“Then we’ll have to do it the hard way,” Chris Wohl said. “Rotate left, translate sideways.” As the pilot turned the big chopper so it was flying sideways down the highway, Wohl leaned out the starboard side cargo door, raised his rail gun, aimed, and fired. Both dual left rear tires of a large passenger bus exploded. The bus swerved left, blocking the highway and stopping traffic. “Make a low pass over the stopped cars, and keep an eye out for a response.”
It did not take long at all. From a large but otherwise plain black sedan, very much like dozens of others on the highway, Briggs saw a soldier in camouflaged battle-dress uniform emerge with an AK-74 assault rifle in his hands, staring at the low-flying helicopter. “Tally-ho!” Briggs shouted. “There’s suspect number one! You got him covered, Sarge? Don’t let him get a shot off at our ride.”
“Roger,” Wohl responded. He already had the gunman in his sights, and Briggs hoped he wouldn’t pull the trigger — a human body shot with a blunt one-pound projectile traveling over three thousand feet per second would burst apart like an overripe melon.
Briggs didn’t wait for the helicopter to hover or position itself near the suspect vehicle — he simply ran to the open portside cargo door and leaped out, with the helicopter still over a hundred feet in the air and flying about thirty miles an hour. A fraction of a second before his feet hit the pavement, a burst of jet propellant from his boots softened his fall. Another blast of propellant flung Briggs through the air, and he landed right beside the flabbergasted gunman. A lightning burst of electrical energy from an electrode dropped the startled gunman before he could even think about leveling his rifle.
The windows in the sedan were inch-thick bulletproof glass, but they were no match for the electronically controlled armor that turned Briggs’s fists into battering rams. He cracked open the left rear window first and peered inside. The moment he saw two passengers wearing HAWC black flight suits inside, he raced into action. He shot another burst of high-voltage disabling energy into the second armed guard sitting in the aft-facing passenger seat. At the same moment, another shot from Wohl’s rail gun disabled the sedan’s engine with a tremendous KA-BANG! and flying pieces of engine block before the driver could speed away through traffic. One pull through the broken window, and the thick bulletproof door popped free of its frame.
Briggs immediately found out why Annie couldn’t respond — she and Deverill were handcuffed to the floor, their mouths taped shut, and a hood pulled over their eyes. One quick yank, and the handcuffs popped off their floor bolts, and he hustled the two fliers out of the disabled sedan.
“Stand by, sir, we’re coming down,” Wohl radioed. “Hurry it up,” Briggs radioed back. But as he watched the sky while the Ukrainian chopper came in for a landing, he saw something else that made his blood turn to slush: four Russian Mi-24 gunships, armed to the teeth. At the same instant, two Russian fighter planes screamed overhead, providing air cover for the gunships.
The game was up. The rescue mission was over. The gunships were bearing down on them quickly, two staying high opposing the Ukrainian chopper, the other two swinging wide apart, swooping in low to cover Briggs and the others on the ground. The only thing they could do now was surrender. There was no way they could—
Suddenly, the two high Mi-24 gunships lining up on the Ukrainian helicopter swerved, ratcheted back and forth across the sky unsteadily, then dove for the earth, trailing a thick cloud of smoke. The two low Mi-24s swerved left and right, popping bright decoy flares and ejecting bundles of chaff. The two heavily armored Mi-24s were able to autorotate to hard but survivable landings several hundred yards away. They heard loud BOOOMs across the sky as the MiG fighters sped away, either running from or looking for a fight.
“Tin Man, this is Terminator Two,” Briggs heard General Patrick McLanahan announce on his personal satellite transceiver. “Splash two Hinds. We’re defensive with two MiGs coming around after us. Get off the ground as fast as you can. We’ll try to put these MiGs down and keep the other Hinds off your six.”
“Sweet lord, someone’s looking out for us!” Briggs crowed. “C’mon, Sarge, get that beast on the ground and pick us up now before our luck runs out.”
The White House Situation Room,
Washington, D.C.
“I’m afraid, Mr. President,” Robert G. Goff, the U.S. secretary of defense, said solemnly, “that this might be the worst peacetime military incident since the Francis Gary Powers U-2 spy plane affair.”
Secretary of Defense Goff was giving a late-night report to President Thomas Thorn in the White House Situation Room, which was very much like most conference rooms anywhere except for the sophisticated communications capabilities — the President could pick up the phone in front of him and talk to virtually anyone on the planet, even those aloft or afloat. Arrayed around Thorn were Edward Kercheval, the Secretary of State; Air Force General Richard W. Venti, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; and Robert R. Morgan, Director of Central Intelligence. Vice President Lester R. Busick was seated beside the President.
“I’m sure it’s not that bad, Robert,” the President said in a soft voice. “As far as we can detect, the world has not stopped spinning on its axis. Run it down for us.”
For most folks, the President’s quiet tone and demeanor, his soft-spoken attitude, and his almost constant level of energy were a calming influence. But with these men, in this situation, it was beginning to get annoying. For Robert Goff, his friend the President’s constant lack of … alacrity, for lack of a better term, was beginning to get infuriating.
“Yes, sir,” Goff began, after taking a deep breath. “The rescue mission for Siren was a success. Unfortunately, just before exiting Russian airspace, the EB-1C Vampire bomber used for air cover was shot down by Russian air defense forces.”
“Maybe this Vampire wasn’t as survivable as we were led to believe,” the Vice President scoffed.
“The best-laid plans, Les, the best-laid plans,” the President said, gently admonishing his vice president. “The only real failure is the failure to try.”
Busick hid a scowl and fell silent. It was obvious to most of the nation that Thomas Thorn and Lester Busick were definitely two different men; if given a choice, most folks in the know would never pick these two men to work together in the White House. Thorn was a complete Washington novice; Busick was the archetypical Washington insider. Busick worked best when operating in crisis mode; Thorn treated every incident, from the lowliest political flap to the most serious world crisis, with the same quiet, understated coolness. He had a sort of Jimmy Carter innocence about him and a seemingly Ronald Reagan-type detachment from the seriousness of a particular incident, but at the same time his finely tuned mind kept his staff and advisors well coordinated and moving generally in unison.
For many years, Lester Busick had seen himself as the ultimate Washington puppetmaster, the man in the wings pulling the strings of power — but with the advent of Thomas Nathaniel Thorn on the political scene, he could tell right away that he was being outclassed. The difference was that Thorn pulled the strings without seemingly lifting a hand.
“What about the Vampire’s crew?” the President asked.
“Sir, Air Force Lieutenant-General Terrill Samson was in charge of the cover mission — he’s with us on a secure videophone link. I’d like to bring him in on our discussion.” Thorn nodded, and an aide activated the link. Samson was seated in his battle staff area at Dreamland, along with Major John Long. “General Samson, this is Secretary Goff. I’m here with the President and the National Security Council in the Situation Room. Who’s with you, General?”