That was when Jenna had her brainstorm. She remembered that the Air Guard kept F-16s on strip alert at Reagan National. After September 2001, every state on the eastern seaboard kept at least a few interceptors primed, even though more than a decade had passed without their having been called into action against a serious threat.
Amazingly, Troy and Jenna caught a taxi on nearby M Street — one of the cabs that were avoiding the disarray downtown. The driver crossed the Potomac on the Key Bridge, bypassing all the congestion around the White House, and made it to the airport from Georgetown in fifteen minutes.
They knew that it would take Harris at least a half hour to get to Andrews Air Force Base, where the Raven was parked. They also knew that he'd be in no rush. He was out to attack a fixed target at Camp David — one that was not going anywhere.
Troy and Jenna found flight gear and helmets in the hangar and suited up. Being on strip alert, both aircraft were fueled and ready to go, so the two concentrated on making sure that the AIM-9 Sidewinder air-to-air missiles were live and armed, and that the M61 cannons each had a magazine full of ammo.
"First time I've been in an F-16 since Sudan," Jenna said longingly as she started up the stairs.
"Just like riding a bicycle," Troy said. "It all comes right back to you. Let's take it low level to Andrews and try to get him on the ground."
"Roger that," Jenna agreed. "From what I've heard about the Raven, I sure would rather take it out on the ground than have to fight it in the air."
The Air Guard personnel dutifully pushed open the doors as they powered up their General Electric F110 turbofans, and Troy gave Jenna a thumbs-up to taxi out ahead of him.
"Ladies first," he said over the radio.
Jenna just replied with her middle finger and released her brake.
Seeing the two Air Guard fighters leave their hangar, the air traffic controllers in the Reagan National tower dutifully followed procedure, ordering a ramp hold on all commercial takeoffs and instructing all incoming flights to remain in the pattern. The Air Guard always went to the head of the line.
With both runways available, Troy and Jenna took off simultaneously. They kept their altitude to a thousand feet, low enough not to stand out on radar, but high enough to avoid transmission lines and power poles in the congested area around Washington.
They deliberately avoided overflying the city itself, not wanting to have the hundreds of news crews down there speculating about what these two F-16s were doing and alerting whatever air assets Firehawk might have flying this morning.
The flight time to Andrews from Reagan National is measured in minutes, so Troy and Jenna were confident that they could catch Harris.
Their confidence was misplaced.
"Falcon Three, target is on the main runway," Jenna said urgently as they got their first visual on the dart-shaped Raven.
"Go for it, Falcon Two," Troy said as Jenna dove toward the runway.
The dark-gray aircraft was already on its takeoff roll as Jenna took her F-16 to two hundred feet.
It was racing down the runway at seventy-five knots, then a hundred knots, as Jenna overtook it at much higher speed.
She lined the aircraft up in the ring on her head-up sight and thumbed the trigger of the M61 Gatling gun. Nothing.
The Raven continued to roll.
A hundred and fifty knots.
She thumbed again as the Raven reached takeoff speed. Still nothing.
"Falcon Three, my guns are jammed!" Jenna shouted, banking hard to the left. "Go for it!"
Troy was on the deck, just behind Jenna as she rolled left.
He had a clear, unobstructed view of the Raven as Harris achieved takeoff speed and lifted off the runway.
He thumbed his trigger and watched a stream of twenty-millimeter cannon shells pour toward the Raven.
Harris banked hard right just as Troy flew past him.
"I still have a visual on him," Jenna said calmly. "I'm turning to give pursuit."
"Don't lose him," Troy said as he slowed his F-16 to come around. "He's invisible on radar."
"Roger that. I've got him northbound over Greenbelt, flying very low."
Raymond Harris had not turned to fight. He was single-minded about his mission. It was a strike mission, and he had a high-value target that he must strike.
Albert Bacon Fachearon sat at Camp David defying the authority that had been given to Harris by Congress.
Articles of impeachment had been passed.
Duly constituted authorities had been authorized to use deadly force to remove him.
Raymond Harris was the duly constituted authority. Albert Bacon Fachearon must go. Deadly force must be used.
Somewhere at the Camp David complex, Fachearon was hiding.
Raymond Harris did not know exactly where, but he did not care.
He might be at the large, hotel-sized Laurel Lodge, or in the comfortable presidential quarters at Aspen Lodge — or lie might be skulking in the theoretically bombproof bunkers beneath.
Raymond Harris didn't care.
With a twenty-kiloton nuclear weapon coming down upon his head, Albert Bacon Fachearon would not survive.
Chapter 51
"Are you worried about your job?" Aron Arnold asked the young U. S. Navy petty officer who was escorting him. Officially, Camp David is a landlocked Navy base, Naval Support Facility Thurmont, so the uniformed staffers are mainly from that branch of the service.
"No, sir," Tiffanie Talleigh replied nervously, her hand unconsciously brushing the holster that contained her M9 sidearm. When this slender, average-looking man with short-cropped hair had driven up to the main gate in a Firehawk Lexus an hour ago and had explained his purpose, she had been assigned to follow him wherever he went at the facility. Had conditions not been in such turmoil, had Camp David not been so thoroughly understaffed because of the crisis, there would have been a whole platoon of Marines escorting Arnold, but today, it was just Petty Officer Tiffanie Talleigh.
"Are you nervous that you're on the wrong side of history?" Tiffanie asked.
It had been too early for lunch when Albert Bacon Fachearon had invited Arnold to remain, but he had seen nothing wrong with stopping in at the post commissary for a cup of coffee. He was in no hurry to get back to the mess in Washington.
"I don't see this change of direction in history as having 'sides.' I think that it's just what it is," Arnold said as they walked beneath the dogwood trees. It was a cold day, and the gloomy, gray clouds added to an atmosphere of despair that seemed to hang over the people whom they passed.
"Like the president said, it's a coup," she replied. "These guys… Kynelty and Harris… like they overthrew the government!"
"I don't really want to get into a debate with you." Arnold smiled. "But I could remind you that this is the will of Congress, which I believe is elected?"
"They passed that bill this morning with tanks on the streets outside."
"Even if that mattered, what about the House of Representatives yesterday?" Arnold said in a gotcha tone.
The young petty officer had no reply, just a stern, angry glance at Arnold.
"Where are you from?" Arnold asked.
"Why is that important?"
"Just making conversation."
"Logan, Utah… and yes, sir, I'm LDS… Mormon."
"Then you answer to a higher authority than that flag over there?" Arnold observed, nodding at one of the camp's many flagpoles.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that authority — and allegiance — are relative."
"What authority do you answer to — the authority of Firehawk?"