Page 119 of Cross Down
“And if they don’t work?”
Sylvester says, “We proceed. Mission is always first.”
Casey goes through a leather pouch. “Boy, such big brass ones you have.”
“Screw you,” he says, bringing the truck to a halt. “Give me my ID.”
Casey passes over the large embossed plastic card, and Sylvester lowers the window on his side. Casey does the same, and a cop clambers up and looks inside the truck’s cabin.
Even before he and his companion ask, Sylvester and Casey pass over their forged government-issue identification cards. The cop’s nervous-looking face is sweating, and he almost drops the oversize card.
Even Sylvester thinks the gold-threaded and embossed ID cards look pretty intimidating. Underneath Sylvester’s name, photo, signature, and thumbprint is this:
UNDER ORDER OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, THIS INDIVIDUAL AUTHORIZED TO PASS THROUGH ALL LOCAL, REGIONAL, AND NATIONALCHECKPOINTS. ALSO AUTHORIZED TO TAKE COMMAND OF LOCAL LAW ENFORCEMENT AND USE ALL CIVILIAN AND LAW ENFORCEMENT RESOURCES AS NECESSARY.
The cop passes the card over. “Okay, go through. Any idea what the hell is going on?”
Sylvester shrugs. “I’m just following orders like everybody else.”
His companion gives Casey’s pass back and says, “Any chance this is some sort of drill?”
Sylvester revs up the diesel engine. “What, you think the biggest traffic jam ever to hit DC is going to be a drill?”
The cop nods. “Then…I mean, what are you here for? You and your truck?”
Sylvester shifts the truck into first. “When you have collapsed buildings and lots of destroyed cars, that’s the best way to move debris, right?”
The cop nods and jumps off the side of the truck, and Sylvester rolls up his window and starts driving toward the trees surrounding the White House grounds.
Casey says, “Jesus, did you see how pale that cop’s face was? I thought he was going to pass out.”
Another shift of the gear. “Oh, the kid was all right,” Sylvester says. “He was scared, but he knew one important thing.”
“What’s that?” Casey asks.
“To follow orders.”
Chapter
149
Grissom checks his watch.
Well, we’re at least five minutes ahead of schedule. Always good to have some slack in your timeline.
Kendricks says, “Look at that, sir. Just as planned. The Metro Police are holding traffic back, and there’s a single checkpoint coming up.”
“You have our IDs?”
“Absolutely, sir,” she says, removing two identification cards from her leather briefcase. The driver and security officer up front have similar cards, as do the officers in the vehicles behind them and the Pentagon Police up ahead.
He takes the card and says, “Amazing that an old contingency plan is still useful.”
“All a matter of timing, sir,” Kendricks says.
Grissom rubs the smooth plastic, eyes his photo. He looks…composed? At peace? Ready to do what’s necessary?
“My son, Nathan, and his unit were due to be rotated out in two days,” he says, voice soft. “Can you believe that? Just forty-eight hours later, he’d have been at Bagram Air Base, ready to come home. Instead, what was left of him was put in a metal box and sent home to Dover. And for what? A sacrifice he and thousands of others paid for with their blood and that this nation spent billions on—and for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’ll make sure that kind of soul-killing mistake never happens again.”
