Blackout

by Jason Elam

  “Roger!”

  “Goo, where’s the truck?”

  “It just turned northeast on Washington,” Gooey said, the resentment he felt toward Riley showing in his voice.

  “Come on, Gooey, I don’t know the streets. Just point us in the right direction!”

  Finally Gooey blew. “Listen, if you’ve got a—wait a second! I’ve got an idea! Let me patch myself in to the chopper’s GPS.”

  “You can do that?” Riley asked, impressed.

  “Puh-lease,” Gooey gloated, all the frustration out the window with this new challenge. “Evie, follow this truck while I work a little Goo-gic.”

  “Goo-gic? Ewww,” Evie said from just beyond Gooey’s mic. “Should I be wearing protective clothing?”

  “Okay, guys, how do we do this?” Riley asked the other three who were with him.

  “We dropped our ropes after the rappel onto the boat, we don’t have winches, and dropping onto the roofs of trucks only works in the movies,” Scott said.

  “Thanks, buddy. That answers ‘How don’t we do this?’ Now, if we can get back to my original question . . .”

  “Northwest on Carey,” Evie said. Riley felt the chopper veer to the right. Back behind, the second chopper remained on its course.

  “We’re going to have to set down somewhere,” Khadi said.

  “But where?” Riley answered. “If we choose the wrong place, we’re toast. Even if we have a vehicle meet us, we’re playing catch-up!”

  “Can we get the cops to pull it over? No, that might lead to a high-speed chase that could turn out really bad,” Scott said answering his own question.

  “Exactly,” Riley said. “And speaking of the cops, we need them to hold back. Our best advantage right now is the bad guys thinking that we don’t know where they are.”

  “Evie, have Tara tell the police to follow at a distance. We don’t want to spook the target,” Khadi said.

  Evie did, then said, “He just turned east on Baltimore. He’s definitely heading downtown and at a fairly decent rate of speed.”

  While that news wasn’t necessarily a surprise, it still sent a chill down Riley’s spine. They always have to go for the maximum damage—always have to see just how many innocent civilians they can kill.

  Below him, land suddenly appeared. First a freeway, then a rail yard sped by just a hundred feet below.

  “You’re only two miles out,” Evie said.

  “Jefferson, go dark,” Riley commanded the pilot, and the lights on the Bird went out again. “Okay, guys, I think our official plan is, wing it. Let’s trust our training and let instinct kick in.”

  Riley hated going in without a set strategy, but he also knew that three out of the four of them were former members of the Air Force Special Operations Command. To get to that elite level, you had to train and train and train. And when you were done with all that training . . . you trained some more. It was all about making the unnatural natural—reprogramming instinct. Riley just had to believe that when the time came, they’d know what to do.

  Coming into view to the west was M & T Bank Stadium, home of the Baltimore Predators and site of one of Riley’s better games during his rookie year. Looking around Skeeter, he spotted Camden Yards on the other side of the freeway. They were both dark, as Riley knew they would be. All sporting events had been canceled indefinitely following last night’s New York City attack.

  “North on Eutaw,” Evie reported.

  Jefferson said, “We’re only a half mile back, sir.”

  “Cut your speed and drop to rooftop level. Let’s see if we can sneak up on him.”

  The pilot made two quick turns, then throttled back and actually dropped lower than rooftop, following the street just twenty feet up.

  “There it is,” Jefferson said. “Twelve o’clock.”

  Riley again looked around Skeeter and saw the moving truck. It was a sixteen-foot, bright yellow Penske. Hmm, maybe I could drop onto the back of that. . . .

  But the closer they got, the more foolhardy that idea seemed.

  They were just four car lengths back when a man leaned out of the window of the truck and started firing an automatic weapon at them.

  Oh, come on! Who am I—007? This is something right out of a Bond movie!

  The helicopter quickly pulled up, causing all four of the team members to almost tumble to the pavement below.

  “Jefferson, you two okay up there?” Riley asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good! Now keep it together! You almost sent us swan diving!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  As the chopper began to descend again, Riley could see the truck speeding up. Ahead he could see a bunch of people milling around a courtyard in front of what looked like a giant, enclosed farmer’s market. Just what we need, the truck plowing into a crowd of bystanders!

  Think! What now? You’re in a helicopter, some maniac is firing at you, and there are people all around. What would Bond do?

  “Jefferson, after the truck clears all those people, I want you to drop down in front of it and face it.”

  “Yes, sir,” Jefferson said calmly.

  “Skeet, you hang on to me. Scott, you do the same to Khadi. When the chopper levels, Khadi, you take out the driver, and I’ll take care of the guy with the gun.”

  “Shouldn’t I be taking the shot?” Scott asked, appealing to his greater training—and probably his masculine pride.

  “You’re too big for her to hang on to. Besides, she’s a better shot.”

  Jefferson had taken them up over the truck, and Riley could see the passenger following them with the gun. Suddenly the truck began swerving back and forth in a desperate attempt to make itself a difficult target.

  In a movie, this would be when the tunnel magically appears and the helicopter slams into it while you make your escape! Looking at the open streets ahead, Riley thought, Sorry, boys, wrong movie!

  At the next intersection, the chopper spun 180 degrees and dropped to fifteen feet above the ground.

  Instantly, Riley planted his feet on the skids and let his body lean out into open air. As soon as Skeeter’s grip on his vest halted his movement, he opened fire with his Magpul. The passenger was firing wildly, and out of the corner of his eye, Riley saw bits of glass poofing up from the Little Bird’s front bubble.

  Khadi scored a hit on the driver, and the truck pulled wildly to the right. Riley, finally, found his mark, sending the gunman flying from his perch on the doorframe, but not before he heard Scott cry out. Riley looked back through the open chopper and saw that both Scott and Khadi were gone.

  As the truck careened into a Food 7 Mart in a hail of brick and dust, Riley called out, “Skeet, pull me in!”

  Skeeter did, and Riley scrambled through to the other side of the chopper. Looking down, he saw Scott sprawled out on the asphalt below. Khadi, however, was hanging upside down on the skid by her knees. Taking hold of the side of the chopper, Riley reached down, grasping for her hand. All those years of childhood gymnastics finally paid off for Khadi as she rocked herself back and forth, then swung up and caught Riley’s arm. He pulled her back in.

  “Get us down!” Riley commanded. “But watch out; Scott’s down there!”

  Khadi held tightly to Riley as the chopper slid back and dropped. She was shaking and breathing heavily. As much as Riley wanted to comfort her, he instead grabbed her face and said, “Stay in the game, girl! We’re not done yet! Check Scott! Skeet and I need to open the back of that truck!”

  Khadi nodded an acknowledgment of her assignment.

  As soon as the chopper settled, Riley was out, following right behind Skeeter. While Skeeter went to the truck’s mangled cab, Riley ran to the back.

  “Clear!” he heard Skeeter yell.

  As soon as Riley’s hand touched the handle for the rear door, bullets started flying out. Pain stabbed the side of his head as he dropped to the ground. Skeeter slid down next to him.

  “Do you know whether a
bullet can damage this warhead or not?”

  “Don’t know, sir,” Skeeter said, looking at the blood on Riley’s head.

  “I’m fine—just grazed my ear,” Riley said, heading off the question before it was asked. “We can’t take any chances. Door goes up, you take left, I’ll take right; pick our shots, double tap. You ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” Skeeter said as he took hold of the handle.

  Riley counted down with his fingers . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1!

  The door flew up. Bullets whizzed past them, and Riley heard a scream from the crowd that was diving for cover on the opposite side of the street.

  Okay, ready . . . okay, ready . . . now! Riley jumped up from his crouch and centered his red dot. With two quick pulls of the trigger, he placed a round in the man’s chest and in his head.

  Riley and Skeeter jumped into the truck. The bomb was built into a metal frame that was welded onto the truck’s floor. Electrical tools were scattered, and Riley spotted a metal plate that looked like it belonged on the device.

  “Over here,” Skeeter called out.

  Riley swung around to the other side of the warhead and saw an open section. There were wires hanging out. He would have loved to see some digital countdown clock to know whether it was definitely armed or not. But the fact that there were loose wires in the open was enough to strongly suggest that they had made it in time.

  Scott! Riley ran to the back of the truck and jumped out, the night air cooling the blood that had trickled from his ear and soaked into his shirt. Up ahead Khadi was kneeling on the ground with her back to him. She was hunched over, and it looked like she was slowly stroking Scott’s close-cut head.

  Oh no! Not Scott, too.

  As he ran, he could see the crowds filling the intersection. One person called out, “Hey, that’s Riley Covington!” Immediately, shouts of “Get ’em, Covington!” and “Go, Riley!” filled the street.

  Scott was flat on his back, and his right leg was twisted at an unnatural angle. Riley dropped down next to Khadi and grabbed his best friend’s arm, checking for a pulse.

  Scott’s eyes popped open, and a tight grin appeared on his face. “Your adoring public. . . . So no big boom means you got it, right?”

  Riley could see that Khadi was smiling widely too, the relief very apparent on her face. “Yeah, we got it.”

  Then Khadi twisted Riley’s head. “What happened? Are you okay?”

  Remembering his bloody ear, Riley chuckled and said in a bad British accent, “I’m all right. It’s just a flesh wound.”

  Scott replied with an even worse accent, “I’ve had worse!”

  “Listen,” Khadi said, “if you guys are going to start quoting Monty Python, then you can comfort your own selves.”

  “Speaking of comfort, what’s all the head stroking about?” Riley asked, not quite as casually as he had hoped.

  Sucking in his breath through gritted teeth, Scott answered through the pain. “Back off, Jealous Boy. Khadi just feels sorry for me, and I told her that it feels nice.” Looking up at Khadi, he said, “Mix it up a bit so you can comfort my whole head. There’s a good girl.”

  Khadi reached down and gave Scott’s goatee a solid tug, then went back to what she had been doing.

  “Ow! Tough girl, Riley. Someday you’ll realize she’s a keeper.”

  The intersection was alive with activity, and the sound of screams, chants, and sirens filled the air. Baltimore cops began flooding the street.

  In the midst of the chaos, Riley looked up at Khadi, and their eyes met for a moment before she looked back down.

  Yeah, someday I’ll realize she’s a keeper. Someday.

  Wednesday, September 30, 11:45 a.m. IRST

  Tehran, Iran

  Cower before the world! That’s the way to usher in the Mahdi! Hide behind the skirts of your mothers; the West is coming! Throw them a scapegoat! Bow before America and kiss the Zionists’ feet! Cowards! The Supreme Leader, the president—all cowards.

  Ayatollah Allameh Beheshti closed his eyes as he slowly walked, knowing that the men who walked alongside him would make sure he continued in the right direction. In the darkness of his mind, he could see the Grand Ayatollah and the president as they sat watching the last day of his trial. They had come to witness the verdict and the sentencing, another weak attempt on their part to show the world their commitment to justice.

  Justice! Making me pay for having the courage to follow through what was in your very own hearts? That may be man’s corrupt version of justice, but it is not Allah’s!

  He smiled with satisfaction, however, when he visualized the faces of those two hypocrites. The lines on their faces had become deep crevasses. They looked tired, worn, worried. Beheshti had also noticed the way the Supreme Leader had kept his right hand on his left wrist—a sure sign that the shaking that plagued him under times of pressure was attacking him full force.

  You deserve to shake! You deserve to tremble! Live your life in fear, for your days may not be long.

  The Sleeping Giant had been awakened. America had been temporarily stayed with the trial and convictions of Beheshti, Bahman Milani, Nouri Saberi, and the rest of Beheshti’s team. But that would not last long. There was blood in the water, and the shark was circling.

  A week ago, an American air strike on the North Korean presidential palace had killed Kim Jong Il. The next day, they had taken out Kim’s youngest son and successor, Kim Jong Un. That second strike had immediately triggered a revolution in the country. Government leaders were dragged into the streets and beaten to death, and military and police commanders were assassinated by those under their command. A de facto government free of Chinese influence was established until elections could be held, and the border with South Korea had been opened. Already cries for reunification echoed through the streets of the North and the South.

  Now many American government leaders were hoping for the same thing to happen in Iran. And the calls for revolution were not just coming from the West. Hundreds of thousands of adults and students carrying signs with slogans like “Death to the Dictator!” and “This Is for the World to See!” marched in the streets each day, dwarfing the size of the recent election protests.

  As he opened his eyes, Beheshti thought, Yes, you have every reason to be trembling, O Supreme Leader. Your time in this life will not be long, and then you will be forced to answer to Allah for your weakness and hypocrisy.

  There was one area in which Iran’s leaders and the protesters found agreement, however—the attacks on America must be paid for. That’s okay; I can accept the hatred of the world, as long as I have Allah’s favor. Let all the people of this earth direct their derision toward me; I have done God’s will. He will vindicate me for all eternity.

  At this moment, it wasn’t hard to believe that all the world hated him. The thousands of angry screams surrounding him were representative of tens of millions of others watching on a live Al Jazeera broadcast.

  Beheshti lifted the hem of his robe as he ascended the steps. He had worn his best qabaa for the event and didn’t want to soil it on his way up to the platform. When he reached the top, the jeers and calls exploded.

  Let them see that you are at peace. Show them your confidence in the vindication of Allah. Standing straight, with his head up, he slowly scanned the crowd that had gathered in the stadium. As his eyes passed each section, the screams wilted under his hard stare until only a low murmur was left.

  Then one voice called out, “Death to the traitor!” and the entire stadium erupted again.

  So be it, he thought as he knelt on the rough wood and leaned forward. I am not afraid. As the sound of the rapidly descending sword cut through the din, he said, “Into your hands, Allah, I—”

  Wednesday, September 30, 4:30 p.m. EDT

  New York, New York

  The first time Keith had seen a C-5 flying overhead, he had cheered along with everyone else. It happened the fourth day after the attack, and his stomach had been grow
ling nonstop for the previous twenty-four hours. The helicopter supply drops had continued to bring water and MREs, but with the massive number of people in need, there was not enough of either to satisfy. Seeing an enormous plane like the C-5 meant that the airport runways had been cleared, and clear runways meant supplies coming in and refugees flying out.

  Forty-eight hours later, passenger jets began to be interspersed with the cargo planes. Soon it was evident that a regular schedule had been established, and Keith began to expect a plane overhead every ten minutes like clockwork.

  That same day, a massive wave of people began pouring through their makeshift bus camp and onto the Triborough Bridge. All were making the hike to LaGuardia, a five-mile trek along the Bruckner Expressway and the Grand Central Parkway.

  After a while, Keith decided to walk alongside one middle-aged couple, each loaded with a backpack and a rolling suitcase. They were suspicious of him at first and didn’t want to talk, especially with the sorry state of Keith’s battered face. But once they connected his name with his profession, they opened up.

  Tom and Laura Webb had lived in a very high-end apartment at 96th and 5th, overlooking Central Park. They had been home watching the football game when the lights went out.

  At first there was nothing to indicate that it was anything other than an ordinary blackout. Then the first plane had dropped. The explosion shook the whole building. They ran to the window, where they could see the fireball rising from the other side of the reservoir. Then, as they watched in horror, another fireball rose no more than a hundred yards from the first. Then another and then another. Soon the whole park was aflame.

  Laura had tried to call their daughter, Maddie, who was at an evening biology lab at NYU south of their apartment. That was when they discovered that the phones weren’t working. Telling Laura to stay put until he got back, Tom had left to find Maddie. At first he planned to catch a cab, but when he ran out the door, he saw 5th Avenue packed with dead cars. So he began running.

  The streets had filled with people. Panic was everywhere—people afraid to stay in their buildings, but terrified to be in the street. Twice Tom had to go around the wreckage of fallen planes. Bodies and pieces of bodies littered the blocks surrounding the crash sites. But Tom didn’t have time to be horrified; he just wanted to find his daughter.