Edge of Battle (45 page)

“Jason, the best place for her is with the FBI. Director DeLaine knows her—I’m sure she’ll handle her case personally.”

“No way! She’s not a criminal! Tell the FBI to back off, Sergeant Major!”

“I’m not going to do that, sir,” Jefferson said. “If she broke the law, she has to come in. The longer she stays out, the more she’ll be suspected of being a spy. She’ll have to—”

“A spy?”
Jason retorted. “Are you
insane?
No way in
hell
is she going to go down as a spy! I’ll kill anyone who tries to charge her with that, I swear to God…!”

“Major Richter, shut up, sir,
now,
” Ray Jefferson said. “Listen to me, sir: Dr. Vega will get all the protection and legal help we can offer her…but
not
if you or she tries something crazy. Get her back on base and keep her there.”

“Sergeant Major, under my authority as deputy commander of this unit—”

“You’ve been relieved as deputy commander of TALON, Major. Director Watts is in charge—”

“—I am directing elements of Task Force TALON to immediately deploy to southern California to set up surveillance on Dr. Vega’s family, who I believe will be the target of an assassination or kidnapping attempt by the Consortium,” Jason said. “I am requesting that you notify the FBI and Justice Department of my or
ders and have them contact me through my headquarters so we can coordinate our efforts, but you can advise them that I am fully prepared to take whatever steps I feel necessary to accomplish my mission. Unless I receive valid countermanding orders, my unit is in target pursuit mode. TALON out.”

Jason saw a truck pull up to the CV-22 Osprey, and crews started loading Cybernetic Infantry Unit backpacks and weapon canisters aboard the tilt-rotor aircraft. At the same time an Air Force Suburban roared up the taxiway and screeched to a halt in front of him, and Bruno Watts jumped out. “I just got a call from the National Security Adviser, ordering me to keep you on the ground!” he shouted over the roar of the Osprey’s massive turboshaft engines. “What is going on? Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“I’ll submit my ops plan in the air,” Jason shouted back.

“Like hell you will, Major!” Watts snapped. “This equipment is not your personal property! I am in command of this unit! Until I get clearance from Washington, I’m ordering you…”

“Excuse me, sir,” Jennifer McCracken said, stepping up to Watts. “I’d like a word with you.”

“Not now, Lieutenant.” Then, with surprising speed, Watts grabbed Jason’s left wrist with his left hand and lifted his sleeve with his other hand, revealing the remote control wrist keypad for the CID units. “And don’t even
think
of trying to summon one of your robots to grab me, Major,” he growled. “Sergeant Major Jefferson warned me about you. He said you’re not above doing anything to get your…”

With equally surprising speed, Jennifer McCracken swatted away Watts’s grasp on Jason, twisted his arm upward and backward, rotated her hips, and flipped Watts back over her right leg and down onto the tarmac. With one leg on his left arm and his other arm twisted behind him in a come-along hold, Watts was immediately immobilized.
“What in hell do you think you’re doing?”
Watts shouted. “Let me up, McCracken,
now!
”

“Sir?”

“Hold him there until we’re airborne, Jennifer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you two crazy?”
Watts retorted. He tried to struggle free, but it was quickly and painfully obvious that the somewhat nerdy, quiet, and very businesslike young Marine knew exactly what she was doing. “I’ll have you all court-martialed!”

“You’re messing with a member of Task Force TALON, sir,” McCracken said. “You can court-martial us after Dr. Vega has been brought to safety.”

H
ENDERSON
, N
EVADA
A
SHORT TIME LATER

“We suffered almost a half-million dollars’ worth of damage that our insurance probably won’t cover,” the station manager moaned, checking reports filed by the police and the insurance adjusters. “The ambulance company sent us a bill for transport of seventeen persons to the hospital for a variety of injuries; and every one of our Latino maintenance workers have left.”

“But the show had the highest ratings in the history of talk radio,” Bob O’Rourke’s agent chimed in immediately, “and all but a couple of our sponsors have asked for multiyear advertising contract extensions. I’m expecting a call from the syndication folks, asking for the same—they might even be interested in doing a TV show. Congratulations, Bob.”

“Thanks, Ken, thanks very much for the news,” Bob O’Rourke said, ignoring the station manager. As he usually did after a show, Bob O’Rourke relaxed in his office with his producer, Fand Kent, and the show’s other staff members; he would have one beer, discuss upcoming topics and research assignments, and then O’Rourke would move on to the half-dozen other promotional functions he had scheduled most afternoons, usually golf games with sponsors, speaking engagements, personal appearances, or
commercial tapings. He clinked glasses and bottles with his staff, took a deep pull on his beer, then looked at his heavily bandaged right hand. “If I had known just a few broken fingers would get me all that, I would’ve done it long ago.” The laughter was a little strained, but no one in that room ever failed to laugh at one of Bob O’Rourke’s jokes, no matter how lame or unfunny—they all valued their jobs too much.

“Bob, the district attorney, the FCC, the mayor, the sheriff’s department, the state Department of Public Safety, the FBI, and even the White House are screaming mad at you,” the station manager said. “They want to talk with you right away, especially about this Vega thing.”

“I have nothing to say to any of them except I stand by my information and will refuse all requests to reveal my sources,” O’Rourke said.

“That’s all you need to say, Bob—I’ll get your attorney on those calls right away,” the agent said. “Don’t worry about a thing. All those people don’t do a damned thing whenever some nut job like Comandante Veracruz wants to speak, but when a proud American wants to talk, they all want to squash him like a bug.” O’Rourke tipped his bottle in thanks. “I’ve got a car waiting outside to take you to the CNN affiliate, and then we’ll come back here for a few more satellite pieces with Fox News and the BBC. Then…”

“Can’t. I have that match with Jason Gore at two at the country club.”

“Jason said he’d be glad to slip it to tomorrow if you’ll autograph a bunch of visors for him.”

“Deal.” He looked worriedly at his agent. “About the car…”

“Don’t worry about your Excursion. The insurance company will total it, I’m sure, and I’ve already put out feelers to a few charities to auction it off on eBay.”

O’Rourke gave his agent a shake of his head, and he bent down closer so he could whisper, “No, Ken, I mean the car for this afternoon.”

“No worries, Bob. I found a company with armored limos. They’re comping the car for the week as long as they can put their signage in the back window and at the parking areas at your events. All your sponsors and venues said no problem.”

“An armored car, you say?”

“This company has a fleet of armored Suburbans that were rejected by a very wealthy real estate developer from Bahrain because they were
too
heavy—they wouldn’t fit on their jets,” the agent explained. “These things are like friggin’ tanks, Bob. It’s a good deal.”

“I like my regular service…”

“They don’t have armored limos, Bob, and besides they hesitated to help you after yesterday’s broadcast. Frankly, Bob, they ran like frightened chickens. Screw ’em.”

“But is this a good company…you know, are they trustworthy?”

“Don’t worry about a thing. I checked ’em out. They’re new, but I spoke with the owner and he seems okay. Young, a real go-getter, anxious to make a name for himself.” He read O’Rourke’s eyes and added, “And yes, he’s an Anglo, and all his drivers are Anglos. I said don’t worry. I have a bodyguard assigned to you, recommended by one of your sponsors, and I’ll be along every step of the way to keep an eye on things.” O’Rourke looked worried but said nothing as he reached for another beer.

More TV and media crews were outside the studios when Bob O’Rourke emerged about a half hour later after his staff meeting. The bodyguard took up a position on the other side of the car, facing the crowds being kept away by a greatly expanded police presence. O’Rourke made a few comments for the reporters, waved to the crowd with his left hand, raised his bandaged right hand defiantly to the delighted cheers of his supporters who easily drowned out the protesters on the other side of the street, and entered the massive armored Suburban limousine, making a pleased mental note of the inch-thick steel and Kevlar in the armored doors and three-inch-thick bulletproof glass.

His agent was already inside. “I told you, Bob—first class all the
way,” he said, checking out the very high-tech electronics and devices inside. “This is probably what the President’s limo looks like.” He handed O’Rourke the remote to the twenty-four-inch plasma TV inside. “Here—you might be able to catch the news piece on yourself.”

O’Rourke took the remote and turned the TV on. “Get me another beer, will you?”

“Better take it easy, Bob—you have a full afternoon.”

“Just get me another beer and shut up, will you?”

The agent shook his head, silently determined that this would be the last one until dinnertime. He opened the ice cabinet section of the limo…and his mouth dropped open in absolute horror.

At the same time, the bodyguard had got into the front passenger seat, and the limo driver trotted around from holding O’Rourke’s door open to get in the driver’s side…but instead of getting in, he dashed off down the driveway, past the media crews, and disappeared into the crowds on the street.

“Get out! Get out!”
the bodyguard’s muffled voice shouted through the closed blast-proof privacy window. “Get out of the car,
now!
”

“What the hell…?” The agent’s eyes widened in surprise, then fear, then abject panic. “Holy shit, this thing’s full of…!”

O’Rourke tried the door handle. “The door’s locked!” He tried the other handle. “This one’s…”

At that instant, the one hundred pounds of C4 explosives planted in the liquor and ice cabinets inside the SUV exploded. The armored body and windows of the SUV contained the explosion for a fraction of a second until, like an overfilled balloon, the powerful explosives first blew the windows out, then ripped the rest of the vehicle into a thousand pieces. Huge tongues of fire leaped out horizontally through the limo’s shattered windows, and then the area for an entire block was showered with flying shards of metal, a wave of fire, and a tremendous concussion, knocking over every person, vehicle, and any other standing object within
one hundred yards and shattering every window for another hundred yards.

C
ALIFORNIA
S
TATE
U
NIVERSITY
,
N
ORTHRIDGE
, C
ALIFORNIA
A
SHORT TIME LATER

The white panel truck exited northbound Highway 101 at Reseda Boulevard and headed north, not speeding but zipping through many stoplights that had just turned red. It turned right on Vincennes Street, past Darby Avenue and onto the California State University–Northridge campus. West University Drive dead-ended at Jacaranda Walk, but the truck squeezed through a narrow brick campus entryway and continued eastbound onto the wide tree-lined sidewalk down two blocks until reaching Jacaranda Hall Engineering Building, the driver beeping its horn occasionally to warn students.

The scene on and off campus was one of absolute confusion. There were several antimilitary, antiadministration, and anti-immigrant protest groups up and down West University Drive. The streets were littered with garbage, discarded signs and banners, and projectiles. The acidy smell of tear gas could barely be detected, wafting in from many directions. Long lines of Hispanic men, women, and children were walking down both sides of the street in both directions, with cars following them, honking horns at them, or simply unable to move because of the chaos. Media crews were everywhere, adding to the confusion.

Cal State–Northridge’s campus security was already out in force trying to keep most of the protesters and displaced Mexicans from swarming onto the campus, but they focused their attention squarely on the white panel truck as it drove up over the curb and onto the sidewalk on campus. The situation stopped being serious and had suddenly gotten potentially deadly.

The truck took a left onto East University Drive, then an immediate left into the handicapped parking area outside Jacaranda Hall. Just as campus security patrols arrived, they saw the driver get out of the truck’s cab and step inside the back of the truck. Three patrol cars, lights flashing, blocked the truck. “Driver of the white panel truck,” one of the officers said, using the loudspeaker on his patrol car, “this is the campus police. Come out of the vehicle immediately.” There was no response from the vehicle, even after several repeated calls both in English and Spanish.

After the duty sergeant arrived and assessed the situation with his officers, it was quickly decided to evacuate Jacaranda, Sequoia, Sagebrush, and Redwood Halls and Oviatt Library, and call in the Highway Patrol and the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department. The recent bombings in Las Vegas and Mexico City, plus the considerable unrest among the Hispanic population all across California, put everyone on hair-trigger alert.

Within ten minutes the sheriff’s department’s bomb squad arrived, and ten minutes after that a remote-controlled tracked robot was dispatched, carrying a bag with a cellular phone inside, plus microphones that could be attached to the outside of the truck with remote manipulator arms to listen to what was happening inside. By that time the buildings surrounding the truck had been evacuated and a one-hundred-yard perimeter established. The robot motored to the closed and locked double cargo doors in the back of the truck, just far enough away for one door to be opened.