"That's close enough," Brognola decided. He reached for the telephone to call Stony Man. "I just hope we manage things on time. One of you get me Quantico Marine Base on the other line."
12
July 13, 1032 hours, Stony Man Farm, Virginia
The captain was in a cranky mood. He had been off duty and just about to sit down to enjoy a couple of drinks in the officers' mess, when the officer of the day had caught him.
"Jackson. Top-priority flight, on the double."
"Hey, Colonel. I'm not on the duty roster."
"You are now. Jump."
Captain Jackson got the message. He got to the chopper hangar on the double — it was on the double all the way, because Colonel Fulton jogged right beside him.
They came to a stop beside a Sikorsky CH-53E. It was already warming up. The captain reached for the clipboard being held by a mechanic, but Fulton snatched it and scribbled a quick signature without checking it. Jackson was beginning to suspect that the flight was more than routine.
"Where's my crew?" he asked.
"You're the crew," Fulton told him as they boarded. "I'm commanding.''
"But you're duty officer."
"And duty calls."
They warmed up the sixteen-ton helicopter and staggered it into the sky the moment the engines would take it.
"Where's the load, skipper?" Jackson asked. He was beginning to feel the excitement.
"Just outside the Shenandoah Park. There's two passengers for Boston."
"We're taking this gas-guzzling, suicidal monster to ferry two men?"
The colonel was enjoying the captain's discomfort. "It's the fastest thing we've got on the base, and I was told it had to be the quickest merry-go-round we have."
"Who gave that brilliant order?"
"Not allowed to say, but it came from a lot higher than base commander."
The lights around the helipad were strongly directional. Jackson did not spot them until they were directly over them. The colonel brought the chopper back on a much lower level and then down on the pad. The lights went out immediately. Jackson cranked the door and jumped out.
For all he knew he might be in the middle of a meadow. He wondered how grass could be used without showing signs of wear. He bent down and discovered he was standing on Astro Turf.
Two men in camouflage fatigues came jogging up with a war bag in each of their hands. They moved swiftly and easily. Jackson wondered what they could be carrying that would be that bulky, that light and that important.
The two men looked like brothers. They were both slightly under six feet, both muscular, but their facial features were different. It was obvious they were both fighting men.
"Rough air ahead. I'll store those," Jackson told the passengers.
"Like hell you will, mate," said the one with longer hair. Then, with a flash of the devil in his blue eyes, he added, "But you could give me a bloody hand getting this crap aboard."
He extended the two war bags at arm's length to the curious marine captain. Jackson reached forward, took the straps and then staggered forward. His arms dropped and the bags swung into his legs with a dull clunk. It was all Jackson could do to hold on to the bags and not moan out loud. Each bag weighed about seventy pounds.
The other passenger placed both of his bags on the helicopter, and without removing his hands from their grip, vaulted on after them. The one with the British accent easily clambered aboard and accepted his war bags from Jackson. Jackson had to lift them one at a time.
"Don't know what I'd have done without you," the passenger told him.
Jackson looked into the mocking blue eyes and canceled his scowl. He dogged the door and hurried to the flight deck.
"Let's get out of here, sir," he told the colonel.
"What are our passengers like?" Fulton asked as he slapped the Sikorsky into maximum climb.
The acceleration pushed Jackson into his seat before he was buckled in.
"I met someone like those two once before," Jackson said. "A big dark guy with icy eyes."
Jackson paused and shuddered.
"Colonel, the rpm are red zone."
"Them's our orders. This chopper only has to last long enough to get them to MIT."
"There's no pad at MIT."
"That's what I told them," Fulton said.
"And what was the response?" the captain asked.
Colonel Fulton grinned. "Tough," he quoted.
July 13, 1148 hours, Cambridge, Massachusetts
Aya Jishin stood at the front of the bus and looked down its length, assessing what she saw. She had twenty of her Cambodia— and Moscow-trained specialists with her. The other thirty passengers were locals, recruited and trained through HIT. The specialists all sat at the front, near her. It would not do for them to mingle with the foot soldiers.
The bus gave a sudden swerve. She fired an angry glare at the driver. He was wiping a hand on his pants and paying little attention to the road.
He caught the glance and explained uneasily. "Whoever slit the driver's throat got blood on the controls. It's getting sticky."
"Be thankful it isn't your blood," Jishin told him.
The driver looked straight ahead and did not answer. He was noticeably paler.
Jishin was genuinely annoyed with him. What was a lit-tie blood? Did they expect to destroy a system without getting blood on their hands? Americans isolated themselves from reality to an extent her Japanese mind could never fathom. There had been only six passengers on the bus, all older people. If there had been forty-odd women and children, she doubted if these troops would have even seized the bus.
They pulled onto the campus of MIT. Harvard was right next door along the Charles River.
"Which building do we want?" the driver asked.
Jishin pulled out a crumpled campus guide and shoved it at the driver. One of the buildings was circled.
"Not many people around for this time of day," someone observed.
"We're being flagged down," the driver said.
A workman in beige coveralls was in front of the bus, madly waving a red flag.
"Stop and see what he wants," Jishin ordered.
Her internal alarms were buzzing. The campus was too quiet for midmorning.
The driver stopped and opened the doors of the bus. The workman, a rugged blond-haired man, bounced on board as if he wanted to fight. His attitude lulled Jishin's suspicions slightly. People who lay ambushes try not to look overly aggressive.
"You idiot. Don't you know you're driving into a blast zone?" the worker demanded.
"Blast zone?" The driver was genuinely perplexed.
"Like they told you at the gate — no one on campus until the blast is set off."
"What blast?" The driver was almost whining.
Jishin was almost convinced, until she locked eyes with the man. His face was surprisingly controlled for a long-nose, but he could not totally hide the recognition that flashed behind his eyes. He raised his yellow hard hat to the Japanese terrorist.
"The blast that's just about to happen," he told the driver. Then he leaped off the bus.
Attention was distracted by the smashing of the rear window of the bus. The glass fell inward on the American terrorists-in-training, followed by two hand grenades.
Jishin forgot all about the workman and threw herself into the laps of two terrorists in the front seat. She yelled, "Grenade!" while she was in the air.
The blasts made mincemeat of much of the local talent, but did nothing to the professionals at the front of the bus. Being thoroughly trained professionals, they held their seats while the survivors from the back of the bus pushed and shoved in their desperate haste to get off the rolling death trap.