“I don’t say this to be vain,” Carver said, “but you’re looking at the only person in America who can catch the assassins.”
Hundley grinned. “You’re an even bigger egomaniac than I am. So are we good?”
“No,” Carver said. “Seriously, Sergeant, I can’t pretend you didn’t shoot that looter. Twenty other people saw you gun that guy down. But I can tell the Army about the other things you did here today. Maybe they’ll go easy on you.”
Hundley lowered the rifle. “I can deal with that.”
Carver climbed over the debris. “So who were we fighting?”
“Ulysses,” Hundley said. He kicked one of the dead Ulysses soldiers in the ribs. Carver looked over the bodies. He picked up a Ulysses ID on the floor and regarded the photo of Chris Abrams’ chiseled head. He turned over the four bodies one by one.
Their faces were intact, but none matched the man on the ID.
8th Precinct, Baltimore
The police station was oddly quiet as O’Keefe ushered Nico to reception. The Desk Sergeant, a rail of a man with bushy, graying eyebrows, was the only person in sight. “Morning,” he said. “What’s a nice couple like you doing in a dive like this?”
O’Keefe’s left wrist was cuffed to Nico’s right. She jerked them to eye-level for the Desk Sergeant’s benefit.
“My mistake,” the Desk Sergeant said. “You looked like a couple lovebirds holding hands.”
O’Keefe flashed her old NSA badge, having learned the hard way over the past several weeks that it carried far more weight than the generic-looking credentials issued from Speers’ office. “Where is everybody?” she said as she peered around the near-empty station.
“Sleepin’ it off,” the Sergeant said. “We’re not staffed to enforce martial law, but we were doin’ just that until the Ulysses boys showed up a few hours ago.”
“Everyone okay?”
“One of our guys fell asleep behind the wheel, smashed into a daycare. Thank God no kids were there at the time. Chief had seventy cots set up downstairs an’ they’re all full up. But now we got scattered reports of looting coming in, and I’m thinkin’ naptime’s over. Know what I mean?”
“Sorry to trouble you,” O’Keefe said, “but I need a secure Internet connection.”
“What, NSA don’t have wireless?”
“She said secure, genius,” Nico quipped. “That means a land line.”
“Pardon my colleague,” O’Keefe said. “Now can you help us?”
“Third office down the hall, right side. Knock yourself out.”
Just as the Sergeant said, they found a small meeting room with an outdated public-use computer. Nico stood before the ancient machine, nervously chewing the nails on his free hand as he gazed at his EVA tattoos.
O’Keefe picked up the telephone and called Eva’s extension at Fort Campbell. Eva picked up on the first ring. “Put me on speaker,” she instructed before launching into an explanation of Speers’ theory that someone inside the military had pre-selected Marine One’s flight path on the President’s fatal flight. “If we can find out who did this, we can follow the trail all the way up the command chain. Can you do it?”
Nico began chewing on his nails again. “So let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re asking me to do the very thing that you put me in prison for in the first place?’
“I’m asking you to help solve a murder. If you can pull this off, then you’ll get your pardon. Can it be done?”
“I can do anything given enough time.”
Eva let out a short, sharp laugh. “You don’t have any. We needed this yesterday.”
He sighed. “At least give me a contact at CENTAF. Then it’s at least like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“As opposed to what?”
“A needle in a stack of needles.”
Over West Virginia
6:45 a.m.
Major Dobbs piloted the Blackhawk chopper at treetop level over the rolling West Virginia countryside. Speers held a handkerchief over his mouth as the rollercoaster-like trajectory played havoc with his stomach. Looking out the window, he spotted a herd of deer scattering across a rocky ridge beneath them. The ridge soon gave way to a valley of green farmland and, below that, a pig farm and a river of winding brown sludge.
A small town was nested at the far end of the valley. “Where are we?” Speers said over the grinding hum of the rotors.
“That’s Martinsburg.”
“Does the MARC run out here?” Speers said, referring to the commuter train that ran from West Virginia and through Maryland to D.C. “I gotta get back to the District.”
“Risky,” Dobbs said. “If they haven’t done it already, the Joint Chiefs are going to break out the bloodhounds. Count on it.”
“But they’ve severed my VPN connection,” Speers explained. “I’ve gotta get on the network. The only way is to go to the office.”
Dobbs eased off the throttle and set the chopper down in a cattle pasture. Three dozen bewildered cattle ran for the hills.
“There’s a MARC station on the other side of that river,” Dobbs said. “Watch out for water moccasins when you cross it.”
“Wait — you’re not coming?”
“Negative on that, Chief. I wanna live.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I’ll set this baby down on the other side of the Canadian border and wait for the Mounties to come.”
“Political asylum isn’t all it’s cracked up to be these days. As an attorney, I’d have to advise…”
“Save it, Chief. And for God’s sake, find some deodorant. You stink.”
Speers reluctantly shook the Major’s hand and wished him good luck. He ran, crouching, as he exited the chopper until he had cleared the expanse of the rotor blades. He stood watching as Dobbs took off again and flew due north. He put his nose to his underarm and flinched. Dobbs was right. He smelled absolutely putrid.
He walked past awestruck cattle toward the river. His patent leather shoes squished deeply and loudly into the mud.
Aside from a city park, Speers had never actually been in a forest. The closest that the 42-year-old had been to experiencing the great outdoors was with a car window rolled down while antiquing in rural Maryland. Raised as an only child by his late mother in D.C., the sum of his boyhood adventures had taken place in museums and theatre houses and video games. He had never been camping, nor had he, like most of his colleagues, taken up running or hiking or kayaking.
He gazed at the river in the distance, which looked at least 20 feet wide. “How in Hades am I going to get across that?” he said aloud. Even at this distance, he could hear the roar of the water. It was like the audio file of nature sounds that helped him sleep at night.
The unmistakable whirr of helicopter blades roared overhead. Speers looked up smiling, expecting to find that Major Dobbs had decided to join him after all. He was mistaken.
Two Apache AH-64 attack helicopters flew so low that Speers could have hit them with a rock. Speers ran backwards toward the tree line, unable to take his eyes off the twin airships. The Apache on the left wing suddenly released two white sparrow missiles. They dropped perhaps six feet before emitting a shower of white flame and hurling northward at breathtaking speed.
It was then that Speers spotted Dobbs’ chopper, still barely visible on the horizon as the missiles rushed toward him. Speers stood at the edge of the field. Even to his non-military eye, it was clear that Dobbs was flying far too low for effective evasive action. He banked the Blackhawk as hard as he could and released a torrent of flares.
The flares did nothing to deter the laser-guided sparrows. They locked onto the Blackhawk anyhow, striking its underbelly like flying snakes. Dobbs’ chopper was transformed into a comet that plummeted into a barn on the hillside.
Speers didn’t have time to grieve Major Dobbs’ violent death. He sprinted for the tree line as the Apaches rose and turned in sync eastward. The real forest was nothing like Speers had imagined from the comfort of his TV screen. The trees were thin-trunked and far too dense with underbrush for any serious running. Poison ivy was everywhere. The best he could do was squirm several feet into the thick foliage and lay down to hide. The Apaches circled overhead twice, in large circles, so low that the trees swayed in the breeze from their rotors. Speers felt something — chiggers, probably — biting his ankles, but he did not dare move.