The federal cops backed away from the gate with their weapons at the ready. One of them was already on his radio.
That was when the senior cop on duty, a sergeant, staring at the captain whom he had served under for more than a dozen years, gestured to his mates. “Get out of the way, fellows. The captain is pulling it down.”
The captain nodded once, and the tow truck engine revved and the driver popped the clutch. The slack came out of the chains and the gate came off its hinges and went skidding as the truck backed across the street, blocking it.
The captain strode up the now-open drive and said to the federal police. “Shoot me or get out of the way.”
They looked at the crowd surging forward, the television camera catching it all, and moved aside. The crowd surged onto the lawn and made for the White House. The television reporter and police captain walked, but many of the men in the crowd — it was almost exclusively male — ran ahead.
In fifteen minutes the police captain and television reporter learned to their satisfaction that the president was not in the mansion. Only a few servants remained. Not a single staffer or aide or politician could be found.
As the crowd surged through the first family’s quarters and the Oval Office grabbing souvenirs and vandalizing furniture, the reporter and cameraman went trotting out the way they had entered. They had footage that they needed to get on the air fast. The reporter could smell a Pulitzer.
Grafton and I were off the ground Thursday morning when the sky was black as coal and the morning star was just ooching up over the horizon. He climbed to 4,500 feet and headed straight for Hagerstown. The little plane didn’t have a nav aid or GPS, so Grafton took a squint at the sectional chart, decided on a course, and hi-de-ho, here we go. As we flew along, I communed with Venus. Like most people, I rarely visit with the morning star. Praying that we wouldn’t make this a habit, I gazed with wonder at the sprite. The night faded, and almost as if God had taken a hand, at the proper time the Hagerstown airport appeared in the dawn haze.
The northern army was camped on the airport grass. It was a sea of military vehicles; a few APCs; several howitzers; lots of trucks, generators, tents, portable kitchens; and several thousand people, about half in uniform. Pickup trucks and cars were parked in rows.
“Wow,” I said.
“That’s only about half the troops,” Grafton said. “The rest are camped at the fair ground, and a lot of the veterans are on picket duty. Martinez thinks he has about five thousand people now.”
We landed and parked near the control tower. General Martinez was there to meet Grafton. They went over to Martinez’ ride, a pickup, and conferred while I chocked the Cessna and tied it down. I looked to see if we had collected any more bullet holes. Not yet today.
I faced into the dawn, surveyed the encampment, and took a leak. I gave thanks that I hadn’t chosen the military as a career; the hours are terrible. Zipped up and yawned. Okay, I was ready.
I strolled over to the meeting of the general staff at the pickup truck.
“General Martinez says Soetoro isn’t in the White House. Civilians got in last night and found he had skedaddled.”
“Terrific,” I said, yawning again. “If the Pentagon didn’t fly him to some third world paradise, this will be like looking for Elvis.”
“Oh,” Jake Grafton said with a gleam in his eye, “I have a feeling he’s close. Like up at Camp David.” He pointed to the east. “Just twenty miles that way, on the other side of that low mountain.”
I turned and looked east at the mountain bulging against the dawn sky. Actually, it sort of figured that Barry Soetoro might run to earth in that rustic presidential getaway, which was designed for defense by Secret Service and federal police. Local crackers couldn’t get within five miles of the place without alarms going off. If I were going to hide out for a while and had the federal government to pay the help, chefs included, Camp David would be high on my list.
“Maybe so,” I said to Grafton.
“Indeed,” he said, “maybe so.”
He turned back to General Martinez, so I walked around the pickup truck to see if it had any dings. It looked clean. After this mess was over, maybe I could make an offer on one that FEMA didn’t need anymore. I had decided that I needed a truck. My old Benz convertible was cool, but a truck had more possibilities for a man of my métier.
Grafton and Martinez gabbled on their handhelds a while, then Grafton motioned toward the Cessna. He shook hands with Martinez and conferred some more while I untied the plane and stowed the chocks. I climbed into the right seat and put on my belt and headset. Arranged my little bag of grenades behind me so I could reach them easily and made sure my M4 on the backseat was loaded and handy. I wished I had a flak vest to sit on, but I didn’t.
Finally Grafton strode over, jumped into the left seat, and cranked the engine. With it at idle he put on his seat belt and headset. “Martinez will get the Predators up. They are flying them out of Dawson, so until they get here we are the eyes of the army.”
“Roger eyes.”
“We need to find out what happened to that column of people coming from Baltimore along the interstate and see what’s happening at Camp David.”
“The feds will likely shoot at us if we go swanning over in this crate.”
“Then we’ll know, won’t we?”
The asshole! It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that if he had an ounce of sense he’d send a Predator over David, but not-a-minute-to-waste Grafton had made his decision and he wouldn’t change it. How come I always get stuck with the heroes?
Both our side windows opened on hinges at the top to a limit of about three inches. I checked mine. It was a bit too small for me to push a grenade through the opening. Not to worry, I could always open the door against the slipstream and drop them like eagle shit on the multitudes below. Maybe they would be inspired to keep their heads down. I reached behind me and got a couple, which I put in my lap.
Twenty minutes later we realized that the interstate east all the way to Frederick was essentially empty. That column of Soetoro volunteers had to be somewhere, but where?
Grafton turned toward Camp David. He was only about a thousand feet above the trees. Plumes of smoke rose from the forest, formed a thin cloud in the still air, and pointed the way to Camp David. Lots of fires down there, so there were probably lots of people.
And sure enough, we found them. Grafton got looks through the trees at people camping, then he dropped lower and we saw vehicles by the dozens, mainly trucks. Saw the presidential buildings surrounded by lawns and stately mature trees, and many people on those lawns. Most of the people I saw had rifles. Then a few of them pointed their weapons skyward and I saw flashes against the dark of the forest floor.
“They’re shooting at us,” I told Grafton.
“We’re leaving,” he said, and headed west over the low mountain.
When we were clear, he got on the radio to Martinez. “Many people around Camp David. I think you need to check it out. The man may be there.”
“Wilco.”
We landed at Hagerstown and I tied the plane down after inspecting it again for bullet holes. The shooters all missed. Maybe this was going to be a lucky day for me. Sarah Houston drove up in our stolen FEMA pickup, the one that had my money in it, along with spare weapons, AT4s, and my sniper rifles. I was ready for a real war.
She was wearing jeans, a green army T-shirt, and a web belt with her pistol holster attached. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “You’re looking great this morning, lady,” I told her.