That Same Time
The 747 was over Arlington now, skimming over the trees and buildings. It looked as if it were going to hit the apartment buildings north of the Iwo Jima Memorial, but Vincenti knew they were not Cazaux’s target. The 747 now filled the windscreen. They were almost at the memorial, yet he couldn’t see anything but the reflection of the lights of Arlington and Washington off the mottled white paint of the 747.
“What are you doing, Colonel?” Cazaux radioed. “Are you enjoying the view? I am.”
“The view I’m enjoying is the one with you crashing into the ground and dying once and for all.”.
“I don’t think so, Colonel,” Cazaux radioed back. “Unfortunately for you, I am not on board the 747. But thank you for thinking of me.”
Vincenti’s color drained. Cazaux isn’t on the 747? He hissed, “Cazaux, you’re a dead man, you don’t know it yet, but you’re dead. ”
“While you waste your breath on threats, flyboy, I shall. stroll down The Mall, watch my 747 crash into the Capitol Building, and then see what other havoc I can raise in the ensuing panic,” Cazaux said. “Perhaps I’ll take my remaining soldiers and visit the White House. Ciao, Colonel.” -
“Fuck you, Cazaux!” Vincenti raged on the radio. He shoved his throttle to full afterburner power to try to catch up with the 747—but as he did, the WARN symbol appeared in the heads-up display almost immediately afterward, and a large red ENGINE warning light illuminated on the eyebrow panel. He was out of fuel and the F-16’s engine had flamed out.
Near the Washington Monument
That Same Time
Just then, a man appeared from behind the Washington Monument, about a hundred yards away — they could see his outline against the floodlight surrounding the monument. Harley immediately slid her car right, with the left side of the car facing the man, when suddenly a burst of machine-gun fire sent a swarm of bullets in their direction.
Hardcastle had swung open his door as soon as he saw the mem, and he threw himself out of the car even before Harley completely stopped it. He felt a hand on his leg as he was leaping out, and he thought Deborah was right behind him. Hardcastle took cover behind the right front wheel, leveled the Steyr, flicked the safety to the upper five-dot full-auto position, and fired a full one-second burst in the terrorist’s general direction. “Deborah!” he yelled behind him. He could no longer see the terrorist — either he was on the run or was on the ground. “Deborah, you all right?”
“Shit, no!” Harley yelled. Hardcastle leaned his Steyr against the car beside him where he could get to it easily and crawled around to the passenger-side door. Deborah Harley was lying on the car seat, the left side of her face and left arm bloody. Her left arm looked like it was hit just below the bulletproof vest, but it appeared to be only flying glass that caused the facial injuries. “When you’re getting out, Admiral,” Harley said in a remarkably clear voice, still with a trace of humor despite her injuries, “don’t waste time. I’ll have to crawl over you next time.”
“You do that,” Hardcastle said. “You got a first aid kit anywhere in—”
“Forget about me. I’m all right,” Harley said. “Where’s that gunman who fired?”
Hardcastle heard sounds of running. He reached for his rifle — only to face a tall, fearsome-looking warrior dressed in black, wearing a balaclava facemask, a web harness filled with grenades and weapons, standing less than fifteen feet away. The man was carrying a small submachine gun with a long suppressor. The warrior raised his SMG, aimed…
… then stopped, lowered it, and said in a definite French accent, “Admiral Hardcastle, I presume?” Hardcastle made a move for his rifle, but the gunman fired a short burst into the ground beside him. Hardcastle heard only faint cracks when the gun fired, but he could feel the impact of the bul- * lets along the ground. The gunman then ran over, grabbed the Steyr, tossed it aside, then stood over Hardcastle, just a few feet away. He was tall and powerful-looking, with an athletic body that could not be hidden even by all the combat hardware on his combat harness.
“This officer is hurt,” Hardcastle tried. “Who the hell are you?”
The gunman pulled off his balaclava hood, revealing a narrow face and close-cropped hair. “I am your old friend Henri, Admiral… Henri Cazaux.”
Hardcastle’s face registered shock, then pure white-hot anger. He tried to jump to his feet and tackle Cazaux. The- terrorist merely kicked Hardcastle aside with a sharp snapping kick to the head, accomplishing the move quite easily.
“This is perfect, Admiral, just perfect,” Cazaux said. He' peered into the car door, checking Harley and taking away her rifle. He quickly checked the glove compartment, removing a .380 automatic backup pistol. “She looks beautir ful even with her wounds,” Cazaux said. He turned back to Hardcastle and said, “First I encounter my old friend and your colleague Colonel Vincenti, and now you.”
“Vincenti?”
“He is out there,” Cazaux said, waving toward the Lin- coin Memorial and the Iwo Jima Memorial to the west, “trying to stop my 747 from crashing into the Capitol. He—”
“What?”
“Oh, yes, Admiral,” Cazaux crooned. “You and the young lady have wonderful seats for my final spectacle. You will witness the destruction of the Capitol as my 747 crashes into it, and then witness the destruction of the White House when my fuel-air explosives destroy it. Of course, I think we might be a bit too close to the explosion at the White House — they assure me everything within a half-mile will be damaged or destroyed by the explosion. If the Fates let you live, then you probably deserve it. Unfortunately, I won’t have the opportunity to see any of this — it is a poor soldier who stops to admire the destruction he causes. Au revoir, Admiral. I hope to—”
“Freeze! FBI!” a voice behind them shouted. “Drop your weapon!” Cazaux let the submachine gun clatter to the ground. “Now raise your—”
Cazaux didn’t hesitate — he ducked down behind the car, drew a sidearm, and dragged Hardcastle to his feet, holding the pistol to his head. It was Judge Lani Wilkes, drawing down on Cazaux from about twenty yards away. “Drop the gun, now! ” she shouted.
“My luck is running true to form tonight,” Cazaux cackled. “It is none other than the beautiful FBI Director, Lani Wilkes! I think you should drop your gun, Madame Director, or I’ll blow the Admiral’s brains out right now. Don’t you move in that car either, Treasury agent!” he shouted as he noticed movement inside the car.
“Bad move, Henri,” Hardcastle said, his voice weakened by the steel-like arm across his throat. “The lady would probably give you a citation if you pulled the trigger. Judge, meet Henri Cazaux. Henri, FBI Director Wilkes.” He could see Wilkes’ stunned expression even in the semidarkness of the lights surrounding the Washington Monument.
“My extreme pleasure, madame,” Cazaux said gallantly. “Admiral, it was convenient of you to wear a bulletproof vest tonight. Madame Director, I’ll make you a sporting proposition. If you don’t lower your weapon, I’ll kill the Admiral and I’ll still escape. Toss your weapons away, give me a head start, and the chase starts anew, on equal terms. Agreed?”
“It’s not going to happen, Cazaux,” Wilkes said, her voice faltering from the strain, confusion, and outright surprise. “No one is going to give up their weapons.”
“Ah, your voice says otherwise, Madame Director,” Cazaux said. “You have faith in your agents, I assume. Surely they can capture me in the nation’s capital? Now drop your gun. This is my final warning.”