“Yep,” Hardcastle said proudly. “He was all the way down to Independence Avenue. He ran right into the path of that 747. Man, I hope he got fried. What a great way for him to go — cooked by his own weapon.”
“That would be the perfect definition of justice,” Harley said. She trotted over to her car, retrieved a first-aid kit from her well-equipped trunk, and began dressing Wilkes’ wounds. The FBI Director was not conscious, but most of the bleeding had slowed to a manageable level. “I just wish he had gotten it sooner.” She looked back to the west and spotted the Avenger air defense vehicle, sitting on what looked like the scorched edge of the fireball across the Constitutional Gardens. “What’s that? Is that one of the Army air defense things?”
“It’s an Avenger Forward Area Air Defense System,” Hardcastle said. “Must’ve been one of Cazaux’s targets. He — had to take out the ground air defense units to make his air attacks work.”
“We better go see if anyone’s in there.”
“I’ll go — the fire might have destabilized the missiles on board,” Hardcastle said. “They might have a radio on board.”
“You better call the Bureau and tell them Wilkes is hurt badly.”
“She got a piece of Cazaux before she got it,” Hardcastle said. “She was going to play by the rules, even with the Devil himself standing right in front of her.” He shook his head as he trotted toward the Avenger. “Lani Wilkes saved my life. How am I ever going to live that down?”
Aboard the E-3C AWACS Radar Plane Leather-90
Milford saw the fast-moving low-flying radar targets, the F-16 and the fake Executive-One-Foxtrot, get closer and closer, saw the targets merge… and then both disappeared, right over the Potomac, just west of the capital. “Oh, Jesus…
“Lost contact with Bandit-1 and Devil-03,” the Senior Director, Maureen Tate, reported. The entire AW ACS crew was silent, everyone realizing what had just happened — a terrorist 747 had just hit Washington, D.C.
“Bandit… Bandit-2 now twelve miles southeast of the capital,” Maureen Tate stammered, trying to force her brain back to the task at hand. “Groundspeed ninety-three knots, in a slow descent. ETA to the capital area, nine minutes.”,
“SD, Weapons-3, I need to bingo Lima-Golf-31,” the weapons controller reported. Lima-Golf-31 was the F-15 out of Langley that had tried to chase down the 747. “He has less gas than he thought. He won’t make it to the capital.” The F-15 had been in full afterburner power ever since takeoff, and he probably didn’t start with a full load of fuel anyway. “Andrews is closed, and National is a zoo right now, with planes stacked up all over the place — I recommend Navy-Patuxent River.” Tate turned to Milford, who nodded his agreement. That was their last chance of stopping the new bandit. All they could do right now was wait for it to hit…
… no, no, there had to be something still out there. He once had several dozen air defense units operational in the s D.C. area — it was inconceivable that Cazaux or any army of terrorists could have gotten them all in just a matter of minutes.
Just one shot was all they needed to stop this last threat…
“Comm, MC, sweep all the tactical channels and try to raise any of the Leather air defense units,” Milford ordered. “Someone out there must still be operational. If possible, try to get some of the Avenger units from the Pentagon, Dulles, or National over to the capital area to try to stop Bandit-2.”
“Any Leather unit, any Leather unit, this is Leather-90 Control,” the communications technician radioed. “If you hear me, come up on any tactical frequency or on VHF 105.0. Repeat, if you hear me, come up on any tactical frequency. Over.”
Near the Washington Monument
That Same Time
The entire front of the top turret of the Avenger was crushed inwards and blackened, obviously by a hit from' a small but powerful antitank weapon. The front of the HMMWV itself was still smoking from the fire in the engine compartment, and the turret looked cockeyed, as if shoved off its moorings. Hardcastle used a fire extinguisher he found on the rear deck of the Avenger to put out the last bit of fire in the front so he could reach the driver and gunner. Both were dead. He found the third man in the Avenger crew nearby, shot to death by machine-gun fire. Cazaux was nothing if not a very efficient killer, Hardcastle thought. “Dear God,” Hardcastle said half-aloud, “you may not want it, but I’d give all of my remaining years for an assurance from you that Cazaux is really—”
Hardcastle started on the grisly task of removing the bodies from the Avenger. As he removed the driver’s hel-. met, he heard through the headphones, “Any Leather unit; any Leather unit, this is Leather-90 Control. If you hear me, come up on any tactical frequency or on VHF 105.0. Repeat, if you hear me, come up on any tactical frequency. Over.” Somebody was still calling, trying to see if anyone was still alive. Hardcastle tried to remember who “Leather” was, but it really didn’t matter. This Avenger unit was definitely dead. It wasn’t going anywhere, and the turret and sensors were cooked.
“Unknown rider, unknown rider,” another radio in the Avenger blurted, “unidentified aircraft on the Washington National one-two-five degree radial, two miles, this is Leather Control on GUARD, turn south immediately or you may be fired upon without warning. You are in Washington National Class B airspace and are approaching prohibited airspace. Turn south immediately and squawk 7700. Attention all aircraft, stay outside Andrews or Washington National ten DME, air defense emergency in progress. I say again, unknown rider…”
Holy shit! Hardcastle gasped.
Cazaux’s second terrorist aircraft!
He had almost forgotten — Cazaux said he had a second aircraft inbound to bomb the White House with a fuel-air explosive.
That “unknown rider” was it — and it was only a few miles away.
He donned the Avenger driver’s thick bulletproof Kevlar helmet, moved the microphone toward his lips, and keyed the transmit button: “Leather Control, this is… ah, this is Admiral Ian Hardcastle, on board an Avenger unit on the Mall. How do you read this transmitter?”
“Calling Leather Control, say again.”
“Leather Control, this is Admiral Hardcastle on board one of the Army Avenger units on The Mall. Can you read me?”
“Person calling Leather Control, this is an aviation emergency channel only, if you require medical or police response, change to VHF 121.5 or UHF 243.0, over.”
“Listen to me. Henri Cazaux is flying some kind of aircraft toward Washington, D.C., and it’s loaded with explosives. I’m on the ground near one of your Avengers. Your crew here is dead. I need to know how much time I have and if there’s anything I can do to help avert disaster. Over.”
“Listen, sir, if you are at The Mall, stay away from any military units you might encounter. The authorities will be arresting or shooting any looters. I advise you to get away from the area as quickly as possible. If you are injured or your home has been damaged, you should contact the proper authorities imme—”
The controller’s voice suddenly cut off, then another voice came on the channeclass="underline" “Is this Admiral Hardcastle, the White House air defense adviser?”
“Affirmative. I’m—” Suddenly Hardcastle remembered back from his unit and situation briefings who “Leather” was: “Is this the senior director of the AWACS orbiting over eastern Pennsylvania?”