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“Ma’am?” the driver asks again.
She turns around.
Just several more blocks to go.
“Ignore them,” she says. “Keep on going.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The air inside the Suburban is now thick with tension, withHannah sensing growing fear and concern for what might happen next. Hannah checks the side street as they roll on by, 21st Street NW. Getting pretty close now.
Alec says, “Ma’am, there’s a roadblock up ahead. Four cruisers parked across the road. They also have deployed spike strips.”
Hannah shifts her position to look through the windshield. There’s a mess up ahead, with four DC Metro Police cruisers parked front bumper to trunk, stretching across Pennsylvania Avenue, lights flashing, officers outside wearing ballistic vests, some carrying shotguns.
“Do we have comms with the lead vehicle, or are we still being jammed?” she asks.
“Hold one, ma’am,” the driver says, and picks up a handheld Motorola radio and says, “Sparrow Two, Sparrow Two, this is Sparrow One. Do you copy? Over.”
Quickly the loud reply comes through the radio. “Sparrow One, this is Sparrow Two. Read you five by five.”
Hannah says, “Good. Tell them not to stop. Tell them they’re to open a path for us.”
Not even a moment of hesitation from her driver. “Sparrow Two, Raptor advises you to clear a path. No stopping.”
The answer comes back just as quickly. “Roger that, Sparrow One.”
She sees two things happen at once: the lead Suburban speeds up and aims for a point where there’s a gap between two police cruisers, and the three security officers in her Suburban take out their weapons.
“It’ll be all right, Jean,” she says.
No answer from her seatmate.
Alec says, “Make sure your seat belts and harnesses are tight.”
It happens in a moment, the details coming hard at her, as the lead Suburban rams through the two cruisers, forcing them back and shattering metal, glass, and bits of bumper up in the air, sparks flying, the tires sending up black smoke as they are shoved across the pavement.
The Suburban wobbles some and keeps on going. Her own Suburban follows, the armored SUV shuddering as it drives over the spike strips, but each Suburban has special tires that remain inflated.
She turns in her seat, sees the chaos back there, two of the cops raising shotguns but not firing. At least that’s a bit of much needed luck this morning.
“Alec, check on the lead.”
He picks up the portable Motorola, says, “Sparrow Two, this is Sparrow One. What’s your status?”
“All fine,” a voice replies.
“Good,” Hannah says. In a minute or two, IDs displayed, they pass through the gate blocking Pennsylvania Avenue and turn right at the Northwest Gate, reserved for White House staff and credentialed visitors.
A gate is lifted and the lead Suburban goes in—Hannah can see its tires are partially shredded—and then her Suburban passes through, the gate is closed, and now they are on White House grounds.
But they could be a million miles away from the Oval Office for all the good it does her.
The Secret Service members out here are part of the Uniformed Division. Most now are wearing tactical gear, fatigue clothing, ballistic vests and helmets, and carrying automatic rifles.
Hannah lowers her window as a mustached officer approaches. She displays her identification.
“We have an emerging crisis on our hands, and I need to see the president, as soon as possible,” she says.