A suicide mission, but D-Day was perfectly willing to do it.
“Too many of them for that,” Paulius said. He looked at Roth. “Any luck raising the Coronado, see if they have any ideas?”
Roth shook his head. “Negative, Commander. Short-range communication still works — not that there’s anyone answering — but we lost all long-range communication in the assault. I’m trying to get through on the MBITR, but I need to find a line of sight to a satellite. That’s hard to do from in here. I might be able to reach the Coronado from the roof of this building. If I can, we could request air support.”
Tim raised a hand. “MBITR?”
“Satellite radio,” Paulius said. “And our air support is gone — we saw both of the Apaches destroyed. We can’t risk bringing in the Coronado’s Seahawks, not when the Converted might have more Stingers. That means the only way out of here is on foot, so we can get Mitchell to a place the Seahawks can land safely. We need something to blow a hole in those lines.”
Ramierez shook his head. “Too bad we can’t just drop some big-ass bombs on them. Not just on the blockade, but on all those fuckers packed in nice and tight around here. We’d kill a shitload of them.”
A big-ass bomb… Paulius had forgotten about the mission’s last element of air support.
“The B2 might still be up there,” he said. “If we can contact it, maybe it can drop a JDAM on the north line, let us escape, then hammer all around the hotel.”
Bosh laughed, a sound of frustration. He shook his head. “A JDAM to break us out? I’ve seen one of those take the top off a fucking mountain. The B2 crew would need pinpoint accuracy, Commander. If they’re off-target to the south by even a few hundred feet, it’ll kill us.”
Bosh was right. A B2 strike was risky, damn near suicidal, but they were out of options and almost out of time.
“Roth, you’re on,” Paulius said. “You and Ram head up to the roof. Try to reach the Coronado, have them task the B2 to strike a hundred meters north of our location.”
Roth let out a low whistle. “In bomb-speak, Commander, that’s right on top of us.”
“It is, and it’s going to work. There might be enemy units on the roof of this building, so kill anything you see. Stay alive long enough to contact the Coronado.”
“Wait,” Clarence said.
Paulius glared at the man. He was the last person he wanted to hear from right now.
Clarence dug into his pocket. He pulled out a cell phone, held it up like a kid at show and tell.
“This gives me a direct line to DST director Murray Longworth. I’m pretty sure he’s at the White House, sitting in the Situation Room with the Joint Chiefs.”
Paulius stared at the bulky phone, then started laughing. The guy who refused to see reality had a direct line to the Joint Chiefs? Like this night needed to get any stranger.
“Well then, Agent Otto,” Paulius said, “why don’t you just go ahead and give the White House a call?”
REACH OUT AND TOUCH SOMEONE
Murray Longworth watched the world burn.
The Park Tower mission had ended in disaster. SEAL Team Two and the Ranger company, wiped out. Clarence, Margaret and Feely, undoubtedly dead.
And if all of those people were gone, then Cooper Mitchell was gone as well.
Vogel hadn’t found any other survivors of the HAC trial. Mitchell had been the last hope of cultivating hydras.
The Situation Room’s main monitor showed the next step in mankind’s downward spiraclass="underline" nuclear first-strike options against China. Porter wanted to launch. Albertson wasn’t putting up much resistance. No hydras, nuclear war about to erupt — Murray realized it was all over.
The Converted had won.
He jumped a little when his cell phone buzzed. That was the one on his inside left pocket… the direct line to Clarence Otto.
He answered. “Otto?”
“Yes sir, Director,” Otto said. “We’ve got Cooper Mitchell. He’s alive.”
Murray felt a slight pain in his chest.
“How the fuck did you get out of there? I saw Predator footage, they were all over you.”
“Never mind that,” Otto said. “We have Cooper and we can still get him out of the city. To do that, we need to call in an air strike from the B2. We need it right now. Can you make that happen?”
“You bet your ass I can. Hold on.”
He lowered the phone.
“Porter! Put those nukes back in your pants for a minute, we’ve still got a chance.”
ANTICIPATION
Cooper Mitchell knew he was going to die.
No way this would work. But it wasn’t like he had a choice, and maybe he’d get to see some of those bastards die before he found out if there was an afterlife.
The SEALs all crouched down low behind the tea shop’s counter, waiting for the boom.
“It’s going to be a powerful explosion,” Klimas said. “It’ll probably knock us silly for a bit, but you have to get up fast and be ready to go.”
Klimas was pretty badass. Cooper knew that all SEALs were badass, but this guy didn’t seem fazed that his unit had been hacked to pieces and — probably — eaten.
“We go straight through their lines, and we stay together,” Klimas said. “If you get separated, the rally point is First St. Paul’s Lutheran Church, at LaSalle Boulevard and Goethe, seven blocks north. Everyone clear?”
Cooper saw the SEALs take cover behind anything solid that stood between them and the impending bomb.
Feely was trembling. Dude looked scared as hell. Cooper was scared, too, had been for days, but better a bomb or a bullet than a barbecue.
They ain’t gonna eat me, Sofia.
Klimas looked at Cooper, and at Feely.
“You two boys stay with me,” the SEAL said. “Visibility is going to be shit. Whatever it takes, do not fall behind. This is our one chance. Don’t fuck it up.”
Nine faces looked upward simultaneously, ears all responding to the same thing: a faint whistling sound, rapidly growing in intensity.
“Incoming,” Klimas said. He tucked into a fetal position, laced his fingers behind his head and pressed his arms tightly against his ears.
Cooper did the same.
INTO THE BREACH
Tim Feely’s world shook; it roared.
Glass and brick flew into the tea shop, smashing into shelves and tearing the walls to pieces. Big chunks of masonry pounded into the counter, cracking wood and splintering tile. Dust and smoke drove into his lungs. He coughed, screamed for help only to realize his voice sounded impossibly small and faraway.
He blinked, tried to see through the swirling haze.
A hand grabbed his collar.
“Get your ass up, Feely! Move!”
Klimas. His voice sounded distant, but it was a beacon.
Tim heard Klimas screaming at Cooper. Something collapsed from the ceiling and crashed into the floor. Tim stumbled toward the shattered window… they had to go north, they didn’t have long.
“Move-move-move! Out the window!”
Tim stepped over the low sill and onto the sidewalk, out of the tea shop and into an apocalypse. The winter wind swirled up clouds of thick dust, cutting visibility to just a few feet. He heard things crashing, things falling, pieces of building crumbling and dropping to the street below.