‘That’s your bandit, Devil,” the controller said.
“Control, Devil, say my engagement instructions again for this target,” Vincenti radioed. He thought he’d try a little gamesmanship here—hopefully the crew of that plane would get spooked and turn around. “Your last instructions to me were to keep this bandit clear of P-56 and Washington-National Airport. No matter what I hear on the radio, even if they claim to be an authorized TV crew on assignment, am I clear to engage at will? Over.”
“That voice sounds familiar,” another voice came on the frequency. “Do we know each other, Devil? Have we met?”
The voice sent chills down Vincenti’s spine. It's him, he thought. Shit—it’s Cazaiuc. It was the same voice he heard over Sacramento before Linda was killed. It’s Cazaiuc. He's on board that fake Executive-One-Foxtrot. Vincenti keyed the mike button: “Cazaux, this is Lieutenant Colonel—this is A1 Vincenti, the partner of the pilot you killed over Sacramento. Remember me?”
“Who can ever doubt the existence of the Fates now, I ask you?” Cazaux asked with laughter in his voice. “There are indeed mysterious forces at work, Colonel Vincenti, that have put us back together once again. But aren’t you the one that is supposed to be keeping the skies safe from men like myself, dear Colonel?”
Vincenti was going to reply, but the master caution light snapped on again, and he saw a fuel indication in his heads-up display. This time the caution light said aft fuel low, meaning that the fuel quantity in the aft reservoir tank had dropped below four hundred pounds. It would run dry in just a few moments if he stayed in afterburner power. When the fwd fuel low light came on, he had about two minutes of fuel remaining before they flamed out—perhaps only about twenty or thirty seconds in afterburner power. A normal landing would be impossible if he stayed in afterburner power. He ignored it and keyed the mike: “I’m not going to warn you again, Cazaux. You will turn westbound, lower your landing gear, and head west or north, right now, or I’ll blow you out of the fucking sky. This time I won’t hesitate. I’ve got plenty of reasons to flame your ass, Cazaux. Do it, or you die. That’s my final warning.”
The answer was immediate: “Very well,” Cazaux said simply, and, to Vincenti’s surprise, the 747 banked right and turned toward the west. “Now you have promised you won’t fire on me.” Cazaux snickered. “I have your word, don’t I, Colonel? We are on an open frequency—there are probably thousands of people listening to us. You promised not to harm me if I turned away.”
“I promised,” Vincenti said. He immediately chopped the throttle back to 90-percent power to try to conserve every pound of fuel possible. “But if you try to evade me or don’t follow my instructions, I won’t hesitate to open fire.”
“I assume your Leather Control has heard our conversation as well?” Cazaux asked.
“We’re listening, Cazaux,” the controller replied. “You’re within range of a Hawk missile site right now. I suggest you keep going westbound.”
“Very well,” Cazaux radioed back, chuckling. “I will take my chances with your federal court system. I understand your federal courts have no death penalty, correct? Life in one of your fine American prisons will suit me just fine.”
A few moments later, as Cazaux’s plane was about to fly over the Potomac just south of Rockville, Maryland, Vincenti banked left and joined on the tail of the massive 747. Sure enough, the plane had been painted to look like Air Force One, except the paint was peeling off in several locations and the lettering was not perfect, although very believable. From a distance, it definitely looked like Air Force One.
“Devil, Control, I show the bandit headed westbound,, targets have merged. Do you have him in sight?”
Before Vincenti realized he was talking on an open frequency, he replied, “Affirmative, Control, I’m joined on the bandit. His landing gear is down. The aircraft is a 747, resembling a VC-25. It—” Just then the 747 started a steep left turn, the landing gear retracted, and the airliner began, to accelerate rapidly. “Cazaux, stop your turn. Head westbound now. ”
“Too bad, Colonel Vincenti,” Cazaux said firmly. “Too bad you were given a plane with no weapons. You could have been a hero today.”
“I’m warning you, Cazaux, turn back or I’ll fire.”
“You have not been truthful with me, Colonel.” Cazaux snickered again. “I am the man who killed your Linda McKenzie, the man who terrorized the world’s supposedly greatest nation, the one who destroyed your fighters and rendered your entire air defense system useless and inadequate. I am your nemesis, Colonel Vincenti. If you had weapons, Colonel, you would have not hesitated to attack. You have obviously closed inside both missile and gun range, and we are over open territory, with little danger to innocents on the ground—you would have fired on me if you had the ability. You do not. Nor do I expect any of the Hawk missiles sites you lied about to engage. My men have taken care of all of them very effectively.”
The 747 rolled out, now heading eastbound, and Cazaux added, “And look, Colonel—with typical government efficiency, your National Park Service still has not turned out i the lights in your capital. We are perhaps twelve miles away, and I can see your Capitol Building very clearly. It is so simple—line up on the Iwo Jima Memorial and the Washington Monument. How convenient of you to provide me with such beautiful landmarks. I was hoping to hit the White House, but I’m afraid I won’t see it in time. But I can see the Capitol Building very clearly, up on that hill by itself lit up so brightly, so that shall be my target. Good night, Colonel. You did everything you could. Your government certainly cannot fault you.”
Vincenti swore loudly in his oxygen mask and pushed the throttle back up to military power, banking hard to cut off the turn and stay close on the 747. But as soon as he moved the throttles to the mil power detent, the master caution light came on for the third time, this time with the fwd fuel low caution light on. At military power, burning ten thousand pounds of fuel per hour, Vincenti had less ; than sixty seconds of fuel left...
He knew what had to be done—it was the only option i left to him now.
Near The Mall That Same Time
The radio in Harley’s car was already a jumble of confusion. She had automatically pulled out of the FBI parking garage onto E Street, heading west toward the Treasury Department, but after pulling onto Pennsylvania Avenue, passing the Hotel Washington, she heard another radio report of terrorists sighted near the Washington Monument, and she turned south onto Fifteenth Street and roared off in that direction, her little emergency light flashing away atop the dashboard.
“Why wouldn’t they let us get our sidearms back?’1. Hardcastle asked in between radio reports.
“Because the FBI is filled with paranoids,” Harley said, “or else they were told not to release them—that might be Judge Wilkes’s idea of throwing her authority around. Doesn’t matter—we don’t need the popguns anyway. There’s a reason I wanted to take my car.” Hardcastle had never considered his trusty Colt .45 automatic a “popgun,” and he hoped Deborah had something better in mind.
They raced down Fifteenth Street, across Constitution Avenue, and found a plain sedan stopped on the east walkway, about two hundred yards from the Washington Monument. A chunky, gray-haired black plainclothes or off-duty D.C. Police officer with an “ass-duty spread” was standing behind his sedan, pointing a .38 revolver toward the monument and trying to raise someone on his hopelessly jammed police radio. Harley skidded to a stop, popped open her trunk, and jumped out of the car, holding her gold Secret Service badge up for him to see. “Secret Service. What do you got, officer?”
“Automatic gunfire from two perps near the monument, hit a D.C. cruiser over there,” he said, pointing to a stopped D.C. Police cruiser just barely visible on the other side of the Washington Monument. He was a good three hundred yards away—obviously the cop had no intention of getting any closer with just a .38. Smart thinking. “Just blew up an Army missile jeep with a damned bazooka.”
Harle
y met Hardcastle at the trunk of the car—he was wisely reaching for the heavy, dark-blue bulletproof vests he found. “You always carry two vests in your trunk?” Hardcastle asked.
“Sometimes I wear two vests, Ian,” Harley said. “I’m not proud, believe me.” She flipped down a flap on the front and back of the vests, revealing the words treasury agent. She then lifted the floor carpeting, unlocked a padlock, lifted a large metal door covering her spare tire well, and lifted out two short, futuristic-looking bullpup rifles with green plastic stocks that seemed to comprise the entire body of the gun itself. “Steyr AUGs. Familiar with them?”
“Used them all the time in the Coast Guard and the Hammerheads,” Hardcastle said. He shoved two 30-round magazines into his pants pockets, slammed one magazine home, charged the weapon, and set it on safe. They hopped back into the car and drove off toward the Washington Monument.
Over Arlington, Virginia That Same Time
The 747 was over Arlington now, skimming over the trees and buildings. It looked as if it were going to hit the apartment buildings north of the Iwo Jima Memorial, but Vincenti knew they were not Cazaux’s target. The 747 now filled the windscreen. They were almost at the memorial, yet he couldn’t see anything but the reflection of the lights of Arlington and Washington off the mottled white paint of the 747.
“What are you doing, Colonel?” Cazaux radioed. “Are you enjoying the view? I am.”
“The view I’m enjoying is the one with you crashing into the ground and dying once and for all.” .
“I don’t think so, Colonel,” Cazaux radioed back. “Unfortunately for you, I am not on board the 747. But thank you for thinking of me.”
Vincenti’s color drained. Cazaux isn’t on the 747? He hissed, “Cazaux, you’re a dead man, you don’t know it yet, but you’re dead. ”
“While you waste your breath on threats, flyboy, I shall . stroll down The Mall, watch my 747 crash into the Capitol Building, and then see what other havoc I can raise in the ensuing panic,” Cazaux said. “Perhaps I’ll take my remaining soldiers and visit the White House. Ciao, Colonel.” -
“Fuck you, Cazaux!” Vincenti raged on the radio. He shoved his throttle to full afterburner power to try to catch up with the 747—but as he did, the warn symbol appeared in the heads-up display almost immediately afterward, and a large red engine warning light illuminated on the eyebrow panel. He was out of fuel and the F-16’s engine had flamed out.
Near the Washington Monument That Same Time
Just then, a man appeared from behind the Washington Monument, about a hundred yards away—they could see his outline against the floodlight surrounding the monument. Harley immediately slid her car right, with the left side of the car facing the man, when suddenly a burst of machine-gun fire sent a swarm of bullets in their direction.
Hardcastle had swung open his door as soon as he saw the mem, and he threw himself out of the car even before Harley completely stopped it. He felt a hand on his leg as he was leaping out, and he thought Deborah was right behind him. Hardcastle took cover behind the right front wheel, leveled the Steyr, flicked the safety to the upper five-dot full-auto position, and fired a full one-second burst in the terrorist’s general direction. “Deborah!” he yelled behind him. He could no longer see the terrorist—either he was on the run or was on the ground. “Deborah, you all right?”
“Shit, no!” Harley yelled. Hardcastle leaned his Steyr against the car beside him where he could get to it easily and crawled around to the passenger-side door. Deborah Harley was lying on the car seat, the left side of her face and left arm bloody. Her left arm looked like it was hit just below the bulletproof vest, but it appeared to be only flying glass that caused the facial injuries. “When you’re getting out, Admiral,” Harley said in a remarkably clear voice, still with a trace of humor despite her injuries, “don’t waste time. I’ll have to crawl over you next time.”
“You do that,” Hardcastle said. “You got a first aid kit anywhere in—”
“Forget about me. I’m all right,” Harley said. “Where’s that gunman who fired?”
Hardcastle heard sounds of running. He reached for his rifle—only to face a tall, fearsome-looking warrior dressed in black, wearing a balaclava facemask, a web harness filled with grenades and weapons, standing less than fifteen feet away. The man was carrying a small submachine gun with a long suppressor. The warrior raised his SMG, aimed . ..
... then stopped, lowered it, and said in a definite French accent, “Admiral Hardcastle, I presume?” Hardcastle made a move for his rifle, but the gunman fired a short burst into the ground beside him. Hardcastle heard only faint cracks when the gun fired, but he could feel the impact of the bul- * lets along the ground. The gunman then ran over, grabbed the Steyr, tossed it aside, then stood over Hardcastle, just a few feet away. He was tall and powerful-looking, with an athletic body that could not be hidden even by all the combat hardware on his combat harness.
“This officer is hurt,” Hardcastle tried. “Who the hell are you?”
The gunman pulled off his balaclava hood, revealing a narrow face and close-cropped hair. “I am your old friend Henri, Admiral... Henri Cazaux.”
Hardcastle’s face registered shock, then pure white-hot anger. He tried to jump to his feet and tackle Cazaux. The- terrorist merely kicked Hardcastle aside with a sharp snapping kick to the head, accomplishing the move quite easily.
“This is perfect, Admiral, just perfect,” Cazaux said. He' peered into the car door, checking Harley and taking away her rifle. He quickly checked the glove compartment, removing a .380 automatic backup pistol. “She looks beautir ful even with her wounds,” Cazaux said. He turned back to Hardcastle and said, “First I encounter my old friend and your colleague Colonel Vincenti, and now you.”
“Vincenti?”
“He is out there,” Cazaux said, waving toward the Lin- coin Memorial and the Iwo Jima Memorial to the west, “trying to stop my 747 from crashing into the Capitol. He—”
“What?”
“Oh, yes, Admiral,” Cazaux crooned. “You and the young lady have wonderful seats for my final spectacle. You will witness the destruction of the Capitol as my 747 crashes into it, and then witness the destruction of the White House when my fuel-air explosives destroy it. Of course, I think we might be a bit too close to the explosion at the White House—they assure me everything within a half-mile will be damaged or destroyed by the explosion. If the Fates let you live, then you probably deserve it. Unfortunately, I won’t have the opportunity to see any of this—it is a poor soldier who stops to admire the destruction he causes. Au revoir, Admiral. I hope to—”
“Freeze! FBI!” a voice behind them shouted. “Drop your weapon!” Cazaux let the submachine gun clatter to the ground. “Now raise your—”
Cazaux didn’t hesitate—he ducked down behind the car, drew a sidearm, and dragged Hardcastle to his feet, holding the pistol to his head. It was Judge Lani Wilkes, drawing down on Cazaux from about twenty yards away. “Drop the gun, now! ” she shouted.
“My luck is running true to form tonight,” Cazaux cackled. “It is none other than the beautiful FBI Director, Lani Wilkes! I think you should drop your gun, Madame Director, or I’ll blow the Admiral’s brains out right now. Don’t you move in that car either, Treasury agent!” he shouted as he noticed movement inside the car.
“Bad move, Henri,” Hardcastle said, his voice weakened by the steel-like arm across his throat. “The lady would probably give you a citation if you pulled the trigger. Judge, meet Henri Cazaux. Henri, FBI Director Wilkes.” He could see Wilkes’ stunned expression even in the semidarkness of the lights surrounding the Washington Monument.
“My extreme pleasure, madame,” Cazaux said gallantly. “Admiral, it was convenient of you to wear a bulletproof vest tonight. Madame Director, I’ll make you a sporting proposition. If you don’t lower your weapon, I’ll kill the Admiral and I’ll still escape. Toss your weapons away, give me a head start, and the chase starts
anew, on equal terms. Agreed?”
“It’s not going to happen, Cazaux,” Wilkes said, her voice faltering from the strain, confusion, and outright surprise. “No one is going to give up their weapons.”
“Ah, your voice says otherwise, Madame Director,” Cazaux said. “You have faith in your agents, I assume. Surely they can capture me in the nation’s capital? Now drop your gun. This is my final warning.”
To Hardcastle’s surprise, Wilkes let her service revolver roll on her trigger finger, barrel pointing upward. “Wilkes, don’t do it.” Hardcastle groaned. “He’ll kill me anyway.”
“Freeze! D.C. Police!” they heard.
The plainclothes D.C. Police officer had chugged his way over to the monument, drawing down on Cazaux. Cazaux instinctively raised his pistol toward him. . . and Hardcastle reached up and grabbed his right wrist, shoving it upward. The officer fired, but he was too far away and missed. Cazaux shrugged out of Hardcastle’s grasp with ease and fired three shots at the officer, two rounds hitting him in the chest. Wilkes dropped to one knee, swinging her service revolver back up.
Cazaux aimed ...
... and they fired simultaneously.
Three .45 caliber rounds hit Wilkes, one in the shoulder and two in the chest; two .38 caliber rounds hit Cazaux in the stomach and left shoulder. Wilkes collapsed onto'her back and was still. Cazaux stood there, a hand over the stomach wound, but he was still standing. He swung his pistol down at Hardcastle, but suddenly his knees gave way and he went down on one knee. Realizing he was really hurt, Cazaux stood up shakily, ignoring Hardcastle, and started running south toward the Sylvan Theater and the Tidal Basin. He started to pick up amazing speed. Before Hardcastle could react and reach for one of the Steyr rifles, Cazaux had almost reached Independence Avenue and was lost in the darkness.
Brown, Dale - Independent 04 Page 46
