by Sean McFate
“And is Apollo running a private sector COINTELPRO with Wagner Group’s help?” asked Lin with anxiety. “It sounds like we have American mercenaries working with Russian ones to assassinate U.S. political leadership and frame terrorists. If so, we don’t know who hired them, or why.”
Jason let out a stressed sigh. “We may never know. The next day, Dan’s boss was transferred to the Omaha office, and everyone was forbidden to communicate with him. They shut down the operation and were told never to speak about it again, or have their security clearance yanked. It’s why Dan got so cagey before.”
“Geez.”
“Yeah. I had no idea. Nobody does. I didn’t know the FBI could keep secrets like that.”
Lin was thinking. As if he could hear her think, Jason said, “Wait, stop, Lin! Just stop. You’re in enough trouble as it is. Whatever you’re thinking, do not do it! Every time you do this, things get worse for both of us!”
“Where can I find these Apollo Outcomes guys?” she asked, starting up the car.
“Jen, don’t even think about it. They’re heavy hitters and work for pay grades way above ours.”
“But you just told me they’re doing some COINTELPRO thing, are collaborating with the Wagner Group, and the FBI is prohibited from investigating it. It’s treason, pure and simple. If we don’t stop them, who will? It’s obviously an inside job, Jason, and the insider has the Bureau tail-chasing on purpose.”
“And that’s why you need to quit, right now,” pleaded Jason. “It’s too dangerous. Leak it to the Times or Post, I don’t care. Just stop chasing leads!”
She scoffed and buckled up. “You know me. You know I can’t do that.”
“Yes, I do,” he sighed. “I wish I wasn’t in love with you.”
Lin didn’t know how to respond. She had not heard anyone tell her that in a long time, and she preferred it that way. All her past boyfriend experiences were humiliating catastrophes, and now this, and at this moment. She needed to focus, but Jason’s impromptu admission jolted her.
Focus, she thought. Compartmentalize. “Give me a location, and I don’t mean Apollo’s corporate headquarters. I want the CEO’s house or something like that.”
Jason sighed again, and she could hear him work a keyboard. “I got one better. Something major just went down in South East DC. I would bet my monthly salary it’s Apollo. Your best bet is to follow them.”
“There’s no time to follow. It’s time to intercept.”
“It’s my ass if this goes badly. And it will.” He gave her the convoy’s last coordinates, captured by a traffic camera minutes earlier. She left tread marks at the scenic overlook and sped toward the capital, passing cars as if they were standing still. Lin no longer cared about police.
“Thank you, Jason. Really,” she said over a headset as she swerved around traffic. “As a thank-you gift, I saved one of the Russian hacker’s laptops for you. It’s the only one that survived.”
“Sweetness! I’ve always wanted one of those,” he joked, knowing it would catapult their unofficial investigation and his career, if he found a way to “discover” it as evidence and get it unlocked. He would.
She told him the location of the scenic overlook. “It’s sitting on a picnic table, so you should get there before it rains, or people show up.”
“Thanks, Jen.”
“And one more thing,” said Lin. “When this is all over, dinner’s on me.”
Chapter 38
Jackson hung up the phone with Winters and poured himself a tall scotch, neat. It was nearly 2 a.m. and he stood in a silken bathrobe with his initials, GJJ, inscribed on its left breast pocket. His private study looked like old Beacon Hill, Boston. It was adorned in dark oak and brass fittings, with hunter green walls. A small marble fireplace with two leather chesterfield chairs sitting on an ornate Persian carpet with a tree-of-life motif. By the window, on a side table, stood an exquisite model of the clipper ship Cutty Sark, its rigging lovingly tied by tweezer. An authentic Tiffany desk lamp was the only light in the room, casting a multicolor glow on the room.
Jackson leaned back and put his pajamaed legs on the desktop, sipping the single malt with exquisite care. One does not gulp twenty-five-year-old Macallan. Pictures of his children and grandchildren crowded his desk. One showed a hoard of laughing grandkids piling on him at Ridgely’s Retreat, their mansion off the Chesapeake. It was the best day he could remember in ten years, and he wanted more like it.
Winters had been working him over from the beginning, and Jackson had let him. He had a country to secure and did not have time for Winters’s puerile mind games. The man was more conniving than Iago and more foolish than Oedipus. But that time was drawing to a close, and Winters had finally earned Jackson’s full attention. Winters would regret it.
Kill the president? Impossible. Laughable, he thought, rubbing his head. It was clear now: Winters had gone insane in his Saudi prison cell. He was not the same man he used to know. Even if Jackson could orchestrate the president’s death, he wouldn’t dare. He now deplored his partnership with Winters and needed to make repair.
Christ. Henry and Martha are dead, he thought. They were family friends long before Henry became vice president, and they vacationed together on Martha’s Vineyard one summer. It was divine. I’m sorry, old friends, he thought and took another and sip of scotch.
Jackson leaned back, weighing his options. He understood predators like Winters, and what to do about them. He had been dealing with them his entire career. They mistook his niceness for weakness, and learned too late of their errors. Jackson had left a trail of gutted rivals as he climbed his way into the White House. Winters was no different.
“Damn Winters,” Jackson muttered, angry that he had to expend power—real power—on the idiot. But he knew it was necessary: the man required a firm reminder of who was the alpha in their partnership. He had to bring the man to heel.
I have no choice. He’s pushed me too far. Jackson picked up his secure government phone. Being the national security advisor afforded him great power.
“Give me Joint Task Force National Capital Region, special operations division.”
The operator put him through.
“This is National Security Advisor George Jackson. This is a Code One NSC emergency. Terrorist attack in progress. Activate Sierra Mike Uniform One Niner.”
“Copy all. Authentication?” replied an alert military voice.
“Authentication code is . . .” Jackson authenticated.
“Authentication is confirmed.”
“Target is linked to the following mobile phone,” Jackson added, giving Winters’s last used number. Winters thought he was calling from a concealed number, but Jackson had the NSA crack it long ago. The NSA had cracked all his known phones, which helped Jackson keep abreast of the man’s many nefarious intentions.
“Copy.”
“One more thing,” added Jackson. “Capture, do not kill. I want the leader alive, but I don’t care about the rest.”
“Roger.”
It’s done, Jackson thought, hanging up the phone. Perhaps it was extreme, but breaking Winters required extreme measures.
Chapter 39
Helicopter rotors began turning at Andrews Air Force Base, just south of Washington, DC. Special Mission Unit 19 had been scrambled, and men in black tactical gear ran to the choppers sitting on the tarmac. SMU 19 was the government’s secret counterterrorism assault force for the capital region, and comparable to SEAL Team 6 and Delta Force. Their mission: defeat terrorists who threaten the nation’s capital. Their motto: “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Anyone Who Threatens It.”
“Go, go, go!” shouted the team leader, as shooters climbed aboard two MH-60M Black Hawks. These birds were unlike normal Black Hawks, and were customized for special operations forces. Next to them, two AH-6 Little Birds were already hovering, each equipped with Hellfire and Stinger missiles, and two multibarrel miniguns that shot six thousand rounds per minute—accu
racy by volume. Seconds later the helicopters lifted off in blackout flight. Four up-armored SUVs dashed out the base’s main gate, sirens raging.
Chapter 40
Winters checked his watch again, and then looked up. His body swerved with the SUV, as they made turns at twice the speed limit. Traffic was light at this hour, as the tourists were still asleep in their hotels. Winters’s convoy was a black flash in a dark night: six armored Chevy Suburbans escorted by four Sikorsky S-97 helicopters, all black and traveling in blackout mode. The police, if they could catch them, were the least of Winters’s worries.
That snake Jackson better not double-cross me, thought Winters. He was taking a risk, but one worth taking. However, he had contingencies for Jackson, should he betray his trust. Winters always had such plans.
“ETA seven minutes, sir,” said the convoy commander from the front seat. Winters nodded. They turned onto Memorial Bridge and headed for the Lincoln Memorial, which was lit up in splendor. If all went according to plan, it would be the last time he would ever meet with Jackson. The truth was, he didn’t need Jackson to kill the president; he could do that anytime. Rather, he agreed to it just to torment the moron, with his morality of convenience and hypocrisy of necessity. Men like Jackson were lice, and Washington suffered an infestation.
Seven minutes until I’m rid of this troublesome office seeker, thought Winters with satisfaction.
The hood and gag were suffocating, and I felt nauseous as the vehicle veered and lurched around traffic. I estimated we were traveling around 90 mph but I had no idea where we were going; I assumed Winters’s lair. My hands and feet were each flex-cuffed, and I was belted into the backseat, stuffed between two brawny men. Their elbows jabbed my ribs every time we took a turn. I worked at the wrist cuffs, but they weren’t budging. I was stuck.
I could only imagine what horror show Winters had ready for me at his makeshift Apollo dungeon. He had changed, no doubt. Torture does that to a man. Knowing Winters, he would exact his revenge on me, one torture instrument at a time, each with expert precision and medieval tenacity. I would become his new hobby, and he would nurse me along for months just so he could see me scream again. Winters was always a twisted person, but torture unleashed his inner Lucifer. And I would pay.
I had been physically tortured before, once by a warlord in the Congo and another time by police in West Africa. They were equally awful. Everything they teach you about endurance at SERE School is mostly worthless. There is no mental “happy place” to go to when someone is electrocuting your junk. You could pray, but God doesn’t answer men like me, and why should he? Ultimately, it’s just a long night. I had many long nights ahead of me.
The four helicopters of Special Mission Unit 19 skimmed the Potomac so fast they left a wake. They were locked onto the digital signature of Winters’s phone, and Memorial Bridge was in the distance. The plan was standard operating procedure: the aviation would draw first blood and hold down the terrorists until the ground units caught up, who would go in for the capture and kill. They had practiced this endlessly, but this was their first live mission.
“Joker One, this is Joker Three,” said a Little Bird pilot to the lead Black Hawk and pilot in command. “Are you seeing this?”
“Affirmative, Joker Three. I see four rotary-wing bogies, flying dark and moving east with the target over the bridge toward the Mall. Control, confirm?”
“Negative, Joker. We see nothing. Scopes are clean,” replied Mission Control.
Terrorists with their own stealth rotary-wing escorts? thought Joker 1 with concern. No one had ever heard of such a thing. It was a clear and present danger, which meant there was only one course of action.
“Control, permission to engage?” asked Joker 1.
There was a pause on the radio net, as the mission commander sweated. The consequences of being wrong were extreme, but he was trained for this. In moments of extreme decision, always choose prudence.
“Joker, you are weapons free,” said Control.
“Copy. We are weapons free. Engage,” commanded Joker 1. The Little Birds fanned out.
“Arming Stingers. Acquiring targets,” said Jokers 3 and 4, the Little Bird pilots. An EEEEEEEEEEE sounded over their headsets as the stingers locked onto the heat signatures of the enemy choppers. “Got tone. Firing.”
Four missiles launched from pods on the side of the AH-6s and flew toward the Memorial Bridge. The same instant, the four Sikorsky S-97s scattered and dropped flares. The bridge shimmered in the twilight glow of burning magnesium, creating a surreal scene.
“Negative hits,” said Joker 3.
Who are these guys? thought Joker 1.
“Incoming! Incoming!” squawked the command net. Winters peered out the window and saw his Sikorsky S-97s jerk left and right while dropping flares. They looked like starlit snowflakes as they drove through them. Cars swerved to avoid the descending goblets of white fire, not knowing what they were, and hit other vehicles. The convoy deftly maneuvered through the debris field as the Stingers rocketed overhead.
“Those were Stingers! Who’s got eyes on? Where’s the bogie?” shouted the convoy commander into the radio. Winters looked out over the river but saw nothing. Jackson, is that you? he thought.
“This is Bandit,” said the pilot in command. “We got four bogies in our FLIR, south of the bridge six klicks and closing fast.”
“Annihilate them,” ordered Winters, sitting back again.
“Weapons free,” ordered the convoy commander.
“Copy.”
Above them, they heard the launch of heavier rockets designed to kill aircraft and tanks. The enemy choppers down river immediately dumped flares, lighting up the river near the National Airport. A 737 airliner on approach banked upward in an emergency procedure and accelerated back into the sky. Winters smiled. Take that, Jackson.
“Go to guns,” commanded Bandit. “Engage.” The attack helicopters flew past the convoy, heading toward the oncoming bogies. They were too close for missiles and would have to fight in an air duel of skill and nerve.
“Give ’em hell, boys,” said Winters. Jackson had betrayed him, but he would leave a stinking turd on the White House’s front lawn for him to clean up in the morning. “No prisoners.”
“Holy crap!” said Lin, skidding around a three-car accident on the Memorial Bridge as flares dropped all around them. The white light lit up the sky and what she glimpsed made her heart stop. Meters above the bridge, four black helicopters flew in tight formation. She had never seen anything like them: dual rotor, one on top of the other, and a rear pusher propeller. Missiles were launched off side pylons and they headed south, toward the airport.
Then her eye caught the convoy that Jason told her about. Six black, armored Chevy Suburbans weaved through the wreckage on the bridge, driving almost bumper to bumper. They drove like NASCAR.
There goes my lead! she thought as she floored the accelerator to catch up and slalomed through the traffic. I’ve come too far to lose them now.
“Incoming! Incoming!” shouted Joker 1 as a warning alarm squawked in the cockpit. He yanked the cyclic and stick, and the Black Hawk banked hard right, its rotor almost splashing the water. The shooters inside held on as loose stuff in the cabin flew everywhere. The Black Hawk’s flares showered the river but extinguished in the water before the incoming missiles could lock onto them.
Shit, thought Joker 1, watching all his flares go out. They were exposed.
The other Black Hawk exploded in an orange fireball that illuminated the early-morning sky. The impact was so intense that a million pieces rained down, making little splashes in the water several hundred meters in diameter. There was nothing left of the chopper, or the ten souls on board.
“Joker Two is down! Repeat, Joker Two is down!” It was the nightmare scenario they had drilled for over and over, but the reality was no less shocking.
“Copy, Joker Two down. Scrambling the Falcons,” said Mission Control, referring to the
F-16s of the 121st Fighter Squadron at Andrews Air Force Base. However, the firefight would be over by the time the F-16s arrived on station, something Joker 1 and Mission Control knew.
“Signal now moving down Independence Avenue. Jokers, give me covering fire. I’m tracking the signal,” said Joker 1 to the Little Birds. Even secure phones emitted electrical signals, and they could be tracked with the right equipment.
There was a pause as they moved into position, then Joker 4 said, “I spot six black SUVs in blackout drive moving at high speed.” The vehicles were traveling fast down the broad lanes of Independence Avenue, which lined the National Mall. They were in the open and vulnerable to fire, but not for long. In a minute they would come upon buildings, making a clean hit with a Hellfire missile risky.
“Signal is coming from either the lead vehicle or the second,” said Mission Control. “Mission requires capture the leader and eliminate the rest.”
“Take out the rear four vehicles,” ordered Joker 1.
“Roger, switching to Hellfires,” said Joker 3 and 4. “Got tone.”
“Take the shot!” said Mission Control.
Hellfire missiles launched off the rails of the Little Birds toward the convoy.
Winters turned around as he heard the explosions. The trailing three Suburbans were hit and a civilian car disintegrated, probably killed by a Hellfire missile. There would be no survivors. “Leave them. Continue mission,” he said.
“Roger,” said the convoy commander, and then ordered “Charlie Mike,” for “continue mission,” over the radio.
“Was Locke in one of those vehicles?” asked Winters.