“Fueled up and ready to go, sir,” said Artigas, draining the rest of the can.
“Raider, this is Raider actual,” said Quinn. “Stand by to roll.”
Nathan heard the words, but they didn’t come through his helmet’s headset. Quinn must have switched to a different communications net to talk to the other vehicles.
“Raider One-One, lead the way,” said Quinn.
Moments later, the vehicle lurched forward, jarring the family’s hands apart. He turned forward in his seat and watched them follow a set of red taillights. Nathan glanced through the narrow ballistic window set into the door next to him, seeing several Marines give them the thumbs-up as they pulled away. The vehicle picked up speed, passing through the motor-pool gate and continuing toward San Mateo Boulevard.
He’d listened to Quinn’s departure briefing an hour ago, taking in as many details of their trip as he could absorb. The convoy would avoid the San Diego County PD blockade by exiting Camp Pendleton through Naval Weapons Station Fallbrook, directly east of the base. The ammunition depot was off-limits to Camp Pendleton traffic, so the police didn’t set up a checkpoint beyond its infrequently traveled gate. Their convoy would travel a circuitous route through the Marine Corps base, connecting with Ammunition Road, which would take them straight through the weapons station. Once in the town of Fallbrook, they would wind south through the sleeping community until they reached Route 76.
Quinn still hadn’t decided if they would follow Route 76 southeast through the burned-out mountain regions bordering the Anza-Borrego Desert, or take Interstate 15 straight to Interstate 8. The mountain route was decidedly low profile, but most of the area had been permanently abandoned after two decades of continual fires, and the seventy-five-mile stretch of two-lane road hadn’t been properly maintained for years. While they would undoubtedly avoid detection, they ran the risk of hitting an impassable section and having to divert back toward the coast.
Interstate 15 was the quickest and most reliable option, but traveling any appreciable distance on the interstate was bound to attract law-enforcement attention. While the San Diego County PD had no legal authority to stop them, current tensions at Camp Pendleton created an unpredictable environment. Even if the police decided not to interfere, the convoy’s location and route would be broadcast on unencrypted channels for anyone to hear.
“David,” said Nathan, “have you given any more thought to the route?”
“I’m leaning toward Interstate 15. We can turn east on Route 52 toward Santee and cut through the eastern basin cities. We’ll be motoring east on Interstate 8 before Cerberus can mount a response. The mountain route would add another hour to the trip, and there’s no guarantee we’ll get through.”
“What if Cerberus has people stationed east of San Diego?” asked Nathan.
“Then we get to put these babies to the test. My money is on the unstoppable AL-TAC,” said Quinn, high-fiving the driver.
“Amen,” said the sergeant next to him.
“You really believe that, Sergeant Graves?” asked Nathan.
“Hell yeah,” said Graves. “I did two tours in the sandbox riding around in these beauties. They’re virtually unstoppable.”
“He’s right,” said Quinn. “The V-hull bottom is designed to deflect IED blasts detonating directly beneath the vehicle, but that’s only in the unlikely event an IED gets past our electronic countermeasure system. ECMS transmits on nearly every radio frequency conceivable to pre-detonate roadside bombs, plus it sends a minor electromagnetic pulse wave every five seconds in a sixty-degree arc forward of the vehicle. The EMP generates enough juice in ground wires to set off nearby explosives. We obviously can’t activate ECMS until we get out in the boonies.”
“Why?” asked Nathan’s son.
“Because we’d open every garage door and turn on every television within a city block,” said Quinn.
“That’s cool,” said Owen.
“I agree with you, young man,” said Quinn, “but the EMP tends to mess with delicate circuits. We’d also do a lot of damage.”
“Oh. I guess that wouldn’t be good.”
“Not unless you’re traveling through enemy territory, then who gives a shit,” said Sergeant Graves.
“Ooh rah to that,” said the gunner, lowering a hand down to catch a hand slap.
“Watch the language, gents,” said Quinn.
“It’s fine,” said Keira. “Not every day your son gets to ride in the Batmobile. A little colorful language adds to the experience.”
Quinn turned to look at Keira, who shrugged and winked at him.
“This is better than the Batmobile,” said Owen.
“Amen to that, little dude,” said Sergeant Graves, reaching back to give him a high five. “Captain Quinn hasn’t seen half of what this thing can do. Last time we were in Khost, the tali-rats threw like ten RPGs at us at once. This thing ate ’em up like it was nothing.”
“I shit myself on that one,” said the gunner. “Released my harness and dropped it into Corporal Hickam’s lap.”
Graves laughed. “That’s right! I thought the two of you might get married after that.”
Everyone laughed, except for Nathan. “What do you mean by ‘ate ’em up’?”
“That’s actually classified information,” said Quinn. “Sorry.”
“But everyone was all right?” asked Nathan.
“Trust me. You’re safe inside this vehicle. Very safe,” said Quinn. “At three point three million dollars a pop, they’re guaranteed to keep Marines safe from anything the haji can throw at us.”
Quinn’s words did little to ease Nathan’s concerns. They weren’t dealing with Afghani insurgents on horseback. Far from it. As the ten-ton vehicle accelerated smoothly out of San Mateo, Nathan struggled to push these uncertain thoughts out of his head.
CHAPTER 72
Nick Leeds fidgeted on the ground, unable to find a comfortable prone position in the observation post. With his elbows grinding the rocky surface, he raised his upper body high enough to peer through the tripod-mounted scope. The synthetic daylight image seen through the eyepiece was overlaid with mapping graphics, showing the precise location of the road and all the terrain features. It also gave him information about their arriving target. It was moving at a speed of seventy-three miles per hour, 1.2 miles away and closing.
A series of Night Raven drones had tracked the convoy since it had emerged from the El Centro city limits. Observers in the city notified the Raven teams, which had been spaced ten miles apart along the forty-three-mile stretch separating El Centro from the ambush point. The final handoff had occurred three minutes ago to a drone hand-launched by Leeds twenty minutes before. The drone, currently under the control of Dan Vega, would fly a circular pattern above the ambush zone, giving him a bird’s-eye view to coordinate the final stages of the attack.
If all went well with this high-tech ambush, coordination of a close ground assault would not be necessary. He could only hope. The technical specifications provided for the armored light tactical vehicle had been sparse on details surrounding the platform’s countermeasure system. Anecdotal evidence from Afghanistan pointed to the distinct possibility that the missiles might not be enough. He had prepared a string of lower-tech options to take out the convoy, if the missiles failed.
“Leeds, this is Kline,” said his lead tactical operator. “I just ran a final diagnostic check on the charges. We’re looking good.”
“And the men in the holes?”
“They’re not happy.”
“I didn’t think they would be,” said Leeds. “That’s why I didn’t mention that part of the plan until we arrived.”
“I’m showing thirty-four seconds,” said Kline. “I’ll be in touch when this is over.”
“Happy hunting.”
“I’ll be happy when we’re out of here.”
Leeds felt the same way. His team was severely exposed on the desolate stretch of land. Even though he had every a
dvantage in this fight—surprise, high ground, concealed positions—he felt vulnerable and isolated lying on the small rocky bluff overlooking the interstate a few hundred yards away. It wouldn’t take much to bleed his force into this dry landscape. Fortunately for him, the convoy didn’t have air support. Once he locked the Marines into place within the kill zone, nothing could save them.
“Leeds, this is Vega. The convoy is twenty seconds from Javelin engagement range. Recommend that the missile teams start searching for targets.”
The Javelin missiles had an effective range of 2.5 kilometers, but the system operators could lock either passively or actively onto IR signatures well outside of that range. He wanted the high-explosive antitank missiles to simultaneously hit the convoy at the edge of the kill zone, in case the vehicles survived. If the missiles failed, all the vehicles would be in position for the next round of surprises.
“Copy that,” said Leeds. “Missile teams. Do not fire early, and do not actively lock onto your target until you’re ready to fire. The transition from passive to active lock takes a fraction of a second if you’ve properly boxed the target. Once you’ve fired the first missile, ready a second launch tube and stand by for targeting instructions.”
By the time the four teams responded, they were seconds away from launching. Through his scope, the first darkened shape appeared in the distance. Everything was on autopilot at this point—he hoped.
CHAPTER 73
Quinn’s eyelids slowly drifted together, the vehicle’s vibrations luring him to sleep, when he could least afford the lapse of situational awareness. They still had fifteen miles to go until the convoy emerged from Interstate 8’s high-risk border area, where the interstate’s closest point of approach would bring them within two thousand feet of the US/Mexico border. A few miles ahead, he would be able to look south and see the wall, supported by fifty-foot metal pylons, which closed the state of California to its southern neighbor.
Despite the towering wall’s forbidding appearance, it did little to deter the desert bandits who crossed over to hijack the few travelers foolish enough to ignore the posted warnings, or in some cases to launch large-scale raids against El Centro landowners. They represented little threat to his convoy, but even a blind squirrel finds a nut once in a while, or whatever his dad used to say. Quinn forced his eyes open, taking a deep breath.
“How you doing, Artigas?” he said to the driver.
“Better than you, sir.”
He stifled a laugh. “Yeah. Been a long few days.”
“I got a few extra energy drinks if you’re interested,” said the driver, reaching between the seat and the door.
“I’ll take you up on that.”
The vehicle decelerated rapidly, pulling him against his vest harness.
“Watch it, Artigas,” said Quinn, thinking the driver had mistakenly shifted his foot onto the brake while grabbing the drink.
“It’s not me, sir!”
Sergeant Graves yelled at Quinn from the backseat. “ECMS is taking evasive maneuvers!”
“From what?” asked Quinn, as the vehicle accelerated dangerously fast toward the back of the Raider One-One.
“Booster plumes detected by Infrared. Tracking four fast-moving UV signatures. High arcs,” said Graves. “Shit. Javelin profile. Impact in one-one seconds.”
“What do I do, Sergeant?” asked the driver.
“Nothing,” said Graves. “ECMS is in control.”
“What’s going on?” asked Nathan, sounding like he’d just awakened out of a deep sleep.
“Nothing to worry about—yet!” said Quinn, more or less telling the truth.
Nothing any of them did in the next few seconds would make a difference. Their lives were in ECMS’s hands for now. Quinn stared through the windshield, searching for the missiles. His vehicle-integrated, night-vision helmet helped him track the inbound threat, placing a faint green icon over each rising missile.
“This doesn’t sound like a ‘no worry’ situation!” yelled Nathan.
Explosive shudders rocked the vehicle.
“Smoke screen out!” said Graves.
“Quinn, what the hell is happening?” screamed Nathan, hitting the back of his chair.
“We’re under attack,” said Quinn, watching Raider One-One’s countermeasures system kick into overdrive.
Externally mounted canisters fired projectiles forward of the lead armored vehicle, which burst into a cloud of burning red phosphorus particles. The vehicle disappeared into the dense cloud, which swallowed Quinn’s vehicle moments later, blocking his view. Canisters continued to detonate, their IR-obscuring smoke drifting rapidly across the convoy. Meanwhile, the vehicles’ computers communicated, coordinating the superheated smoke screen to best shield them from the Javelin missiles’ infrared seekers. Each seeker had locked onto a specific infrared signature, forcing ECMS to pull every trick out of its high-tech hat to confuse the seekers.
“Five seconds!” yelled Graves.
His view through the windshield disappeared again, followed by the sound of water slapping the ballistic glass. When the cloud passed, the lead vehicle reappeared, spraying a high-pressure shield of water as a last-ditch effort to hide itself from the inbound missile. Quinn knew that each AL-TAC carried enough water to cover itself in a thick, cool mist for three seconds.
A short, deafening buzz-saw sound reverberated through the cabin as the vehicle’s final countermeasure fired hundreds of steel pellets in the direction of the incoming missile—with the hope of prematurely detonating its warhead.
“Brace for impact! Slam your heads back!” Quinn said, before jamming his helmet into the headrest and activating GIMMS.
When his view through all the windows disappeared, blocked by his own vehicle’s water spray, he tensed for the inevitable.
“Impact!” yelled Graves.
CHAPTER 74
Leeds moved a few feet to the right of the scope overlooking the highway a few hundred yards away and lowered his night-vision device. He needed a wider field of view to control the battle that would ensue if even one of the Javelin missiles failed to strike its target, and judging by the incredible countermeasures display unveiled over the past several seconds, this seemed likely. This fight would extend well into the kill zone directly ahead of him.
He caught a blur from the top of his field of view, followed by complete chaos on the road. The missiles appeared to detonate simultaneously throughout the convoy, but it was instantly clear that the attack would not be a complete success. Two of the explosions occurred far too high in the air to be effective against the reinforced armor. That was the first confirmation that this wouldn’t be as easy as he’d hoped.
The second was when the lead vehicle flipped into the air and landed on its side, the victim of a very near miss. He knew from the vehicle specifications that the occupants of this AL-TAC would undoubtedly survive. Worse than that, it would come to a stop far outside the ground ambush zone. He’d have to send people out to engage the survivors.
When the smoke and dust from the explosions cleared, the situation unfolded as he expected. The second and third AL-TACs sped into the kill zone, leaving the toppled vehicle behind. The convoy’s last AL-TAC drifted across the open highway median, burning fiercely from a direct hit. He could have used a few more of those.
Leeds turned his attention to the two dark shapes speeding east on the interstate, watching them pass marking posts dug into the side of the road by his team.
“Demo team. Stand by. Passing first marker. Passing second. Blow the road,” he said, ducking below the edge of the overhang.
The ground rumbled beneath him, followed by the simultaneous arrival of a crunching blast that knocked the tripod-mounted scope on top of him. For a second, he thought he had miscalculated the effects of the explosive charges set in the highway. He peeked cautiously over the top of the flat ledge, fearful of pavement fragments. His effort was rewarded when both of the Marine vehicles hit the jagged four-fo
ot-deep, eight-foot-wide trench spanning the eastbound interstate lanes and crashed to a stop. One of the AL-TACs almost tipped over from the momentum, rising slowly and dropping sideways along the broken pavement.
He could barely ask for better. Shaken from the demolition charges, he passed what he thought would be the final combat order of the night.
“Missile teams. Reacquire the disabled vehicles and fire your last missiles. Put two on the vehicle outside of the primary kill zone. All ground units hold back. Do not approach until second salvo of missiles has hit.”
CHAPTER 75
Nathan had no real concept of what had happened. One second he was asleep, the next, the Marines were yelling. Before he could get an answer out of them, the vehicle shook so hard he was convinced it would flip. Quinn started barking orders, and Nathan could have sworn he heard the turret gunner scream, “One-one is flipped!” Nathan didn’t understand everything the Marine said, but he knew that “one-one” was the lead vehicle in the convoy.
A few chaotic seconds later, their own AL-TAC shook violently and decelerated hard enough for the tires to screech. He’d started to reach back for Owen, when Sergeant Graves yelled “Impact!” Out of instinct, he retracted his arm and pressed it against his chest. Time seemed to stop after that. His body lurched forward in the seat, immediately and gently arrested by GIMMS, which let the entire harness ease forward to counter the vehicle’s sudden movement.
When GIMMS pulled him back into the seat, Nathan thought their ordeal was over. But before he could try to reach back into the rear compartment again, he slammed forward hard enough to knock the wind out of him. All he could hear was Owen screaming, as the back of the vehicle rose into the air like an out-of-control roller-coaster ride and crashed onto its left side. GIMMS miraculously held him in place as the driver’s-side chassis buckled from the drop, shattering the ballistic glass next to Sergeant Graves.
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