Brown, Dale - Independent 04

by Storming Heaven (v1. 1)

  Hardcastle’s first thought was to go after Cazaux, but not with three wounded officers around him. The D.C. Police officer was dead. Lani Wilkes was alive but hurt very badly. “I was on the way to the White House ... heard the radio call... where ... where’s Cazaux?” she gasped.

  “He got away,” Hardcastle said. He tried to stuff a handkerchief into one of the wounds and tried to compress the other with his bare hand—the bleeding was serious.

  “Don’t. . . don’t let him get away, Hardcastle, damn you...”

  “Lie still, Judge. Help is on the way,” Hardcastle lied.

  “Violence ... this violence is sickening,” Wilkes gasped. “When will it end? When will it. . . ever ... end ... ?” And her voice trailed off into a whisper, then nothing.

  “Shit!” Hardcastle swore aloud. “You bastard!” He turned to retrieve his Steyr bullpup rifle, and found Harley on her feet, headed toward him. “Deborah, stay down.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “She’s hurt badly. The cop is dead,” Hardcastle said. “I’m going after Cazaux. Stay here and see if you can help Wilkes.”

  “No way. Where did he go? I’ll call it in.”

  “Call it in, but you’re—” He turned and looked toward the Lincoln Memorial as the loud scream of an airliner got closer and closer. “Oh, my God, there it is!” Hardcastle Shouted, pointing toward the Iwo Jima Memorial. “It’s headed this . . . Jesus, Deborah, get down, get down!” Harley ran over, grabbed Wilkes by the arms, and dragged her behind the Washington Monument to safety ...

  ... just as all hell broke loose.

  Near the Iwo Jima Memorial That Same Moment

  Just as the 747 was north of the Iwo Jima Memorial and over the interstate, Vincenti closed his eyes and flew his F- 16 Fighting Falcon into the right rear portion of the fuselage, between the wing trailing edge and the forward edge of the horizontal stabilizer.

  The impact sliced off most of the 747’s rear empennage, and it nosed over, then tumbled, the crushed F-16 adding its own remaining jet fuel vapors to the tremendous explosion over the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. The airliner impacted just east of the Rock Creek Parkway, on the interchange west of the Navy Bureau of Medicine and Surgery complex, tumbling end-over-end in a tremendous flaming fireball two hundred feet high. The bulk of the burning wreckage missed the Lincoln Memorial by less than four hundred yards, spraying burning metal, fire, and destruction across the Reflecting Pool, across the Kutz Bridge, and the Bureau of Engraving and Printing Building on the east side of the Tidal Basin, destroying everything in its path.

  With a terrific mushroom-shaped cloud of fire, the Francis Case Bridge exploded when it was hit by the wreckage, but it stopped the careening hulk from tumbling any farther. Flying debris and burning fuel spread out in a half-milewide, two-mile-long fan, spraying buildings from the Smithsonian Institution and the Energy Department all the way to South Capitol Street with an incredible firestorm. In less than two seconds, almost two square miles of the District of Columbia was on fire.

  Near the Washington Monument That Same Moment

  Hiding behind the square stone face of the Washington Monument, their breathing rapid and shallow, hands and legs shaking, eyes staring in tenor, Hardcastle and Harley tried to close their eyes, then found they couldn’t bear to not watch, and they waited for the fires to engulf them.

  The crash was utterly devastating.

  Hardcastle caught a glimpse of the huge white 747 just to the right of the Iwo Jima Memorial. It appeared to be landing except that it was moving at an incredible speed, the engines shrieking louder than at takeoff, the landing gear up. And, of course, there was no runway in front of it, only the three-mile-long Constitution Gardens and The Mall.

  But then Hardcastle saw a blur, a streak of light to the 747’s left, then a brief puff of fire, and suddenly the huge airliner simply dropped out of the sky right before him, like a huge pelican diving for a fish in the Potomac. The cloud of fire and debris obscured all view in that direction, and that’s when Hardcastle dove for cover, holding Harley close to him as if to shield her from the awful concussion that he knew he had no power to stop. The terrible sound of wrenching steel and Capitol-sized flames hissing in the humid night air moved across and seemingly over them at tremendous speed. Hardcastle always remembered the slow-motion TV shots of plane crashes, but of course they . always slowed the images down so you could somehow savor or try to analyze the crash, and the airliner had to be moving well over three or four hundred miles an hour when it hitthe ground. The earth rumbled with the force of a hundred earthquakes; the lights around the Washington Monument exploded as if being shot out by machine-gun fire. The air felt hot and electrified, as if they were standing in front of a steel smelter, and a sudden windstorm sucked the air out of their lungs as a huge mushroom-shaped blob of air was consumed in the fire.

  But they didn’t die.

  Hardcastle stayed put for what seemed like a long time, and finally looked up when he heard a large piece of debris fall close by. His and Harley’s bodies were, surprisingly, still whole. He crawled around the north side of the monument and peeked westward.

  It was raining burning debris and slippery moisture that Hardcastle knew was jet fuel, not rain. The stricken 747 had somehow careened around to the south, between the Lincoln and Washington monuments, across the middle of the Reflecting Pool, coming to rest in a massive flaming pile beyond the Tidal Basin. The sky was glowing far to the southeast with several fires, but Hardcastle did not see the massive Dresden-like firestorm he was expecting. By just a few hundred feet, the 747 had miraculously missed most of the important government buildings and monuments.

  “It’s over,” Hardcastle said to Harley, who had gotten to her feet and followed him around the Washington Monument to inspect the destruction. “I think Vincenti rammed jt. I thought I saw either a missile or an F-16 itself hit the . 747 just before it cleared the Potomac.”

  “My head is still ringing,” Harley said. “I’ve never heard or felt anything like that before in my life.” She walked around the monument, her eyes tracing the destructive path of the stricken 747. “Didn’t I see Cazaux running in that direction?”

  “Yep,” Hardcastle said proudly. “He was all the way down to Independence Avenue. He ran right into the path of that 747. Man, I hope he got fried. What a great way for him to go—cooked by his own weapon.”

  “That would be the perfect definition of justice,” Harley said. She trotted over to her car, retrieved a first-aid kit from her well-equipped trunk, and began dressing Wilkes’ wounds. The FBI Director was not conscious, but most of the bleeding had slowed to a manageable level. “I just wish he had gotten it sooner.” She looked back to the west and spotted the Avenger air defense vehicle, sitting on what looked like the scorched edge of the fireball across the Constitutional Gardens. “What’s that? Is that one of the Army air defense things?”

  “It’s an Avenger Forward Area Air Defense System,” Hardcastle said. “Must’ve been one of Cazaux’s targets. He - had to take out the ground air defense units to make his air attacks work.”

  “We better go see if anyone’s in there.”

  “I’ll go—the fire might have destabilized the missiles on board,” Hardcastle said. “They might have a radio on board.”

  “You better call the Bureau and tell them Wilkes is hurt badly.”

  “She got a piece of Cazaux before she got it,” Hardcastle said. “She was going to play by the rules, even with the Devil himself standing right in front of her.” He shook his head as he trotted toward the Avenger. “Lani Wilkes saved my life. How am I ever going to live that down?”

  Aboard the E-3C AWACS Radar Plane Leather-90

  Milford saw the fast-moving low-flying radar targets, the F-16 and the fake Executive-One-Foxtrot, get closer and closer, saw the targets merge . . . and then both disappeared, right over the Potomac, just west of the capital. “Oh, Jesus ..

  “Lost contact with Bandit-1 and Devil-
03,” the Senior Director, Maureen Tate, reported. The entire AW ACS crew was silent, everyone realizing what had just happened—a terrorist 747 had just hit Washington, D.C.

  “Bandit.. . Bandit-2 now twelve miles southeast of the capital,” Maureen Tate stammered, trying to force her brain back to the task at hand. “Groundspeed ninety-three knots, in a slow descent. ETA to the capital area, nine minutes.” ,

  “SD, Weapons-3, I need to bingo Lima-Golf-31,” the weapons controller reported. Lima-Golf-31 was the F-15 out of Langley that had tried to chase down the 747. “He has less gas than he thought. He won’t make it to the capital.” The F-15 had been in full afterburner power ever since takeoff, and he probably didn’t start with a full load of fuel anyway. “Andrews is closed, and National is a zoo right now, with planes stacked up all over the place—I recommend Navy-Patuxent River.” Tate turned to Milford, who nodded his agreement. That was their last chance of stopping the new bandit. All they could do right now was wait for it to hit. . .

  ... no, no, there had to be something still out there. He once had several dozen air defense units operational in the s D.C. area—it was inconceivable that Cazaux or any army of terrorists could have gotten them all in just a matter of minutes.

  Just one shot was all they needed to stop this last threat...

  “Comm, MC, sweep all the tactical channels and try to raise any of the Leather air defense units,” Milford ordered. “Someone out there must still be operational. If possible, try to get some of the Avenger units from the Pentagon, Dulles, or National over to the capital area to try to stop Bandit-2.”

  “Any Leather unit, any Leather unit, this is Leather-90 Control,” the communications technician radioed. “If you hear me, come up on any tactical frequency or on VHF 105.0. Repeat, if you hear me, come up on any tactical frequency. Over.”

  Near the Washington Monument That Same Time

  The entire front of the top turret of the Avenger was crushed inwards and blackened, obviously by a hit from' a small but powerful antitank weapon. The front of the HMMWV itself was still smoking from the fire in the engine compartment, and the turret looked cockeyed, as if shoved off its moorings. Hardcastle used a fire extinguisher he found on the rear deck of the Avenger to put out the last bit of fire in the front so he could reach the driver and gunner. Both were dead. He found the third man in the Avenger crew nearby, shot to death by machine-gun fire. Cazaux was nothing if not a very efficient killer, Hardcastle thought. “Dear God,” Hardcastle said half-aloud, “you may not want it, but I’d give all of my remaining years for an assurance from you that Cazaux is really—”

  Hardcastle started on the grisly task of removing the bodies from the Avenger. As he removed the driver’s hel-. met, he heard through the headphones, “Any Leather unit; any Leather unit, this is Leather-90 Control. If you hear me, come up on any tactical frequency or on VHF 105.0. Repeat, if you hear me, come up on any tactical frequency. Over.” Somebody was still calling, trying to see if anyone was still alive. Hardcastle tried to remember who “Leather” was, but it really didn’t matter. This Avenger unit was definitely dead. It wasn’t going anywhere, and the turret and sensors were cooked.

  “Unknown rider, unknown rider,” another radio in the Avenger blurted, “unidentified aircraft on the Washington National one-two-five degree radial, two miles, this is Leather Control on GUARD, turn south immediately or you may be fired upon without warning. You are in Washington National Class B airspace and are approaching prohibited airspace. Turn south immediately and squawk 7700. Attention all aircraft, stay outside Andrews or Washington National ten DME, air defense emergency in progress. I say again, unknown rider ...”

  Holy shit! Hardcastle gasped.

  Cazaux’s second terrorist aircraft!

  He had almost forgotten—Cazaux said he had a second aircraft inbound to bomb the White House with a fuel-air explosive.

  That “unknown rider” was it—and it was only a few miles away.

  He donned the Avenger driver’s thick bulletproof Kevlar helmet, moved the microphone toward his lips, and keyed the transmit button: “Leather Control, this is ... ah, this is Admiral Ian Hardcastle, on board an Avenger unit on the Mall. How do you read this transmitter?”

  “Calling Leather Control, say again.”

  “Leather Control, this is Admiral Hardcastle on board one of the Army Avenger units on The Mall. Can you read me?”

  “Person calling Leather Control, this is an aviation emergency channel only, if you require medical or police response, change to VHF 121.5 or UHF 243.0, over.”

  “Listen to me. Henri Cazaux is flying some kind of aircraft toward Washington, D.C., and it’s loaded with explosives. I’m on the ground near one of your Avengers. Your crew here is dead. I need to know how much time I have and if there’s anything I can do to help avert disaster. Over.”

  “Listen, sir, if you are at The Mall, stay away from any military units you might encounter. The authorities will be arresting or shooting any looters. I advise you to get away from the area as quickly as possible. If you are injured or your home has been damaged, you should contact the proper authorities imme—”

  The controller’s voice suddenly cut off, then another voice came on the channel: “Is this Admiral Hardcastle, the White House air defense adviser?”

  “Affirmative. I’m—” Suddenly Hardcastle remembered back from his unit and situation briefings who “Leather” was: “Is this the senior director of the AWACS orbiting over eastern Pennsylvania?”

  “This is Major Milford, the force mission commander,” Milford replied from Leather-90. “Admiral, we’re tracking an unidentified aircraft about nine miles south of you, about three hundred feet aboveground, groundspeed about eighty- seven knots, heading right toward the capital. What’s your situation there? Over.”

  “A 747 crashed just west of the Constitution Gardens section of the capital, and it destroyed or damaged everything from the Lincoln Memorial to the Capital Yacht Club,” Hardcastle said. “We found an Avenger unit that was hit by an antitank weapon just west of the Washington - Monument. The crew is dead, and the front of the vehicle and the turret and gunner’s cockpit are badly damaged. That plane you’re tracking belongs to Henri Cazaux. He says he’s got a fuel-air explosive weapon on it and that he’s going to bomb the White House. Is there any way to reactivate this unit, maybe by remote control? Over.”

  “Affirmative,” Milford said, stunned by what he had just heard. “There should be a remote-control computer unit up with the driver. You should find a spool of fiber-optic cable about fifty yards long. You should be able to operate the unit with that.”

  The computer was in a strong plastic case on the right side of the HMMWV, plugged into a mounting unit under the dashboard, with a round reel beside it. The case unclipped easily from its mounting; the fiber-optic cable was thin but strong. “I found it,” Hardcastle said. “Stand by.”

  The remote control unit was a laptop computer with a flip-up two-color LCD screen, a sealed plastic-covered keyboard, and a finger-sized joystick built into the base .below the keyboard. To Hardcastle’s surprise, it was working. A simple menu selection displayed on the screen, and by touching a few buttons he got a radar depiction of the skies around the city. After a few moments, Hardcastle could understand the symbols on the scope—the unknown aircraft, labeled “A” on the screen, was only ten miles to the south. “The remote control is working, and I’ve got a depiction of the area here.”

  “Good,” Milford said. “That means the telemetry between the AWACS and the unit there is functioning. Do you see the up-caret symbol at the bottom of the screen? Zoom the picture in or out to see it.”

  “I see it.”

  “Just move the cursor with the joystick onto the caret symbol at the bottom of the screen and press the button below the trackball.” Hardcastle did, and a diamond symbol surrounded the symbol. “What happened?”

  “I got a diamond around the caret.”

  “Good. Yo
u should see a menu on the bottom of the screen, with a button or function key that says something like engage or attack. Do you see it?”

  “Yes. It’s a covered switch that says engage.”

  “Good. Get out of the unit, clear yourself and everyone else away by at least fifty feet, and press the button. The turret should turn and the missile launchers should start tracking the target. You can plug your headset into the side of the remote-control device. The missiles will launch when it gets within range. Go ahead.”

  Hardcastle plugged the driver’s Kevlar helmet communications cord into the computer, got out of the vehicle, unreeled the fiber-optic data cable at least fifty feet, and knelt. Harley was well behind him, tending to Wilkes. He made sure the diamond designate symbol was still on the hostile “A” symbol, then hit the engage button. It turned yellow, then began to blink. The turret, which was pointed west, did not move. “The turret didn’t move, and the engage button is blinking yellow,” Hardcastle radioed back.

  “I’m not sure what that means,” Milford said. “Deselect the engage button, then go to the unit and see if the turret is jammed and that it can turn freely.” Hardcastle did it, then ran to the Avenger unit. Sure enough, the entire circular track that the turret rode on was twisted and almost completely sheared off the base. There was no way it was going to move.

  “I don’t think it’s going to move,” Hardcastle radioed. “The antitank missile twisted the turret track all to hell. There’s hydraulic fluid all over the place.”

  “Can it slew in the other direction?”

  “Negative. The whole turret is off the track. It would take a crane to lift it back on.” -

  “Then you better get out of the area as fast as you can', Admiral,” Milford responded. “You’ve done all you can. The plane will be overhead in about five to six minutes.” Hardcastle wasn’t ready to give up, but he didn’t want anyone else nearby. Their car didn’t look like it was going anywhere, either. “Deborah, start heading toward the Capitol Building—we’ve got about five minutes to make it.” “What about the Director?”