by Jack Mars
Blood erupted from both nostrils, flinging in an arc across the floor as his head snapped backward and his body fell flat to the tiled floor.
Brody reached for the gun at his waist. “Motherfu—”
Sara saw her chance. She yanked the paring knife out of her back pocket with her good hand, crouched low, and drove it into the larger man’s thigh.
Brody howled in pain as the leg gave out and he crashed to the floor. Sara quickly pulled the pistol from his pants.
Todd nodded, impressed. But behind him, Rex was staggering to his feet, struggling to level the shaking revolver in his hand.
There was no time to shout a warning or even to think twice. Sara raised the black pistol and squeezed the trigger.
The shot was deafening in the small apartment. Camilla shrieked. Todd ducked instinctively. The shot winged Rex in the shoulder and spun him as he fell face-down to the floor again.
Sara breathed a sigh of relief. She hadn’t even been aiming properly and could have taken off half his head.
“Phew!” Todd chuckled as he grabbed the revolver from the floor. “Close one. Thanks. That guy didn’t want to go down easy.”
“What took you so long?!” Sara practically shouted as every emotion from the last five minutes suddenly rushed through her.
“Sorry, I had to drive with one hand! I got here as fast as I could.”
“And what was with the fake-cop routine?” Sara demanded.
“I had to assess the situation, didn’t I?” Strickland said defensively. “I didn’t know how many there were, if they were inside, if they had a gun to your head…”
“God, you are such a boy scout.”
Strickland grinned and squeezed her shoulder. “Really though, besides the hand, are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Sara looked around as Rex moaned from his place in the foyer and Brody took hissing breaths between his teeth, both thick hands clamped over his bleeding leg. “I’m okay.”
“Listen, we’re going to have to call the cops,” Todd told them. “Someone will have heard that shot and likely report it. And you need medical attention for that hand…”
“Sara?” Camilla said meekly. She’d almost forgotten her friend was still there.
“Oh. Right.” Sara sighed. “Todd, this is my friend Camilla, from Florida.”
Strickland narrowed his eyes. “Yeah. I remember.” While Sara had been living in Jacksonville, Strickland had been keeping close tabs on her for her dad. He was well aware of the sordid types she tended to hang around with back then.
“The thing is,” Sara explained, “she’s got an outstanding warrant in Florida. If the cops run her name, they’ll see she skipped a hearing and she’ll go to jail.”
Todd sighed deeply, accompanied by a small moan of exasperation. “All right. Let me make a couple calls, see what I can do.”
“Really?” Camilla asked brightly. “Wait, are you in the CIA too?”
“She knows about that?” Strickland asked in surprise.
But Sara wasn’t thinking about any of that. She was thinking that if Todd was able to use his pull to expunge Camilla’s record, she would be able to go home—where she would fall back into the same routines and bad habits that had gotten her here in the first place.
“On one condition.” Sara turned to Camilla. “If he can get you off the hook, you go to rehab.”
“Rehab?” Camilla parroted weakly.
“Yes. I know a place, down by the coast. They’re good people. I went there… for a little bit.” Strickland snickered behind her, but she ignored him. “It’s rehab or jail. You pick.”
Camilla seemed to ponder it for longer than she should have, considering her options. At last she asked, “Will you visit me?”
“Yes. Of course I will.”
She nodded. “Okay then. I’ll go.”
“Will somebody call an ambulance already?!” Brody howled from the kitchen floor. “I got a fuckin’ knife in my leg!”
Todd looked him over. “First time, huh? Don’t pull it out or it’ll bleed a lot worse.” He shook his head. “Never a dull moment in the Lawson house.”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
The Prowler hurtled over the Atlantic at six hundred and fifty-four miles an hour, Reidigger pushing it to its limit to reach the South Korean ship and the railgun. In the smaller cockpit behind Maria, Zero was a ball of nervous energy. He could hardly move with the buckles over his chest and the domed canopy over his head, so he had to settle for a knee bouncing in anticipation of catching up to the boat before it reached the range of the United States.
He glanced down at the sat phone’s screen for the five hundredth time. Penny had patched him into the ILDN’s map, which showed a blue blip where the railgun was last fired.
They’d passed that mark thirty minutes ago.
Any minute, he thought. Any minute we’ll be on top of it. But would they see it from up here? They wouldn’t see it on radar. They wouldn’t get a signal. The only way to find it would be an actual visual, to spot its wake on the water—or if it fired again.
What if we already passed it and didn’t even notice? he worried.
“Hey, just so everyone is aware,” Reidigger said through the headset. “We don’t have enough fuel to make it to the coast.”
“What?” Maria said loudly. “And you’re just bringing this up now?”
“I didn’t want anyone to worry…”
“What are our options?” she asked.
“Well,” Alan said, “we can find the ship and try to somehow get from in here onto there. Or we can crash into the ocean and die.”
“Sounds about right,” Maria grumbled.
“No one’s dying,” Zero said firmly. They were going to find the boat. He craned his neck left and right, trying to get a visual on the water and struggling.
Penny’s voice crackled in his headset. “Team?”
“Penny! You have good news?”
“Agent Zero,” she said quickly, “from now on, let us assume that unless I begin a call with ‘I have good news,’ it will not, in fact, be good news. The FAA has ascertained the identity of the aircraft that was shot down. It was an Antonov cargo transport with a flight plan registered to Bermuda. They had some trouble discovering it because its transponder had been turned off. And, of course, it didn’t get to its destination…”
“Because it dropped off the boat and got blown up,” Alan finished for her. “At least that explains why the boat was dropped so far from the coast. To avoid suspicion if the plane deviated from its flight path.”
“What was the plane’s origin?” Maria asked.
“That’s the surprising part,” Penny admitted. “The Antonov was flown out of Iran.”
Zero wanted to say that he could hardly believe it, but he’d dealt with Iranian extremists before. When it came to zealots, particularly ones that were religiously motivated, there were few things they weren’t willing to do. And if the Antonov came out of Iran, it could have easily dropped south a short ways to pick up the railgun before sweeping east toward the US.
“Hang on,” Maria said sharply. “Isn’t the Ayatollah of Iran due to visit the US today?”
“That’s right,” Penny agreed. “Do you think it’s related?”
“I think it’s too coincidental not to be,” Zero admitted. Iran’s leader had historically expressed high disdain for America, its leaders, and its people. Could he be involved in this attack? To be on the soil of the foreign nation you hated at the time of a calculated attack was a bold move, one that didn’t actually make much sense to him…
Unless it’s to provide an alibi. The Ayatollah’s presence in the US during an incident would be a terrific excuse for not being behind the plot.
“What’s the word on Rutledge?” he asked.
“The news just gets worse from there,” Penny told them. “The government has surmised the same thing that we already have—that the Antonov was destroyed by the railgun and it is closer to the US than an
yone is comfortable with. We’re in emergency protocol, Agents. I can’t get through to the president or even close to him. He’s going to be moved, and quite possibly on Air Force One.”
Dammit. If the perpetrators had any knowledge of the protocol, then they might have known this ahead of time too. It made the presidential plane all the more likely a target. “What about Shaw? Did you try getting through to him?”
“Of course I did. But I can’t keep helping you if he knows that I’m helping you, so I had to tell him under the pretense of an assumption. He won’t listen.”
“Well, if the president gets blown up, that’s negligence on Shaw’s part,” Alan mused.
“Not the time, Alan!” Zero snapped. “Penny, what else?”
“Key locations and personnel within the range of the railgun from DC up to New York are being evacuated,” she said. “That includes the United Nations, Liberty Island, any stadiums that would be accessible by line of sight, like in Baltimore, obviously most of DC, Annapolis… oh, and there is one other thing.”
“Jesus, what else?” Zero groaned.
“A squadron of bombers has been dispatched to attempt to find and destroy the railgun before it gets into range.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “I thought Rutledge agreed he would let us take our shot.”
“He did, but again, Agent, emergency protocol. General Kressley ordered the strike, and he doesn’t need executive authorization under the circumstances.”
Railgun fodder, he thought bitterly. That’s all you’ve given them.
“We must be close,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “We have to be. If that thing fires again, we need the ILDN coordinates right away. You got that, Penny? Patch it directly through to my—”
“Zero.” Reidigger murmured through the headset. There was no alarm in his utterly flat tone, which made it all the more alarming. “Zero, look.”
He leaned forward and squinted through the cockpit’s viewing pane. “What am I looking f—”
A bright blue flash ignited on the water, some distance from them, so bright that it made even the daylight seem dimmer. In the same instant, an orange fireball blossomed in the sky. From Zero’s perspective, the explosion was barely the size of a dime.
“My god,” Maria murmured. “The railgun…”
“And the bombers,” he finished.
“What’s happening?” Penny demanded. “I just got a hit on ILDN…”
“It’s firing on them,” Zero said quietly. “It’s going to pick off that whole squadron like flies.”
“Alan, how far is it?” Maria asked.
“Um… we’re at about nine thousand feet, so our max visual would be… about a hundred sixty miles? Give or take due to air pollution and light refraction. So the bombers must be closer than that, and the railgun between us. So it’s got maybe a hundred miles on us currently.”
Zero did some quick calculations of his own. “At max speed we should be on it in ten to twelve minutes. Can we make it?”
“We can make it,” Alan confirmed.
Another flash lit upon the ocean, and another fireball burst like an orange bubble in the atmosphere.
Despite his horror, Zero forced himself to count. One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three, one thousand…
“And then what?” Maria asked.
“Wait,” Zero said harshly. Six, one thousand, seven, one thousand, eight, one thousand…
Another blue flash. Another fireball in the sky.
Eight seconds between shots. The railgun required eight seconds to reload and charge.
“Alan, get us lower as we approach,” Zero told him as he unzipped the black backpack between his feet.
“We need a plan. What are we going to do when we get on it?” Maria asked again.
“For starters, I’m activating the signal jammers,” Alan said gruffly. “With any luck, that’ll keep them from locking onto us as we approach like they did with the bombers.”
“Okay,” Maria said impatiently, “that’s a start. But then what?”
Zero pulled out the pieces of the Beretta PMX, the submachine gun Penny had supplied them. He couldn’t answer her question because he wasn’t yet sure. Whatever it was, it was bound to be incredibly foolish, inherently dangerous, and with only the slightest possibility of actually working.
There was only one thing he could say for now. “Then we stop it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
The black SUV screeched to a halt on the tarmac of Andrews Air Force Base, home of the two Boeing VC-25As dubbed Air Force One. It had surprised even Rutledge to learn that there were actually two planes that carried the call sign; almost the entirety of the public only knew of one plane that ferried the president and his entourage, but the Air Force had commissioned two of them since 1990, to have a backup, which were collectively known as the “presidential fleet,” though it seemed odd that a fleet would consist of only two planes.
A Secret Service agent pulled open the door and ushered Rutledge out. They had parked mere feet from the stairs of Air Force One to minimize the amount of time that the president would be exposed. Several other cars began pulling up, carrying cabinet members and chiefs of staff who would be joining him.
It had all happened so fast. One moment he was preparing to receive the Ayatollah of Iran, making sure his hair was combed and wondering if there was anything the on-staff stylist could do about the bags under his eyes. The next instant the room was filled with activity and chattering voices: he needed to be moved. A plane was shot down over the Atlantic. The railgun was moving into range of the US coast. They had no visual on it, electronic or actual. Several key locations, including Congress and the United Nations, were being evacuated and transported inland.
Suddenly he was outside, and then in a car, and then at Andrews AFB in suburban Washington, DC, near Morningside, Maryland, and now being ushered—which was a kinder term than the unnecessarily pushy agent deserved—up the stairs and into the plane.
“What about my wife?” Deidre was across the country, at a charity event in Redondo Beach. “Has she been informed? She’s supposed to fly back today…”
“Sir, the First Lady is informed and will be joining you at an undisclosed location inland, far from the weapon’s range,” the agent told him.
“And the VP? Where’s Joanna?”
“Marine One is en route to Vice President Barkley’s location. Please, sir, we need to get you on the plane.”
But still he lingered, until a familiar face jogged to him despite wearing heels, concern etched on her face.
“Mr. President, come with me.” Tabby Halpern offered her arm and Rutledge took it, as if he was an old man that needed help up the stairs. The truth was the sleeplessness, the exhaustion, the worry, and the dizzying speed at which all of this had happened was confounding him.
Tabby boarded the plane alongside him and directed him to a cream-colored leather seat opposite her, an oak desk between them affixed to the floor. “You okay, Jon? You need some water?”
“I need a stiff drink,” Rutledge muttered.
“We’re going to find it,” Tabby said confidently. “Before it does any damage.”
The president glanced out the window as the cars pulled away and personnel hurried aboard the jet. “Zero will find it.”
Tabby frowned. “Zero…?”
“POTUS is aboard Angel One,” a Secret Service agent said into an earpiece radio. “Wheels-up in three minutes.” The agent leaned over. “Phone call for you, Mr. President.”
Rutledge nodded, though he felt a tinge of anxiety over whatever matter would require his attention in a moment like this. He plucked a white phone from its place on the wall. “This is President Rutledge speaking.”
“Sir. It’s Kressley.” The general spoke gruffly, as if he was already on the defensive for whatever it was he was about to explain. “I have confirmation that the railgun is approaching the eastern coast.”
“How?” Rutledge
asked carefully. “How do you have confirmation? A visual?”
“Not exactly, sir.” The Secretary of Defense cleared his throat. “I authorized the deployment of four B-2 Spirits to find and eliminate the target.”
“And… did they?” the president asked dully.
“They’re gone, sir.”
Gone. The same term the general had used when the railgun had destroyed three destroyer-class naval ships. Just… gone. As if they had merely blinked out of existence.
Rutledge rubbed his forehead. He didn’t know much about planes, but he did know that the B-2 was the most expensive one on their budget sheets—and the most technologically advanced. “But did they see it?” he pressed. “So far no one has actually seen this boat, Kressley.”
“Negative, sir. But we were able to triangulate an approximated area and a predictive model of its heading. I am requesting your authorization, Mr. President, to launch a missile strike into the approximated area.”
Rutledge blinked. He wasn’t sure he’d heard that precisely right. “General, you want to carpet bomb a section of the Atlantic Ocean a couple hundred miles from the American coast in the hopes of hitting it? Is that about the gist?”
“Not exactly ‘carpet bomb,’ sir. It would be a carefully calculated long-range missile strike. But… I suppose the spirit of the request is still there. Our guidance systems won’t be able to get a lock on the target, so we’ll be shooting blind.”
“How do we know there aren’t people out there in this ‘approximated area’?” Rutledge demanded. “There could be boats out there, commercial ships, cruise ships…”
“Frankly sir, we don’t know that,” Kressley said candidly. “And we don’t have time to confirm or get them out of the area. The time to act is now. We are left with zero other options.”
Zero. It was clear now that he wasn’t coming. The thought didn’t anger him or even disappoint him as much as it made him realize his own shortcomings. He’d put too much faith in one man, assigned him an insurmountable task that, for all Rutledge knew, might have cost Agent Zero his life.
