“I see it,” Storm said, softly. Then he looked up and saw the contrail of an airliner, high overhead. It was the fake Air Force One. The Mockingbird, as the FBI was calling it.
“Good work. Now, listen to me, Storm: the laser is your objective. We’re assuming the human operators are low-level foot soldiers. They are not of consequence. We’ll either capture them or not. The laser is what we’re after.”
“But if all we capture is the laser, how will—”
Storm stopped himself. In that moment, he saw Jones’s play. Jones was more interested in acquiring the United States government another weapon of mass destruction than he was in catching terrorists. The long-ago words that Lieutenant Marlowe had spoken to his father echoed in his head. There ought to be limits. Then he heard his father’s words. We can’t be trusted, either.
“Never mind,” Storm corrected himself, then lied, “I’ll do everything I can to secure the weapon.”
“Excellent,” Jones said.
Storm did a low run from the corner of the building toward one of the parked cars, keeping his eyes on the truck and, more to the point, any humans or gun muzzles that might be emerging from it. But there was no sign of movement coming from it, nor was there any indication they had noticed Storm’s surge.
He hid behind the first car he reached. Picking his way from one vehicle to the next, he could slowly narrow the gap between himself and the truck. But that trick would only last so long. The ice cream truck had roughly 150 feet of open pavement surrounding it.
He began weaving from car to car, never letting his vision drop from the truck.
Which is why he saw the narrow beam of blue light coming from the turret.
It was both strikingly blue and blindingly bright. As a reflex, Storm turned away. He could feel the burn to his retinas from the few nanoseconds he had been focused on it. He blinked several times rapidly. There was a line in his vision, almost like he stared at the sun too long.
“Mockingbird has been hit,” Jones said. “The wing is off. It’s going down.”
Storm blinked again. The line was fading. He looked up in the sky to see the smoking plane entering a death spiral. He dashed toward the parked vehicle closest to the truck and un-holstered his Dirty Harry gun.
“Okay,” he said. “That means these guys have hit their target and are going to close up shop any second. I’m moving in.”
“Don’t harm the weap—”
Storm ended the call before Jones could complete his instruction. He had heard just about enough of that.
STORM CROUCHED BEHIND the closest vehicle to the ice cream truck, which he studied carefully. He was near enough now that he could see inside the cab. It was empty.
The terrorists had to be in back, which was a good development for Storm. There was only so much room in there, especially considering the laser itself had to take most of the space. That meant there were no more than three of them. Perhaps only one.
There were no signs of antipersonnel armaments on the truck, nothing more threatening than the aforementioned Nutty Buddy decal. Still, he did not feel he could approach any nearer. One hundred and fifty feet of open parking lot was too great a distance. He could cover the distance in less than six seconds, yes. But that was still six seconds when he would be totally exposed.
He had to know what — and whom — he was facing. Time to attack. He aimed Dirty Harry at the front-passenger tire and squeezed the trigger. The tire exploded. The truck, now partly disabled, lurched toward its front right.
Storm waited.
No response.
Maybe the people inside were so focused on the laser they didn’t feel it. It’s possible they also might not have heard it, too. The inner compartment could be soundproof to a certain extent.
Storm aimed at the rear-passenger tire; shot it out, too. The truck was now leaning to its right at fifteen degrees. There was no way anyone inside could be unaware of the sudden incline.
They would be coming out any second to inspect what was happening. There was no door on the back. There was an opening on the right side — an awning that could be brought up, allowing ice cream to be sold from underneath. But that was bolted down. Storm was reasonably sure it was just for show.
No, the only way out of the interior would be through the cab. Storm trained his vision on that part of the truck. He counted to ten. There was no sign of movement. He counted to thirty. Still nothing.
He put three quick shots into the passenger-side door, in case anyone was crouching behind it. Storm was using hollow-tipped rounds, which were not ideal for penetrating thick armor. But the ice cream truck’s side was only marginally thicker than a tin can. It was no match for the force of a .44 Magnum.
Storm counted to thirty again. The truck just sat there, forlornly, tilted to one side on its rims. It wasn’t going anywhere; that was for sure. And the cautious thing for Storm to do would be to wait until he had backup. Jones was surely sending reinforcements.
But then the laser would be in Jones’s hands by the end of the day. That outcome was unacceptable to Storm. He couldn’t lose control of this situation. He had to handle this himself.
With Dirty Harry still drawn and ready to fire, Storm approached the truck in a low crouch. The wind stirred. The smell of brackish water filled his nose. From somewhere nearby, he heard the shrill cry of an osprey.
There was a stillness about the truck that was simply eerie. It was like the thing was being operated by ghosts. He was next to it now, his back flat against its side. He risked a quick glance in the cab.
Empty. For sure. He yanked the handle. The door opened. He climbed in.
The inside was remarkable only inasmuch as it kept faithfully to its pretense of being an ice cream truck. There was even a button to ring a bell that would alert children to the presence of frozen-dairy deliciousness coming near.
There was an opening between the two seats with a small door that a man would have to crouch to go through. This was the entrance to the laser area. Storm aimed at the top of it. If someone was crouched on the other side, lying in wait for him, that’s where his head would be. Storm fired.
The noise of Dirty Harry discharging in such a close space was deafening. Storm couldn’t suppress his flinch reflex. When he looked, he saw that the bullet had not penetrated the door. It had bounced off and buried itself in the dashboard on the other side.
The door was bulletproof. This was no ordinary ice cream truck after all.
Whoever was inside the trailer was now fully aware of his presence. Storm assumed they were laying an ambush for him. He couldn’t risk being in the middle of the doorframe when he opened it.
He hopped over to the driver’s seat, crouching on it. With his body out of the way, he pulled the door handle.
He half expected a bulletproof door would be locked, but it swung open easily. He three-quarters expected its opening might be greeted by a bullet coming out, but no projectiles passed. He fully expected to be met by some kind of resistance, but there was none.
Finally, he allowed himself to look in. What he saw was a marvel of engineering, for sure — a series of mirrors and crystals and engines whose purpose he could only guess. It was both exotic and beautiful, and a part of Storm wanted to spend all day studying it.
But in that moment, what he saw was not as pressing as what he didn’t see. There were no human beings inside. There wasn’t room for any amid all the machinery.
Storm had thought the laser was being operated by ghosts. It was actually being operated by remote control. The terrorists had moved the truck into place and were firing it from somewhere else. Perhaps somewhere nearby. Perhaps many miles away. Perhaps a bunker outside Jalālābād.