Against All Odds

by Richard Bard

  Jacob pointed up. “See for yourself.”

  She followed his gaze to see her face splashed across the overhead billboard in the kiss-cam view. Before she finished gasping, the entire stadium broke into the “Happy Birthday” song. She could barely breathe, but somehow found the strength to toss her arms in the air and spin around. When the song was over, she looked at her dad. He grinned. She blew him a kiss, sat back down, and Miley Cyrus stepped on the stage.

  Best. Day. Ever!

  ***

  The football field of the Rams/Chargers stadium complex had to be sunk a hundred feet into the ground because of its proximity to Los Angeles International Airport. The roof rose two hundred seventy-five feet above that. Beneath it all was a maze of tunnels housing the guts of the operation, including equipment rooms, storage and maintenance facilities, delivery stations, and more. Elevators and stairwells provided access to the upper floors.

  Farhad stepped up to the underground gate and removed the lanyard from his neck. After swiping his badge, he placed his hand on the palm reader. The turnstile light flashed green, and he pushed through the gate. He retrieved his wallet and cell phone from the plastic container at the other end of the X-ray and explosive-detection scanner, and stepped into one of two lines leading to a makeshift security checkpoint that hadn’t been there the last time he entered. This one was manned by two serious-looking men seated behind computers, with three heavily armed guards standing behind them. He wasn’t surprised at the added level of security. Nevertheless, his heart rate ticked up when he reached the head of his line. The man re-swiped his facility ID, and told him to look up at a bank of wall-mounted cameras that were angled to catch frontal and profile views.

  The agent looked from the badge to the computer screen to Farhad’s face. “Richard Forster?”

  Farhad pointed to the name tag on his blue jumpsuit. “In the flesh. Maintenance crew. D section.”

  “You haven’t been here for four days.”

  “Yeah, I’m a part-timer so that’s par for the course. Got lots of hours when they were building this place, but now I only get called in when they know there’s going to be a mess to clean up. Anyway, my super makes the schedule, not me.” He motioned toward the computer screen.

  The agent scanned the screen and nodded. “Okay.” He slipped the ID into the slot of a box that resembled a time-card stamper. The machine clicked, and when the agent removed the plastic card, it had a tiny microchip embedded in it. “A couple new rules today. Under no circumstances are you to leave your assigned section in the sub-area without authorization. And that’s gotta come from both your supervisor and an agent with one of these.” He pointed at the stamper. “At which point your chip will be updated accordingly. No slipping into an adjacent section for any reason. Not today. If you do we’ll know about it, and we’ll be on you like flies on elephant dung. And don’t lose your badge, because the cameras are scanning for both you and your card. If the system clocks your face without your card, it’ll set off the alarm and we’ll be on you. So, if you lose it, report to an agent immediately. Got all that?”

  “Got it.”

  The agent waved him on, and the guards eyed him as he walked past. He joined up with Jamal around the corner, who’d been in line ahead of him. Jamal said, “Damn. They aren’t messing around.”

  Farhad smiled. “I know. It’s perfect. They’ve pulled out all the stops, and it still won’t matter.”

  Originally, there’d been no need for them to be in the complex today. They’d planned to make their broadcast from the command vehicle. But the new security protocols Homeland had put in place overnight made that impossible. With more time, Jamal and Ebrahem could have found a way to remotely hack into the beefed-up firewall, but time was up, and like all facets of their plan, that one had a backup. It was risky, to be sure. After all, the building was going to collapse in on itself before the night was over. But they were at war, and this would be the killing blow. It was an attack that could not be made without a public preamble, and what better place to make it than from the billboards overlooking the victims. It was one thing to kill a mass of people to make a point. It was another to do so in a fashion that once and for all stripped away the façade of America’s invulnerability. Hadi had advised against it. On this point, though, Farhad refused to be swayed. The American president was seated several stories above him, and would have front row seats to the history-making event.

  Farhad checked his watch. It was 6:30 p.m. They had thirty minutes to physically patch into the system with Jamal’s work-around device and get the hell out. The conduits leading to the control room several floors above them were in Section D, and Jamal knew exactly which ones to access.

  ***

  Warehouse district west of the stadium

  “Okay, boys,” Snake said into the comm network. He was on the rooftop of a trucking facility. The building was one story taller than the target warehouse across the street, giving him a clear view of three open skylights—and the trembler switches surrounding them on the roof. “We’ve only got one shot to do this the easy way. Otherwise, all hell is going to break loose. You ready to get some, Rip?”

  “Roger that,” Ripper’s voice said through Snake’s earpiece. Ripper, Paco, and Vasquez were stationed behind a trash bin at the rear of the windowless warehouse, just steps from a pedestrian door. Their three-man unit was the linchpin of this op, and if everything went according to plan, they would be the only ones to see action. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t done this sort of thing plenty of times before, clearing buildings in Iraq and Afghanistan. They’d already set the breach charges, and when Snake gave the order, they’d blow the door and charge in with guns blazing. Their orders? Launch an RPG—rocket propelled grenade—into the white van inside before the tangos launched a hundred drones armed with C4 explosives.

  Yeah, right, Snake thought. Simple. He hoped like hell the intel Jake had absorbed into that magic brain of his was accurate. “Everyone else ready?”

  The final three men on his team checked in. They were in backup positions because shit always goes wrong. López, Santos, and Martinez were hidden at ground level along Hindy Ave., which was the preprogrammed route the drones would take if the team didn’t prevent the launch. Snake wished like hell he could strike right then. They were in position and hadn’t been detected. If they went for it now, nothing could stop them. But it was critical that all three teams struck at exactly the same moment. Otherwise, the remaining drones would immediately launch.

  He checked his watch. “Five minutes.”

  “Copy that,” Ripper said.

  Snake switched frequencies and reported in. “Alpha in position. Standing by.”

  ***

  Neighborhood south of the stadium

  “Done a bit o’ duck hunting in my day, but never from a hide as fancy as this one.” Pete loaded another shell into the eight-round magazine of the Benelli M4 semiauto shotgun the SWAT guys had loaned him.

  Skylar smiled at her mentor’s happy-go-lucky attitude. Her life had changed big time because of Pete. She went from stock car racer with a bad temper that caused more accidents on the track than she’d like to remember, to top-rated Hollywood stunt person. And part-time terrorist hunter. She peeked out the limo’s sunroof. “If any of the drones make it out of that van, they’ll be traveling in single file straight at us. With the spread on the loads we’re using, we should be able to take out several with each shot. But the suckers will be moving fast.”

  “Yep, but they’ll be flyin’ low. Just thirty feet above the ground.”

  Because the preprogrammed track of the drones would take them past the end of the small airport’s only runway, the birds had to remain as close to ground level as possible to avoid colliding with departing planes. Once past the airport, the swarm was programmed to climb higher.

  Skylar ducked back inside. “We’re in the best possible spot.” They’d pulled the limo onto the grass median strip of the four-lane road. Ear
lier, after she and Pete put the finishing touches on Jake’s and Lacey’s disguises back at Pete’s ranch, the four of them had used the SEAL chopper to get on site. They’d landed at the Hawthorne Municipal Airport, where the limo they’d rented was waiting for them. After giving the driver a big tip and the rest of the day off, Skylar and Pete had driven the fake president and first lady to the stadium. After dropping them off, she and Pete weren’t about to wait around in the VIP parking lot while the action unfolded. No way.

  “You ready for this?” Pete asked.

  Skylar slipped her motorcycle helmet over her head and adjusted her jawbone microphone. Hefting her own M4, she smiled. “What’s for supper? Roasted drone?”

  Pete grinned. He slipped his own helmet on and used his fist to hammer the top for good luck. In theory, the C4 attached to the drones’ underbellies wouldn’t explode from a gunshot, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be a torrent of shrapnel raining down when they blasted them out of the sky. Of course, if everything went according plan, the drones would never make it into the air in the first place. But every plan needed a backup.

  Or two.

  Pete spoke into his headset. “Walt, we’re in position.”

  ***

  This day had sure gone to crap fast, Walt thought. Instead of deep-sea fishing off Angel Island, he’d answered Tony’s call and picked up the boy, Alex, in San Diego. What was supposed to be a simple protection gig for a good friend had evolved into a deadly assault on terrorists. He blew out a long breath. As a SWAT sergeant he was accustomed to switching gears on a dime, and the operation he was in the middle of now was a classic example of that. However, his team usually had the entire LAPD force at their back. Today, their only backup was a Hollywood stunt crew.

  “Walt, we’re in position,” Pete announced on Walt’s headset. He had to hand it to Bronson’s friends. There was no absence of courage among them, and the loyalty the man inspired in Tony was impressive. Of course, Bronson’s actions had also inspired enemies. As a police officer who dealt with sideways glances from the populace day in and day out, Walt understood that. It came with the territory. But being framed as a terrorist who’d killed thousands of innocents? Talk about getting a bum rap.

  “I’ve got movement,” his man on overwatch reported from the top of a power pole. Walt and his team—which now included two more men they’d picked up en route—were dressed in Southern California Edison uniforms. Walt hadn’t liked trading bullet-resistant vests for khaki shirts one bit, but it had allowed them ingress to the neighborhood. As far as busybodies were concerned, he and his team were working on the power lines that ran along the alley behind the target house. All except for their sniper, Marlow, who was situated on the roof of one of the industrial buildings behind Walt. The house was only a two-bedroom but the lot was large, with lots of trees and shrubs for cover. A side drive led to a garage in the back, and the target van was pulled up to the garage door.

  “Eye’s on,” Marlow reported. “The second guy is exiting the house. He’s moving to the back of the van. Opening the door. I have a solid target.”

  “And I’ve got the driver,” Wesley reported. Wesley and his partner, Thomas, had slipped over the rear fence when one of the tangos had gone into the house. They were stacked up behind the garage.

  “Steady,” Walt said, imagining target reticles on the terrorists’ heads. He checked his watch. “This has got to be timed perfectly with the other teams. Stand by.”

  If everything went right, they’d take out the two tangos and blow up the van. For his part, Walt was crouched behind a group of shrubs in the far corner of the backyard. The short M32 multiple-shot grenade launcher he held was normally used for shooting tear gas. Today it would be shooting out deadly fragmentation grenades. He’d fired grenades plenty of times as an army ranger in Afghanistan, but never as a cop. He shook his head, switched the frequency on his radio, and checked in with the guys controlling this fiasco.

  ***

  In the tilt-rotor CV-22

  “Bravo set.”

  Tony heard Walt’s voice over the comm net. He was seated next to Kenny at the drone-control console of the CV-22. There were a lot of moving parts to this plan, and it was Tony’s job to coordinate them all. He embraced it, but the part of him that preferred being on the front lines caused him to glance longingly at the SAW light machine gun strapped into the webbed seating across from him.

  “Roger that, Bravo,” Tony said. The CV-22 was hovering above the Kenneth Hahn State Recreation Area in Baldwin Hills. Cal, who was at the flight controls, was careful to keep their altitude below the LAX terminal control area limit of twenty-five hundred feet. They were four and a half miles from the stadium, far enough away that Farhad and his gang wouldn’t note their presence, but close enough that they could be on station in less than sixty seconds. With luck, they wouldn’t have to move from this location until the battle was over and it was time to mop up. In the interim, however, they needed to be airborne and at the ready so they could launch the specialized drone Kenny had brought. Like the weaponry incorporated into Boeing’s CHAMP—counter-electronics high-powered microwave advanced missile project—the guts of Kenny’s drone were capable of discharging electromagnetic pulses in a narrow target cone, thereby minimizing collateral damage. Unlike Boeing’s long-range, jet-propelled drone, however, Kenny’s hexacopter had a max speed of only sixty knots, which was around seventy mph. But it could hover, and more importantly, it could be launched and retrieved midflight.

  Sam checked in. “Charlie is in position. Ready for go.” This is it, Tony thought. Sam’s was the last team to report in. He and his boys were covering the van in the middle of a large cemetery. The area was flat, with zero cover close to the van, so the closest any of Charlie team could get was two hundred yards. That was the bad news. The good news was, there was a SEAL team surrounding that target, and their M4A1 assault rifles were equipped with M203 under-barrel grenade launchers. The distance to target was slightly beyond the hundred sixty-yard effective range of the weapons, but in a SEAL’s hands that hardly mattered, especially when the target would be hit from four sides at once.

  With all teams ready to go, it was time to launch the drone. Tony nodded to Kenny.

  “Opening ramp,” Kenny said over the comm net.

  “Copy,” Cal said.

  The rear cargo ramp descended, and the roar of the twin rotors echoed throughout the cabin.

  Kenny took hold of a pair of joysticks. “Prepping Sparkler for launch.”

  “Copy.”

  There were two drones secured to the floor at the rear of the cargo hold. One was a small quad-copter, a simple recon drone that was standard operating equipment whenever Kenny was aboard. The much larger drone was the current focus of Kenny’s attention. The four-foot wide, black Sparkler hexacopter sported a framed undercarriage that supported a large lensed dome. As the six blades spun up to speed, the gimbaled dome swiveled in a three-sixty arc, stopping at various positions as Kenny went through his preflight checks. After a few moments, Kenny reported, “Ready for launch.”

  “Copy. Autopilot engaged. Cleared to launch.”

  “Launching Sparkler in three…two…one.”

  Four clamps disengaged from the base of the Sparkler’s frame. The drone lifted and edged toward the exit. There was less than twelve inches of clearance on either side of the cargo opening, but Kenny maneuvered the drone as if it was on rails. It slipped neatly into the dusky sky and sped away.

  ***

  Stunt training ranch

  I smiled at Uncle Marshall. “The drone’s away.”

  Uncle Marshall smiled. “Time for some payback.”

  “Hell, yes,” Ahmed said in a raspy voice. Mom frowned. “Oh, sorry.” Ahmed had woken a half hour earlier, and Uncle Marshall and Little Star had pulled the couch around so he could watch what was going on. Ahmed’s eyes were glassed over from the pain pills Skylar had found for him, but he was fighting the urge to sleep with a resolve
to be part of the action. Mom and Sarafina were gathered close as well.

  The Spider headset from Little Star had been a huge help. A godsend, Mom had called it. I’d used it to not only tap into the comm nets of our teams on the scene, but also to access the hundreds of cameras throughout the stadium complex, which we’d used to catch glimpses of Dad and Lacey being escorted through the tunnels. I had the feed from the Sparkler drone and several of the stadium feeds arranged on the big screen so everyone could see.

  While the others watched, I went back to what I was doing on Uncle Marshall’s laptop. I’d come up with a scheme that I hoped would help us find the command and control truck Ahmed had been thrown in. The three vans were accounted for but not the truck. My efforts to find a way back into the IP address Uncle Marshall’s RAT had hacked into had failed, which meant the truck was either not connected to the internet or it’d switched to a different server. I wasn’t giving up on that angle, but in the meantime, I was working on something else. Sarafina had taken several photos of the vans and the truck as they’d left the terrorists’ ranch. Even though she’d captured the license plates, we hadn’t come up with a single hit from the automated license plate reader system throughout the L.A. area. They’d switched out the plates, so I had to get creative.

  Uncle Marshall looked over. “What are you doing?”

  I’d combined all the photos of the truck into a composite image. Sarafina had captured only the front, left side, and rear of the vehicle, but that had been enough to render a 3D image. The dimensions along each axis of the vehicle’s frame appeared onscreen. “We may not be able to use the plate readers, but there are tens of thousands of cameras out there.” I split the window so Uncle Marshall could see the underlying program I was modifying.

  “Facial recognition software?”

  I nodded. When the screen activity became too fast for Uncle Marshall to follow, he sat back and scratched his chin. “You’re modifying facial rec software so it can be used to isolate the truck. Holy crap, that’s brilliant!”