“Roger that.”
Between them and their escape transportation were the military-grade bio-hazard containment trailer in front of them, the two army tents, a hundred yards of tarmac, and an unknown number of Unit soldiers searching for them. With a gun in each hand, Agent Palmer led the way toward the gleaming stainless steel containment trailer. Merc Three followed, guiding Julia by the hand and carrying the unconscious Luisa over his right shoulder. As they approached the trailer, Palmer could see that the vehicle was designed for biohazard duty in a combat arena. Its outer skin was reinforced with sturdy metal straps that ribbed its surface and thick heavy-duty rivets held the thing together. Rather than go inside, Palmer decided to use the trailer as a shield in case they were discovered.
“Get to the right-most tent,” she said. “I’ll cover you.”
The tent was surprisingly empty, but there were only five cots and a couple desks with open laptops. Out the other side of the tent, Palmer saw the prize fifty yards away in the semidarkness. The Osprey’s huge wing nacelles were angled upward so the plane could take-off and land like a helicopter. The paint scheme on the plane was desert camouflage, and when she saw the belly and tail guns, she knew instantly the bird was a combat troop and cargo carrier—a Special Ops aircraft.
The tail cargo ramp was open and three men in black tactical gear conversed, gesturing hurriedly toward the inside of the plane. They were unaware of Palmer’s approach until she was ten feet away. One of the men—a big guy with thick arms and legs—seemed to sense her presence and turned slightly. When he saw her, he went for his gun, not that it mattered one bit to Palmer. Her two handguns were pointed at the men, and she had already decided to shoot the big man. She knew he was not a pilot.
The man wore no helmet, and Palmer’s first shot literally destroyed his head. The other two men froze.
“Which of you is a pilot?” She thought she already knew the answer. The young guy was the pilot. The older guy might also be a pilot, but he struck her as more of a commander type. He was about forty and had severe crow’s feet at the corners of his sky-blue eyes. His skin was leathery, and Palmer guessed he was an ex-Special Forces killer. He wouldn’t yield. She pointed a gun at his head.
“Fuck you,” he said.
She pulled the trigger a second time.
Merc Three said, “We’ve got company on our six. Whatever you’re going to do, you better do it now.”
Palmer pointed her gun at the young Unit soldier’s head. “If you’re not a pilot, then you’re of no use to me.”
He nodded at her. “I can fly.”
“Inside.” Grabbing the back of his collar, Palmer led the young man up the ramp toward the cockpit.
The troop cabin of the plane was about the size of a school bus. There were twelve inward-facing jump seats along each wall of the cargo bay, and metal crates of combat gear were secured to the center of the floor by quick-release fasteners. A half-door separated the cargo area from the high-tech cockpit, but that door had been left open after the pilot’s exit. They settled into the flight seats.
“Enable weapons,” Palmer said. “The mini-gun.” She parked the business end of her gun against the man’s groin. “And don’t do anything to make me flinch.”
“Can’t do that while we’re on the ground powered down.”
“I understand you want to stall,” Palmer said. “I’d do the same. But that was your one freebie. They told you who I am, right?”
He nodded. “They told me you’re a TER agent.”
“And a Navy SEAL, right?” He nodded. “So you can assume I know about all kinds of covert combat aircraft.”
The young man sighed, and Palmer saw the resistance go out of him like a balloon deflating. He pressed some indicator lights on his high-tech instrument panel, and a display not unlike a video game screen lit up in the center of the digital instrument panel. Left gun still parked against the pilot’s groin, Palmer grabbed a joystick and swiveled the belly-mounted gun toward the approaching Unit soldiers. She touched the screen indicator, which enabled auto target tracking, then touched her finger over each of the seven targets. She touched Auto-Engage. The mini-gun spooled up with a whine and less than a second later, it spat out shells at a tremendous rate for precisely three seconds. The green circles that had been following the approaching soldiers changed to red circles representing dead Unit men. The weekend warriors kept their distance.
“Get us into the air, please,” Palmer said.
He started the engines one at a time. Palmer heard a whine of an electric motor and glanced behind her to see the cargo ramp rising. Two minutes later, the Osprey lifted from the tarmac.
“Our destination?”
“First, set us down right in front of the center hangar.” The pilot did as he was told and Palmer instructed Merc Three to open one of the metal cargo pods and outfit himself with firepower. She sent him into the office to get the antidote and ice from the freezer.
“Set your course for the hospital in Las Cruces,” she told the pilot. “We’re going to save the president.”
Chapter 62
1855 hours MST Saturday
Undisclosed Security Bunker
Breen refocused on the conference phone and repeated his question. “One survivor? She killed your entire team? All by herself? You’re the only survivor?”
“Yes, sir,” the distant voice said. “Well, sir, I’m not counting the pilot she kidnapped.”
The vice president slammed his hand down on the star-shaped conference phone to disconnect the call.
“Fuck!” He grabbed the bowl of bagels and flung it against the wall.
Director Drummond added, “She has a CV-22 Osprey outfitted for special ops missions with extra fuel tanks for the long haul. She can fly well over two thousand miles before refueling.”
General Vickers said, “She’s not flying two thousand miles, Director. She’s flying two hundred miles to Las Cruces.”
“She’s a SEAL training drop-out, for crying out loud!” Martine Scallow shook his head.”
Drummond said, “Before she dropped out of training, she was recommended for DevGru in Virginia. That’s the Navy Warfare Development Group, commonly referred to as SEAL Team Six. She’s that good.”
“Great,” Breen said. He stood and paced around the room for a moment, then grabbed an empty chair and flung it against the nearest concrete wall. The plastic armrests of the chair shattered and the metal legs gouged a chunk out of the wall that ricocheted across the room. “That’s just fucking great! We’ve got a female SEAL trying to rescue a female president, along with a previously unknown deep-cover operator who’s been masquerading as a domestic terrorist.”
Vickers shrugged. “Johnson’s operator pedigree is still a matter for debate, but if Agent Palmer gets anywhere near Las Cruces with her hijacked CV-22, it’s game over. We need to intercept that plane ASAP. It’s got vertical take-off and landing capability, and it’s got the full covert weapons package. It’s armed with an M240 machine gun in the back and a belly-mounted mini-gun slaved to a nose-mounted, digital auto-tracking target acquisition system.”
Drummond said, “Can the AWACS find it so the air force can shoot it down?”
Vickers shook his head. “Unlikely. It’s equipped with the latest terrain-following radar system, so it can fly on the deck, even in valleys and canyons. It also has state-of-the-art RF countermeasures, active electronic countermeasures, and defensive signal jamming. She’ll be hard to find and harder to put down.”
Drummond added, “If Johnson and Palmer get on the ground at the hospital—”
“Agreed,” Vickers said. “They’re cured, but our troops at the hospital will be fighting in full MOPP-4 gear.”
“Excuse me?” Scallow said. “What is that?”
The general explained. “It’s an acronym for Mission Oriented Protective Posture Level Four. It’s full readiness to deploy and operate in a CBRN environment. That’s military parlance for an operational b
attlefield with chemical, biological, radiation, or nuclear elements present. Our people went in with full-body combat hazard suits, gloves, and masks.”
Drummond said, “That’s an extremely challenging combat scenario for fully trained Spec Ops boys, but for Army National Guardsmen? Against two highly trained combatants who are not restricted to MOPP-4? We’ll take heavy losses.”
“Shit!” Breen was silent for a moment, then looked at the general. “Have General Caruthers go weapons free. Tell him to expect an imminent air assault.”
Breen looked around the conference table at each member of his cabinet. Several wore haggard expressions of frustration. Dr. Murphy kept mopping his hands through his hair, like he was trying to figure out a way to escape the fiasco.
“People, let me put it to you this way,” Breen said. “We all agreed that our woman-president was not strong enough to lead this country forward. She’s too conservative with the rest of the world, and she’s eroding our nation’s respect and prominence on the world stage. Our enemies think America is a joke, and even our allies are plotting against us economically and with covert intel operations.
“Mallory was elected by a landslide and she’s virtually guaranteed to be reelected in two years. We can do something about that, here today, but if we allow Johnson and Palmer to get the antidote to the president, we,” he waved his hand around the table, “are all dead.”
“Walter,” General Vickers said. “Have you considered my fallback recommendation?”
“My man will come through for us.”
“And if he doesn’t? We can’t afford to take that chance.”
Breen eyed his general and nodded. “Very well. Launch the cruise missile. Bomb the hospital and blame it on the terrorist.”
Chapter 63
2100 hours MST Saturday
Las Cruces, NM
There were four seats in the police helicopter. Three were occupied. Carl sat in the rear left seat, in silence, after concluding his two-hour debrief. He’d detailed all the facts and suppositions regarding the kidnapping and rescue of the First Daughter, along with the source and spread of the virus.
Two minutes earlier, the police helicopter crossed the ten-mile line marking the no-fly zone the military unit had drawn around the Mountain View Regional Medical Center. An emotionless voice with an all-business tone announced the imminent destruction of the helicopter if they did not alter course. Carl listened to the exchange between Special Agent in Charge Guillermo Figueroa and the owner of the harsh voice who gave his name as Brigadier General Angus Caruthers. Figueroa, who seemed accustomed to people yielding to his federal authority, was gaining absolutely no ground with the stubborn officer. Unfortunately, Carl knew they had no time for a pissing contest.
In the darkness below, Carl saw a long procession of headlights and blue and white strobes, approaching the Las Cruces hospital. Figueroa had called in every cop and federal agent within a hundred miles, and they were all converging on the quarantined hospital that was protected by American military men and women. If it came to a shootout, the National Guard had bigger guns and more of them. Carl knew General Caruthers would give the order to fire on federal officers because he was in league with the vice president. He had to be.
A shootout would not save the president. Carl grabbed a set of headphones mounted on the ceiling of the cabin and put them on. There was no sound. He leaned forward and tapped Figueroa on the shoulder and gestured to the cups of his headset. The agent pushed a button on his overhead console and Carl heard the on-going conversation.
He interrupted. “General Caruthers, you seem set on killing the president. I’d like to know why.”
“Who is this?”
“I’m the person who can save the president. I have the antidote in my hands. Why do you want her to die, General?”
“Alter your course or I will fire on you.”
Carl didn’t expect any other response. “General, are you really going to kill dozens of police officers for trying to save the president?” There was no response. “If you kill us, you kill President Mallory. I was infected and I took the antidote. I am alive and cured. In ten minutes, President Mallory and her daughter can be cured.”
The gruff voice came back on the channel. It was old and wise. It sounded like a man who had spent decades participating in, and commanding, combat operations. Carl pictured a six-foot-tall barrel-chested man with white hair in a military buzz cut.
“My orders come direct from the acting president. No one approaches the hospital. If you do not leave my airspace in thirty-five seconds, I will shoot you down. If you attempt to land, I will shoot you down. You now have thirty seconds to comply.”
“General, the vice president ordered you not to let anyone into the hospital because he knows we have the antidote. He knows we can save her. If she dies, he gets sworn in as president and takes power. If she lives, he loses. End of story.”
“Turn your aircraft in fifteen seconds or I will shoot you down.”
“General, I can prove what I’m saying is true.”
There was only silence as the seconds ticked away. Carl looked out the window at his left shoulder. The ground was invisible a hundred feet below, but every now and then he saw native shrubbery flashing by in the reflected light of the anti-collision lights mounted on the belly of the helicopter.
“General, do you want my proof or do you want President Mallory to die?”
There was no response.
“General!”
The countdown clock in Carl’s head hit zero, and Carl had his answer. A flash of fire erupted from the hospital roof and rushed toward the police helicopter.
Carl actually saw the missile as it streaked toward him. In the darkness, it appeared as a shadow quickly increasing in size in the center of the fiery exhaust blowing out the back end. The missile covered the two miles in a matter of seconds.
“Well, fuck me sideways,” Carl said. He didn’t think the general would actually order the murder of FBI agents.
Even as Carl contemplated his death, a huge shadow darker than the night blocked out both the approaching missile and the light from the stream of police vehicles lining up at the security fence in front of the hospital. Multiple blasts of intense light burst away from both sides of the shadow, and the approaching missile came back into view, chasing the decoy flares away to the right. It exploded harmlessly a thousand feet away, but the helicopter still rocked in the wake of the blast.
Brief flashes of tracer gunfire slashed through the darkness from the bottom of the aircraft that had just saved them. Carl saw three separate targets on the ground explode—a fuel tank and two trucks. In the two seconds of reflected light from the mini-gun tracer fire, Carl saw the distinctive outline of a V-22 Osprey, its two massive rotor nacelles tilted upward like helicopter rotors. He heard Agent Palmer’s cool voice in his headset.
“General Caruthers, those three vehicles were unmanned. My next targets will include your exact location. You and your entire command staff will die in my next salvo.”
“Identify yourself!”
“This is Agent Nancy Palmer of the Terror Event Response agency. Make no further aggressive acts against government personnel.”
The general voice hesitated. “This hospital is under full quarantine by order of the acting president. I’m ordering you to stand down.”
“General, I work directly for President Mallory. My mission is to save her life and her daughter’s life, and Johnson and I each have the antidote for them. Stand down your forces and allow the FBI to take control of the hospital.”
“Agent Palmer, you have been designated a Tier-One threat to national security, and I have eight surface-to-air missiles locked onto your position. You cannot win this fight. For the last time, I’m ordering you to stand down.”
“General, this is a Special Ops V-22, fully equipped for covert insertion and evac. Your missiles will not touch this aircraft. You should also know I have two nineteen-count pods of
Hydra-70 rockets and I’m also carrying AGM-114 Hellfire laser-guided air-to-surface, anti-armor missiles. I have an M240 machine gun mounted on the back end and a video- and laser-aimed GAU-17 mini-gun on the belly.” Palmer paused, and Carl felt the chill of fear tickle his spine. “I have more than enough firepower to annihilate your entire ground force. We can try to kill each other or we can save the president. Your choice.”
“I’m under orders, Agent. If you—”
Carl heard a brief scuffle and a grunt, followed by a long silence on the channel. A new voice came on the line. The man sounded younger, his voice higher-pitched and not as rumbling as the general.
“This is Colonel Simms. I have relieved the general. Stand down your attack, and I will do the same. Confirm.”
Palmer said, “Confirmed…for the moment.”
“Very well. Mr. Johnson, you said you had proof. I’ll hear it now.”
Still on the channel, Carl said, “Agent Figueroa, Vicente Orizaga told me his wife was the daughter of one of the Triad’s investors. Can your people find him and put him on this channel?”
“If he has a phone, we’ll find him.”
It took twelve interminably long minutes. Carl could almost feel the tension and anxiety building in his helicopter and in the dead silence of the comm channel. The police helicopter and the Osprey hovered at two miles. On the ground, the law enforcement vehicles waited at the military gate under the intense glare of the security lights. Finally, a dapper voice spoke on the comm channel in Spanish. Carl heard the name Federico Gonzales.
“Mr. Gonzales, this is Special Agent Guillermo Figueroa of the Federal Bureau—”
Carl interrupted. “Let’s cut the crap, folks. Mr. Gonzales, Vicente Orizaga told me you and your family live near him. Are you in Chihuahua now?”
“Who is this? Why are you asking me this question?”
“This is Carl Johnson. When I blew up your office building, the airborne virus was released into the air. Everyone who was at ground zero is infected and it’s spreading all over your city. You know I’m not lying.”
American Terrorist Trilogy Page 65
