Zero Separation

by Philip Donlay

  Three quick gunshots rang out. The first two slugs punched holes in the metal next to him, but the third bullet slammed into his left shoulder and knocked him backward against the fuselage of the small plane. Donovan rolled away as two more shots sounded in the night. He struggled to his feet and ran. He wanted to return fire, but he hadn’t seen a muzzle flash so he had no idea where Strauss was hiding.

  Donovan had used the labyrinth of airplanes and tie-downs to separate himself from Strauss. He felt weak, sick to his stomach, and collapsed to the pavement. His shoulder burned and when he touched it, he could feel the sticky warmth of blood. The hollow feeling and chills told him he was in danger of going into shock. The cough that had given him away was probably from the anthrax exposure. He’d gambled everything in his effort to catch Strauss, and he may have paid for his efforts with his life.

  The sound of an airplane starter shattered the calm. The engine chugged once, twice, and then caught as it roared to life. Donovan forced himself to his feet; by the sound of the airplane, Strauss was at least a hundred yards away.

  Donovan began to run in the opposite direction—toward the parking lot. Each footfall resonated painfully up through his legs to his shoulder. He pushed himself harder as he heard Strauss rev the airplane’s engine. Donovan looked back at the ramp and caught the tail of a Cessna as it rolled forward out of its parking spot. Now he knew where Strauss was. The pain in his shoulder snapped his head frontward and his hand shot to his collarbone and the wetness there. An overhead light let him see that the left shoulder of his shirt was saturated with blood.

  As he neared the fence, he gathered speed and leaped, using the right side of his body to take the initial impact. He cried out in pain as he slammed into the chain-link barrier. He used his good hand to clutch the top rail and pull hard while his feet found purchase against the fence. With his legs kicking, he rolled over the top and dropped to the grass below, the pain reverberating through his entire body. He stumbled the last few yards to the Chevy, making sure the gun was still tucked into his belt.

  The Trailblazer cranked immediately and Donovan threw it into reverse, backed up, mashed the brakes, threw it into drive, and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The SUV shot forward, jumped the curb, and plowed through the fence. Donovan could hear part of the chain-link fence dragging beneath the car and in his rearview mirror he found a shower of sparks.

  He raced across the ramp and tried to spot Strauss. He roared down the rows of neatly secured airplanes. As he neared the end, he braked heavily and then burst free of the airplanes and out onto the taxiway that paralleled Leesburg’s single runway. Off to his right, nearing the far end of the runway, was the Cessna. Donovan swore as he spun the wheel and floored it once again—Strauss was farther away than he’d have guessed.

  As the Chevy hit eighty, whatever was dragging underneath snapped free, and the SUV surged forward as he quickly roared through one hundred miles per hour. The Cessna was pointed away from him, still moving down the taxiway. In the dark, running without lights, Donovan hoped he had at least a small element of surprise. He watched as Strauss abruptly turned the Cessna and swung out onto the runway. Startled, Donovan understood that Strauss wasn’t going to taxi all the way to the end of the runway. He didn’t need the full length. He was going to start his takeoff from there. Strauss kept the airplane moving as he began his takeoff roll. Donovan kept the accelerator pressed firmly to the floor.

  The Cessna leaped forward as Strauss added full power. Donovan dismissed thoughts of using the Glock, made one final decision, then gripped the steering wheel and slammed on the brakes. In a matter of seconds it would be too late to do anything to stop Strauss. The SUV slowed dramatically, and Donovan wheeled the SUV ninety degrees to the left until he was pointed at the runway. He floored the Chevy. Now there was nothing between him and the approaching Cessna except a narrow strip of grass.

  Coming from right to left, the speeding Cessna hurtled closer. The spinning prop sliced through the air at twenty-four hundred rpm. The Chevy bucked over the grass until it found the edge of the runway. Everything seemed to slip into slow motion as Donovan realized he’d judged it perfectly. The last thing he saw through the windshield was the image of Strauss, a shocked expression frozen on his face as the Trailblazer ripped into the Cessna just behind the passenger compartment.

  Donovan sought refuge below the line of the dashboard and closed his eyes as the windshield imploded and the sound of tearing metal and a roaring aircraft engine filled his ears. The detonation of the airbag was like a gunshot as the solid frame of the Chevy sliced through the thin aluminum skin of the Cessna and burst through to the other side of the runway. The Chevy lurched sideways and Donovan grabbed the steering wheel just as the vehicle skidded off the pavement onto the grass. He slammed on the brakes, brought the Chevy under control, and rode it across the rough ground until the Trailblazer slid to a stop on the wet grass.

  Over his shoulder, Donovan watched the wreckage of the Cessna careen down the runway. The wings had ripped free and the tail was a shredded mess. Donovan had caught the Cessna exactly where he’d aimed, where the fuselage was thinnest. He’d punched straight through and not gotten tangled up with the wreckage. Surprisingly, there was no fire.

  Donovan found the Glock, opened the driver’s side door and staggered uneasily toward the Cessna. He had to stop for a fit of coughing, but he finally made it to what was left of the cockpit. In the growing light from the coming sunrise he spotted Strauss, still strapped into the pilot’s seat. The door of the Cessna, as well as most of the metal on that side of the plane, was stripped away. Donovan could hear the muted law enforcement transmissions from a walkie-talkie somewhere inside the wrecked cockpit.

  Strauss’s eyes were closed and at first Donovan thought he was dead—until he blinked and groaned as if he were just regaining consciousness. Donovan raised his gun and leveled it at Strauss as he moved closer to locate the radio. Before Donovan could react, a flash of steel whipped across his right wrist and the Glock dropped harmlessly to the ground. Donovan twisted away from Strauss, but not before the Israeli’s stiletto flashed again, this time leaving a deep gash in the flesh of his right thigh. Donovan staggered backward out of range and discovered that his wrist was squirting blood. He clamped his hand around the pulsating wound and dropped to his knees.

  He waited for Strauss to come at him again. His knife was poised, ready to strike, but he didn’t move. His lower torso was twisted at an odd angle and his right knee was bent in the wrong direction. Strauss hadn’t come after him because he couldn’t, he could only glare at him, his eyes filled with a killer’s thirst for violence. Donovan spotted the Glock. It was lying on the ground between himself and Strauss.

  “Give it up, Nash. You’re bleeding to death.”

  “You’re the only one dying here tonight,” Donovan said as he struggled forward on his knees. “Montero’s still alive and so am I.”

  “You’re lying. She’s dead.”

  Donovan inched toward the Glock. If he wanted to pick up the gun, he needed to hurry. He’d have to reach in with his left hand, the one Strauss had run a screwdriver through, which meant releasing the pressure on his severed right wrist, which meant more blood loss.

  “You’re going to bleed out before you can do anything to me.” Strauss said. “I might not get away—but I’ll outlive you.”

  At the taunts, Donovan felt his rage surge through his battered body and override everything. He let go of his damaged wrist and reached out for the pistol. Strauss swung wildly with the knife but Donovan stayed below the murderous arc. Severed artery pumping out blood, his fingers touched the barrel. He managed to lock them around the steel and pull the pistol toward him. He rolled away, and immediately pressed his spurting wrist tight against his chest to try and staunch the flow of blood. He raised himself up and aimed the gun. Donovan was rewarded by the expression of resignation and defeat on Strauss’s face.

  His vision became blurry
and Donovan lost focus. He swayed backward, losing his balance. He tried to squeeze the trigger, but nothing happened. He didn’t possess the strength. He was about to tumble backward when someone steadied him from behind.

  “I’ve got you,” Lauren said as she eased her husband to the ground and clamped a hand around Donovan’s open artery. “Stay with me. Can you get up? My cell phone’s dead.”

  “Plane… police radio,” Donovan said his voice not much more than a whisper. “Strauss… knife.”

  Lauren slid the Glock from Donovan’s hand, raised it with both hands and fired three rounds straight into Strauss’s chest. The Israeli’s head slumped forward and the stiletto tumbled harmlessly to the ground.

  “Stay with me, Donovan,” Lauren said as she dropped the gun to the ground. “I need you to stay awake. Can you use your good hand on your wrist while I find the radio?”

  Donovan let her guide his hand over the wound, and he pressed with what little strength he had while she retrieved the radio. She returned and resumed the pressure.

  “All units, all units,” Lauren transmitted in the blind. “Leesburg airport, shots fired, officer down, need immediate helicopter medevac.”

  Donovan looked from Strauss’s body, then up at his wife, profoundly sorry he hadn’t been able to pull the trigger and that Lauren had been forced to finish the job. He wanted to tell her—apologize.

  “How did you know where I—” Donovan’s mouth felt dry, he was cold, and wanted to close his eyes.

  “Don’t talk.” Lauren held him tightly as she stroked his face.

  Moments later the night air was filled with the sounds of sirens. Donovan heard the beating rotor of an approaching helicopter. It was coming fast, and within minutes he and Lauren were bathed in a harsh white light from the hovering chopper. Soldiers secured the scene and EMT personnel forced Lauren to move away. Donovan tried to reach for her, but he felt his clothes being cut apart and bandages pressed over his wounds. IVs were inserted and he felt a stretcher slide underneath him. His eyes were closed, but he could feel the paramedics lift him up and hurry across the open field toward the waiting helicopter. He heard his wife ask them how long it would take to fly to Walter Reed. He heard doors slide shut and rotors begin to accelerate, and then there was nothing.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “Dr. McKenna, would you please answer the question?”

  Lauren looked across the table at high-level members of the FBI and three Department of Justice lawyers. Everyone was button-down proper except her—she was still wearing clothes stained with her husband’s blood. Next to her sat Calvin and two DIA lawyers. The meeting was taking place in a conference room at Walter Reed Hospital with the promise that she’d be excused when her husband was moved from recovery and settled into his own room.

  The moment they’d landed, he’d been whisked into the operating room and had endured four and a half hours of surgery. She’d seen him briefly afterward as the doctor met with her and explained what had been done. The sliced artery in his wrist had been repaired. The blade hadn’t gone very deep, so the damage was mainly to the artery and not to major nerves and tendons. His leg was sutured and would heal fine. The gunshot wound to his shoulder had nicked his clavicle and they’d had to find and remove all of the bone fragments. The wound to his hand was trickier, but the specialist they’d brought in had felt as if Donovan would recover full use of his hand and fingers, though he would need extensive physical therapy to regain strength and motor skills. He was being administered massive doses of intravenous antibiotics to combat the anthrax exposure, along with an experimental treatment that promised to reverse any footholds the bacteria had already gained. The doctor had warned her that they’d done everything that could be done for now. If they stopped the spread of the anthrax, Donovan would survive, though a full recovery from all of his injuries would probably take months.

  “Dr. McKenna, again, would you please answer the question?”

  Lauren looked at the man who’d spoken. FBI Deputy Director Norman Graham was a thickset man with deep-set eyes and no neck. Lauren thought he had the smallest hands she’d ever seen on an adult.

  “Yes, I initiated a phone call to Mr. Aaron Keller that allowed me access to Liberty Airlines Operations.”

  “How long have you been working for Mossad?”

  “I don’t work for any foreign intelligence service.”

  “How long have you known Aaron Keller?”

  “Less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Why did you call him?”

  “He seemed motivated to help.”

  “Which is why you hung up on General Porter?”

  “Are we here to discuss my phone manners?”

  “You elected to seek help from a Mossad agent rather than a member of the Joint Chiefs? A man, I might add, who convinced the president to issue you and your friends complete immunity in this matter?”

  “I guess he didn’t have a problem with my phone manners—or my tactics. I believe the president’s intention was to spare my friends and me hours of needless interrogation.”

  “Dr. McKenna, exactly when did you elect to join in the manhunt for Nathan Strauss?”

  “When it became clear that my husband and Strauss were both missing from the crash site.”

  “So, with all of your years of tactical field work, you felt compelled to give chase, unarmed, and alone, without asking for backup?”

  “Norman,” Calvin said, quietly, “lose the sarcasm or this meeting is over.”

  “I’ve got this,” Lauren said, putting her hand on Calvin’s arm as she turned back to Graham. “Exactly where was I supposed to find this backup?”

  Graham ignored Lauren’s jab at the absence of agents on the scene. “When did you ascertain that Nathan Strauss was alive, and that Leesburg airport was his destination?”

  “Almost immediately,” Lauren replied. “It was an obvious deduction.”

  “Yet you didn’t tell anyone?”

  “If my husband elected to give chase and not sound the alarm, there had to be a good reason. The only one I could think of was that Nathan Strauss must have a police radio or a scanner or some other way to monitor law enforcement transmissions. Once I figured that out, the rest was simple.”

  “Do indulge us.”

  “My husband should have sought immediate medical treatment. Instead, he made the decision to give chase. He must have thought he was in a unique position to stop the fugitive. He did this, I remind you, after he carried FBI Special Agent Montero to safety.”

  “We’re not questioning Mr. Nash’s decisions or his bravery,” Graham replied. “Now, back to the Leesburg airport question. How did you know?”

  “Immediately after the crash, I was on the west side of the buildings, as were most all of the fire rescue elements. I couldn’t see what was happening on the east side—no one could. In fact it took considerable time for any official vehicles to reach the east side due to the way the Gulfstream came to rest between the two buildings. From the accounts of the first witness on the scene, I reconstructed the sequence of events following the crash. Because my husband had taken the time to carry Special Agent Montero clear of the burning plane, it seemed likely that Strauss had a head start. My husband wasn’t actually following the suspect, but had instead figured out Strauss’s likely destination. If he could do it, I surmised I should be able to as well.”

  “The Leesburg airport.” Graham nodded as he said the words.

  “We already knew that the Manassas airport was Strauss’s initial choice. It only made sense that Strauss choose another satellite airport as an alternate to try and make his escape via airplane. It was how he operated.”

  “What did you discover upon your arrival at Leesburg?”

  “I found a Dulles Airport Police car with the body of an officer locked inside. I also found a large section of fence that had been knocked down, presumably by a vehicle. It was then that I heard the sound of an airplane beginning to take off—
followed by the sound of a crash.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I drove through the hole in the fence and headed for the runway.”

  “Dr. McKenna,” Graham held up his stubby hands as if Lauren had missed the obvious, “I’m deeply troubled by the fact that at no time did you attempt to contact the FBI. With your knowledge of government protocols, you know that the FBI is the lead agency for domestic terrorism.”

  Lauren stared directly at Graham. “Let me make this a little clearer for you. My cell phone battery died from talking with a great number of people. By the time I arrived at the Leesburg airport, there were no FBI agents within earshot—so, no, I did not ask for your assistance. I would have liked that option, but at that point, I believe your nearest agent was either at the Dulles or Manassas airport, not exactly where I needed them.”

  Everyone in the room glanced at Graham to gauge his response at her caustic response.

  “There was a radio in the SUV you were driving,” Graham shot back.

  “I believe I’ve stated my concerns about radio traffic and the possibility of Strauss being able to monitor them,” Lauren said. “May I continue?”

  “Please do,” Graham replied.

  “On the runway I came upon the debris from a crashed airplane. In the headlights, I found a destroyed Cessna and in the distance was a damaged vehicle. It was then that I saw my husband.”

  “Go on.” Graham said.

  “I was worried about the risk of fire from the Cessna, so I parked my vehicle about fifty yards or so and ran to him. I was able to reach him as he collapsed from his injuries.”

  “Gentleman,” Calvin interrupted, “we’re all aware of the physical damage suffered by Mr. Nash. I suggest for Dr. McKenna’s sake we skip these details and try and wrap this up.”