"The movement's founding fathers tried to poison thousands of Americans in an unholy alliance with Al Qaeda!" the president shouted.
"And these founding fathers have been pariahs within the mainstream True America movement for years. They've been an embarrassment…relegated to speaking to libertarian gatherings at the Howard Johnson's or ranting about government intervention at county fairs. They're irrelevant within the movement. This whole nightmare was dreamed up by two dried-up, desperate hacks unable to come to terms with the fact that the movement they started thirty years ago has been succeeding without their help for the past decade. Take a look at the targets. The United Nations. Congress. NBC. This is nothing more than two highly persuasive lunatics taking one last swing at a revolutionary wet dream they had in the seventies."
"It's still their movement, and I have no intention of waiting around for the rest of Greely's snakes to bite," the president barked.
"Don't expect my agents to participate in a political coup."
"If I can't count on you to rally FBI support, I'll find someone who can."
"Good luck, Mr. President. Oh, if I remember correctly, we still have a Black Hawk helicopter sitting on the ground inside Argentina, among other things," Shelby reminded him.
"Are you threatening me?"
"Not at all, Mr. President. I'm just reminding you of the multitude of domestic and international laws you've violated over the past few weeks, directly or indirectly. If that's it for now, I'd like to contact my task force in Pennsylvania. We wouldn't want any local cops arriving at Mills' estate before the Special Operations road show arrives. I'll show myself out," he said and turned for the hidden door leading to the hallway.
Chapter 59
Staff Sergeant William Gaskey revved the GAU-2/A 7.62mm Minigun, spinning its six barrels at nearly ten revolutions per second. His spade grips had been rigged with a sealed thumb switch, which powered the gun drive motor without engaging the feeder system or ammunition booster motor. With the barrels rotating, he could depress either of the two triggers attached to the grips and instantly deliver a virtual wall of steel. The electrically driven, air-cooled machine gun could fire up to fifty 7.62mm rounds per second at a sustained rate, utterly devastating anything in its sights.
Two days ago, he had put the gun to work against a terrorist compound in West Virginia. Today he would use the gun to stop a semi-trailer on the highway. A convoy of trucks had just run a hastily assembled local police roadblock near Allentown, headed full speed through civilian traffic. The past week had been the strangest of his career. He much preferred Combat Search and Rescue (CSAR) missions or Special Operations pickups in Iraq or Afghanistan. Something didn't sit right with him about using these helicopters on U.S. soil.
"Starboard gun. On my command. Two-second burst into the lead truck. Direct your fire at the cabin," echoed his headset.
"This is Sierra Gun. Two-second burst. On your command," he replied.
He felt the twenty-ton MH-53M Pavelow bank to the right and drop at the same time, commencing its gun run. His stomach tightened in response to the sudden downward pitch, and he tightened his grip on the gun handle, ready to disable the tractor-trailer. The interstate suddenly appeared in his view, along with two dark green semi-trailers, spaced evenly along the road. Three of the five trucks in the original convoy had stopped after the lead truck crashed and rammed through two Allentown cruisers at the first roadblock. According to the latest intelligence, only the lead driver was affiliated with the terrorists, so they would limit the engagement to the first truck.
The interstate behind the trucks was clear of civilian traffic. Several police vehicles trailed the convoy at a safe distance. He assumed the pilots had confirmed that the interstate was clear of oncoming traffic. The helicopter dropped nearly even with the road and sped ahead of the first truck, veering left for a few seconds, before turning hard right on what appeared to be a collision course with the lead vehicle in the convoy. He placed the driver's side door in the center of his gun's iron reticle.
"Starboard gun. Two-second burst. Fire."
Brandon Osborne put his book down and closed his eyes. He'd been in the car for over an hour and was already bored out his mind. They were headed to see his grandparents in Phillipsburg, which wasn't too much further down the interstate. They normally visited for a mid-afternoon lunch, but his grandparents had a church function lasting until two, so they had decided on dinner. Their late start meant that Brandon wouldn't get back to Scranton until nine. He'd miss half of his Sunday night Call of Duty Three game. Every Sunday night, starting at eight, at least a dozen of his school friends played Call of Duty Three in multiplayer mode through Xbox Live. They usually played until ten, but sometimes continued beyond that. Brandon could think of no better way to start his school week.
He knew this drive well, since they made the trip at least twice a month. He really enjoyed these trips, especially when his grandfather hit the Pabst Blue Ribbon a little harder than usual. The World War II stories started to surface, and they increased in detail and color in proportion to the empty cans sitting on the kitchen counter. He had fought on Guadalcanal and several Pacific beaches with the 1st Marine Division, somehow miraculously avoiding tropical diseases and Japanese bullets until Peleliu.
His luck had run out on the approach to the beach. He was hit in the shoulder by a Japanese shell fragment while manning the amphibious assault vehicle's .30-caliber machine gun, and never made it to the beach with his platoon. He called it bad luck, but Grandma always reminded him that he might not be here today if he had made it to the beach. Over half of his platoon was killed in the fighting on Peleliu, which lasted over a month. He always wondered what his grandpa would think of the Call of Duty games. He'd probably think they were nonsense.
Brandon felt the minivan start its turn on the side of an elevated hill that overlooked Central Valley and a bright red farmhouse. A deep rumbling, followed by a muted buzz-saw sound filled his ears, causing him to look out of the back window of their minivan. He saw the front of a green-colored truck disintegrate into a storm of sparks, glass fragments and twisted metal. A massive helicopter crossed in front of the truck, obscuring his view of the carnage for a second. Just as the helicopter cleared the truck, his view was cut off by the hill on the inside of the turn.
"Holy fucking shit! Did you see that?" he yelled.
"Brandon! Watch your mouth! What the hell is wrong with you?" his mother yelled from the front seat.
"Did you see that?"
"See what?" his father demanded, glaring at him through the rearview mirror.
"A helicopter just crossed the road at ground level. It shot a semi-truck to pieces! You have to go back!"
"I've had enough of those video games. All they do is talk about helicopters and shooting. I don't know what has gotten into you, but you can forget about that stupid video game tonight!" his mother said.
"I'm not making this up," he said, scanning the skies out of the minivan's windows.
"I don't want to hear another word from you until we reach your grandparents' house," his father said.
A few minutes later, they approached a roadblock that spanned both sides of the interstate and consisted of at least twenty police cars. Heavily armed police officers clad in camouflage and body armor removed three layers of spike strips set on the road at least fifty yards in front of the roadblock. They signaled for the minivan to proceed, and as they approached the cars, one of them moved back to let them through. His father lowered his window.