“Okay people; let’s start moving to the Rose Garden. We’ll begin the award ceremony in fifteen minutes.”
“What’s the hold up, man? You have my orders and ID. We don’t have time for this. There’s hard Intel of a terrorist cell planning an imminent attack somewhere in DC. We need to beef up the White House perimeter, ASAP!”
The capitol policeman frowned upwards. The young military officer poking his head out of a JLTV armored car seemed vaguely familiar. Had he seen him on TV? The cop cast a sour glance at the other five armored vehicles lined up on the Arlington Memorial Bridge exit.
“Sorry, sir. No one told us anything about a threat. Unless we receive direct orders from our Pentagon liaison, then we’ll have to follow standard protocol. If you want to get within two kilometers of the White House, then you’ll all need additional perimeter passes. It’s possible to issue limited access, temporary ones, but I’ll need fingerprints from all your men first. Could take an hour for the Secret Service to approve the request, and they might not allow you to bring your weapons. You know, it would be so much easier to have your commanding officer contact the Washington Joint Command Center.”
Captain Donaldson, acting commander of the Florida Defense Forces and one of the FBI’s top five most wanted, threw his hands up in disgust. “I thought he did already! Look, officer, I’m just doing what I’m told. Sounds like a case of the left hand not seeing the right. Problem is, my CO is an ass-covering tool. He’ll blame this mess on me. Is there anything you can do? Any way to fast track things?”
The policeman shrugged sympathetically. “I’m sorry, amigo. Wish I could help, but I won’t risk my job. You know how paranoid everyone is nowadays.” He flicked his eyes to the north.
Donaldson followed and locked eyes with a federal soldier twenty yards down the road. The man hunched over a M240 machine gun inside of a sandbag bunker. The gunner had a clear field of fire along the bridge and ramps. Another soldier crouched beside him, rifle and grenade launcher at the low ready. Both were too damn alert.
Donaldson skimmed 50 meters past the sentries to the towering Lincoln Memorial. So close, yet so far. The plan called for his strike force to reach at least the Washington Monument before engaging. Their bogus orders and ID’s, combined with ample luck and a healthy dose of bluster, had guided the Floridian insurgents through a dozen checkpoints already. He knew the charade must end at some point, but there was still another mile between them and the White House.
A long mile of roads clogged with an obscene amount of enemy firepower… in broad daylight.
One of the radio operators in the backseat squeezed Donaldson’s shoulder twice. So the Capitol and Pentagon strike groups were in place. His team was the only weak link. Way to set an example. Donaldson bit his lip as his radioman raised an eyebrow towards the window. He flicked his thumb up and down.
The cop outside cleared his throat. “Whatever you do, you can’t stay here. I need you to turn around and clear the bridge.”
Donaldson puffed out his cheeks. He couldn’t let this hiccup throw off months of planning and careful preparation. Donaldson clicked on his throat mike. With one word, he threw the last four hundred members of the Florida resistance, staged all around DC, into battle.
“This is Moccasin 6: contact.”
His gunner cooked off a hand grenade at the three policemen below as his driver floored the gas. Quick as they struck, the enemy machine gunner across the intersection was even faster. He raked their truck with five round bursts the moment the cops sprang backwards.
Through the cracks in his armored windshield, Donaldson mouthed, “Fuck you.” The Fed bunker collapsed under a hail of .50 caliber rounds from his own gunner. At point blank range, the half-inch slugs shredded the sandbags as if made out of drywall. The high-speed sentries inside became so much messy confetti.
The insurgents bounced over the tire-shredding spikes ahead without pause. Donaldson’s 17-ton “Cougar” MRAP, the modern, heavily armored replacement for Humvees, rode on run-flat tires. Bullets and spikes were the least of Donaldson’s worries. The clock was ticking. No armor could protect against such a vicious enemy as time.
“Get off the road! Take us east through the park. We’ll never make it in time going through town.”
Donaldson held his breath as his nine-foot high truck squealed off the street, two wheels in the air. He didn’t breathe again until all four wheels came down to earth and they plowed through a park bench. Despite his racing heart, Donaldson’s voice was cool as ice as he clicked on his radio and briefed his team on the new plan.
With more luck than they deserved, no one fired a shot for the 800 meters or so his six MRAP’s raced parallel to the Reflecting Pool. Whether protected by confusion or covered by the handful of civilians milling about, Donaldson whispered a prayer of thanks to every God he ever heard of.
Leading the pack, Donaldson’s vehicle shot past the World War II memorial in a blur. His driver made another spit-in-the-face-of-gravity turn. Despite sideswiping a parked police car, they survived and roared across the park. Several officers fired away with handguns and rifles. Donaldson barely noticed the rounds pinging off the armor inches from his head. He focused all his attention on the end zone.
“There it is! Don’t slow down.”
None of his 60 insurgents required further guidance. The upper story of that famous house peeking over the trees, barely 900 meters due north, was a better motivator than any speech he could make. All six MRAP’s pulled abreast and sprinted across the Washington Monument greens, pedals to the metal. What their brute force tactics lacked in subtlety, they made up for in effectiveness. Barely 30 seconds had passed since the first shot was fired. With luck, the president’s security detail would just now be moving their principal inside.
While a hell of a shortcut, they were sitting ducks when crossing the open park. Driving that point home, dozens of muzzles flashed from the picturesque, tree lined Constitution Avenue ahead.
“Don’t fucking slow down!” Donaldson howled as they plowed through the lead rain. A second later, his driver joined in. Despite the volume of firepower, all that those cops and National Guardsman could muster was 5.56 and 7.62 mm rounds. Nothing short of 12.7mm could penetrate his armor.
Donaldson whooped when his six gunners returned the favor and raked the street with fire. Two National Guard Humvees, impotently rocking only medium machine guns, leapt up and down as his heavy guns slashed them to shreds. A lone anti-tank rocket whooshed past Donaldson’s truck, exploding harmlessly behind them. Even as big as they were, hitting a target bouncing along at 50 mph with an unguided rocket, while dodging enemy fire yourself, was no easy task.
Before he could blink, Donaldson’s armored trucks blew across the eight-lane avenue. Instead of braking or swerving, they just ploughed through anything in the way. Cars, barricades, even human bodies… they crushed everything in the path of vengeance. Even with his seat belt and Kevlar helmet on, Donaldson bloodied his nose on the dashboard as they rammed a pair of police SUV’s.
“Shit!”
His driver’s foot edged off the gas as he glanced over at his bleeding leader. Donaldson just pumped his fist at the windshield. “Go, go, go! We’re at 90 seconds already!”
The pain vanished as his target loomed ahead, on the far side of the Ellipse park. Those famous marble columns beckoned from merely 500 yards away. Within small arms range, as a matter of fact. So close, but this was the dicey part of the plan. Time to dismount before…