High Treason

  Dedication

  To those who defend our democracy against Potomac Fever.

  Epigraph

  “Plan your enterprises cautiously . . . carry them out boldly.”

  Sir Geoffroy de Charny

  from A Knight’s Own Book of Chivalry (c. 1350)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Sean McFate

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  “Goddammit!” said the vice president, hanging up the phone and sinking back into bed.

  “What is it, love?” asked his wife, still wearing pink eye shades.

  “That was the White House. They want me to attend the prayer breakfast.”

  Silence.

  “Apparently,” he continued, “the president is ‘sick.’”

  “Again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “God help him,” she said, rolling over to check the time. “We only have an hour.”

  “Actually, less. The Secret Service said we need to leave in twenty minutes.”

  She pulled the covers over her head. “Well, I’m sick, too! You’re going to have to pray solo, mister.”

  Henry Strickland smiled. They had been playing this game for forty years, she trying to lure him back into bed to play. He trying not to be late for work. He was late a lot.

  “Martha, you know you have to join me, and we can’t be late,” he said, lumbering out of bed.

  “Not on your life,” said a voice under the covers.

  “Duty before pleasure, and country before politics.”

  “Oh God, you’re serious. You’re really going to make me go.”

  “Amen,” he said, walking into a closet of monochromatic blue suits and white shirts. “Now, what should I wear?”

  The motorcade left the vice president’s front door precisely twenty minutes later. The 1890s white-brick mansion sat in the middle of the U.S. Naval Observatory, ten acres of premium land in the middle of Washington, DC, but you would never know it. Somehow the designers had hidden it among a thistle of buildings, trees, and asphalt that constituted the nation’s capital.

  “Honey, you’re crowding me,” said Martha, as she applied makeup with one hand while holding a compact mirror in the other. Across from the vice president sat an attractive woman, half their age.

  “Sir, your speech,” said the young aide, handing him a folder. “I’ve taken the liberty of modifying the president’s speech to fit your style.”

  “Thank you,” he said, flipping open the file. His lips moved as he read, and he scribbled in the margins. Every year the National Prayer Breakfast was held at the Washington Hilton Hotel on Connecticut Avenue. The Secret Service nicknamed it the “Hinckley Hilton” because it was where a mentally disturbed John Hinckley shot Ronald Reagan in 1981. His reason? To impress actress Jodie Foster, with whom he had an obsession. Threats lurk everywhere.

  Martha sat next to him, brushing rouge on her cheeks. Both ignored the sirens and flashing blue lights surrounding them. A logistical symphony, the thirty vehicles wound through the grounds of the U.S. Naval Observatory.

  “Mongoose, this is Pilot,” a voice crackled over the motorcade’s radio network. “Mongoose” was the convoy commander and “Pilot” was the lead vehicle, each in an armored Chevy Suburban.

  “Copy,” replied Mongoose.

  “Linking up with the Route car.” A Washington, DC, police cruiser awaited the motorcade at the front gate, its lights blazing. Once it spotted the black SUVs, it flipped on its siren and sped up Thirty-Fourth Street, toward the National Cathedral, clearing rush hour traffic for the motorcade.

  “Approaching Cleveland Avenue, now,” said Pilot over the radio. Other black SUVs followed, while four Harley-Davidson police motorcycles, or “sweepers,” zoomed ahead to block intersections and get cars out of the way. Normally the police would have closed the streets, but today’s motorcade was last-minute and the morning rush hour particularly stubborn. The motorcade slithered through the traffic like a black snake.

  The man called Mongoose looked like a college wrestler who had abandoned his weight class long ago but still moved like a champion. He checked his watch: 0736. On time.

  “Mongoose, Stagecoach has cleared the gate,” radioed the driver of the vice president’s limousine, code-named Stagecoach. If a Cadillac STS and an up-armored Hummer mated, they would produce a presidential limo. The Secret Service dubbed it “the Beast,” and it was battle proof. The windows could withstand armor-piercing bullets, and the body was made of a steel and titanium composite, like a tank. Each door was eight inches thick and weighed more than the fuselage door of a Boeing 757 jet. A reinforced five-inch steel plate ran under the car, shielding it from roadside bombs. The tires were a specially woven Kevlar, allowing the Beast to drive over spikes. If the tires were blasted away, it could escape at speed on steel rims. The fuel tank was encased in foam that prevented it from exploding, even if it suffered a direct hit. The limo was equipped with night vision cameras so it could drive in the dark, and the cabin was sealed with its own air supply in the event of a gas attack or the vehicle plunged into water. It even had a supply of the vice president’s blood type on board. The Beast was a mobile bunker with a leather interior and a shiny black paint job.

  The Beast wasn’t alone. The convoy had three of them, and they weaved in and out of traffic together, playing a game of three-car monte to conceal the vice president.

  “Jesus!” said Martha as the limo hit a pothole, causing a mascara smudge.

  “Honey, you look fine,” said Henry, without lifting his eyes from the speech.

  The motorcade sped through red lights and intersections without stopping, the sweepers keeping traffic at bay.

  “Mongoose, this is Pilot. We’re approaching the Calvert Street bridge, but there’s heavy congestion.”

  “Where, exactly?” asked Mongoose.

  “A block before the bridge, at the intersection of Calvert and Connecticut Avenue.”

  “How heavy?”

  “We’re rolling to a stop.”


  Not good, thought Mongoose. Seconds later, the entire convoy eased to a standstill in a narrow two-lane street. The first law of motorcade operations: Never Stop. He picked up the radio handset, “Sweepers, clear the traffic.”

  Police motorcycles sped around them, their riders waving furiously at stopped cars. Cars nosed closer to the curb, but not enough to let the motorcade pass. It was no use. Traffic was backed up for blocks, and the motorcade was engulfed. Behind Mongoose sat the three presidential limos, wedged in between more black SUVs and civilian cars. Cars honked, being late for work.

  “We’ve stopped. Is something wrong?” asked Martha.

  “It’s just a little traffic,” said Henry, still fixated on his speech. The aide sat attentively across from him, an open laptop on her knees.

  Unconvinced, Martha looked out the window. Upscale apartments lined the streets, sandwiched between big hotels, the kind that hold enormous conventions.

  Mongoose furled his brow.

  “There’s gridlock in every direction,” said Pilot.

  “What’s going on?” asked Mongoose.

  “There’s a three-car accident in the intersection, and it’s obstructing traffic in all travel lanes.” One car’s trunk was crumpled, another car’s right front smashed in, and a third was squashed in between them. Crushed glass and liquid covered the road; deflated air bags stuck out of car doors. The occupants sat on opposite curbs, glowering at each other as an angry fire truck, also stuck in the traffic, blasted its horn in the distance.

  “Are emergency vehicles on-site? Tow trucks?”

  “Negative. It looked like it just happened, but no one is seriously hurt.”

  “Shit,” Mongoose muttered, startling the driver next to him.

  “Everything OK, boss?” asked his driver, a former Marine still sporting a military high-and-tight haircut.

  No, Mongoose thought. Something isn’t right. He knew the area well, having driven these blocks and this bridge more times than he cared to admit while serving three presidents in twenty years. Gridlock was common during Washington rush hour, as were accidents. But they didn’t happen on this stretch of road. Not at this time of day, and not just as a motorcade was passing through. There were no coincidences in this line of work.

  It could be an ambush, thought Mongoose, scanning the tree-lined sidewalks. The last time his instincts pinged this hard was just before his platoon was attacked by the Taliban in Wanat, an armpit of a place in far eastern Afghanistan. He lost two friends that day. His thinking was the same then as now: Get out of the kill zone! Get off the X!

  “Can we take the Connecticut Avenue bridge?” he asked.

  “Negative. Accident traffic has backed it up, too,” said Pilot.

  Mongoose turned to his driver. “Can we make a U-turn here?”

  “We could, sir, but the Beast would never clear it.”

  Mongoose leaned forward on the dashboard, gauging the lane to their left. The accident had blocked opposing traffic, so it was clear, but his driver was right. The limo’s length was longer than the lane’s width, making a U-turn difficult but not impossible.

  “Stagecoach, can you execute a U-turn?” he asked over the radio.

  There was a pause. “It would take a twenty-point turn. Maybe a few minutes.”

  Too long, Mongoose thought, and too exposed. The only thing worse than being stuck in traffic was having the limo perpendicular to it, with no easy escape. It would make a perfect target for a broadside, something a clever ambush team could engineer using a fake traffic accident. There was only one way out—forward.

  “Pilot, Sweepers,” Mongoose said. “We need to get the Package moving. Make a hole.” The “Package” was the vice president.

  “Copy,” voices crackled over the network. Two black SUVs darted into the left lane and sped toward the accident. The sweepers directed surrounding traffic to inch away from the travel lane. A fire truck, an ambulance, and a tow truck arrived simultaneously.

  “Tow truck on-site,” said Pilot.

  “Clear the intersection!” said Mongoose. Firemen helped connect the tow truck cable to one of the wrecked vehicles.

  “Clear!” yelled one of the firemen, and the tow truck driver pulled a lever. The tow cable went instantly taught, and dragged one of the wrecks out of the intersection. Metal screeched on pavement, adding to the din of distant sirens and honks.

  “Sir, ten o’clock,” said Mongoose’s driver, still sitting in front of the stationary limos. Two burly men moved briskly down the sidewalk opposite them. Each man was wearing a bulky overcoat and carrying a briefcase. It was February, so outerwear was normal. However, they walked like soldiers, not lawyers.

  “Eyes on ten o’clock,” said Mongoose over the radio, alerting the convoy to the possible threat.

  “Seven o’clock,” someone said on the radio. Behind them, walking in the opposite direction, were two women in running clothes and pushing baby strollers. Each stroller’s bassinet was covered to keep the baby warm. Or conceal enough Semtex explosives to breach the Beast. The limo’s top was its least armored area. The blast could kill the occupants, and maybe that was their mission.

  “All vehicles, cover down on the Package,” said Mongoose. Multiple black SUVs lurched through the traffic and surrounded the three limos, encasing them behind a wall of armored Chevies.

  “Finished!” Martha exclaimed. “At least the traffic gave me a chance to look good.”

  “You look spectacular, dear,” said Henry without looking up.

  “Sir, perhaps this would be a good opportunity to mention the trade tariffs the president is pushing,” said the young aide.

  “At a prayer breakfast? Don’t you think that’s a little inappropriate?”

  “No.”

  “OK, let’s see if I can work it in.”

  The two men with briefcases continued to walk toward the baby strollers. Mongoose zoomed his binoculars on the men’s overcoats. Did they have bulges under the armpits, concealing weapons? What was in those briefcases? Did they look heavy?

  “Sir, above,” said the driver, nodding in the direction of a second-story open window directly across from them. “It just opened.”

  “Unusual to open windows in winter,” said Mongoose, training his binoculars on the windows, but saw nothing inside. “It’s a perfect overwatch position for heavy weapons.”

  “Affirmative,” said the driver, tenseness in his voice.

  “Honey, how long are we going to sit here?” asked Martha. “We should be there by now. We’re going to be late.”

  Henry looked up, as if lifted from a spell. “Tony, what’s the matter? Why can’t we get around this traffic?” Secret Service Agent Tony Russo sat in the front seat and was a combat vet, like Mongoose.

  “There’s an accident ahead, sir. Traffic is blocked in every direction, but we should be moving shortly,” he said unpersuasively.

  Mongoose saw a shadow move behind the open window. Below, the businessmen were approaching the women pushing baby strollers, about to converge across from the Beast. The timing was too perfect.

  The life of a Secret Service agent is like a cop’s. Duty is years of routine boredom, interspersed by seconds of absolute terror, when everything can go wrong. Poor judgment or slow reaction time is the difference between the quick and the dead. Now was such a moment for Mongoose.

  “Dismount, but do not draw,” Mongoose ordered. SUV doors opened, and Secret Service agents exited and stood behind their vehicle for cover, hands on holsters.

  Martha leaned forward with concern. “Tony, what’s going on?”

  “It’s probably nothing, ma’am,” he said. “Just doing our job.”

  “I hate being late. How long will we be stuck here?”

  “I’m sure we’ll be moving soon. Once we cross the bridge, it’s just five minutes to the Hilton.”

  Martha sat back and unconsciously chewed on a knuckle while looking out the window at the agents, hunched behind the SUVs. The doors facing t
he limo were open and she could see stacks of M4 carbines and smoke grenades lying on the passenger seats. She had never seen this before.

  “Henry, take a look,” she whispered to her husband, gesturing at the weapons.

  “It’s a good time for prayer,” mused Henry. “Maybe I can work this into my speech, too.”

  She thwacked him with her hand. “This is no time for jokes!”

  Mongoose sat in the vehicle in front of them, binoculars shifting between the men, the strollers, and the open window. Steady, he thought. Just keep walking, everyone.

  “Sir, should we apprehend them?” asked the driver.

  “Negative. Just let them pass,” Mongoose said. He had to be sure. This wasn’t Afghanistan; it was Washington, DC.

  “Sweepers, status?” asked Mongoose.

  “We’ve almost cleared a hole,” said Pilot. The tow truck was dragging the carcass of the last vehicle out of the travel lane, leaving a trail of green shattered glass and radiator fluid.

  “ETA, Pilot?”

  “One minute.”

  Too long, thought Mongoose. The two men slowed slightly as they approached the women. If there was an ambush, it would happen now.

  “Get ready,” said Mongoose over the radio. The agents tensed up, hands still on weapons and ready for a quick draw.

  One man nodded to the women, who ignored him. All kept walking. No movement in the window.

  Mongoose exhaled loudly. “Stand down. Stand down. All teams, stand down.”

  “Sir, look,” said his driver. Traffic was creeping forward.

  “Mongoose, we’ve cleared a hole,” said Pilot.

  “Move out!” Mongoose ordered. Agents scurried back into vehicles, and the motorcade accelerated around the traffic, sirens blaring.

  Thank God, thought Mongoose, heart still pounding inside his rib cage. Now to cross the bridge and get to the Hinckley Hilton. Five minutes, tops.

  “See, honey, I told you it was nothing to worry about,” said Henry.

  “We’re going to be late.”

  “No, we’re not. They’re just early,” he said with a grin, handing the speech back to the aide.

  Henry felt the blast wave through the Beast and saw the traffic ahead of them geyser upward, toward the heavens. A millisecond later, the BOOM of a colossal explosion threw him backward as the monstrous limo lifted off the ground and pointed into the blue sky. All the bulletproof windows spider-cracked as debris flailed the vehicle. Then the sickening fall. Henry felt weightless as they descended through the hole where the road should have been. Dozens of vehicles and pedestrians fell 130 feet to the gorge floor, crushing everyone below. The massive 1930s bridge imploded on top of them. Several tons of stone and steel buried the survivors alive.