessing the damage and mapping out our response.

  “Moments ago, I finished another video conference, this one with the secretary-general of the United Nations and the leaders of Canada, Great Britain, France, and Germany, as well as the supreme commander of NATO. Each of them have pledged their full support to me as I manage this crisis, and to the people of the United States as we recover from these attacks and plan our response.

  “In less than an hour, I will be meeting with my full cabinet and will be conducting additional calls with the leaders of our allies around the world, all to make sure they have a clear and detailed understanding of what has been unfolding here and so that I can answer their questions and enlist their assistance.

  “In a moment, I will brief you on the damage that was inflicted last night and what is being done to bring those responsible to justice. But first I want to assure you that every step is being taken to prevent other attacks from happening on American soil.

  “First, I have directed the secretary of Homeland Security to shut down all civilian aviation to and from the United States and within the U.S. and our territories for at least forty-eight hours. This should give federal, state, and local authorities time to make sure no terror threats are being plotted in our skies and to plug any potential holes in our air-defense systems.