The convoy turned left at Huntersville Road. The black panel truck also slowed down at Huntersville Road and turned left. The truck was followed by a yellow Cutlass Ciera driven by a woman in her late thirties with her two school-aged children. The white furniture truck turned left as well on to Huntersville Road.
The woman driving the yellow Cutlass had spent the morning in Lexington Park, Maryland, and was now driving to La Plata, Maryland, where her mother lived, to have lunch and let Grandma spend some time with her two children. Her morning had been spent quietly shopping and she was looking forward to a leisurely drive to her mother’s farm.
The black panel truck accelerated as it went west on Huntersville Road. Within minutes it was only a few car lengths behind the last Suburban. A dark blue Bell Ranger helicopter flew several miles behind the convoy. When the black panel truck turned left on to Huntersville Road, the helicopter also banked left, maintaining a steady distance behind the truck.
At a point on the road where there was no oncoming traffic, the black panel truck passed the three Suburbans. As the panel truck roared past each Suburban, their drivers quickly checked out the truck. The occupants of the Suburbans all quietly picked up a weapon and armed it, carefully holding the weapons underneath the windows of the trucks.
As the black panel truck roared by on the narrow road, all that the occupants of the Suburbans saw was a middle-aged Caucasian male, apparently in a hurry to get somewhere. The black panel truck roared off into the distance. The palpable tension in the three Suburbans eased as the panel truck became smaller and smaller and finally disappeared from view.
In the rear of the third Suburban, a lance corporal scanned the traffic that followed the convoy. He saw two vehicles, a yellow Cutlass with a plumpish white female driver and what seemed to be two small children some distance from the convoy and a white truck even farther behind with the name, Catonsville Furniture & Bedding. In the far distance, he noticed a blue civilian Bell Ranger helicopter apparently heading a different direction. The Marine concluded that the helicopter was either a corporate or news aircraft, nothing to worry about.
The Marine reported to Major Bernstein, “Major, I don’t see anything unusual just a woman with two kids, a furniture truck, and some general aviation stuff.”
“Keep looking, we can’t be too sure.”
“Yes, sir.”
After rounding the bend in the road several miles ahead of the convoy, along a deserted stretch of highway bounded by woods on both sides, Jerry Mitchell pulled his black panel truck off the road onto a small unmarked dirt trail and parked it deep into the woods. Working quickly, he took out the small rocket launcher from the back of the truck, set the launcher behind some brush, armed the surface to surface missile and waited amongst the tangle of brush and scrub pines. The launcher, little more than four feet in length, was camouflaged.
Mitchell started to sweat. His years of training and his even longer years in deep cover had come to this. A family man and a likable lumber yard worker, Mitchell had received the telephone call early this morning. He hurried to get dressed and looked in on six year old Sarah and eight year old Tommy still asleep at that early hour. He had told Tommy that he would help him with T-Ball after work, but Mitchell knew in his heart that there would be no way he would be able to keep that promise today, maybe ever.
Leaving for work, Mitchell had paused to kiss his wife, hoping she wouldn’t note the worry. Walking out to his black panel truck which he had bought used two months ago, Mitchell had fretted that he should have painted over the stenciled name, but that was neither here nor there given his duty today.
The lead Suburban rounded the bend on Huntersville Road. As the vehicle approached his location, Mitchell counted off the ticks emitting from the sonar range finder that had come with the rocket launcher. As the ticking sound started to become individually indistinguishable, Mitchell pushed the button on his remote control.
Following the convoy and noting the upcoming bend in the road, the young driver put his foot down on the accelerator on his Ford F-100 truck, swung into the opposing lane and quickly passed the Cutlass with the plumpish woman and her two kids. He rapidly closed in but was careful not to give the impression that he was trying to catch up with the convoy.
Inside the back of the white F-100 Ford truck, twelve men sat on the floor. The seriousness of the situation was painted on each face. They had practiced such an exercise, but the feeling gnawing at the stomach of each man told them that this was it, this was real, this was the why they existed.
Each man was a trained agent, periodically summoned for training by John Trent, their commander and their connection for news from home. For some the news was of families left behind. They had lived for years in this hated alien place, waiting for this day.
Trent, in turn, received his orders directly from the leader. The identity of the leader was a closely held secret. He communicated to group leaders like Trent through elaborate schemes. Direct contact such as the early morning telephone call to Trent at his residence was most unusual.
The weapons resting in the laps of the twelve had been purchased through mail order houses or from the countless gun shops that seemed to proliferate in rural Maryland. Their skillful weapons man had converted the semi-automatic weapons to automatic. Some of the men had obtained coveted Israeli Uzi machine guns, but most had Colt AR-15 rifles. One fellow cradled a Striker 12.
“Holy shit!” said Lee as he watched the small rocket spin toward his Suburban. He immediately swung his steering wheel to the right, hoping to evade the heat-seeking missile now bearing down on this vehicle. The rocket caught the Suburban just under its strengthened front grill. The force of the explosion tossed the Suburban up into the air and flipped it on its side. As the mass of twisted steel screeched a spine-chilling cry, the Suburban came to a stop perpendicular to its original path, blocking the narrow, two-lane road.
The occupants in the Suburban were tossed around like rag dolls, except for the Marine seated in the front right passenger’s seat, who was strapped in his shoulder harness. The explosion’s blast had blown in the front windshield despite the hardened window mountings. Shards of glass showered the occupants of the Suburban.
Bernstein saw the missile strike the first vehicle and heard the anguished cry of his Marine over the radio, but could do nothing for the men in the disabled Suburban, at least not now. “Unit 3, this is Fox Leader. Unit 1 is down and blocking the road. This is for real!”
The driver of Bernstein’s Suburban slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting the overturned vehicle. Even so, he had to swerve his vehicle violently to avoid a nasty collision. The second Suburban skidded sideways and was stopped by the first Suburban with a loud metallic crash. The second Suburban’s front left wheel collapsed from the collision, rendering the vehicle inoperative. The crumbling metal on metal sounds and gear and bodies being tossed about formed a slow motion ballet to Mike, who was in the second seat.
Despite the collision and resulting sparks, there were no fires. The Suburbans used by CSAC were all equipped with automatic fire suppression systems activated by sensors for both collision damage and tip over. When activated, the release of fire suppression gases and gelling agents prevented explosions in the fuel tanks. Mike quietly thanked CSAC for that small favor.
With the second unit now disabled, Bernstein ordered his men to grab their weapons, Kevlar vests and helmets, and head for cover. Instinctively, each Marine knew which weapon and grenade belt to grab. They bolted out of the Suburban and scrambled for the sides of the road.