by Chuck Holton
It had been a suicidal plan to begin with—hatched in desperation by men who had no other options. But if they were going down, Sweeney was determined to die knowing he hadn’t held anything back.
He ran up to the truck, hoping against hope that the poorly trained Ukrainians would surrender without resistance. He didn’t want to shoot any of them, but if they put up a fight, he would do what he must and deal with the regret later.
Just before he reached the rear of the vehicle, however, a brawny soldier came flying headfirst through the canvas covering the truck bed. He landed with a grunt and a thud on the pavement just to Sweeney’s left. The impact of the fall sent the man’s assault rifle skittering across the road.
Cursing, the bullish man sprang to his feet but went right back down as Sweeney sucker-punched him from behind with the metal stock of his AK-74.
No slack in this game, buddy.
Sweeney swung his own weapon up and pointed it through the hole the man’s exit had torn in the canvas, just in time to see Mary, clad in some sort of white jumpsuit, do a little hop-kick that caught a second soldier right underneath his nose. The force of the blow caused the man to crumple to the floorboards like an empty set of clothes—right next to a surprised-looking Rip Rubio.
They’re alive! Hot dog!
Since Mary looked to have already given every soldier within kicking distance an epic shellacking, Sweeney jumped to the driver’s door and yanked it open with one hand, training his rifle on the soldier inside.
The freckle-faced kid that stared wide eyed back at him couldn’t have been more than eighteen. His hands left the steering wheel and hit the roof.
“Out!” Sweeney shouted, grabbing the young soldier’s lapel and yanking him from the truck. He pushed the Ukrainian to the ground and put a knee in the center of his back. Then he yelled, “Clear!” loud enough for John to hear him on the other side of the vehicle.
Mary and Rip leaped from the back of the vehicle. The burly soldier was still conscious, so Rip wrapped his shackled arms around the burly man’s neck from behind and squeezed with a ferocity that made it clear the soldier hadn’t treated them well. In a matter of seconds the man blacked out from lack of blood flow to the brain.
Sweeney jerked a ten-inch combat knife free from the holster on his chest harness and tossed it underhand to Mary. “Quick! Cut the ATVs loose.”
She caught the knife in both hands. “You got it. Are we glad to see you!”
Sweeney produced a set of flex-cuffs and secured the hands of the soldier he was sitting on. “Sorry, buddy. Nothing personal. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
John came around the front of the truck and took in the scene. “Wow, Bobby. Great job.”
Sweeney jerked a thumb at Mary, who was busy sawing away at the straps that had been used to tie down the four-wheelers. “Miss Kickboxer took care of two of ’em.” He looked behind John. “What happened to the passenger?”
John smirked. “He’ll be sleeping for a while.”
Rip fished around in the pockets of his unconscious soldier. “Got ’em!” He held up a set of keys, one of which would hopefully unlock their handcuffs.
John smiled and gave Rip the standard Ranger greeting: “Great to see you, Rubio. How come you’re not dead yet?”
The lanky Latino beamed. “Guess the Lord still has plans for me today.”
“Hallelujah,” Sweeney said sarcastically. He strode over to Rip. “Let’s get movin’ before the Lord changes His mind. Here, gimme those keys. We’ll put your handcuffs on Rambo here, and then we’ll let the dude in the back of the truck try Phoenix’s on for size.”
Within three minutes Sweeney and the two former captives had handcuffed the other soldier, freed the ATVs of their moorings on the flatbed, and secured Rip’s and Mary’s combat gear from the back of the truck. John was making a quick call to Olenka on the satphone to let her know the rescue had been successful.
“Leave the clothes, bro,” Rip said as John waited for the call to connect. “They’re contaminated. Yours are too,” he said to Sweeney. “You’re going to want to get out of those things as soon as you can.”
“Let’s worry about getting back to the safe house first,” John replied, then spoke into the phone. “Olenka, we got them. We’re—” He listened for a full thirty seconds while Sweeney worried that someone else would come along the road at any moment. “Roger that. We’ll meet you there. Okay. Out.”
He slapped the phone closed. “Olenka’s coming with the SUV to meet us. She says we’ll hit an old road about four klicks west of here, that will lead us to the hole in the fence we snuck through this morning. There, we’ll ditch the ATVs and our gear. Olenka says she has a plan that will get us out of the country just after midnight.
“Whatever we’re paying that muchacha, it isn’t enough,” Rip said.
“No question.” John climbed aboard the trailer and slid onto one of the ATVs. “Rubio, you’re with me.”
Sweeney retrieved his knife from Mary. “Gimme one sec. There’s one more thing I’ve gotta do.”
He ran to the front of the truck where the horse was still standing, connected to the cart they’d ridden in. He and John had placed two big rocks under each wheel to keep the horse from bolting when the truck came around the corner. He quickly cut the leather bindings that held the horse to the cart, then whispered in its ear. “Sorry for the trouble, big guy. We owe you one.” He slapped the animal’s hindquarters and sent it charging into the woods.
Sweeney ran back and jumped onto the trailer and then got on the other ATV.
“Where’s the ramps for unloading these things from the trailer?” Mary said before climbing on behind him.
“Aw,” Sweeney drawled, “we don’t need ramps. Get on.”
She did so, and Sweeney gunned the engine, letting out a whoop as the Polaris shot off the end of the flatbed, catching air before bouncing to the ground, with John and Rip right behind. Sweeney grinned, not so much at the rush of adrenaline it gave him, but at the way Mary was holding on to him for dear life.
Metro Red Line, Washington DC
The United States Capitol Police had been good to Steve Strettmater. But after nineteen years, eleven months, and twenty-two days, he was looking forward to retiring.
The Metro Red Line train rocked gently as it thundered toward the nation’s capital. Though it was early enough not to be packed with morning commuters, those few passengers on the train with him sat lost in their own thoughts. Except for the swish of the car over the rails and a few passengers who murmured to one another, the car was as quiet as a church sanctuary during a prayer meeting.
Steve closed the newspaper he’d been reading and let his mind ponder his own future. Despite the alimony payments to his ex-wife, he had managed to hoard away enough cash to buy five acres of good land in North Carolina’s Appalachian foothills. He planned to build a cabin with his bare hands and live out the rest of his days with a beer in one hand and a fishing rod in the other.
In his career he’d protected five sitting and former presidents and scores of diplomats, and he’d met more foreign dignitaries than Jimmy Carter had. But he’d long since gotten over the idea that anybody in Washington would miss him once he exited the scene. That was okay—the feeling was mutual.
The Metro train slowed, and its driver said something unintelligible over the loudspeaker. It sounded strangely like the voice at the drive-through where he stopped every morning to order a large coffee on his way to the Shady Grove Metro station. But Steve, a graying ex-Marine, didn’t need to comprehend the driver’s thick inner-city accent to know this was his stop. He picked up the faded Adidas duffel bag from between his polished Corcoran shoes and joined the short line of people exiting the train.
Seven minutes later, Steve was walking up Seventeenth Street toward the White House, trying not to sweat too much in the DC humidity. He looked at his watch and noted with satisfaction that he was twelve minutes early for his shif
t. Nineteen years and he’d never once been late for work, even though that had sometimes meant staying the night there when snow or when other acts of God had nearly shut down the city.
After September 11, he’d stayed at his post for three weeks straight, sleeping on a cot in the break room. But he was glad to do it, especially then. If he had been any younger, he would have rejoined the Marine Corps and volunteered to personally hunt down every camel-loving radical remotely tied to al Qaeda.
A short black limousine pulled to the curb just ahead of him. A man about his age threw open the back door and stepped out without waiting for the driver. Steve would have recognized Michael Lafontaine at once even if the man hadn’t been on just about every television program except Oprah in the last week.
Lafontaine was highly respected by everyone Steve knew on the Capitol Police force, if for no other reason than so many politicians despised him. Plus, he probably had more money than some of those other billionaires who were always in the news, most of whom were just one step to the left of Ho Chi Minh on the political spectrum. Lafontaine used his money more wisely, from what Steve had heard. The billionaire’s office was somewhere high up in the building directly across from his guard post, he knew that much. And it didn’t surprise him that the man was at work before everyone else—he was known to keep odd hours.
Steve came up even with the limousine and tossed the former colonel a friendly salute. “Morning, Colonel Lafontaine. Good to see you.”
Lafontaine turned and took in Steve’s Capitol Police uniform with a glance. “Why, thank you, Officer. And thanks for the work you do guarding our city. You boys don’t get enough recognition for the job you do.”
Steve nodded, feeling that strange tension in the air that always surrounded very important people. “Thank you, sir. My buddies and I have been following you on the tube. Everyone’s real happy to see these politicians finally getting their feet held to the fire a little bit. Don’t let the bureaucrats get you down—you are right on the money about us needing to get tougher with the terrorists.”
Lafontaine smiled, but it was the kind of smile that betrayed the heavy burden the man must be carrying. “I appreciate that more than you know.” He patted Steve on the shoulder and turned to go. “You have a good day, Officer. Thanks again.”
Steve watched Lafontaine push through the revolving door of his building. Then he turned and crossed the street to the guard shack at the west entrance to the White House.
Earl Parvin, a longtime friend and one of the only officers who had been on the force longer than he had, grinned at him through the window.
Steve scanned his plastic ID badge and smiled through the four-inch Plexiglas. The gate buzzed and he pushed through, then repeated the process to enter the guardhouse itself.
“Sell your house yet?” Earl asked.
Steve made a disgusted sound and dropped his newspaper on the desk. “Nah. Had a coupla nibbles, but nobody has come up with cash.”
“I’m telling you,” Earl said, shaking his head, “you’re asking too much. The market’s still in the dumper.”
“Maybe so. But I can afford to wait it out. I’m planning to live in my travel trailer while I build my cabin anyway.”
“Well, when you get it done, lemme know. Me and the missis will come for a visit.”
“You do that, Earl.” Steve picked up a ceramic mug and filled it from the coffee maker near the door. But as he reached for the bottle of nondairy creamer, a thunderclap nearly knocked him off his feet.
A fireball erupted from the building across from the guard shack, causing both of them to throw themselves to the floor as glass and flame rained down on the street.
Steve was on his feet in an instant, staring wide eyed at the inferno outside the window.
The colonel!
“Sound the alarm, Earl!” He sprinted out the door, hoping against hope that there was anyone left alive at Seventeenth and G.
When the two Polaris ATVs made it back to the hole in the fence through which they’d entered the dead zone, Mary’s watch told her they’d spent nearly twelve hours inside the radioactive wasteland. She wondered if that might have something to do with the nausea she was feeling.
Of course it could have been simple motion sickness caused by racing through overgrown fields and disused farm tracks on the four-wheeler, arms reluctantly clamped around Sweeney’s taut midsection to keep from flying off the back. Or it could have been lingering humiliation from being made to shower in full view of a half-dozen Ukrainian soldiers. She hadn’t eaten all day, either, which only added to the discomfort.
If Sweeney was feeling any ill effects from the radiation, he wasn’t showing it. He piloted the Polaris like a pro, skillfully navigating even the roughest terrain while keeping his eye on the GPS unit strapped to the handlebar. He seemed to take no notice of the saucer-sized area of dried blood on his left shoulder, either. She made a mental note to send him to a doctor as soon as they made it somewhere where there was one they could trust.
Twice they’d been forced into dense thickets when the sound of low-flying jet airplanes had made them run for cover. She assumed the Ukrainians were out searching for them, though the aging MiG fighters that flashed by overhead couldn’t be too well suited for spotting concealed targets on the ground.
Sweeney slowed to a crawl as he navigated the gap in the fence line.
Mary searched the path ahead for any sign of Olenka’s blue SUV. At first she saw nothing, but when they made it back up onto the trail, she spotted the vehicle tucked beneath some pine trees and covered with branches. She tapped Sweeney’s good shoulder and pointed.
“Over there.”
Sweeney turned that direction and gunned the engine. The door of the SUV swung open as they pulled up next to it, and their Ukrainian operative stepped out wearing jeans, hiking boots, and a brown hooded sweatshirt. Her expression was all business. John and Rip arrived on the second Polaris and killed the engine.
“We must hurry,” Olenka said, her voice urgent. “The army will be scouring the area soon with helicopters, if they aren’t already. And they are setting roadblocks. We will return to the safe house long enough for you to shower and change clothes, but we only have a few hours to get you out of the country.”
The team hopped off the ATVs, and John and Sweeney peeled off their combat gear.
“What are we going to do with the ATVs?” Rip asked.
“Leave them,” Mary answered. “Leave everything. It’s all contaminated.”
Sweeney let out a low whistle. “It’s a good thing Buzz isn’t here. He would never throw away a perfectly good Polaris, even if it did glow in the dark from radiation.”
“Desperate times, desperate measures,” John said, stripping off his web gear.
“What about our weapons?” Rip asked.
Sweeney picked up his AK-74 and began disassembling it. “Take the bolt out, John. We’ll leave the rest here and toss the bolts somewhere down the road.”
“Good idea.” John reached for his rifle. “That’ll keep anyone else from using them.”
“Please,” Olenka said quickly, “we must go.”
Leaving everything except the GPS unit and their clothes, the team piled into the SUV. John got in the passenger seat, and Mary sat between Rip and Sweeney in the back. Olenka brushed the leaves and branches off the vehicle and hopped into the driver’s seat. The four-cylinder engine whined as she piloted the SUV south toward the safe house, retracing the route they had taken on the four-wheelers early that same morning.
To Mary, it had been the most treacherous and terrifying twelve hours of her life. It seemed like they’d been in the dead zone for a year.
“I have much to tell you,” Olenka said. “First, there have now been seven attacks in your country attributed to this liquid explosive you have been seeking.”
Mary’s eyes went wide. “What? ITEB is exploding in the United States?”
John turned to look at her. “Oh, I forg
ot to tell you about that.”
“Yeah,” Sweeney said. “Things were a little crazy.”
“Dios mio,” Rip breathed.
Mary leaned forward and dropped her face into both hands. “We’ve failed, haven’t we?”
Nobody offered an answer.
Sweeney’s tone was dark. “We’ve got to get home, boys.”
John turned to Olenka. “How are you planning to get us out?”
Olenka kept her eyes on the road as she spoke. “Flying is no longer an option. The news in Kyiv is reporting that a large group of Islamic radicals made a concerted attack on the reactor this morning, but that the brave and well-trained Ukrainian army repelled the attack and killed or captured all the terrorists. They have photos of Rip and Mary and will undoubtedly be scrutinizing every passenger at the airport.”
Sweeney huffed. “So what do we do, walk home?”
“There is an overnight train to Kovel that I think is your best option.”
“Kovel? Where’s that?” Sweeney said.
“It’s near the Polish border. They are supposed to check passports when you board the train, but it makes stops in small villages along the way, and the enforcement there will be low since it will be the middle of the night. We’ll meet the train in one of these villages, and you should be able to cross the border with no problems.”
Rip spoke up. “Hey, did you say it’s a sleeper train?”
“That’s right.”
“Sweet. Maybe we can rest a little. I feel like I got shot out of a cannon, you know?”
“Rip,” John said, “you got shot by a cannon, remember?”
“Yeah. That too.”
“We need to get you looked at before long.”
“I’m all right, bro. Just got knocked on the coconut, you know?”
“Hey,” Mary said, “I want to know more about the bombings. What are they saying about the explosions in the States?”
