“So much for Comrade Zinoviev,” whispered Kosygin.
A tight spread of bullets peppered the Suburban’s left side, and they could barely see the dark outlines of an infantry assault element emerging from the tree line. Morrison’s two-way squawked alive, and the eight surviving vehicles reported in. Seconds later, this number was reduced to seven when a mortar round landed directly on the roof of their ambulance, instantly killing its occupants.
All that really mattered was protecting the integrity of the vehicle directly in front of them, thought Morrison. So far, the President’s limo appeared to be untouched. No matter what, it would have to stay that way, and the SAIC desperately peered down at the map, then looked up just as two dazzling bursts of bright light filled the northern horizon.
“They’ve blown the canal bridge, and there’s no way to get over!” the driver of the lead vehicle informed them over the radio.
“Shit!” cursed Morrison, his glance drawn back to the map.
For all effective purposes, they were now trapped in a killing zone between two insurmountable bodies of water, and there was absolutely nothing the SAIC could do about it.
“Spooky Threenine, this is Checkmate One. We have a Code One emergency and request an immediate air strike on map grid coordinates Sierra Lima one-five-four-six, three-seven-two-eight.
I repeat, we have a Code One emergency and request an immediate air strike. Do you copy? Over.”
Red’s initial reaction to hearing this shocking message was pure disbelief. She had been seated at her console routinely monitoring the secure, narrowband voice frequencies, and a Code One, indicating an attempt on the President’s life, definitely wasn’t the type of broadcast she had been expecting to overhear.
Yet reality sank in when the gunship acknowledged the call for assistance. Red hurriedly verified the code sequences. They were irrefutably legitimate, prompting her to grab the dark blue handset mounted on the lower right edge of the console and punch in a succession of three digits.
“Admiral Warner, this is Master Sergeant Rayburn on the QV-135. I’ve just picked up what appears to be a distress call from Checkmate One. And, sir, it looks to me that we’ve got a real live Code One on our hands!”
“Damn it, Anderson!” shouted Morrison into his two-way.
“I need you to pull that comm van up until you touch the point Suburban’s back fender. We need a wall of steel between that high ground and Two Putt.”
With no open road to escape on, Morrison’s only hope was to “circle the wagons,” and make a last-ditch stand at the position he deemed most defensible. They were using the drainage canal to protect their flank, and had the President’s limousine surrounded by a V-shaped phalanx. Morrison’s Suburban was at the rear of the formation facing the forest, with the spare staff limo sandwiched between his truck and the point vehicle.
Rocket-propelled grenades continued raining down on them from the highlands. A sporadic mortar shell was launched their way, and Morrison knew it was only a matter of time until they got the proper range.
Both Morrison and Kosygin, along with the two Special Agents in the front seat, had just finished prepping their armaments.
They had an Uzi and three Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns between them, as well as twenty-four spare clips and their individual side arms.
The two-way crackled alive, and all stations reported in, including Moreno from the “hot seat.” The President’s limo had yet to experience any interior damage, and Moreno signed off just as a phosphorous round hit the side of the communications van.
Dusk became noon in a blinding millisecond. And with this unnatural illumination, Morrison spotted dozens of infantrymen headed straight for them from the cover of the ancient forest’s tree line.
“Checkmate Four,” he radioed to the point Suburban.
“Deploy CAT team and engage troops emerging from position Lima.”
Morrison rammed a thirty-round clip into his MP5 and reached for the door handle.
“Looks like they’re going to need all the help they can get.”
“Then whatever are we waiting for?” retorted Kosygin, who chambered a round into his Uzi and joined the SAIC outside.
The air was heavy with the scents of smoke, cordite, and gunpowder. Bullets whined overhead, and Morrison let loose a controlled burst toward the forest before taking cover behind their truck’s engine block. From this position, both he and his Russian colleague emptied clip after clip into the human-wave assault force approaching from the trees. Yet they appeared to be unstoppable, their forward progress impeded only when the six man Secret Service Counter Assault Team charged into their ranks with guns blazing.
The SAIC hadn’t seen such a firefight since his service as a Green Beret in Vietnam. The fog-shrouded twilight still lit by the burning phosphorous shell, he watched his men attempt a flanking maneuver. To a staccato barrage of submachine-gun fire, the CAT team rushed forward. Morrison could see the gleam of exploding shells in their black Kevlar helmets and thick safety goggles, their jet-black BDUs all but indistinguishable.
Though badly outnumbered, the CAT team had succeeded in making a totally unexpected assault, and the enemy momentarily halted its advance to repulse them. This was all that Morrison had to see to leave the cover of the truck and rush toward the wood line himself.
The stubby barrel of his weapon was red-hot as he sprayed the enemy with a deadly steel curtain of 9mm slugs. Alexi Kosygin stuck close to his side, and he too emptied clip after clip. It was the Russian who shouted out in warning when a heavily camouflaged attacker sprang up from the tall grass to the SAIC’s right. He was only ten yards away at best, and Morrison could clearly see the glowing whites of his eyes as he pumped round after round into the startled soldier’s torso.
The CAT team had meanwhile detonated a series of smoke grenades, and was using this cover to mask their flanking movement.
The enemy was still unmoving, and appeared confused.
Morrison was tempted to call in their last remaining six-man squad to augment this force and assist in a counterattack. He reached for his radio, and only then realized that in all the excitement, he had left it back in the Suburban.
No sooner did he turn for the truck than a high-pitched whistling filled the dusk with dreaded sound.
“Incoming!” warned Kosygin, at the same time knocking Morrison to the ground and covering him with his body.
An earsplitting, bone-rattling explosion temporarily deafened the SAIC. The cool earth shook, and a shower of falling debris rained down onto their backs.
As fate would have it, the mortar round landed squarely in the midst of the CAT team. Each of the six Special Agents was instantly killed, their bodies ripped apart by high explosives and razor-sharp shrapnel.
Morrison’s limbs were shaking, and Kosygin had to help him stand. Together they limped back to the truck, in time to see the enemy assault force renew its attack with increased ferocity.
“Spooky Threenine, this is Checkmate One. Where the hell are you?” asked Morrison into his two-way.
“We desperately need that air strike, and we need it now!”
“Not to worry. Checkmate One,” replied a calm voice from the radio’s speaker.
“This is Spooky Threenine. Sorry about the little delay getting into position, but we’ve got a firm visual lock on your position, as well as an excellent infrared reading on the bad guys. Preparing to fire. Over.”