by Ted Bell
The sheriff paused at the top of the brick steps, listening for any sound from inside. All he could hear was the crackling noise of the shingled roof burning, snapping and popping, growing louder every second. The wooden farmhouse had to be almost two hundred years old. It would not take long to burn to the ground. Along with any contents that might prove useful. The inhabitants, he figured, were gone. Out the front door, maybe. A car hidden in the barn he’d seen on the way in?
Maybe not.
The door was slightly ajar.
Franklin kicked the door open wide, nearly taking it off the hinges. Adrenaline fueled his anger, still seeing Homer’s pink cheeks with the snow on them. He went through the door in a blizzard of snow, the shotgun out in front of him, eyes scanning what looked to be a deserted room. Kitchen counters to his right, stovetops set in a bricked center island with a copper hood above it.
“Police, freeze,” he said, putting his gun on a woman slumped over a kitchen table. She’d been sitting near the bow window. She was pitched forward, arms hanging at her sides, her head down on the table. Her shoulders were heaving, and he knew she was sobbing, even though he couldn’t hear her. Strands of wild dark hair hid her face. Her hands were under the table. The right arm twitched.
“I need to see your hands, ma’am.”
“You killed my son,” she said, her head and twisted face slowly coming up from the table. “My son!” She stiffened in the chair, turning away from the window and the bloody scene below to stare at him. Hatred burning through the tears streaming from her eyes. Righteous fury.
Franklin steadied the gun on her. “Your son killed a police officer. Get your hands up where I can see them. Now! Do it now!”
“You want to see my hands?” she said, her voice shaking.
She rose up suddenly, leaping up from the chair and overturning the heavy table, dishes and glassware crashing to the floor, the stubby 9mm machine pistol coming up with her body.
“Drop the weapon!” Franklin said, sidestepping to get nearer to the door.
“Allahu Akbar!” she shouted, her voice raw with grief and hate. “God is great!”
Mad despair in her black eyes as she pulled the trigger two, three times. Franklin was moving fast now and the shots were going wide and high but she was still staggering toward him, the gun extended at the end of her arm, firing blindly in his direction. She found the selector switch for full auto. He had no choice. Franklin dropped to one knee and shot the woman in the chest, killing her instantly. Her body was thrown backwards onto the floor, collapsing among the broken bits and pieces of china scattered there.
Franklin rose to his feet and left the kitchen, headed toward the front of the house. Where was the husband? Passing through the darkened dining room, he saw a litter of take-out food strewn across the pretty cherry table. The smoke in the house was strong now, burning his eyes. The fire had spread to the inner walls. He pumped a round into the chamber and raced into the living room.
The drapes on either side of the large picture window on the west-facing wall were aflame. Two large overstuffed chairs were also burning, and the hooked rug beneath them was steaming, primed to ignite.
And there was a roaring fire in the fireplace.
Not wooden logs, but masses of documents were burning there. Sheaves of paper, only recently thrown in by the looks of it. Most of the documents were already turning to ash, but not all. Also in the iron grate, three laptop computers hissed and melted, dripping molten black plastic that hit the hot stone hearth with a sizzle.
Franklin cleared the room of hostiles with his eyes before placing the Mossburg on the mantel. Then he quickly bent to retrieve what he could from the flames. He reached into the fire and managed to pull a handful of loose paper out, still burning his fingers and singeing all the hair off his forearm. He was reaching in again, realizing that his shirtsleeves were burning, when he saw the shoes, then the khaki legs of the man coming down the stairway leading to the second floor. Now his belt, now his torso…
No time to grab the shotgun.
He turned and faced him, letting the burning papers fall to the floor behind the sofa. He moved his right foot slowly, not lifting his heel, stamping out the papers with his boot, saving what he could.
The man in the red cardigan sweater was smiling as he came toward Franklin, kicking away furniture. The sheriff had seen the man’s eyes light for a moment on the shotgun sitting atop the mantelpiece. He could have been a lawyer or a banker, a pediatrician come down from checking on the sick kids upstairs in their beds. But he wasn’t. He had his finger on the trigger of the semi-automatic rifle in his hands, a 30-round banana clip waiting to be expended on a long Texas sheriff.
In his other hand was a five-gallon plastic jerry can of gasoline. Gas was sloshing out of the can as the man descended the stairs and crossed the room.
“Put down the weapon, sir,” Franklin said, moving behind the heavy sofa.
Red Sweater shouted something, a curse, in Arabic, and then heaved the half-empty can of gasoline toward the window with the burning draperies. The whole wall erupted into flames.
The sheriff used the moment to dive behind the large velvet sofa. The staccato sound of automatic fire filled the room. Franklin hit the wooden floor hard, using his shoulder to break the fall. He could hear and feel the thump of rounds slamming into the furniture as he rolled away, his right hand going behind his back, going for Homer’s Glock, stuck inside his waistband. The man kept firing, short bursts, into the sofa. He felt the pistol stuck in his jeans and pulled it, got it out in front of him.
Gun in hand, he rolled onto his stomach and peered beneath the wide sofa.
Two feet in brown shoes, sagging orange socks, moving toward his end of the sofa.
Franklin put one round into each ankle.
The man screamed out his sudden agony as he came down hard before the stone hearth. Franklin was on his feet and moving around the end of the couch. The Arab was on his back, somehow grinning through all the pain as he moved the muzzle of his weapon toward Franklin. The two men locked eyes.
The Arab fired, point blank range, the round grazing Dixon’s forehead. It stung, dizzied him for an instant, but he stayed with it, stayed on his feet. Warm blood was running into his eyes, but he saw the man’s finger tighten around the trigger.
The sheriff put one round in the center of the man’s forehead.
He stood there a second, woozy, his heart thudding in his chest. He looked around him. Fire was racing up the four walls now. The timbered ceiling above his head was steaming, the paint curling and peeling. It was seconds away from bursting into flames. Time to go. Franklin stuck the pistol back inside his waistband, then gathered up the shotgun and grabbed the smoldering papers he’d saved from the floor. Then he raced back into the kitchen. The fire had not yet reached this side of the house. At least not the ground floor kitchen.
There was an old-fashioned black phone on the island. It was probably the one Homer had used eight hours ago, standing here, calmly eating an apple from the pantry, watching the gentle snowfall outside.
He put the papers down beside the phone. There were at least a dozen or more, some ruined completely, others intact. He scanned each one, his eyes running uselessly over the Arabic print mixed with unintelligible scraps of English. One of them, half-burned, caught his eye. It was a map of some kind with notations in red ink. He looked at it carefully, holding it up to his eyes, then picked up the phone and called information. He got a human for some reason. He asked for a number in Washington and got it.
He studied the exposed beam over his head while he waited. It looked hot.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation, how may I direct your call?”
He explained who he was and why he was calling to three people before getting put on hold a fourth time. Then he hung up and called the State Department and asked for Secretary de los Reyes, explaining that he was a law officer and personal friend, and that she would recognize the name from th
e Key West conference. And that this was an urgent emergency call involving national security.
“Sheriff Dixon, this is Consuelo de los Reyes,” he heard her say after a minute or so. “Thank you for calling.”
“Yes ma’am, thank you for taking my call. I can’t talk long because the house I’m standing in is on fire.”
“Sheriff, you’ve got to get out—”
“Please, ma’am, it’s important, just let me talk here a second. I’m at place called Morning Glory Farm. Lee’s Ferry, Virginia. It’s on the River Road north of Fredericksburg. I’ve got one dead—”
“What river are we talking about, Sheriff Dixon?”
“Uh, well, I’m not rightly sure. I guess the Potomac.”
“The Potomac River, go ahead.”
“Like I say, we need a coroner out here. EMS. I got a dead deputy. Two dead Arabs, maybe three. They put some kind of device in the river. Homer believed it to be an unmanned submarine.”
“Homer?”
“My late deputy.”
“Sheriff, hold on for one second please, I’m asking for some of my people here to pick up and listen in. Fire and EMS vehicles are already en route to your location. And State Police.”
“Yes, ma’am. Anyway, like I said, my deputy saw this high tech submarine they carried in the truck. The wood crate it came out of, it’s about the size of a small Volkswagen. One more thing, before I go. These people were burning documents and computers, but I saved what I could. I have one paper in my hand right now. Burned piece of a map of Washington with a squiggly red line on it, and the words, parade route.”
“Parade route. Everyone get that?” de los Reyes asked her people listening in.
“And, trucks. There may be a lot of tractor-trailer trucks headed your way. No drivers, I don’t think. I’m guessing they’re remote controlled too. I don’t know what they’re hauling, but it probably isn’t good.”
“Get out of that house, Sheriff. Local police and FBI agents from Quantico are en route to your location right now. Do not endanger yourself, but take every scrap of paper possible and give it to the FBI team. Tell them everything you know.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve got to go. This beam here is about to give way on me.”
“Go. Get out.”
“These people killed a boy who was pretty near kin to me. I’d like to help out up there if I can.”
“I’ll make sure you get to Washington. We’ll put you to work, don’t worry. We’re pretty busy around here because of the Inauguration.”
“Inauguration. When is that exactly?”
“Day after tomorrow, Sheriff.”
71
THE BLACK RIVER
I ’d rather go down the river with seven studs than with a hundred shitheads.”
The little Frenchman laughed. “C’est geniale! Brilliant!”
“I’m not making this stuff up, Froggy,” Stoke said to his old war buddy, “You know who said that? The founder of fuckin’ Delta Force, that’s who. Charlie Beckwith.”
“A tough guy, non? A legend, this man Beckwith. Even in France.”
“Even in France,” Stoke said looking at him in mock amazement, “Imagine that, will you? Hey, Frogman, listen to me,” Stoke said, suddenly dead serious. “We still got a lot of shit to figure out, mon ami. We’re going up against some true pencil-dick assholes in this frigging jungle. And we ain’t got a whole lot of time left to screw around here.”
Stoke had seen the worried look on Alex Hawke’s face a few hours ago. The rivers weren’t always where they were supposed to be. Every time it rained hard, the topography changed. The latest GPS positioning had the boat smack in the middle of a damn forest. So, he was feeling a little guilty, hanging out back here on the stern with Froggy, having fun.
The two men were sitting cross-legged on the deck in the cramped space between the PAM and LAM missile launching stations. A scattering of dog-eared playing cards lay face up on the deck between them; a game of Texas Hold ’Em had ended. For the last half hour they’d just been shooting the shit. That’s how the little Frenchman put it, now that he’d learned another useful American expression.
It was late afternoon on the river, and the light was soft and gold. Cooler, too, and not too many mosquitoes at their current boat speed. Temperature dropping, somebody said, barometer dropping like a rock; you could feel the evil-looking cold front moving in over the jungle from the west. Heavy rain, high winds. For now, the palm fronds of trees along the bank drooped low, not a breath of air to sway them.
Captain Brownlow and Hawke remained on the bridge deck, taking turns driving the boat. Navigation at this point was a full-time obsession. And they were constantly talking tactics and adjusting strategies to changing conditions. The ability to arrive undetected on a hostile shore is essential. There was little hope of that now they’d been sighted by that drone they’d shot down.
Gunners were stationed in the turrets fore and aft. Every man aboard was armed and keeping a weather eye on the twin shorelines. For the last couple of hours they’d been lucky. No Indians, no drones, no nothing. Stiletto was bristling with firepower.
A young guy named Llywd Ecclestone was manning the .23 mm cannon up on the roof of the wheelhouse. Just a kid, Stoke thought, but the ex-Ranger came highly recommended by Froggy. “Hey,” Stoke said when he’d met the kid in Key West and seen the name stencilled on his flak jacket, “Your parents forget to put an o in your name?” Turned out Llwyd was Welsh, people who didn’t go in for vowels much.
Froggy, barely five feet tall in combat boots, was one of the charter members of the infamous counterterrorist organization known as Thunder and Lightning. The former Foreign Legionnaire commanded the group of seven Spec Ops commandos who had come aboard at Key West. These warriors, all ex-Legionnaires, Gurkhas, and Rangers, were justly considered the best anti-terrorist combat team for hire. As an added bonus, Froggy and his squad were by far the most successful freelance hostage rescue team in the world.
Froggy, the HRT team’s beloved squad leader, was dressed in his typical pre-combat uniform: khaki shorts, a faded blue and gold U.S. Navy SEAL T-shirt, and a sterling silver bo’sun’s whistle hanging from the chain around his neck. He had his trademark white kepi perched atop his shaved head and his trademark cigarette dangling from his lower lip.
Froggy puffed out a cloud of pungent blue smoke and noisily spat the stinky Gauloise butt overboard.
“Dites-moi,” he said, and then added in his heavy French accent, “Tell me about these assholes we’re going to fight. Just don’t speak so fucking fast.”
“Okay. These people we’re dealing with down here, been psyching themselves up about this for years. You’ll hear all about it tonight from Harry Brock. What you’ve got down here is a lethal mix of guerillas, okay? You got bikers and bangers, dopers and fanatic voodoo jihadists. And old-style commies, too, all tied into one neat little bundle, right? Now, what does that tell you?”
“What?”
“They’ve all got one thing in common. What is it?”
“They suck?”
“Of course they suck. But, one other thing. They all hate America.”
“Join zee fucking club, eh?”
“People like this, all these scumbags hating your ass so bad, that tells you something, right?”
“Tells me what?”
“America must be a pretty great fuckin country.”
“Pfft. If you like this kind of country, perhaps. America is no France.”
“Thank God for small favors. Anyway, these crazy bastards hate our ass, Froggy. And, to make it worse, they’re filthy rich. Twisted ideology is one thing. You back it up with oil money, drug money, illegal arms money, white slavery, it’s something else. Brock says they’ve got robots. Drone aircraft, tanks. How do we kill robots?”
The demolitions expert grinned. “Anything can be blown up, mon ami, anything.”
“Chrome don’t bleed.”
“Mais non, but it melts.”
/>
“I guess. Problem is, we got to get my man Ambrose Congreve out of there before we blow up one damn thing. I hope Brock’s got a plan. I’m still not seeing exactly how that’s going to happen.”
“I’ve been talking to my squad about this subject all morning. We have an idea.”
“Don’t be shy. We ain’t got a lot of time.”
“We want you to offload us late tonight. A stealth insertion into the jungle. All eight of us. Upriver from the target compound. Four or five miles. I’ll show you on the map, the precise spot I have chosen. We will hike to the target through the jungle. Standard Operating Procedures. Night-vision gear, hand signals. Locate the hostage. Rendezvous with the main force above the bridge. Deliver the hostage to the boat and get him out of the combat zone. Then destroy the enemy.”
“Yeah. Sounds simple enough. How you plan to do all that shit, Froggy?”
“Take out the perimeter guards first, of course. Swift and silent. Infiltrate the village. Do a search. House-to-house. We’ll find your friend Ambrose, I promise you. With or without Monsieur Brock.”
“Brock’s Brazilian girlfriend says the whole damn enemy village is built up in the damn trees. Like a goddamn Swiss Family Robinson.”
“What goes up must come down, Stokely. Boom.”
Stoke nodded in agreement. “Plant Semtex gift boxes at the base of all the trees. Bury the linked fuses between trees, all feeding one detonator.”
“Boom, boom, boom.”
“Plastique, n’est ce pas, Froggy? Tim-berrrr! But look at these trees around here. They’ve got to be two hundred feet tall.”
“So? Kiss-kiss-bang-bang. Et voilà! Victory is ours once more.”
“Froggy, listen. This ain’t going to be as easy as you seem to think. We’ve got to find out where they have Ambrose first, right? Let’s assume he’s up in one of the treehouses. We have to locate which one. Get him down safely and get him the hell out of there before the shooting starts and—What? Don’t look at me like that.”