Day of the Delphi (33 page)

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Authors: Jon Land

BOOK: Day of the Delphi
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General Cantrell worked his remote control to change the screen to a quartet of overhead views of Delphi trucks the Midnight Riders’ recon had missed cruising the streets from Georgetown to L’Enfant Plaza, from Union Station to the State Department building. At predetermined spots, Delphi troops were dropped off and dispersed on planned sweeping routes.
“It would seem, sir,” Cantrell said to the President, “that the tide of the battle has already turned.”
 
From his darkened office, FBI director Ben Samuelson had been trying every means of communication at his disposal to reach the outside world since the battle had begun. Spotters he had placed on the roof relayed enough about what was going on for him to realize the Seventh Light Infantry Division he had supposedly been in contact with all afternoon was nothing more than a voice at the other end of the line. He had been duped; the
country
had been duped. The Seventh LID wasn’t in Washington and wasn’t coming. The enemy had the city to itself.
For the first time since the J. Edgar Hoover Building had been opened, Samuelson had ordered a Con-Red. Hoover’s own personal paranoia had led to some rather extreme inclusions in the building’s plans. These included steel blast shutters capable of resisting rocket fire that could be lowered over all entryways as well as windows on all executive office levels. In addition, there were concealed firing ports built into parapets on all four sides of the building, four on each side making sixteen in all. Samuelson’s first order when the truth of the treachery became known was to order members of the FBI’s Hostage and Rescue Team he had stationed in the building into position in those ports. Samuelson had chosen these troops over the Bureau’s SWAT and anti-terrorist commandos for their expertise in
marksmanship. After all, if the building came under attack, what he would need more than anything would be men who could shoot the tip of a pen off at a hundred yards.
Once in position, the Hostage and Rescue Team’s members provided the Delphi trucks cruising the surrounding streets with their first direct resistance. Emptying clip after clip through the well-fortified ports, they succeeded first in slowing the random strafing, and then in drawing a heavy concentration of attention and fire on themselves. Two minutes after retaliation had commenced from within it, the Hoover Building’s exorbitant security was being given its first test. Grenade and small-arms fire tore chips from its heavy concrete construction. Personnel within cringed and sought cover as the steel security shutters buckled under fire from M40 grenades. Clearly the steel second skins would not be able to repel heavy rocket fire—say, of the Stinger variety. The minimal staff Samuelson had kept with him inside were grimly aware of this, as well as the fact that the stand they were making in the city’s center, while ultimately doomed to fail, might be crucial to buying enough time for reinforcements to arrive.
Of course, not all of them at this point knew that all cellular, land-line, and direct link communication had been rendered inoperative.
A special agent hustled into Samuelson’s office in a crouch, something wrapped in a blanket cradled in his arms. “Got it here in one piece,” he said, almost out of breath, and lay the contents of his arms on the carpeted floor.
Samuelson yanked the blanket off to reveal an old-fashioned MARS, or Military Amateur Radio System, beneath him. The director knelt and switched it on. Then he brought the clumsy pedestal microphone to his lips.
“This is the FBI calling all on-line military bases,” he started, not waiting for the tubes to warm up. “This is the FBI calling all on-line military bases. Over.”
Samuelson knew that with a communications black-out in place, all bases would have automatically transferred to this
mode of communication. What he could not have known was that those bases within a hundred miles of the capital, including that of the SEALS in Virginia, had been nearly emptied by a sudden joint exercise scheduled by General Cantrell. The nearest one that received Samuelson’s message came on-line from North Carolina within seconds.
“Attention, caller, this is Fort Bragg command central,” a stern voice announced. “You are operating on a military restricted channel. Please vacate this channel instantly. You are violating federal access laws and trespassing on private communication channels as specified by the Federal Communications Commission. Over.”
“Bragg,” Samuelson picked up, “this is Director Ben Samuelson of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Designation four-zero-box-niner. The city of Washington is under attack. We are requesting immediate support. Over.”
“Did you say attack, sir? Please say again. Over.”
“You’re damn right I did.” Samuelson simply removed his finger from the activator button, consciously omitting the standard transmission closing.
“FBI, please state one more time for confirmation. We have ‘The city of Washington is under attack.’ Over.”
“Goddamnit, people are
dying
!” Samuelson roared while outside fire continued to pound the J. Edgar Hoover Building. “Move your ass, son, and get us some help!”
 
Less than a minute later, Commanding General Lester Kerwin of Fort Bragg had established an open channel with Ben Samuelson over the MARS. Samuelson filled him in rapidly on what form the attack was taking, and on the fact that the President and all top members of government had been evacuated from the city. Samuelson could not say whether or not they were safe.
For now Kerwin elected to concentrate his initial resources on Washington itself. He could either deploy Delta Force commandos or risk a more extravagant response in the form of the 82nd Airborne. The disadvantage to the latter
selection was that the 82nd was strictly an attack unit. “If it moves, kill it” was the 82nd’s credo, and the Washington theater of operations promised to have plenty of friendly civilians running around. Delta Force, on the other hand, operated with far more discretion, but in far fewer numbers than the 82nd. Worse, Delta Force was trained to rely on lots of advance reconnaissance and intelligence to determine their footing, neither of which was going to be available today. And since they were a fast-attack team, armored backup was not something they were familiar with, and the siege the capital was facing indicated the heavy stuff might be required.
In the end Kerwin opted for the only real choice he had. He would send the 82nd into Washington and have Delta Force prep for the potential retaking of Greenbrier, Site R, and Mount Weather.
“Director Samuelson, the 82nd Airborne is prepping now. Over.”
“How long? Over.”
“ETA four hours to your beacon. Over.”
“Four hours?
There might not be anyone here alive in four hours. Over.”
“Sir, that’s shaving two off
optimum
time. Over.”
“This is the capital of the country we’re talking about, General. Over.”
“It’s my country too, Director. We’ll be there as soon as we can. Over and out.”
As Samuelson lowered the microphone, a hail of rocket fire shook the Hoover Building. The lighting died and the emergency generators kicked in instantly, casting a murky gray light over his office.
“I’m going upstairs to the ports,” he told the crisis team, collectively hugging the floor of his office as far from the shuttered windows as they could manage. “I want to see for myself what’s going on out there.”
 
 
The ferocity of the opposition’s attack surprised even McCracken. He emerged amid the wounded from the Pavilion in the Old Post Office Building, and, to set up a cover for himself, helped carry a few bleeding bodies out through the foot-deep pile of shattered glass.
The sounds of several smaller explosions from the city beyond reassured him that Arlo Cleese’s Midnight Riders had followed his instructions to the letter. Gathered in their small groups, the Riders would now await Cleese’s signal to move in. These groups were dominated by the hard-edged men and women for whom violence had come easy in the sixties and would again tonight. Vastly outnumbered by the Delphi troops, they would utilize a hit-and-run strategy aimed at slowing the enemy down long enough for help to arrive from somewhere. Even with all the precautions the Delphi had taken, Blaine knew five or so hours was the best window they could hope for, and the plan he had laid out was aimed at holding the city for that long.
McCracken managed to reach the Mall via 12th Street to find that it had become a sea of chaos all the way to the Lincoln Memorial. Delphi gunmen rushed to the area by truck descended upon the thousands of bystanders who were scattering from the Lincoln Memorial and the Washington Monument. Several ended up in the algae-rich waters of the Reflecting Pool when their path was cut off in all other directions. Blaine carried only his SIG-Sauer and had to fight against using it. Revealing himself would serve only to bring a hail of gunfire upon him. Hanging back, he raised his walkie-talkie to his mouth.
“McCracken to Tower. Come in.”
“Tower,” replied one of the Midnight Riders he had left in the Old Post Office Tower’s observation deck.
“Got lots of unfriendlies down here on the Mall. Take ’em down.”
Seconds later, the charging troops began to fall to his snipers. Their discretion of fire was excellent, impressive under any circumstances. Bodies continued to topple before
Blaine’s eyes, the remaining Delphi troops searching frantically for the source of the unseen resistance.
“Yo, Mac,” Arlo Cleese’s voice squawked over Blaine’s walkie-talkie from the back of a Volkswagen van parked on Pennsylvania Avenue, Kristen Kurcell by his side.
“Right here.”
“The bros and sises are all in position.”
“Order them in.”
“You sure you don’t need me along?” Duncan Farlowe asked again.
Johnny Wareagle gazed back to the center of the abandoned silver mine’s rear chamber where Troop 116 remained gathered. “It’s best for you to guard the boys.”
Farlowe frowned. “Easy job for me, tough one for you. Gun mighta helped ya out.”
“Sal Belamo needed them more.”
“Take mine,” Farlowe said and handed over his Colt Peacemaker, leaving him with the twelve-gauge shotgun he had stubbornly worn slung from his shoulder all the way from the ’Cat.
Johnny accepted the pistol with a simple nod and headed on toward the passage leading to the front of the mine. The darkness slowed him only slightly, and as he had expected, there was no guard at the other end. Two men remained in the front chamber, fifteen feet apart and positioned so they could stare out into the storm to watch for the others in their party who had ventured out to await the Sno-Cat.
The one standing to the rear never knew anyone was behind him until Wareagle clamped a huge hand over his mouth and another atop his head. A quick wrenching motion snapped the man’s neck and he went limp in Johnny’s arms. The other man heard the muted crack and swung
round fast. Wareagle used the corpse’s rifle to snap two shots into the second man’s head.
He then turned his attention to the two trucks parked in a darkened corner of the mine’s front chamber. Dark tarpaulins still partially covered their long shapes. Johnny tugged one all the way off to find that the trucks were of the heavy cargo variety, long trailers attached by hitch to the cabs. He didn’t have to peer inside to know they contained a dozen or so nuclear artillery shells each. He also knew that he and Sal would face a daunting task in driving one of the trucks down the mountain road, never mind two. The solution could have been as close as the mountain’s edge, except for the untold damage that could result upon the trailers’ impact a mile below if the radioactive material inside the warheads somehow leaked out. No, both trucks had to be
driven
out of here.
Even to Wareagle, that task seemed daunting. He needed a plan that would minimize the vast risks confronting him. One came to mind instantly, though the means to implement it were severely lacking.
Then again, maybe they weren’t.
Johnny surveyed the exposed truck before him again and realized there was a way Duncan Farlowe and Troop 116 could help him out after all.
 
Traggeo was holding position between Boggs and Kreller when the Sno-Cat slowed to a halt before reaching the curve beyond which they were perched.
“Check it out,” he ordered them. “Don’t be subtle.”
Without goggles, it was impossible for Boggs and Kreller to see much more than two yards ahead. The storm winds had shifted and blew the blinding white sheet directly at them as they advanced toward the curve. They had no choice but to ward the assault off with one arm raised before their faces, leaving only the other one for their M16s.
The stalled Sno-Cat came into view when they reached the slight curve in the mountainside. Boggs and Kreller slid
back against the ice-encrusted face and eyed each other before launching their attack. They rounded the curve with guns spitting fire. The glass of the Sno-Cat’s windshield fractured and the storm swept into its cab.
The men stopped firing. Boggs approached the Sno-Cat warily while Kreller hung back. The treads on the ’Cat’s right side rested precariously close to the edge and Boggs was careful not to jar it when he climbed up to peer inside what was left of the cab. He threw the door open with one hand, rifle ready in the other.
The cab was empty. Splintered glass and already thickening snow lay on the driver’s seat in place of the driver who had taken the ’Cat this far. Boggs leaped down and had swung round to shout toward Kreller when a barrage of gunfire stitched across his midsection and slammed him against the Sno-Cat’s frame. As Boggs’s corpse dropped to the snow, another barrage chased Kreller back against the mountain’s icy rock face, where a hand closed on his shoulder.
“He’s got us pinned down,” Traggeo told him, his eyes sweeping the crevices and ledges above for the gunman’s position.
A peculiarly even coating of snow hung over his stubble-lined head. His blazing eyes swept the mountain again.
“I’m going after him,” Traggeo said. “You try to make it back to the mine.”
“The mine?” Kreller raised.
“We’ve walked into a trap meant to keep us away from it. Whoever’s doing the shooting isn’t alone.”
“The warheads …”
Traggeo nodded and slid sideways enough to ensure the angle of his climb would allow the mountain to serve as cover. Kreller followed Traggeo’s impossible progress through the snow and ice briefly before starting to inch his way back in the mine’s direction.
Kreller had just rounded the length of the curve, shoulders pressed against ice-layered rock, when a rumbling
found his ears. He came cautiously away from the sheer rock wall in order to catch sight of the sound’s source.
His eyes bulged.
One of the trucks carrying the nuclear stockpile was barreling through the snow, lights on and engine grinding in low gear. The truck took the curve leading onto the straightaway just ahead, and Kreller saw that incredibly it was pulling
both
of the cargo trailers. It swerved as its tires fought to maintain their desperate purchase on the road through the snow’s hold. The second of the trailers fishtailed madly, drawing sparks when it scraped against the mountainside.
Kreller held his ground and leveled his rifle on the cab as the truck bore down on him.
 
Johnny Wareagle ducked an instant before the windshield fractured. Glass blew into the truck’s cab, the storm fast to follow. He clung to the wheel and felt the thump of the big truck slamming into the gunman and hurtling him aside.
Troop 116 had been all too happy to assist Johnny in implementing his plan. Even with their help, though, the process took dangerously long, forcing Sal Belamo to hold off the enemy by himself for a much greater than anticipated duration.
The trailers Wareagle was hauling whiplashed madly from side to side, and a dangerous curve was coming fast. Johnny knew applying the brakes now would send him off the mountain and shifted the truck into its lowest gear to regain control. He let the heavily armored trailers kiss the mountain’s side and ride against it through the curve. Sparks flew out and dissipated harmlessly in the snow.
As Johnny steered the big truck on, the back trailer grazed up against the stalled Sno-Cat and pushed it even closer to the edge. The road dipped into another straightaway and Johnny eased off on the gas to let the big truck coast. He was experimenting with the brakes when he saw Sal Belamo waving his arms on the side of the road. Johnny couldn’t risk trying to bring the truck to a complete stop, so
Belamo had to run to catch up, the last stretch covered in a long leap to the passenger side sill. He managed to grab the mirror and kick his legs up after him.
Wareagle leaned over and threw the door open. The door nearly brushed against the mountain as Sal Belamo pulled himself all the way inside and closed it behind him.
“Thanks for stopping,” Sal huffed. “You ask me, they should take your license away.”
Johnny wiped the melting snow off his forehead and aimed the big truck through the storm.
 
Traggeo had stopped his climb up the mountain when he heard the sound of the truck’s engine. A brief crackle of gunfire followed and then the two-trailer rig slid toward him, its windshield shattered. He had fully expected an unknown enemy to make a concerted effort to seize the mine’s contents. But driving a double-hitched rig out through
this
storm? The thought was too incredible for him to even have considered it. What kind of man would attempt such a thing?
Even if Traggeo had been able to angle himself for a clear shot at the crazed driver, a direct hit would almost surely result in the precious cargo being lost over the mountain’s side. No, he had to catch up to the rig and somehow take control of it.
Toward that end, he began a rapid descent of the ice-encrusted mountain. He was halfway down when the rig slid by, allowing him to catch a glimpse of the driver. In that instant everything became chillingly clear.
Johnny Wareagle!
To the victor of this battle would go the spoils of the trailers’ contents. But more important to Traggeo was being granted a second chance to slay the legend. Win this battle and the scalp of Johnny Wareagle would be his. With it would come the legend’s vast power, Traggeo certain the spirits would have no choice but to accept him.
The rig had passed out of sight down the mountain by the time Traggeo reached the road and rushed for the Sno-Cat.
 
The satellite feed hooked up to Mount Weather and Samuel Jackson Dodd’s space station served a far larger purpose than simple entertainment. It was also an eye that could see the whole of the battle as it unfolded. Cantrell had always expected some pockets of limited resistance. It was the satellite, though, that was making it possible for him to deal with this unexpected, and organized, opponent his Delphi troops had to contend with. The explosion at the Old Post Office Tower had dealt him a devastating blow that instantly cut his manpower by a third. The ever-so-crucial timing of the operation would be considerably off as a result. Cantrell scrambled to compensate and redirect his forces accordingly.
He had divided the screen into eight sections, one of which featured an overview shot of the Mall, where sniper fire had begun cutting down his men there at will.
“The observation deck,” the general realized, and worked his controls until a shot of the remnants of the Old Post Office Tower replaced one of the eight images pictured. Barrel flashes coming from within its tower confirmed his suspicions. “Ground control, we have sniper fire originating in the Old Post Office Tower. Neutralize it.”
Seconds after the command was issued, Delphi marksmen stationed atop the Washington Monument turned their attention away from fleeing bystanders and onto the observation deck of the Old Post Office Tower. They opened up with a nonstop barrage of automatic fire at shapes they had no reason to expect were not friendlies until now. Instantly the shapes vanished. But the firing from the observation deck continued to the east toward the Capitol, the one perch the Monument snipers could not home in on.
“Destroy the tower,” Cantrell ordered. “Repeat, destroy the tower.”
 
 
“We got trouble at the Capitol Building, Mac,” Arlo Cleese told Blaine over the walkie-talkie.
“On my way,” McCracken returned and spun round to begin a dash down the Mall.
The sound of explosions made him turn back toward the observation deck of the Old Post Office Tower. Rockets from hand-held launchers had obliterated the top floor and a good portion of those immediately beneath it. Flames peeked out from gaping fissures in the tower’s white-stone structure. Melodic, almost ghost-like strains of the Congress Bells filtered into the air as debris slammed into them. Five good men and a prime advantage had been lost.
Blaine gritted his teeth and rushed on. Night was descending, and he held to the hope that this would favor the hit-and-run tactics of the Midnight Riders. They had split into a dozen teams focused entirely about Constitution, Independence, and Pennsylvania avenues. McCracken ran into the first team huddled amidst the masses behind the cover of the Vietnam Veterans’ Memorial.
“Feels pretty strange for this to be keeping me alive,” said a balding man who must have spent the years that had claimed the listed names protesting the war.
McCracken placed his hand against part of one of the year’s rolls, struck by a different sort of irony. “It does at that.”
Delphi troops were spilling their way up from the area of the Lincoln Memorial. The Riders swung toward them and opened fire with their automatic weapons, taking the Delphi troops totally by surprise. A covered truck passing on Constitution Avenue screeched to a halt and jolted into reverse, Delphi reinforcements hanging from its rear ready to lunge out to join the battle. McCracken charged toward the truck and pulled the pin from one of Cleese’s stock of grenades as he ran. It was airborne in the next instant, followed immediately by a second. The first hit the ground and rolled under the chassis when the truck came to a stop. The second wobbled toward the truck’s open-flapped rear.
The explosions came within an instant of each other. The truck spun sideways when the first erupted, swallowed in heavy flames. The second explosion caught those men who had already managed to drop down.
McCracken turned round to see another horde of enemy troops storming his way from the southwest. The Delphi’s intelligence was incredibly precise. Their ability to know the source of every explosion, ambush, and attack was severely restricting the effectiveness of what should have been a brilliant guerrilla-type strategy.
How were the Delphi able to mount reactive strikes so accurately?

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