Authors: Jon Land

Day of the Delphi (34 page)

BOOK: Day of the Delphi

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Blaine stole a glance at the darkening sky. Much of the day of the Delphi was about Prometheus, about satellites orbiting thousands of miles overhead. Could one of Dodd’s be—

Of course! That was it!

McCracken left this team of Riders to the battle and started across Constitution Avenue. He kept his pace as fast as he dared without revealing himself, staying low on the sidewalk to use the parked and abandoned cars as cover. Minutes later he reached the trio of buildings known as the Federal Triangle without incident and rushed toward a familiar monolith with an M stenciled near the top. What better place to make his way through the city than beneath it, where the eyes of Sam Jack Dodd could never find him?

Blaine sprinted the last stretch to the Federal Triangle Metro station and plunged down the stalled steps of the escalator.

The sixteen-member Hostage and Rescue Team on the Hoover Building’s top level had already suffered six casualties by the time director Ben Samuelson got there. The enemy was using rockets and grenades to pummel the structure. The steel blast shutters had buckled and even caved in at several points, allowing dusk and enemy fire to filter in.

Samuelson helped tie tourniquets round a pair of leg wounds, then armed himself with a scope-equipped M16 and took the place of one of the downed men in an empty port. The remaining team members fanned out across the once-fortified floor.

“You better have a look at this,” one of them called from his port overlooking Pennsylvania Avenue.

Samuelson crawled over and peered down to see a dozen or so figures had entered the battle on
their
side, taking the Delphi troops laying waste to the Hoover Building by surprise. They weren’t police and they certainly weren’t soldiers. Their ambush worked spectacularly at first, but the tide changed as the enemy became aware of the new combatants’ presence. Since they had failed to leave themselves a clear escape route, the figures found themselves trapped and forced onto the defensive. Samuelson seized the opportunity to order his marksmen to concentrate their efforts on trying to catch the opposition in a cross fire. The friendlies, though, whoever they were, had already been overwhelmed by the hail of Delphi bullets concentrated in their direction. Those who tried to flee were cut down even faster than the ones who held as fast as they could to their cover.

“Who are they?” Samuelson asked out loud. “Who the hell are they?”

“Bad news,” Arlo Cleese told Kristen, lowering the walkie-talkie from his ear.

“What?”

“Team that managed to take the White House right out from under these bastards is under siege. Not enough firepower. Fucked big time.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Just one thing avails itself, sister.”

And Cleese pulled himself through the curtain and into the driver’s seat of the van. Incredibly, a number of civilian vehicles were still braving the battle in search of flight or at least safety. Cleese chased the ponytail from his face,
gunned the van’s engine, and steered it into a sharp U-turn toward the other end of Pennsylvania Avenue.

It didn’t take long before the White House came into view. Initially, in a surprise charge, a pair of Midnight Rider teams had overcome the attacking Delphi troops from the rear. They managed to secure a hold on the building’s front, only to face dozens of reinforcements rushed into the area. They had expended virtually all their ammo and grenades in repelling the opposition’s advances and could continue to do so only if Cleese found a way to get them restocked.

Surging down Pennsylvania Avenue toward the ravaged White House, there was only one option he could see.

“Hold on,” he told Kristen.

She watched him smile and then chuckle. He was laughing hysterically by the time the van lunged toward a chasm blown out of the iron fence enclosing the grounds and past the corpses of a number of marines who had died trying to fend off the Delphi’s initial assault.

A hail of bullets trailed the van as it surged onto the White House lawn. The sound of several shells testing the van’s armored steel skin reminded Kristen of popcorn popping as she slid back into the rear to get the equipment ready for immediate dispersal. She felt a thump to her leg, like a hard kick, and looked down to see blood spreading through her jeans. Her hands went for the wound instinctively and felt the mangled flesh.

“Heeeeeeeeee-yahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Arlo Cleese’s bellow rose above the sounds of the gunshots, and he pushed the van up the White House steps on three blown tires. He jerked the wheel sideways at the last to bring the passenger side door even with the entrance. The fresh supply of armaments could now be distributed from some semblance of cover. Pushing down the shock from her wound, Kristen began passing the heavy machine guns and rocket launchers up to Cleese in the cab of the van. She could see blood flowing down his right arm as he handed the weapons to those beyond.

She had just crawled up to join him when the hands that had lifted the fresh weapons out reached in for the two of them. Kristen watched the scene dazedly as she was carried into the front of the White House. Between eight and ten surviving Riders hurried to get the tripods set up and the pair of 50-caliber machine guns in place atop them. There were six portable rocket launchers as well, and a half box of grenades to be distributed down the short line offering resistance.

By the time they set her down, Kristen couldn’t feel her leg anymore. It was all she could do to crawl to the window to watch the battle raging outside. She smelled acrid smoke and realized part of the White House was burning. Dimly, she registered a stubborn fire alarm continuing to wail from one of the floors above.

Kristen caught glimpses of the remaining Riders struggling to repel another determined assault by the Delphi. Their new machine guns clacked off with little pause and the already distinctive thumping
poof!
of grenade blasts were sounding with regularity. A trio of off-target Delphi rockets smashed into the White House’s second level and showered remnants of the ceiling down upon her.

A Rider wearing a bandage around his head dragged a resistant Arlo Cleese into the foyer and deposited him next to Kristen.

“Can you fucking believe this?” he moaned, trying to rub the life back into his right shoulder, which was even more mangled than her leg. “I can’t even hold any of the fucking guns I delivered.”

“We’re going to die,” she said flatly.

Cleese pulled a half-gone marijuana cigarette from his jacket with his good hand and then flicked a lighter against it.

“Not if our friend Mac has anything to say about it.” He inhaled deeply and then held the joint out to her. “Care for a toke, sis?”

The switch thrown at Mount Weather had crippled the city’s famed Metro in its tracks, the vast tunnels reduced to nothing more than safe havens for those who had managed to flee the battle aboveground. McCracken charged past hundreds of terrified faces in the dim emergency lighting. The air conditioning had died along with the power, and already the heat was stifling. The lack of circulation made the rank stench of fear all the worse.

Blaine had been careful to choose the proper feed line to take him in the direction of the Capitol Building and followed the cement walk as far as he could before leaping down onto the dead tracks. He then picked up his pace again, conscious of the echoing clip-clop of his shoes against the rail ties. The best chance the Midnight Riders had now was to hold firm to the prime landmarks on the Delphi’s target list, like the Capitol Building, long enough for help to arrive.

The route from the Federal Triangle complex to the Capitol was elbow-shaped, L’Enfant Plaza station lying at the bend. McCracken sped on again after pausing there long enough to catch his breath, and reached the Capitol South station to find it empty except for a few dozen refugees from the battle. Bounding up the steps of another stalled escalator, he reached the top and the outdoors out of breath. In the failing daylight Blaine could hear the sounds of rocket and light arms fire, and could see constant flashes of light reaching him from nearby the Capitol.

A block later his knees nearly buckled at the sight of it. The Capitol’s marble dome had been splintered by rockets and its topmost portion had caved in. The rest of the dome looked like the bottom chunk of a shattered glass. Additional chasms had been dug out of the stately fronts of House and Senate, as well as the Rotunda centered between them. The long steps leading up to all three were littered with bodies, both Riders and Delphi by all appearances. The Riders, though, were holding firm in their defense of the building. Vastly outnumbered and unquestionably running
low on ammo, they held their ground determined to repel any direct assault that would lead to the building’s total destruction.

But the massive concentration of Delphi troops lining 1st Street and Union Square would not be denied much longer unless Blaine could find a way to stop their mounting force. He had the night’s first darkness now to conceal his approach. But what was he going to approach
with
? What could he possibly use to …

McCracken’s eyes fell on a gasoline tanker abandoned in the center of Canal Street. He charged toward it and jumped into the driver’s seat. The keys were missing, but he had the engine hot-wired and revving less than a minute later. Then he lunged back out and opened the main spigot, which operated off a gravity feed. By the time he started the tanker forward, gas was already flooding out through the open spigot.

Blaine crept the truck down Canal Street, weaving through stalled traffic. Fortunately 1st Street was wide open, and he upshifted to gather speed. He relied on the sounds of heavy fire from the Capitol to conceal those of the surging tanker. If the night could hold sight of it back just until he crossed over Constitution Avenue, he knew his plan stood an excellent chance of success.

He eased onto 1st Street and gave the tanker gas. When it hit twenty miles per hour, he opened the door and angled his body so he could keep pressure on the gas pedal until the last possible moment.

McCracken jumped just as the tanker crossed between the double-line formation the Delphi troops had erected in their siege of the Capitol. Their machine-gun fire sliced through its engine and stitched a line of punctures in the massive tank. The remainder of the gas flooded outward.

The explosion came when the tanker slid past the Garfield Monument and crashed into a truck parked perpendicular to the street. The flames jetted out in all directions,
lighting up the night. Fire dashed along the trail of gas that had followed the tanker all the way here.

The initial explosion had consumed over half the Delphi troops stationed before the Capitol. Others had been scorched by flames or just the heat of the blast. And the fire wasn’t finished yet. It continued to spread along the line of the freed gas in what amounted to a wall of flames, cutting off all but a circuitous route to the Capitol. The Delphi retreated, their vehicles and much of their equipment left behind for Blaine to make use of.

McCracken tempted the flames with a quick dash up to a truck that was just beginning to catch. He peered into its rear and grasped a machine gun known as a SAW, or Squad Automatic Weapon. The SAW fired belt-fed 5.56 rounds. Since the rounds were light, Blaine would have no trouble toting the thousand-round belt that made the SAW the perfect weapon for what remained ahead of him. Making sure the belt was properly fixed and chambered, he slid away from the flames into the night.

At Mount Weather, General Trevor Cantrell enlarged the scene of the huge explosion and fire outside the Capitol to half of the entire screen. As he watched it, his face squeezed even more tautly into a grimace. To an observer, he looked as though he was holding his breath.

Behind him the President was resting his hands confidently on the railing in front of the first row of chairs in the gallery. The awful damage that had been done to the White House and the Capitol, not to mention the Supreme Court, State Department, Hoover Building, and numerous others, didn’t seem to matter so long as the resistance continued that was keeping the structures from being utterly overrun and devastated. He knew as well as Cantrell did that real help was still hours away. But he realized too that the day of the Delphi relied on the concept of quick shock for its expected success, in and out before anyone knew what hit them. That was forfeit now. And the longer the troops of the
Delphi had to contend with the resistance fighters, the greater the chances that their true purpose and identities would ultimately be revealed.

“General Cantrell,” the President spoke forcefully to compel attention. When the general glanced toward him, he continued, “I am willing to accept your unconditional surrender.”

Cantrell’s lower lip trembled and his eyes flashed. “I’ve had quite enough of this,” he said, though it wasn’t clear to whom.

He steadied his headset before uttering his next words. “Ground command, this is Mountain Leader.” Cantrell held the President’s stare emotionlessly. “Send in the heavies.”

“Come in, Arlo,” Blaine said into his walkie-talkie.

“Right here, Mac,” came the wheezy reply.

BOOK: Day of the Delphi

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