Ted Bell - Spy

But Top watched in disbelief as, at the last minute, a man had leaped aboard the van and blinded the camera lens. Despite the controller’s efforts to shake the man off with violent maneuvers, he was still there.

With the help of a pistol to the temple, he’d just convinced Kahn to at least put his one remaining controllable asset back under manual control. If he could move the Suburban only a thousand yards nearer to the presidential podium, there was still hope. Thousands would die in the intitial blast, even at this distance. But if he could get closer, the government of the United States would cease to exist.

“Just go east,” Khan said quietly, punching in the manual override code. Top pushed the controller aside and grabbed the joy stick.

“I can’t see a thing!” Top cried. Whoever was atop the truck still had the lens covered.

“It doesn’t matter, “Khan said, The further east you can move the asset, the better chance you have of killing the president and everyone on the podium.”

The clock above them continued to roll down inexorably toward noon.

They had less than ten minutes.

“East, you idiot!” Khan screamed in Top’s ear. “Go east!”

Top nudged the joystick and the Suburban started moving again, blind. He had retained a mental image of the truck’s location relative to the podium. Still, it seemed impossible.

But Top was a master at this. He summoned all of his skills, moving the blindfolded asset on instinct alone. There had been human error, but it had not been his. His impossible dream could still come true.

Under my thumb, he thought, power singing in his veins as he moved the joystick.

THE PRESIDENT and Mrs. McAtee were ready to begin their descent of the Capitol steps. At the bottom, Chief Justice Howard Clark was waiting, his long black robes whipping about in the stiff breeze. There was a roar from the crowd as the president turned and waved at the mass of people come to witness this historic event. The Marine Band played the first notes of a stirring martial tune. The president put his arm around his wife. It was almost time. The U.S. Marine band, the President’s Own, in their scarlet jackets, played on, a rousing Sousa tune that McAtee loved.

So far, so good, the president thought.

It looked like he’d made the right decision after all. History would record that Jack McAtee had stood his ground.

86

T he tree rose up from the ground, rising like an Atlas rocket from the pad, majestic, slowly gathering momentum. The blast had lifted it upward, intact, straight up for what felt like a long second, and then it pitched forward, falling in slow motion toward the river and landing with a resounding crash on the jungle floor.

“Allez-oop!” someone shouted joyfully from behind the trees. It had to be Froggy.

Thick, acrid smoke and sharp licks of fire poured forth from the wounded hole in the ground. Hawke and Stokely edged forward to inspect the damage. Exposed cables sizzled and snapped, still carrying electricity. There was a twisted spaghetti of wire and thick conduit still running from the hollow of the fallen tree and disappearing down inside the four-foot hole left by the blast.

“Shit,” Stoke said, “We flattened their antenna, but I’m guessing they’re still up and running down there.”

Hawke was on the radio, looking down into the hole. He heard shouts and some small arms fire below. At least a few people in the Tomb were still alive.

“Stiletto this is Hawke. I need a PAM missile at my location. Now. You have my GPS coordinates?”

“Aye, sir, uh…” the Fire Control Officer responded nervously. “Uh, you say you want this one at your exact GPS location?”

“Affirmative. I say again, right on top of my bleeding head,” Hawke said, “Fire it now, Dylan!”

“That’s affirmative. Launching PAM now, sir.”

“Get back! On the ground!” Stoke shouted, “Incoming!”

“Fire in the hole!” Froggy shouted, diving for cover.

THE PRESIDENT AND the First Lady, arm in arm, began their slow and careful descent of the steps leading down to the podium. Their smiles were radiant. Cheers and applause erupted from those nearby and from the thousands gathered on the west side of the Capitol. Not a few among them were holding their breath. Everyone pressed forward, hoping for a better view.

THE GROUND SHOOK from the explosion of the PAM missile deep in Top’s underground bunker. After the blinding white flash, Hawke and Stokely again ran toward the hole. It was bigger now, maybe five feet in diameter. Smoke was pouring out, but there was light down there. Electric light.

“Emergency generators,” Hawke said, slinging a machine gun over his shoulder. “Froggy, pick two men and come with us. We’re going down.”

Stoke had secured a line to a nearby tree. He dropped the bitter end into the smoke-filled hole.

“Me first,” Hawke said, and before anyone could say anything, he disappeared, grasping the line. Stokely followed, then Froggy, then the two machine gunners, Bassman and Boomer.

Hawke’s feet hit the floor and he rolled left. He leapt to his feet and secured the room with his eyes. He saw Stoke land and go right. Then Froggy and the two gunners. There were still some tangos alive, getting to their feet amid the smoke and rubble. Froggy and his two gunners dispatched them before they could get a shot off.

The bunker communications room was devastated. Broken bodies lay slumped over what had been control consoles. Small electrical fires were still burning everywhere and there was the familiar roast pork stench of burned flesh in everyone’s nostrils.

A small, bespectacled man in charred robes came out of the smoke, a curved knife raised above his head. Hawke had seen enough pictures to recognize Abu Khan. But the man was headed for Stokely.

Stoke raised his hand to ward off the man’s blow, but the tip of the blade sliced Stoke’s forearm.

“This is sacred ground, infidel,” Khan said, shrinking back but raising his blade again, “We are divine martyrs!”

Stoke looked at him and smiled. “Warm up the virgins,” he said.

Hawke came at Khan from behind, got one arm around his throat, and jammed the muzzle of his weapon to the man’s temple.

“Welcome to paradise, Khan,” Hawke said. “Drop the knife. You have five seconds to tell me what I need to know.”

“I don’t know what you—don’t kill me!”

“Hawke, over there! Stoke shouted. “There’s a monitor still up and running! Washington! Shit, that’s the Inauguration!”

Hawke looked over at the only working monitor. A perfect digital live feed of the ceremony now taking place on the podium. Chief Justice Clark stood waiting for the president.

The president and his wife were descending the steps.

“Tell me Dr. Khan,” Hawke said quietly in the man’s ear, “how terror feels at the wrong end of the gun.”

The man refused to speak.

Hawke stared at the monitor. There was something he wasn’t seeing. Something he was missing. What? What the bloody hell was it? Something Ambrose had said…Swear on the bible…don’t let him.

“Tell me what you did to the bible!” Hawke screamed at Khan, “Or die now!”

Khan moaned, “A paper-thin sheet of high explosive. Heat and pressure sensitive. When he places his left hand on it…”

“Fuck!” Stoke shouted. “Where’s Top? We gotta do something!” Stoke had searched the room for the giant, but he was nowhere to be found. Dead most likely, Stoke thought, buried under all the rubble.

Hawke was already on the sat phone, punching in Conch’s secure number. He kept his left hand around Kahn’s throat, increasing pressure every time the man moved.

“Conch,” he said when he heard her voice. “Don’t let the president touch the bible!”