Field of Valor

by Matthew Betley

  Amira saw a white male in his early thirties wearing a white polo, khakis, and a small black sling bag across his back more than one hundred feet to her right on the walkway. He held a black semiautomatic pistol she couldn’t identify from this distance, and he was still focused on the perpendicular walkway below, appearing to line up another shot.

  Too many civilians. No clean shot. Have to get closer.

  People scattered away from her, spotting the pistol she held in a combat grip, ready for action. Knowing she had no choice and hoping to divert the shooter’s attention, she did the only thing she could—pointed the pistol toward the ceiling and fired three quick shots in succession.

  Crack-crack-crack!

  The shooter’s attention turned toward her, but she’d already lowered the pistol, blending in with the fleeing figures moving toward the staircase. She fought her way through the bodies, her eyes focused on the shooter.

  She glanced back to the Enola Gay just in time to see Logan West leap toward the bomber as Lau scrambled to his feet. So much for not touching the exhibits.

  She looked back to the shooter, but he was no longer at the railing. That’s not good. And then she spotted him moving away from her toward the far end of the walkway and a sloping, circular, three-story ramp that led to the main floor below.

  And so much for stealth, she thought as she started sprinting toward the escaping shooter.

  * * *

  Cole Matthews had spent most of the morning on a guided tour of the James S. McDonnell Space Hangar. His docent was a gentleman in his late sixties who had retired as an electrical engineer from NASA and wanted to stay useful, having a love for space exploration.

  By the time Larry Freeman was into his explanation of satellite telemetry and orbits, Cole realized that while he himself might at one point have been the head of the CIA’s clandestine paramilitary action arm, he was grossly underqualified to be a tour guide. There were nine groups of subject-matter experts who went through at least twelve periods of instruction and knowledge tests before being certified and assigned to a senior docent, which Larry was.

  Larry was midsentence discussing the new generation of antisatellite missiles, commenting on how the Russians seemed to be ahead of the rest of the world in developing new weapons—at least according to the press—when the first shot was fired into the hangar.

  Cole observed the look of confusion on Larry’s face, as if the docent’s mind was in denial that a gunshot had just broken the early-afternoon silence. Cole, on the other hand, had already unholstered his SIG SAUER P229 Enhanced Elite 9mm pistol.

  “Don’t worry about the gun, Larry. I’m one of the good guys.” Cole smiled, the predator he was finally surfacing. “I’m with the FBI, and you might want to get these people out that exit door in the far corner. And by the way, great tour,” he said, turned, and ran into the fray, leaving a stunned-looking Larry standing next to the disabled missile. A few seconds later, three more shots rang out, and Larry was spurred into action, urging people to stay calm and move to the nearest exit.

  Good man, Cole thought as he passed the nose of the space shuttle Discovery, which occupied the center of the space hangar.

  He spoke rapidly into his earbud as he ran. “I’m in the space hangar. Be there in twenty seconds.”

  But that was before the man near the photo exhibit with a pale European complexion and brown hair pulled a Glock 22 .40-caliber pistol from a camera bag, his intent clear and malevolent.

  The man was only fifteen feet away with his back turned to Cole, who immediately adjusted his trajectory midstride and thought, Welcome to the museum, asshole.

  * * *

  Logan landed on the cockpit of the Enola Gay, his tactical tan Oakley boots searching for a grip on the smooth surface of the silver fuselage and rectangular glass panels of the cockpit. His boots found none, and he sprawled forward, landing with a thwump as his body hit the bomber.

  Lau had somehow maintained his footing and was already moving away toward the right wing of the plane. Where the hell is he going? And then he realized Lau’s intent—to use the wing to drop to the Thunderbolt airplane suspended on hydraulic lifts underneath the Enola Gay and then scamper to the ground below like some kind of middle-aged Jackie Chan.

  Even as Logan pursued him, he was impressed. The Chinese operative had to be in his late fifties, and yet he had the agility of a thirty-year-old. Maybe it’s all that ginseng they eat, Logan thought drily. Concentrate, jackass, his mind yelled at him, and all thoughts of holistic healing were wiped from his mind.

  Lau reached the wing of the bomber as Logan finally stood. Fucker’s fast. Why do I always have to chase the fast ones? he thought.

  Lau stepped onto the enormous propeller engine, the four blades forming a perfect vertical and horizontal cross.

  Logan realized he only had one option. This is going to hurt like hell.

  As Lau reached down and grasped the right side of the propeller, Logan took two steps and launched himself into the air, praying he had enough momentum. He soared across the huge gap between the fuselage and the engine, which was too big a leap. But the engine wasn’t his target.

  Oh Christ, I’m not going to make it, he thought, but his left foot landed on the long edge of the left propeller blade. He used his momentum to spring off the blade like a suicidal gymnast and landed on top of the engine, just in time to see Lau leaning on the top of the right propeller blade, preparing to drop into a hanging position.

  As Logan balanced himself on top of the engine, he calculated his options once again, and his tactical mind returned only one answer, an answer that was driven by one imperative—prevent Lau from escaping.

  With complete, reckless abandon, Logan leapt from the engine and tucked both legs up as if performing the world’s worst cannonball. As he reached the hanging man, he shot both legs down like pistons, violently driving them into the back of Lau, crushing him against the propeller on which he was suspended. He heard an expulsion of breath, and he thought he felt something crack—a rib, hopefully—but he didn’t have time to contemplate it.

  Exactly as he’d intended—and was crazy enough to try—whatever locking mechanism the museum utilized to keep the propeller in a fixed position gave way with a loud snap, and Logan prepared himself for the fall.

  The propeller suddenly dropped, spilling the wounded Lau off the blade. Lau’s body rotated as he fell, so that as he plummeted to the plane fifteen feet below, he stared up at Logan with fury and pain.

  Logan ignored him as he himself concentrated on landing on top of the tail section of the Republic P-47 Thunderbolt fighter aircraft below.

  Both men hit at the same time, but with different results.

  Lau’s back slammed onto the horizontal stabilizer, which bent with the force of the impact but somehow supported him. He lay there, injured and immobile, staring up at the underbelly of the Enola Gay, his mouth moving but uttering no sound since he had yet to regain his oxygen supply.

  Logan’s feet hit the top of the tail section, and he bent his knees, knowing what was coming next. Bad idea gets worse. He was propelled into a forward shoulder roll, which carried him off the side of the plane. As he completed the roll, he regained awareness of his surroundings and shot his arms up, hoping he’d judged correctly.

  Slam!

  His hands grabbed the rear edge of the right wing, and his arms went taut as his momentum was stopped. His legs continued momentarily, swinging up under the wing, and he thought, Here it comes.

  Knowing it was inevitable, he let go and fell several feet through thin air, curling his head and neck forward and placing his hands behind his head.

  Thud!

  Logan’s body crashed to the floor, and he felt a sharp pain in the back of both hands as they made contact with the unforgiving surface, all the while protecting his skull from serious damage. He lay still, the sounds of chaos in the museum reaching his ears as if for the first time. Need to move and make sure Lau stays down.
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  He rolled onto his side, only to be greeted by the sight of a teenage boy dressed in a Washington Nationals hat, blue shorts, and a white tee shirt staring at him in amazement.

  “Didn’t you hear the gunshots, kid?” Logan asked, bewildered that the boy was still standing there.

  “Not the first time, and I was moving to the exit, but then I saw you and the other guy on the plane,” the boy responded. “That was awesome!” he said, suddenly grinning like a lunatic.

  Logan didn’t feel awesome. In fact, he felt like hell. Kids nowadays.

  “Yeah. Well. It wasn’t my best dismount,” Logan said, standing up beneath the wing, a dull throb of pain spreading across his lower back. “Now get the hell out of here before something else happens. I don’t need you getting caught in the crossfire.”

  At the use of the word crossfire, reality hit the boy, who suddenly seemed less relaxed. “Thanks for the show, mister,” he said, smiled, and joined the rest of the throng running for the exits.

  Logan stumbled over to Lau, who was still laid out on the stabilizer. He finally started to sit up, and Logan heard a moan escape his lips. Without hesitation, Logan reached up, grabbed Lau by an arm and his torso and yanked him forward, pulling him off the stabilizer to plummet several more feet to the floor.

  A shout of pain rose from the operative, and he rolled over, glaring at Logan with indignation. It’s not your day, old man. Too bad for you.

  Logan leaned down and grabbed the wounded Lau under his left arm. “Get up. And if you try to run, I swear to God I’m going to break your fucking knee, and AARP won’t be able to do jackshit for you. You got me?”

  Lau hung his head, the thought of speaking to his captor too demoralizing. He knew there was no way out, which also meant his time was almost over. I’ll see you soon, son, he thought, and exhaled, steadying himself.

  “I just have one question,” Logan asked. “Why this place?”

  Lau straightened up and faced Logan, and Logan sensed the man’s demeanor change subtly, growing . . . more confident? That can’t be, Logan thought.

  “Because it was my son’s favorite place, but not for the reasons you might think.”

  “No?” Logan said.

  “No. He came here when he was a teen, before he followed me into my line of work,” Lau said. “And he recognized it for what it was—is: a display of arrogance, regardless of the technological marvels, by one of the most corrupt countries on this planet. So I thought, ‘What better place to seek my vengeance than here?’ And now I have it,” Lau said, and sighed, emitting a sense of calm.

  “How’s that? You’re about to be in the custody of the US government, subject to special laws for interrogation I’m not even sure you’re aware of,” Logan said. “It’s over for you.”

  Lau smiled, a genuine smile, not of anger, but of relief. “Maybe for me. But not for you. And in the end, you will lose. What you’re fighting is too big, even for the size of your ego.”

  The conviction was evident, which unsettled Logan. What the hell is up with this guy?

  There was no time for answers as three shots rang out, and two bullets struck Lau in the back and the head, sending a red mist into the air and across Logan’s neck and chest.

  Even as Lau’s body collapsed to the smooth floor, Logan dove to the ground and rolled behind the large yellow apparatus that held up the right wing of the Enola Gay, wondering when his day at the museum would finally end. If Ben Stiller shows up, I’m really going to lose it.

  CHAPTER 11

  As soon as the encounter with Lau had begun, John Quick had asked the retired Marine—specifically, retired Marine Corps Master Sergeant Anthony Raven, now Lieutenant Raven, who was constantly amused at the irony of becoming an officer after all the years of enlisted service—to order his men to post themselves at the exits and assist with the evacuation.

  John had known immediately that the fight had been part of an ambush, the entire thing one big setup. He’d also known it was just the beginning.

  He’d asked Lieutenant Raven to follow him, even as he’d withdrawn his Colt M1911 .45-caliber pistol—the same one he’d carried in Force Recon and in Iraq—and bolted for the door. If I have to have backup, at least it’s a Marine, even a retired one, he’d thought, grateful for the Corps once again.

  The two men heard the first shot shatter the glass barrier as they’d sprinted out the door and toward the main floor of the hangar, which was on the same level as the security operations center. More shots rang out as they’d made a straight line for the main area, weaving in and out through civilians. The shots had been followed by screams and chaos.

  They found themselves just inside the hangar, their view of the Enola Gay partially obstructed by other aircraft and exhibits. John scanned for Logan, hoping he had Lau under control. I told you this was a bad fucking idea, Logan. Goddamnit!

  “Where are you guys? We just came out on the floor, but it’s pandemonium. I can’t see anything,” John said.

  No answer, which was when three more shots—the ones that killed Lau Han—came from a shooter no more than thirty yards in front of them.

  Bang-bang-bang!

  John searched for the man’s target and spotted Logan and his captive, even as his captive fell to the floor, apparently struck from the shooter’s bullets. Why the hell did he take him out instead of Logan?

  It didn’t matter. He didn’t have time to consider it, as the shooter turned and started walking quickly and directly toward John and Lieutenant Raven.

  Both men simultaneously raised their weapons—John, the Colt M1911; Lieutenant Raven, his Smith & Wesson National Security Model 686, chambered in .38 Special.

  “Drop the weapon!” John screamed as the shooter, a pale-skinned man who looked European, finally noticed them. He held a black semiautomatic down low at his side. It was obvious he’d hoped to slip away with the crowd, but John and his new friend had ruined that plan.

  Whoever he was, there was no hesitation—the shooter raised his arms with trained proficiency, and all three men opened fire.

  As John pulled the trigger, his only thought was for collateral damage. Please, God, don’t let any rounds go wide.

  Boom-boom-boom! Crack-crack!

  One of John’s rounds struck the man in the chest, and he saw two more small holes appear near his well-placed shot.

  The shooter staggered, wounded but not out of the fight. It was only in Hollywood or fiction that people who were shot instantly fell to the ground, a quick and merciful end. Reality was something different, which was why real shooters aimed for the head to permanently end the conversation.

  The shooter lined up his sights, and John raised the M1911 slightly. Both men fired, even as two more cracks from Lieutenant Raven added to the fire.

  Boom-boom!

  John’s round caught the shooter in the nose, tunneling through and turning the back of his head into a gory mess. But the now-dead man’s final act caught John in the chest, and John let out a small groan as he took a knee.

  “Holy shit. How bad is it?” Lieutenant Raven asked urgently, moving over to John and looking down at his chest, not seeing any blood.

  “I’m . . . fine,” John gasped, barely audible. “Vest.”

  “Thank God,” Lieutenant Raven said.

  “Go make sure he’s down,” John said quietly. “I’m going to sit here for a second. Hurts like hell.”

  “Sir, you shot him in the face with a forty-five. I’m pretty sure he’s dead.”

  “Good point,” John said. “Then help me up, and let’s go see how my friend is.”

  * * *

  The shouts, shots, and screams merged into one steady roar that masked Cole Matthews’ footfalls as he sprinted the short distance and launched himself at the gunman who now pointed the Glock 22 .40-caliber toward the center of the hangar. His focus was on one thing—stopping him before he pulled the trigger.

  He hurtled through the air and slammed into the small of the man’s
back and was rewarded with a whewf as the air was knocked from the shooter’s lungs. The man crashed to the floor with Cole on top of him, the Glock still in his right hand.

  Cole’s immediate concern was the weapon. I don’t need innocent bystanders getting a bullet from this asshole. He reached up with both hands and grabbed the man’s wrist, raising it off the floor and slamming it down. Once. Twice. Three times. Bingo.

  The shooter let out a string of curses but finally released his grip. Is that French? Who the hell is this guy?

  Cole yanked the gun away and threw it forcefully to the side, sending the gun skidding and bouncing across the floor until it landed against the glass of a life-sized exhibit of a space suit from the 1960s.

  Now disarmed, the man—who’d miraculously regained his breath and strength—focused his efforts on removing Cole from his back, and he delivered two quick elbows with his left arm to Cole’s exposed side, his arms still over his head from having thrown the pistol away from the fight.

  Rather than risk a cracked rib, Cole rolled to his left, away from his opponent. He sensed rather than saw the man scramble to his feet. This guy’s quick, but I’m quicker.

  He suddenly rolled back toward the man and lashed out with a front roundhouse kick with his left foot. The blow landed above the man’s ankle, and he tumbled forward off-balance but regained enough control to turn his fall into a forward roll.

  The two combatants had moved near a large green screen that served as the photo station where visitors and family members paid to have their images digitally transposed and memorialized in various space environments, including on the moon and inside the space shuttle Discovery. Several lights were mounted on individual stands, and a young Middle Eastern man stared frozen in shock at the two men who’d invaded his space. He held a remote for the expensive camera in his hand.

  Cole got back on his feet, his eyes boring into the back of his opponent, who also stood up. What the hell is he doing? Cole thought as he lowered his right hand to his SIG SAUER P229 Enhanced Elite on his right hip. He didn’t want to kill the shooter, but he wasn’t about to risk getting shot if the man had another gun.