Bam! Bam! Bam!
The last three rounds struck the target in the ten area at the top of the head. He wouldn’t walk away from that one, Austin thought to himself, and smirked.
A former leader of a crisis action team—known as a CAT team, even though the acronym had “Team” in it—on the president’s detail, Special Agent Chang was playfully referred to by his peers by the politically incorrect moniker Wokker, Texas Ranger, because of his marksmanship skills and Chinese heritage. He was one of the agency’s senior marksman instructors. Physically nonthreatening at only five feet eight inches and 170 pounds, he was nonetheless one of the most lethal and blazingly fast shots the agency had in service.
Austin removed his battery-powered hearing protection as he walked toward the target to further inspect his accuracy.
Had he finished shooting minutes earlier, he might have heard the initial explosion and follow-on gunshots. But Special Agent Chang was focused on his marksmanship. There was no such thing as perfection in shooting, but repetition bred consistency and accuracy.
The growing sound of rotors pierced the relative tranquility of the training campus. Austin assumed it was either a news helicopter or one of the Anne Arundel County police birds, although he knew the latter didn’t start their rotary overwatch until later in the day.
What the hell? It sounds like it’s landing.
Leaving his dead target to dangle on its clips, Austin jogged from under cover of the range’s roof and looked northward. Through the trees, he spotted what looked like a news helicopter descending rapidly in the vicinity of the enormous concrete helipad. Is that the Fox News 45 bird out of Baltimore? He couldn’t be sure, but he thought so.
He drew his cell phone out of his back pocket and dialed the security gatehouse at the main access control point at the south central entrance on Powder Mill Road.
“Security,” a monotone voice answered.
“This is Special Agent Chang out here at the range. I spotted what looks like a news helicopter descending near our helo pad. You guys got anything going on today?”
“Negative, sir. You want us to— hold on a second.” There was a momentary pause, and Austin heard increased chatter in the background from the command post’s radios. “Sir, there’s something happening on the parkway. Anne Arundel Police are reporting a possible shooting on the highway and are responding to the scene.”
“Roger,” Austin said. “I’ll let them handle it,” he added, knowing that the county or state troopers had primary jurisdiction. “But I’m still going to go see what’s up with the bird. I hope the pilot didn’t put down on our helo pad in order to let some idiot reporter out.”
“Do you need any support?” the uniformed officer on the other end asked.
“Negative. I’ll call you guys if I need you.” And then he added, “Come running, though, if you hear gunfire.”
“Sir, this is a training facility. We always hear gunfire,” the officer responded drily.
“Exactly,” Austin said, and laughed. “I should be good. Out here.”
“Call us if you need us,” the officer replied, and disconnected the call.
Chang put away his cell phone, loaded a fresh magazine into the SIG, holstered the weapon on his hip, and began a quick jog to the helicopter pad more than a third of a mile away.
At least I can get some extra PT in, if nothing else.
* * *
Jack led the seven-man unit across the grassy no-man’s-land that divided the parkway. As he paused at the shoulder of the northbound lanes, he looked up to see the Bell 412 helicopter painted with the Fox 45 Baltimore News logo hovering just above the tree line. It was similar in body style to the Eurocopter AS365 Dauphin that the local news crews actually utilized, and there was no doubt in his mind that no one—trained or not—would think that the helicopter was anything other than a news crew arriving on scene to film the aftermath of the ambush. In fact, he was counting on it.
He turned to the operator to his right, and said, “Set the screen.”
“Roger, sir,” the black-clad team member said, and turned to another team member. “Smoke on the left side. I’ve got the right.”
Traffic slowed slightly as the morning commuters gawked at the heavily armed gunmen that had appeared on the left side of their road.
Both men pulled British-manufactured EG18X green military smoke grenades from their Kevlar vests, yanked the wire loops, and hurled the grenades in unison into oncoming traffic. The grenades ignited, sending a brief shower of sparks across the highway as they tumbled end over end before coming to a rest and erupting into thick plumes of smoke.
There was little wind, and as panicked drivers slammed on their brakes at the sudden appearance of smoke, the two darkening plumes merged to form one thick green wall that blocked both lanes of the parkway.
Not too shabby, Jack thought. So far, so good. “Let’s go,” he said, and all seven men dashed across the pavement, ignoring the blaring horns and curses they heard from the other side of the improvised smoke barrier.
Within seconds, they were down the embankment on the other side of the road, where they disappeared into the thick Maryland woods.
“This way, sir,” the operator on point said to Jack, who was right behind him in the single-column formation known throughout the military as the ranger file.
“Roger. Lead the way,” Jack said, and maintained his pace.
Thirty yards later, the column halted in front of a corner intersection of an eighteen-foot-tall aluminum reinforced fence that ran south, parallel to the parkway to their right but cut at an angle to the northeast away from them.
The helicopter was much closer but still hovering above the trees.
The lead team member felt along the intersection, and moments later, he pushed inward, revealing a three-foot-by-three-foot opening in the fence.
“I still can’t believe they didn’t detect Boone cutting it last night,” Jack said.
“Like I said, sir, this is a dead space between their motion sensors. They placed them too far down each wall, and this corner isn’t covered, at least this eight-foot section of it,” the point man said.
“And we cut after the last patrol went by on an ATV at zero four this morning. With shift change of the uniformed police, we knew there was no way they’d detect this breach so soon,” Boone said from behind them.
“Nice work. Too bad for them,” Jack said. “Let’s go. We’re almost at the end of this rodeo.”
Jack looked at his watch. 1050. Only five minutes since initiating the ambush. Right on track.
As if synchronized to his thoughts, the Bell 412 helicopter finally began to descend below the tree line.
The men scampered through the fence opening one at a time, completing their insertion into one of the most heavily trafficked training facilities in federal law enforcement. The irony wasn’t lost on Jack as he went through the fence. They’re going to be talking about this one for years, once they figure out what happened.
“Two hundred yards, and we’re in the clear. No stopping for anything until we hit the bird,” Jack said. “Let’s finish strong.” This time, Jack took point, running through the woods at full speed, leading his team of veteran warriors. This is what it’s all about, he thought, as he focused on his breath and pushed forward.
* * *
Special Agent Chang jogged down the main road that ran through the entire training campus in a big, misshapen oval. The helicopter had descended more than a minute ago, dropping out of sight. He knew there was only one facility suitable on the Rowley grounds for a helicopter—the enormous concrete landing pad 300 feet wide by 260 feet deep.
In addition to containing a mock-up of the HMX-1 presidential helicopter and the front of Air Force One, it also served as a real-world landing pad for various elite military and law enforcement units to conduct realistic training on the campus.
Austin ran a little harder, his curiosity piqued more than anything else. I just hope th
e pilot and the bird are okay.
He was only thirty yards from the landing zone when he saw through the trees that the news helicopter had landed on the pad, as he’d suspected. The edge of the woods that ran along the road and the small, single-story, square maintenance building adjacent to the left side of the pad obstructed his view, but he’d have a clear line of sight in a few more seconds. I can’t wait to hear this one, he thought, and then his phone suddenly rang.
He momentarily considered ignoring it, but personal discipline earned the hard way in his second year on the job forced him to stop in his tracks. He remembered a story a fellow Secret Service agent had told him. He didn’t even remember the man’s name now, but the story had stayed with him: a phone call from the Cleveland Field Office while he was serving a warrant on a counterfeit case had saved the agent’s life. The young agent had frozen in the middle of his approach to the front of the objective house when his phone had rung. The field office had called to inform him that the suspect had recently been reported to be heavily armed and had robbed a drug dealer, leaping from counterfeiting to violent crime in the span of hours. The young agent and his partner had stopped midstride and moved off the sidewalk and out of sight from the front of the house. The agent told Austin it was then that he’d learned how fast life could end with one wrong decision. Gunfire had erupted from a first-floor window, strafing where the two agents had been seconds before. A standoff had ensued, ultimately ending with a SWAT team’s sniper 168-grain match hollow point projectile. But the agent had learned a valuable lesson that day—always answer the phone. As a junior and malleable agent at the time, Austin had taken it to heart.
He pulled out his phone and hit the accept button, recognizing the number of the security gatehouse.
“What’s up?” Austin said, his eyes focused on the part of the landing pad he could now clearly see.
“Sir, there’s been some kind of ambush and shooting on the parkway,” the uniformed Secret Service police officer stated, his voice authoritative and devoid of all humor. “NSA Police and Anne Arundel County are responding immediately. We just heard the Anne Arundel County headquarters radio room sending the call out to the patrol cars. Initial civilian reports are several armed gunmen dressed in black and multiple casualties. That’s all we know at this time.”
What the hell is going on out here? Austin thought, his senses now heightened as he kept moving forward, his SIG SAUER P229 already in his right hand at the ready position.
“What the hell are the NSA Police—” was all he had the chance to say as Special Agent Austin Chang’s normal training routine turned into actual combat.
The last part of the woods fell away, and Austin was afforded a clear view of the entire training area . . . just in time to see a single column of black-clad operators—which was how his mind identified them immediately from their movement—materialize from the back of the woods in between the mock-ups of Air Force One and HMX-1. Their objective was clear—the news helicopter that now sat idling on the landing pad, its rear doors open in anticipation of its passengers. A millisecond later, it hit him—it’s a fake news helicopter.
Austin’s mind kicked into overdrive thanks to years of specialized training. He let the cell phone drop from his left hand and brought up the SIG SAUER in a thumbs-forward combat grip. He transitioned from his jog into a steady combat walk, keeping his upper body relatively stable to avoid bobbing up and down.
I need cover, or I’m dead, his tactical brain screamed. The operators were more than 250 feet away, and he was overwhelmingly outgunned and outmanned. I’ve got a better chance of winning Powerball than winning this gunfight, but I might be able to slow them down or stop them from escaping, he thought, ignoring the loud shouts emanating from his fallen cell phone. These bastards are using our facility as an HLZ to get away with whatever crime they just committed. His mind momentarily reeled at the brazenness of the scheme—infiltrating one of the most elite federal training facilities in the US as part of an escape plan—but then he cleared his mind, focused on the front sights, and exhaled. Not today, assholes.
He pulled the trigger, knowing his aim was true.
* * *
We’re almost clear, Jack thought, acutely aware of the ensuing chaos and law enforcement manhunt that would soon be under way. You passed the point of no return, Big Dog.
The helicopter was now less than fifty feet away, the doors open, his former JSOC Special Operations Aviation Regiment pilot looking in their direction from behind the Oakley sunglasses he wore over a black balaclava.
Movement in his peripheral vision made Jack turn his head, and he saw a lone individual in khaki cargo pants and a black polo combat-walking toward the maintenance building, a pistol aimed at the helicopter. Jack realized the Secret Service agent’s intentions—he assumed he was an agent; they were on their campus, after all—even as the lone gunman pulled the trigger.
Bang-bang-bang!
Spiderwebs appeared on the pilot’s acrylic windshield, even as Jack screamed, “Shooter, two o’clock! Hit him low and drop him!” The thought of collateral damage repulsed him, but the mission was more important than one man, even an innocent Secret Service agent who thought he was doing the right thing.
Two operators behind Jack opened fire with Colt M4 Commando assault rifles. Even at two hundred feet, the gunfire was accurate, and at least two shots struck the Secret Service agent in the legs. He toppled forward, his head bouncing off the ground, and lay still.
Jack looked back to the helicopter and saw that their pilot was pressing his right hand against his left shoulder. Oh no.
The column of men covered the remaining distance to the helicopter, several of the operators keeping their weapons trained on the fallen Secret Service agent.
Jack stepped into the front passenger seat of the Bell helicopter and shouted above the din of the whirring blades, “How bad is it?”
“I’ll live, sir, but my left arm is fucked. No way I can fly with only one arm. Help me out of this seat and get Simpson in here per the backup plan,” the pilot said.
Jack nodded and turned to the men as they filed into the passenger compartment of the helicopter.
“Simpson, it’s up to you to get us out of here,” Jack shouted.
“Got it, sir,” one of the men acknowledged, and stepped forward to help release the pilot from the harness. Within seconds, he had pulled the wounded man out of the pilot’s seat and passed him to the team medic, who was waiting for him in the back.
“I got you, Jones. Let’s see how bad that wound is,” the medic said.
The rest of the team was onboard, and as Jack secured himself into the copilot’s seat, he said, “Can we please get the hell out of here?”
“On it, sir,” Simpson said, twisting the throttle-grip on the end of the collective pitch control and pulling the lever up at the same time.
The Bell helicopter slowly lifted into the air, a lumbering beast eager to free itself from gravity’s grasp.
Finally, Jack thought. Another successful mission that might just be the capstone of all I’ve accomplished.
* * *
Austin opened his eyes, the roaring rotors propelling him out of unconsciousness. He remembered trying to run for cover but being knocked down, as if by an invisible hand.
His head throbbed, and he realized he must have slammed it against the ground as he’d fallen. Sharp, stabbing pain in his upper right leg jolted him awake, followed by a second, nearly excruciating pain in his lower left one. He looked down, saw his cargo pants soaked in blood, and knew immediately that he’d been shot, at least twice.
This fucking blows, he thought. He started to feel faint at the blood loss. He looked up and saw the helicopter lifting into the air. Must have had a second pilot. I know I hit the first one at least once. Guess it wasn’t enough.
The sound of sirens from the approaching uniformed police SUVs reached his ears. Thank God. At least I won’t bleed to death out here.
; He glared at the fleeing helicopter as it lifted higher and then suddenly stopped, momentarily hovering. The bird turned on its vertical axis, facing east, and Austin was temporarily provided with a broadside view of the flying machine, adding insult to his very real injuries.
The passenger compartment door was still open, and one black-clad operator leaned out, looking at Austin one hundred feet below. And then he did the unthinkable—he waved to Austin, as if saying, Sayonora, motherfucker. Better luck next time.
Austin was suddenly filled with a battle rage that squashed all sensation of pain, a physical compulsion to forcibly reply. No way you get away with that. No . . . fucking . . . way.
He looked down and saw his SIG lying a foot away from his right hand. Jackpot.
With blinding speed fueled by fury, he snatched the weapon from the ground, rolled backward onto his left shoulder, and obtained a nearly upside-down clear sight picture on the arrogant, faceless operator.
Wave at this, he thought, and pulled the trigger as the operator realized a moment too late what was happening.
A singular crack echoed across the concrete slab.
Austin suddenly felt exhausted, the momentary adrenaline rush subsiding, and he wasn’t sure if he’d hit his mark.
The operator lowered his arm . . . and then pitched headfirst out of the side of the helicopter.
Field of Valor Page 5