The agent stood up and walked out of his small enclosure on the right of the thick metal gate. He called out to the symmetrically placed gatehouse on the other side. “Yo! Johnson! Get your ass over here right now!”
There was a crashing sound, and a young man stumbled out of the other gatehouse looking half asleep. “Bridges? What is it? Damn! It’s two in the morning!”
“And that’s our shift, Johnson. Can’t you stay awake just one night?”
The younger man looked up the hill. He’d heard the sounds of the vehicle. “What’s going on?”
The tall black man rubbed his chin. “I don’t know. Truck just pulled up. Just sitting there. I don’t like this. I’m going to call it in, you keep your eyes open and holler if anything happens.”
The older guard walked back to the enclosure. First time I’ve called in anything in two years! He didn’t even remember the number. He flicked on a desk light and scanned the list taped to the side of the wall.
“Bridges?” came the young man’s call from outside. “Hey, somebody’s moving around up there. Looks like he’s on top of the truck.”
Holding the phone in one hand, he glanced up through the window. Sure enough, it looked like someone had climbed onto the roof. He pulled out his binoculars from a drawer and rushed back outside.
“Some drunk kids?” he said, planting his feet near the gate opening.
“Dunno, man. Weird.”
He trained the binoculars on the blurred shaped and focused. It was a man, not standing on top of the truck but inside with half his torso visible above the roof. Like in Desert Storm. He found his mind momentarily frozen, images flooding back and paralyzing his thoughts. The man shouldered something large and tubular. A bright orange light flashed.
“Johnson! Get down! Get—”
From the hilltop, the wraith reloaded the missile launcher. The left-side gatehouse and wall were gone, bright flames licking the remaining structures. A cloud of smoke, backlit from the fire underneath, rose aggressively, blending quickly into the dark sky. He aimed the Predator toward the right side, engaged the targeting electronics, locked onto the structure, and fired.
The result was similarly devastating. The warhead detonated on impact, the explosion thunderous. Stone, glass, and wood from the wall and houses mixed into a short-lived fireball and rained onto the earth beneath. He lifted a high-powered sniper rifle and looked through the scope toward the gate. The gate was gone, the metal warped and broken, the bars torn from the sides of the wall by the explosion. Two burning bodies lay on the ground in front of the gate.
He placed the weapon back inside the vehicle and then dropped into the driver’s seat, shifting forward and barreling down the hill. His frequency scanner buzzed around several common bands, indicating significant activity. Others in the compound or residence were aware that something had happened. Guards would be mobilized. Soon, video transmissions would show the damage, and the vice president would be moved to his underground bunker. That won’t protect you.
The Humvee roared past the burning entrance, crushing underneath it the bodies he had seen from the hill. He did not slow. The house was about one hundred yards from the gate. Already he could see Secret Service agents streaming out of the home and an adjacent guesthouse. At this speed, they would intercept the Humvee in about thirty seconds. But he would not slow down. He would drive straight in front of the building, just feet from the porch and entrance, running down anyone who tried to get in his way. Then he would have to engage them. They likely didn’t have the firepower to pierce the reinforced plating. But individually, they could enter the vehicle and go hand to hand. He couldn’t let them get that close. Their single advantage was in numbers.
Bullets began striking the armor plating from several directions. He could now see about twenty agents converging on him rapidly. It was the perfect lure to the trap.
Just as it seemed that he would crash headfirst into the building, he braked hard and flipped a switch. The front headlights shot their beams outward, but several bright spotlights he had installed around the sides of the vehicle also engaged. Suddenly the men rushing him were blinded, and they were revealed to him in harsh beams. Deer in the headlights.
He leapt through the roof opening and grabbed the M2. It was affixed to a ring mount, allowing him to spin nearly three hundred and sixty degrees, the barrel extending through a slot cut into the thick cylindrical plating that surrounded him. He could fire at will against those outside. They saw only the end of his weapon protruding from the wall of steel. He opened fire.
It was a shooting gallery. The M2 rounds were devastating and were pouring quickly from the machine gun. The agents fired wildly, bullets flying past the truck, some hitting it, one shattering a spotlight, others careening off the protective armor plating surrounding him atop the Humvee. It was bloody carnage below. He slowly rotated the gun, men dropping as if under a weed-whacker, screams and dust and blood overwhelming the senses. The remaining agents began to run, realizing they could not overcome the assault. He showed no mercy and gunned them down from behind. The gunfire stopped. None were left standing.
He reached down and heaved up the missile launcher. He had two more missiles, both blast-fragmentation warheads, and turned toward the house. As if on cue, there was movement at the windows and front door of the residence, and he began to take fire from the few agents remaining — likely the staff assigned to protect the building proper. The last line of defense. Several were stationing themselves near the entrance and surrounding windows, and some on the second floor. Rounds clanked around him, one even striking his chest causing intense pain, but the body armor prevented major damage. The fire was coming from the second floor; that shooter had the best angle on him. He aimed the Predator upward and fired. The missile rushed forward, and an entire side of the house exploded. It was as if a propane tank had blown up inside the home. Wood paneling, drywall, and glass showered downward with smoke and flames. All firing from the house ceased, the agents below likely frozen in shock from what had happened.
Time for the awe. He mounted the last missile, aimed the weapon toward the front door, and launched. The explosion blew the porch apart, white colonial support columns flying outward, the second floor partially collapsing above the entrance. Dust and small debris rained down even as far as his Humvee. There was no further gunfire from within.
He lowered himself into the truck, strapped himself into the seat, and gunned the vehicle forward. It rode up the blasted stairs and porch, where the devastated timbers of the house were no match for the weight and momentum of the truck. Anything in his way shattered and splintered. He crashed through the hole in the house, smashing into the lobby and living room, and brought the vehicle to a stop.
Quickly he exited, grabbing a portable grenade launcher, a shotgun, and a small submachine gun. Into the slots of a back holster he placed the shotgun and grenade launcher. He strapped several bars of Semtex plastic explosive around his waist, along with a timer and fuses. Opening his smartphone, he called up the schematics of the house he had obtained from CIA computers and verified the location of the bunker. It was directly below him, the walls hardened and reinforced with steel and concrete, a circular hub of an enclosed living space with its own power system, battery banks, water wells, air filtration systems, sewage disposal, security system, and medical supplies. An OCD paranoid’s fantasy panic room.