The Last Jihad Read Free

had wanted to see the president’s victory lap up close and personal. Now all of them wanted it to be over so they, too, could get home for Thanksgiving.
    Some dozed off. Some updated their Palm Pilots. Others talked on cell phones with their editors or their spouses. A junior press aide offered them sandwiches, snacks, and fresh, hot coffee from Starbucks. This was the “A” team, everyone from ABC News and the Associated Press to the Washington Post and the Washington Times. Together, what the journalists on this bus alone wrote and spoke could be read, watched, or listened to by upwards of fifty million Americans by nine A.M. So they were handled with care by a White House press operation that wanted to make sure the “A” team didn’t add to their generally ingrained bias against conservative Republicans by also being hungry, cold, or in any other way uncomfortable. Sleep was something national political reporters learned to do without. Starbucks wasn’t.
    A former Army Times correspondent who covered the Gulf War, then moved back to his hometown to work for the Denver Post , Jackson had joined the New York Times less than ten days before Gambit announced his campaign for the GOP nomination. What a roller coaster since then, and he was getting tired. Maybe he needed a new assignment. Did the Times have a bureau in Bermuda? Maybe he should open one. Just get through today , Jackson thought to himself. There’ll be plenty of time for vacation soon enough . He glanced up to ask a question about the president’s weekend schedule.
    Across the aisle and leaning against the window sat Chuck Murray, the White House press secretary. Jackson noticed that for the first time since he’d met Murray a dozen years ago, “Answer Man” actually looked peaceful. His tie was off. His eyes were closed. His hands were folded gently across his chest, holding his walkie-talkie with a tiny black wire running up to an earpiece in his right ear. This allowed him to hear any critical internal communications without being overheard by the reporters on the bus. On the empty seat beside Murray lay a fresh yellow legal pad. No “to do” list. No phone calls to return. Nothing. This little PR campaign was just about over. Do or die, there was nothing else Murray or his press team could do to get the president’s approval ratings higher than they already were, and he knew it. So he relaxed. Jackson made a mental note: This guy’s good. Let him rest .
     
     
    Special Agent McKittrick was tired.
    He walked over to the Mr. Coffee machine near the western windows of the control tower, out of everyone’s way, itching to head home. He ripped open a tiny packet of creamer and sprinkled it into his latest cup. Then two packets of sugar, a little red stirrer, and voilà —a new man. Hardly. He took a sip—ouch, too hot—then turned back to the rest of the group.
    For an instant, McKittrick’s brain didn’t register what his eyes were seeing. The Gulfstream was coming in too fast, too high. Of course it was in a hurry to get on the ground. But get it right, for crying out loud. McKittrick knew each DIA runway was twelve thousand feet long. From his younger days as a Navy pilot, he figured the G4 needed only about three thousand feet to make a safe landing. But at this rate, the idiots were actually going to miss—or crash. No, that wasn’t it. The landing gear was going back up. The plane was actually increasing its speed and pulling up.
    “What the hell is going on, Foxtrot?” shouted the senior controller into his headset.
    When McKittrick saw the Gulfstream bank right towards the mountains, he knew.
    “Avalanche. Avalanche,” McKittrick shouted into his secure digital cell phone.
     
     
    Marcus Jackson saw the bus driver’s head snap to attention.
    A split second later, Chuck Murray bolted upright in his seat. His face was ashen.
    “What it is?” asked Jackson.
    Murray didn’t respond. He seemed momentarily paralyzed. Jackson