Day of the Delphi

by Jon Land

  The next several moments gave the President reason to grimly question Dodd’s final pronouncement. Cantrell had divided the screen into eight shots of Delphi troops scampering toward trucks parked in the vicinity of their primary targets.

  Of course, since the trucks were placed in a manner to make them blend into the scene, the assigned guards had paid little heed to bystanders walking past them. Neither the guards nor the men scanning the satellite’s cameras had noticed a woman wheeling a baby carriage who wedged a wad of plastic explosives against the side of one truck. Or a pair of couples walking hand in hand who barely had to break stride to jam their bombs against two additional trucks. In all, seven of the enemy vehicles, each loaded with weapons, had been found and sabotaged by the Midnight Riders.

  The logistics of the operation dictated the necessity of remote instead of timer detonation. So as not to attract potential scrutiny, in each case a Rider different from the one who had set the explosive was holding the detonator. The original seven were well versed in such matters, having practiced their deadly trade for the Weathermen, SDS, or the Black Panthers back in the sixties. Unfortunately, the seven responsible for setting the explosives off were not. In turn, six of the seven prematurely pressed the red buttons on their detonators at the first sign of approach by the Delphi troops. The dizzying explosions utterly destroyed the trucks and the weapons within them. But in only one case, as the satellite broadcast back to Mount Weather, did the explosion also consume the converging Delphi troops at the same time.

  Nonetheless, the President exchanged hopeful gazes with Charlie Byrne and Angela Taft.

  “Right on, brother,” the National Security Advisor muttered, referring to Blaine McCracken.

  Cantrell pulled back to a wide overhead view of Washington’s center to better assess the damage. Seven plumes of black fiery smoke were clearly visible, each denoting a lost truck. The headset he had just replaced over his ears burst alive with activity again, as his command liaisons in the capital ordered replacements hurried out.

  “You’re losing, General,” the President said confidently, still on his feet.

  “Let’s take a look at something else then, sir,” Cantrell shot back.

  He worked the remote control again and focused on a grid dominated by Georgetown’s trendy M Street. The President felt his stomach sink at the sight. A parade of civilianclad gunmen wielding automatic rifles ran in all directions, strafing anything that moved. Car windshields and tires blew out on screen. Plate-glass store windows were reduced to splinters. People, innocent people, were cut down as they tried to flee. The carnage was sickening. Bodies toppled everywhere. Those surviving the initial barrage lunged through the fractured windows of upscale boutiques and eateries in search of cover. The automatic fire was unrelenting, the President’s sensibilities devastated despite the lack of sound.

  Cantrell was working his control box again. “And that’s not all … .”

  He had split the huge screen in two. On the left-hand side, a commando-style assault was in progress on police headquarters near the U.S. Courthouse. The inside of the building wasn’t visible, but it didn’t have to be. Not a window had been left whole. A quartet of squad cars lay tipped on their sides in ruins, signifying hits by either small rockets or grenades. All that remained of the main entrance was a huge jagged chasm. Smoke spilled out through the remnants of windows. Uniformed bodies lay on the front lawn and across the steps. The wheels of a toppled motorcycle, its rider pinned beneath it, continued to spin. Although only headquarters was portrayed, it was clear this same scene was being played out at strategic precincts throughout the city.

  The President struggled for breath. The right half of the screen was just as bad. The 8th and Eye marine company used as White House, Capitol, embassy, and functionary guards also put on regular full-dress marching exhibitions at their barracks. Though seeming to be concerned solely with protocol, the members of the 8th and Eye were no less competent as fighters and thus a threat the Delphi had to respect. Accordingly, the President watched in horror as a squad of Delphi troops fifty strong rushed through the brick archway into the barracks courtyard where an exhibition was underway. Random gunfire strafed the participants, their ceremonial rifles useless for defense. The gunmen turned their attention on the panicked members of the audience as well, cutting droves down as they attempted to flee the bleachers. A series of mind-numbing explosions then rattled the barracks structures that enclosed the courtyard. Buildings and vehicles were engulfed in flames. A few 8th and Eye marines who had responded fast enough to arm themselves were massacred effortlessly.

  General Cantrell worked his remote control to change the screen to a quartet of overhead views of Delphi trucks the Midnight Riders’ recon had missed cruising the streets from Georgetown to L’Enfant Plaza, from Union Station to the State Department building. At predetermined spots, Delphi troops were dropped off and dispersed on planned sweeping routes.

  “It would seem, sir,” Cantrell said to the President, “that the tide of the battle has already turned.”

  From his darkened office, FBI director Ben Samuelson had been trying every means of communication at his disposal to reach the outside world since the battle had begun. Spotters he had placed on the roof relayed enough about what was going on for him to realize the Seventh Light Infantry Division he had supposedly been in contact with all afternoon was nothing more than a voice at the other end of the line. He had been duped; the country had been duped. The Seventh LID wasn’t in Washington and wasn’t coming. The enemy had the city to itself.

  For the first time since the J. Edgar Hoover Building had been opened, Samuelson had ordered a Con-Red. Hoover’s own personal paranoia had led to some rather extreme inclusions in the building’s plans. These included steel blast shutters capable of resisting rocket fire that could be lowered over all entryways as well as windows on all executive office levels. In addition, there were concealed firing ports built into parapets on all four sides of the building, four on each side making sixteen in all. Samuelson’s first order when the truth of the treachery became known was to order members of the FBI’s Hostage and Rescue Team he had stationed in the building into position in those ports. Samuelson had chosen these troops over the Bureau’s SWAT and anti-terrorist commandos for their expertise in marksmanship. After all, if the building came under attack, what he would need more than anything would be men who could shoot the tip of a pen off at a hundred yards.

  Once in position, the Hostage and Rescue Team’s members provided the Delphi trucks cruising the surrounding streets with their first direct resistance. Emptying clip after clip through the well-fortified ports, they succeeded first in slowing the random strafing, and then in drawing a heavy concentration of attention and fire on themselves. Two minutes after retaliation had commenced from within it, the Hoover Building’s exorbitant security was being given its first test. Grenade and small-arms fire tore chips from its heavy concrete construction. Personnel within cringed and sought cover as the steel security shutters buckled under fire from M40 grenades. Clearly the steel second skins would not be able to repel heavy rocket fire—say, of the Stinger variety. The minimal staff Samuelson had kept with him inside were grimly aware of this, as well as the fact that the stand they were making in the city’s center, while ultimately doomed to fail, might be crucial to buying enough time for reinforcements to arrive.

  Of course, not all of them at this point knew that all cellular, land-line, and direct link communication had been rendered inoperative.

  A special agent hustled into Samuelson’s office in a crouch, something wrapped in a blanket cradled in his arms. “Got it here in one piece,” he said, almost out of breath, and lay the contents of his arms on the carpeted floor.

  Samuelson yanked the blanket off to reveal an old-fashioned MARS, or Military Amateur Radio System, beneath him. The director knelt and switched it on. Then he brought the clumsy pedestal microphone to his lips.

  “This is the FBI
calling all on-line military bases,” he started, not waiting for the tubes to warm up. “This is the FBI calling all on-line military bases. Over.”

  Samuelson knew that with a communications black-out in place, all bases would have automatically transferred to this mode of communication. What he could not have known was that those bases within a hundred miles of the capital, including that of the SEALS in Virginia, had been nearly emptied by a sudden joint exercise scheduled by General Cantrell. The nearest one that received Samuelson’s message came on-line from North Carolina within seconds.

  “Attention, caller, this is Fort Bragg command central,” a stern voice announced. “You are operating on a military restricted channel. Please vacate this channel instantly. You are violating federal access laws and trespassing on private communication channels as specified by the Federal Communications Commission. Over.”

  “Bragg,” Samuelson picked up, “this is Director Ben Samuelson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Designation four-zero-box-niner. The city of Washington is under attack. We are requesting immediate support. Over.”

  “Did you say attack, sir? Please say again. Over.”

  “You’re damn right I did.” Samuelson simply removed his finger from the activator button, consciously omitting the standard transmission closing.

  “FBI, please state one more time for confirmation. We have ‘The city of Washington is under attack.’ Over.”

  “Goddamnit, people are dying!” Samuelson roared while outside fire continued to pound the J. Edgar Hoover Building. “Move your ass, son, and get us some help!”

  Less than a minute later, Commanding General Lester Kerwin of Fort Bragg had established an open channel with Ben Samuelson over the MARS. Samuelson filled him in rapidly on what form the attack was taking, and on the fact that the President and all top members of government had been evacuated from the city. Samuelson could not say whether or not they were safe.

  For now Kerwin elected to concentrate his initial resources on Washington itself. He could either deploy Delta Force commandos or risk a more extravagant response in the form of the 82nd Airborne. The disadvantage to the latter selection was that the 82nd was strictly an attack unit. “If it moves, kill it” was the 82nd’s credo, and the Washington theater of operations promised to have plenty of friendly civilians running around. Delta Force, on the other hand, operated with far more discretion, but in far fewer numbers than the 82nd. Worse, Delta Force was trained to rely on lots of advance reconnaissance and intelligence to determine their footing, neither of which was going to be available today. And since they were a fast-attack team, armored backup was not something they were familiar with, and the siege the capital was facing indicated the heavy stuff might be required.

  In the end Kerwin opted for the only real choice he had. He would send the 82nd into Washington and have Delta Force prep for the potential retaking of Greenbrier, Site R, and Mount Weather.

  “Director Samuelson, the 82nd Airborne is prepping now. Over.”

  “How long? Over.”

  “ETA four hours to your beacon. Over.”

  “Four hours? There might not be anyone here alive in four hours. Over.”

  “Sir, that’s shaving two off optimum time. Over.”

  “This is the capital of the country we’re talking about, General. Over.”

  “It’s my country too, Director. We’ll be there as soon as we can. Over and out.”

  As Samuelson lowered the microphone, a hail of rocket fire shook the Hoover Building. The lighting died and the emergency generators kicked in instantly, casting a murky gray light over his office.

  “I’m going upstairs to the ports,” he told the crisis team, collectively hugging the floor of his office as far from the shuttered windows as they could manage. “I want to see for myself what’s going on out there.”

  The ferocity of the opposition’s attack surprised even McCracken. He emerged amid the wounded from the Pavilion in the Old Post Office Building, and, to set up a cover for himself, helped carry a few bleeding bodies out through the foot-deep pile of shattered glass.

  The sounds of several smaller explosions from the city beyond reassured him that Arlo Cleese’s Midnight Riders had followed his instructions to the letter. Gathered in their small groups, the Riders would now await Cleese’s signal to move in. These groups were dominated by the hard-edged men and women for whom violence had come easy in the sixties and would again tonight. Vastly outnumbered by the Delphi troops, they would utilize a hit-and-run strategy aimed at slowing the enemy down long enough for help to arrive from somewhere. Even with all the precautions the Delphi had taken, Blaine knew five or so hours was the best window they could hope for, and the plan he had laid out was aimed at holding the city for that long.

  McCracken managed to reach the Mall via 12th Street to find that it had become a sea of chaos all the way to the Lincoln Memorial. Delphi gunmen rushed to the area by truck descended upon the thousands of bystanders who were scattering from the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. Several ended up in the algae-rich waters of the Reflecting Pool when their path was cut off in all other directions. Blaine carried only his SIG-Sauer and had to fight against using it. Revealing himself would serve only to bring a hail of gunfire upon him. Hanging back, he raised his walkie-talkie to his mouth.

  “McCracken to Tower. Come in.”

  “Tower,” replied one of the Midnight Riders he had left in the Old Post Office Tower’s observation deck.

  “Got lots of unfriendlies down here on the Mall. Take ’em down.”

  Seconds later, the charging troops began to fall to his snipers. Their discretion of fire was excellent, impressive under any circumstances. Bodies continued to topple before Blaine’s eyes, the remaining Delphi troops searching frantically for the source of the unseen resistance.

  “Yo, Mac,” Arlo Cleese’s voice squawked over Blaine’s walkie-talkie from the back of a Volkswagen van parked on Pennsylvania Avenue, Kristen Kurcell by his side.

  “Right here.”

  “The bros and sises are all in position.”

  “Order them in.”

  CHAPTER 37

  “You sure you don’t need me along?” Duncan Farlowe asked again.

  Johnny Wareagle gazed back to the center of the abandoned silver mine’s rear chamber where Troop 116 remained gathered. “It’s best for you to guard the boys.”

  Farlowe frowned. “Easy job for me, tough one for you. Gun mighta helped ya out.”

  “Sal Belamo needed them more.”

  “Take mine,” Farlowe said and handed over his Colt Peacemaker, leaving him with the twelve-gauge shotgun he had stubbornly worn slung from his shoulder all the way from the ’Cat.

  Johnny accepted the pistol with a simple nod and headed on toward the passage leading to the front of the mine. The darkness slowed him only slightly, and as he had expected, there was no guard at the other end. Two men remained in the front chamber, fifteen feet apart and positioned so they could stare out into the storm to watch for the others in their party who had ventured out to await the Sno-Cat.

  The one standing to the rear never knew anyone was behind him until Wareagle clamped a huge hand over his mouth and another atop his head. A quick wrenching motion snapped the man’s neck and he went limp in Johnny’s arms. The other man heard the muted crack and swung round fast. Wareagle used the corpse’s rifle to snap two shots into the second man’s head.

  He then turned his attention to the two trucks parked in a darkened corner of the mine’s front chamber. Dark tarpaulins still partially covered their long shapes. Johnny tugged one all the way off to find that the trucks were of the heavy cargo variety, long trailers attached by hitch to the cabs. He didn’t have to peer inside to know they contained a dozen or so nuclear artillery shells each. He also knew that he and Sal would face a daunting task in driving one of the trucks down the mountain road, never mind two. The solution could have been as close as the mountain’s edge, except for th
e untold damage that could result upon the trailers’ impact a mile below if the radioactive material inside the warheads somehow leaked out. No, both trucks had to be driven out of here.

  Even to Wareagle, that task seemed daunting. He needed a plan that would minimize the vast risks confronting him. One came to mind instantly, though the means to implement it were severely lacking.

  Then again, maybe they weren’t.

  Johnny surveyed the exposed truck before him again and realized there was a way Duncan Farlowe and Troop 116 could help him out after all.

  Traggeo was holding position between Boggs and Kreller when the Sno-Cat slowed to a halt before reaching the curve beyond which they were perched.

  “Check it out,” he ordered them. “Don’t be subtle.”

  Without goggles, it was impossible for Boggs and Kreller to see much more than two yards ahead. The storm winds had shifted and blew the blinding white sheet directly at them as they advanced toward the curve. They had no choice but to ward the assault off with one arm raised before their faces, leaving only the other one for their M16s.

  The stalled Sno-Cat came into view when they reached the slight curve in the mountainside. Boggs and Kreller slid back against the ice-encrusted face and eyed each other before launching their attack. They rounded the curve with guns spitting fire. The glass of the Sno-Cat’s windshield fractured and the storm swept into its cab.

  The men stopped firing. Boggs approached the Sno-Cat warily while Kreller hung back. The treads on the ’Cat’s right side rested precariously close to the edge and Boggs was careful not to jar it when he climbed up to peer inside what was left of the cab. He threw the door open with one hand, rifle ready in the other.

  The cab was empty. Splintered glass and already thickening snow lay on the driver’s seat in place of the driver who had taken the ’Cat this far. Boggs leaped down and had swung round to shout toward Kreller when a barrage of gunfire stitched across his midsection and slammed him against the Sno-Cat’s frame. As Boggs’s corpse dropped to the snow, another barrage chased Kreller back against the mountain’s icy rock face, where a hand closed on his shoulder.