Near Dark (Scot Harvath #19)(16)
The Black Hawk banked northwest toward the Anacostia River. Soon, he could make out the lights of Nationals Park. Off in the distance, on their left, was the Tidal Basin and the Thomas Jefferson Memorial.
As they flew over the National Mall, depending on which window he peered through, he could see the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial beyond, as well as the Capitol on the other side of the helo.
D.C. was beautiful at night, particularly from the air. He had no idea where they were going.
After passing the White House, they continued northwest, flying over the Adams Morgan neighborhood and then the towns of Chevy Chase and Bethesda. Rockville and Gaithersburg slipped beneath the dark belly of the Black Hawk next.
Once they passed Frederick, Maryland, he had a pretty good idea of where they were headed. Years ago, as a Secret Service agent attached to the Presidential Protective Detail, he had made this trip many times. He knew the terrain below them like he knew the scars on his kitchen table. If the helicopter went down right now, he could lead everyone to safety, as well as to a handful of supply caches and covert redoubts.
Closing his eyes, he took a sip of his drink and listened to the chatter over his headset. It was all so familiar—the radio communications, the pounding of the rotor blades as they sliced through the pine-scented air, the bounce of the airframe as it was buffeted by updrafts from the mountainous forest several hundred feet beneath them.
Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the nostalgia, but he couldn’t help but be taken by what a gorgeous night it was to be in the air. He was sorry they weren’t flying with the doors open.
When the pilot gave the two-minute warning, he opened his eyes and looked at his watch. Twenty-eight minutes since they had passed the White House. Just as he remembered.
After checking his seatbelt restraints, he peered out the window and drained what was left in his cup. They were about to land on hallowed ground. It would have been disrespectful to hop out of the helo with a drink in his hand.
When the big bird came in, it came in hard and fast. It quickly flared and then touched down on the concrete helicopter landing zone. The rotor wash blew dust and small clumps of dirt in all directions.
Harvath glanced at his watch again. From the White House to Camp David, it had taken exactly thirty minutes. When everything had been absolutely turned upside down in his world, it was nice to return to something from his past that was still the same.
Sliding open the heavy door on the right side, one of the crew members hopped out and made sure all the passengers kept their heads low as they headed toward a line of waiting golf carts.
Piloting them was a team of young Marines. Harvath headed toward the nearest one.
The name on the driver’s perfectly pressed uniform was Garcia. He introduced himself to the Lance Corporal and she checked her list of berthing assignments.
Known officially as Naval Support Facility Thurmont, the two-hundred-acre Camp David retreat was established in 1942 under the FDR administration. Prior to the outbreak of World War II, the President’s favorite retreat had been the presidential yacht, the USS Potomac, also known as the “Floating White House.” But concerns over attacks, be they by air or by German U-boats, made it necessary to locate a safer getaway for the President.
The National Park Service had been charged with finding the right location. In addition to being extremely private, it also had to be at a high-enough elevation to remain cool in summer, so as not to exacerbate FDR’s asthma and allergies.
Despite the two-and-a-half-hour drive from the White House, Roosevelt had fallen in love with the site, calling it his “Shangri-La.” The name stuck—at least until Dwight Eisenhower was elected President. He found the name a little too fancy and changed it to “David” after his father and grandson. It had been known as Camp David ever since.
Scattered amongst the twenty-plus rough-hewn oak cabins painted moss green were a massive aircraft hangar, indoor and outdoor swimming pools, a three-tee, one-hole golf course, tennis and basketball courts, a horseshoe pit, an archery range, a field house, a bowling alley, a movie theater, a bar and grill, a gift shop, a fitness center, a chapel, a fire department, a health clinic, a shooting range, a mess hall, and an underground bomb shelter, as well as barracks and support structures for the sailors, Marines, and other military personnel who staffed and secured the facility.
“You’re going to be in Hawthorn, sir.”
Harvath knew it well. Considering that his previous visits to Camp David had been as a Secret Service agent guarding the President and as such had required him to sleep in the barracks, it was an honor to return as a guest and be staying in one of the cabins. Hawthorn in particular.
Hawthorn was next to Holly, the cabin where Winston Churchill had stayed in 1943. He had been the first foreign dignitary to visit Camp David, then Shangri-La. Legend had it that he and FDR had planned the D-Day invasion right on the Holly cabin’s porch.
Harvath was fascinated with Camp David’s history. Arguably, one of the most famous things to have happened there were the Camp David Accords—brokered by President Jimmy Carter and the heads of Israel and Egypt. But there were so many other, lesser known stories that he found intriguing—particularly from the days of the Soviet Union.
When Nikita Khrushchev visited in 1959, he shared President Eisenhower’s cabin with him. It turned out that, like Eisenhower, he was a big fan of American Westerns. The pair got better acquainted over movies such as High Noon, Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, and The Big Country.