Robert Ludlum - The Bourne Ultimatum

A graveled road! The gates to the American compound were less than a hundred yards away. ... The graveled road? Soaked with fuel! The plastic charges had not gone off-but they would in a matter of moments, creating a wall of fire, enveloping the jeep and its driver! With the accelerator pressed to the floor, Jason raced to the gate. It was deserted-and the iron barrier was down! He slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop, hoping beyond reasonable hope that no sparks would fly out and ignite the gravel. Placing the spewing flare on the metal floor, he swiftly removed two grenades from his pockets-grenades he was loath to part with-pulled the pins, and hurled both toward the gate. The massive explosions blew the barricade away and instantly set the graveled road on fire, the leaping flames immediate-enveloping him! He had no choice; he threw the hot flare away and sped through the tunnel of fire into Novgorod's final largest compound. As he did so the concrete guardhouse at the "English" border exploded; glass, stone and shards of metal shot out and up everywhere.

He had been so filled with anxiety on their way to the crossing into "Spain" that he barely recalled the diminutive replicas of the "American" cities and towns, much less the fastest routes that led to the tunnel. He had merely followed young Benjamin's harsh shouted commands, but he did remember that the California-bred trainer kept referring to the "coast road-like Route One, man, up to Carmel!" It was, of course, those streets closest to the Volkhov, which in turn became, in no order of geographical sequence, a shoreline in "Maine," the Potomac River of "Washington," and the northern waters of Long Island Sound that housed the naval base at "New London."

The madness had reached "America." Police cars, their sirens wailing, sped through the streets, men shouting into radios as people in various stages of dress and undress ran out of buildings and stores, screaming about the terrible earthquake that had hit this leg of the Volkhov, one even more severe than the catastrophe in Armenia. Even with the surest knowledge of devastating infiltration, the leaders of Novgorod could not reveal the truth. It was as if the seismic geologists of the world were forgotten, their discoveries unfounded. The giant forces beneath the earth did not collide and erupt in terrible swift immediacy; instead, they worked in relays, sending a series of crippling body blows from north to south. Who questions authority in the panic of survival? Everyone in "America" was being prepared, primed for what they knew not.

They found out roughly ten minutes after the destruction of a large part of the diminutive "Great Britain." Bourne reached the compressed, miniaturized outlines of "Washington, D.C." when the conflagration began. The first to plunge into flames, the sound of its detonation delayed only by milliseconds, was the wooden duplicate of the Capitol dome; it blew into the yellowed sky like the thin, hollow replica it was. Moments later-only moments-the Washington Monument, centered in its patch of grassy park, crumpled with a distant boom as if its false base had been shoveled away by a thunderous ground-moving machine. In seconds the artificial set piece that was the White House collapsed in flames, the explosions dulled both audibly and visibly, for "Pennsylvania Avenue" was awash in fire.

Bourne knew where he was now. The tunnel was between "Washington" and "New London, Connecticut"! It was no more than five minutes away! He drove the jeep down to the street paralleling the river, and again there were frightened, hysterical crowds. The police were shouting through loudspeakers, first in English and then in Russian, explaining the terrible consequences if anyone tried to swim across the water, the searchlights swinging back and forth, picking up the floating bodies of those who had tried in the northern compounds.

"The tunnel, the tunnel! Open the tunnel!"

The screams from the excited crowds became a chant that could not physically be denied; the underground pipeline was about to be assaulted. Jason leaped out of the surrounded jeep, pocketing the remaining three flares, and propelled his way, arms and shoulders working furiously, often fruitlessly, through the crushing, crashing bodies. There was nothing else for it; he pulled out a flare and ripped the release from its recess. The spewing flame had its effect; heat and fire were catalysts. He ran through the crowd, pummeling everyone in front of him, shoving the blinding, spitting flare into terrified faces, until he reached the front and faced a cordon of guards in the uniforms of the United States Army. It was crazy, insane! The world had gone nuts!

No! There! In the fenced-off parking lot was the fuel truck! He broke through the cordon of guards, holding up his computerized release card, and ran up to the soldier with the highest-ranking insignia on his uniform, a colonel with an AK-47 strapped to his waist who was as panicked as any officer of high rank he had ever seen since Saigon.

"My identification is with the name 'Archie' and you can clear it immediately. Even now I refuse to speak our language, only English! Is that understood? Discipline is discipline!"

"Togda?" yelled the officer, questioning the moment, then instantly returning to English in a maddeningly Boston accent. "Of course, we know of you," he cried, "but what can I do? This is an uncontrollable riot!"

"Has anyone passed through the tunnel in the last, say, half hour?"

"No one, absolutely, no one! Our orders are to keep the tunnel closed at all costs!"

"Good. ... Get on the loudspeakers and disperse the crowds. Tell them the crisis has passed and the danger with it."

"How can I? The fires are everywhere, the explosions everywhere!"

"They'll stop soon."

"How do you know that?"

"I know! Do as I say!"

"Do as he says!" roared a voice behind Bourne; it was Benjamin, his face and shirt drenched with sweat. "And I hope to hell you know what you're talking about!"

"Where did you come from?"

"Where you know; how is another question. Try scaring the shit out of Capital HQ for a chopper ordered by an apoplectic Krupkin from a hospital bed in Moscow."

" 'Apoplectic'-not bad for a Russian-"

"Who gives me such orders?" yelled the officer of the guard. "You are only a young man!"

"Check me out, buddy, but do it quick," answered Benjamin, holding out his card. "Otherwise I think I'll have you transferred to Tashkent. Nice scenery, but no private toilets. ... Move, you asshole!"

"Cal-if-fornia, here I-"

"Shut up!"

"He's here! There's the fuel truck. Over there." Jason pointed to the huge vehicle that dwarfed the scattered cars and vans in the fenced parking area.

"A fuel truck? How did you figure it out?" asked the astonished Benjamin.

"That tank's got to hold close to a hundred thousand pounds. Combined with the plastics, strategically placed, it's enough for the streets and those fake structures of old, dried wood."

"Slushaytye!" blared the myriad loudspeakers around the tunnel, demanding attention, as indeed the explosions began to diminish. The colonel climbed on top of the low, concrete gate house, a microphone in his hand, his figure outlined in the harsh beams of powerful searchlights. "The earthquake has passed," he cried in Russian, "and although the damage is extensive and the fires will continue throughout the night, the crisis has passed! ... Stay by the banks of the river, and our comrades in the maintenance crews will do their best to provide for your needs. ... These are orders from our superiors, comrades. Do not give us reason to use force, I plead with you!"

"What earthquake?" shouted a man in the front ranks of the panicked multitude. "You say it's an earthquake and we are all told it is an earthquake but your brains are in your bowels! I've lived through an earthquake and this is no earthquake. It is an armed attack!"