Mystery: Satan's Road - Suspense Thriller Mystery (Mystery, Suspense, Thriller, Suspense Crime Thriller) (21 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

A Black Hawk helicopter was sitting in the parking circle in front of the big farmhouse, its rotors idling, dust swirling about like it was the center of a small storm front.

McNulty led Hyde up to the two FBI Special agents that Hyde had met at the site of the highway accident, and patted him on the back once before stepping back.

“We’ve got a situation,” the male agent yelled over the sound of the copters turbines. “There are several vans missing. Full of militiamen. Suicide bombers. We stopped two vehicles at the front gate, but our intelligence tells us there are at least three more.”

“What do you need me for? And aren’t you forgetting about Gideon?” asked Hyde.

“You worked with Stone and she knew this case better than anyone.” Hyde didn’t look convinced. He also wasn’t a big fan of flying – especially in helicopters. “And McNulty’s leading a team right now to find Gideon. He knows what he’s doing, and he’s promised to keep you informed.”

“We need your help,” said the other agent, a woman with short red hair. “Hundreds of lives are potentially at stake here.” Hyde shrugged, and then allowed the two FBI agents to guide him up into the chopper. He didn’t know how to say no to a request to save lives. He never could. And he guessed that dozens of suicide bombers trumped one missing has-been cult-leader.

The male FBI agent handed Hyde a headset, which he struggled to put on, his left hand crudely bandaged with a handkerchief McNulty had given him.

The redheaded agent pointed to Hyde’s hand. In his headset, he heard her voice amplified.

“What happened to your hand?” she asked.

“They were aiming for my head and missed,” answered Hyde. The agent nodded.

Another voice rang in his ears, just as he took his seat by the open side door and fumbled with the shoulder harness. He was beginning to miss those two fingers more and more by the minute.

“This is your pilot speaking. Name is Skibinsky. You can call me Skib. Hang on everyone – we are preparing for departure. Hang on.” The Black Hawk vibrated, the rotors roared above their heads, and the big ship lurched into the air. Hyde felt his stomach pitch and roll and tasted bile in the back of his throat almost immediately. He wasn’t surprised. Riding in the backseat of a police cruiser was often enough to upset his equilibrium.

The Black Hawk swung to the right and climbed above the trees. Hyde could see a number of FBI vans clustered around what was left of the front gate. Agents were standing around a blackened crater that used to be the entry road.

Hyde sucked in a breath of air, fighting the battle that was taking place in his stomach. Copter pilots obviously don’t have
smooth ride
in their vocabulary. He wouldn't be surprised if Skib got paid extra to never fly in a straight line. And it’s not like they were dodging missiles. At least not yet.

The female Special Agent began filling everyone in on the events to date. “Quantico has two vans on surveillance, the two that left the commune’s north exit about twenty minutes ago. If they match the two we stopped, we are looking for ten soldiers per vehicle. Every terrorist is potentially carrying a suicide vest containing approximately ten pounds of C4. If any of them get into a populated area, we could have a major body count.”

The other agent interjected. “Hyde. Do you have any idea where these bombers are headed?”

Hyde remembered a very brief discussion with Jann about the potential of militiamen from the commune braving an attack on downtown D.C. – to accompany all the chaos of J-Day. At the time, it seemed so remote and unthinkable. “Knowing Gideon’s ego, I’d say major centers. Homeland Security should be alert. The FBI HQ. White House. The Memorials. Smithsonian.”

“We are evacuating the major tourist areas and most government departments have started sending people home.”

Skib cut in. “The latest news is we have rotating blackouts all across the Midwest. The nuclear plant in
Surry, Virginia is on fire. Something about control units hacked. Most subway systems in major cities are stalled too. A lot of people trapped, some violence and rapes reported. There’s been a major runway collision at Dulles – two planes crashed, one on landing. A jetliner is down in the Bronx, took out an entire neighborhood and the emergency response is almost non-existent. Another plane just went down in Glendale Heights outside of Chicago and a report of a downed jet near Fort Worth. I also hear reports of crashes near Heathrow and Los Angeles.

Everyone was silent for a moment.

“Here’s the worst. There a nuclear bomb building plant in Texas called Pantex, northeast of Amarillo. They’ve lost control of the robot technology, and no one can get in or out of the buildings. And I heard a rumor from one of the flight controllers that the U.S. defensive shield is down. Early launch detection is a no-go, and we’ve lost communication with several of our military satellites. The President is on Air Force One right now, and all military jets have been scrambled.”

Hyde looked at the two FBI agents. “Sounds to me like the highways are going to be clogged with civilians leaving D.C. What’s the plan?” he asked.

The male FBI agent nodded at Hyde. “Major routes leaving the city are gridlocked. But the routes leading in are controlled and traffic is light. We are responsible for one of the suicide vans traveling north on I95 –that’s where we’re headed right now. We are also tracking the van by satellite. Quantico is coordinating a police effort on the ground to set up a roadblock. If that doesn’t work, we have Muscle.”

“Muscle?” asked Hyde.

A massive guy in a black nylon jacket turned around in his rotating seat and nodded back at Hyde. He was sitting in front of a large window, just behind one of the pilots, both hands on a large gun. “I’m Muscle. Ship gunner. If your guys can’t stop the terrorists on the ground, I’ve got this H240 just itching to get involved.”

“H240?” Hyde asked.

Muscle nodded at the hardware mounted on a swivel in front of him. “The problem solver. My machine gun.”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Gideon went down head first into the blackness and was quickly under. When he was hit, he let out a wail of surprise, so he took in a lungful of the toxic mixture as he sunk into the vat. Tamara had his head in her hands, and she could feel the porridge suck at him, slowing his movements enough so that she could stay on top of him.

Gideon wriggled under her, his arms flailing in slow motion. She felt like she was wrestling with the devil – a monster that could kill hundreds of children and mothers without regret. She had her hands on him; could feel his rage. The vat's contents were cold and evil, and she felt bile rise in her throat, not sure if it was the stench of the nitrates or the awful feel of Gideon under the slurry, twisting and gyrating against her like a desperate animal in the absolute dark of the bunker. 

Tamara clambered up on him higher, her feet slipping on the greasy curve of his back, trying to keep her head above the slurry. They continued to sink.

Gideon was twisting back and forth, trying to slip away from her, but it was useless. He was trapped in the grip of the thick oily paste. She imagined his eyes burning – his lungs screaming. She rested down on him, like riding a dying sea creature, her head just barely above the mixture now.

He began to move more slowly, twitching under her every few seconds. Then he spasmed once – maybe his last gasp. But she refused to let go until it seemed like she had been there for hours, the cold seeping into her body. She moved her legs then and finally felt the metal vat bottom and could stand awkwardly, finally letting Gideon go.

There was no movement now, only the sound of her breathing and a muted beeping sound. She dug down toward the sound, her hands losing their feeling in the cold muck. Then she touched something hard; a long metal box with a tiny glowing red light she could see through the murk. She lifted the object out and nestled it in the folds of her dress, then climbed clumsily out of the vat.

Tamara carried the flashing device that way, out of the bunker and out into the harsh sunshine of a Monday afternoon, tears running down her face.

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Hyde's helicopter pilot, Skib, had flown with the FBI's Critical Incident Response Unit for just over five years. He flew a UH-60 Black Hawk every day; that was part of his training and on-going duties. Today, he had a white cargo van in his crosshairs, traveling north on I95 at about sixty miles per hour. Traffic was light traveling north, but bumper to bumper on the south side of the highway. Whatever the authorities were telling citizens – it was working.

The Black Hawk was equipped with two H240H machine guns, both which delivered, when needed, about twelve large caliber rounds per second. Skib’s gunner was one of the best, and they were fully prepared to use the copter’s firepower if necessary.

Skib’s commanding officer hadn't said so yet, but the pilot knew the van they were closing on contained twelve hostiles – ten of them believed to be suicide bombers, plus driver and team leader.
No one wanted the van to get close to a population center. That gave them about eight minutes before the van reached the beltway.

The cop, Hyde, was talking to a police tactical commander, the head of Washington’s SWAT unit, directing an armored police van to block off the highway about three miles north of their location. Another SWAT unit was closing in on the second van, also heading north on Highway One, just east of their position. A third van was still unaccounted for, but believed to be behind the first two.
Believed!
But there were only so many options for entry into D.C. from Parkhurst and for all anyone knew, the third van could already be in the city.

When Hyde finished with the SWAT commander, planning the roadblock, he made a suggestion.

“If I were directing the vans, I'd send one down a back road. Are we covering the routes that feed into the west side of Washington?"

One of the agents asked the co-pilot using the internal COM line. "Can you patch me back to Quantico?"

"Roger that," said a voice in his headset.

The pilot noticed the traffic thinning out even more. Police had blocked the highway south of the van. The Black Hawk was high enough to see a disturbance ahead on the freeway, a black SWAT van blocking two lanes, men exiting the vehicle and deploying across the blacktop.

The FBI unit commander was back on squawk, talking with the two FBI agents. "A SWAT unit is in place. Get ready to engage if necessary.”

“Any sit-rep on the third van?" asked the agent.

"We’ve found a tunnel we weren't aware of, “ replied someone from Quantico. “It leads from the gun factory at Parkhurst, west for two miles and exits into a plowed field. We found tracks. And we believe this van doesn't match the others. That's why we don't have a visual yet."

"A tunnel big enough for a truck?" asked one of the agents.

"Bigger. You could drive a semi-trailer through it. The tunnel starts from a storage shed in the factory and exits in a steel warehouse building in a farmer’s field. There are no roads close by, so we overlooked it. We're examining the truck tracks right now, but our guess is some kind of van - very much like the others."

:

Hyde could see off in the distance, the white van slowing, the driver probably just becoming aware of police activity further down the highway. Civilian vehicles were pulling over to the shoulder. SWAT units were now closing in on foot as well, clearing civilian traffic from the area. The helicopter lifted and banked to the right when another voice came over the COM.

"Code black. I repeat, code black." The pilot recognized the command as coming from Helibase, where a contingent of Homeland Security agents was monitoring the situation. Hyde hadn’t heard the voice before.

The pilot rotated the chopper one hundred and eighty degrees in order to perform a flyover of the scene. The target, the white cargo van, was now stopped on the highway, about a quarter of a mile from the roadblock. The SWAT team had stopped advancing, and men were looking up at the Black Hawk expectantly. Hyde's stomach was trying to crawl up into his throat so he took a deep breath – just as the ship’s machine gun opened up. On the ground below, pulverized blacktop exploded into the air as a wave of destruction rolled across the roadway and roared toward the van.

Hyde hung on to his shoulder harness as the Black Hawk's nose lifted up sharply. Then he watched as the rounds tore into the van, raking destruction across the side, thousands of puncture wounds shredding the sheet metal. To everyone’s surprise, the van suddenly lurched forward and began to crawl across the tarmac, all the front windows shattered, rolling on the tireless rims. After one pass, the Black Hawk banked tightly to the left and repeated an attack from the opposite side. The gunner apparently knew what he was doing. None of the machine gun fire strayed from the cargo van’s shadow by more than a few feet. The truck finally came to rest, steam issuing from the front hood.

"Code black is Homeland Security," said the agent sitting next to Hyde.

Hyde just nodded. Homeland clearly wasn't taking any chances. A bomber might escape, take a family hostage, and be back on the road to D.C. in minutes. Code black evidently meant
use whatever means at your disposal
. Which the FBI had. He heard another confirmation over the COM line. The second van was now no longer a threat – brought to a halt by the second chopper. Still no sign of number three.

But Hyde knew Homeland Security was being coy. Someone on the COM had already referred to a new technology that was keeping eyes on Washington – face recognition, vehicle and license plate artificial intelligence, some interface between satellite, drone, and security cameras on the ground. Something called Zeus.

"What's the plan if a van stops and these bombers get out and disburse?" asked Hyde.

"We can track the bombers anywhere past the beltway,” answered an anonymous voice from what Hyde guessed must be Homeland Security. “Once we get a face scan, our system will stay on top of them, no matter where they go."

"All ten?"

The other voice didn’t respond right away. Hyde knew they were concerned about giving too much away. "The system could miss one or two. It's happened. I can't go into details. Nothings one hundred percent."

"Thanks for the little tech talk, but you didn’t answer the question. How do we stop them?" asked Hyde again, emphasizing the last few words, swallowing back the stomach acid still trying to crawl up his throat.

"Stop them before they get out of the van,” said the impersonal government voice. “The team leader won’t arm them until they reach their destination.”

“What happened at the Parkhurst gate then?”

“Bullets can't ignite C-4.
Someone tripped that series of explosions on purpose. Maybe they were trying to foment a response. Or we killed a terrorist who had his system active – although I can't imagine a leader permitting any of those men to be armed while in the van.”

“You obviously haven’t met Gideon Lean yet,” answered Hyde.