“But why’d it jam our communications and not the CB radios?”

“It could be that proximity-wise they weren’t close enough, or-”

“Tom, proximity had nothing to do with it. Our radios were cutting in and out when we were on Deer Valley’s main runs. If this was an overall jam, the CBs would have been affected as well.”

“The other possibility Bates and his WHCA guys are kicking around is that the device can be tuned to jam specific frequencies and at different intervals.”

“On for a minute, off for twenty,” Scot said, more for his own benefit than Hollenbeck’s. “It got us used to the on-again, off-again status of the radios. Made us think it was some sort of natural anomaly.”

“Yup.”

“But for that, you’d have to already know at least what frequencies the Secret Service was using, and that’s a closely guarded secret.”

“Exactly. So, whoever was jamming had to have an inside line on the frequencies of not only our radios, but also Deer Valley’s and the Smocks.”

“Deer Valley’s wouldn’t be hard to get, but ours? Are you suggesting a leak? No way. Not possible.”

“I want you to stay quiet about this, Scot. Understand? I don’t want to start a witch hunt.”

“I wouldn’t worry about starting it. Pandora’s box is going to open all by itself. I’d be more worried about how you’re going to close it.”

21

A million things swirled through Scot’s mind as he and Hollenbeck made the rest of the ride to the command center in silence. He felt like that painting The Scream. The phrase, You’re only as strong as your weakest link kept piercing the chaotic jumble of his mind. The idea that someone on his team had leaked information to anyone, much less a source with hostile intentions, was unfathomable. Maybe the information wasn’t leaked, Scot tried to tell himself. The problem was, once it has been suggested that you have a leak, you become focused on it. It becomes hard to concentrate on any other possibilities.

When the Sno-Cat came to a halt, Harvath and Hollenbeck didn’t wait for the driver to get out of his cab and come around back to open their compartment. They were on the ground and on their way to the command center before the man got halfway around the machine.

“Tom, can I get my SIG back?” said Harvath, who figured someone on the team must have secured his sidearm for him when he was brought in unconscious last night.

“As long as you promise not to use it on any FBI agents. It’s in the lockdown cabinet in the command center. I left Longo in charge, so you can sign it out with him.”

Scot made his way to the extra large Winnebago that had been brought in from the Federal garage in Las Vegas to act as the primary communications and command center for the president’s visit. While the house the president was staying in, just fifty feet away, was also loaded with agents and electronics equipment, this was the nerve center of the operation.

Scot found Longo in back bent over a laptop, clicking away at the keys.

“Hollenbeck told me I could grab my SIG back from you.”

“Your what?” said Longo, distracted by the report he was working on. Written reports were the one thing Scot hadn’t ever been able to get used to. The Secret Service loved their paperwork.

“My SIG-Sauer. It’s about this long,” Harvath said, showing him with his hands, “blackish gray, and fires these things we call bullets when you pull on the trigger. If you want to find an apple you think might fit on your head, I’ll give you a little demonstration of how it works.”

“Very funny. Glad to see your accident didn’t damage your sense of humor. I’m sorry, the WHCAs have been crawling all over me about how the radios went down, and I’ve got to document every single thing. The report’s got me hung up.”

“Since when does the White House Communications Agency give the Secret Service orders?”

“Those guys are Department of Defense, just in civilian clothes. Hollenbeck said to cooperate with everyone. He’s really worried about how the Service is going to…hell, who am I kidding? He’s worried about how the Secret Service already looks on this one. We lost the president. I still can’t believe it. Now the FBI’s got their top pit bull coming in, and he’s bringing the Hostage Rescue Team with him. The special agents in charge of both the FBI and Secret Service Salt Lake field offices have been on the warpath around here, and I’m just trying to keep my head low so it doesn’t roll.”

“Listen, Chris, you’re not going to lose your head.”

“You don’t think so? Harvath, I hate to break it to you, but over two dozen agents are dead and/or missing, the president is gone, and we’ve got next to nothing lead-wise. Heads are definitely going to roll. You know I like you, but as head of the advance team on this one, it looks like you might be married to King Henry.” Being “married to King Henry” was an inside joke that referred to the British king who beheaded several of his wives after he had grown tired of them.

Chris hadn’t needed to say it. That thought was one of many flying around Harvath’s head, as well as a sense of crushing responsibility for the deaths of his fellow agents. Scot’s only hope of getting out of this one with his career intact was to be part of some significant breakthrough.

“Here’s your weapon,” said Longo as he turned from the cabinet, setting the pistol on the table and handing Harvath a clipboard. “Sign right there.”

Scot strapped on his holster, handed the signed clipboard back to Longo, and walked toward the door.

“You know where the term severance pay comes from, Scot?” said Longo as he hung the clipboard on a peg inside the cabinet and locked it again.

“No, but you’re going to tell me, right?”

Ignoring Harvath’s sarcasm, Longo continued. “It’s also from England. When prisoners were going to be beheaded, they offered the axman a little extra money to make sure he chopped their heads off with one, clean blow.”

“Thanks. I’ll be sure to remember that,” said Scot as he held the door to the Winnebago open a little longer than he should have, eliciting moans and shouts from the cold agents inside.

Crossing the compound toward the main house, Scot replayed the conversation with Longo in his mind. He knew that the other agents didn’t blame him. Scot Harvath had been single-handedly responsible for ushering in some of the most significant improvements in Secret Service training and tactical procedure in years. But he also knew that as head of the advance team, he had to bear a tremendous amount of the responsibility for what had happened.

Looking up at the sky and the still falling snow, Harvath felt that the agents not yet recovered by the search-and-rescue teams were a lost cause. The president, though, was a different story. He was probably still alive, and it was only a matter of time before demands for his ransom would be made.

Scot thought about Amanda lying in a hospital bed in Salt Lake, glad she would make a full recovery. He didn’t dare think about what conditions the president might be languishing in at this moment.

There was no question that Scot’s career was probably finished, at least with the Secret Service. He would be transferred to a less “sensitive” posting and would most likely be relegated to protecting third world delegates on visits to the United States…if even. He definitely would never be allowed to head up an advance team again or, for that matter, work another presidential protective detail.

He could return to the SEALs. His teammates had always thought Scot was better suited to offensive operations than defensive anyway, but he was too proud. He couldn’t go crawling back. Everyone would know that he had been responsible for the security arrangements for the president’s ski trip. The SEALs were an honorable operation and not something you ran back to with your tail between your legs when you failed someplace else. Failed-the word tasted bitter in his mouth.