Dale Wilmot felt more alive than he had ever felt in his life. It was all coming together. Collier had screwed the first tank into the HVAC system. He was now working on the second one.
The voice of the comm specialist said, “Agent Busbee, Agent Weiner, radio check.”
Every agent was supposed to check in every fifteen minutes with the command station. If they didn’t, Command sent a radio check. They were supposed to respond immediately. If they didn’t, it meant something was wrong.
“Agent Busbee, Agent Weiner, radio check.”
Still no answer.
“Why aren’t they responding?” Wilmot leaned closer when Agent Klotz didn’t respond. “Tell me why they’re not responding.”
“They’re in the parking garage of the Russell Building,” she said. “Sometimes radios don’t work right in these bomb-hardened concrete structures. The rebar in the concrete creates interference.”
Wilmot studied her face.
“Agents Dennis and Roberts, Level Two station check, post nine,” said the comm specialist.
“So those guys are going to check on the other two guys, right?”
“Right.”
“Level Two, what’s that mean?”
“Guns drawn, possible assault.”
“How often does that happen?”
Agent Klotz cleared her throat nervously. “Not often.”
“If there’s a problem, will that affect us here?”
“Not unless there’s a general alarm.”
Collier nodded and straightened. “Then we’re all set.”
The Command voice came out of the speaker again. “POTUS arriving Station One. Two minutes to Station Two.”
Station One, Wilmot knew, was the entrance to the Capitol. Station Two was the door of the House chamber. There were still a few minutes to go. The plan was to wait until the president had begun his speech to release the cyanide. They had considered doing it as soon as he entered. But they wanted the doors closed, and they wanted him in the center of the room where he would be harder to protect.
Until then they had to endure the political theater of the president’s addres">
Collier armed the tanks while Wilmot waited. He inserted a screwdriver into the set screws under the valve stems. He cranked hard, and the set screw moved. One, two, three turns and there was a tiny hiss within the tank. Then he pulled out a small box with a red switch on it. It was a triggering device that would override the HVAC’s normal on/off switch. It worked remotely on a shortwave frequency as long as it was within twenty-five meters of the unit. Any distance greater than that and the jamming frequency would block the signal. When the red switch was flipped, the heat would come on. Then, ten seconds later, a solenoid inside the HVAC system would vent the two cyanide tanks directly into the hot air chamber, the squirrel cage blowers would kick on, and baffles in the system would direct all the air in the system directly into the House chamber.
Within another thirty seconds, the majority of the people in the room would be dead.
“POTUS is moving. Repeat, POTUS is moving.”
Wilmot felt a steady thrumming that ran through his entire body, as if someone had pressed the lowest key on a very large and powerful pipe organ.
“Give it to me,” Wilmot said.
Collier handed him the switch.
54
WASHINGTON, DC
President Erik Wade climbed out of the limousine in front of the Capitol, paused briefly to examine the facade of the great building as his wife joined him, and then began to walk up the stairs. At the top of the stairs he turned, waved to the small crowd assembled in front of the building, and then walked in.
Although this was his first State of the Union address, he wasn’t nervous. He had given enough public speeches in his life to know that he was no Cicero, but he’d do fine. He had prepared thoroughly and wouldn’t stumble over any words. His team on the House Majority side would make sure the applause was loud and plentiful. There were no major legislative issues at stake.
Yet he felt annoyed and apprehensive about the public reaction to the shootings at Priest River. He had been briefed on them by Deputy Director Dahlgren of the FBI just before heading over to the Rayburn building. It was that damned Gideon Davis again, causing problems where he had no business to be. Now Wade was going to have to address the disaster during what should have been a moment of glory, his place in a long parade of great men who had preceded him. He frowned as he reached the door of the building, and he went one way while his wife went the other. She would be seated in the gallery, nested among firefighters, hero cops, Medal of Honor winners, and guys in wheelchairs.
His cabinet was waiting. He shook each one’s hand, shared a joke or an elbow squeeze or an inquiry after a wife or child. By the time he’d reached the secretary of health and human services, his wife was already ensconced in the gallery and the cabinet officials were beginning to file into the House chamber.
< thhhhhhhhhhes atdiv height=“0em”>
He took a deep breath. It was almost showtime.
55
WASHINGTON, DC
Tillman and Gideon did a quick reconnoiter of the tunnels, which were full of steam pipes and fat electrical conduits. On any other day, it would have been an extraordinary tour of a secret American history—bricks dating back to the nineteenth century alongside heavy steel doors from the Cold War of the twentieth century next to optical fiber cables from the twenty-first. But today there was no time for reflection.
He glanced at his watch. A couple of minutes, that’s all the time they had before the president began.
They followed the tunnel around a vertical shaft and then found themselves in front of another door. This one read: Basement 2. They were on the floor with access to the HVAC system but had no way to get through the locked door. Above it was a security camera that, no doubt, transmitted their images back to a command post. Gideon hoped that in their tactical gear and caps they wouldn’t be recognizable.
“Agent Busbee, Agent Weiner, radio check,” a voice said over the earpiece Gideon had picked up from one of the agents.
“I’ve got an idea,” Gideon said.
He waved at the camera, then pointed at his microphone, and shook his head. Tillman, getting into the act, waved, too.
“Agent Busbee, we see two agents at an unauthorized location,” the voice on the radio said. “Is that you?”
Gideon kept his head down and pointed at the door, as though discussing something with Tillman. But he gave a big thumbs-up to the camera.
“Agent Busbee, is that Agent Weiner accompanying you?”
Gideon gave another thumbs-up. “Just bang on the door,” he said to Tillman. “They’ll think our radios are messed up.”
Tillman whacked on the door with the flat of his palms.
“Agents Busbee and Weiner, you are not authorized to be in your present location. Return to your post.”
Tillman continued to whack on the steel door. “They may open the door,” he said. “But when they do, there’s liable to be about ten guys with MP5s pointed right at our heads.”
“That’s what I’m counting on,” Gideon said.
Suddenly there was a scrabbling sound on the other side of the door. The door swung open, and four armed men stood around the door, P90s at low ready.
“Oh, my bad,” Tillman said. “No MP5s. They’ve all got P90s.”
After that came a chorus of “Down on the ground! Down on the ground! Down on the ground!”
Tillman and Gideon dropped slowly to one knee as a fifth man, the group leader, approached. He wore a weasly smile, his hair greased back and slick. It was Deputy Directo�einerr Dahlgren.
“Gideon Davis,” he said. “And this must be your brother, Tillman.”
They were just inside a long concrete hallway. And there, about twenty yards down the hallway, was a large red door with a name stenciled on it in black paint: HVAC ACCESS ROOM.