“You two on the road, drop your weapons, raise you hands in the air, turn around, and kneel down!” they heard from a loudspeaker on the CHP helicopter. “You will receive no more warnings!” The message was repeated in Spanish.
“Come and get us, filthy Americans!” one of the commandos shouted, and he pulled a grenade from a pocket and threw it toward the helicopters. But milliseconds later, the commando disappeared in an incredible cloud of red gore—and then Zakharov heard the loud, chilling brrraaappp! sound of the Chain Gun firing, sending fifty twenty-millimeter shells dead on target in one second. There was nothing left of the commando but bits of his boots.
The grenade sailed in front of the CHP helicopter, missing it by several dozen yards, but the mid-air explosion had the desired effect—Zakharov could hear the helicopter’s engine whine louder and louder as shrapnel was sucked into the turbine and started to shred the compressor blades; the helicopter spun, then dipped, then smacked hard into the alfalfa field.
“Forget the robot!” Zakharov shouted. “Grab Richter! We’ll use him as a human shield!” Zakharov turned and started running toward the bridge across the Coachella Canal, but he hadn’t gone more than a few steps when he heard the Super Cobra’s cannon fire again. He waited for the slugs to pierce his body…but they were just a warning shot, the shells impacting the ground behind him where he had stood just seconds earlier, hitting so close that he could feel the ground shake. He froze, his pistol out of sight in front of him. He had one grenade in his coat pocket and if he could get a lucky shot off with the pistol…
Just then there was another warning burst of fire, just a meter to his left, the shells whizzing by so close that he felt as if he was being sharply patted down by a police officer. He had no choice: he slowly lifted his hands, the pistol still in his right hand. The cannon roared again, this time close enough to his right arm to blacken his sleeve. Zakharov screamed, and he sank to his knees, clutching his thankfully uninjured right hand, his arms and legs shaking so violently that he thought he would pass out if he didn’t fall down first. Off in the distance he could hear sirens—the police, moving in for the arrest.
It was over. Well, he had managed to avoid capture for many months; he had attacked the U.S. government in its own capital; he had caused untold thousands of deaths and trillions of dollars in damage—and it had finally taken no less than a U.S. Marine Corps Super Cobra gunship to stop him. Even Task Force TALON’s high-tech robots couldn’t…
Suddenly there was a bright flash of red and yellow light behind him, and moments later he was knocked onto his face by a tremendous blast of superheated air and a concussion shock wave. He thought that maybe the Super Cobra pilot had received orders to just kill him and not waste time and money on a trial—but he was still alive. Amid a series of explosions and the sounds of crunching metal and jet fuel–fed fires, Zakharov fumbled for the grenade in his coat pocket, then rolled onto his back, ready to toss the grenade at the approaching police cars…
…when he realized he was lying in the midst of an inferno. The Super Cobra helicopter had been blown from the sky—it had been completely obliterated in mid-air. The whole field around him seemed to be on fire…
…and at that moment he saw two jets flying overhead, less than a thousand feet aboveground, both Northrop F-5 Freedom Fighter air defense fighters. Both were in green, brown, and gray jungle camouflage colors; the leader had one air-to-air missile missing from its wingtip pylon, while the wingman still had both of his missiles, which appeared to be AIM-9L Sidewinder heat-seeking missiles. Had those American jets accidentally fired on a Marine Corps helicopter? He knew the U.S. Air Force and Navy flew the F-5 as an “adversary” fighter, its pilot trained to mimic air-to-air engagement tactics of various enemy air forces; certainly the Navy base at El Centro had several F-5s in its “Aggressor” squadron. But it was incredible that it would accidentally shoot down one of its own aircraft! Zakharov’s head was swimming in confusion. What was going on…?
No, they weren’t American jets, he realized—they were Mexican jets! The Mexican Air Force flew two squadrons of F-5E Freedom Fighter jets as air defense interceptors, one squadron in the south and one over the capital. What in the world were they doing here, firing missiles at American helicopters in American airspace?
Through the smoke and fires raging all around him, four more helicopters arrived—small single-pilot McDonnell-Douglas MD530 light counterinsurgency attack helicopters, their official markings blacked out on the sides of the fuselage, each fitted with rocket launchers and machine guns on their landing skids. While three of the helicopters hovered nearby on patrol, pedal-turning in all directions on guard for any pursuit, one set down on a road intersection across the canal. Zakharov didn’t hesitate—he ran as fast as he could across the bridge. The right side door to the helicopter had been removed, making it easy for him to climb aboard.
“Coronel Zakharov?” the pilot shouted in Spanish when the Russian climbed inside.
“Sí!” Zakharov shouted. The pilot’s face was obscured by the helmet’s smoked visor. “Who are you?”
“A friend. Get in, quickly!”
Zakharov pulled his sidearm and aimed it at the pilot. “I said, who are you?”
“¿Usted no me cree, Coronel?” the pilot asked in good Spanish, smiling. “If I’m an American agent, perhaps you are captured—but if I leave you here in this burning wheat field, in five minutes you are definitely captured.”
“Answer me!”
The pilot smiled again, then lifted the dark visor. “Believe me now, Colonel? Now get in, sir.” Zakharov smiled broadly, then scrambled inside and hurriedly pulled on shoulder straps. The helicopter lifted off and stood guard. One by one the other helicopters alighted. The CID unit was strapped onto the landing skids of one helicopter; Richter and the Russian commando boarded the other two helicopters, and soon all four Mexican helicopters were speeding southward at treetop level, crossing the border into safety just moments later.
HENDERSON, NEVADA
A SHORT TIME LATER
The recorded commercial message abruptly cut off, and Bob O’Rourke’s voice, shaking and unusually muted, came on moments later: “This flash message has just been handed to me, ladies and gentlemen, from the news wire services. Just minutes ago, down near the California-Mexico border near El Centro, a U.S. Marine Corps helicopter was shot down by a Mexican Air Force fighter jet. The two crew members were killed instantly. Yes, you heard me correctly: reports are that a U.S. military helicopter was shot down by the armed forces of the republic of Mexico, just moments ago.”
O’Rourke paused briefly, making no attempt at all to muffle his labored breathing. He had bandages on the left side of his face from the incident in the Arizona mountains with the American Watchdog Project, along with elastic bandages securing a broken rib, from when Georgie Wayne jumped on top of him; his left arm was in an elastic bandage too from a strain, which he always put in a sling whenever he knew he was going to be photographed. He looked every inch the combat veteran he wanted to appear to be. “Eyewitness accounts made by the Imperial County Sheriff’s Department and the U.S. Navy report that law enforcement agencies, assisted by military search teams from Naval Air Facility El Centro, were searching for terrorists discovered farther north near Niland, California, who were trying to escape across the border into Mexico. The terrorists were armed with sophisticated weapons including shoulder-fired antiaircraft weapons and sniper rifles, and they had apparently attacked other law enforcement pursuers with these weapons. But when an armed Marine Corps Super Cobra helicopter gunship tried to corner the terrorists just a few miles north of the border, it was shot down by an air-to-air missile fired from a Mexican Air Force F-5 Freedom Fighter jet, made in the U.S. and sold to Mexico for air defense purposes. One, perhaps two terrorists are believed to have escaped across the border.