The ATF agent was not due for five more minutes when the agent monitoring the surveillance cameras warned everyone something was awry.
“Shit… Target One has seen something… approaching the wall now.” The SWAT members clutched their MP5s more firmly and starred at the two sections of wall they had prepared for fast entry.
With a tearing sound a hand and forearm appeared through one of the entry points. Ben was the first to react, in two strides he was at the wall and grabbed the arm firmly in both hands, bracing himself he pulled with all his strength, dragging the rest of the arm and its owner through the wall shouting
“Go, go, go!”
Ben had Audey on the floor and the surveillance tech left his seat to kneel on Audey’s back and seize the other arm, one of the SWAT team squeezed past them to enter the hole into the suspects address, treading on Audey’s legs that still protruded through to the other side.
By the other prepared entry point, another agent threw himself bodily at the wall, bursting through to the other side.
The laptop operator halted his journey to the john when he heard the crash as Audey was dragged through the wall. His Colt .45 preceded the way as he re-entered the living room and saw the first two SWAT members coming through the wall. Double tapping off two rounds at each man he scored two hits, one on each, neither round penetrated but both agents were temporarily out of the fight. Coming out of the left hand hole the agent was hit on the side of the head, the Kevlar helmet deflected the heavy round but the agents head was snapped to the side with the force of the impact, temporarily paralysing him and giving him whiplash that would last for weeks.
The second agent was hit in the chest, his chest rigs ballistic plate stopped the shot from causing the fatal injury that would otherwise have resulted, however the kinetic energy from the round was transferred to his upper body, severely winded, he sat down hard, blocking the next agent to emerge from the right hand hole.
In the bedroom the three sleepers were awoken by the gunfire and grabbed their weapons. One moved the curtains aside to check the rear of the premises and immediately saw the rear entry team sprinting toward the back garden, the two rounds he snapped off broke the windows glass pane and caused them to scatter into cover whilst still 50m away.
The two other occupants of the bedroom were peering down the hall apprehensively, weapons at the ready.
In the living room, the laptop operator leaped for the keyboard. The right hand hole was blocked by the tangle of limbs consisting of the shot agent and the man behind. No one else had tried to squeeze past Ben; the two FBI agents and their prisoner were still blocking the way.
From his position knelt in the hole, Ben, looked over his shoulder into the next living room and saw the laptop operator move. When he was asked about it later, he stated that it was almost an out of body experience, as if he was a mere spectator looking through his own eyes as his body took over, drew his elderly .38 and aimed at the leaping suspect. He did not even recall hearing the shots but was aware of the revolvers kick as he aimed and fired, all in one movement. His men were proud of him, their boss, The Chief, had quick drawn and rapid fired two rounds from an old revolver, which hit a moving man in both the chest and head. Ben stated he felt as if he was still under remote control when he had then gone through the hole, leading the way for the rest of that entry team, and shouted to the last three to surrender, which they had.
Ben left the address on his own straight afterwards, stepping aside for the medics and other officers running up to the house, before walking down the street. A hundred yards along he turned into an alleyway, after glancing around briefly for onlookers he had bent over and vomited up the contents of his stomach onto the alleys floor. A law enforcement officer for over twenty years, he had drawn his weapon on half a dozen occasions but never fired in anger until today.
With over 8200 hours’ flying time between them on over forty different types, Major Glenn Morton and his wingman, Major Al Barrichello, USAF, were two of the most experienced pilots in the Air Force. It was for that reason that they were today entrusted with half of the United States inventory of ALASATs.
For the past three hours’ their two F-15C Eagles had been orbiting the desert at 18000 feet with a KC-135 tanker on call for their exclusive use.
Glenn had spent the time going over his pre-launch checklist for the fifteen year old weapon slung below his aircraft and was now as confident as he could be in launching a weapon he had only read of before today. The hot sun was sweating a few pounds off him as they traced their racetrack pattern above the desert. He was passing the time by performing calculus in his head when their controller sent them to top up their tanks from the KC-135. Once both had tanked and were clear the controller called them again
“Trident One and Two turn right to 220’, climb to 36000 feet and standby, we have a target for you.” Glenn gave Al a quick look as he held position on his wing before answering.
“Roger, Tridents turning to 220’ and climbing to 36000.”
The aircraft performed a tactical split putting them 500 feet apart, because after all, their weapons were not just fifteen years old; they were fifteen-year-old weapons provided by the lowest bidder.
Their Pratt & Whitney F100-PW-220 turbo fans carried the aircraft aloft with little audible effort and levelled off at the ordered height.
“Trident One and Two maintain heading and go weapons hot.”
“Roger, Tridents maintaining 220 and going weapons hot.”
The controller began relaying intercept instructions. Going to full afterburner both aircraft accelerated to 1,370 knots, Glenn and Al went through their checklists and armed the weapons before pulling up into a 55-degree climb. Both weapons would be launched to increase the probability of a ‘kill’ on the fast approaching Russian satellite. Glenn was passing through 83400 feet when he heard the tone indicating the ALASATs seeker had acquired a solid lock on the satellite, all he had to do was keep the aircraft at its present attitude and let the computers do the rest. At 84120 feet the lower stage, intended for an AGM 90 SRAM, boosted the ALASAT away from the F-15. Above Glenn the blackness of space beckoned and he almost forgot to close his eyes against the glare of the missiles motor as it raced toward the stygian blackness ahead. As briefed, Glenn banked before throttling back and rolling inverted, allowing gravity to do the rest. At 50000 he pulled back into a gradual decent. Al warned him he was joining with him and Glenn was disquieted to see the other still had his ALASAT.
“Oops.”
Thirty miles from Nellis however the controller had a smile in his voice.
“Trident One, space command reports a solid kill on the target.”
Now that was going to make an interesting entry in his logbook.
Everyone present stood as the president entered.
“Sit… you’re wasting energy and I don’t know about you people but lack of sleep is making me light headed just walking… don’t look so surprised, it’s the sedan chair bearers day off.” Taking his seat he asked.
“I heard we got a satellite, was it the one we needed to kill?”
Looking up from his notes the CSA told him.
“Unfortunately Mr President there is no way of knowing at this time.”
The President was silent for a moment.
“Did we learn anything from this Zemlya Georga place, any clue as to whether there was a satellite relay to another from the one we took out?”