“This is Major Milford, the force mission commander,” Milford replied from Leather-90. “Admiral, we’re tracking an unidentified aircraft about nine miles south of you, about three hundred feet aboveground, groundspeed about eighty- seven knots, heading right toward the capital. What’s your situation there? Over.”
“A 747 crashed just west of the Constitution Gardens section of the capital, and it destroyed or damaged everything from the Lincoln Memorial to the Capital Yacht Club,” Hardcastle said. “We found an Avenger unit that was hit by an antitank weapon just west of the Washington — Monument. The crew is dead, and the front of the vehicle and the turret and gunner’s cockpit are badly damaged. That plane you’re tracking belongs to Henri Cazaux. He says he’s got a fuel-air explosive weapon on it and that he’s going to bomb the White House. Is there any way to reactivate this unit, maybe by remote control? Over.”
“Affirmative,” Milford said, stunned by what he had just heard. “There should be a remote-control computer unit up with the driver. You should find a spool of fiber-optic cable about fifty yards long. You should be able to operate the unit with that.”
The computer was in a strong plastic case on the right side of the HMMWV, plugged into a mounting unit under the dashboard, with a round reel beside it. The case unclipped easily from its mounting; the fiber-optic cable was thin but strong. “I found it,” Hardcastle said. “Stand by.”
The remote control unit was a laptop computer with a flip-up two-color LCD screen, a sealed plastic-covered keyboard, and a finger-sized joystick built into the base.below the keyboard. To Hardcastle’s surprise, it was working. A simple menu selection displayed on the screen, and by touching a few buttons he got a radar depiction of the skies around the city. After a few moments, Hardcastle could understand the symbols on the scope — the unknown aircraft, labeled “A” on the screen, was only ten miles to the south. “The remote control is working, and I’ve got a depiction of the area here.”
“Good,” Milford said. “That means the telemetry between the AWACS and the unit there is functioning. Do you see the up-caret symbol at the bottom of the screen? Zoom the picture in or out to see it.”
“I see it.”
“Just move the cursor with the joystick onto the caret symbol at the bottom of the screen and press the button below the trackball.” Hardcastle did, and a diamond symbol surrounded the symbol. “What happened?”
“I got a diamond around the caret.”
“Good. You should see a menu on the bottom of the screen, with a button or function key that says something like ENGAGE or ATTACK. Do you see it?”
“Yes. It’s a covered switch that says ENGAGE.”
“Good. Get out of the unit, clear yourself and everyone else away by at least fifty feet, and press the button. The turret should turn and the missile launchers should start tracking the target. You can plug your headset into the side of the remote-control device. The missiles will launch when it gets within range. Go ahead.”
Hardcastle plugged the driver’s Kevlar helmet communications cord into the computer, got out of the vehicle, unreeled the fiber-optic data cable at least fifty feet, and knelt. Harley was well behind him, tending to Wilkes. He made sure the diamond designate symbol was still on the hostile “A” symbol, then hit the ENGAGE button. It turned yellow, then began to blink. The turret, which was pointed west, did not move. “The turret didn’t move, and the ENGAGE button is blinking yellow,” Hardcastle radioed back.
“I’m not sure what that means,” Milford said. “Deselect the ENGAGE button, then go to the unit and see if the turret is jammed and that it can turn freely.” Hardcastle did it, then ran to the Avenger unit. Sure enough, the entire circular track that the turret rode on was twisted and almost completely sheared off the base. There was no way it was going to move.
“I don’t think it’s going to move,” Hardcastle radioed. “The antitank missile twisted the turret track all to hell. There’s hydraulic fluid all over the place.”
“Can it slew in the other direction?”
“Negative. The whole turret is off the track. It would take a crane to lift it back on.” -
“Then you better get out of the area as fast as you can', Admiral,” Milford responded. “You’ve done all you can. The plane will be overhead in about five to six minutes.” Hardcastle wasn’t ready to give up, but he didn’t want anyone else nearby. Their car didn’t look like it was going anywhere, either. “Deborah, start heading toward the Capitol Building — we’ve got about five minutes to make it.” “What about the Director?”
“Just get going — I’ll bring Wilkes. Cazaux’s going to bomb the White House, and the explosive he’s using could fry us all. The Capitol will be the safest place for us. Can you drag Wilkes over there?”
“I don’t think so,” Harley said. “I’m staying here with you, Ian. There’s no other choice.”
“I’ll take Wilkes in a minute. You head for the Capitol. Get going.” Harley reluctantly got to her feet and began trotting east toward the Capitol Building. Hardcastle found a four-cell flashlight and examined the interior of the Avenger — and immediately struck paydirt. He dragged two green steel-and-plastic cases out from storage racks behind the passenger seat and opened them to find a large shoul- der/pistol grip assembly and two cylindrical cans.
“What are they?” Harley asked behind him.
“I said get moving toward the Capitol.”
“I can’t make it — I can hardly see where I’m going,” Harley said. “I’ll help you. Do you know what they are?” Hardcastle cursed and pulled a yellow-and-black tab on one side of the pistol grip. A metal grilled device resembling an open animal cage popped out of the right side of the unit. “It’s a Stinger missile shoulder grip assembly,” Hardcastle said. “I think we can fire the missiles from this unit from the shoulder. All we have to do is figure out how to get the missiles out of the launchers.”
“Looks like the Army already thought of that,” Harley said. She shined the flashlight into the lid of the carrying case, where they saw color-cartoon-like pictures detailing how to do it. Two latches on the bottom side of the right Stinger launcher opened an access panel, where they could see inside the launcher itself; two more latches on the side of one of the green aluminum tubes allowed it to slide free out the rear end of the launcher. She helped slide the aluminum tube onto the pistol grip assembly and lock it into place. Hardcastle took one of the cylindrical cans, inserted it into a hole just forward of the trigger, and twisted it to lock it in place. A green light on the side of the grip told him the unit was on.
“Get that computer over there,” Hardcastle said. “It has a map telling where Cazaux’s plane is.” Harley retrieved the computer, opened it, and studied the screen. Meanwhile, Hardcastle keyed the mike switch on his helmet headset: “Leather, this is Hardcastle. I’ve found the Stinger shoulder launchers. I’m going to try to shoot it with a Stinger.”
“You ever shoot a Stinger before, Admiral?”
“How hard can it be?” Hardcastle asked. “The instructions are printed in cartoons.”
“Three miles,” Harley said, “heading right for us.”
“Can you describe those instructions to me?” Hardcastle asked.
Harley studied the drawings for a moment. “Looks like a button on the left side of the grip is for the… the IFF?”
“ ‘Identification Friend or Foe,’ ” Hardcastle said. “It’ll tell us if the plane is transmitting proper codes. Doesn’t matter — if it flies near here, I’m shooting it. Next.”
“Large lever behind the grip. Pull down with your thumb when the target is within range. Powers the missile gyro, cools the seeker head, and charges the eject gas cylinder.” “What’s the range?”