Patriot

by M. A. Rothman

  Pain shot up her legs to her hips and shoulder as she rolled along the top of the trailer. She put out a hand, stopping herself, and waved the chopper away.

  “I’m down,” she told Brice.

  Then she pulled out her torch and went to work.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  “She did what?” Connor said, eyes wide.

  “She jumped onto the trailer,” Thompson repeated, shaking his head.

  “By herself?”

  “That’s pretty much how she operates.”

  “She’s crazy.”

  Thompson lifted his hands, palms up. “Have you not figured that out by now?”

  Connor looked out at the miles of forest going by below them in a blur of green, trying to ignore the thrumming of the Black Hawk’s engines around him. He didn’t know Annie that well, but she was definitely capable.

  “Hey, Thompson,” the pilot said, pointing. “Twelve o’clock, on the horizon.”

  Connor and Thompson both looked forward. The US Mint at West Point sat at the base of a ski slope, right behind the lodge, and right now three columns of smoke rose into the air beyond the tree-covered summit in front of them.

  Connor remembered something Annie had mentioned about Wagner’s phone conversations. “Look,” he said, pointing out of the left-side window to the golf course below. “Wagner talked about golfing.”

  Thompson gave him a skeptical look. “You don’t think that’s just a coincidence?”

  “Do you?”

  Thompson hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

  As they came over the summit and got their first view of the West Point Mint complex, everything that had happened over the last week and a half suddenly made total and complete sense.

  “It was never about the bombs,” Connor said. “At least not for Wagner.”

  “What?” Thompson asked, frowning.

  Connor pointed to the columns of smoke. “It was never about the bombs. It was all a ruse. They’re stealing the money.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  Connor shook his head. “I’m telling you, it’s not. It was a shell game. Look at this hand while the other hides the ball. Everyone’s eyes are on New York right now, all convinced there’s going to be another massive attack, when it was never even the endgame. Now the military are out of position, Hakimi’s rolling into DC, and we’re here.”

  Fires burned from the detached guard building and from obvious rocket attacks to the main building. Both loading bay doors on the south side of the building had been blown away, and a U-Haul truck was backed up to one of the ramps. Several figures dressed in black BDUs were engaged with groups of state police, who were pinned down behind their patrol cars on the complex’s access road. The main gate stood open, and holes had been cut into the exterior and interior fences.

  Two off-road pickup trucks were parked in the grass just outside the fence line. Beside them, a group of armed figures were exchanging gunfire with police taking cover behind the lodge. A barrage of heavy machine-gun fire from a gun mounted in the back of one of the pickups chewed through the lodge’s wooden siding, sending the officers on the other side running. The line of bullets ripped through the front end of a police car parked too far out. The windshield exploded in a mist of glass.

  A chorus of metallic thunks echoed throughout the Black Hawk’s compartment. The window next to Connor cracked, creating a spider web of lines across its surface. The chopper banked hard, alarms ringing.

  “Son of a bitch!” the pilot shouted.

  Connor grabbed the seat in front of him, gritting his teeth, trying to keep his balance. The M4 hanging from a combat sling around his shoulder banged against the partition.

  The world outside rotated as they banked around the complex, moving to the north. Connor pressed his hand to the window, steadying himself, and caught a glimpse of a lone helicopter sitting on the parking lot to the south of the main building. The doors on the white Agusta 109 stood open, its pilot sitting at the controls.

  Several hostiles were moving away from the building, engaging the officers near the gatehouse. The officers were outmanned and almost certainly outgunned. When you were engaging military-grade weapons with ordinary sidearms, it didn’t matter how much courage and tenacity you had, there wasn’t any coming out on top of that contest.

  “We’ve got to push them back,” Connor said, fingers wrapping around the M4’s grip.

  He braced himself against the seat and pulled the door open. Sparks erupted from a panel above him. He leveled his carbine, sights on the fleeing hostiles, and fired. He took controlled shots, two here, three there, trying to slow their approach to the chopper.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Thompson said, sliding across the back bench and bringing up his own rifle.

  One of Connor’s rounds caught a man on the back of the shoulder, sending him stumbling forward. He hit the ground face first and didn’t move. The next man slowed, bringing up his rifle and firing up at Connor and the Black Hawk. Bullets stitched across the outside of the chopper, but Connor didn’t bother to duck. He just shifted fire and put three into the man’s chest, dropping him instantly.

  “Put us down!” Connor shouted over his shoulder. “Get us on the ground now!”

  “I don’t see a good spot to put down,” the pilot argued.

  Connor checked out both sides of the aircraft. “Put us down on the far side of the lodge. There to the south where the cop cars are.”

  The Black Hawk banked sharply, engines roaring. Connor held on tight as the ground turned and tilted around him. Thirty seconds later the aircraft jolted slightly as its wheels touched down.

  Connor bolted from the chopper without waiting for it to settle. He pulled his M4 tight into his shoulder as he crossed the grassy lot to where the officers were hunkered down behind the corner of the lodge.

  Two New York State police officers backed away from the edge as Connor approached. He didn’t bother to hold out ID. He jabbed a thumb at the chopper and the tactical team coming up behind him. “Connor Sloane, Homeland Security! What’s your situation?”

  A burst of fire chewed through the grass a meter away, sending plumes of dirt and gravel spraying.

  “Mike Duncan, State Police. We’ve got units here and to the east,” one of the officers said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “We’ve got our SRT team en route—should be here in about ten minutes. How’d you guys get here so quick?”

  “Long story.”

  The Black Hawk lifted into the air, kicking up a torrent of wind. Connor hunched over, blocking his face from the violent gusts. He moved up to the edge of the building and peered around the corner. The blades on the transport copter were starting to spin up.

  “They’re not going to be here in ten minutes,” he said.

  “They’re falling back to the truck!” a male voice shouted through Duncan’s lapel mic. “I think the U-Haul is getting ready to roll!”

  The officer backtracked around the building. “Do we have spike strips down? We need spike strips.”

  Connor pulled his M4 up and leaned around the corner. The engines on the Agusta 109 helicopter were spinning up, the whine increasing as the blades spun faster and faster. Five men dressed in black BDUs, armed with FN SCAR rifles, jumped down from the loading dock and hurried across the pavement toward the helicopter. They all wore balaclavas and tactical vests.

  Pros, Connor thought.

  The machine gun from the pickup rattled off another stream of bullets. They smashed through the lodge’s wooden exterior and shattered windows. A few rounds went straight through and out the other side, plinking off the patrol cars behind it.

  “We need to take out that machine gun,” Connor said. He looked over the two officers. One just had his service pistol, but Duncan had a slightly modified M4. “How good are you with that thing?”

  Duncan shrugged. “Twenty years infantry, five with the State Police.”

  “Good. You’re with
me. Thompson, you too. We’re going to have to move fast. I’m going first, you two follow me out, focus your fire on the gunner. He’ll probably track me first, should give you a good shot.”

  He was asking a lot, and he knew it. And he was putting a lot of his own faith in two men, one of whom he barely knew and the other whom he didn’t know from Adam.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d been under fire from a large-caliber weapon. There’d been many times in Afghanistan and Iraq when they’d gone up against militia groups with technicals and machine guns. But the thing about the big weapons was, they still needed a human touch to operate. You take out the human element, you take out the gun.

  Duncan didn’t seem to like the idea. He hesitated as Connor moved toward the edge of the building. “You’re going to use yourself as bait?”

  Connor shrugged. “I prefer to think of it as distraction. But yeah.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  Connor laughed. “You should meet my partner. Ready?”

  He didn’t wait for Duncan’s answer; he just sprinted out from behind the corner, firing as he ran. He was a better shot than most on the move, but that didn’t mean any of his shots were accurate. Rounds sparked off the pickup’s hood and punched through the windshield. The gunner ducked, halting his fire for a few precious seconds. Then Connor heard shots behind him and saw the rounds hit home. The gunner jerked, stumbled back, and toppled over the tailgate.

  Another hostile stepped out from behind the truck and Connor dropped him with a single shot. “Come on!” Connor shouted, picking up speed when no one else appeared.

  He took a knee next to one of the dead hostiles and pulled off the man’s balaclava. Not Arab. Definitely European. He dropped the mask and inched his way to the back of the truck.

  “They’re going for the chopper! Thompson shouted.

  Through the destroyed section of fence Connor could see six armed men climbing into the Agusta. If he had to guess, Müller was among them.

  Connor couldn’t let him get away.

  He turned to Duncan, who was just coming up behind him. “Cover me, okay? I’m going to get some.”

  Duncan’s eyes followed Connor’s pointer finger, and he smiled at the realization of what Connor meant to do. “Gotcha.”

  Connor pushed his M4 around behind him, climbed into the pickup’s bed, and grabbed hold of the mounted machine gun. The belt-fed automatic weapon swung freely on its swivel mount, and the ammunition box was still more than half full.

  Connor heard the Agusta’s engines whine, and knew it was about to lift off.

  “Chopper’s lifting off,” Thompson warned.

  “Working on it,” Connor said, stepping around the bed. He pressed his butt against the back of the truck’s cab and bent forward slightly.

  The Agusta lifted off the pavement just as Connor leveled his sights. He squeezed the trigger and hugged the stock as the rifle fired. He stitched the rounds from back to front, drawing a line diagonally up across the side of the fuselage. Windows blew out, and the engine pitched higher as the helicopter lifted faster.

  Connor shifted fire to the cockpit. The curved windshield over the cockpit exploded.

  Someone appeared in the side hatch, rifle in hand, and fired back. The rounds chewed through the grass ten meters behind the pickup. Connor caught movement on his right side and saw Duncan move up, take a knee, and add his own fire to the attack. Connor couldn’t even hear the sound of Duncan’s shots over the reports of the machine gun.

  The man in the side hatch fell back, and the Agusta began to pitch over, away from them.

  “She’s going down!” Connor shouted, not letting up his attack.

  The Agusta banked to the right as it rolled. Its rotor blades dug into the pavement, sending bits of asphalt and titanium flying. Two of the rotor blades spun through the air; the others simply shattered into shrapnel. The bird hit hard, its frame crumpling under the force of the impact.

  Behind the machine gun, Connor straightened, but he kept the sights trained on the wreckage, ready to drop anyone that came out with intent to do anything but surrender.

  “The U-Haul’s rolling!” a voice on Duncan’s radio advised.

  Connor saw the truck pulling away from the dock, its driver and passenger laying down continuous fire on the officers near the access road. A pickup turned to follow. At least this last truck didn’t have a machine gun mounted in the bed—just two men with SCARs.

  Connor slapped the roof of the pickup. “Duncan!” he shouted. “Drive!”

  The officer yanked open the driver’s door, tossed his rifle on the seat, and started up the engine. Thompson climbed in the back passenger seat and rolled down the window. Connor braced himself against the cab.

  Duncan maneuvered the truck around the lodge and through the gravel lot, weaving through the cop cars. “Move!” he shouted. “Get the hell out of the way!”

  Through a clump of trees Connor could see the U-Haul racing down the access road, smashing through two patrols cars at the entrance. In the pickup that followed behind, the two men with SCARs riddled the patrol cars as they passed. Two officers went down at the edge of the road, both taking hits in the chest.

  “Go!” Connor said. “Drive this thing like you stole it!”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Annie pulled up the thin piece of metal, bending it at a ninety-degree angle, before lowering herself through the new opening in the top of the trailer.

  “I’m in.”

  Brice, in her earbud, said, “I can see.”

  Some light spilled in from the hole she’d created, but otherwise the trailer was dark, and with the exception of a waist-high crate near the back, the interior of the trailer was mostly empty. Annie pulled out a mini-flashlight and clicked it on as she approached the crate, her heart pounding in her chest.

  What the hell are you doing, Annie? she asked herself. You have no business being in here with a nuclear bomb. Every instinct told her to run and get as far away as she could. But she knew that running would be pointless; she’d never get away from the blast at this point. Best case, she’d only get far enough away that the explosion would burn her so badly she’d wish she’d died—and the radiation exposure would kill her shortly thereafter. She was committed, for better or for worse.

  “All right, walk over to the crate so I can get a better look,” Brice said. “We’re going to take this one step at a time, okay?”

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

  “Pop the clasps around the top of the crate.”

  Annie flinched every time one of the three clasps popped free, expecting the bomb to go off at any time.

  “You’re going to have to speed this up. The truck is still moving, and we’ve only got about ten miles until we hit downtown DC.”

  Annie blew out an exasperated breath. “I don’t want to accidentally set this damned thing off, Marty.’

  “I know.”

  She opened the lid, revealing a compartment with a form-fitting foam top that lifted off a mass of electrical components, cables, circuit boards, and multicolored wires. At the center of everything was a sphere the size of a soccer ball, covered in identical hexagonal segments. Red and white wires ran from each segment to an electronic control board on the left side of the crate, where still more wires branched off, running to multiple power leads and data ports.

  “Aw, hell,” Annie said. “I can’t do this.”

  “Yes, you can. I’m going to help you. We’re a team.”

  “You’re going to help me blow myself up. Marty, what the hell am I doing here with a damn nuclear bomb?”

  The trailer rocked slightly as it bounced along the road, and the container rocked with the motion, making Annie’s heart skip a beat. She stepped back, hands in the air as if surrendering to the thing.

  “It’s all right, Annie. Trust me. It’s made it this far on the highway with plenty of bumps and stops. It’s not just going to accidentally go off now.”

  A
nnie blew out a long breath, trying to calm her nerves.

  “Pan around so I can see everything,” Brice said. Thanks to the tiny cameras embedded in her smart-lenses, he could see everything she was seeing. “It definitely looks like it has a remote trigger, though I can’t tell if it’s a dead man’s switch or just a remote det. The power source is underneath the sphere, so there’s probably no getting to that, and we don’t want to risk collapsing the circuit.”

  “Marty, just tell me what to do. How do I disarm this thing?”

  “I’m not sure disarming it is going to be possible,” Brice said.

  “Then what in the actual hell am I doing here?”

  “Relax, I—”

  Annie jabbed a finger at the device in front of her. “Don’t you fucking tell me to relax. You’re not the one messing with a goddamn nuclear bomb. Don’t do that.”

  “All right, I’m sorry. But listen, with the setup he’s got here, if we start cutting wires and disconnecting leads, we run the risk of setting the thing off. But I’m fairly confident we can make it so the bomb won’t actually go nuclear when it goes off.”

  “You mean you still want this thing to blow up?”

  “Yes. But it’s not what you think.”

  “How can blowing up the nuke not be what I think?”

  “Okay, so you see those hexagonal panels around that sphere? Those are explosive panels surrounding the uranium with a plutonium pit. At least, that’s what the records show for the B43 nuke. Anyway, those explosives are positioned so that when they’re set off at the exact same moment, it squeezes the contents of the material, starting a chain reaction that causes the nuclear explosion. If even one of those panels is out of alignment, the nuclear detonation won’t happen—you’ll just get a fizzle. Basically a dirty bomb. You’ll still get a pretty big bang, but not the city-destroying kind.”

  “Okay, so how do I do that? Just cut the red wire, right?” Annie brought her knife out of her pocket and flicked the blade open. “That’s always the right answer?”