Spy ah-4

by Ted Bell

  Saladin craned his head around, looking back over his shoulder. The tanks were rolling onto the bridge in high-speed pursuit of the enemy.

  “Excellent!” Saladin shouted, as they dove, pulling him headfirst into the foliage. Everyone had played his part perfectly. They now turned and watched the enemy tanks and men behind them streaming across the bridge toward them. The suspension bridge was sagging under weight it was not designed to hold. But it would hold, the engineer in Saladin told him. That was the idea.

  “Ready, sir?”

  “Five seconds, Sergeant,” Saladin said. “Wait for those last three tanks to roll on—okay—now!”

  The young soldier pushed the old-fashioned plunger. The charges his team had so carefully placed beneath the bridge blew in perfect sequence. Three massive charges exploded: one at either end of the bridge, and finally one in the exact center. The explosions tore the heavy rope bridge to pieces, sending at least fifteen Trolls and thirty of the enemy guards plummeting into the deep ravine below.

  Saladin allowed himself a grim feeling of satisfaction. He had just struck a serious blow against his enemy. Bolívaristas, my ass. It was a narco-criminal terrorist army, financed and led by foreigners with no interests beyond their own benighted religious fantasies of a humbled America.

  Now, Saladin’s squad would all descend into the ravine, cross the river, and begin the tough climb up the other side. Such a climb under fire would be hell. But this recent action, and the one that would surely follow it, had drawn resources from the center to the western perimeter. And destroyed them. The first blow against Top had been struck.

  Saladin believed his actions now would give Hawke and the men on the river a fighting chance later.

  80

  WASHINGTON, DC

  P resident is waiting in the Oval,” Betsey Hall said. Jack McAtee’s pretty ash-blond secretary was standing just outside the office. She was frowning at her watch as the chairman of the Joint Chiefs approached. General Moore, a lean six-footer in his dress blues, did not look happy. In fact, nobody looked very happy on this Inauguration Day morning.

  “Sorry,” Moore said, “We couldn’t get here any faster.”

  “You’re all right. He just got back from across the street. Morning worship service at St. John’s. He’s only been in there ten minutes.”

  “How is he?” Moore asked her, pausing before he went in.

  “In a word?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Pissed. At everybody.”

  “He’s not postponing?”

  “He’s not postponing and he’s not canceling and that’s that. You talk to him. He listens to you.”

  “What did you tell him to do, Betsey?”

  “I’m not in the habit of telling the president what to do.”

  “Right,” Moore said, smiling and squeezing her shoulder. He snapped off a salute at the two marines standing guard at the door and went inside.

  The president stood by the windows with his back to the door, looking out into the snow-covered Rose Garden. “Hello, Charley,” he said without turning around.

  “Morning, Mr. President. I got here as quickly as I could.”

  “Town’s a mess. Another Inauguration Day, you know. What will they think of next?”

  Moore laughed. “We’re lucky to be here, sir. It could easily have been the other guy.”

  “Not that easily,” McAtee huffed, “Take a seat, General.” He walked around his desk and collapsed into the upholstered sofa by the fireplace. Moore sat opposite him and picked up a silver urn.

  “Coffee?”

  The president waved the question away and Moore filled his own cup. “Mr. President, what do you intend to do?”

  “You’re the tenth person to ask me that question in the last goddamn hour.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Charley, I like you. Always have. You were the guy I most looked up to at Annapolis. Hell, I still look up to you and I’m the damn president. A lot is riding on this decision. If I run, everybody runs. Park Police estimate there are already half a million people out there on the parade route. The media is already going apeshit. Positively salivating at the chance to see me slip out the back door. What the hell would you do? You going to rain on my parade, too?”

  “What are the options, sir?”

  “Marine One is warming up its engines out on the lawn. Ready to fly me to Site R in Raven Rock Mountain. There are also two identical Secret Service motor-cades waiting for me. One of them is going to Camp David. The one at the North Portico will take me to the Capitol steps where I will be duly sworn in for my second term. Pick one.”

  “Intel right now points to a possible WMD in that Potomac unmanned sub.”

  “What sub? Nobody’s seen it. We’ve got sensors on every bridge. The most advanced electronic countermeasures on earth can’t find a radiation signature! Nobody can even guarantee me the damn thing exists. I’m going to cancel because some kid lawman from Texas told some sheriff he saw some bad guys put something in the river? C’mon, Charley, you know me better than that.”

  “What about Rock Creek Park?”

  “What about it? Somebody trucked a couple of Suburbans packed with conventional explosives into the park and blew them up. Rattled some windows at Walter Reed. BFD.”

  “The Suburbans were designed to exactly replicate Secret Service vehicles. Very sophisticated plan of attack, I’d say. Hide your bombs in plain sight.”

  “Everybody’s all over that, Charley. Media says I shouldn’t have sent all those troops to the border. Left the capital unprotected. Unprotected from what? So far, nobody’s been able to find a single heavily armored black Chevy Suburban in this town that does not belong to the Secret Service.”

  “I still don’t like it. One of those look-alike machines could roll right up alongside a bunch of Iowa cheerleaders and no one would think anything of it.”

  “Hell, I don’t like it either! But I’ll be damned if I’ll run based on any of this airy-fairy crap I’m hearing from the boys at Langley.”

  “What’s the First Lady say?”

  “Aw, you know Lynn, Charley. She only wants to protect me.”

  “So do I.”

  “I know that. So, what the hell do I do? No, I’ve got a better question. What the hell would you do?”

  General Moore took a long time to answer. He’d known he’d be asked this question. It was the reason he’d been called to the White House. One of those pivotal moments history is so fond of throwing our way. The president’s safety versus the country’s need to see presidential resolve and courage in the face of adversity. By chance, Moore’s gaze fell upon the small bust of Churchill standing at one end of the great Lincoln Desk. The set of his shoulders, that bulldog expression. He looked at his old friend of thirty years.

  “Grab your hat, Mr. President. We’re going to the Capitol.”

  “Thank you, Charley. Either way.”

  “I hope and pray it’s the right answer, sir.”

  The president stood and straightened his tie. “Want a ride? I’ve got plenty of room in the limo. No former presidents full of phony platitudes this time.”

  Moore smiled and said, “One call, Mr. President. I’ll be right behind you.”

  McAtee strode from the Oval Office. Betsey Hall and Scott McComsey, the White House Press Secretary, were waiting to hear what they would now tell the world. Moore reached over and picked up the phone from the coffee table. He speed-dialed the president’s direct line to the JCS office at the Pentagon.

  “This is General Moore. Belay my previous orders. The president has decided not to go to Zone R. The swearing in will take place as scheduled on the Capitol steps. No delays. I want a combat air patrol scrambled and over the city. I want the surface-to-air-missile batteries at both the Capitol and the Pentagon activated. And I want to expand the no-fly zone around the city. Take it sixty miles. Anybody find that goddamn sub? Harbor Police? No? Good God, somebody better start praying.”
>
  Moore stood, and spent a minute gazing around the Oval Office, remembering happier times in this room.

  What is happening to our country? the general thought, and headed for the door.

  “YOU FEELING okay, now, sir?” the blond kid said to him. He looked around. Dixon didn’t feel too good. His head hurt, for one thing. He reached up to rub his forehead and felt something wrapped around it. Bandage of some kind.

  He was half-sitting, half-lying in the street, his legs straight out in front of him. Bloody. There was a line of vehicles in the street. A motor-cade of Black Suburbans. Lights flashing. Men were standing at all four corners of each vehicle with guns drawn, pistols and submachine guns. Big men, all wearing some kind of black jumpsuits and body armor.

  “Who are they?” Dixon asked the blond kid.

  “CAT, sir. Counterassault team. Secret Service.”

  “Where’s Agent Hernandez?”

  “He didn’t make it, sir. I’m sorry. You want to try and stand up again? You tell me.”

  “Hernandez is gone?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m afraid so.”

  The door to the vehicle right next to him was open and he could hear scratchy voices on the radio. “Roger, Rawhide is rolling. Repeat, Rawhide is on the move. Rolling to the Punch Bowl.”

  “Everybody copy that?” the blond kid said into his sleeve. “Rawhide is rolling. Looks like it’s going to be showtime after all.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Agent in charge, sir. Andy Hecht. We’ve been ordered to move you to a secure location, sir.”

  “You’ve got to look inside that building first. I’ve got to show you something.”

  “What building, sir? It’s gone.”

  Dixon craned his head around and looked over his shoulder. Half of the building where he’d last remembered being had collapsed to the ground. There was a smoking pile of rubble two stories high. The site was crawling with men wielding axes and picks, digging through what was left of the garage. He must have been out for quite a while.

  “You want me to get in that truck?”

  “Yes, sir, I’d appreciate it. We’re going to get you further medical attention.” Hecht helped the sheriff get to his feet. He swayed a bit, then steadied himself and looked back at where he’d been when the truck exploded.

  “Inside that building were three vehicles exactly like this one. Except they weren’t. They were remote-controlled bombs. And I found evidence in there of a lot more. If you keep digging, you’ll find it.”

  “We believe you, sir. We’re looking for those trucks right now. Step this way, sir. Take it easy.”

  It was a struggle just to stay on his feet. Dixon was determined to climb up into the back seat under his own steam. He had a lot of work to do yet, finding those things. He was the only one left who really knew what to look for.

  “What will you do if you do find more of these things?” Dixon asked.

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss that. I’m going to close the door now, sir. Agent Ross is going to take care of you from here on in. Good luck, sir.”

  Hecht went to close the door but Dixon put out a hand and stopped it mid-way. He leaned halfway out, his red-rimmed eyes searching the rubble across the street. Then he looked down at his boots and his whole body seemed to sag.

  Dixon said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Something wrong, sir?”

  “Where’s the dog?”

  “Dog?”

  “Dutch? Did he make it?”

  “Sheriff, maybe you better lay back down for a little—”

  “Hernandez had a dog, son. His name was Dutch.”

  “Oh, okay, hold on a second,” Hecht said and spoke into his sleeve once more. “This is Agent Hecht. Anybody at the scene find a K-9 dog? Answers to the name of Dutch? What? Repeat, I didn’t copy that…yeah, got it.”

  He looked at Dixon, shaking his head.

  “Gone?” Dixon said.

  “Wait a minute…no. I believe that might be him over there, sir. Some of my men were patching him up and getting him some chow.”

  Dixon swung his boots out of the back seat and looked back down the street.

  Dutch was trotting slowly toward him. He was bandaged up pretty well, and he was limping a little bit, sure, but he looked darn good, all things considered. At least his tail was still wagging.

  “Good boy,” the sheriff said, bending down to hug the dog around the neck. “Good boy, Dutch.”

  81

  THE BLACK RIVER

  H awke’s radio squawked.

  It was bloody tough going on the river. Driving rain, icy cold. The four canoes kept getting pinned against boulders by the raging torrents. Hawke pulled his paddle from the turbulent water and picked up the field radio lying between his feet. It was Saladin, reporting in, to Hawke’s great relief.

  “Hawke. Do you copy? Is that you?”

  “Go ahead, Saladin,” Hawke replied, “I told you I’d come back. Glad you’re still with us. I was beginning to worry. What’s your current position?”

  “We just blew that primary west bridge. A lot of armor and troops went into the drink.”

  “Well done!” It was the first good news in a long time. “Casualties, Saladin?”

  “Minimal, but that could change rapidly. We are going up the side of the ravine en route to our scheduled rendezvous with Froggy. We are taking heavy fire now, but we should be there in twenty minutes. Some of us, anyway.”

  “I look forward to our reunion.”

  “One more thing. My forward scouts report heavy troop movement north of the camp. It’s Top’s main force, Alex. They’re moving out.”

  “Give me that position, Saladin. I’ll take care of it.”

  Saladin gave Hawke a description of Top’s main body of forces and the GPS coordinates. Hawke jotted down the fresh intel in a soggy notebook and jumped back on the radio. His canoe was about to smash into a large boulder and he shouted a warning to his crew. They managed to avoid the thing, barely.

  “Stiletto, heads up, fire control, this is Hawke. We have heavy enemy troop movement headed north. Approximately six miles northwest of my current location on the river.”

  He gave Dylan the exact GPS coordinates.

  “Roger that, Skipper, target description, sir?”

  “Ground troops, Dylan, the main body is on the jungle road north. The force consists of various types of armored robotic vehicles, and hundreds of five-ton troop transports holding twenty soldiers each. We can’t stop them, but we can slow them down a bit. Acquire targets and launch LAM missiles now.”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “One more thing. This road the troops are taking. It’s limestone and I can personally vouch for the shoddy construction. Launch PAM missiles. Try and take out the highway two miles north of the troops. Destroy it, and we could halt their progress for at least a week.”

  “Roger that, Skipper, Acquiring and launching as ordered.” Hawke picked up his paddle and started digging with new resolve. He could hear dull thuds to the north. He took grim satisfaction from the fact that the road he and others like him had slaved on was now being destroyed. The PAM missiles would slow the troop advance for a while. Conch could figure out what she wanted to do about that later.

  Meanwhile, Stiletto’s Loitering Attack Missiles would remain airborne above the enemy troops for forty five minutes searching for moving targets. When a LAM acquired a tank or an armored troop carrier, it would automatically nose over and destroy it.

  Death from above.

  And from the river, if they could stay afloat.

  “Watch out!” Hawke cried.

  Hawke and his crew dug their paddles deep into the roiling river, paddling furiously. It was too late.

  The roaring currents of vicious rapids had finally pinned their canoe hard up against two huge boulders. The power of the water was so strong, it was all Hawke and the four others could do to keep the canoe from overturning and spilling them out. Had the five m
en been in a wooden dugout, and not the sleek carbon fiber craft, the hull would have been shattered to splinters long ago.

  He gritted his teeth and plunged his paddle again and again into the roiling water. The sudden surge of energy he felt was frightening in its intensity. He worried it might be another feverish illusion, but he’d kept the fear that the fever might be spiking again to himself. Hawke had said nothing these last days, but the first signs of returning malaria had appeared.

  Of the four five-man canoes launched, only three had successfully been run through the rapids. Harry Brock, in the lead, was now navigating his own and two other canoes through the mined stretch of river guarding Top’s lair. Harry’s charts told him they were less than three miles away. Mercifully, the weather was so atrocious, that drones, either from above or along the shore, were not hounding them.

  Hawke, trapped near the bank, saw only one escape. Trees bent low over the water, strangled with twisting vines as thick as cables. If he could reach one of the looping vines, called bejucas, he might be able to pull the canoe off the rocks and get the prow headed back into the channel Brock had found and successfully navigated. But he’d need to get out of the boat to do it.

  He informed the crew of his plan and swung himself over the gunwale and into the river. He found his footing and saw that the water was up to his armpits. Somehow, he had to dislodge the canoe without overturning it or having it catapult downriver and smash on the jutting rocks twenty yards further ahead. He could see Brock’s channel now. It was narrow, but if he could get them properly aligned, they might make it.

  Keeping a firm grip on the canoe, he started to make his way toward the thick vine hanging over the river. It was hard sledding against the current, his feet slipping over the moss-covered rocks and he stumbled twice on the sharply uneven river bed. But he managed to grab the vine with his free hand. Now that he had leverage, he started pulling the canoe toward the bank. The men saw what he was attempting and started paddling with a will.