AT ONE THOUSAND feet Mick Reavers pulled the rip cord on his parachute, and his rapid descent stopped. Looking up, he checked to make sure his double canopy had unfurled itself properly, then maneuvered himself into position for the short glide onto the roof of the White House. Reavers didn't bother to look to see if his team members were in position above him.
His job was to stay on line so the others could follow.
Harris had also opened his chute as close to one thousand feet as possible. After he got himself sorted out, he did a quick count of the airfoils beneath him and moved in to line up behind Rostein. At the same time he looked over at the tall steeple of the Old Post Office and said,
"Slick, this is Whiskey Four. Do you copy? Over."
"I copy. Whiskey Four."
"We're getting close."
"Just give me the bingo." Harris floated down looking beyond his men at the street and traffic lights. Suddenly, he felt a gust of wind, and then a raindrop touched his cheek. Looking back to the east, he could see a wall of driving rain marching toward him The heavy stuff looked to be less than a mile away. Harris looked down and tried to judge how close Reavers was to touchdown. Harris checked his altimeter and then looked back to the lead chute.
He waited patiently, watching Reavers glide in from the darkness toward the roof of the White House.
Harris waited to the last possible moment and said, "Bingo, Slick. I repeat. Bingo!"
Wicker heard the call and began a slow, even exhale. He had already lowered his heart rate to fewer than forty beats a minute and was completely at ease. The terrorist was offering him a full-profile shot, and Wicker held the center of the crosshairs just above the man's ear.
With a steady constant pressure, he began to squeeze the trigger, and with a loud report the bullet was away.
The recoil from the massive rifle jolted Wicker back several inches.
Another round was chambered, and as he maneuvered his scope in an attempt to reacquire the target, he heard Berg's massive fifty launch its round at the target. Wicker brought his scope back in on the guard booth a second later, but there was nothing to shoot. The only thing in sight was a large hole in the bulletproof glass the size of a fist.
Reavers came in hot. He had felt the wind picking up and had adjusted accordingly, allowing himself to drop like a rock for thirty feet, and then at the last second, he pulled down on the risers and filled his chute with air. When his feet hit the roof, he opened the vents and got enough slack in his canopy to collapse one side of it. Clutching at his shoulder hooks, he pulled them from the main harness and wrestled the chute to the ground. Reavers bundled the chute quickly, threw it out of the way, all the while running for the guard booth. On the way, he reached for his machine gun and said, "Whiskey One is down and on the move."
By the time Reavers got to the guard booth, his silenced MP-10 was up and ready. As he looked inside, he saw the semi decapitated body of a terrorist lying on the floor. Reporting his findings, he said, "Tango one is out of commission." Reavers looked up for a second to see how the others were doing and then began to check the guard booth for booby traps.
Clark and Rostein came in much the same as Reavers.
There was a pattern that was developing, though, and as Reavers finished circling the guard booth, he grew alarmed.
Each man overshot the previous man's landing area by a good twenty feet.
Reavers looked up and saw his CO struggling to get down as the wind picked up. With no time to waste, Reavers began running toward the western edge of the roof.
As he did so, the rain started to fall.
Commander Harris was allowing himself to drop at a dangerous rate in an effort to get down before he overshot the landing area. With less than fifteen feet to go, he pulled on his risers as hard as he could. The chute fluffed with air, and just as the commander's feet hit the roof, a forty-mile-an-hour gust grabbed the parachute and yanked Harris toward the edge.