The fourth Toyota had just made the turn when he flung the shopping bag forward with an underhand motion. He instantly turned to run as the plastic bag and its deadly contents slid over the pavement, coming to rest in the path of the oncoming vehicles. The police officer tackled him a split second later, slamming his head to the pavement, fracturing his skull in three places. The teenager was already dead when the bomb he had thrown went off, directly beneath the passenger-side wheel of the fifth and last vehicle in the Blackwater motorcade.
Aside from the driver, Alex Whysall was the sole passenger in the last Land Cruiser. As they passed under the raised gate of the parking garage, the driver, Stiles, was the first to see the young man running toward the truck. He shouted a warning as the African slung an object toward the vehicle. The young man immediately turned to run but didn’t get more than a few steps before a police officer slammed him to the ground. Neither Stiles nor Whysall saw what happened from that point forward. Both men’s eyes were glued to the white shopping bag that had just slid in front of their vehicle.
Reacting instinctively, Stiles swore and pulled the wheel hard to the right. He punched the gas, trying to clear the unknown object, but it was too late. A powerful explosion rocked the Toyota a split second later, lifting the front end a full two feet off the cement, tearing the front axle away from the frame. After what seemed like an eternity, the truck came crashing down with a resounding bang, slamming both men forward in their seats.
For a few seconds Whysall was too dazed to fully comprehend what had just happened. He was dimly aware of the frantic radio traffic coming over the dash-mounted unit, as well the roar of the angry crowd gathered in front of the courthouse, less than 30 meters west of their position. He couldn’t see through the windshield, as the blast had turned the glass opaque, but through his side window, he had a clear view of the policemen standing between their incapacitated vehicle and the frenzied, swelling mob. Presented with a new target in the form of the smoking SUV and the security people trapped inside, a segment of the crowd had broken off from the larger mass and was now surging forward with renewed vigor.
Stiles was slumped over, his head resting against the partially fractured driver’s side window. Reaching over, Whysall shook his shoulder and said a few words, trying to get a response, but the man didn’t react. Whysall unbuckled his seat belt and shifted over to check Stiles’s pulse, using his forearm to push down the air bag, which had deployed the instant the bomb went off. Stiles’s pulse was steady and strong, and he realized that the driver had merely been knocked unconscious when his head had hit the reinforced glass.
Breathing a short sigh of relief, Whysall took a few seconds to appraise the situation and check himself for injuries. He didn’t feel as if anything was wrong, apart from the whiplash he’d sustained when the front of the truck hit the pavement. But he knew full well that shock and adrenaline could temporarily mask the pain of almost any injury, no matter how serious. Still, a quick visual examination didn’t reveal any obvious problems, and he couldn’t just sit there and wait for help. The crowd was already on the move, and it didn’t look as if the police could hold them back for much longer.
Why the hell aren’t they using the tear gas? What the hell are they waiting for? The restraint being used by the South African Police Service and Johannesburg Metro PD didn’t make sense to the former marine, especially after what had just transpired. The police officers knew exactly whose motorcade had just been attacked; that was the whole reason they were conducting crowd control to begin with. Looking over, he could see that the majority of the officers forming the wall were dressed in full riot gear: composite helmets, chest protectors, black rubber batons, and clear convex shields. They knew what they were up against, so why hadn’t the captain authorized the use of nonlethal deterrents?
Whysall remembered his earlier concerns, thinking it appeared he’d been right all along. The police captain’s loyalties seemed not to lie with the president, but with the official who had just been convicted. It would explain why the attack had been allowed to take place. Whysall wondered if someone had been given the wrong information-if they had been told that Zuma would be in the last vehicle-or if the man who had thrown the bomb had just made an error in timing.
Somehow, he doubted that it had been a real attempt on the president’s life, as it was all but guaranteed to fail. But that didn’t change the fact that he and Stiles were now dead in the water-stuck with a disabled vehicle, no clear route of escape, and a hostile crowd numbering in the thousands.
Reaching forward, Whysall grabbed the handset and pushed the transmit button, hoping that the radio still worked, praying the police could somehow restrain the mob, and silently doubting that they had even the slightest chance of surviving the next few minutes.
At that precise moment the four remaining vehicles in the president’s convoy were racing east on Pritchard, approximately one kilometer east of the courthouse. Kealey had seen the explosion in the rearview mirror, but he’d ordered Flores to keep going. While he’d wanted nothing more than to stop and assist the men in the last vehicle, he had not been willing to risk so many lives-his principal’s above all-without knowing the specific nature of the threat. He’d seen only a bright flash behind him, and it could have been anything, though the resulting shock wave had been severe enough to convince him that the vehicle carrying Whysall and Stiles had probably suffered a crippling blow.
He had been trying to raise the two men without success, which could mean only one of two things: either the radio had been knocked out during the attack, or the men in the last vehicle were too badly injured to respond. Kealey could only hope it wasn’t the latter. Doing his best to ignore the commotion in the backseat, he placed a second call to the pilot of the Bell helicopter buzzing 500 feet over the incapacitated SUV. He had already ordered the pilot to maintain his position above the parking garage, where he would be able to keep watch on the developing situation.
“Air One, what’s happening down there?”
“Copy, this is Air One… I can’t see any movement inside the vehicle, but it doesn’t look like the officers on the ground can hold these people back for much longer.” There was a brief crackle of static, followed by an unintelligible exchange. “Uh…Greenwald is asking for permission to engage, over.”
“Negative,” Kealey snapped. Bruce Greenwald was the shooter on board the helicopter, a graduate of the U.S. Army’s famed Sniper School and a former marksman with the Los Angeles Police Department. He’d retired from the LAPD two years earlier with the rank of sergeant. He was a good man and a true professional, but Kealey could easily see things getting out of hand if he gave the sniper a green light. Besides, shooting into the crowd would only work to further enrage the protesters, placing the stranded Blackwater men at greater risk. “There’s nothing to engage. Are those people even armed?”
A brief silence. Kealey could picture Greenwald scanning the crowd through his gun scope, searching for any sign of a lethal weapon and probably hoping to find one.
“Negative,” came the reluctant response.
“Okay, Air One, tell him to hold his fire. Let me know if the crowd gets to the truck, over.”
“Will do. Air One, out.”
Kealey immediately tried to raise the stranded vehicle again, but there was still no response. They were now moving south through the business district, towering skyscrapers on either side of the busy street. The congestion had forced them to slow down, but Flores was skilled at finding holes in the traffic, and they were rapidly approaching the M2. As a blue sign flashed by, Kealey caught sight of the white lettering, realized they had missed their turn, and instantly turned to face the driver.