Day of the Delphi

by Jon Land

  McCracken’s eyes fell on a gasoline tanker abandoned in the center of Canal Street. He charged toward it and jumped into the driver’s seat. The keys were missing, but he had the engine hot-wired and revving less than a minute later. Then he lunged back out and opened the main spigot, which operated off a gravity feed. By the time he started the tanker forward, gas was already flooding out through the open spigot.

  Blaine crept the truck down Canal Street, weaving through stalled traffic. Fortunately 1st Street was wide open, and he upshifted to gather speed. He relied on the sounds of heavy fire from the Capitol to conceal those of the surging tanker. If the night could hold sight of it back just until he crossed over Constitution Avenue, he knew his plan stood an excellent chance of success.

  He eased onto 1st Street and gave the tanker gas. When it hit twenty miles per hour, he opened the door and angled his body so he could keep pressure on the gas pedal until the last possible moment.

  McCracken jumped just as the tanker crossed between the double-line formation the Delphi troops had erected in their siege of the Capitol. Their machine-gun fire sliced through its engine and stitched a line of punctures in the massive tank. The remainder of the gas flooded outward.

  The explosion came when the tanker slid past the Garfield Monument and crashed into a truck parked perpendicular to the street. The flames jetted out in all directions, lighting up the night. Fire dashed along the trail of gas that had followed the tanker all the way here.

  The initial explosion had consumed over half the Delphi troops stationed before the Capitol. Others had been scorched by flames or just the heat of the blast. And the fire wasn’t finished yet. It continued to spread along the line of the freed gas in what amounted to a wall of flames, cutting off all but a circuitous route to the Capitol. The Delphi retreated, their vehicles and much of their equipment left behind for Blaine to make use of.

  McCracken tempted the flames with a quick dash up to a truck that was just beginning to catch. He peered into its rear and grasped a machine gun known as a SAW, or Squad Automatic Weapon. The SAW fired belt-fed 5.56 rounds. Since the rounds were light, Blaine would have no trouble toting the thousand-round belt that made the SAW the perfect weapon for what remained ahead of him. Making sure the belt was properly fixed and chambered, he slid away from the flames into the night.

  At Mount Weather, General Trevor Cantrell enlarged the scene of the huge explosion and fire outside the Capitol to half of the entire screen. As he watched it, his face squeezed even more tautly into a grimace. To an observer, he looked as though he was holding his breath.

  Behind him the President was resting his hands confidently on the railing in front of the first row of chairs in the gallery. The awful damage that had been done to the White House and the Capitol, not to mention the Supreme Court, State Department, Hoover Building, and numerous others, didn’t seem to matter so long as the resistance continued that was keeping the structures from being utterly overrun and devastated. He knew as well as Cantrell did that real help was still hours away. But he realized too that the day of the Delphi relied on the concept of quick shock for its expected success, in and out before anyone knew what hit them. That was forfeit now. And the longer the troops of the Delphi had to contend with the resistance fighters, the greater the chances that their true purpose and identities would ultimately be revealed.

  “General Cantrell,” the President spoke forcefully to compel attention. When the general glanced toward him, he continued, “I am willing to accept your unconditional surrender.”

  Cantrell’s lower lip trembled and his eyes flashed. “I’ve had quite enough of this,” he said, though it wasn’t clear to whom.

  He steadied his headset before uttering his next words. “Ground command, this is Mountain Leader.” Cantrell held the President’s stare emotionlessly. “Send in the heavies.”

  “Come in, Arlo,” Blaine said into his walkie-talkie.

  “Right here, Mac,” came the wheezy reply.

  “You’ve sounded better.”

  “West Wing never agreed with me.”

  “You’re in the White House?”

  “Till they blow it out from under me.”

  McCracken could hear the dizzying explosions clearly in his ears now. “Ours or theirs?”

  “Both.”

  “Kristen?”

  “Right here. Wouldn’t sound any better than me.”

  “How bad?”

  “She been better.”

  “What about the rest of the Riders around the city?”

  “Good to the last drop, Mac, and that’s what we’re down to. Maybe fifty left who can still fight. That’s it.”

  Blaine felt the momentary euphoria over his success at the Capitol ebbing fast.

  “Hold on,” Blaine said, picking up his pace toward the Mall. “I’m on my way.”

  “Might be gone by the time you arrive. Might be—”

  Another blast drowned out Cleese’s words and then replaced them with static.

  “Arlo?” Blaine called, knowing there would be no reply. “Kristen.”

  He began to sprint, willing to risk a dash through the heavily patrolled streets to reach the White House faster. He had just turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, thinking about grabbing a vehicle, when he heard an all-too-familiar highpitched grinding sound.

  A pair of M-1 tanks were coming his way side by side right down the center of the street. The cars in their way were shoved effortlessly aside. Beyond them Blaine could see another pair of tanks creaking in the opposite direction toward the White House. He hid in the shadow of the Federal Trade Commission building and was briefly caught in the spill of lights shining out from a Bradley personnel carrier passing along Constitution Avenue, its deadly 14mm cannon poised for action.

  The Delphi had broken out the heavy equipment they must have been stockpiling in the city for some time, in closed sections of parking garages probably. Short of a miracle, the battle was over. McCracken figured if he was going out, he might as well do so in style. Take down one, maybe even two of the tanks with what he had left on him.

  He waited for the pair of M-1s to pass by him down Pennsylvania Avenue and had started to make his move when the sound of distant humming brought his eyes skyward.

  And the miracle he needed greeted his gaze.

  “What?” General Cantrell bellowed, working the remote control to place a single view on the entire screen. “This can’t be … . It can’t be!”

  The President’s eyes glistened with tears of uncomprehending thanks. Charlie Byrne had sunk back into his chair, near fainting. Angela Taft’s smile stretched across the entire width of her face.

  The huge television screen showed paratroopers dropping from the belly of a transport that streamed through the night, the numbers 9-1-1 stenciled in red across its side. Their parachutes opened in one beautiful, swift motion and floated toward the open ground of West Potomac Park beyond the Lincoln Memorial.

  CHAPTER 38

  The mannequins that made up the first drop drew fire only from the top of the Washington Monument. Colonel Tyson Gash of the 911 Brigade pulled the unlit cigar from his mouth and spoke to the trailing C-130.

  “Savior Two, enemy fire originating in Monument top. Take it out.”

  “Take the Monument out, sir?”

  “That’s an order, son. We gotta get our boys down safe.”

  “Roger, sir.”

  As Savior Two banked under the 911 Brigade’s flagship, the plane’s gunner locked the top of the Washington Monument into the firing grid of the C-130’s wing-mounted dual 20mm Vulcan miniguns. He pressed the red triggers under each of his thumbs. Three hundred rounds sped metallically out of two sets of six churning barrels and the gunner closed his eyes to the results. He didn’t open them again until the C-130 had passed over its target.

  In essence, the Vulcans had sheered the top of the Monument clean off. The sharply angled tip of the obelisk was gone, leaving only a jagged edge in the stone. The
three stories beneath it had been peppered black with 20mm fire and seemed a wind’s gust away from toppling as well.

  “This is Savior Two, Rescue Leader,” the pilot said into his headset. “The field is clear.”

  Gash gave the drop signal and the four transports filling out the line behind him began to spill the eager soldiers from their bays. He had initially considered directing the battle from within the flagship circling the city. But one sight of the inferno that was spreading through the ravaged capital of the United States set his stomach churning. This was the moment for which he’d been training men for five years now. This was the battle he knew his 911 Brigade would have to fight sooner or later. He had greeted the message delivered by Johnny Wareagle’s pilot seven hours before with excitement and vindication. The country needed him after all. But the excitement vanished at the sight of Washington burning, nothing but hate and revulsion left in its place.

  Gash discarded his cigar and moved backwards to join the men who would be dropping from Rescue Leader in the next pass.

  “We’re gonna fry these sons of whores,” he growled to one of his sergeants. “And we’re going to enjoy every goddamn second of it.”

  McCracken’s eyes continued to peer skyward as a sea of black parachutes opened in direct line over West Potomac Park. Another transport with a red 9-1-1 on its side zoomed over his head.

  It was Tyson Gash, alerted to what was going on, no doubt, by Johnny Wareagle!

  The spread of Gash’s paratroopers was even and precise, the only light catching them that from the flames flickering out of what remained of the Washington Monument’s top. The drop concentrated entirely in West Potomac Park south of the Lincoln Memorial across Independence Avenue. Blaine figured what Gash and the 911 would need most now was a quick intelligence appraisal of what was going on. So he started down the center of the Mall toward the troops that would already be gathering into recon units.

  His step had never felt so light. The Midnight Riders had done it! They had held the Delphi off long enough for help to arrive, though not from the expected source.

  McCracken broke into a sprint down the Mall toward the ruins of the Washington Monument.

  In the Mount Weather command center, half of the giant screen showed the paratroopers deploying quickly as another fleet of C-130s with red 911s across their sides circled the Potomac for an equipment drop. The other half closed on a solitary figure sprinting down the far end of the Mall in the paratroopers’ direction.

  Blaine McCracken.

  “Kill him, General,” the voice of Samuel Jackson Dodd ordered, filling the room. “Whatever it takes, I want him dead.”

  “Sir, the men we would have to commit to—”

  “I want McCracken dead!”

  “You ask me,” Sal Belamo muttered, “we should pull over and call a cab.”

  Johnny Wareagle kept his eyes fixed on the road and his attention riveted to the task of getting the double rig down Mountain Pass. They were coming to the steepest and most precarious portion of the road, and the weather was at its least forgiving. The snow collected in the gaps of the fractured windshield and crystallized, further limiting Johnny’s view. He hammered at the remnants of the glass with a naked fist to try to loosen the icy particles and succeeded only in putting more cracks in the windshield. The best he could do now was push as much of the glass out as he dared, lest the snow and ice block his vision altogether.

  Johnny had done his best to memorize Mountain Pass during the trek up it in the Sno-Cat. But the dips and darts all looked the same and each slight misjudgment sent the two trailers he was hauling into a dangerous sweep. He could see their tires flirting with the edge in his mind. The storm conspired with the length of the rig to make it impossible for him to watch for any possible pursuit. Before him, meanwhile, the wildness of the storm frequently obscured what little view remained. Sal Belamo had tried to serve as spotter, but that hadn’t worked, leaving Johnny with only his eyes.

  And the spirits.

  He could feel their hands over his. He could hear their words in his ears, leading him to make sudden adjustments in his route that kept the rig from pitching over the side. Johnny could see at most only ten feet ahead of him at a time, and he broke down the journey into segments that long.

  “Wake me when we get off the mountain,” said Sal Belamo, feigning a yawn.

  Traggeo shoved the Sno-Cat on through the storm. Its dangerous perch near the mountain’s edge had made him fear initially that righting it would be not only impossible but also deadly. He’d been able to manage the task, though at a severe handicap in time that gave the rig hauling two trailer-loads of nuclear weapons an even more considerable head start. But the nukes were only part of this for Traggeo now, and a small part at that, since he had glimpsed the face of the driver.

  Fate had placed the two of them on this mountain together, because by killing Wareagle and taking his scalp, all he sought could be gained. Traggeo would swallow the great Indian’s power and at last be accepted by those who had disdained him. He would wear the hair of Wareagle forever; there would never be call to change it. Future victims he claimed would merely recharge his spirit. He would no longer need to absorb their power by wearing their scalps.

  The snow pummeled Traggeo through the shot-out cab. The environment inside the Sno-Cat seemed no different than the environment beyond. But at least he was moving, and finally, after an agonizing ten minutes, he caught a brief glimpse of the massive rig two hundred yards ahead of him.

  Traggeo pushed the ’Cat for still more speed and its treads responded. The gap closed to a hundred yards, then to fifty, sight of the rear trailer now grabbed in longer stretches through the storm.

  At twenty yards, the second trailer was a snake slithering S-like across the muddied grounds. Traggeo kept the Sno-Cat charging on. Its front kissed the trailer’s rear bumper. The trailer jolted a bit and then steadied. Traggeo stomped forcefully on the accelerator pedal.

  The Sno-Cat lurched forward and mounted the hitch assembly protruding from the trailer’s rear, catching hold briefly. Traggeo checked both his .45-caliber pistol and killing knife, then pulled himself out through the Sno-Cat’s shattered cab. He scaled its hood and leaped to grab hold of the trailer’s roof. His gloves just managed to close on the sill and he pulled himself atop it. Johnny Wareagle was a mere hundred feet away now, and Traggeo began his advance across the top of the snow-covered rig.

  McCracken had reached the halfway point of the Mall between the remnants of the Capitol and the Washington Monument when the first of the Delphi troops converged on his position from Constitution Avenue. He checked the area quickly for cover. The rear of the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum was thirty yards away and he charged toward it, using a burst from the SAW to shatter the wall-length windows and clear a path for him inside.

  The logistics of the museum gave him the semblance of hope. Its many areas for concealment would allow him to use a hit-and-run strategy comparable to the one the Midnight Riders had employed for the entire city. He began to search for a spot amongst the various displays of aerial history to lay his initial ambush.

  A large poster drew his attention to an alcove of the museum reserved for Vertical Flight. It advertised a special demonstration that was being given on a daily basis all week. Intrigued by the accompanying photo, Blaine edged closer and realized his best chance for survival might lie in putting on an unscheduled demo of his own.

  Colonel Tyson Gash touched down in West Potomac Park and shed his parachute amidst the last of his black-clad commandos. In all, the logistical limitations had allowed him to get a 500-man contingent in, roughly one-third of the 911 Brigade’s total ranks. These same limitations had prevented the luxury of heavy air support. The 911 Brigade had its own fleet of Apache attack helicopters that were tailor-made for this kind of encounter. But Apaches required assembly that couldn’t possibly be completed without more time and a sufficient platform.

  Despite this drawbac
k, the 911 had other heavy arms to rely on, thanks to LAPES. LAPES stood for Low Altitude Parachute Equipment Setup, and it was the most important element in effecting the kind of counterstrike the 911 Brigade was trained for. In years dating back to Gash’s boyhood in World War II the casualty rate in paratrooper drops often approached a staggering 80 percent. The reason for this was not that they were cut down out of the air; it was that the enemy armaments awaiting them on the ground were simply too much to overcome. Accordingly, military planners had come up with a number of schemes to neutralize this advantage, ultimately evolving into LAPES.

  Gash watched now as a fresh set of C-130s sliced in over the Potomac. The first in the procession nearly scraped the top of the Lincoln Memorial and dropped to within six feet of West Potomac Park’s grassy plain. At that point, an on-board officer with the title of loadmaster began to work his magic. The loadmaster had already opened the C-130’s rear flap in the midst of its descent. Now, when the plane was six feet off the ground, he activated a cargo chute that shot outward and opened twenty-five yards behind the C-130. Instantly a much larger chute automatically deployed behind the first and opened as well. The second chute was attached to a single M-551 Sheridan tank, and the force of its opening dragged the Sheridan out from the cargo bay. The fast-attack, aluminum Sheridan bounced once and came to a halt, fully ready to go, armed with a hypervelocity 110mm cannon and Shillelagh missiles. The team assigned to man it was inside and firing up the Sheridan inside of a minute later.

  Three more C-130s dropped another trio of Sheridans, followed by additional LAPES passes that spilled a half-dozen Humvees equipped with tank-killing TOW missiles into the park. The trick for each of the pilots after deployment became pulling their planes’ noses up to climb back over the Potomac fast enough to avoid the trees that rimmed the park. Each managed the daunting task and headed for a midair rendezvous to await further orders.