Carl reloaded and waited. Five seconds later, they flashed past the disarrayed gaggle of pursuit vehicles and he raked them again with another full clip. He didn’t get them all, but he did a good amount of damage. Two of the SUVs were out of commission with blasted-out windows, smoking engines, and multiple holes in their front grills and side panels. A couple others had minor damage but he’d given the drivers something to think about, something to fear.
Carl closed the personnel door and hollered. “Can you get through that median wall?” He stepped forward and pointed at the center concrete barriers.
“Let’s try!” Dutch swerved as far left as he could without leaving the pavement, then swerved back to the right and gunned the engine. The tires chirped under the sudden thrust of the big diesel engine and the APC plowed through the median, knocking two of the heavy concrete barriers off their footings. They were driving south again, this time on the correct side of the highway. Then the APC was hit by another RPG and the back end was knocked a hundred eighty degrees. In an instant, they were racing north on the southbound side of the highway.
“Damn, I think they took out a couple of the starboard tires! These things were built tough back in the day, capable of handling almost any terrain or damage, but I’ll be surprised if I can keep it above thirty-five now. They’re gonna have us boxed in PDQ.”
Army talk…Pretty Damn Quick. “Next exit,” Carl ordered.
The exit they took was actually a southbound onramp.
Three said, “Boss, the director found you some help.”
An unknown voice began issuing commands, and Carl wasn’t about to argue. They were out of options.
“APC, this is Hammerhead Two-Five-Zero. Get back on the highway ASAP.”
“Copy that.” Carl hollered, “Hard left! Get up the slope and back on the highway.”
The APC hopped the curb and headed south on the frontage road, then angled up the dirt embankment and crashed through the guardrail, so they were back on the highway and heading south.
“They’re right behind us,” the driver said.
The APC was losing speed fast, and the sound of grating metal echoed through the cabin. An SUV followed, closing the distance rapidly. The other two cars sped ahead on the frontage street and sped up the on-ramp half a mile ahead, then stopped in the middle of the highway.
“APC, Hammerhead Two-Five-Zero. Stop and hold your position under the next overpass.”
“Copy,” Carl said, then relayed the instruction to the driver. They slammed to a stop as did the SUV a quarter-mile back. Carl saw the driver up ahead prepping another RPG. He fired, and it flashed toward them at incredible speed.
“Well, fuck me sideways,” Dutch said. “That’s gonna hurt!”
Carl shouted behind him, “Brace for impact!”
Even as Carl uttered the warning, tracer fire from somewhere above lit the darkness and intersected the RPG five meters before impact. The explosion and shrapnel washed harmlessly over the APC. Then more tracer fire literally exploded the RPG shooter into pink mist and turned the two cars into wrangled piles of metal in two seconds flat. The rear SUV suffered the same fate.
A completely blacked-out helicopter settled into a landing on the highway directly in front of the APC. It looked like the FBI assault chopper that he’d seen ambushed in Albuquerque. Clearly, McGrath had learned a lesson and put this crew on high alert in anticipation of the Chicago operation.
Carl patted the driver on the back. “Dutch, you saved our asses. I owe you.”
“Can you guys afford to refurbish my baby?”
“Hell, I can afford to buy you a new one.”
“Not necessary, my friend. As you can see, this one serves just fine.”
“Consider it done.”
They shook hands, and Carl followed the Bonhardt family over to the helicopter. It had a futuristic-looking optical surveillance and targeting pod mounted under the nose, and he knew from his air force days the belly-mounted minigun that just destroyed their pursuers was slaved to that targeting pod. Both side doors of the chopper’s cabin were open, and a gunner in black fatigues stood ready in each doorway with a machine gun that was fastened to a swivel at the top of the doorway.
After everyone strapped in, the pilot launched the chopper.
Carl said, “Aaron, are you still on this channel?”
“I am.”
Carl nodded, though he knew the man didn’t see the gesture. “Good save with less than two seconds to spare.”
“We keep Homeland assault teams on standby in nearly every major city for rapid response.”
“I take back everything I ever said about you.”
“Not the good things, I hope.”
“I don’t recall saying any good things about you, so we’re good.” Carl hoped the humorous retort might soften the ground between them a bit. “Three, you there?”
“Yes, Boss.”
Carl looked at Officer Bonhardt and his family. “The package is airborne and safe for the moment. Is the jet fueled and ready for emergency takeoff?”
“Engines are running as we speak. Jet is positioned for emergency takeoff.”
“Pilot? Are you still on this channel?”
“Affirmative.”
“I have no doubt our Gulfstream has been identified and a team has been dispatched. You can expect resistance on approach.”
“Resistance is futile.”
Carl chuckled. “An air force combat Star Trek geek.”
“Marine Corps, sir.”
“Almost as good.” He noticed one of the gunners eyeballing him. He was a big black kid with a serious face. In the darkness of the cabin, his skin seemed almost as dark as his black combat flight suit.
The young man said, “So, you’re the American Terrorist.”
“I am.”
Gunner nodded. “We heard what you did for the president. Damn fine work, sir. And I’m sorry for the loss of your son.”
Carl felt pain rip through his gut at the mention of his dead son. Mark was probably ten years older than this young soldier. He nodded. “Thank you. That means a lot coming from a true warrior.”
He also felt a renewed respect for Aaron McGrath. He knew these young soldiers would quickly realize who their cargo was, so McGrath had no doubt focused them on the mission by telling them the truth of his contribution to President Mallory’s cause.
The pilot said, “ETA three minutes.”
When Carl looked out the window, he saw three strings of lights converging on the airport from different directions. The closest was still half a mile out when the chopper crossed over the boundary fence.
The combat chopper put them down twenty meters from the Gulfstream, which sat the end of the east-west runway with its engines screaming. After a quick dust-off, the chopper turned to face the approaching vehicles while Carl and the Bonhardts raced aboard the plane.
Carl hollered upfront, “Go!” He palmed the button to raise the stairs and close the door, and everyone got belted in.
He was forced back into the seat as the plane shot forward under emergency thrust. Then Carl looked out the window and saw six RPGs blast into the sky. The missiles chased the Gulfstream down the runway. He knew the inevitable truth that only military afterburners could outrun RPGs and the Gulfstream wasn’t a military plane.
The nose of the Gulfstream lifted, forcing Carl down into his seat. He kept his gaze on the battle behind him, watching as thermal flares burst from the bottom of the combat chopper. Blinding flashes erupted, distracting three of the RPGs and sending them tumbling to the tarmac where they exploded harmlessly. Two quick burst from the chopper’s cannon obliterated two more RPGs, but the last missile was locked on target.
The chopper pivoted quickly to keep its optically-slaved minigun engaged on the RPG. Tracer fire slipped through the air and chased the speeding missile. At the same time, Carl saw both of the gunners engaging separate lines of headlights on the road. Showers of sparks and explosions lit th
e ground as the gunners raked the lines of headlights.
Right when the battle looked like a one-sided Homeland slaughter, right when it looked like the hit teams had absolutely no chance of survival, a final RPG reached up from one of the vehicles and slammed into the tail rotor of the combat chopper. The aircraft spun crazily and fell from the sky as a missile flashed from its fuselage and sped to the north. Then the chopper hit the ground amidst a blast of sparks from the rotors grinding against the tarmac. To Carl’s amazement, the chopper’s missile corrected its course as its onboard guidance system reacquired its target and the antimissile missile zoomed back toward the much-slower RPG that was homing in on the Gulfstream.
The explosion was spectacular, and close! The blast rocked the plane and shrapnel pinged against the metal skin as they continued to climb.
Carl kept his gaze on the fallen chopper. “Aaron, Hammerhead Two Five Zero is down.”
“Copy that. What is your status?”
Carl was about to answer when he saw a fantastic sight. “Holy shit! They’re still in the fight!”
Tracer fire erupted from both doorways of the downed chopper and annihilated the closing vehicles. Sparks and explosions again rippled down the line of SUVs, then all that remained of the hit teams was the burning rubble of their vehicles.
“Gulfstream, Hammerhead Two Five Zero. What is your status?”
The Gulfstream pilot responded, “Only minor damage. The board is green. You?”
“Mission complete. All hostiles destroyed.”
Carl said, “Casualties?”
“Negative casualties. One minor injury.”
The pilot eased off on the steepness of his assent, and Carl stood and began removing his armor. He caught the gaze of Richard and Claire.
Over the comm channel, Carl said, “Officer Bonhardt and his family send their gratitude to the crew of Hammerhead Two-Five-Zero. As do I.”
Richard nodded.
“Copy that. Safe journey, sir.”
Carl was suddenly famished, as he hadn’t been able to eat or drink before they had to leave the hotel. He figured Richard and Claire hadn’t either, so he went to the rear of the TER plane and gathered some MRE packets and bottled water from the storage cabinets. The kids were fast asleep.
As Carl returned to his seat, he reached out to the TER director.
“Aaron, is there any update on Agent Palmer?”
“We’ve had a situation in D.C. and she’s been off comm for a few hours. I’m concerned.”
Chapter 23
Palmer gasped as she rolled to her elbows and knees. “Christ! What the hell was that?”
“Agent Palmer, are you okay?” The president’s shaky voice split the darkness.
“I’m okay, Madam President. Are you injured?”
“I busted my right ankle when somebody threw me down the stairs.” Mallory chuckled. “But I think I can walk. You?”
“If that had been a light-weight steel or wood door, I’d be dead. But Aaron’s people use this place as an evac safe house. He made the basement assault proof, including installing a twenty-four-inch-thick steel and concrete door. The door hit me pretty hard, but its bulk and the hydraulic-assist hinges absorbed most of the blast.” Palmer gingerly got to her feet and took a deep breath, cataloguing her body for serious injuries. “How long has it been?”
“You were out for several hours.”
Palmer pulled a penlight from her pocket and scanned the big room. “It looks like a storage room and, in fact, normally serves that purpose until we need it for a safe room. It has an exit into the next basement over there.” She swung the bright-white LED beam to the east wall.
Palmer helped President Mallory cross the room and then hauled open another thick concrete and steel door. Instead of an escape corridor, though, she found tons of debris blocking the exit. She swung the flashlight beam back over to the main door, but that too was blocked. She swung the light around the room, heavy dust dancing in the beam. As she expected, there were no windows in the basement. They were trapped.
“Madam President, wait over there.” She indicated a central area relatively free of debris, but shelving and boxes everywhere had been dislodged and tossed about from the blast. “I’ll see if I can make a hole to get a comm signal through. Right now, all this thick concrete rubble is blocking radio signals.” She started pulling at boards and rebar shafts embedded in pieces of the building’s brick walls. “Aaron probably already has a team on-site or en route. I just need to get word to him.”
It took a few minutes, but as soon as she pulled a piece of debris that revealed a narrow shaft of light, she heard McGrath’s voice in her ear again.
“Palmer, I have your signal again, but I don’t have Shirley’s. What’s your status?”
“Injured, but functional. What the hell happened?”
“Since your signal just now registered, I assume that you’re exiting the safe room, but Shirley must stay within. Copy?”
“We’re not going anywhere anytime soon. In fact, we’re sealed in good, but I’m at the entrance threshold. I cleared a gap in the stairwell debris to get a signal through, but the escape door was completely blocked by debris.”
When McGrath next spoke, Palmer heard the sigh in his voice. “That was an advanced tactical air-to-surface missile.”
“What!?”
“And it was launched from a stealth aircraft. One of our own.”
“How could Rainman possibly have put an aircraft in play that quickly? At that point, the announcement that Mallory was leaving the White House for lunch wasn’t even half an hour old.”
“I know,” McGrath said. “Rainman is acting a lot like Carl Johnson this week. He’s on the offensive with backup plans and plenty of contingencies. On the plus side, though, we now know Johnson’s new CIA contact is the real deal and he’s loyal.”
“How is that relevant?” Palmer said.
“He relayed intel that Shirley has been given a radioactive isotope, which is what Rainman’s fighter used to home the missile in on the restaurant.”
“So Rainman set the Secret Service detail on us and also had a stealth fighter orbiting the city, waiting for her to leave the White House? He’s probably just sitting up there waiting for her to pop up on his radar again.”
McGrath sighed uncharacteristically. “It’s been several hours, and right now it’s well after midnight. But, yes, Rainman had a plan and a backup plan. It wouldn’t surprise me if his fighter is fueled and ready to launch again as soon as a satellite picks up Shirley’s radioactive signal.”
“Well, we can’t stay down here forever. Sooner or later Rainman’s people are going to try to put eyes on their target. They’ll want to know for sure if they got her.”
“You’re safe for the moment. I have a Homeland rapid deployment team on-site.”
Palmer leaned against the thick door. “They can’t protect us from a stealth fighter. Twenty or thirty seconds is all they need to reach us with another missile.”
McGrath gave his characteristic pause as he often did during an operation, indicating his brain was turning over scenarios. Carl did the same thing.
Finally, he said, “I keep asking myself, What would Carl Johnson do?”
“When he learns what these bastards have done, he’s going to escalate. That’s what he’ll do.”
“I know.” McGrath was silent for a moment, and Palmer got the feeling he was already planning damage control for Carl’s reaction.
“You’re not going to tell him, are you?”
“On the contrary, I think we should—”
Palmer finished his thought. “Unleash the American Terrorist?”
“He’ll do whatever is necessary. He’ll do anything that’s necessary. And we need a response that our enemy won’t see coming. Johnson is good at that. He’s our best weapon right now.”
Palmer lowered her voice a bit. “There’ll be pushback.”
McGrath sighed. “I’ll handle the presiden
t.” When Palmer remained silent, he said, “You don’t agree?”
“I agree one hundred percent. Let’s stop trying to control him. I say we let Carl Johnson be Carl Johnson.”
“Agreed,” McGrath said. “Let us put together an exit plan for you, but the damage on-site is extensive so it’s going to take a few more hours to get to you. Get comfortable until morning, then here’s what I want you to do.”
She listened for a moment.
“You want me to do what!?”
◆◆◆
It took McGrath’s people ten more hours to clear away enough debris from the basement. Early Friday morning, Nancy Palmer limped out of the wreckage. Her left arm was in a sling and she had a bloody bandage wrapped around her forehead. Her black jacket was ripped nearly to shreds, and her right pant leg was sliced up to her butt, revealing another bloody bandage wrapped around her upper thigh. One of McGrath’s fast-response operators tried to assist her, but she brushed him aside and struggled to walk on the uneven debris of the collapsed restaurant by herself. She nearly fell several times.
The missile had completely leveled the restaurant, along with the two adjacent stores. The president’s limo, her three escort SUVs, and all the Secret Service agents near those vehicles had been swept from existence by the blast.
Palmer made her way to the medic van, which was a standard ambulance box truck painted matte black and adapted for military use. Like the TER’s fast-response APCs, the medic truck had no distinguishing lettering or emblems on its surface. She saw half a dozen thin radio antennae extending eighteen inches off the roof and a black acrylic dome that she knew housed surveillance sensors.
Nearly a dozen of the armed TER operators in full black battle gear had secured the area on all sides of the destruction. They kept the DC police back and the police kept the press and onlookers back. Two black, unmarked TER combat choppers hovered over the area and kept the news choppers away. But the operators’ posture was solemn, and weapons were at rest. This was clearly a cleanup operation, not a defensive military operation.
There were plenty of cameras, and the secret had been out for twenty minutes. The carnage that was the presidential vehicles was being featured on every channel. Speculation turned to fact when two more TER operators hauled a black body bag out of the wreckage and laid it gently on a waiting gurney.
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