The answer was immediate: “Very well,” Cazaux said simply, and, to Vincenti’s surprise, the 747 banked right and turned toward the west. “Now you have promised you won’t fire on me.” Cazaux snickered. “I have your word, don’t I, Colonel? We are on an open frequency — there are probably thousands of people listening to us. You promised not to harm me if I turned away.”
“I promised,” Vincenti said. He immediately chopped the throttle back to 90-percent power to try to conserve every pound of fuel possible. “But if you try to evade me or don’t follow my instructions, I won’t hesitate to open fire.”
“I assume your Leather Control has heard our conversation as well?” Cazaux asked.
“We’re listening, Cazaux,” the controller replied. “You’re within range of a Hawk missile site right now. I suggest you keep going westbound.”
“Very well,” Cazaux radioed back, chuckling. “I will take my chances with your federal court system. I understand your federal courts have no death penalty, correct? Life in one of your fine American prisons will suit me just fine.”
A few moments later, as Cazaux’s plane was about to fly over the Potomac just south of Rockville, Maryland, Vincenti banked left and joined on the tail of the massive 747. Sure enough, the plane had been painted to look like Air Force One, except the paint was peeling off in several locations and the lettering was not perfect, although very believable. From a distance, it definitely looked like Air Force One.
“Devil, Control, I show the bandit headed westbound, targets have merged. Do you have him in sight?”
Before Vincenti realized he was talking on an open frequency, he replied, “Affirmative, Control, I’m joined on the bandit. His landing gear is down. The aircraft is a 747, resembling a VC-25. It—” Just then the 747 started a steep left turn, the landing gear retracted, and the airliner began, to accelerate rapidly. “Cazaux, stop your turn. Head westbound now. ”
“Too bad, Colonel Vincenti,” Cazaux said firmly. “Too bad you were given a plane with no weapons. You could have been a hero today.”
“I’m warning you, Cazaux, turn back or I’ll fire.”
“You have not been truthful with me, Colonel.” Cazaux snickered again. “I am the man who killed your Linda McKenzie, the man who terrorized the world’s supposedly greatest nation, the one who destroyed your fighters and rendered your entire air defense system useless and inadequate. I am your nemesis, Colonel Vincenti. If you had weapons, Colonel, you would have not hesitated to attack. You have obviously closed inside both missile and gun range, and we are over open territory, with little danger to innocents on the ground — you would have fired on me if you had the ability. You do not. Nor do I expect any of the Hawk missiles sites you lied about to engage. My men have taken care of all of them very effectively.”
The 747 rolled out, now heading eastbound, and Cazaux added, “And look, Colonel — with typical government efficiency, your National Park Service still has not turned out i the lights in your capital. We are perhaps twelve miles away, and I can see your Capitol Building very clearly. It is so simple — line up on the Iwo Jima Memorial and the Washington Monument. How convenient of you to provide me with such beautiful landmarks. I was hoping to hit the White House, but I’m afraid I won’t see it in time. But I can see the Capitol Building very clearly, up on that hill by itself lit up so brightly, so that shall be my target. Good night, Colonel. You did everything you could. Your government certainly cannot fault you.”
Vincenti swore loudly in his oxygen mask and pushed the throttle back up to military power, banking hard to cut off the turn and stay close on the 747. But as soon as he moved the throttles to the mil power detent, the MASTER CAUTION light came on for the third time, this time with the FWD FUEL LOW caution light on. At military power, burning ten thousand pounds of fuel per hour, Vincenti had less; than sixty seconds of fuel left…
He knew what had to be done — it was the only option i left to him now.
Near The Mall
That Same Time
The radio in Harley’s car was already a jumble of confusion. She had automatically pulled out of the FBI parking garage onto E Street, heading west toward the Treasury Department, but after pulling onto Pennsylvania Avenue, passing the Hotel Washington, she heard another radio report of terrorists sighted near the Washington Monument, and she turned south onto Fifteenth Street and roared off in that direction, her little emergency light flashing away atop the dashboard.
“Why wouldn’t they let us get our sidearms back?’1. Hardcastle asked in between radio reports.
“Because the FBI is filled with paranoids,” Harley said, “or else they were told not to release them — that might be Judge Wilkes’s idea of throwing her authority around. Doesn’t matter — we don’t need the popguns anyway. There’s a reason I wanted to take my car.” Hardcastle had never considered his trusty Colt .45 automatic a “popgun,” and he hoped Deborah had something better in mind.
They raced down Fifteenth Street, across Constitution Avenue, and found a plain sedan stopped on the east walkway, about two hundred yards from the Washington Monument. A chunky, gray-haired black plainclothes or off-duty D.C. Police officer with an “ass-duty spread” was standing behind his sedan, pointing a .38 revolver toward the monument and trying to raise someone on his hopelessly jammed police radio. Harley skidded to a stop, popped open her trunk, and jumped out of the car, holding her gold Secret Service badge up for him to see. “Secret Service. What do you got, officer?”
“Automatic gunfire from two perps near the monument, hit a D.C. cruiser over there,” he said, pointing to a stopped D.C. Police cruiser just barely visible on the other side of the Washington Monument. He was a good three hundred yards away — obviously the cop had no intention of getting any closer with just a .38. Smart thinking. “Just blew up an Army missile jeep with a damned bazooka.”
Harley met Hardcastle at the trunk of the car — he was wisely reaching for the heavy, dark-blue bulletproof vests he found. “You always carry two vests in your trunk?” Hardcastle asked.
“Sometimes I wear two vests, Ian,” Harley said. “I’m not proud, believe me.” She flipped down a flap on the front and back of the vests, revealing the words TREASURY AGENT. She then lifted the floor carpeting, unlocked a padlock, lifted a large metal door covering her spare tire well, and lifted out two short, futuristic-looking bullpup rifles with green plastic stocks that seemed to comprise the entire body of the gun itself. “Steyr AUGs. Familiar with them?”
“Used them all the time in the Coast Guard and the Hammerheads,” Hardcastle said. He shoved two 30-round magazines into his pants pockets, slammed one magazine home, charged the weapon, and set it on SAFE. They hopped back into the car and drove off toward the Washington Monument.
Over Arlington, Virginia