by Mack Maloney
“What the f—” Ozzi cried.
Li was just as stunned. “What is going on here?” she asked.
Again her thoughts went back to that night when she’d left the parking garage in tears, when she seemed to be the only one on the roads, except that column of Humvees and trucks that had rushed by her. Since then, from what she’d heard from Ozzi, the D.C. streets had been crowded with Humvees and trucks.
But this?
This was different.
Ozzi had pulled about fifteen feet into the alley before hitting the brakes. Now he shifted and started moving forward again.
They passed six massive A1 tanks, their crews lazing at the turrets or sitting on the snouts. With studied indifference the soldiers watched the Toyota go by. Many were smoking. Some were sleeping. One solider flicked his expended cigarette at the Toyota. Whatever the hell was going on here, it didn’t seem too disciplined.
They passed more Humvees, more troop trucks, then more tanks. At the end of the three blocks, they saw the most unusual piece of equipment of all in this unusual stationary parade. It was a C2V, a tracked vehicle about two-thirds the size of an Abrams tank that was used for one thing only: battle management, especially coordinating ground forces with air assets. Unarmed but stuffed with all kinds of communications equipment, the C2V was usually found about a mile behind the front lines, coordinating the battle ahead. What was it doing here, with all this armor and personnel, killing time in the shadows?
Ozzi finally steered the Toyota out of the alley and back onto Pennsylvania. At that moment, two F-15s went overhead. The jets were more prevalent in the skies of D.C. lately than pigeons. But suddenly their appearance took on a more ominous meaning. Before, Li and Ozzi and anyone else who bothered to notice had just assumed the overflights were a reaction to the terrorist rumor scare, on duty as part of the heightened terror alert. But what if they were up there for a different reason? The sighting of the C2V command vehicle made both Li and Ozzi think the same thing.
“Could someone inside that thing be talking to those guys up there?” Li wondered out loud.
“But what for?” Ozzi replied.
There was no good answer for that. They continued along in silence.
* * *
The streets remained empty all the way to the area surrounding the EOB. Ozzi and Li did spot several Humvees parked in the shadows near some key intersections on the way, only deepening their growing concern that something very strange was happening here. It really didn’t make sense. If the troops were in the streets in case of a pending terrorist attack, why were they staying in the dark, so out of sight? Why weren’t they blocking or guarding the bridges? Or surrounding the key buildings and facilities? A1 Qaeda didn’t hit hard targets; they spent much of their time looking for soft, unprotected, unsuspecting targets, leaving the well-guarded stuff alone. So again, why was the Army staying hidden? Why not be visible, be high-profile, and act as a deterrent?
And those jets? What were they going to do if they weren’t shooting down hijacked aircraft, an unlikely possibility these days? Were they going to shoot at the terrorists on the ground? One barrage from an F-15 could take out a city block in tightly packed D.C. There had to be a simpler, more efficient way to take out a few mooks should they suddenly be found on the streets of the capital.
And if the rumors of the terrorists exploding a dirty bomb right in the middle of the capital were true, again, why were all these troops sticking to the shadows? This wasn’t a case of wanting to catch the perpetrators in the act. They had to be caught beforehand, or disaster would result.
None of it made any sense.
* * *
They reached the EOB, and by luck Rushton’s unmistakable limo was there. Big, long, and black, with several young kids spotted playing on the sidewalk nearby? How could they miss it?
But immediately they both saw the security that had been put in place around the general and groaned. There were plainclothes Secret Service agents lined up in front of the entryway of the building; this Ozzi and Li saw as they drove by as casually as possible. They tried to take in everything they could, because they knew with no other vehicles on the streets except the taxis and delivery vans, all these people watching the EOB would immediately notice the Toyota if they began driving back and forth.
Standing behind this small army of Secret Service agents were at least a couple dozen uniformed White House guards, technically Secret Service as well. Every window on the front side of the building had an armed man in it. Every building on the block had snipers on the roof. Floating above it all were two unmarked Blackhawk helicopters, their huge bulbous noses identifying them as carrying high-tech infrared detection and perhaps eavesdropping equipment onboard.
Ozzi just shook his head. “The President himself doesn’t get this much security.”
* * *
As they didn’t want to drive by the EOB again, Ozzi doubled back, returned to the Parkway, and headed for Bethesda. Again the roads were virtually empty nearly the entire way.
“This was the way my father said it was back in 1962, during the Cuban Missile Crisis,” he told Li. “Everyone hunkered down in their homes, waiting to get nuked.”
They got off at the first Bethesda exit and were soon cruising in front of Rushton’s palatial home. But it was more of the same here. Secret Service agents everywhere — surely a violation of the Treasury Department Security Act — plus a battalion of Global Security bodyguards, including two small MH-500 helicopters hovering above the place.
But there was no military in sight. This further convinced Ozzi and Li that the troops in the streets back in D.C. were there for a different purpose than just protecting Rushton’s fat ass.
* * *
Dressed in black jeans and a sweater, as close she could get to a combat suit, Li knew she was a poor substitute for Hunn.
But even the Delta soldier would have admitted these were formidable obstacles Rushton had surrounded himself with. Things had been tight around Rushton before. But after the attempt the previous night — tellingly not reported in the newspapers or on TV — the traitorous general had obviously doubled or even tripled his guard. There was no way Ozzi and Li would be able to get a shot at him.
They returned to the Potomac Parkway and started back toward D.C., feeling very low. Secret Service, Global Security guards, God knows who else? That was a lot of people watching over just one guy ….
Li almost began to cry again. She thought of her parents again, especially her father. What would he think of what she’d been doing this past week? Would he think she was a hero or a villain? Smart or misled? Patriot or traitor?
It was really just getting to be too much for her.
So, right out of the blue, she said to Ozzi, “I know how I can put an end to this. Once and for all ….”
* * *
Dave Hunn woke up in pain. Strangely, it was not his chest that was aching — it was his head. He had a massive headache, the aftereffects of the trauma his body had received just 24 hours before.
Hunn opened his eyes, taking a moment to remember exactly where he was. It was dark; the clock said 11:00 P.M. Ozzi and Li had been gone for about two hours. Hunn wondered if they’d been able to get at Rushton or if they were even still alive.
Now he realized what Li must have gone through during the nights he and Ozzi were out trying to turn the world on its head. It was not easy, living with the anticipation, the anxiety — and being in the creepy, noisy house certainly didn’t help the situation. At that moment he realized just how brave a person Li was.
Ozzi, too ….
But now what Hunn needed most was an aspirin.
He looked around the room, not really wanting to move very much. It was filled with the clutter of computers and their assessories, the walls covered with pictures of the stupid napkin drawing. But no sign of any aspirin.
He lay back on the pillow and thought a moment. Suddenly he was upright again.
There migh
t be not be any aspirin here, but there was something in the room that could help dull his pain. He looked over the mishmash of laptops to a shelf beyond. Sitting there, all alone, a beam of moonlight coming in through the dirty window framing it perfectly, was the bottle of Thunderbird he’d bought during his quick trip up to Queens. Hunn let his eyes focus on it a moment, just to make certain it was real.
When he was sure it was, he finally smiled.
“Come to Poppa,” he whispered.
* * *
Five minutes and a lot of hobbling later, he and the bottle of Thunderbird were back in the bed together. Hunn twisted off the cap and took a very long gulp. Images of his youth flashed through his mind as it was going down his throat. His first sip of this stuff came at the age of 12, not because he was a bum-in-the-making but because at three dollars a bottle it was in the price range of him and his schoolyard friends. It was the elixir of his early teens.
Now he lay back, his headache fading, his spirits lightening. What a spot he found himself in, he thought in a rare moment of introspection. Everything he’d been through in the past year or so — he couldn’t imagine any Arab mook going through what he’d experienced to fight for his cause. Hunn knew someday someone somewhere might accuse him being a terrorist himself. An American terrorist. Even he did not like the sound of that.
But at least he could say that he was as fanatical about America and killing mooks as the mooks were about hating America and killing him. In fact, he worked harder at it. This terrorist stuff did not come easy to Americans.
His head was beginning to swim now. Everywhere he looked he saw the pictures of the napkin image Li had draped all over.
“That Dumb-ass thing,” he spit again, taking another swig. A kid’s drawing that maybe they’d been reading far too much into. Maybe they were ducks, he thought with another gulp.
He was feeling good now, but he couldn’t just lie here. He needed stimulation to make this day of recovery complete. But what was there to entertain him in this gloomy old place?
The answer was actually right in front of him. Li’s TV and its connected DVD player. Hunn’s eyes locked on it and went wide at the same time.
What were the chances she had any porn lying around? he thought, the real Dave Hunn now shining through. As soon as the notion came to him, though, he knew there was no way. He wasn’t sure Li even knew what porn was.
He leaned forward now and pushed the DVD switch and the tray came out displaying the disk Li had watched last — in fact, her only DVD disk, of her favorite movie. Hunn had no idea who Marlene Dietrich was, but he pushed it to on anyway. The music began, the subtitles popped up, and finally he saw the title: “The Blue Angel.”
Nope, no porn here. This was old, scratchy. And German.
Damn, Hunn thought. With a title like that, the best he could have hoped for was a documentary of the Navy’s Blue Angels aerobatics team.
He took another long swig of Thunderbird.
If only, he thought. If only …
Then he was suddenly sitting straight up again. He felt his body tingling all over. He looked at the bottle in his hand. The dark wine colors, the name so boldly written across the label.
Thunderbird …
He looked back at the DVD, in freeze-frame on the title of the 1930s movie.
Blue Angel …
He looked up at Li’s napkin images. He tore off the one closest to him and stared at it. Thunderbird … Blue Angel … He looked at the napkin drawing. The Thunderbirds performed at air shows. The Blue Angels performed at air shows. Air shows had lots of airplanes in the air at once, going over thousands of people usually right on the tarmac or parking lots at air bases — places with no buildings.
Hunn just shook his head. The words came out of his mouth like someone else was saying them: “Was this thing a drawing of a fucking air show?”
He rolled off the bed and landed at Li’s laptop. He knew next to nothing about computers or the Internet. But he did know how to get on-line, which he did in an instant, and he knew about Google.
He typed as quickly as he could: “Air Shows July.”
The page arrived in a split second. He read the first entry: “Salute to Veterans Air Show.” Thunderbirds. Nellis Air Force Base. Las Vegas. Date: July 4.
Hunn thought his head was going to explode. He didn’t believe this was happening to him. All the brainpower that had gone into this napkin thing — would it really be a dolt like him who would finally figure it out? He took down another napkin image and held it against the computer’s monitor screen. He concentrated not on the drawing but on the number Li had found in the lower corner. It was 74 with a circle around it.
Could that actually be 7 and a 4? Hunn thought. Could the missing splotch of ink she’d been trying to decipher simply be a slash between the numbers, making it a date? Making it the Fourth of July?
He sat back and slapped himself upside the head.
Just like that he’d figured out where the second bus was going and what it was up to.
* * *
The wind was blowing off the Atlantic.
It wasn’t raining, but Ryder felt soaked to the skin. He opened his eyes. The stars above were spinning themselves into strange formations. Constellations he could never have imagined.
He got up on one elbow and looked around. The four old hangars, the dilapidated admin building. The runway with weeds growing all over it.
Cape Lonely?
What the hell was he doing back here?
He got to his feet, shaky in the knees. The winds were blowing fiercely. There were no lights anywhere he could see — except over in the Loran building.
He was immediately drawn to it, walking quickly across the cracked runway, the gale working against him. There was indeed a dull light coming from the strangely shaped building. He finally made it to the door and tried to open it. But it seemed as if a hurricane-force wind was keeping the door shut tight.
Use the key, a voice from nowhere said.
Ryder reached into his pocket and came out with a key he couldn’t remember ever seeing before. He slipped it into the door’s lock and turned it. And for the first time in this entire adventure, a key worked the first time. The door popped open.
With some trepidation, Ryder looked in to see there was a person inside, back turned toward him. But this was not Master Finch, doing his lightbulb trick again — or at least Ryder hoped it wasn’t, because this person was wearing a red dress. Ryder felt his body freeze up. Since her death on September 11th, during those times that he actually went to sleep his beautiful wife, Maureen, seemed to pop up in his dreams on a regular basis. Always there, somewhere, always in a certain red dress, one that he could never recall seeing her wear before.
Now here it was again. Short, not frilly, plain except that vivid color. He could see an aura of light coming from behind, the lightbulb trick again, no doubt. But then the person slowly turned around … and it was not his wife in the red dress at all.
It was someone just as beautiful.
It was Li ….
Ryder woke up with a start.
He found himself looking up at the sky. The real sky, with real stars, not as many of them, but all in their proper places.
He was lying on the bank of a river, partially hidden by the branches of a cinnamon tree. An almost ideal setting — except for all that static filling his ears. It was coming from the radio on the firefighting airplane, bobbing on the water of the narrow river nearby. The noise was almost unbearable.
Bates and Puglisi were standing over him.
“Can’t you shut that thing off?” Ryder asked them with a yawn, surprised that he’d actually fallen asleep. “Put a bullet into it if you have to.”
The day before had been insane. That they’d found the firefighting aircraft, draped in flags as it was, seemed like the real dream. It was an unmistakable sign that the airplane was meant for them, was theirs for the taking.
Once they were able to swim over
to the airplane — it was a CL-215, a Canadian-built craft known for its ruggedness — and climb up inside, they found all sorts of provisions waiting for them. Sandwiches, soda, instant coffee, and best of all cigarettes — gifts from the Ruckers’ friends, the people on CB planet. There was also a lengthy printout of E-mails sent by these supporters and left behind by whoever had secured the airplane for them. They were messages of encouragement for the team, from people thanking them for what they had done, and urging them to keep on going. Some were so heartfelt, they nearly brought the team members to tears.
It took them about a half hour to get the aircraft in shape for takeoff; turning on and fine-tuning the navigation system took the most time. But the fact that it was an amphibian was another appropriate note in this strange opus. Ryder had certainly flown a seaplane before; during the Philippines misadventure he and Gallant had piloted a huge Japanese-made flying boat called a Kai all around the Filipino islands. While the CL-215 aerofirefighter was about one-fifth the size of the gigantic Kai, it seemed the people who’d arranged for it somehow knew that the team had been operating an amphib just a month or so before. Once again, it left them a little mystified that people out there almost knew more about the team than the team knew about themselves.
And though it might not have seemed so at first, the CL-215 was actually an ideal aerial platform for them. Even better than perhaps the Sky Horse might have been. Because of the nature of its work, the CL-215 had a low-speed capability that just did not exist in other types of planes. About 60 feet long, with a wingspan of 93 feet, the CL also had two huge tanks in the center of its belly, which could scoop up 1,200 gallons of water as it was flying along the surface of a lake, a river, or even the ocean. In practice, that water was then delivered to a forest fire, literally bombing the flames into submission.
This particular capability didn’t factor into the ghosts’ plans right away, at least not when they set off looking for the first bus. All they cared about then was whether they would have a place to set up their two remaining .50-caliber machine guns. As it turned out, the CL had two perfect locations, two doors, one right behind the flight deck, the other farther along the fuselage on the other side of the wing. By kneeling on the floor and using the safety straps as the temporary stabilizers, Fox and Puglisi were able to fashion two gun stations on both sides of the plane in no time.
