Free The Last Jihad by Joel C Rosenberg Page B

a terrorist attack by air bags? After two years off nicotine, Norris suddenly found himself craving a cigarette.
    “John, I can’t even tell you—”
    “Bud? Bud, it’s Mac—is this…is this another one of your…your exercises?”
    At first, Norris was taken back at hearing MacPherson’s voice. Then he began laughing—more from pent-up nervous energy than the president’s lame but noble attempt at humor. The man’s voice faltered, but his spirit seemed strong.
    “Yes, sir. Didn’t you get the memo?”
    MacPherson laughed weakly, then began to cough.
    “Sir, are you—”
    But now it was Moore back on the line.
    “Are we cleared to move him, sir?”
    “Absolutely, do it.”
    Norris and his team watched the Apache video feed as the agents on the ground now quickly, carefully, professionally extracted Gambit’s stretcher from Stagecoach and positioned him in the back of the police helicopter. Sanchez positioned herself in the pilot’s seat, beside another agent, once an Army Reserve helicopter pilot. Agents carefully helped Moore climb into the chopper, along with two other plainclothes agents from Dodgeball, one a specially trained medic.
    As the chopper began to lift off, it was flanked by the two Apaches, led by the other police helicopter, flown by and packed with agents, and covered by a squadron of F-15s. On the ground, Secret Service vehicles and police cars began peeling away from the scene, going back to the airport to guard Air Force One. A few minutes later, a dozen more police and National Guard helicopters landed to carry away agents and top White House staff. Back in Washington, Norris turned to his team and looked each one in the eye.
    “Gambit is alive.”
    The op center erupted with applause. People began to breathe for the first time in hours.
    “Put me on all frequencies,” Norris told his deputy. “Ball Players, this is Home Plate. We’ve got good news. Gambit is alive. I repeat: Gambit is alive.”
    He paused—just for a moment—to let his words sink in, then quickly continued.
    “Checkmate is also secure. As is Megaphone. We haven’t lost any principal—not yet. But it was close. And I, for one, don’t think this thing is over. Not by a long shot. So listen up. We’re now at Threatcon Delta. We don’t know what’s out there. You may have your suspicions about who did this. But remember, that’s not our mission. Not tonight. Our mission is to make sure the inmates don’t rule the asylum. Our mission is vigilance, not vengeance. Everyone got that? So stay on your toes. Stay alert out there. And may God help us.”

FOUR
     
    Roni Barshevsky was almost there.
    He pulled his Mercedes onto the jam-packed access road leading to Ben Gurion International Airport near Tel Aviv. As news of the attack on the American president began to spread, an already busy travel season got dramatically busier. Tourists and businesspeople headed to the airport in droves, worried once again that being in Israel might not be safe, and slowing traffic to a crawl in the process.
    Unusually, however, Bennett didn’t seem to mind. He was glued to the unfolding drama and grateful not to be getting out of the car anytime soon. As the car inched forward, Erin McCoy in London translated the play-by-play coverage from the TV correspondents in Denver, Atlanta, New York, and Washington to Bennett in Israel.
    “Jon, they’ve just airlifted the president away from the scene.”
    “Is he alive?”
    “They’re not saying.”
    “Where are they headed?”
    “Don’t know. They’re not saying.”
    “What are they saying?”
    “They’ve just got video from some local station…hold on…ohmygosh…this is unbelievable…Jon, they’ve got video of the kamikaze plane heading for the motorcade—for the president’s limousine—and then something, I don’t know, something like a rocket or a missile or something comes shooting out of the back of one of the Secret Service trucks and hits the plane and this