by Radclyffe
The instant Cam walked into the command center, she knew from the expression on Mac's face that there was a serious problem. "Report."
"Look at this." Mac indicated the computer screen where he was monitoring encrypted messages transmitted from the Department of Defense to a select group of high-level recipients.
0843 11 September 2001: The FAA has notified NORAD that United Airlines flight 175 from Boston to LAX has been hijacked.
"That's the second plane." Mac's voice was flat, devoid of emotion. His body, however, was rigid with tension.
Two of them at once. Cam felt an instant unease and glanced at the bank of monitors that showed the building's exterior, the lobby, and the stairwells. Nothing seemed amiss—Foster and Parker were visible talking at the desk in the lobby. The street outside was clear. She turned her attention back to the computer as another message appeared.
0844 11 September 2001 : NORAD has scrambled two F-15 fighters from Otis Air National Guard Base in Falmouth, Massachusetts on intercept course to New York City.
"Whatever's going on, someone thinks it's headed this way." Mac's hands were clenched on the desktop.
"Call Captain Landry and see if you can get a local update from the NYPD." Cam's voice was tight, her mind sorting possibilities and struggling to make sense of something that could not be rationalized by a sane mind.
"Roger that," Mac responded grimly. As he reached for the phone, Cam gripped his shoulder hard.
"Wait."
Mac swiveled back to his console, and as he read, his blood ran cold.
0847 11 September 2001 : American Airlines flight 11 has crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
It had begun.
"Oh my God," Mac uttered in a hushed, stunned voice.
It made no sense. It was inconceivable. It was too monumental to be absorbed.
Cam narrowed her eyes and focused on her duty, which was all that she could do in the face of such horror. "We're evacuating. Now. Advise Stark to get the cars."
Out of habit, Mac swept the bank of monitors to his right.
"Commander!"
Cam followed his gaze, a tight fist closing around her heart. On the monitor, four shadowy figures burst through the lobby door, automatic weapons raised. Cynthia Parker came out from behind the counter, her extended arms jerking slightly as she discharged her service weapon. The first man through the door fell. The one immediately behind him leveled his weapon and the muzzle flashed. In the eerie silence of the black-and-white tableau, Parker's body lifted from the floor and flew backward, disappearing out of range of the cameras.
"Signal red alert and lock us down," Cam snapped, drawing her automatic. "Evacuate through the rear. Use the stairs."
As Cam ran toward the stairwell to reach the penthouse and her lover, Foster stepped from the elevator into the foyer outside Blair's door.
CHAPTER THIRTY
0900 11 September 2001 (Sarasota, Florida) : The president of the United States has been informed by the White House chief of staff that a plane has crashed into the World Trade Center.
S tark heard her radio sound a red alert at the same instant Mac burst through the doors of the gym. Red alert—a direct assault on Egret. She didn't need to know anything else; she was already on her feet and reaching for her weapon. Across the room, Felicia did the same.
"Stark, back up the commander in the Aerie," Mac gasped, his pale face streaked with sweat despite the cool, air-conditioned atmosphere in the command center. "Felicia, we need to get the cars."
There was no time for questions or explanations. There was no conversation at all as Felicia immediately disappeared with Mac. Stark raced down the narrow corridor outside the gym toward the stairwell at its end, her heart thundering with the adrenaline rush, but her mind completely clear. She had trained for this moment for years. She darted into the equipment room and grabbed a bulletproof vest. One was all she could carry, but one was all she needed. Less than thirty seconds after Mac's orders, she was in the stairwell. As she pounded up the stairs, taking two at a time, a brief shaft of light streaked across her line of vision, and she knew that someone had just gone through the door above into the penthouse foyer.
090111 September 2001
When the knock sounded at her door, Blair settled a navy blue New York Yankees baseball cap over her hair, tucked her wallet into the back pocket of her jeans, and crossed the loft with a rush of anticipation. She and Cam so rarely had unscheduled time together that this unexpected outing felt like a gift.
Maybe after breakfast, I can talk Cam into going off-radio for a few hours. Diane won't mind if we make an unplanned visit. God, only two days and it feels like forever since we 've been alone together.
Her mind preoccupied with sweet remembrances of her last moments in Cam's arms and the promise of pleasures to come, she pulled open the door.
0902 11 September 2001: United Airlines flight 75 has crashed into the South Tower of the World Trade Center, demolishing floors 78 through 87 .
0903 11 September 2001
Cam shouldered through the heavy metal stairwell door twenty feet from where Foster stood in front of Blair's apartment. In a fraction of a second, time slowed and her vision tunneled until all she saw was the man, the weapon raised in his hand, and the door to her lover's loft swinging open.
There was no time for analysis. No time for reason. The rules had been altered forever at 8:45 a.m., September 11,2001.
"Foster," she shouted, leveling her automatic, "drop the weapon!"
When he heard his name, Foster hesitated in the act of centering his weapon on Blair Powell's chest. Swiftly, he swung to his left in the direction from which the command had come, preparing to fire.
Cam didn't hesitate. She knew only one thing, the only thing that mattered. Secret Service Agent Foster's automatic had been pointed at the most important person in her world.
She shot him through the forehead, and he dropped without a sound.
Then she was running, Blair's scream replacing the silence that had filled her mind since she'd seen the assault team come through the lobby door and kill her agent.
"Oh my God, Cam!" Blair stood in the doorway, staring at Foster's inert form, the blood pooling beneath his head and soaking into the Oriental carpet beneath his body. Her eyes wide with shock, she stared at her lover's grim face. Cam's eyes were hard, darker than Blair had ever seen them. "What's happening?"
"We're under attack. Let's go."
At that moment, Cam heard the stairwell door opening behind her. She shouldered Blair back into her apartment and pivoted toward the stairs, crouching into a firing stance.
"Commander, all clear," Stark shouted as she ran up, breathing hard but her voice steady.
Swiftly, Cam took the Kevlar vest from her and extended it to Blair. "Put this on." Then she bent down, picked up Foster's service automatic from where it lay by his lifeless right hand, and held it out to her lover. "Can you use this?"
"Yes," Blair replied, the faintest tremor in her voice. She shrugged into the vest, knowing there was no time to argue and knowing that she couldn't. Whatever had happened, Cam was in charge. Had to be in charge. There could only be one leader in moments like this.
"Good," Cam said. "Don't hesitate to fire, even on one of us. Let's go."
Blair gripped the gun tightly, swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat, and nodded. "All right."
With Stark in the lead, Cam took Blair's arm and kept her close as they rushed to the stairwell and started down. Their footsteps clattered eerily, amplified by the utter stillness in the stairwell after the thundering sound of the gunshot in the foyer. As they approached each landing, Stark trained her weapon on the door until Cam and Blair had passed, then skirted around them to lead the way down to the next floor.
The journey seemed endless, but it was only minutes before they reached the basement level that opened into a small service area at the rear of the building.
"Stay inside a
gainst the wall," Cam said curtly as she swept her arm across Blair's chest and pressed her lover against the concrete. "Do not come out unless you hear the order from me or Stark. If you don't get an all clear, go back upstairs and lock yourself in the command center." Cam held Blair's gaze for one fierce moment, then turned to Stark, who had taken a position on the opposite side of the door. "On three."
Stark two-fisted her weapon, raised it to chest level, and nodded.
Blair knew what the two women were going to do. They were going to go through that door, not knowing what was on the other side, prepared to fire or be fired upon. Neither woman was wearing body armor. In a matter of seconds, they could both be dead. She knew it, but she couldn't fathom it. Life couldn't be that precarious, could it? But of course, she knew that it could. "I love you."
Blair thought she'd spoken the words aloud, but she wasn't certain as she heard Cam begin the count in a strong, steady voice.
"One...two...three."
Cam and Stark pushed through the door together, Stark swinging her arms in an arc to the left as Cam swung right. The small turnaround was empty. Just as two black Suburbans careened up the alley, Cam heard a muted blast from somewhere inside the building and felt a faint tremor. She turned back into the basement, grasped Blair's arm and pulled her outside, handing her over to Stark.
"They just blew the stairwell doors from the lobby. Get her into the vehicle. Move. Move!"
The vehicles screeched to a halt, and Mac and Felicia jumped out. Stark herded Blair toward the open rear doors of the nearest vehicle. Blair looked over her shoulder for Cam, who covered their retreat, and caught the hint of movement in the doorway.
"Cam!" Blair screamed in warning.
Moving as one, Cam and Stark closed ranks, shoulder to shoulder, putting themselves between the building and Blair, while Felicia grabbed the president's daughter around the waist and threw her bodily into the rear of the vehicle. Then the air erupted with the sound of gunfire and the acrid smell of cordite.
The first man to exit the building, automatic rifle blasting, went down amidst a fusillade of bullets. Out of the corner of her eye, Cam saw Mac drop his weapon and fly backward against the other Suburban before sliding to the ground. She fired in the direction of the building while backing toward the vehicle that held the president's daughter. Beside her, Stark did the same. They'd almost reached the cover of the open Suburban doors when Stark uttered a sharp cry, staggered a few steps, and then regained her footing.
Cam emptied her weapon in the direction of the last man standing and, reaching for the extra clip on her belt, blinked sweat from her eyes. No one returned fire. Her vision was blurry and the air in her lungs burned with every breath. She turned, afraid of what she might see. Stark leaned against the vehicle, partially shielding the interior with her body, a red stain high on the right arm of her T-shirt. The tension in Cam's chest eased when she saw Blair, kneeling on the backseat of the Suburban, Foster's automatic trained on the rear of the building.
Oh, Jesus, she's all right. Panting, Cam rasped hoarsely, "Davis, you hit?"
"No, I'm okay," Felicia shouted, already running toward Mac. He lay on his back, both hands clamped to his side. Blood ran in rivulets between his fingers, soaking his shirt and pants, and dripped into a spreading pool beneath his body. His face was white, his eyes glazed. "Oh my God, Mac."
"Davis," Cam commanded, stopping Felicia in her tracks. "Get in the car. You're driving."
Evacuating Egret had to be her priority. Everything and everyone else was secondary. Felicia looked up from Mac's body, eyes wide with shock, as Cam appeared beside her.
"Now, Davis," Cam snapped. Then she leaned down next to Mac and put her reloaded automatic into his hand. "Mac. Can you hear me?"
"Yes." His voice was hollow, but he focused on her face.
"I'll radio your location. You just have to hold on."
"Yes, ma'am." He closed his fingers weakly around the automatic. "Go."
"Stay awake, Mac." Cam gripped his shoulder for a second, then ran back toward the Suburban, which Felicia was edging around the second vehicle that Mac had been driving. Cam threw herself into the backseat, pulled the door closed, and shouted, "Get us out of here, Davis."
"Where?" Davis's voice was steady, her hands clenched on the wheel.
Cam focused on her lover. "Blair. Are you hurt?"
"No." Blair felt calm. Far too calm. "You are. So is Stark. You're both bleeding."
"Commander, extraction plan?" Davis inquired again from the front seat. She was driving north on First Avenue. The air reverberated with the wail of sirens. It sounded as if every emergency vehicle in the city was in motion.
"Just keep going—we have to get out of the city." As she spoke, Cam fumbled for her cell phone and took Foster's gun from Blair. "And Davis, raise emergency services. Get someone down there for Mac—Priority One."
"I'll do that, Commander," Stark said hoarsely. Her right arm shook and burned, but she had feeling in her fingers, and the pain wasn't much worse than the ache in her legs after a ten-mile run. She cradled the phone in the palm of her right hand and punched in numbers with her left. Every agent on Blair's team was familiar with the priority numbers in the event of an emergency involving the first daughter.
"Good," Cam responded. Thinking of the devastation at the World Trade Center, she could only imagine the chaos that must be overtaking not just the city, but the entire nation. "I'll try to raise Landers and secure an NYPD escort, but we may be on our own."
0912 11 September 2001 : The Port Authority of New York and New Jersey has ordered that all bridges and tunnels in the metropolitan area be closed.
0918 11 September 2001
"Cam, let me look at you." Blair put her fingers beneath Cam's chin and turned her lover's head toward her. Her stomach lurched at the sight of blood running down the right side of her face. "You need medical attention."
"I'm all right." Cam clenched her teeth as she held the phone to her left ear. The dispatcher who had picked up the priority line at Captain Stacy Landers's extension had sounded breathless and close to panic. She'd put Cam on hold. "Davis, turn on the scanner."
"Darling," Blair insisted quietly. "I think you've been shot."
"Ricochet probably. See to Stark, would you?" Across from them, Stark enunciated Blair's address in clear, sharp tones. "Rear of the building, federal agent down. Repeat, federal agent' down. ETA?" Her face lost all remaining color. "What?...Yes. Yes. Copy."
Stark closed the phone and stared, stunned, at Cam. "He said that both towers of the World Trade Center have been hit by hijacked airliners."
"Yes. Right before the assault on the command center."
"All those people," Blair gasped. "Cam, what's happening?"
"How bad is it?" Stark asked, her voice wavering for the first time since the assault had begun. Renee, Renee is there somewhere. She felt something that she hadn't felt even when she'd been standing in the midst of a hail of bullets. Agonizing, gut-wrenching fear. "Do we know anything about casualties?"
"I don't have any details. The only thing I know for sure is that we're under attack, and the city is not secure." Cam straightened as a voice finally sounded in her phone. "This is Trailblazer One. We need immediate coordinates for evacuation." She gave their current location, then listened. "Understood. Yes." She glanced at her watch. "ETA ten minutes. Clear the way for us." Cam closed the phone and leaned forward to speak to Davis. At the sudden movement, a wave of dizziness took her by surprise, and she was forced to close her eyes against the unexpected vertigo. She sucked in a sharp breath and braced her arm against the seat to steady herself.
"Cam?" Blair touched her lover's shoulder with concern. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but Cam's face was ashen. Suddenly, Blair's heart seized. There'd been so many shots, so many. Maybe Cam was hurt somewhere else. "Darling, please. Lean back. Let me look at you."
Blair's voice floated to her from far away, a lilting sound that made Cam
want to drift on the sweetness of it and just sleep. Blinking several times, Cam shook her head vigorously, the movement causing the pounding behind her eyes to escalate and her mind to clear behind the surge of pain. Hoarsely, she instructed, "Davis. Evacuation route Bravo. No escort, but they'll clear the bridge for us."
"Yes, Commander." Felicia stared straight ahead, deftly maneuvering the Suburban through the ever-increasing traffic. She knew her job. She knew her duty. She functioned as the well-trained professional she was, but all she could think about was Mac. He might be dying, and he was alone. How can this be happening?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
0926 IX September 2001: The FA7V has ordered all nonmilitary planes grounded and has canceled all flights in the United States.
0930 11 September 2001
"Davis, I'm patching NYPD traffic control through to you," Cam said. "They'll plot a route out of here for us."
Silently, Felicia adjusted the earphone from the NavCom, struggling to keep the image of Mac lying helpless and bleeding at bay while focusing on the directions relayed to her by an adrenaline-charged NYPD officer.
While Cam watched the street for signs of further attack, Foster's confiscated weapon in one hand and her cell phone in the other, Blair fought to clear her head of the kaleidoscope of nightmarish sounds and images that followed fast one upon the other. She could still hear the gunfire, smell the metallic odor of the bullets, see the neat round hole blossoming red in the center of Foster's forehead and Mac's body bouncing off the Suburban and crumpling to the ground. If all that weren't horror enough, she had visions of the tens of thousands of people in the World Trade Center who might be trapped, injured, or dying as a result of the plane crashes. It was more than she could absorb. Then a cold hand clamped around her heart. If we 're under this kind of attack here, what else might be happening? "Cam! My fath-—"
