“Possible, but unlikely,” said Quinn. “The first exit for Pendleton dumps us right in front of the gate. The Marines keep a quick reaction force inside the gate in case of terrorist attacks, which they’ll deploy if gunfire erupts too close to the base.”
“Maybe we should remove the suppressors from these weapons,” said Nathan. “So we can instigate a reaction.”
“We can’t. The suppressors are built right into the MP-20, which is why they’re so quiet,” said Quinn, checking the rearview mirror again. “If we’re going to have a problem, it’s going to happen on the highway, or they’ll try to figure out a way to get to us on base.”
“That’s reassuring,” said Keira.
“That’s reality,” said Quinn.
“It’s pretty scary to think we’re not safe on a military base,” said Nathan.
“I wish I could say you’d be safe, but I get the distinct impression that Cerberus has the reach,” said Quinn.
“If we can’t stay at the lodge, what’s the plan?” asked Nathan.
“We have a few options that I think will keep you safe. One, I convince a friend living on base to take you in.”
“I don’t want to endanger another family,” said Nathan. “We’ve already screwed you over.”
“I appreciate your concern. Seriously,” said Quinn. “That would have been my last option, anyway. Another idea would be to split the two of you up.”
“There’s three of us,” said Keira.
“You didn’t let me finish,” said Quinn. “I get both of you haircuts and uniforms, then stash you in the barracks with my Marines. Your son can stay with a family I know that lives in base housing.”
“Too complicated,” said Nathan. “And I’m not letting Owen or Keira out of my sight.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Quinn. “Which leads us to door number three.”
“I can’t wait to hear this,” said Keira.
“It’s actually the easiest, and in my opinion, the best option,” said Quinn. “I hide you deep inside one of the camp’s training areas—they’re enormous—and set you up for a family camping trip.”
“I like that plan,” announced Owen.
Nathan looked into the shadow-infested backseat, meeting his son’s eyes.
“Then that’s the plan, buddy,” said Nathan, reaching back to give him a fist bump. “If your mom approves.”
“A family camping trip it is,” said Keira, grabbing Nathan’s wrist and kissing his hand. “I’m still mad at you.”
“I would expect nothing less,” he said, turning to Quinn. “Do you have kids?”
“No,” he said. “Or I would have told my dad to hire a courier to deliver those phones.”
Nathan left the subject alone. Quinn had expressed a raw sentiment rarely broadcast by childless couples: kids changed everything. Nathan had thought the world had changed when he married Keira, but it had barely shifted under him. Even after they thought they were at their height of readiness and understanding during Keira’s pregnancy, Owen’s arrival had been a ten on the Richter scale, instantly reshuffling all their priorities. Nothing remained the same, but everything was better. Quinn somehow understood.
He stole a glance at Keira, catching a sympathetic smile aimed at Quinn. She interpreted his comment the same way.
CHAPTER 40
Leeds zoomed in on the back of the jeep, the video captured by a powerful camera mounted on the van’s roof. At a distance of nearly eight football fields, the synthetic daylight image didn’t provide enough clarity to identify the occupants, which was fine in this case. Much to his relief, the camera verified the presence of three adults, one of them female, confirming that Quinn had not hidden the Fisher family in a neighbor’s yard and drawn Leeds’s team away by fleeing north.
The HUD indicated an incoming call from Flagg, confirmed a moment later by a chirp in Leeds’s headset. He reached for the touchpad to accept the call, but Flagg started talking before his finger pressed the screen.
“—drone just crossed Interstate 15, a few miles north of Escondido. It should be in position to intercept the target in five minutes. Barring any unforeseen difficulties, the target will not reach the first Carlsbad exit. I’ll let you know when our drone pilots can see the interstate.”
“Copy that,” said Leeds. “We’re trailing at about seven hundred meters. They’re maintaining a constant sixty-five-miles-per-hour speed, so I don’t think they’ve spotted us.”
“We’re lucky this didn’t go down an hour later,” said Flagg. “The highway switches over to on-demand lighting at ten-thirty.”
“That would definitely present a challenge,” agreed Leeds. “We need to figure out a way to drive the highways without triggering the lights. Not that it comes into play very often.”
“The technology exists. I’ll put in a request to equip a few of our vehicles with the system—for special occasions,” said Flagg. “How will you mark the target?”
“Worried much?” asked Leeds, feeling confident enough again to joke with Flagg.
“Hell yes, I’m worried. You’re heading into this with a van full of surveillance techs—”
“In a van with the team’s backup gear,” interrupted Leeds. “I have a few ACR-20s with rail-mounted dual-beam lasers at my disposal.”
“Make sure that shit works,” said Flagg. “Or I’ll have you pull alongside the jeep flashing an infrared beacon.”
“I’ve already op-tested the lasers.”
“T-minus four minutes,” said Flagg, disconnecting the call.
“Fucking prick,” said Leeds, turning to face Vega in the rear compartment. “Let’s make sure those lasers work.”
CHAPTER 41
Mason Flagg watched the drone feed on the largest screen in the operations center with wary satisfaction. He wouldn’t feel completely at ease until one of the drone’s Strikefire missiles turned Quinn’s jeep into a flaming wreck.
He’d never envisioned the need to use the Raptor drone to destroy a civilian vehicle on a major California highway, but the need and opportunity had presented itself—why not? The dramatic mid-interstate explosion would dominate headline news across the nation, no doubt immediately linked to the recently intensified secession conflict. When authorities managed to scrape together enough DNA to identify the jeep’s occupants, the revelation would support Flagg’s anti-California Liberation Movement agenda. In fact, erasing Fisher with a Strikefire missile might give the agenda a stronger push than his original scenario.
He liked the way the story was shaping up. Nathan Fisher and his cop-killer accomplice, a Marine counterinsurgency officer stationed nearby at Camp Pendleton, are brazenly killed in a missile attack on Interstate 5, while fleeing San Diego. One Nation’s media machine, already primed to circulate Flagg’s propaganda surrounding the evening’s gruesome discoveries, strongly suggests the possibility that the California Liberation Movement is behind the interstate attack. The CLM is on a rampage, linked to two high-profile assassinations. A third, even more dramatic night of murder and mayhem was not out of the question for these secessionist lunatics, One Nation’s bought-and-paid-for media pundits would propose. Once the deeper details emerged about Fisher’s cozy-turned-lethal relationship with a corrupt detective and an engineer employed by the Del Mar station, combined with a secretive connection to radical CLM organizers, the conclusion would be unavoidable: the California Liberation Movement was cleaning house—systematically erasing the evidence tying it to the reactor sabotage.
Flagg could smell victory. He didn’t expect a quick triumph, but the conditions would be ripe. If One Nation’s state lobbyists, backed by the generous support of Sentinel Group and an enthusiastic recommendation by the governor, could convince the state legislature to declare the CLM a terrorist organization, victory was nearly guaranteed.
He felt the corners of his mouth tugging upward as the drone leveled off at one thousand feet above ground level and a long, illuminated stretch of Interstate
5 filled the screen. The room’s speakers activated.
“Sir, the drone is on terminal approach, tracking the surveillance van. Three miles and closing. I see two potential targets—a dark-colored jeep approximately six hundred meters ahead of the surveillance van, and another jeep two hundred meters in front of that. Standing by for positive handoff of the target,” said the drone operator.
“Copy. I’ll pass along your request. Happy hunting,” said Flagg, pressing a button to connect his headset with Leeds’s van.
“Leeds, the drone is in position,” said Flagg. “Paint the target.”
“Stand by,” said Leeds.
The audio feed hissed in Flagg’s headset for a few seconds.
“Leeds! You’re transmitting static,” he said. “Report your status.”
“I have my head and arms out of the window,” said Leeds. “Painting your target—right now.”
Flagg watched the screen as a green line connected the van with the closer jeep. He checked the digital map display on the desk array, noting the location of the next interstate exit.
“Leeds. When the Raptor acquires the target,” said Flagg, “take the La Costa exit in 1.3 miles. Don’t miss the exit or you’ll be dodging a fireball.”
“We’re tracking the exit,” said Leeds. “Where do you want me next?”
“Point Loma,” said Flagg. “We need to lay low for a little while and let everything run its course.”
CHAPTER 42
“I see a laser!” screamed Owen.
Nathan twisted in his seat, matching Quinn’s urgent question. “Where?”
“Way behind us! I think it’s a van.”
“Keep your head down,” said Keira, pulling her son lower in his seat.
The jeep accelerated past an SUV, Quinn quickly changing lanes to put the SUV between the jeep and the laser.
“What did that do for us?” asked Quinn.
“Nothing. The laser’s back on us.”
“I don’t see anything out of place back there,” said Keira.
“They’re following us from a distance. They’ve been there all along. Owen, can you tell if it’s a semiactive pulse laser?” asked Quinn.
“I don’t know what that is!”
“Does the laser pulse in quick bursts, or is it like a steady line to us?”
“Looks like a steady line,” said Owen.
“What does that mean?” asked Nathan.
“It means they’re marking us with a rifle-mounted laser illuminator—for something or someone else. Ready your weapons and watch any vehicles that come close to us. Keira, you take our left and back. Nathan has the right side and directly ahead. They might be handing us off to another team.”
Nathan lifted the MP-20 from the foot well.
“Easy!” said Quinn, pushing the weapon below window level. “We don’t want to tip our hand. Just have them ready.”
“You said something or someone. What’s the something?” asked Keira.
“They might be illuminating us for another weapons platform.”
“In nonmilitary terms, please.”
“They might be identifying us for a drone strike or roadside-launched guided missile.”
“This can’t be for real,” said Keira.
Nathan reflexively leaned his head toward the window and pointlessly stared at the night sky. “What can we do?” he said.
“Drive like hell and hope they’re not using a guided missile.”
“What about hiding under an overpass?” asked Nathan.
“That would be a very temporary fix. We’re better off moving—and maneuvering,” he said. “Hang on.”
Nathan turned to look at his family, scared out of his mind that a high explosive warhead could rip into the car at any moment, making this the last time he ever saw them, then reluctantly resumed watching for threats in front of them as Quinn weaved in and out of traffic.
CHAPTER 43
Sergeant Richard Lopez frowned at the navigation screen in the center of his virtual cockpit array. Traffic surveillance drone E-685 was two hundred feet left of its preset surveillance route and steadily drifting south. He turned his attention to the wide parabolic monitor above the nav screen, watching the drone’s nose-mounted camera feed. Interstate 5 appeared on the left, moving toward the center—before the image disappeared. More glitches?
He turned his head and searched for Lieutenant Kelm while keeping a loose eye on the drone’s flight path. Kelm, the North County District shift supervisor, sat in his command-and-control booth at the far end of the darkened room, switching between drone feeds. Lopez pressed a button on his command screen to connect with the lieutenant.
“What’s up, Lopez?” asked Kelm.
“TSD echo-six-eight-five wandered off course, and I just lost its camera feed. Request permission to take positive control,” said Lopez.
“Permission granted. Stand by to copy your onetime authorization code.”
“Ready to copy,” said Lopez, writing the ten-digit alphanumeric code on an electronic pad as the lieutenant recited it.
“I’ll get technical support to reboot the navigation program,” said Kelm. “This is the sixth time division has experienced the same problem in the past three days. A full nav reboot seems to fix the glitch. The camera thing is new.”
“Six times in three days? That’s a lot of glitches.”
“And that’s highly classified information, like everything you see or hear in drone land. Division is investigating,” said Kelm. “Confirm when you have positive control. You’ll control the drone for about five minutes once we start the reboot. I recommend heading out over the Pacific. Not much you can bang into out there.”
“Copy that,” said Lopez. “Stand by for positive control confirmation.”
Lopez knew the procedure cold, but was required by division regulations to follow the laminated card hanging from the privacy screen separating his virtual cockpit from the rest. He started by typing the code into his command interface, and ended the procedure by flipping a green toggle switch.
With the checklist complete, Lopez lightly gripped the sensitive control stick and gently tilted it to the right to turn the drone west, toward the Pacific Ocean less than a mile away. The drone didn’t respond. The drone’s flight path remained fixed on a southeasterly course. Shit. He’d screwed up the procedure. Served him right for pretending to follow the checklist. Now he’d have to ask his lieutenant for another onetime code. He pressed the “Communications” button.
“Lieutenant?” asked Lopez. “I think I botched the checklist. I need another code.”
“I’m showing you with positive control of the drone.”
“The drone’s not responding to stick input.”
“Great,” said Kelm. “Just what we need. More glitches. I’ll give you another—”
Lopez glanced at the lower left screen, checking the drone’s vitals and instrument readings. One thousand four hundred feet—and climbing! A quick glance at the rightmost screen showed a three-dimensional display of the drone’s flight. It was pointed skyward at a seventy-two-degree angle relative to the ground.
“Sir, the drone is climbing rapidly,” said Lopez.
“Are you sure?”
“Instrument readings confirm a full-speed climb.”
“Shit,” said Kelm. “Copy this down. Self-destruct authorization code five-eight-seven-hotel-zulu-niner-one-one-four-echo. Enter the code and stand by to destroy traffic-surveillance drone echo-six-eight-five.”
“Roger,” said Lopez, repeating the code.”
“Correct. I’m calling this in as a hijack.”
Jesus. A hijack? Kelm must know more than he’s saying. Classifying a drone as a hijack was serious business. The department would scramble a Strikefire-armed helicopter to follow the drone. Lopez typed the code and flipped open the red toggle-switch protector, glancing over his shoulder. Several pairs of eyes watched him closely from nearby cockpit cubicles.
He checked the dr
one’s altimeter, watching the altitude climb to two thousand feet and stall. Instead of leveling off at the new altitude, the drone pointed nose down and started to dive in a slow turn. Holy shit!
“It’s diving!” he yelled, forgetting about protocol.
His headset answered. “Sergeant Richard Lopez, this is Lieutenant Harrison Kelm. Destroy traffic-surveillance drone echo-six-eight-five.”
“This is Sergeant Richard Lopez, destroying echo-six-eight-five,” he said, flipping the self-destruct switch.
The instrument display showed a continued dive, which would be consistent with a destroyed drone—if it wasn’t still turning.
“Lopez. Destroy the drone right now,” said Kelm.
He flipped the switch back and forth. “It’s not responding!”
Kelm sprinted across the flight control room, lurching over Lopez’s shoulders a few seconds later.
“What the hell is it doing?” asked Kelm.
“It’s diving straight for the interstate,” muttered Lopez.
CHAPTER 44
“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” muttered Flagg, succumbing to cliché.
Despite the driver’s wild attempts to shake the van’s laser, the jeep had no chance to evade the missile.
The drone operator cut in on the loudspeaker. “Strikefire is independently locked onto the target.”
“Fire the missile and circle back for possible reengagement,” said Flagg.
“Copy. Firing Strikefire in three, two …”
The drone’s nose-camera feed lined up on the front of the jeep, when the screen went green, displaying “LINK FAILED.”
What the hell?
“What’s going on with the drone feed?” asked Flagg. “I’m getting a green screen with the words link failed.”
“Stand by,” said the drone operator curtly.
Stand by? He didn’t want to hear stand by. He wanted to see a fireball erupt on Interstate 5, erasing the only known material witness who could cast serious doubt on the California Liberation Movement’s complicity in the reactor sabotage. A little digging in the right place at the Pentagon could link the stealth boats to the Sentinel Group. This was taking too long.
Fractured State (Fractured State Series Book 1) Page 19
