Brown, Dale - Independent 04 (74 page)

 
          
Cazaux’s
second terrorist aircraft!

 
          
He
had almost forgotten—Cazaux said he had a
second
aircraft inbound to bomb the White House with a fuel-air explosive.

 
          
That
“unknown rider” was it—and it was only a few miles away.

 
          
He
donned the Avenger driver’s thick bulletproof Kevlar helmet, moved the
microphone toward his lips, and keyed the transmit button: “Leather Control,
this is ... ah, this is Admiral Ian Hardcastle, on board an Avenger unit on the
Mall. How do you read this transmitter?”

 
          
“Calling
Leather Control, say again.”

 
          
“Leather
Control, this is Admiral Hardcastle on board one of the Army Avenger units on
The Mall. Can you read me?”

 
          
“Person
calling Leather Control, this is an aviation emergency channel only, if you
require medical or police response, change to VHF 121.5 or UHF 243.0, over.”

 
          
“Listen
to me. Henri Cazaux is flying some kind of aircraft toward
Washington
,
D.C.
, and it’s loaded with explosives. I’m on the ground near one of your
Avengers. Your crew here is dead. I need to know how much time I have and if
there’s anything I can do to help avert disaster. Over.”

 
          
“Listen,
sir, if you are at The Mall, stay away from any military units you might
encounter. The authorities will be arresting or shooting any looters. I advise
you to get away from the area as quickly as possible. If you are injured or your
home has been damaged, you should contact the proper authorities imme—”

 
          
The
controller’s voice suddenly cut off, then another voice came on the channel:
“Is this Admiral Hardcastle, the White House air defense adviser?”

 
          
“Affirmative.
I’m—” Suddenly Hardcastle remembered back from his unit and situation briefings
who “Leather” was: “Is this the senior director of the AWACS orbiting over
eastern
Pennsylvania
?”

 
          
“This
is Major Milford, the force mission commander,”
Milford
replied from Leather-90. “Admiral, we’re
tracking an unidentified aircraft about nine miles south of you, about three
hundred feet aboveground, groundspeed about eighty- seven knots, heading right
toward the capital. What’s your situation there? Over.”

 
          
“A
747 crashed just west of the
Constitution
Gardens
section of the capital, and it destroyed or
damaged everything from the Lincoln Memorial to the Capital Yacht Club,”
Hardcastle said. “We found an Avenger unit that was hit by an antitank weapon
just west of the
Washington
- Monument. The crew is dead, and the front of the vehicle and the
turret and gunner’s cockpit are badly damaged. That plane you’re tracking
belongs to Henri Cazaux. He says he’s got a fuel-air explosive weapon on it and
that he’s going to bomb the White House. Is there any way to reactivate this
unit, maybe by remote control? Over.”

 
          
“Affirmative,”
Milford
said, stunned by what he had just heard.
“There should be a remote-control computer unit up with the driver. You should
find a spool of fiber-optic cable about fifty yards long. You should be able to
operate the unit with that.”

 
          
The
computer was in a strong plastic case on the right side of the HMMWV, plugged
into a mounting unit under the dashboard, with a round reel beside it. The case
unclipped easily from its mounting; the fiber-optic cable was thin but strong.
“I found it,” Hardcastle said. “Stand by.”

 
          
The
remote control unit was a laptop computer with a flip-up two-color LCD screen,
a sealed plastic-covered keyboard, and a finger-sized joystick built into the
base .below the keyboard. To Hardcastle’s surprise, it was working. A simple
menu selection displayed on the screen, and by touching a few buttons he got a
radar depiction of the skies around the city. After a few moments, Hardcastle
could understand the symbols on the scope—the unknown aircraft, labeled “
^A
”
on the screen, was only ten miles to the south. “The remote control is working,
and I’ve got a depiction of the area here.”

 
          
“Good,”
Milford
said. “That means the telemetry between the
AWACS and the unit there is functioning. Do you see the up-caret symbol at the
bottom of the screen? Zoom the picture in or out to see it.”

 
          
“I
see it.”

 
          
“Just
move the cursor with the joystick onto the caret symbol at the bottom of the
screen and press the button below the trackball.” Hardcastle did, and a diamond
symbol surrounded the symbol. “What happened?”

 
          
“I
got a diamond around the caret.”

 
          
“Good.
You should see a menu on the bottom of the screen, with a button or function
key that says something like
engage
or
attack.
Do you see it?”

 
          
“Yes.
It’s a covered switch that says
engage.”

 
          
“Good.
Get out of the unit, clear yourself and everyone else away by at least fifty
feet, and press the button. The turret should turn and the missile launchers
should start tracking the target. You can plug your headset into the side of
the remote-control device. The missiles will launch when it gets within range.
Go ahead.”

 
          
Hardcastle
plugged the driver’s Kevlar helmet communications cord into the computer, got
out of the vehicle, unreeled the fiber-optic data cable at least fifty feet,
and knelt. Harley was well behind him, tending to Wilkes. He made sure the
diamond designate symbol was still on the hostile “
^A
” symbol, then
hit the
engage
button. It turned
yellow, then began to blink. The turret, which was pointed west, did not move.
“The turret didn’t move, and the
engage
button
is blinking yellow,” Hardcastle radioed back.

 
          
“I’m
not sure what that means,”
Milford
said. “Deselect the
engage
button,
then go to the unit and see if the turret is jammed and that it can turn
freely.” Hardcastle did it, then ran to the Avenger unit. Sure enough, the
entire circular track that the turret rode on was twisted and almost completely
sheared off the base. There was no way it was going to move.

 
          
“I
don’t think it’s going to move,” Hardcastle radioed. “The antitank missile
twisted the turret track all to hell. There’s hydraulic fluid all over the
place.”

 
          
“Can
it slew in the other direction?”

 
          
“Negative.
The whole turret is off the track. It would take a crane to lift it back
on.”            -

 
          
“Then
you better get out of the area as fast as you can', Admiral,”
Milford
responded. “You’ve done all you can. The
plane will be overhead in about five to six minutes.” Hardcastle wasn’t ready
to give up, but he didn’t want anyone else nearby. Their car didn’t look like
it was going anywhere, either. “Deborah, start heading toward the
Capitol
Building
—we’ve got about five minutes to make it.”
“What about the Director?”

 
          
“Just
get going—I’ll bring Wilkes. Cazaux’s going to bomb the White House, and the
explosive he’s using could fry us all. The Capitol will be the safest place for
us. Can you drag Wilkes over there?”

 
          
“I
don’t think so,” Harley said. “I’m staying here with you, Ian. There’s no other
choice.”

 
          
“I’ll
take Wilkes in a minute. You head for the Capitol. Get going.” Harley
reluctantly got to her feet and began trotting east toward the
Capitol
Building
. Hardcastle found a four-cell flashlight
and examined the interior of the Avenger—and immediately struck paydirt. He
dragged two green steel-and-plastic cases out from storage racks behind the
passenger seat and opened them to find a large shoul- der/pistol grip assembly
and two cylindrical cans.

           
“What are they?” Harley asked behind
him.

 
          
“I
said
get moving
toward the Capitol.”

 
          
“I
can’t make it—I can hardly see where I’m going,” Harley said. “I’ll help you.
Do you know what they are?” Hardcastle cursed and pulled a yellow-and-black tab
on one side of the pistol grip. A metal grilled device resembling an open
animal cage popped out of the right side of the unit. “It’s a Stinger missile
shoulder grip assembly,” Hardcastle said. “I think we can fire the missiles
from this unit from the shoulder. All we have to do is figure out how to get
the missiles out of the launchers.”

 
          
“Looks
like the Army already thought of that,” Harley said. She shined the flashlight
into the lid of the carrying case, where they saw color-cartoon-like pictures
detailing how to do it. Two latches on the bottom side of the right Stinger
launcher opened an access panel, where they could see inside the launcher
itself; two more latches on the side of one of the green aluminum tubes allowed
it to slide free out the rear end of the launcher. She helped slide the
aluminum tube onto the pistol grip assembly and lock it into place. Hardcastle
took one of the cylindrical cans, inserted it into a hole just forward of the
trigger, and twisted it to lock it in place. A green light on the side of the
grip told him the unit was on.

 
          
“Get
that computer over there,” Hardcastle said. “It has a map telling where
Cazaux’s plane is.” Harley retrieved the computer, opened it, and studied the
screen. Meanwhile, Hardcastle keyed the mike switch on his helmet headset:
“Leather, this is Hardcastle. I’ve found the Stinger shoulder launchers. I’m
going to try to shoot it with a Stinger.”

 
          
“You
ever shoot a Stinger before, Admiral?”

 
          
“How
hard can it be?” Hardcastle asked. “The instructions are printed in cartoons.”

 
          
“Three
miles,” Harley said, “heading right for us.”

 
          
“Can
you describe those instructions to me?” Hardcastle asked.

           
Harley studied the drawings for a
moment. “Looks like a button on the left side of the grip is for the ... the
IFF?”

 
          
“
‘Identification Friend or Foe,’ ” Hardcastle said. “It’ll tell us if the plane
is transmitting proper codes. Doesn’t matter—if it flies near here, I’m
shooting it. Next.”

 
          
“Large
lever behind the grip. Pull down with your thumb when the target is within
range. Powers the missile gyro, cools the seeker head, and charges the eject
gas cylinder.” “What’s the range?”

 
          
Harley
checked the computer screen: “Two miles.”

 
          
The
time seemed to drag on forever. Hardcastle couldn’t see a thing in the sky—the
few lights and the remains of the fires to the south were destroying his night
vision, and now the sirens wailing around the city prevented him from hearing
anything. “Range!” he shouted.

 
          
“One-point-five
miles ...”

 
          
“I
see it... Jesus, it’s low!” Hardcastle shouted. It was a small single-engine
Cessna with a fixed landing gear, and it looked like it was less than a hundred
feet in the air. It was just south of the
Tidal
Basin
, skimming the treetops. An occasional gust
of wind or thermal current from the fires pushed the plane sideways or caused
it to lose altitude, but it always regained its heading—it was homing directly
for the White House. Hardcastle moved the large lever behind the pistol grip
down until it snapped to the stop, and he heard a sudden shot of
high-compression air and a loud whirring sound. “I think it’s on. What next?”