by Sean McFate
“Yes sir,” said the convoy commander. “The rear one.”
Damn you, Jackson! thought Winters. You will pay for denying me my vengeance.
I sensed the explosion before I felt it. The air pressure quadrupled in the cabin as the armored Suburban lifted off the ground and spun through space, flat like a frisbee. I felt the g-force pull my face away from my skull. The noise was deafening, like being inside a lightning strike. Actually, it felt like I was a shell being fired out of a howitzer. We impacted a second later, bounced twice, and rolled violently for what seemed a minute. I heard the heads of the men next to me smash repeatedly against the bulletproof windows, and I stiffened my neck to avoid whiplash. When the vehicle stopped, I hung upside down, suspended in place by my seat belt.
Whatever hit us had struck our ass and ripped off the rear end of the vehicle. Armored SUVs have blast glass and bulletproof steel between the passenger compartment and the trunk area. That, and being sandwiched between thick guys, was the only reason I was alive. And from the sound of it, I was the lone survivor.
The vehicle was on fire, and I struggled against my flex-cuffs, but no joy. I was trapped, dangling upside down in a lit gas can. My fun meter was pegged.
Lin followed the black SUV convoy as it circled around the Lincoln Memorial and blew through red lights. Independence Avenue was a tree-lined boulevard, and the SUVs accelerated to 100 mph on the straightaway, with no headlights or lights of any kind. Lin struggled to keep up, dodging cars. They were approaching the bridge over the Tidal Basin when three Suburbans and a car blew sideways off the road and into the trees. They vanished like a golf ball hit by a driver. The concussive wave hit her car.
“Holy crap!” screamed Lin, as she skidded sideways and bounced off the median’s curb, spinning uncontrollably to a complete stop. Cars screeched behind her, also stopping, and she could hear the crunch of steel and glass as vehicles collided. Lin looked up and saw the surviving Suburbans speed away.
Dammit! she thought, as she watched them vanish into the dark night. She turned to the Mall and saw the three burning hulks that were once armored SUVs, now blown hundreds of feet off the road. All may not be lost.
Lin grabbed the Saiga shotgun and backpack full of grenades and jumped out of the car. Victims of the car pile-up behind her were tending to one another, and she could hear the sirens of emergency vehicles in the distance. She didn’t have much time to scour the wrecks for clues.
There was nothing left of the civilian car, save a burning chassis blown two hundred meters away. It looked like a Toyota Camry, judging by the body parts in the trees, sixty feet up. One of the SUV wrecks exploded, causing her to jump. A millisecond later, she felt the hot, forceful wave impact her face. She ran to the second SUV, also on fire. No survivors. Lin had to turn back, so intense was the heat from the fire, and it would yield no clues. The last SUV’s rear was blown clean off, and lay upside down among the trees.
There could be survivors, she thought, and approached with caution. Crouching as she walked, she could see people inside, hanging upside down, and lifeless. Then she heard a muffled scream.
“Anyone there?” she yelled and heard the mumbling increase with urgency. The vehicle was on fire, and she knew she should leave immediately. However, she couldn’t. She needed information and this was her one chance, before the police showed up and locked the place down.
This is insane, she thought. No piece of information is worth my life. Nonetheless, she tried one of the doors but it was jammed. The explosion and rolling had bent the vehicle’s frame, and the door was wedged shut. She tried two more doors, but they were stuck, too. The last one opened, and a man’s body rolled out, clutching a Heckler and Koch SDMR assault rifle. Lin stepped over the body and looked inside. A man hung upside down in the darkness with a hood over his head and hands tied. He rocked back and forth, trying to free himself.
“Are you OK?” she asked, knowing full well the answer: the vehicle was on fire and could explode at any moment. He scream-mumbled in assent.
Lin reached in and released the hanged man’s seat belt, and he plopped to the ceiling and crawled out. She pulled a combat knife from the dead man’s equipment vest and cut his flex-cuffs. The man quickly yanked off the hood, removed the gag, and took deep breaths. Then he looked up and said, calmly, “Thank you. Now we should get out of here before the police arrive.”
“Let’s go,” she said, turning to escape. She looked back but the man was not following her, as expected. Instead he was stripping the dead guy’s weapons and ammo.
“What are you doing? The truck’s going to blow! Get out of there!” she shouted from a distance, and the man sprinted toward her. They took cover behind a forgotten granite memorial in the trees and expected the SUV to explode, but it didn’t. It just burned. The howl of fire trucks grew louder.
The strange man smelled faintly of wet dog and rubbed his sore wrists. He looked like one of them but was their prisoner. Odd, she thought. Hopefully it meant he would cooperate with her. Either that, or he might try to kill her.
“Thank you,” he said again, then perked up when he saw what she was carrying. “Nice Saiga. Is that the 040 Taktika model? Only Spetznatz has those. You’re not Spetznatz, are you?”
“Do I look like Spetznatz?” she replied in a defiant tone.
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” he said, cycling the bolt of the H&K. “Do you have a car? We need to get out of here.”
“Follow me.”
“Three KIA, and one collateral,” said Joker 3.
“Roger, BDA is three tango ground vehicles and one civilian,” said Mission Control. BDA referred to “battle damage assessment.”
“Keep the bogies off me. I’m tracking the remaining vehicles until ground support arrives,” said Joker 1. “What’s their ETA?”
“Joker One, this is Zebra One. ETA three mikes,” responded the ground convoy commander.
“Roger, Zebra 1. I’ll keep him lit, you box him in,” said Joker 1, skimming the Tidal Basin. The shooters’ legs dangled over the side and the crew sat behind six-barrel rotary-door guns. They were operating in urban terrain, which was a high risk for collateral damage. However, their orders were clear: prevent another terrorist attack at all costs, especially since they reportedly had WMD.
“There! Eleven o’clock,” said the copilot. The remaining three SUVs sprinted across the Tidal Basin bridge in complete darkness.
“Gotcha,” said Joker 1.
“Light them up?” asked one of the door gunners.
“Negative,” replied Joker 1. “Orders are capture the leader, and we don’t know which vehicle is emitting the leader’s digital signature. It could be any one of the three.”
“We could disable all three vehicles,” said the door gunner.
“Negative. Can’t risk killing the leader.”
The Black Hawk settled low behind the vehicles, captured in its powerful spotlight. All Zebra had to do was follow the light, and it would be checkmate.
No escaping now, thought Joker 1.
“Aauurgh!!” yelled Winters’s driver as the Black Hawk’s spotlight lit them up. He ripped off his night vision goggles and blinked several times, adjusting to the brightness. “Switching to headlights,” he said.
The convoy commander was nervous, too. They would be trapped if ground vehicles caught them. Their only chance was for the Sikorsky S-97s to take out the Black Hawk and Little Birds before the ground vehicles arrived. It’s inevitable, but will it happen in time? he wondered. I have to lose the spotlight.
“Take Maine Avenue, here,” ordered the convoy commander, pointing right, and the Suburbans turned hard right. They sped under interstate and railroad bridges and through a nest of power lines, but still the spotlight would not go away. They raced down side streets and a main road, lined with eight-story buildings. Yet the Black Hawk skillfully followed them, flying expertly between the buildings and leaping over seemingly invisible power lines.
“He�
��s good,” said the driver.
“We should have hired him,” replied Winters.
“Hard left on South Capitol Street,” said the convoy commander, tracking their movements on a dash-mounted screen.
“Hard left,” repeated the driver, and attacked the turn at 60 mph. The rear end drifted and the lateral g-force pulled them all to the right. Winters sat calmly, hands on his cane. The two other Suburbans followed, and civilian cars scurried out of the way.
“Catch I-395 and make the tunnel. It has multiple exits and is our best chance of losing the Black Hawk before ground units arrive,” said the convoy commander.
“Copy,” said the driver. The three vehicles sped around cars at 90 mph as they entered the highway. Traffic was thin at o-dark-thirty. They took the first exit and descended into a tunnel that goes underneath the National Mall. No more spotlight.
“Good. Now pull onto the shoulder, and back out in blackout drive,” said the commander. Using the side of the road, the three SUVs reversed at full speed until they reached I-395 again. The spotlight was elsewhere. When they made the highway, they disappeared.
The two Little Birds took up ambush positions on the Mall, waiting for their prey. Joker 3 hovered at the center of the World War II monument, its massive granite colonnade providing some concealment against the Sikorsky S-97s’ infrared thermal sights, which could target pigeons in the dark a thousand feet out. Joker 4 hovered behind the Washington Monument, halfway up. It would remain invisible to the bogies, but no less deadly. The two Little Birds shared a collective targeting system; what one could see, the other could shoot.
“Joker Three, in position.”
“Joker Four, in position. Stingers ready.”
“Nothing on our scopes,” said Mission Control.
Wait for it. Waaaait for it, thought Joker 3, monitoring his FLIR. He’d done tours in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Syria, but he’d never faced an equal. It was what he’d trained for his entire life, and it was intoxicating and terrifying.
Biiiing, sounded an alarm. “Bogey’s got tone on me! Bogey’s got tone!” shouted Joker 3, as he jerked the stick and cyclic. The nimble Little Bird darted between the Stonehenge-like slabs of the monument, breaking the line of sight of the enemy’s laser targeting system.
“I have eyes on,” said Joker 4 calmly. “Two bogies, due southwest, hovering low in the trees. Switching to Hellfires. Got tone. Firing.” Two Hellfires screamed toward the tree line, and the Sikorsky S-97s jumped, dropping flares. The first made a clean break, and the missile obliterated an ancient oak. The second’s rotor clipped a branch, causing it to shudder. In that instant, the Hellfire found its target and blew the chopper into the ground, making a crater.
Biiiing. Joker 4 heard the alarm and immediately spiral-dove around the Washington Monument, trying to elude the missile’s guidance system. Then there was an orange flash and thunderclap, and the Little Bird vanished.
Motherfucker, thought Joker 3, as he skimmed the tree line. “Control, Joker Four is down.”
“Copy, Joker Three. Falcons’ ETA four mikes. Stand fast. Repeat, stand fast.”
Joker 3 heard nothing. Three bogeys were hunting him and he was blind. He would be dead in four minutes unless he took charge of the situation. Taking a chance, he zoomed across the National Mall, flying so low he had to pull up to cross the Reflecting Pool. He made a copse of trees near Constitution Avenue, expertly gauging the diameter of his rotors. Only a few pilots in the world had the skill to fly their choppers through trees.
“Where are you?” he whispered, looking out the canopy through his FLIR. He’d grown up in the woods of northern Georgia, and his hunting instincts told him this was the spot to ambush his quarry. He had large fields of fire, and the trees offered some cover and concealment. Plus, the car traffic at his tail would create hash for the enemy’s FLIR.
“There you are!” he said, as a shadow dashed through the World War II monument, his previous position. Missiles proved futile against these bogies because their reflexes were too fast. He would need to get close.
“Switching to guns,” he said, and picked up the shadow in his FLIR as it banked toward him, unwittingly. “Gotcha!” He flew out of the trees and rolled to optimize the angle of attack. The Little Bird rocked as his mini-gun sent three thousand rounds of lead into the bogey. The Sikorsky S-97 turned left then right, trying to get away as it bled black smoke.
No escape for you, he thought as he matched his prey’s every feint until it crashed on the Mall.
Biiiiing, sounded the alarm, and his reflexes sprung to action. He ducked around the Smithsonian Castle, and then over and into the Hirshhorn Museum’s donut hole. The alarm went quiet. The art museum was shaped like a gigantic “O,” making its center a perfect helicopter foxhole.
“Falcons ETA two mikes,” said Mission Control. Joker ignored it, knowing the enemy would soon discover him.
Move or die, he thought, and cautiously hovered out of the Hirshhorn. He peeped over the roof and saw empty skies. The flashing lights of ground emergency vehicles were distracting and interfered with his FLIR, but it would do the same to his enemy. Fine by him. He had been flying attack helicopters for twenty-three years, and he was one of the best pilots in Task Force 160 SOAR, the Army’s special operations aviation regiment, also known as the Night Stalkers. Any environmental challenge would harm the enemy more than him.
Joker 3 nearly flew on the sidewalk and then floated up to a position behind the Smithsonian’s 1870s tower, using it as cover. When it comes to helicopter battles, whoever sees the other first survives.
“Where are you?” he muttered again. He scanned the Mall, its trees, the museums that lined it. His instincts knew where a chopper would hide, would avoid, would stand ground. Then he saw it: a Sikorsky S-97 stalking through trees across from him, near the Smithsonian American History Museum. The pilot was hunting him, but Joker 3 was better.
You’re mine, he thought, and pitched forward to line up the shot when his peripheral vision caught the other Sikorsky S-97, one hundred meters to his left. It hovered in perfect ambush, waiting for him at the far end of the Smithsonian Castle’s roof. Muzzle flashes burst from its twenty-millimeter chain gun, shredding the Little Bird.
“Where did they go?!” asked Joker 1 after the convoy entered the tunnel but did not exit. “Anyone have eyes on?”
“Negative,” replied the shooters who sat on the edge of the open doorway.
“Control, we lost them. Last seen vicinity of the Third Street tunnel,” said Joker 1, as they searched the area.
“Roger, Joker One. Zebra One on site, and we have alerted local law enforcement. Falcons on station,” said Mission Control.
“Copy all,” replied Joker 1. “Status Joker Three, Joker Four?”
Silence.
“How copy Joker Three, Joker Four?”
“Joker Three and Four presumed KIA,” said Mission Control. “Return to base. Falcons will handle the bogies.”
Joker 1’s hands squeezed the controls in silent fury, his face contorting with rage. Then, in a placid tone, he said. “Roger, returning to base.”
Beneath the Black Hawk, an orchestra of sirens and flashing lights converged on the National Mall in the predawn light. The F-16s screeched above, waking up the city, but found no targets.
Chapter 41
“Who the hell are they?!” Lin shouted as she sped away from the firefight. “And who the hell are you?!”
The man didn’t answer. Instead, he rolled down the window and stuck out his head, scanning the skies. He held the Heckler and Koch SDMR like a pro.
“Hey, I’m talking to you!” she yelled, and the man turned to face her.
“My name is Tom. Pleasure to meet you,” he said with a smile. “What’s your name?”
“Not important right now.”
“Agreed,” he said, and stuck his head back out the window, looking for helicopters. Two explosions shocked the night air, and a plume of fire shot up from the Mall
. Lin could see the orange glare in her rearview mirror.
“They must have taken out a chopper, but I wonder whose,” he shouted over the wind.
“Who’s ‘they’?” asked Lin.
“I’ll tell you when we’re safe. Can you go faster?”
“We’re going seventy,” she said, tires squealing around turns. Rock Creek Parkway runs alongside the Potomac and follows its curves. Ahead was the Kennedy Center for the Arts, an all-in-one performance palace that looked like a giant Kleenex box.
“They’re doing Traviata later this month. I was really hoping to catch a performance,” said Locke, slumping back into his seat with the H&K muzzle pointing out the window.
“What?”
“It’s an opera. You’d love it. It features a noble heroine,” he said.
“Don’t make me punch you.”
She slowed down as multiple police cars sped by in the opposite direction. Their flashing lights temporarily blinded them, and Locke reflexively closed his shooting eye to preserve his night vision.
“Hey, dumbass. Hide the weapon,” she said, and Locke quickly lowered the H&K as the last police cruiser passed in a flash of blue. In the background, the buzz of a mini-gun echoed through the city, accompanied by sirens in every direction.
Locke whistled in amazement. “They’ve really done it this time.”
“Who’s done what this time?” demanded Lin, frustrated by his lack of specificity. She needed answers.
“Get us out of here, and I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me now.”
“It’s not safe on the roads. They’re looking for me.”
She glanced at him. It was dark, but he looked vaguely familiar.
“Fine,” she decided, and violently jerked the car left, cut across oncoming traffic, and made a hairpin turn onto an exit intended for the opposite lane. It dumped them underneath an elevated freeway in Georgetown that ran a mile. There was no traffic, just parked cars and massive steel girders and highway above. Lin floored it, and Locke braced himself.