by Mich Moore
A THIRD SUSPECT RIGHT BELOW US! I'M RETURNING FIRE!"
Five-Nightbird's gunny stood and aimed his canon towards the street below. The pilot braked the gunship to let the third shooter's momentum take him to a spot just ahead and to the right of them. When they were a good ten meters away, the gunny opened fire. The first rounds struck the road, sparking it. He signaled the pilot to descend.
When they were about only three meters off the ground, he was able to put the fleeing vehicle directly into his sights.
"I HAVE THE SUSPECT WITHIN RANGE. I'M GOING TO FIRE!"
A light rain began to fall and obscure their vision. They needed a clearer shot. The pilot brought the gunship down farther so that they were just behind the car's tail. The gunny stepped outside the cabin, stuck his feet into the skid stirrups, and grabbed the canon's handlebars. His finger squeezed on the trigger ... just as the dog shot out from between their skids and directly into his scope. Startled, the gunny's shot went wild and smacked into a telephone pole, tearing off its transformer. "Hell!" The telephone pole lit up like a Christmas tree.
The pilot suddenly sat forward in his chair to peer through the chopper's canopy. "What's going on here?"
The gunship's headlight was illuminating the animal's backside. All four of its legs seemed to be in the air as it matched the breakneck speed of the car with impossible ten-meter long strides. The pilot and the gunny exchanged brief, perplexed looks.
Four-Nightbird fell in behind them. "We're okay!" The gunny said. "Let's close this deal and go home!"
Ahead, the cars made a sharp turn at the next intersection. Both choppers executed ninety-degree banking turns to the right and followed. Now they could see that all three of the suspect vehicles were traveling together. Thankfully, the traffic had dwindled done to almost nothing. The I-64 onramp beckoned up ahead.
Something large and white flashed across both the Guard helicopters' bows. The news chopper was diving down to treetop level, the cameraman dangling outside the cabin door with his camera pointed at the fleeing assailants.
Four-Nightbird's gunny swore. "I've had enough of this." He grabbed his pistol. "Take her down!"
When the news chopper was within range, the gunny squeezed off four shots. The cameraman caught at least one bullet because he suddenly grabbed his leg, dropped his camera, and tumbled back into the helicopter's cabin. The white helo finally veered off.
Four-Nightbird hurried to rejoin Five-Nightbird. The chase was now happening at the entrance to Interstate 64.
Four-Nightbird's pilot pointed downward to movement detected behind the last suspect vehicle. Unbelievably, the dog was still traveling with them and running so fast that it was almost neck and rear bumper with the suspect vehicles.
The four officers watched in amazement as the cars zoomed up the on ramp and accelerated onto the Poplar Bridge.
The dog was still there riding their rear bumpers, easily matching their speed.
Four-Nightbird pilot's eyes scraped against his own speedometer. It read 120 knots. Numbing fear gripped him. The animal was moving at a sustained speed of over two-hundred kilometers per hour. He threw a wild look at the gunny. "That ain't no dog."
One of the suspects suddenly swerved and clipped the rear of a motor home loitering in the middle lane. The Cabo vehicle hydroplaned on the wet road for several meters, recovered, and then jerked into the fast lane. The RV was now directly in the path of the animal, who was coming up too fast to brake. Right before it smacked the rear of the coach, it suddenly stopped, extended its front paws towards the road and then somersaulted vertically into the air. It continued on this trajectory—straight up—until gravity began to slow it down. The chopper pilots watched in disbelief as the creature reached its apogee a good fifteen meters in the air, stretched out to its full length and then gracefully fell back down towards the earth.
Four-Nightbird's gunny shouted into his headset. "What the heck is this thing???"
The animal landed on all fours but then lost its balance and began to tumble out of control, hitting various cars and trucks along the way. After about ten such rotations, it managed to regain its footing. It then changed its trajectory with digital speed and quickly caught up with the gunmen. When it was running flush with the rearmost Cabo car, hot gunfire spit out of the car's driver side window. The animal immediately decelerated and fell behind the assailants. The first helicopter pilot radioed back to Clayton. He was practically shouting now. "They've gotten off on Memorial! Heading north!"
"Follow him!" Clayton shouted back. He turned to Bosely. "You think the Saint Louis heat will hassle them?"
"I don't know. Missouri and Illinois have limited reciprocity. They might not arrest them, but if they see Pete ... "
Clayton spat. "Then all bets are off." He clicked the radio's TALK button. "Four-Nightbird, where's the target?" he asked.
"Right behind your perps."
"Can you try and cut him off?"
"Who? The perps?"
"The target! Our black body!"
"Negative. If I get any closer I'll be out of legal limits."
"Understood. Are you transmitting your position to us?"
"Affirmative."
Clayton turned to Bosely. "They're gonna be out of our range in a minute, so I'm gonna bounce their signal to Higgins. They'll have to do DAT recovery. Flem and I are going to do another sweep of the area and make sure we don't have any more HCs popping up." He stuffed several gun magazines into his pockets. "You and Mackey round up the other DATs and the rest of the horses and stay with the colonel and Smith in the back-to-back position. We don't need any more surprises."
Bosely got up to go. Clayton called after him. "And make sure the DATs don't see Leo."
Bosely threw up his hands. "How am I gonna do that? He's a friggin' horse!"
"Put a blanket over him!"
Bosely's hands went higher. "And where am I going to find a blanket out here?"
"Use your thermal blanket, dumbass! Christ, do I have to do all of the thinking out here?"
As soon as the Mazdas crossed the border into St. Louis, Missouri, the cars split north and south. The helicopters did the same. Four-Nightbird stayed with the sole car being tailed by the black body. They were headed north. The helicopter almost lost the vehicle as they rose and dipped in between office buildings and highway structures, surfing the city, but caught up with them at the intersection of Washington Avenue and North 7th Street, close to the Edward Jones Dome. Unlike the majority of Midwest cities, St. Louis, warm and cozy in the Advance South's security blanket, had seen no need for a curfew. So although it was nearly ten o'clock in the evening, the streets were still bustling with high-end shoppers, international tourists and theater-goers ... literally herds of elite consumers shuffling carefree amongst the city's hoi polloi. As the Guard chopper burst in on this idyllic urban scene, many previously incurious faces turned upwards like startled moonflowers, tracking the helicopter charging directly overhead. The vehicle being driven by the Cabo gunmen hurtled through the intersection, narrowly missing several pedestrians and sending many others diving onto the sidewalks. It tried to execute a sharp left turn but instead slammed into a group of sand barrels. This elicited excited ooh's and ahh's from a group of drunk college types. The engine began to crackle and tick, tantalizing the onlookers with the prospect of exploding in a raging cloud of fire and metal. The driver briefly opened his door and then slammed it shut. Breaking glass could be heard as feet began to frantically kick at the rear window.
Dramatic scenes like this did not fall into a Midwesterner's lap every day, and the moment clearly called for some type of spontaneous celebration. Several young men ran out of a nearby bar, beer mugs hoisted high, and danced around the pending bonfire. Schoolgirls gathered round with their cell phones to take pictures and chatter. An elderly woman wearing a ridiculous blue wig and clutching a gang of shopping bags crept up behind the vehicle for a better view.
The situation became more energized as four police cru
isers bulging with Saint Louis police officers converged noisily at the intersection, pulling up just in time to avoid plowing into a knot of gawking gym rats. One of the officers leaned out of his car window with a megaphone and yelled, "LADY, GET AWAY FROM THERE!"
The old woman merely set down her bags and moved closer to the ticking car.
A carnival atmosphere took hold of the area. A man riding a skateboard rode over to the old woman and snatched off her wig, exposing her near bald head for all to see. The young drunks from the bar roared with laughter.
A teenager wearing a Charlie Brown sweatshirt was suddenly center stage when she stuck out a manicured finger and shouted loudly, "LOOK OUT!" Heads turned to follow her pointing.
There was a heavy layer of fog rolling in from the black Mississippi river.
Someone called out, "HEY, DWAYNE! CHECK THIS OUT!"
The DAT emerged from the mist and slowly walked down the middle of North 7th Street towards the crowds. It moved very slowly. Very deliberately. Awash in the glow of neon lights, it bore a likeness to an armored cheetah. But it was taller and more streamlined. A young man, either high on terror or drugs, started to laugh like a hyena and chucked an open can of beer at its head. The DAT's right hand shot up, caught the projectile in midair, and then torpedoed it back to the thrower, hitting him squarely in the chest and bowling him over. Fifty or so bystanders, close to the