by Mich Moore
transmitter allowed him direct access to the East Saint Louis National Guard hotline. He fed the dispatcher the military priority code. After a lightning fast question-and-answer round to confirm his identity, he was placed on hold for the watch commander. He pulled on another plug and placed a second call to mission control at Scott Air Force Base. Colonel Higgins himself took the call. Clayton reported their situation. His superior assured him that an extraction team would be sent post haste. After several more questions, Higgins ended the call and Clayton rushed over to where Bosely was now once again working on Palladino and Smith. Both men were lying on their backs. Their outer armor bore multiple bullet holes, but that was not necessarily a dangerous thing. There were many layers of Kevlar and steel plating between the outer fabric and the inner lining, making the suits capable of simultaneously withstanding weapons blasts and flesh-shredding shrapnel. Best of all, the suits were pressurized so that its wearer's wounds could be kept in relative stasis until its wearer could be properly treated in a real surgery. Tonight that would be at Scott Air Force Base, a twenty-minute helo ride away.
That wasn't long, the men assured each other. Not long at all. They could make it.
Palladino began tossing from side to side. Bosely activated the suit's morphine drip to help keep him calm. Smith barely moved. The medic took his hand and squeezed it. "You're gonna make it, brother."
Clayton's radio headset suddenly came alive with voices. Clayton held up a hand and shouted into his mic. "Say again?"
The dispatcher was back on the line. "The primary suspect. What's he driving?"
"Himself," Clayton replied. "And he's not a suspect. He's from our unit, and he's in pursuit of three Cabo gang members that just tagged our unit."
"I didn't copy that. I need the make and model of the primary suspect's vehicle. What is he driving?"
"Himself!" Clayton screamed. "Where's the friggin' watch commander???"
There was a long sigh and then some back chatter. "You can drop the attitude, sir."
"GET OFF THE DAMN PHONE AND LET ME TALK TO A HUMAN BEING!"
Clayton shook his head and placed a thumb over his mic. "Off the record, Boz, I don't know if it's worth it anymore."
The watch commander finally came on the line. "This is Lieutenant Hirose, ESL Tactical Air Support Division. How may I help you, sir?"
"Listen, we've lost contact with a black body. I repeat: We have lost contact with a black body. It is in pursuit of three—uh ... gold or silver late model sports cars. Front and side armor. Hood-mounted automatic guns. We counted four suspects, believed to be Cabo gang members. All armed and extremely dangerous. Our objective is to regain control of the black body and then to capture the perps and hand them over to the authorities either here in East St. Louis or in Granite City."
"Understood."
"Also, call the control tower at Scott AFB and ask for the tazzle secretary. Give her your confirmation code: 12161960X-as-in-X-ray. This will let our guys know who you are. Do you copy?"
"Yes, sir. Please stay on the line while I place that call. There'll be a chopper in your airspace within twenty-two seconds. While you're waiting, I'll patch you through to the pilot's com-nav stat."
"Thank you."
Soon the thunderous pulse of the approaching Guard helicopter filled the air. Clayton and Bosely braved a peek through a bullethole in the side of the trailer. They could see trees begin to move in high winds, followed by a smattering of gunfire. A large, dark object descended into view. There it was: a lithe Bell-412 gunship. One pilot and one gunny crouched behind a skid-mounted canon. It hovered about eight meters above them.
A male voice began talking over Clayton's headset. "This is Four-Nightbird. We have confirmation from Scott Air Force base, code number 12161960X-as-in-X-ray. We'll move on your orders. Over."
"Four-Nightbird, this is Lieutenant Colonel Marcus Clayton of the American Army. Thanks for the assist. We've got a GPS locator on a black body target. If you can track it, you can also track our suspects. I'm transmitting the GPS code to you now. Do you copy?"
"Ten-four." A couple of seconds passed. "Got it."
"Good. Now step on the gas!"
The Four-Nightbird gunny gave a thumbs-up to his pilot, and the bird went full throttle into the night. According to their instruments, the target was heading south. The Four-Nightbird pilot swept in closer to the street, mindful of the power lines roped along each side of the road, and skirted a billboard just in time to see two of the suspect vehicles blow through a red light. A pack of street dogs darted out from a drain pipe and gave hot pursuit.
A light rain began to fall.
"This is Four-Nightbird. Uh, I've got two targets in sight. Headed northwest. Traffic ahead. Uh ... they're really moving. We're going in for a better look."
Clayton's voice boomed at him through his helmet mic. "That's not the target!"
Four-Nightbird's pilot pushed on the stick, and the gunship quickly gained speed.
They were almost on top of the two fleeing vehicles when a freeway overpass suddenly loomed into view.
The gunny shouted to the pilot, "TAKE HER UP!"
The pilot pulled hard on the collective, yanking the nose of the chopper upwards. The sky tilted crazily for a few terrifying seconds before the chopper leveled out. They cleared the overpass's guardrail by a meter.
Up ahead they could still make out the suspect vehicles, bobbing, weaving, and knocking their way through the light traffic. The gunny suspected that they were headed for the Poplar Bridge, which would take them into St. Louis, Missouri. Missouri was one of the fourteen original secession states, and American law enforcement would not be permitted to perform police actions there under any circumstances.
Gunny spoke into his microphone. "Suspects are headed for Interstate 64. Looks like they're going to make a run for Missouri. If they make it, we'll be over enemy territory. Do you copy?"
Clayton responded. "Roger. Continue pursuit. And—"
He was interrupted by a new voice over the radio. "This is Five-Nightbird. We have confirmation code 12161960X-as-in-X-ray. We're here to assist."
The second chopper flew in from the east and dropped into formation beside the first.
Clayton started to speak, but Four-Nightbird began talking over him.
"Five-Nightbird, the suspects are traveling west in the two Mazdas below. They have hood-mount guns and automatic weapons. We believe that they are headed into Missouri via the Poplar Bridge. Black body target has not been located yet."
Five-Nightbird responded. "Roger that. Uh-oh. We've got company."
A bulbous white helicopter with the large caption "Channel 4 Action News" emblazoned on its side had joined them, flying approximately ten meters below and off Four-Nightbird's port side. Four-Nightbird's pilot descended and got on the radio. "This is a police action. Please break off immediately."
The news helicopter pilot flew the vessel close enough so that Four-Nightbird could see the cameraman inside give him the finger.
Four-Nightbird's pilot turned to the gunny. "We should shoot 'em out of the sky."
The gunny shrugged. "There'd just be five more to take their place. They're as bad as flies."
A large explosion of light suddenly bloomed down on the street below.
"Whoa!"
The police choppers zoomed in for a better look. One of the suspect vehicles had apparently come upon several cars trapped in an intersection behind a red light and had simply blasted their way through. Two cars now lay roasting on their sides on the rain-slicked street.
Four-Nightbird's gunny had seen enough. He hailed Five-Nightbird's crew. "Okay. We're going in."
Four-Nightbird descended rapidly to street level.
In seconds they were flying directly behind the suspects.
"Okay, we're right on top of the targets."
The gunny heard Clayton curse him over his headset. "That's not the target!" And ignored him.
The suspect vehicles began a braiding course
, swerving around each other and other automobiles in order to prevent the Guard officers from getting a bead on them.
As the choppers dipped and dived to keep up with the perpetrators, Four-Nightbird muttered, "These guys should be driving for us."
"These guys need to be behind bars," Five-Nightbird's pilot corrected him.
Four-Nightbird spoke over the chopper's public address speaker. "This is the Illinois National Guard. Please pull over and place your hands on your head."
In response, the cars increased the speed of their evasive maneuvers.
Five-Nightbird's pilot chuckled. "They've had this crazy dog riding their tail for the last six klicks!"
Clayton's voice rang in their ears. "That's the target!"
"What?" The pilot peered down as the lead car weaved in and out of traffic, obviously trying to shake the animal. "What in the world?"
Four-Nightbird's gunny caught sight of one of the cars' hood gun swinging around towards them.
He hit the pilot in the arm and shouted, "PULL UP!" just as the chopper took a glancing hit in the tail section from somewhere behind them. The two men were jolted back into their seats as the chopper veered up sharply into a dangerous pitch.
The gunny shouted. "WATCH IT! YOU'RE GONNA STALL!"
The pilot shouted back. "SHUT UP! I KNOW WHAT I'M DOING!"
The gunship began to shimmy like a belly dancer. The pilot pushed down hard on the collective and brought the vessel's nose down. The chopper wobbled a bit but began to fly straight and level.
Five-Nightbird's gunny's shouted at them. "YOU'VE STILL GOT YOUR TAIL ROTOR! THERE'S