Victoria held up her hand to silence everyone, stood up from the bench, and pointed.
The boat was plowing through a shocked cluster of rental paddleboats, tossing them aside before its massive hull like matchsticks, and heading directly for them.
It was close enough now for all to hear the engines’ angry growl as they were jammed into full reverse. Brown mud churned up from the bottom of the basin, but it slowed the speeding boat very little. A few nearby onlookers abruptly stopped their dog walks or jogs and stood aghast, watching in horrified fascination, like watching a train about to collide with the station.
“It’s gonna crash!” screamed one of Victoria’s friends, cupping her hands over her mouth in horror. They all stepped closer together as they watched.
With a ghastly metallic crunch, the bow of the boat plowed into the decorative cement steps. The steel bow crumpled back into itself like a crushed tin can. But without a moment’s hesitation, the men on deck slammed a large metal ramp down and onto the grass only a hundred feet from the women.
“Is this a drill?” someone nearby asked no one in particular.
Victoria could see the men’s faces clearly now. They were younger Caucasian boys. The name stenciled on the side of the dinner boat read Aurora.
Civilian boat, Military guys . . . but not U.S.
Affirming that likelihood, dozens of men armed with rifles stormed off the boat, down the steel gangway, and began halting cars on Independence Avenue. The top of the boat opened like a clamshell, and five armored vehicles drove up and out of the now-open interior. Some of the men vaulted up onto the armored vehicles, weapons at the ready and pointed menacingly at the shocked crowd of onlookers. Then the vehicles raced off toward the Capitol Building.
Victoria thought, This is what our Marines look like when they practice an amphibious assault.
She turned to her friends. “Get your shit together. There is some real bullshit going down, and we need to get the fuck out of here and back to the hospital, ASAP!”
The other women nodded silently but stood motionless looking off in the direction the men had disappeared. Just then, gunfire erupted from the other side of the Potomac, shaking the others from their momentary stupor and underscoring Victoria’s orders.
“Move it, ladies... and I mean right fucking now!”
A heavy explosion thundered from across the river near the airport, followed rapidly by another, then another. Thick plumes of black smoke billowed from both locations, and a great red spout of flame flared up the sides of the Pentagon.
Without another word, Victoria raced off to commandeer a ride back to the hospital, the others following closely behind.
Two minutes before impact...
Morgantown, West Virginia
U.S. Marine Major Tyce Asher’s Humvee bumped along the gravel and brush, pulling to a halt just off the shoulder of Interstate 79. He grabbed the radio handset from the dash and thumbed the mic to radio his platoon.
“All stations, this is Dragoon-six. I’m pulling off before the bridge to get a headcount of the convoy. First and second platoons, pull off with me and do engine ‘hot checks.’ Gunny, stage the headquarters section behind me.” He then switched to the Army National Guard radio and spoke into the mic. “B Troop, you’re clear to continue back to base. Your colonel should be getting close, and you can detach from me and head back to the 150th.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” said the soldier, cheerfully slipping in some Marine jargon.
“Good to go, Lieutenant Zane. Looks like we’ll make a Marine out of you yet,” said Tyce, eminently aware that the entire West Virginia National Guard convoy of military vehicles were all listening in on their back and forth.
“Not if Colonel Nepo has anything to say about that, sir.” It was a rare form of disobedience, but no one, least of all Major Tyce Asher, liked the bald-headed and scornful Colonel Nepo, commander of the 150th Cavalry Regiment and the boss of everyone who’d been involved in the monthlong Ridge Runner maneuver exercise.
In solidarity with the boss, and being the acting executive officer of the combined Marine and National Guard troops, Tyce was about to tell the lieutenant to behave when Gunny interrupted over the radio. “Dragoon-six, this is Gunny. We copy, sir. Pulling up on your six o’clock now and need to talk to you ASAP.”
“Roger,” said Tyce simply. Then he opened the Humvee door and stepped out into the overgrown grass, wobbling unsteadily. A Marine Corps LAV pulled up behind him. The LAV, short for Light Armored Vehicle, was a big, eight-wheeled armored car with a 25mm cannon turret. People often mistook it for a tank with wheels, but they were the mainstay vehicle of Tyce’s Marine reconnaissance unit.
Tyce was still straightening himself up, a pained grimace on his face, as Gunnery Sergeant Chaz Dixon jumped out of the LAV and walked over toward him, the rest of the men stepping off, too. The unit’s military working dog, Trigger also leapt out and happily followed Gunny. The pooch skillfully clambered out and down the front of the LAV. His tail wagged faster and he picked up his pace upon spotting Tyce.
“Leg bothering you again this morning, sir?” asked Gunny.
“Yeah . . . I guess so,” said Tyce.
Trigger smashed against Tyce like a furry tornado, then forced his way between Tyce’s legs in a zigzag, knocking him further off balance. Tyce braced himself against the attack by holding the top of the Humvee door for balance. Trigger plopped down on his haunches in front of Tyce, a drooling tongue lolling out as he looked up at him earnestly. Tyce reddened, slightly embarrassed at being caught in a moment of weakness in front of his troops. He knew it was foolish to be ashamed of his prosthetic leg, and he was also aware that most already knew all about it. But he practiced almost every waking minute walking and moving just like a normal Marine, and he hoped some of the troops might never know.
Once Trigger’s greeting had simmered down, Tyce knelt down to pet him, then absently scratched at his own leg, the prosthetic one. He glanced up and caught Gunny staring at him with a puzzled look.
“Ha!” chuckled Tyce. “I do that like five times a day still. The docs call it a ‘phantom limb’ itch. Your brain plays tricks and still thinks there’s a leg there.”
Tyce turned his attention back to Trigger, his hand out flat, palm down in a command for Trigger to sit. He did so, though his tail and butt now wagged even more fiercely in anticipation of what inevitably came next. Like most dogs, Trigger knew who fed him—and also knew Tyce was a total softy. Quick obedience to Tyce’s commands meant one of several treats Tyce always carried in his drop pouch. Tyce reached in and pulled out a sticky mess of lint-covered gummy bears.
Gunny looked at the dirt-covered treats, then back to Tyce, “Sir, you’re going to make that mutt sick.”
Tyce brushed off the comment, but both men couldn’t help smiling as Trigger greedily guzzled the gummy bears down in one gulp, licking his chops, then gave a hopeful expression that begged for more.
Trigger was a trained Belgian Malinois, and he had been with the unit for more than three years. He’d made two combat deployments, one to Iraq and one to Afghanistan, during the worst of the ISIS and Taliban battles, and had come out relatively unscathed and even more attached to his Marines. He’d even been promoted to corporal. This wasn’t just an honorific title for the Marines, who had been promoting dogs and horses in their ranks since the famous battles of Belleau Wood in World War I and Okinawa in World War II. Tyce had watched Trigger jump on more than one occasion at the sound of a car backfiring and wondered if dogs got PTSD.
Trigger genuinely loved his Marines, but he always felt most at home with the body-building, machine gun–toting section leader, Staff Sergeant Alejandra Encantar Celestina Diaz-Perez. As he looked back at four more LAVs from the convoy pulling off the highway and getting in line behind Gunny’s vehicles, the short but buff female staff sergeant came up to join the pair. “I overheard headquarters’ last radio comms check,” she said, a thick Bronx Spanish accent coloring he
r words and mannerisms. “The colonel is at Exit 155.” The woman’s muscled biceps practically burst from her rolled uniform sleeves. She hefted a medium machine gun over her shoulder as she spoke.
“Thanks, Staff Sergeant Diaz,” said Tyce, “but do me a solid, leave the firepower in your Humvee.” He pointed at the machine gun slung over her shoulder and then back to her vehicle. “It scares the natives, and last I checked, we’re still in West Virginia, not Al Anbar in Iraq.”
Then he pointed to the traffic jam they were causing.
North and southbound civilian traffic on Interstate 79 was rubbernecking as they slowly passed the menacing Marine Corps armored vehicles. A few kids stared at the convoy, cheeks pressed against the glass as they peered with childlike fascination at the unusual military hardware.
Gunny interjected. “Can’t be helped, but we don’t need—”
VROOOOM.
Four jet fighter planes blasted over low and fast, directly over the troops.
The roar of their engines was intense. They passed no more than a few hundred feet off the ground, racing up the valley. The clustered troops collectively ducked, some dropping to the ground, so unexpected were the powerful planes’ blasts.
“What the fuck was that?” said Gunny Dixon, echoing everyone’s thoughts as they all watched the jets continuing up and hugging the valley.
In seconds, with throttles wide open, the four jet fighters pointed straight up, streaking skyward and gaining altitude rapidly. Only now did everyone notice what the jets were aiming for: a formation of nearly a hundred jets, over 40,000 feet high, their long, white contrails marking their silent progress westward.
Diaz slid closer to Tyce and Gunny, who were both still staring up. “Dios mío! What the hell is that, Major?” she asked.
“I’ll be damned if I know exactly, Diaz,” said Tyce. His voice contained awe of the spectacle, but he couldn’t conceal a note of concern. “The lower jets, the ones that passed right over us, are ours. Interceptors. Pretty sure they’re F-16 Fighting Falcons. Probably scrambled out of North Carolina. There’s a reserve fighter squadron down there. Though from the looks of things, that’s only a handful of ’em.” Some other fighters also streaked up from adjacent valleys, but it didn’t look like more than ten or twelve total. “Wonder where the rest of their buddies are?”
Tyce’s ominous words resonated, leaving everyone wondering and worried.
“What about those?” Diaz pointed. “The ones way up there?”
The two sets of aircraft now looked as if they were about to intersect.
“I don’t know exactly, Staff Sergeant. But I do know we would never fly that many of our own bombers in formation over the nation. If that’s even what they are . . .”
“Bombers?” Gunny and Diaz both said, shocked.
“Pretty sure it’s against the law, or a U.S. code, or something,” Tyce continued.
Suddenly, there appeared two bright red plumes, puffs of dirty grey, then bright white smoke trails. Two of the big aircraft fell out of formation and started a long, slow, steady death spiral toward the ground. Another red flash, then a third big aircraft followed the other two, falling and tumbling like a leaf from a tree. The delayed sounds of explosions met their ears, like distant thunder. No one moved. Even the traffic on 79 stopped. Everyone was transfixed by the unfolding aerial dogfight.
Tyce was the first to react, grabbing Gunny Dixon by his shoulder and pivoting him sharply.
“Gunny, get on net. Radio everyone. Maximum alert. Take our HQ and the Guard’s B Troop back to base immediately. Break speed limits—just get everyone back to Morgantown ASAP.”
“Sir, what the hell is going on?”
“We’re under attack. No time to analyze.”
Gunny turned to go, but turned back. “How about you, sir? You gonna be okay?” He pointed at Tyce’s leg.
“I’m fine, Gunny.” Tyce waved him off. “I’ll take my section back to protect the colonel. See you back there as soon as we can rope everyone up. But hey”—Tyce’s expression darkened—“lock and load, ’kay?”
“Got it.” Gunny ran to his LAVs, Trigger racing next to him with his tail tucked. Intuitively, he knew something bad was happening.
Sergeant Diaz turned to Tyce and pointed toward the south. “Hey, look, sir. Look at that. More of our fighters headed to take down those others?”
Diaz was the first to spot another long line of high-flying aircraft: four visible specks, low on the southern horizon. A pair of thin, white trails with yellow halos dropped below the dots and started to spiral in a lazy corkscrew fashion, growing larger by the second.
Tyce’s brain knew inherently what was coming, but none of it made sense here in the middle of West Virginia.
“Get down!” he yelled. “Everyone get down!” His shouts were met with stares all around. The battle in the sky, although fascinating, seemed detached from the grunts on the ground.
“Incoming missiles!” Tyce yelled.
The last words had the desired effect. Everyone scattered off the highway, diving headlong into the grass, flopping onto their stomachs and clutching their helmets tight on their heads. Some had experienced Iraq or Afghanistan and knew the same thing as troops who had engaged in all foreign wars: that laying flat and sucking your body into the earth was the only defense for what was coming next.
Two of the inbound missiles struck, but both were wide. One detonated in the trees, the other in the river below the bridge. The third and fourth missiles, however, struck their intended targets with a flat, earsplitting smack. Tyce and Diaz rolled onto their elbows and watched as a blast of fire tossed enormous chunks of concrete and twisted steel bridge spans into the air, which then rained down with a crash.
The center and southbound lanes of the bridge fell away completely, leaving a third of the bridge dangling but intact. Tyce and Diaz watched in horror as three passenger cars and the last LAV in Gunny Dixon’s section plunged into the void that opened down into the Monongahela River below.
“Holy shit, sir,” yelled Diaz. “That was Sergeant Monroe’s vehicle!”
“I know,” said Tyce, standing up, his eyes taking in all the destruction. Small pieces of debris that had been vaulted high into the air were still falling. A shroud of grey dust hung in the air. “Go back and get your platoon. Tell everyone to get over here. We need to help.” Tyce looked to the south and saw headlights approaching. “And we need to block traffic. We don’t want anyone driving into that blasthole. I’ll see if I can get the colonel on the radio.”
Tyce walked over to his vehicle and picked up the radio. SSgt. Diaz looked about for the Marines and soldiers she was going to utilize to cordon off the site. Just as she was yelling for a few of the non-commissioned officers, or NCOs, to come over and help, a bright blue Porsche sped up. She turned to yell for someone to stop it, but it deftly carved its way around the halted traffic and dodged the Humvees moving to block off the blasthole.
Tyce saw what was happening and dropped the radio handset, pointing at one of the nearest men. “Quick, stop that guy!”
Two men moved to intercept the fast-moving car, but the Porsche dodged the men, skirting them and onto the shoulder as it accelerated toward the bridge. Tyce pulled a flare off his Humvee, pulled the igniter, and ran toward the Porsche, waving the flare over his head. Either the driver didn’t see him or didn’t care. The Porsche accelerated right past Tyce and out onto the bridge. The driver never even had time to apply the brakes.
Everyone watched helplessly as the car disappeared over the edge. From below came a crunch and the sound of glass shattering.
Tyce stood motionless for a moment, then walked over to the blasthole.
“Shit,” he said to himself. “It’s all happening again. People just keep dying around me.”
Tyce peered through the bridge’s caved-in asphalt and severed steel spans that yawned back at him like the maw of a giant beast. Below, not a soul moved, but the wrecks of the three passenger car
s, the upside-down Humvee, and the blue Porsche on top of it were all burning in a heap of carnage.
CHAPTER 7
One minute before impact . . .
The White House, Washington, D.C.
The President sipped his coffee while watching his favorite morning newscast. A hair and makeup crew worked on his face and nose. Another attached a microphone cord behind his tie and smoothed his jacket’s lapels. The news broadcast was out of San Francisco, but the basic content was all over the other channels that morning. A ghastly report. A killer had run rampant through a day care with an assault rifle.
The President’s press secretary stood in front of him and flipped through her notes, “OK, this a.m. we have one obvious change. You’ll have to give condolences for the kids and their families first.” She said.
“Yeah. Figured,” said the President, still absently glued to the set as the news anchors now handed the broadcast over to a field correspondent in Saudi Arabia. In the top corner a video played of a line of U.S. soldiers getting off a plane, tanks rumbling off ship’s ramps and Army Apache helicopters flying in tight formations. It was stock footage. The President had deployed the troops six months earlier and they were already up on the borders to Iran where it still looked like the Iranians might invade Iraq any day. But the message was clear. The U.S. was back in the Middle East, and in great numbers to attempt to stave off Iran’s most recent aggression.
The makeup man pushed a little plastic wheelie-cart around to better apply powder and cream on the President’s nose and forehead, blocking the TV in doing so.
The President growled, “Look, can this wait?” pushing him gruffly aside.
This part of the routine was immensely annoying, but all his PR personnel told him that every time he began speaking in earnest, a bright sheen broke out on his forehead. Couldn’t have that.
Assault by Fire Page 4