As the handlers rushed about to clear the deck Shen saw an Antonov An-72 make its approach. Its two high wing turbo-fans made it look top heavy and ungainly, though the man at the controls was obviously a seasoned aviator, as the Americans termed carrier pilots. Smoothly the pilot brought his aircraft in, catching the two wire. To Shen’s disbelief, the AN-72 almost stopped dead in its tracks, instead of a less harsh transition. Time slowed down as the tail section and port wing separated from the rest of the fuselage. The sheared wing hit the deck in a cloud of debris, spilling fuel that ignited before cart wheeling away over the side, burning fuel trailing behind it. Shen continued to watch in horror as the rest of the transport, its remaining engine at full power, stood on its nose gear and accelerated. The belly gear was clear of the deck when the nose gear collapsed and the aircraft flipped over and disappeared after its wing, over the edge of the flight deck.
Fire fighting foam was pumped across the deck, dousing the flames as the Mao’s ready KA-29 helicopter spooled up and took off, circling back to search for survivors. Captain Hong stood upon the bridge mentally hoping that the aircraft had been the one carrying the Admiral.
Forty minutes later the ‘T’ shaped tail fin of the crashed transport had been manhandled over the side and the second transport landed. Admiral Li’s face was expressionless as he ignored Vice Admiral Putchev’s salute to demand an explanation. Captain Hong had guessed the cause correctly when he witnessed the accident, the junior lieutenant in the arrester gear department had confirmed that the wrong settings had been made. The gear had been set for too great a weight, stopping the transport dead and over straining its airframe. The Admirals personal guard of marines had travelled with him and stood at his rear and sides, weapons at the ready, as if this had been a deliberate attack upon the man.
“My luggage was aboard that aircraft, Captain. Fetch me the man responsible and his officer.”
Hong gaped at him for a split second before barking orders to his First Lieutenant. His luggage? There were eighteen men aboard that transport, none had survived!
Five minutes later the young lieutenant and a rating in his 30s, a seaman of much experience appeared. The Admirals Flag Lieutenant and two marines dragged the men to the side of the flight deck where the aircraft had disappeared; neither man realised what was going on until the marines cocked their weapons. The young officers eyes grew large and the rating looked to his captain with an appeal on his lips when his body and that of the Ratings folded and fell backwards into the sea upon the impact of the marines almost point blank fire.
The two Arab and two Americans were over an hour late getting to the chosen ambush site on Pennsylvania Avenue NW, two miles from the White House.
All in all it is quite admirable that of all those persons in the Situation Room when the president had burdened them with the need for secrecy, only one had broken that trust.
National media had broadcast the story of the exodus from Texas City. The O’Connor list had never been publicised so the nation as a whole had been on edge. The live pictures from Texas had triggered some, not all, into loading up their vehicles and heading out of the city. Panic begets panic and others joined the flight, jamming the roads with the heaviest outgoing traffic ever seen for this time of day.
The four Islamic extremists were still some half-mile distant from the outer cordons protecting the White House when they had sighted the van ahead and deliberately bumped the vans rear. The van driver had left the van, muttering away in annoyance as he went to inspect the damage. To his surprise, one of the occupants of the car that had hit the rear of his van wore the same company uniform. He was even more surprised when a handgun was pushed into his ribs and he was told to smile. Curious glances by onlookers and motorists did not note anything amiss when the two men in the company livery entered the rear of the van. Ahmed Mohazir jabbed the long needle of a syringe into the van drivers’ chest and depressed the plunger; injected in the heart with a massive dose of heroin it killed the legitimate driver instantly.
Ahmed had prepared himself for this day, considered himself honoured and blessed by Allah in being chosen, when the suitcase was slid into the back of the van Ahmed hid it amongst the produce before climbing into the driver’s seat. Reaching under his jacket, he removed the bulky remote control from where it was strapped; fully extending its antennae he dialled in the arming code and pressed transmit. The weapon was now armed and required only that he lift the spring-loaded arm that protected the switch and depress it. He pushed the remote out of sight beneath his jacket and reattached the straps holding it to his torso. With his friends following on behind he headed toward the first of the Police and National Guard checkpoints.
Ahmed sighted the checkpoint before 6th Street NW. The National Guardsmen were pulling over all vehicles that wanted to proceed and from what he could see most were turned away. The vehicles that remained were being searched thoroughly beside the road and they included two other vehicles that he knew from their reconnaissance, made regular deliveries at the end of this road. Something had changed since their last intelligence gathering foray a four days before, Ahmed wondered if they could have been betrayed?
Beyond the cement filled barrels and coils of barbed wire, two Humvee’s were parked at staggered angles, creating a chicane that cleared vehicles were forced to drive slowly around, insurance against vehicles crashing through. Ahmed saw the weak spot; both vehicles should have been positioned pointing into the centre of the street, the nearer of the two vehicles was not, its lighter rear end barred the way.
Ahmed counted six policemen and twelve soldiers at the checkpoint, one soldier was manning an M-60 machine gun atop the furthest Humvee, he was alone and did not have the weapon in his shoulder, ready to fire.
Using his cellular Ahmed called his friends in their car behind; he said few words before ending the call.
The line of vehicles before him shortened until he was next in line, a policeman approached him, and the circular motion he made with his hand meant he wanted the side window wound down before he reached Ahmed.
Ahmed stopped the van and smiled at the officer, reaching across for the clipboard on the dash as his friends exited their car behind the van. Their first target was the M-60 gunner who dropped away from his weapon when struck by the rounds fired from the passengers two AR-15s. The driver knelt beside his cars open door and fired short bursts from an elderly British made Sterling sub machine gun, hitting the officer at the vans window in the upper legs and scattering those others on his side of the vehicle.
With the threat from the M-60 removed Ahmed floored the accelerator, he had only forty yards to build up enough momentum to knock aside the nearer Humvee and aimed to deliver a glancing blow to its rear.
In the road behind him the initial shock had worn off those manning the checkpoint and fire was being returned at the three young Arabs beside the car.
Reality and Hollywood are two totally different worlds, as Ahmed discovered as the front end of the van struck the Humvee. The National Guard vehicle moved but only a few feet, the van however stopped dead and the engine stalled, Ahmed was flung forward against the steering wheel where the remote control box broke the lower two ribs either side of his sternum.
Two hundred yards ahead the next checkpoint had been alerted by the sound of firing, the soldiers and police officers there had taken up firing positions, sighting on the van.
Steam and water were pouring from the vans crushed radiator as a winded Ahmed tried to restart the van; he was cursing as he pumped the accelerator but ducked with a start as the windscreen shattered. High velocity rounds made a loud cracking sound as they passed close to him; he could feel the impact of the rounds hitting the van as the vibration was transmitted through the steering wheel.