Dale Brown - Act of War

“I should have known,” Harold Kingman said. “How could I be so damned blind?” He turned to National Security Adviser Chamberlain. “Now let me guess: who among us would be clever yet twisted enough to engineer something like this, just to get to me?”

Robert Chamberlain smiled…and stepped over and stood beside Zakharov. “That would be me, Harold,” he said.

“What?” Collins cried. “Chamberlain…you set us up?”

“Vicki, I could be the biggest moron in D.C. and still be clever enough to put one over on you,” Chamberlain said, pulling a Secret Service MP5K submachine gun out from underneath his trench coat. “Your immense ego kept you from seeing this plan, Harold.”

“So Richter was right,” the President said. “There was only one person who knew where Task Force TALON was headed in Africa—you, Robert. Only you could have sent Kristen Skyy to the exact place where TALON was headed. But why? Why send her all the way into a battle zone?”

“The only thing I could think of that could stop Richter and his robots was not a bigger explosive, but Kristen Skyy,” Chamberlain said. “I thought that sap Richter would try to sacrifice himself to save his lady love. It almost worked. I knew in the back of my head that it was strange that I hadn’t heard from the task force after they finished with the Egypt job, but at that point I didn’t really care. My mistake. So where are the major and his robots?”

“They’ve been stationed at the Treasury Building ever since they returned from Egypt,” the President said. “They figured out that Washington had to be your next target—it was just a matter of when. He thought the press conference with Kingman was the perfect moment.”

“He’s a lot more clever than I gave him credit for,” Chamberlain said.

“Davajte vyhodit’ zdes’, Polkovnik,” Khalimov growled.

“Captain Khalimov is getting impatient,” Zakharov said. “Harold, at first I was just going to shoot you through the head and get it over with, but now I think you’d be more valuable as a hostage. The President, his chief of staff, and Harold Chester Kingman as my hostages—if I have a chance of getting out of this city, this is it.” Chamberlain led the way out of the parking garage, with Khalimov following behind.

“There’s no way you’re getting out of Washington alive, Zakharov,” the President said.

“You forget, Mr. President—the National Security Adviser, the man everyone calls your ‘copresident,’ arranged everything for us,” Zakharov said. “Let’s go.” Chamberlain removed his trench coat, threw it over the President’s head, and held him tightly around the waist on one side while Khalimov held him from the other side, half-dragging him along.

They emerged from the parking garage surrounded by a phalanx of soldiers—more of Zakharov’s men, dressed in army uniforms and Secret Service protective vests taken from the agents they executed—and were escorted past Blair House across Jackson Place to Lafayette Square. There, an Army UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter had just touched down right on Pennsylvania Avenue; a second Black Hawk was across Lafayette Square on H Street in front of the Hay Adams Hotel. Smoke was still rising from the roof of the White House. Metropolitan Police and National Park Police cruisers were arrayed along Pennsylvania and New York Avenues and H Street, but their confusion as to why regular army helicopters were on the ground in front of the White House was obvious. The starboard side door of the Black Hawk opened up, and more gunmen in battle dress uniforms with automatic weapons were visible inside. Zakharov and his captives were just a dozen meters from that door…

…when Khalimov shouted, “Yop tvayu mat!” and pulled the hostages even faster. There, standing just a few dozen meters in front of the Black Hawk, was one of the CID units. “Otkrytyj ogon!” Khalimov shouted. “Open fire!” The Russian terrorists surrounding the Black Hawk opened fire with grenade launchers and automatic weapons. But the CID unit didn’t move. It deployed a grenade launcher from its backpack and drew a finger across its throat, a clear signal to the helicopter’s crewmen to shut down. “Nyet!” Khalimov shouted. “Prepare to lift off, now!” The chopper pilot rolled up the throttle to liftoff power and held in a tiny bit of collective, just enough to make the Black Hawk dance on its wheels…

…but just before the hostages made it to the chopper, the CID unit fired a grenade directly into the Black Hawk’s wind-screen. The hostages were blown backward by the explosion, hugging the ground as shards of flaming metal and shattered rotor blades flew in every direction.

Jason Richter, piloting the CID unit, turned just as several uniformed Secret Service agents, Metropolitan Police Special Services, and U.S. Army soldiers ran up behind him. “Freeze! Secret Service!”

“This is Major Jason Richter, Task Force TALON! Don’t shoot! I’m part of the President’s protection detail…!”

Someone yelled, “Drop the weapon!” but they didn’t wait for him to do so—they opened fire with automatic gunfire and what felt like a grenade launcher or LAWS rocket. The sustained gunfire on the backpack weapon unit did the trick—the second rocket hit made one of the grenades inside cook off, and the backpack exploded. Jason was thrown onto his face, the backpack burning, still attached to his back.

He immediately tried to eject the burning backpack, but it seemed to be fused tight. Warning tones and messages were flashing in his electronic visor, then everything went dark, and smoke began to fill the interior. Oh shit, he thought, I’m burning to death in here!

“Jason!” he heard someone shout. “How do you open this damned thing?”

It was Ray Jefferson! Jason motioned behind him to his left belt area. Jefferson struggled through the smoke and heat coming from the backpack and felt around the waist area, finally locating the ridge and the two buttons underneath it. He pressed them both simultaneously and held them until he heard two loud pops! The burning backpack disengaged and the rear hatch flung itself open.

“Richter!” Ray climbed atop the stricken CID unit and pulled Jason out of the machine through a cloud of smoke. “Are you all right?”

“What…what about…the President?” Jason croaked, gasping for breath.

Jefferson looked over to where the President, Kingman, and Victoria Collins were huddled on the street, surrounded by Secret Service agents. “They’re alive.”

“Where’s Zakharov?” He looked around and saw Zakharov, Chamberlain, and Khalimov running across Lafayette Square toward the other Black Hawk helicopter. “I’m not letting that bastard get away,” he said. “I’m going after Zakharov.”

“Khalimov is mine, Major!” Jefferson growled, and he picked up his M-16 rifle and ran off after them.

Pavel Khalimov pushed Zakharov ahead, ran away from the helicopter, took cover behind the statue of Andrew Jackson, and opened fire on Jefferson when he was less than twenty meters away. Jefferson’s bulletproof vest protected his torso, but a bullet tore into his right shoulder, and he went down. Jason went over to him. “Jesus, Ray, you’re hit…!”

“Don’t you let that chopper get away, Jason!” Jefferson said through teeth clenched in pain. He looked at Richter in surprise. “You didn’t bring a gun, Major? I knew you’ve spent too much time in those robots.” He pushed the M-16 rifle into Jason’s hands. “Don’t let that traitorous bastard Chamberlain get away.”

Jason hesitated—he knew Khalimov was nearby, and the sergeant major was helpless—but the increased roar of the Black Hawk’s rotors told him time was running out, and he hurried away.