Day of the Delphi (35 page)

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Authors: Jon Land

BOOK: Day of the Delphi
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“You’ve sounded better.”
“West Wing never agreed with me.”
“You’re in the
White House
?”
“Till they blow it out from under me.”
McCracken could hear the dizzying explosions clearly in his ears now. “Ours or theirs?”
“Both.”
“Kristen?”
“Right here. Wouldn’t sound any better than me.”
“How bad?”
“She been better.”
“What about the rest of the Riders around the city?”
“Good to the last drop, Mac, and that’s what we’re down to. Maybe fifty left who can still fight. That’s it.”
Blaine felt the momentary euphoria over his success at the Capitol ebbing fast.
“Hold on,” Blaine said, picking up his pace toward the Mall. “I’m on my way.”
“Might be gone by the time you arrive. Might be—”
Another blast drowned out Cleese’s words and then replaced them with static.
“Arlo?” Blaine called, knowing there would be no reply. “Kristen.”
He began to sprint, willing to risk a dash through the heavily patrolled streets to reach the White House faster. He had just turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue, thinking about grabbing a vehicle, when he heard an all-too-familiar highpitched grinding sound.
A pair of M-1 tanks were coming his way side by side right down the center of the street. The cars in their way were shoved effortlessly aside. Beyond them Blaine could see another pair of tanks creaking in the opposite direction toward the White House. He hid in the shadow of the Federal Trade Commission building and was briefly caught in the spill of lights shining out from a Bradley personnel carrier passing along Constitution Avenue, its deadly 14mm cannon poised for action.
The Delphi had broken out the heavy equipment they must have been stockpiling in the city for some time, in closed sections of parking garages probably. Short of a miracle, the battle was over. McCracken figured if he was going out, he might as well do so in style. Take down one, maybe even two of the tanks with what he had left on him.
He waited for the pair of M-1s to pass by him down Pennsylvania Avenue and had started to make his move when the sound of distant humming brought his eyes skyward.
And the miracle he needed greeted his gaze.
 
“
What
?” General Cantrell bellowed, working the remote control to place a single view on the entire screen. “This can’t be … .
It can’t be!”
The President’s eyes glistened with tears of uncomprehending thanks. Charlie Byrne had sunk back into his chair, near fainting. Angela Taft’s smile stretched across the entire width of her face.
The huge television screen showed paratroopers dropping from the belly of a transport that streamed through the
night, the numbers 9-1-1 stenciled in red across its side. Their parachutes opened in one beautiful, swift motion and floated toward the open ground of West Potomac Park beyond the Lincoln Memorial.
The mannequins that made up the first drop drew fire only from the top of the Washington Monument. Colonel Tyson Gash of the 911 Brigade pulled the unlit cigar from his mouth and spoke to the trailing C-130.
“Savior Two, enemy fire originating in Monument top. Take it out.”
“Take the
Monument
out, sir?”
“That’s an order, son. We gotta get our boys down safe.”
“Roger, sir.”
As Savior Two banked under the 911 Brigade’s flagship, the plane’s gunner locked the top of the Washington Monument into the firing grid of the C-130’s wing-mounted dual 20mm Vulcan miniguns. He pressed the red triggers under each of his thumbs. Three hundred rounds sped metallically out of two sets of six churning barrels and the gunner closed his eyes to the results. He didn’t open them again until the C-130 had passed over its target.
In essence, the Vulcans had sheered the top of the Monument clean off. The sharply angled tip of the obelisk was gone, leaving only a jagged edge in the stone. The three stories beneath it had been peppered black with 20mm fire and seemed a wind’s gust away from toppling as well.
“This is Savior Two, Rescue Leader,” the pilot said into his headset. “The field is clear.”
Gash gave the drop signal and the four transports filling out the line behind him began to spill the eager soldiers from their bays. He had initially considered directing the battle from within the flagship circling the city. But one
sight of the inferno that was spreading through the ravaged capital of the United States set his stomach churning. This was the moment for which he’d been training men for five years now. This was the battle he knew his 911 Brigade would have to fight sooner or later. He had greeted the message delivered by Johnny Wareagle’s pilot seven hours before with excitement and vindication. The country needed him after all. But the excitement vanished at the sight of Washington burning, nothing but hate and revulsion left in its place.
Gash discarded his cigar and moved backwards to join the men who would be dropping from Rescue Leader in the next pass.
“We’re gonna fry these sons of whores,” he growled to one of his sergeants. “And we’re going to enjoy every goddamn second of it.”
 
McCracken’s eyes continued to peer skyward as a sea of black parachutes opened in direct line over West Potomac Park. Another transport with a red 9-1-1 on its side zoomed over his head.
It was Tyson Gash, alerted to what was going on, no doubt, by Johnny Wareagle!
The spread of Gash’s paratroopers was even and precise, the only light catching them that from the flames flickering out of what remained of the Washington Monument’s top. The drop concentrated entirely in West Potomac Park south of the Lincoln Memorial across Independence Avenue. Blaine figured what Gash and the 911 would need most now was a quick intelligence appraisal of what was going on. So he started down the center of the Mall toward the troops that would already be gathering into recon units.
His step had never felt so light. The Midnight Riders had done it! They had held the Delphi off long enough for help to arrive, though not from the expected source.
McCracken broke into a sprint down the Mall toward the ruins of the Washington Monument.
 
 
In the Mount Weather command center, half of the giant screen showed the paratroopers deploying quickly as another fleet of C-130s with red 911s across their sides circled the Potomac for an equipment drop. The other half closed on a solitary figure sprinting down the far end of the Mall in the paratroopers’ direction.
Blaine McCracken.
“Kill him, General,” the voice of Samuel Jackson Dodd ordered, filling the room. “Whatever it takes, I want him dead.”
“Sir, the men we would have to commit to—”
“I want McCracken
dead
!”
 
“You ask me,” Sal Belamo muttered, “we should pull over and call a cab.”
Johnny Wareagle kept his eyes fixed on the road and his attention riveted to the task of getting the double rig down Mountain Pass. They were coming to the steepest and most precarious portion of the road, and the weather was at its least forgiving. The snow collected in the gaps of the fractured windshield and crystallized, further limiting Johnny’s view. He hammered at the remnants of the glass with a naked fist to try to loosen the icy particles and succeeded only in putting more cracks in the windshield. The best he could do now was push as much of the glass out as he dared, lest the snow and ice block his vision altogether.
Johnny had done his best to memorize Mountain Pass during the trek up it in the Sno-Cat. But the dips and darts all looked the same and each slight misjudgment sent the two trailers he was hauling into a dangerous sweep. He could see their tires flirting with the edge in his mind. The storm conspired with the length of the rig to make it impossible for him to watch for any possible pursuit. Before him, meanwhile, the wildness of the storm frequently obscured what little view remained. Sal Belamo had tried to serve as
spotter, but that hadn’t worked, leaving Johnny with only his eyes.
And the spirits.
He could feel their hands over his. He could hear their words in his ears, leading him to make sudden adjustments in his route that kept the rig from pitching over the side. Johnny could see at most only ten feet ahead of him at a time, and he broke down the journey into segments that long.
“Wake me when we get off the mountain,” said Sal Belamo, feigning a yawn.
 
Traggeo shoved the Sno-Cat on through the storm. Its dangerous perch near the mountain’s edge had made him fear initially that righting it would be not only impossible but also deadly. He’d been able to manage the task, though at a severe handicap in time that gave the rig hauling two trailer-loads of nuclear weapons an even more considerable head start. But the nukes were only part of this for Traggeo now, and a small part at that, since he had glimpsed the face of the driver.
Fate had placed the two of them on this mountain together, because by killing Wareagle and taking his scalp, all he sought could be gained. Traggeo would swallow the great Indian’s power and at last be accepted by those who had disdained him. He would wear the hair of Wareagle forever; there would never be call to change it. Future victims he claimed would merely recharge his spirit. He would no longer need to absorb their power by wearing their scalps.
The snow pummeled Traggeo through the shot-out cab. The environment inside the Sno-Cat seemed no different than the environment beyond. But at least he was moving, and finally, after an agonizing ten minutes, he caught a brief glimpse of the massive rig two hundred yards ahead of him.
Traggeo pushed the ’Cat for still more speed and its treads responded. The gap closed to a hundred yards, then
to fifty, sight of the rear trailer now grabbed in longer stretches through the storm.
At twenty yards, the second trailer was a snake slithering S-like across the muddied grounds. Traggeo kept the Sno-Cat charging on. Its front kissed the trailer’s rear bumper. The trailer jolted a bit and then steadied. Traggeo stomped forcefully on the accelerator pedal.
The Sno-Cat lurched forward and mounted the hitch assembly protruding from the trailer’s rear, catching hold briefly. Traggeo checked both his .45-caliber pistol and killing knife, then pulled himself out through the Sno-Cat’s shattered cab. He scaled its hood and leaped to grab hold of the trailer’s roof. His gloves just managed to close on the sill and he pulled himself atop it. Johnny Wareagle was a mere hundred feet away now, and Traggeo began his advance across the top of the snow-covered rig.
 
McCracken had reached the halfway point of the Mall between the remnants of the Capitol and the Washington Monument when the first of the Delphi troops converged on his position from Constitution Avenue. He checked the area quickly for cover. The rear of the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum was thirty yards away and he charged toward it, using a burst from the SAW to shatter the wall-length windows and clear a path for him inside.
The logistics of the museum gave him the semblance of hope. Its many areas for concealment would allow him to use a hit-and-run strategy comparable to the one the Midnight Riders had employed for the entire city. He began to search for a spot amongst the various displays of aerial history to lay his initial ambush.
A large poster drew his attention to an alcove of the museum reserved for Vertical Flight. It advertised a special demonstration that was being given on a daily basis all week. Intrigued by the accompanying photo, Blaine edged closer and realized his best chance for survival might lie in putting on an unscheduled demo of his own.
 
 
Colonel Tyson Gash touched down in West Potomac Park and shed his parachute amidst the last of his black-clad commandos. In all, the logistical limitations had allowed him to get a 500-man contingent in, roughly one-third of the 911 Brigade’s total ranks. These same limitations had prevented the luxury of heavy air support. The 911 Brigade had its own fleet of Apache attack helicopters that were tailor-made for this kind of encounter. But Apaches required assembly that couldn’t possibly be completed without more time and a sufficient platform.
Despite this drawback, the 911 had other heavy arms to rely on, thanks to LAPES. LAPES stood for Low Altitude Parachute Equipment Setup, and it was the most important element in effecting the kind of counterstrike the 911 Brigade was trained for. In years dating back to Gash’s boyhood in World War II the casualty rate in paratrooper drops often approached a staggering 80 percent. The reason for this was not that they were cut down out of the air; it was that the enemy armaments awaiting them on the ground were simply too much to overcome. Accordingly, military planners had come up with a number of schemes to neutralize this advantage, ultimately evolving into LAPES.
Gash watched now as a fresh set of C-130s sliced in over the Potomac. The first in the procession nearly scraped the top of the Lincoln Memorial and dropped to within six feet of West Potomac Park’s grassy plain. At that point, an on-board officer with the title of loadmaster began to work his magic. The loadmaster had already opened the C-130’s rear flap in the midst of its descent. Now, when the plane was six feet off the ground, he activated a cargo chute that shot outward and opened twenty-five yards behind the C-130. Instantly a much larger chute automatically deployed behind the first and opened as well. The second chute was attached to a single M-551 Sheridan tank, and the force of its opening dragged the Sheridan out from the cargo bay. The fast-attack, aluminum Sheridan bounced once and came to a
halt, fully ready to go, armed with a hypervelocity 110mm cannon and Shillelagh missiles. The team assigned to man it was inside and firing up the Sheridan inside of a minute later.
Three more C-130s dropped another trio of Sheridans, followed by additional LAPES passes that spilled a half-dozen Humvees equipped with tank-killing TOW missiles into the park. The trick for each of the pilots after deployment became pulling their planes’ noses up to climb back over the Potomac fast enough to avoid the trees that rimmed the park. Each managed the daunting task and headed for a midair rendezvous to await further orders.
Colonel Tyson Gash checked his watch. The 911 Brigade had pulled the entire drop off in under nine minutes, an incredible three entire minutes better than their best-ever practice run. Without hesitation, following the specifications laid out en route from base, the vehicles rolled out toward their assigned grids. The remaining ground troops began their spread as well. Gash himself took command of the force that would take control of the Mall.
He grimaced as he led his men up toward the ruined structure of the Washington Monument. Maybe they shouldn’t fix it at all when this was over. Maybe they should leave the Monument just the way it was as a memorial to the battle of Washington.
And the troops that were about to win it.
 
Traggeo continued to creep along the slippery top of the second trailer. The storm battered him relentlessly, and more than once he feared the winds would spill him to the road below or even off the mountain’s steep side. By brute strength and force of will he managed to keep his center of gravity low and find the best footholds present on the ice-encrusted trailer top.
The most precarious move was having to leap five feet from the second trailer onto the first. After managing it effortlessly, Traggeo picked up his pace across the top of the
lead trailer with new confidence. The sound of his steps was swallowed by the cushion of snow. The cab came into clear view quickly and he readied his final attack.
 
Mountain Pass had taken the slippery shape of an endless S. Wareagle kept the rig’s pace steady, riding the storm as best as he could. He seemed to have formed a truce with the wind and snow, allowing him to concentrate on negotiating the multiple curves of the road. Each motion of the wheel had become an exercise in madness, as he waited to see if the tires could keep their hold.
The remaining portions of the windshield had begun to fog up from the warm breath misting from his and Sal’s mouths. Johnny had taken to leaning forward at regular intervals to wipe the clouds away before the storm turned them into opaque shields frozen over the glass.

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