CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Webster City Air Base was fifteen miles from the Chancellor's Palace and five miles short of the South Gate. To reach it, Davidson and Watkins had to stay on Jonas Salk Boulevard, which ran right past it.
The boulevard had three lanes going each way and a wide nature strip in the middle. Both sides were clogged with military vehicles - mostly troop trucks - and a surprising number of civilian vehicles. It was impossible to know from the traffic flow whether the Freedom Alliance assault was succeeding or not.
As Watkins wove through the traffic, Davidson turned on the radio and channel surfed, hoping to hear a news bulletin. All he got was light-and-easy music. The media in Webster City had no experience covering breaking stories, no matter how big.
Watkins drove for about three miles until another strange-looking helicopter appeared on the horizon and zoomed towards them. About half-a-mile away, its forward cannon opened fire. Shells slammed into vehicles on the other side of the boulevard, making them flip over or slam into each other.
They had no time to turn off or even stop the car and run. Davidson watched mesmerized as the shells stitched a blazing furrow of devastation on the other side of the road. As it passed them, debris spattered the Cadillac and shattered the back window.
Davidson sighed. Thank God.
Watkins breathed hard. "Wow. I didn't know they had copters?"
"I didn't either. They seem to have a big bag of tricks."
Davidson looked over his shoulder and saw the chopper circle around, obviously preparing to strafe the other side of the boulevard - their side. Jesus. "It's coming back. Turn off somewhere, anywhere."
She sped forward another fifty yards and tugged the steering wheel so hard that the car slewed wildly until its tires gripped and it ducked into a side-street. Cannon shells tore up the road behind them.
Davidson caught his breath and looked around at a dreary neighborhood with exhausted concrete apartment blocks. Worn-out cars were parked on both sides of the street. He was about to tell Watkins to return to the boulevard when the car juddered and wallowed around.
She said: "Shit."
"What's wrong?"
"I think we burst a tire."
"Oh, Christ. Pull over."
She stopped between two parked cars. "What the hell do we do now?"
"We steal another car. Come on."
They got out and Davidson glanced down at the tires. The rear one was almost flat. Damn.
He looked around for a vehicle to commandeer and saw none. But he did see about eight men in civilian clothes, brandishing an assortment of rifles and pistols, coming towards them. Who the hell were they, and why were they approaching? They obviously weren't Webster City soldiers or Freedom Alliance fighters.
One pointed at Davidson and yelled. "ISB - he's ISB. Let them have it."
A couple of the men stopped, raised their rifles and fired at Davidson and Watkins. Bullets thudded into the Cadillac and a stone fence behind them.
Davidson looked around and saw a narrow gap between the two closest apartment buildings. "Come on."
They dashed through the gap and sheltered behind one of the apartments buildings.
Watkins sucked in air. "Who the hell are they?"
"Must be Freedom Alliance sympathizers out to cause trouble."
He glanced around the corner of the building and saw several of the men rushing towards them clutching weapons. He stepped out and fired a couple of shots which made them duck for cover.
They couldn't stay where they were, because the attackers, though amateurs, would soon out-flank them. "Come on, we've got to keep moving."
He turned, dashed across a street and through another gap between apartment buildings, with Watkins hot on his heels. As they ducked behind a building, several bullets stitched a line above their heads, showering them with concrete chips. Their pursuers were obviously not going to give up anytime soon.
He looked up and down the new street. No traffic. A couple of pursuers dashed across the street a hundred yards away, trying to out-flank them. "Come on, one more street."
They ran across the street and behind another apartment building which, fortunately, faced onto a wide street with some traffic. An olive-green army truck rumbled past, then a Lincoln Continental approached. Davidson dashed in front of it and aimed his pistol at the driver, praying the driver didn't just run him over. The car screech to a halt. He ran around, yanked open the rear passenger door and jumped onto the back seat. Watkins slid in after him.
A terrified young man, neatly groomed and wearing a white shirt and blue tie, looked over his shoulder at the pistol aimed at his head. "W-w-what are you doing?"
"Drive."
"What?"
"Drive this goddamn car, now, or I'll shoot you dead."
Someone fired a couple of shots which thudded into the Lincoln and shattered the rear window. That gave the kid a big incentive to stomp on the accelerator. The car shot down the road.
"Good. Turn at the next corner."
The young man spun the steering wheel. The car screeched around the corner and was soon shielded from gunfire.
Davidson sighed with relief. "Good work. Now slow down before you crash."
The kid's face was flushed. "I am slowing down."
The car arrowed forward. "No, you're not. Slow down."
The driver took his foot off the pedal and the Lincoln decelerated.
Despite the urgency of his mission, Davidson had to satisfy his curiosity. "Why are you driving around right now?"
A puzzled stare. "I'm driving to work."
"Are you kidding? The Freedom Alliance has attacked this City with 7,000 fighters."
Open-mouthed astonishment. "It has?"
"Christ. Pull over to the side."
"Why?"
"Pull over now or I will kill you."
"OK, OK."
The young man parked against the curb.
"Leave the engine running and get out."
"W-w-hy?"
Davidson jabbed the back of the kid's neck with his pistol. "Because I told you to. Don't annoy me anymore."
"OK, OK."
Davidson had been impressed with Watkins' driving skills and wanted to be ready to jump out of the car if necessary. As the kid got out, he looked at her. "You drive."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"OK." She dashed around and got behind the steering wheel. Davidson sat next to her.
She drove back onto Jonas Salk Boulevard, where pandemonium now reigned. Panicking drivers had started ignoring traffic lights, so intersections were clogged with army and civilian vehicles heading in different directions. Davidson was impressed with the way Watkins bumped, squeezed and yelled her way through several intersections. But it took them twenty minutes to travel ten miles.
As they approached the air base, the sound of explosions and gunfire grew much louder, and the number of choppers flitting overhead increased markedly. Plumes of ropey black smoke rose from the area around the South Gate. Davidson sensed the Freedom Alliance had a foothold in the City, but had no idea how firm it was.
Webster City Air Base covered an area of nine square miles and had a high wire fence around the perimeter. A heavily guarded main gate on the northern side controlled access to the base. On the far side, beyond the runways, stood a control tower, a three-story administration block and a dozen hangars that housed the City's air force: three squadrons of helicopters; two squadrons of low-level prop-jet bombers and an assortment of transport planes.
A couple of hundred yards from those buildings was another hangar which housed several small planes reserved for the personal use of the Chancellor and his cronies. That select group often used them to go on hunting or fishing trips around the Great Lakes, visit the City's colonies or sight-see the ruins of US cities that weren't too radioactive.
When the Lincoln Continental approached the main gate, the boom-gate was down and several bewildered-looking soldiers stood next
to it.
Davidson turned to Watkins. "Bust through."
"You sure?"
"Yes, we're out of time. Floor it."
She stomped on the accelerator and crashed through the boom-gate, splintering the wooden planks and sending them flying. By the time the guards realized what had happened and raised their rifles, the Lincoln was well past. Some fired desultory shots; the rest didn't bother.
Watkins laughed as the vehicle careered across a huge concrete expanse. "Wow, where to now?"
He scanned the air base, hoping to see a black Cadillac with Mellon behind the wheel. No such luck. All he saw were a few bombers and several choppers taking off. Hopefully, Mellon wasn't on one of them.
He pointed towards the Chancellor's hangar. "That way, and step on it."
She veered left for a couple of hundred yards until she reached a north-south runway and turned onto it. A bomber headed towards them, gathering speed. But the runway was wide enough for her to hug the side and let it scream past. The wash from its engines buffeted the Lincoln and she struggled to keep control.
When they were half-way along the runway, a couple of Freedom Alliance helicopters appeared above the main hangars and sprayed cannon fire at half-a-dozen choppers parked in a line, incinerating most of them and forcing the surviving ground crew to flee.
A Webster City helicopter flew over their Lincoln and fired several air-to-air missiles at the FA helicopters, which all missed. The FA helicopters spun around and plastered the chopper with cannon fire. It spun around several times, trailing smoke, before crashing and exploding on the grass between two runways.
A couple of missiles or artillery shells, fired from outside the air base, screamed through the air and exploded inside two hangars.
It was impossible to tell who was winning the battle. But the Freedom Alliance was obviously up for the fight. Davidson had to make sure its effort was not in vain.
They were still several hundred yards from the Chancellor's hangar when Davidson saw a big black Cadillac parked to the side. Must be Mellon's. Every nerve ending jumped and sparked like a live wire.
He said: "Stop next to the Cadillac. I'll go inside."
"You want me to go with you?"
"Stay in the car, in case we have to move fast. I'll tell you if I need help."
"OK."
She skidded to a stop next to the black Cadillac. Davidson leaped out and raced towards the hangar, pistol drawn.
It was an open hangar, about one hundred yards wide, with three Cessna aircraft parked at evenly spaced intervals. The propeller of the furthest was spinning hard. Mellon stood next to it, wearing a fleecy flying jacket, talking to a man in overalls. That man saw Davidson running towards them and yelled something. Mellon turned, holding a pistol.
Still running, Davidson fired a couple of shots. One hit the man in the overalls and he went down. But Mellon cranked off three shots, which buzzed past Davidson, and clambered into the plane.
There was obviously a pilot onboard because the plane was already edging forward. It accelerated and Davidson realized it would soon be past him. He dropped to one knee and fired at the cockpit, hoping to hit the pilot. Though the plane was about sixty yards away and traveling across him, he put five shots in the right area. Despite that, it gathered speed and went past him.
Oh, Jesus.
The plane shot across the apron in front of the hangar, heading for the runway they drove down. Davidson desperately fired his last bullets at the plane, to no avail.
He had started to panic about the prospect of the Agent Pandora being released from the plane, when he heard the tires of the Lincoln squeal and it sped across his vision towards the Cessna. What the hell was Helen doing?
The plane was now a hundred yards down the runway, close to take-off, with the Lincoln closing fast. Surely she didn't intend to ram it. God, she obviously did.
He looked on in amazement as the Lincoln plowed into the back of the Cessna, destroying its undercarriage, and creating a roar of metal and shower of sparks. The Lincoln and Cessna spun down the runway, side by side, until the Lincoln flipped over and the Cessna stopped on its belly in the grass.
Davidson ran up the runway several notches above his top speed. He was desperate to find out if Helen survived the crash and needed help. However, smoke billowed out of the Cessna. He had to salvage the canisters of Agent Pandora - if they were still intact - before the plane burst into flames.
His lungs were screaming and scooping in only tiny particles of oxygen as he got close to the plane. To his amazement, the pilot staggered out and dropped to his hands and knees on the grass, gasping and vomiting. The guy looked near death. However, Davidson had to eliminate him as a threat before he tried to grab the canisters. He was about to shoot the guy when he realized his pistol was empty. He tossed it away and, without breaking stride, kicked the pilot behind the ear. The pilot spun to the ground and lay still.
Flames sprouted from the engine. Time was desperately short. He opened the cockpit door and looked inside. Mellon was slumped forward with his blood-drenched head resting against the instrument panel. A large pack lay at his feet. Davidson scrambled over, pulled open the top flap and looked inside. Three slim canisters looked intact, thank God. He grabbed the pack, climbed out of the plane, ran across the heaving grass for about thirty yards and tumbled onto his back. His lungs scratched at solid blocks of air.
After a few seconds, he thought about Helen. Had to help her. Despite his exhaustion, he was about to rise when he heard a female voice.
"You alright?"
He looked up and saw her grinning face.
A tight smile. "You're OK?"
"Yep. I was wearing my seatbelt, like a good girl. Only got a sore neck, I think." She rubbed her neck and nodded at the pack in his arms. "You've got the canisters?"
"Yes."
"Intact?"
"Looks like it."
She smiled. "Then I guess we just saved humanity."
Davidson now had enough oxygen in his lungs to laugh. "Looks like it."
"What about Mellon?"
He sat up. "He's still in the plane."
They turned and saw the flames had reached the cabin of the plane. After about thirty seconds the whole plane exploded. Flaming wings spun through the air. If Mellon wasn't dead before, he was now, at the ripe old age of ninety. Davidson considered mentioning his age to Helen, but decided to wait until he could provide a full explanation.
He looked around. Several more of the unusual-looking choppers flew over the air base, heading towards the center of the City. The heavy clouds of smoke spiraling up from the South Gate looked even thicker. The explosions and gunfire sounded a lot closer.
As he got to his feet, a large truck with camouflage markings headed towards them. A man wearing a Freedom Alliance red beret stood on the tray, manning a heavy machine-gun mounted on the cabin roof. The truck stopped about twenty yards away and the machine-gunner trained his weapon on them. The muzzle was huge.
Davidson sensed the Freedom Alliance attack was going well. He also realized the ISB uniform he wore could have a very harmful effect on his health. Fear, anger and incredulity washed through his brain. After saving most of mankind, it looked like those he helped would gun him down. He tentatively raised his hands and waited for bullets to shred his body. Helen, still wearing the uniform of a CDC security officer, also raised her hands.
A tall blond man, wearing a red beret and khaki fatigues, climbed out of the cabin carrying a Kalashnikov like he was born with it. Half-a-dozen men wearing similar uniforms jumped off the back tray, fanned out and pointed their weapons at Davidson and Watkins.
The blond guy wore the shoulder patch of the George Washington regiment, part of the pro-democracy Liberty Brigade that formed the backbone of the Freedom Alliance. He scowled. "Who are you?"
No point lying. "Major Carl Davidson from the Internal Security Bureau."
The guy aimed his rifle at Davidson's chest. Killer eyes
glittered. "I should shoot you right now."
"Commander Solon will be very unhappy if you do."
A frown. "Why?"
"I saw him last night. I - we - are working for him."
A hard grin. "Really? Doing what?"
"Saving humanity."
"What are you talking about?"
"He asked us to stop the Chancellor releasing a super-virus that would kill all the Outlaws."
Another scowl. "I kill people who mess with me. I have no sense of humor, whatsoever."
Davidson forced moisture into his mouth. "I'm not joking. Edward Mellon, the Commander of the Palace Guard was about to take off with the super-virus when we stopped him."
"Really? Where's Mellon now?"
"Cooking in that plane."
The blond man looked at the flaming wreckage. "You don't say? And what happened to the super-virus?"
Davidson nodded at the pack on the ground. "It's in there - intact."
"That so? Then it seems to me you've got only one problem."
"What?"
"My momma told me to never believe anything an ISB officer tells me - particularly a major." The blond man lifted his rifle to his shoulder and squinted down the barrel.
"I can tell you today's code-word."
The blond man lifted his eyebrows and the rifle wavered. "Really? What?"
"Black Fox."
After a moment of hesitation, the rifle lowered and the blond guy turned to the driver of the truck. "Get headquarters on the radio."
Webster City Page 23
