Approaching the White House from the east, they pulled through the last checkpoint at Pennsylvania Avenue and Fifteenth Street. Reavers, the large linebacker type that had been along on the mission to grab Harut, drove the Suburban onto Hamilton Place and continued past the southern edge of the Treasury Building. The White House was now in sight, ahead and to the right, the top floor of the mansion visible above the trees.

On the right was the entrance to the underground parking garage that the terrorists had used just yesterday to assault and take the White House.

A white Suburban was now parked at the top of the ramp, blocking its use. Straight ahead was a closed gate that led onto the south grounds of the White House. Reavers extinguished the headlights and turned left onto East Executive Avenue. Continuing south for another fifty feet, Reavers took a hard right at the direction of Milt Adams and pulled up on the curb, the front grill of the truck stopping inches from the heavy black fence. As had already been decided, the blue van backed up onto the curb about twenty feet to the north of the Suburban and stopped with its rear bumper almost touching the fence. The large, black box van parked on the street, right in between the two vehicles, creating a space in the middle that would shield the men from prying eyes.

Doors began to open, and bodies piled out of all three vehicles.

Everyone, even Milt Adams, was dressed in the standard black Nomex jumpsuits worn by Navy SEALS. Three of Harris's SEALS set up a security perimeter on the outside of the vehicles, while four more unfurled a massive black tarp. In a little over a minute they had the tarp stretched over the top of all three vehicles and secured. With the tarp in place, two of the men went to work on the fence. With a small handheld hydraulic jack, they began prying apart the vertical bars so Rapp and Adams could pass through.

Harris and Rapp approached the fence and tried to spy a look at the roof of the White House. The trees and undergrowth between them and the residence were dense, hopefully dense enough to conceal their movements.

Harris raised his small secure Motorola radio to his mouth and asked,

"Slick, whada'ya got for me?"

Lying on his belly less than a block away, Charlie Wicker peered through a pair of night-vision binoculars. Wicker was set up on the backside of the pitched roof of the Treasury Building. Arriving thirty minutes in advance of the others, he had been watching the terrorist sitting atop the roof of the White House, trying to discern any patterns. Wicker lowered the lip mike on his headset and said, "He has no idea you're there. He spends most of his time looking west, over at that ugly building on the other side of the White House."

"Good," replied Harris.

"Anything else to report?"

Wicker squinted as he looked at the hooded man no more than one hundred fifty feet away—the only thing separating them was a half inch of bulletproof Plexiglas. ""Yeah… I think I can take this guy out with a pair of fifties. "Wicker was referring to a .50 caliber sniping rifle.

The heavy-caliber weapon was used by Special Forces snipers to take out targets at distances exceeding a mile.

"I'll keep that in mind. Let me know if he starts looking our way.

Over." Harris turned to Rapp.

"So far so good."

"Good." Rapp led the way and he, Harris, and Adams walked over to the blue van. The side cargo doors were open, revealing an array of equipment stacked in electronic racks, or, as the man sitting behind the main console called them, "pizza racks." Marcus Dumond was a twenty-six-year-old computer genius and almost convicted felon. Rapp had brought Dumond into the fold at Langley three years earlier. The young cyber genius had run into some trouble with the Feds while he was earning his master's degree in computer science at MIT.

He was alleged to have hacked into one of New York's largest banks and then transferred funds into several overseas accounts.

The part that interested the CIA was that Dumond wasn't caught because he left a trail; he was caught because he got drunk one night and bragged about his financial plunders to the wrong person.

At the time, Dumond was living with Steven Rapp, Mitch's younger brother. When the older Rapp heard about Dumond's problems with the FBI, he called Irene Kennedy and told her the hacker was worth a look.

Langley doesn't like to admit that they employ some of the world's best computer pirates, but these young cyber geeks are encouraged to hack into any and every computer system they can. Most of these hacking raids are directed at foreign companies, banks, governments, and military computer systems. But just getting into a system isn't enough. The challenge is to hack in, get the information, and get out without leaving a trace that the system was ever compromised.

The wiry Marcus Dumond poked his head out the open door, a cigarette hanging from his mouth and a pair of thick glasses perched on his nose.

"Commander Harris, can you tell your men to cut a hole in the tarp? I have to raise my communications boom."

Harris turned to one of his nearby men and told him to cut the hole.

Dumond then stepped out of the van with a large fanny pack. Over by the box van, a long folding table had been set up and a series of blueprints and schematics were being taped to the side of the van. Portable red-filter lights provided limited lighting and gave everyone's face an eerie, sallow look.

Setting the pack atop the table, Dumond opened it and extracted a small black object. Holding it in front of Rapp, Harris, and finally Adams, he said, "Micro video-and-audio surveillance unit. You guys have both used these, right?" Rapp and Harris nodded. The objects were about an inch and a half thick, about four inches long, and about three inches across.

At the top of the unit was a small, thin bump about the size of a pen tip. The tiny, highly sensitive microphone was encased in black foam.

Next to it was a thin three-inch fiber-optic cord, at the end of which was a tiny lens.

Dumond turned to Adams.

"These little babies have two settings, regular and pulse. The regular will last about three days, and the pulse will give you almost twelve.

The pulse still supplies full audio but only gives a snapshot every five seconds."

Dumond shrugged his shoulders.

"It's up to you guys how you want to use them, but I would suggest a little of both.. Just in case." Flipping the small unit over, Dusoaad said, "I've attached Velcro to the back of every unit. Here"-Dumond picked up a plastic bag—"are the corresponding Velcro patches. I've also thrown in these little alcohol wipes to clean the surface before you attach the Velcro patch, especially if you're in a place where there's a lot of dust, like a ventilation duct. I've packed twelve black and twelve white units."

Dumond turned to Rapp. "You know the routine. Install them at choke points and areas of high traffic. I can maneuver the cameras a little bit from remote, but I advise against it. It burns a lot of juice, so try to give us a good angle when you set them up. Any questions?" Dumond paused, giving them a chance, and then said, "Good, let's check your communications and get you on your way."

Dumond led the three men over to the blue van and retrieved two secure radios and headsets. Dumond had already checked out the units on the way over from Langley. Turning Adams around, Dumond placed the radio in a specially designed pocket that sat just above his left shoulder blade.

Dumond then placed the headset on Adams and showed him how to adjust the lip mike. In the meantime, Rapp placed his radio in his vest and turned his black baseball cap backward.

Over the top of the cap he secured the headset and checked the mike with Harris.