The large, boxy truck took the entrance to the highway, pushing a slow-moving car off the ramp and into the gully. A police helicopter joined the chase from above. Looking down, the pilot saw six cop cars in close pursuit of the red truck as it wove in and out of traffic, running cars off the road.
Hiccock was talking outside to Major Rolland Hanks, the commanding officer of the Military Police escort that accompanied the communications trucks. Kronos had stepped out onto the porch when something off in the distance caught his eye. It was a dust swirl, which caused the kid from Bensonhurst who never saw a cow up close before yesterday to say, “Look, like in the freakin’ Wizard of Oz. It’s a twister!”
At that same instant, the Major’s RTO handed him the handset. “Sir, we just got a report from OP 1. An armored car, with police cars in pursuit, just passed their position heading for us.”
“Notify Checkpoint 1,” he ordered back to the radio-telephone operator.
The major pointed to the location of Observation Post 1. Hiccock could see the truck, but barely made out the flashing police lights through the plume of dust it kicked up.
The major reached into the van and retrieved binoculars. After a few seconds Hiccock borrowed the major’s glasses and saw Checkpoint 1– three Humvees sitting alongside the only road leading to the Parks home.
“What’s the plan, Major?” Hiccock said.
“My sentries at the perimeter will stop him.”
Hiccock didn’t know if it was mental telepathy or just great training, but as if they heard him, two of the Jeeps moved to the center of the road forming a blockade. A .50 caliber machine gun was revealed in back of a Hummer that was off to the side of the dirt road.
In the lead cop car, Trooper Mills of the New Mexican State Police was in close order pursuit, bumping over the uneven road, constantly peppered with gravel and rocks being kicked up by the heavy armored truck traveling at almost sixty miles per hour. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw Army vehicles forming a roadblock.
“Where did they come from?”
The MPs took their positions. One stood in front with his MP-5 submachine gun and his hand up in a “stop” gesture. The approaching truck, with the police cars in tow, at first seemed to slow. At the last minute, however, Henry Wilson floored it. The lead MP fired into the window. The small-caliber bullets bounced off the two-inch-thick composite windshield of the armored car. A heavy clack, clack, clack was heard as the “fifty” opened up from an angle, spraying the driver’s side windows and side of the truck with the larger .50 caliber slugs.
Trooper Mills, in the lead car, slammed on the brakes and simultaneously screamed into the radio mic: “All cars back off. The Army is shooting at the truck! Dispatch, try to call them, tell them the truck is filled with explosives. All units drop back!”
Due to the sharp angle from which the bullets were fired, the thick laminated side window cracked but didn’t break. With bullets bouncing off the side and ricocheting into the Hummer’s skin, the gunner momentarily ceased firing. The truck crashed through the blockade, sending the Jeeps twirling in opposite directions. One exploded. The MPs opened fire at the back of the truck as it raced toward the house. The pursuing cop cars had already screeched to a halt to avoid the fusillade of bullets.
Witnessing the breach, Hiccock turned to the major. “I may be going out on a limb here, but I’m going to assume that’s not the Ladies’ Auxiliary Welcome Wagon.”
“Bracken, front and center,” the major barked. Hiccock noticed a moose of a guy run up with a bazooka. “I don’t like people who wreck my Jeeps, Bracken. Remove him from the planet, please!”
Bracken immediately got down on one knee and hoisted the Javelin antitank weapon on his shoulder. The infrared sight locked in on the truck, sounding a slight beeping tone. “Target acquired, Sir.”
The major radioed his men at the roadblock. “Jess, you and your men take cover.” He checked to make sure they were far enough from the truck. “Ruin his day, son.”
As the truck neared, the white letters above the cab of the truck came into sharper focus. They spelled out EXPLOSIVES. The major opened his mouth and yelled, “Hold your fire!” just as yellow flame and gray smoke exited the back of the bazooka. A split second later, the truck exploded violently. Its wheels continued rolling as the rear cargo box, laden with TNT, shot up thirty feet straight into the air and combusted in a raging inferno followed by a rising mushroom. The supersonic shock wave was visible over the sand, slamming into mesquite bushes and rocking prickly pear cacti as it fanned outward in all directions from the spot directly below the truck. The flaming Jeep at the roadblock behind it had its fire literally blown out, extinguished by the concussive wall of air. The squad cars further back were jostled violently.
The shock wave pummeled the house. Every window shattered. Kronos, standing in the doorway, was knocked back into the living room. The windows on the communications van imploded and the satellite dish collapsed. Shrapnel from the disintegrated truck showered down with the force of bullets, puncturing vehicles and parts of the house. A piece of steel embedded itself into the hood of the truck that Hiccock and Major Hanks were crouched behind. The sound of the explosion echoed off the foothills for at least thirty seconds, repeating back and forth, as Hiccock and the major regained their upright postures.
“Look …!” Hiccock pointed to a crater fifty feet around and thirty feet deep in the middle of the road. Smoldering parts of the truck dotted the edge.
“Good shooting, Bracken … Bracken?” The major looked down and saw Bracken was dead on the ground, impaled by a twisted, mangled piece of the truck’s red metal.
“A minute ago, I called him son,” the major said to Hiccock with a catch in his throat.
The president, Reynolds, and the heads of every U.S. agency were packed into the Situation Room of the White House. “We have found the enemy and he is one of us. Quarterback’s team has successfully traced the source of these terrible bombings and terrorist actions against the people and property of the United States to a government portal. Someone in this room is responsible for the carnage and destruction that has befallen this nation. One of you is heading up a project or initiative that is, at best, treason, and at worst insane.”
The room ignited with murmurs. The president allowed it to go on for a few seconds, watching for reactions, then continued. “If it didn’t make me sound so egotistical I might think it a coup d’état.” That brought the room to silence. “I know I fell into this job because I was a strong independent taking votes away from the men who would be king. But goddamn it, I will not have the destruction of the American way of life as the legacy of my administration.”
The president noticed a bookish man in his late twenties had entered the room during the momentary lull. “Who are you?”
“Walter Conklin, Sir. I am the CIO here at the White House. They said you wanted to see me.”
“Have you been briefed?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“So tell me what we are looking for, Conklin?”
“Well, I’m only the Chief Information Officer here, not an expert.”
“I understand, but I need an opinion.”
“Big mainframe. Maybe a Cray or new Paradigm SQ. Lots of support techs and a big pipe, probably multifiber array with switch nodes and isolated redundant power sources.”
“How much money are we talking here?”
“Hard to say, Sir, but probably tens of millions.”