A Heartbeat Away - Michael Palmer [56]
“God, no!” Griff whispered. “No!!”
He screamed the word.
There was an explosion, and a patch of dark morning sky erupted into a bright ball of fire. The van shook from the force of the explosion. Griff watched through the window as fiery pieces from the helicopter fell to earth like meteorites.
CHAPTER 24
DAY 3
5:30 A.M. (EST)
Griff stared at the contrails of black smoke streaking the spotlit sky.
Jim Allaire and his advisors had created a decoy of him, and now that man was dead.
“I want to speak to the president,” Griff demanded. “Now!”
Stafford did not bother to turn around, nor did he respond to the request.
Griff rose from his seat, pushed past Angie, and yanked open the van’s side door. They were traveling at forty miles per hour, along empty roads that police cars and motorcycles had cleared of traffic. Cold air swept into the cabin. Other armored vehicles had joined in their procession, including an ambulance and a USSS Electronic Countermeasures Suburban, which was following several car lengths behind.
“Sergeant?” the driver called out to Stafford.
“Keep driving,” Chad Stafford said, drawing his sidearm and turning in his seat.
“Griff, what are you doing?” Angie shouted.
Griff was clinging to the frame of the open door, barely able to fight the rush of air.
“Get the president on that radio, now!” he screamed.
He held on, his body partway outside the moving van. His long, tangled hair snapped about like an unfettered sail in high winds.
“Get back inside the van this instant. That’s an order!” Stafford commanded.
One of the soldiers scrambled over Angie and grabbed Griff by the collar. But the husky young man was lacking the leverage to pull him back inside.
“Get me the president on that radio, or I swear to you, I’ll jump.”
Stafford motioned the driver to slow.
“Don’t slow the van down!” Griff yelled out. “Don’t do anything but get me Allaire on that goddamn radio.”
“Okay, okay, pal,” Stafford said. “Just pull it together and come back inside. That was a tough one. None of us expected it. I’ll get you the president.”
Griff allowed Angie and two of the soldiers to haul him back to his seat. He was hyperventilating and shaking. The van pulled to the curb and stopped.
Stafford turned back until his face and Griff’s were inches apart. He had holstered his sidearm.
“The president considers you an enemy of the United States,” he said. “I have orders to kill you if you try to escape. Don’t give me the pleasure.”
Griff snatched the radio away. There was a brief silence followed by a burst of static.
“What is it, Rhodes?” James Allaire snapped.
“Nobody told me you were sending a double out like that.”
“Because that’s not your concern.”
“That man and … and the pilot just died because people thought it was me.”
“Two pilots,” the president corrected. “Did you think this is some sort of game, Rhodes?”
“I can’t stand the killing. You set them up to die. You knew what was going to happen.”
“Correction. We suspected. That’s why we left some of Genesis’s monitors in place—so we could feed them whatever information we wanted them to have.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“Now pull yourself together, Rhodes. You’re not the only one appalled by death. We all are. You have your job to do. We have ours. Do you want to come back here and watch seven hundred more people die?… Do you?”
“No.”
“Well, then, never forget that these people we’re up against are resourceful and well financed enough to pull a missile out of the trunk of their car and shoot down a helicopter. The war on terrorism is just that. A war. Because it’s a war, people die. We didn’t choose our enemy, here. They chose us. Our only hope is that the casualties our people sustain will ultimately have some meaning. Right now, whether or not that happens, whether or not there is meaning to those deaths, depends on you. Is that clear?