Firepower

by John Cutter

  “Where are we headed?” she asked.

  “Head northeast for Stonewall, Agent Corlin, and kill the heli’s lights. Bobby — we’re going to need directions…”

  *

  Rose Destry lived on the outskirts of Stonewall, in the countryside to the east. There was a big, empty field behind her house that she had rented out to farmers in earlier times. Now it was overgrown with knee-high grass and weeds.

  Gustafson’s helicopter settled down in the field, as close to the house as Deirdre dared.

  “Switch on the lights!” Vince yelled.

  The heli’s lights came on; a few seconds later, so did the lights over the back deck of the house about fifty yards away.

  Watching through the window, Vince could see Rose Destry, in a nightgown, coming out on the back porch.

  “Bobby — go on home and take care of your Mom!” Vince said.

  Bobby came over to him and, over the rumble of the idling engine and the whine of the slowly whirling rotors, he said, “I got to thank you, man. You saved my life. I know it. They were never going to let me live.” He put out his hand and Vince shook it.

  “Go on, bro — and listen: Take your mom out of Stonewall for a while. Just talk her into it. Leave before dawn. Get out of town and, I don’t know, visit Florida or someplace. Get out of state. Be safer.”

  Bobby nodded. “Yeah. We’ll do it.” He turned to Deirdre and said, “Thanks for the ride, ma’am!”

  She looked over her shoulder — wincing at the pain this brought — and managed a smile.

  Then Bobby opened the hatch, jumped down and ran toward his mother.

  Vince watched, smiling, as Chris’s little brother ran to Rose Destry and into her arms.

  “Take us up, Agent Corlin!” he called, shutting the hatch. “And lights out!”

  The rotors whirled faster, the engine hum deepened, and the heli rose into the sky.

  She slanted up to three-thousand feet and leveled off, heading northwest toward Washington D.C. When they got in close enough to the nation’s capital, they’d have to switch the lights on to avoid looking suspicious.

  Would Gustafson report the heli stolen? Maybe. Or maybe “the General” wouldn’t want the attention that would bring.

  They flew onward toward the D.C. area, and Vince felt himself getting sleepy — when he’d been in the Rangers and Delta Force, he’d had to catnap on flights between missions, and he still had a tendency to go to sleep on a flight. Climbing the cliff and the intense action afterwards was hard work…

  He heard Deirdre call out that she was going to reduce elevation near a cell tower so she could call Agent Chang. Vince nodded and slipped into sleep, almost immediately dreaming.

  Chris was walking beside him through the Yucatan jungle, both of them in cammies, guns in hand, on mission. Tropical sunlight speared down through the trees. “You sure this is the life you want, Vince?” Chris asked.

  “It’s all I’m good for,” Vince said. “Too damaged for anything else, man.”

  “You can heal.”

  “You can’t. You’re dead. I’m going to find the pricks who did it. Bosses didn’t want me to follow up on that mission. I had to walk away. But Angel Lopez is still out there, Chris. I’m gonna find the son of a bitch. I had to do this first — bury your hand, see your mom. Help your brother. Now I’ve got to finish it with the asshole who killed you. The asshole who kills people with heroin and meth every damn day…”

  “It’s not all up to you, Vince…”

  “No one else is taking Lopez down.”

  Chris seemed suddenly taller than Vince. Till he realized that Chris was now floating a foot off the ground. He was still marching along, but in the air. Now he was three feet off the ground. Now he was floating upward and vanishing in the tree cover…

  “Chris — where you going, brother?” Vince called, peering up through the trees.

  “There’s got to be a better life for you out there, Vince,” came Chris’s voice from the air.

  “It’s too late for me! You know how many men I killed today? I’m going to be on the run… May as well do some good while I’m out there…”

  “You don’t have to do this, Vince…”

  “Vince!” It was Deirdre’s voice, shouting from the front of the heli.

  He opened his eyes, sat up, and looked around. The jungle was still there — but fading now. And gone. He was in the helicopter heading for D.C.

  “Whoa, fell asleep…” He got up and went to sit beside her. “What’s up?”

  “I called Agent Chang. I got through this time. But he’s in hiding. The Attorney General seems to be targeting him and me both!”

  Vince snorted. “The AG? Dawson? I’ve heard stories about that guy. I didn’t think he was this deep into it…”

  “Richie found some connections between him and Gustafson.”

  “Richie?”

  “Agent Chang. Whom you’re going to meet in about half an hour.”

  “Where? We can’t just land at any airport in a stolen heli…”

  “There’s a small airport south of town. Anyway, it used to be an airport. It’s just a lot of weedy concrete now, I guess. It’s in an industrial district and there’s no one around out there tonight. He’s going to meet us there.”

  “You sure we can trust this guy?”

  “Richie? Absolutely. I’ve known him since the academy. Worked closely with him on two seriously fucked-up assignments. That’s where you get to know if you can trust a guy.”

  Vince nodded. “Yes, it is.”

  “I’m trying to decide who I should radio about the attack tomorrow. Let them know there’s a domestic terrorism strike. Chang says I’m persona non grata in the Bureau right now. There’s some guy named Aaron Stigler — new administrator in the Georgia FBI offices. The guy’s been slandering me, calling me a paranoid drug addict!”

  “What!”

  “Yeah and I don’t even smoke pot. And he’s never met me! The guy has to be with the Brethren. So between him and Dawson I don’t know who I can trust at the Bureau right now. I could call the D.C. police…”

  “Got to,” Vince said, nodding. “There’s risks in doing that, but it’s got to be done. Call the D.C. cops and tell them what’s going to happen at the Lincoln Memorial tomorrow.”

  “Suppose you’ve discouraged Gustafson to the point where he’s called the attack off?”

  “Let’s hope so. But I doubt it.”

  “Yeah, Gustafson made a point of being able to make it happen no matter what. And he’s organized it in a way that he can seem to be detached from the whole thing. They can commit mass murder — and it can seem like he had nothing to do with it…”

  *

  Shaun Adler sat nervously in the chair in Mr. Ostrovsky’s house in the mountains of West Virginia, waiting for them to bring him the suicide vest. It was well after midnight, and the wind was rattling the wooden shutters over the windows.

  He looked at the window, wondering if he could escape that way. It looked like it was painted shut. Could he smash the glass and escape? But there were sentries around the house.

  He had watched the route nervously as they drove up into the mountains of West Virginia. He wanted to know where he was so he could find his way to help — if he could slip away from the house.

  They’d caught him walking up the road, away from Wolf Base. He’d been heading for the highway, the night before, planning to duck into the bushes, and then the Humvee rolled up, and he heard the General’s voice. “Mac, get that deserter in this vehicle. See that he’s disarmed.”

  Colls had directed him at gunpoint to get in the back of the Humvee between him and Buster Sedge. Buster, a heavy-set man with a thick, curly black beard, had been one of Gustafson’s students before the General had been kicked out of the university. Buster was the one to say it first, as they drove toward the highway. “Maybe he can be the one to wear the vest since we’ve lost the other guy…”

  Now he sat wait
ing in a chilly little bedroom in the back of the enormous gray-stone house. It smelled of mildew; there was a painting on the wall so faded he couldn’t make out what the image was. Gustafson referred to the big country house as his “Black Forest retreat”.

  Gustafson was here somewhere, upstairs, monitoring the set-up for Operation Firepower. Shaun had heard enough discussion in the Humvee to guess that Firepower would be happening in D.C. And he was to be a decoy for it.

  Greeting them at the door, Pieter Ostrovsky, a cadaverous old Russian in a fine Italian suit, had said, “Gentlemen, welcome to the most comfortable safe-house in North America…” Along with Colls and Buster, there were six Brethren from the West Virginia chapter here, too, as protection for Gustafson.

  Now Shaun heard footsteps creaking in the hall, and the door opened. Mac Colls came in with Polly Sulevich. She was a Shield Maiden, about forty years old, for a West Virginia chapter of the Brethren.

  Polly had some straight pins pinched in her lips, and the vest, without the explosives in it, draped over a forearm. In her other hand was a little sewing bag. She was a chipmunk-cheeked little woman with bright red lipstick and flaxen hair up in a bun on her head. The suicide vest was khaki colored, had started life as an ammunition vest for hunters.

  They’d assured Shaun that it wouldn’t have real explosives in it when the time came. But he knew they were lying. Because they’d reassured him too many times. And because he’d stopped trusting them anyway. He had seen Gustafson’s willingness to throw away the lives of his men.

  “Stand up and put your arms up for the measurement,” Colls said gruffly.

  Shaun did as he was told. “I wasn’t deserting, Sarge,” Shaun said, hoping he was lying convincingly. “I was just taking a breather… saw a couple of friends of mine blown up by that RPG round and I just…”

  “You sure as fuck were deserting,” Colls said. “Now shut up and cooperate so you can make up for it.”

  He stood up, and Colls went to sit on the bed and opened a cell phone.

  God if I could get hold of a cell phone, Shaun thought, as he went to Polly down by the dresser. He knew Vince’s phone number…

  “Canville? Colls,” Mac said, talking on the phone. “Is everyone in place in Alexandria? Yeah? And so what?”

  Polly spoke to Shaun chirpily as she fitted him for the suicide vest. “You are such a brave young man,” she said in her thick Ukrainian accent. “To go to pull the wool over the police, yes? I admire you so much! Stand still please… we must make this tight to you, so it does not stand out so much under your jacket... Now — turn around…

  Shaun turned around and just stood there, arms up, as she tugged the vest closer around him, and he wondered if Vince Bellator was still alive. It didn’t seem likely.

  There was a small dresser in front of him, and on it was the little sewing bag. And in the sewing were little spindles and needles and a pack of cigarettes with a lighter stuck in its cellophane and… a cell phone. He stared at the phone. Then looked quickly away.

  He could hear Mac talking on the other phone. “Yes… well, you’ll get your briefing. You know the drill: stand down but stand by…”

  Mac was sitting on the bed, talking — didn’t sound like he was looking Shaun’s way.

  Shaun looked at the phone in the sewing bag. She’d probably notice if he took it.

  But what if she didn’t? There was a lot of junk in that bag.

  “Suck in your belly, my brave boy!” Polly said. “I must get this tight!”

  He pretended to do just that — but only did it a little so she’d have to struggle with the vest. She muttered in Ukrainian as she jerked the belt tighter — and he used her distraction to reach out, grab the phone, and push it up under his vest in front.

  “Now then, that is good!” Polly said, buckling something he couldn’t see.

  Shaun pretended to stretch a little and managed to flip the sewing mostly shut so she wouldn’t see into it when she picked it up.

  “You got that thing adjusted yet, Polly?” Mac asked.

  “Almost… I must be careful not to… well… almost done…”

  Shaun thought, The suicide vest — is live.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Vince had found some cold-press coffee in the big heli’s minifridge, and he was drinking it from the bottle as he walked out onto the cracked old runway. Deirdre Corlin was just coming down the extending steps from the helicopter cab.

  The moon was sinking toward the horizon, looking big and yellow over the almost featureless buildings of the industrial park. Rotors slowing almost to a stop, the helicopter was sitting in the middle of the abandoned runway, about two hundred yards from the little, boarded-over control tower. It had been a small airport for private planes, once; now it was mostly a canvas for graffiti artists.

  Deirdre walked up beside him and said, “I see you finally cleaned the mud off your face and hands. It’s an improvement.”

  “Oh, thanks. I learned to wash when I was a boy. Sometimes I remember.”

  She smiled, and he liked that he’d made her smile.

  Seeing headlights swivel onto the edge of the big concrete apron, Vince stopped where he was and shifted the coffee into his left hand, putting his right on the butt of his gun.

  “Is that him?” Vince asked as Deirdre stepped up beside him.

  “If it isn’t, we’re screwed,” she said, calmly.

  “Good to know.”

  The black Crown Vic pulled up to their left, and the engine shut off, but the driver left the headlights on.

  An Asian-American guy got out. He was about thirty-five, wearing a gray-blue suit, black tie, white shirt. Classic FBI, Vince thought.

  “Hey, Corlin,” he said. But he was eyeing Vince.

  “Hey, Richie. This is Vince Bellator.”

  Agent Chang walked up to Vince and they shook hands. Vince was a head taller than Chang, probably had fifty pounds on him too. But he seemed a wiry, confident man. “Mr. Bellator.” He looked past them at the heli. “You’ve got your own helicopter, now, Corlin?”

  “Sure,” she said. “Weren’t you issued one?”

  “We kind of borrowed it,” Vince said. “But the guy we borrowed it from was trying to kill us.”

  “Is that a machine gun inside there?” he asked, staring at it.

  “Ah — it is,” Vince said. “Yeah. Gustafson had that put in. He didn’t get to use it.”

  “So that’s a stolen helicopter…”

  Deirdre shrugged. “Technically.”

  Chang let out a long breath and shook his head. “You didn’t go right to the nearest Bureau office and just… I don’t know… turn it in?”

  “You can’t land a huge helicopter like that just anywhere,” she said.

  “Anyway, we had to get here fast,” Vince said. “Agent Corlin told you what’s going down tomorrow morning?”

  Chang grimaced. “Yeah, Corlin told me. If they go through with it. I was trying to get the Bureau on board but… they’re calling me in. They want me to turn in my gun and badge, for now. Pending investigation. Just like Corlin here.”

  Deirdre shook her head in disgust. “The idiots! I called it in to the D.C. police, Richie — and soon as they heard my name, they said I was wanted for questioning and they discounted the whole report! They said there are dozens of calls about an attack, and some say it’s this place and some say that place and they’ve decided they’re all bogus, some kind of ‘fringe group harassment’.”

  “That’s Gustafson’s work,” Vince said. “Disinformation is a standard white supremacist tactic. Dozens of false tips to cover up the real attack.” He looked at Chang. “There have to be FBI agents who’re willing to listen.”

  He nodded. “There are. Thing is, Director Dawson is under investigation himself, by an inspector general. He’s under a lot of suspicion. Justice Department’s in turmoil. Lots of agents don’t trust him. But they don’t want to go against orders, either. They could lose their job — the
ir pensions.”

  “We need to get what help we can and stop this thing.”

  “You’re sure it’s on…?” Chang asked. “Corlin told me what happened at the base…”

  Vince said, “I believe it is. Gustafson has been preparing for the attack for more than two years. And we can’t take a chance. A lot of innocent lives are on the line.”

  Chang said, “I hear that.” He cocked his head to one side and looked at Vince appraisingly. “But… really, I should arrest you. Stolen chopper. Piles of bodies at Wolf Base. Interstate flight. Maybe you had good reasons, but — that doesn’t make it legal.”

  “Can’t let you arrest me,” said Vince in an apologetic tone. “But I can promise not to hurt you much if you try.”

  Chang blinked and his head rocked back a little. “You’re kind of over-confident, aren’t you?”

  “Do we need a pissing contest now?” Deirdre growled. “Richie, he could take you down before you touched your gun. Just trust me. I’ve read his files. And I’ve seen him in action. He’s a highly decorated Delta Force specialist.”

  Chang cleared his throat. “Just asking. So… now what?”

  “You have to try to get law enforcement on this,” Vince said. “And I have to be there in case it doesn’t. Meanwhile — is there a place in the area has breakfast twenty-four hours?”

  *

  I don’t see how you can eat at a time like this,” Deirdre said, shaking her head as Vince ate his second plate of eggs and hash browns. Chang — not wanting to know too much about Vince’s plans — had dropped them off here. They were in a back corner booth of a Denny’s, almost the only customers. Willie Nelson sang “Crazy” from the sound system. He sounded lost in the nearly empty restaurant.

  “Need to eat at a time like this,” Vince said, refilling his cup from the carafe. “Going to need the energy. I’ll burn through it all before the day’s over…”

  “Or we’ll just sit twiddling our fingers.” Deirdre had ordered orange juice. She took a sip of it, made a face, and said, “I don’t see what we can do — we could’ve been misled about their target.”

  “I don’t think so,” Vince said. He drank some coffee and added, “Anyway, I can’t ask you to go with me and do what I’m going to do. You can do it if you choose to — but I can’t ask it of you.”