“Shit!” the driver shouted. He slammed on the brakes and the car slewed sideways. Jeffrey’s bodyguard yelled into his radio; the voice that answered from somewhere safe was maddeningly calm.
The way ahead was blocked by thick felled trees. Behind the trees were men in green Park Service uniforms. The men were unpacking rocket launchers.
They expected this to be our escape route all along…. The first wave didn’t get us, but this one will. We’re sitting ducks.
To the right was the rising embankment, hopelessly steep. To the left, still, were trees and creek, an insurmountable barrier. Just behind Jeffrey’s car, the one with Wilson and Ilse, with their own driver and bodyguard, also fishtailed to a halt.
If the armored town cars tried to turn around they’d just give better broadside targets. If they tried to flee in reverse the rocket launchers couldn’t miss.
“Make a stand right here!” Jeffrey’s bodyguard said. He reloaded his Uzi with a long and heavy ammo clip. The driver pulled another Uzi from its mount under the dash.
Both men pulled out pistols. The driver turned to Jeffrey and his father. “You know how to use these?”
“I think so,” Michael Fuller said. “Which thing is the safety?”
Great, Jeffrey told himself. My dad’s a bunch of help.
Jeffrey took one of the weapons. He recognized a nine-millimeter Beretta, a standard military-issue weapon.
But the bad guys have assault rifles and rocket launchers.
“When I yell ‘Go,’” the bodyguard said, “everybody pop their doors and roll out and start shooting. Some of us might make it.”
Jeffrey knew it was useless, even before the new wave of attackers opened fire.
AK-47 bullets came at the town cars in short but terrifying bursts. These attackers were firing green tracer rounds so their victims could see the rounds in flight as they passed. They peppered the side doors of Jeffrey’s car. Four grown men were pinned in Jeffrey’s auto. The bodyguard’s plan to shoot their way out would be suicide.
Whoever they are, these attackers know exactly what they’re doing. They’re just too good.
Behind this deadly incoming suppressive fire, Jeffrey saw an attacker kneel and take aim with a rocket launcher. The man seemed to point it right at Jeffrey, right through the dirty, punched-up armored windshield of the car. The warhead’s antitank shaped charge would fill the car with a supersonic jet of white-hot gas and metal vapor, cooking everyone alive.
Somebody important really wants me dead.
Policemen on the parkway stopped their cars. They were trying to shoot at the attackers with whatever light weapons they had. Some of the attackers shifted their fire in that direction.
Jeffrey’s father made eye contact and took a deep breath, and let it out. “Whoever thought we’d buy it, both, like this?”
Jeffrey felt deeply violated, and angry. Not because he would die. He’d always known that someday — in combat or in old age — he would die. He felt enraged at this latest defamation of the nation’s capital, at the heartless sacrifice of civilians so a gang of paid assassins could get at him. Jeffrey also felt guilty. People are dying here because of me.
The attacker with the rocket launcher exploded. A solid wall of bright red tracers poured at him out of the sky. There were brilliant flashes from the automatic-cannon rounds. The rocket launcher’s warhead and propellant fuel burst in half-blinding secondary detonations.
Above the pounding of his heart and the roaring in his ears, Jeffrey heard the noise of powerful turbines and the steady beat of military-helicopter rotor blades. He looked up in time to see two army Apache Longbow gunships racing by. More bursts from their chin-mounted Gatling guns pulverized the attackers’ position, mutilating the barricade of fallen trees.
“That’s it,” the bodyguard said. “We got air support! Let’s move it!”
Jeffrey’s father looked doubtful. “Can’t we just get out and ford the stream?”
“Negative! There could be snipers anywhere!”
The town cars started up again. The ride was terribly rough. Both cars wobbled and bounced on their torn-up tires. Smoke was coming from under the hood of Jeffrey’s car.
How many more attack waves has the enemy prepared? How much more can this vehicle take?
Still both autos pressed on hard, forward along the ravine beside the creek. The Apache helicopters flew top cover, and the crowd of emergency vehicles kept pace along the parkway. Now there was no clearance between the creek and the embankment. The town cars tilted sideways, their damaged suspensions complaining. They threatened to lose all traction and smash against the heavy trees still lining the creek.
The parkway crossed overhead, and now the road was on Jeffrey’s right. Both town cars veered onto the road, swerving through panicky oncoming traffic. They got into the right lane and Jeffrey’s driver stepped on the gas. Suddenly the right rear tire of his car disintegrated altogether, from too much shrapnel damage, and the car sagged down on the wheel rim.
The driver just kept going. A steady shower of sparks and smoke was left in the wake of Jeffrey’s vehicle; the grinding noise of steel on the roadway was nearly unbearable. The smoke from under the front hood was getting heavier and heavier. The front windshield was gathering an ever-thicker coat of soot and oil and dirt. There were countless bullet pockmarks. The bodyguard had to open a window and stick out his head to help guide the driver as he steered. The car was hard to control and kept weaving onto the grassy shoulder.
“Watch for land mines!” the driver shouted.
“I’m trying to!” the bodyguard yelled.
“Terrific,” Jeffrey’s father mumbled.
Jeffrey looked behind again.
The other car still followed, but had had to drop back so the driver wouldn’t be blinded by the smoke from Jeffrey’s car. Jeffrey and his father began to choke on all the fumes.
“We’re almost there!” the driver said.
The ravine grew broader and both side slopes became less steep. The town cars emerged from the park and jumped the curb and skidded to a halt. In front of them, barring further progress, was the wide Potomac itself. In an open area beside the river sat a huge Marine Corps transport helicopter. Both army Apache gunships orbited vigilantly overhead.
Heavily armed marines had already formed a perimeter. They motioned for everyone to get out of the cars.
The noise of the Marine Corps helo was painfully loud, even with its engines just on idle. The stink of the turbine exhaust added to all the other burning smells. There was grit in the air, blown by the spinning main rotor blades; the small tail rotor spun much faster, in a blur. The entire helo was painted in camouflage, a blotchy pattern of matte dark green and black and brown.
“Those men, the attackers,” Michael Fuller shouted in Jeffrey’s ear. “They looked liked Russians!”
Jeffrey nodded. “Former Spetznaz probably! Special forces, in the pay of the Axis now!”
Michael Fuller hesitated. “Is it always like this?”
“Is what like what?”
“The combat!”
Jeffrey looked his father right in the eyes. “Welcome to my world!” Jeffrey reached out a sweaty, smoke-stained hand. Jeffrey’s father shook it; Michael Fuller’s hand felt like an ice cube.
“I’ll see you, Dad!”
Marines hustled Jeffrey and Wilson and Ilse to the helo. The crew chief handed them cranials and floatation vests. The cranials were collapsible flight helmets. They opened like a clamshell, had built-in hearing protection, and came with big padded eye goggles. Jeffrey and Wilson and Ilse quickly got ready for the flight.