“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wagner kept smiling and waving, but with a sharp edge to his voice. “If you have something definite, fine, but I can’t delay a thing like this for nothing.”
Both Frank Daniels and Eddie Barnett beat Charlie back to the helicopter. Kamal saw them coming and powered it up for take-off. When Charlie got there, the others were already inside and he was red-faced and wheezing. Eddie Barnett turned, put his hand on Charlie’s chest and stopped him. “No, Charlie. We’ve already got enough guns aboard. You stay here and coordinate things from this end.”
“That’s bullshit, Eddie, you can’t ground me. I’m coming.”
“Charlie, I need you here.”
Charlie stopped and looked at him. “What? You think I’m too old for this? Did Norma Jean say something to you? Look, just because I’m retiring…”
Barnett drew him close and said, “No, I need you to stay here and find Louise. Can you do that for me?”
“Louise? That’s what this is about?”
“You know her. She’ll try to get as close as she can get to Wagner, and I want you to get her the hell away from there. You owe me, Charlie.”
“Louise?” Charlie said as he looked down at his sweat-stained shirt. “You’re not saying this because you think I’m too old?”
“No, I’m saying it because I can’t stand the thought of her being blown to pieces if I screw this up.” They looked at each other for a moment and quickly shook hands.
“Yeah, I can do that.”
“Find her and keep her safe.”
Charlie turned and ran away toward the reviewing stands.
Kamal watched him go, and then looked over at Barnett. “You lie like an Egyptian, Agent Barnett. You know he is too old and too fat to be doing this.”
Barnett shrugged, “And I know his wife. Norma Jean would kill me if I didn’t watch out for his sorry ass.”
Kamal got the helicopter into the air immediately, gaining altitude as quickly as he could over the battlefield. Barnett leaned over and adjusted the frequency settings on the radio, and said to Kamal, “Let’s monitor the search.”
“Here, take the stick for a minute,” Kamal told Barnett as the Egyptian reached back and pulled the heavy blue bag that Gamal had put on board closer so he could unzip it and get his big hand inside. As the top opened back, Daniels leaned forward and saw a small arsenal of weapons inside the bag, and his eyes grew wide. “Where the hell did you get all this stuff?”
“I have no idea,” Kamal smiled. “Perhaps it came as standard equipment when you rent a helicopter here,” he said as he tossed an Uzi submachine gun to the shocked Secret Service agent, and handed another to Barnett. “I assume you gentlemen know how to use these?”
“Are you nuts! That stuff’s illegal as hell here,” Daniels pointed.
“Suit yourself,” Kamal shrugged. “Hafez Arazi stole several Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine guns from our Embassy arms room. If you would rather go up against him and Ibrahim Al-Bari with your pistols, especially you, Agent Barnett, with that little 38-caliber snub nose revolver of yours, be my guest. Me? I prefer having an Uzi at my disposal.”
“I guess you do have a point, Kamal,” Daniels wavered as he checked the magazine on the Uzi and flipped off the safety. “I think we’ll keep this contraband for now, and turn it in to the proper authorities when we get back to D.C.,” he added with a wry grin. “After all, we wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt with these things, now would we?”
Kamal pointed into the open canvas bag again, and said, “I think I also saw some illegal hand grenades in there. Would you like one?”
Barnett bit his tongue and kept quiet. He still had his trusty .38 Police Special in his shoulder holster, just in case; but under the circumstances, he was smart enough to keep the Uzi and pull two hand grenades from the bag. He tossed one to Daniels and put the other in his own jacket pocket. “Just for test purposes,” he told the Secret Service agent.
Leveling out at a thousand feet, Barnett turned and looked down on the colorful woods and fields below. The stragglers were now hurrying from the parking areas to join the huge crowd in the semicircle around the amphitheater below the Visitors Center. Tension mounted as they saw the other Secret Service and Army helicopters darting back and forth across or hovering over the nearby campgrounds, roads, and parking lots. They watched and listened to the brisk radio traffic in the air around them, but as the seconds dragged on it became more and more obvious that the other helicopters had seen nothing.
Kamal turned around and looked at both of them. “They want us to clear the air space over the battlefield. There is a flyover of F-22s coming through here in three minutes when the ceremonies start. They are coming right down the Peninsula from west to east, so we have to move to one side of the line or the other. North or south, take your pick.”
Barnett looked around in frustration, then leaned over to Daniels and said, “North. There are five or six choppers down here already, but I only see one up there on the Gloucester side of the river. Let’s look over there.”
Daniels nodded and motioned with his hands for Kamal to bank right.
Barnett sat nervously, changing the channels on the TV set in rapid succession, while looking through the door window at the ground flashing past below. Finally, he clicked on Channel 6, looking intently for Louise Taylor.
Inside the deserted-looking camper in the commuter lot near the York River Bridge, Ibrahim Al-Bari knelt next to the mortar rechecking the settings on the elevation and transverse gears of the mortar tube. He ran his hand down the barrel, almost lovingly, and then looked back at the television set.
In the center of the TV screen stood a blonde American reporter in front of the reviewing stand at the Victory Center. With a serious expression and a faint frown, she looked into the camera, and raised her microphone. “This is Louise Taylor, for CBS News. Back here at Yorktown, the word from our White House sources is that something really big is indeed up, as the crowd is waiting anxiously to hear the President’s upcoming speech.”
Ibrahim Al-Bari turned toward Arazi, beaming, and said, “I have double-checked each setting, Hafez. A few minutes, a few minutes, then we shall strike.”
Back in the studio, Louise’s new Network Anchorman, Peter Grimes, took his cue and smiled, “CBS News has now confirmed that the Egyptian Ambassador is in the building with the President, Louise, as is the Israeli Ambassador and representatives of most of the other Middle East countries. No one will say why, but I’ll bet a big policy announcement on the Middle East may be in the works.”
On the screen again, Louise Taylor blinked. “I… think that’s a good guess, Peter.”
In the camper, Arazi leaped for joy, “Did you hear that, Ibrahim! Fawzi and all the rest of them are there! Allah is indeed smiling on us today.”
The TV showed the circular driveway of the Victory Center as the Colonial Fife and Drum Corps marched out the front doors, followed by President Wagner. The crowds cheered and waved, but it was obvious that security was tight everywhere. The men wearing the dark sunglasses and hearing aids appeared very nervous.
“There he is! It is Wagner, we have done it, Ibrahim!” Arazi shouted.
The blonde TV reporter, Louise Taylor, looked back over her shoulder and said, “Well, Peter, the Presidential party and official guests are headed for the reviewing stand. The President seems to be very popular, at least here in Yorktown, and you can hear the crowd going wild behind me.”
The President climbed the steps to the reviewing stand and headed for the podium. Trailing behind him, the TV cameras showed Chief of Staff Ernie Nevers, Secretaries Jensen, Fields, and Korshak, with the Congressional leadership, and various Federal, state and local officials. In the center walked the Egyptian and Israeli Ambassadors, heads close together, hands gesturing as if the two men were having an animated discussion. At the end of the line walked Gamal Massri and a host of Secret Service agents.
“We have him now, Hafez, Wagner,
Fawzi, and the Israeli, too. We have them all!” Al-Bari whispered as he stared intently at the screen.
Arazi looked at his watch. “And right on time, Ibrahim.”
As the Fife and Drum Corps passed the podium, the sound of their instruments was drowned out by the deafening roar of four sleek, supersonic F-22 Raptor jet fighters passing low overhead.
Al-Bari’s eyes narrowed with hatred. “More American airplanes,” he hissed. “Just like the ones that killed Kadri.”
They watched as Wagner and the rest of the official party turned their eyes upward. Hands were raised to block the bright sun as the awesome American military might passed overhead.
“They will be of no use to them today, Hafez. It is 2:00 p.m. Open the roof panels,” he exulted. Grasping his cousin by the shoulder, their eyes locked on each other in joy. “The time has finally come for my revenge!”
“For our revenge,” Arazi corrected him. “For our revenge!”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Yorktown, Friday, October 19, 2:00 pm
Kamal continued his slow bank to the right until the helicopter flew parallel with the tall Coleman Bridge. From high overhead, they looked down and saw the shuttle buses traversing its narrow deck. Far ahead, Barnett spotted another helicopter flying low over the highway and its nearby side roads. He looked at his watch and knew that their time had finally run out. Wagner’s speech was about to begin.
“Damn!” He swore in frustration. “Anything at all on the radio?”
“No, nothing,” Kamal replied, “but they’re still looking.”
Scanning ahead through the Plexiglas nose bubble, Barnett said, “We have half a county to cover down there, and we’re out of time. I see some shopping centers, a commuter lot, and a school. Let’s start there, check the lots, and work back to the river. A mile and a half? Two miles? This is the closest and most logical area for him to set up in.”
The Bell Ranger swooped low over Route 17, twisting and banking as they passed over the lots Barnett had pointed out, but they still saw nothing.
“There go the F-22s,” Kamal said as he threw his thumb back over his shoulder.
Barnett turned in his seat and caught a glimpse of the streaking gray fighter jets flashing low over the battlefield.
“I’m turning back to the river,” Kamal said as he brought the helicopter back around and headed for the bridge. “We can run up the shoreline and fly over the marinas and small lots.” He hopped over the bridge and dropped down on the first set of commuter lots that lay around the foot of the bridge along the river. Coming in low, they could now see individual cars, trucks, boat trailers, and even campers in the parking lot on the west side of the bridge. As they flew over them, Barnett’s eyes were drawn to a sudden flash of movement. Turning his head to the left, he could see underneath the bridge to the parking lot back on the east side of the road near the river. Scanning across the rooftops, he spotted a bright reflection. It was the sun caught for a split second and reflected back at him from movement on top of a roof. It was a skylight, tilting back and opening.
“There!” Barnett shouted. “There! In the other lot, that white roof!”
“Buckle up!” Kamal ordered as he put the Bell Jet Ranger into a violent, banked turn to the left. Barnett was thrown back in his seat and pitched onto his side. Using its full power, the machine clawed the air for a second before he stood it on its side and sent it racing under the bridge through the narrow gap between two of the tall support columns and the superstructure above. While his passengers grabbed for handholds, Kamal brought the helicopter around and flew low over the parking lot on the other side, swiftly and precisely. Looking down through the side window now directly below him, Barnett was finally able to find the camper.
With the twin roof panels standing fully open now, the cool outside air cascaded into the hot, stuffy camper. The two men inside stood still for a few seconds, breathing deeply to clear their heads. It was as invigorating as a cold shower. However, there was no time to waste. Ibrahim Al-Bari turned and looked back at the TV set to follow the progress of the many guests as they took their seats on the speaker’s platform and President Wagner approached the podium.
“They are all there, can’t we fire now, Ibrahim?” asked Arazi, drumming his fingertips on the first mortar shell.
“No, not yet, not quite yet. Be patient, Hafez. I will tell you when. First, I want to see the panic and fear in their eyes, as our own people did.” Al-Bari was also in agony as he waited nervously, but it had taken him too long to get here. He wanted his revenge to be complete, so he would wait. It would only be another few seconds before the whole group would be in their seats. Only a few more seconds, he thought as he stared intently at the television screen, but his concentration was suddenly broken by a loud noise. He cocked his head and listened. No, it could not be, he thought. He stood upright and listened, as that first faint sound became the unmistakable rhythmic Thump-Thump-Thump of a rapidly approaching helicopter.
“It is the Americans,” he hissed. “They have found us.”
Arazi also looked upward and exclaimed, “No… No, not now!”
“Be quiet!” Al-Bari snapped back, listening harder. As the sound grew louder, he instinctively turned his face up as a red and white machine hurtled by, barely fifty feet over his head, momentarily blocking the sun. The powerful downdraft of dust and dirt from its whirling blades peppered his sweat-covered body like a sleet storm, forcing him to turn his face aside from the sharp pain. Then it passed overhead and was gone as quickly as it had come.
As Kamal flew the big bird directly over the camper, Eddie Barnett could look directly down into the opening between the roof panels. “That’s it!” he screamed. “God, I saw the mortar and two men standing next to it.”
“One of them looked up just as we passed over,” Frank Daniels replied, “and I’d swear it was Al-Bari himself.”
“Take us back and put this thing down, Kamal!” Barnett yelled, picking up the Uzi that the Egyptian had given him, checking the 32-round magazine, pulling back the receiving rod on top, and seating a round in the chamber. As the helicopter completed its fast, looping turn, Kamal suddenly pulled back on the cyclic control stick and lowered the collective. At the same time, he brought the tail around in a quick 180-degree turn, raising the nose. Like a magnificent bull elephant made to pirouette atop a tiny pedestal in the center ring of a circus, the helicopter strained, but did Kamal’s bidding as he commanded. He sat the big bird down on its ass in a small open area midway between the river and the camper, with the helicopter’s nose pointed directly at its rear door, leaving Barnett and Daniels bouncing in their seats.
“Where’d you learn to fly like that?” Barnett shouted as he pulled back on the latch and yanked the door open.
“From your people at Fort Rucker,” Kamal answered as a pleased smile crossed his lips. A little rusty, he thought, but not bad. It had been many years since he had done a combat assault, but a skilled hand never forgot.
Frank Daniels went out the right rear door and hit the ground running amidst the swirling cloud of leaves, dirt, and small stones still billowing out from under the helicopter’s fast-moving blades. Barnett jumped down to the left and was right behind him, following the Secret Service agent. Kamal watched them run past the nose of the helicopter and head for the camper. He quickly activated his chin microphone and broke into the Secret Service’s operational frequency. “Agent Marchetti,” he said calmly. “Agent Marchetti, this is the FBI bird. We have the white camper in sight at Gloucester Point next to the bridge. I say again, confirmed on Gloucester Point next to the bridge, and are attacking on foot. I suggest you clear that reviewing stand. The roof is opening and they are preparing to fire.”
Across the river, Secret Service Special Events Detachment Chief Martin Marchetti heard an accented voice talking to him, and began to panic. “Hastings, who the hell is that?” he screamed. “FBI Bird? Hastings, tell them to get the hell off my net!”
&n
bsp; “I think that’s the Egyptian pilot flying with Marchetti and Barnett. It sounds like they found the camper and it’s about to fire.”
“About to…” Marchetti’s head snapped around as he looked at the big wall map and the TV monitor. “But…”
“Do what he said, damnit!” Hastings screamed at him. “Call the Protection Unit and clear the stand now, before it is too late!”
Arazi screamed, spun around, and grabbed for the first mortar shell.
“No!” Al-Bari called out as he grabbed his arm. “Remain calm. This is what I expected, but they are too late. We will destroy them all and they cannot stop us, so keep to the plan, Hafez. I want to see the look of fear and defeat on them first.” Turning back to the television set, he said, “Hafez, look out the back door and see where that helicopter is.”
Arazi fumbled with the lock on the rear door. Frustrated and unable to get the small mechanism to work, he took a step back and savagely kicked at the door handle. The lock snapped and the door flew wide open, crashing against the sidewall of the camper. He leaned out and stared across the parking lot in disbelief. Twisting his head around, he shouted. “It landed! Right behind us, it landed and there are men running this way.”
Al-Bari turned his head back toward the doorway. “I see only two men. Here!” he said as he picked up one of the H&K MP-5 submachine guns lying on the bench and tossed it to Arazi. “We trained for this. We will teach them that we know all their tricks, and we know how to defeat them,” he said confidently. “Now go out and kill them both for me, Hafez. Then we shall fire the mortar together. Go, you will not fail.”
By the time Eddie Barnett had dashed around the nose of the Bell Ranger, Frank Daniels was already twenty feet ahead and racing at full speed across the gravel lot. Barnett had been an Army Ranger and had fought in Iraq, but that felt like a very long time ago. Pounding after Daniels and trying to catch up, he reached back to remember all those lessons the Army pounded into him. Give the butt of the magazine a good hard slap to seat it firmly in the receiver. Pull back on the bolt and let it snap forward, solidly ramming a new round in the chamber. Keep your fingers away from the moving parts. Point it at movement. Don’t aim. Short bursts. Don’t rush. Fire from the hip. Keep moving. Faster. Faster! And for God’s sake, flick off the safety! Panting and running across the parking lot, he felt like a very old man who had forgotten more than he ever knew.
Aim True, My Brothers Page 27
