Fire Hawk (59 page)

‘First time in Washington?' Jess asked Sam.

‘No. But first time inside this place.'

She smiled and swung back to face her screen. ‘Catch up with you later, okay?'

Sam joined Burgess by the laser printer, watching the map come off.

‘Will you leave it to the state police to check this out?' he asked.

‘Nope. There'll be a couple of special agents from the Washington field office heading out there right now,' he explained. ‘Sure as hell hope this is the one.'

His eyes were back on the TV screens. Two of the channels had gone live to cameras at the Pledge for the Family rally in the Mall less than half a mile from where they stood.

Burgess felt strangely relieved. The rally was sure to be terminated now. Carole and the kids would soon be on their way home to safety.

In the first of the farmsteads in the village of Lower Layton, Mrs Betsy Jones sat on the back veranda reading a biography of Eleanor Roosevelt while her husband took a nap. Neither of them listened to the radio much and they only watched TV in the evenings. The world could be about to end for all they knew and they'd never hear about it until it happened.

A quarter of a mile further down the lane the Whitman house was deserted, the couple having taken their kids for an afternoon in the powerboat they kept in a Chesapeake Bay creek just south of Annapolis. On this ordinary weekend day in the early fall, they'd gone fishing.

And in the house a hundred yards from the old barn that had been sold to the businessman from Philadelphia, old Matt Halcrow was bent over his accounts for the Inland Revenue Service, listening to a Sinatra CD his daughter had bought him for his birthday a couple of months ago.

Betsy Jones heard the scrunch of tyres on the gravel drive at the front of the white clapboard house and wondered who the heck that could be, coming a-calling.
She got up from the wicker easy chair and walked in through the lounge.

‘Oh my!'

A patrol car was in the drive, its red light going.

‘Oh my,' she repeated, clutching her chest. Something terrible must've happened to one of their grownup children.

She opened the front door. The fact that the police officer who faced her was a woman only served to heighten her fears.

Dean Burgess stood in front of the TV monitors unable to believe his eyes. The networks were all focusing on the Pledge rally down in the Mall now. Because instead of dispersing as they'd been requested to do by their President and by the DC Police Department, the thirty thousand crowd stood calmly facing the podium set up in front of the Washington Monument, listening to their leaders praying for the Lord to stay the hand of the evildoers.

‘Get the fuck outta there!' Burgess's words came out as a strangled cry.

Startled at the emotion in the outburst, Sam guessed there was a personal element to Burgess's plea.

‘What is it?' he asked.

‘Carole – my wife – she's in there somewhere,' Burgess confided. ‘Kids too.'

‘Christ!'

Sam stared at the screens, the cameras panning wide now to reveal the size of the crowd. At its edges, over by
the Smithsonian on the far side and up towards the steps of the Capitol, faint hearts were breaking away, some walking – mothers and fathers urging kids to hurry – others breaking into a run that was only just this side of panic. Maybe the rally leaders were right, thought Sam. Tell that lot to hurry on home and there'd be mayhem, with kids being trampled underfoot.

The cameras began to pick out faces. A crying child. A stressed and anxious father, a young, fair-haired mother biting her lip and glancing fearfully at the sky. Quick camera cuts, a new face every two seconds. Just time to register one expression before moving to the next. Two teenagers laughing, because – well, why not? Older faces, eyes closed in prayer.

And a man in dark glasses and a Kangol cap holding a radio to his ear.

‘Jesus Christ!' Sam jabbed a finger at the screen.

‘What did you see?'

‘Are you taping this?'

‘Sure.'

‘Good. Because if I'm not mistaken I've just seen Colonel Naif Hamdan!'

THE LAUNCH RAILS
were extended, the barn doors flung wide and Sadoun's anxiety had reached a point close to panic. Operating in the heart of enemy territory had never played a part in his previous military experience.

The generator worried him most. Easily heard. Every moment that passed increased the risk of some local, coming round the corner for a look-see. If it happened he would be ready, but far from willing. Hamdan had left him a long sharp knife.

Sadoun knew nothing about the President's broadcast. Nothing of the police net that was closing in on him. Even if he'd had a radio or TV in the barn with him he would not have understood, because he spoke no English.

He checked the dials on the control panel again to ensure no faults had developed in the VR-6. The firing of the drone itself was automatic. All he had to do was trigger a two-minute countdown then make good his escape in the small Chevrolet parked behind the barn, out of sight.

The weather here was cool and overcast. If it was the same in Washington seventy kilometres away there'd be no need for them to wait for dusk for the attack. In the cool air the anthrax pathogens would settle in an even blanket, untroubled by upward air currents. Fire the
drone and be done with it, escape while they still could – that's what he wanted. He was strongly tempted to call Hamdan on the cell-phone and tell him so. His hands were hovering over the buttons when the device startled him by ringing.

‘Yes?'

‘We must do it now!' Hamdan's voice in a coarse whisper. ‘They know about us.'

‘Damnation!'

Hamdan sounded agitated, out of breath as if from running. ‘Start the countdown now. I am nearly in place.'

‘I'm doing it,' Sadoun snapped back, flicking the switches for the start sequence.

‘Firing in two minutes. God be with us.'

Dean Burgess was the fitter of the two. Sprinting down 9
^th
Street he pulled slightly ahead of Sam. But as they passed the Natural History Museum they were forced to slow by the tide of bodies moving out from the Mall towards the Federal Triangle and Archives/Navy Memorial subway stations.

No panic among these people, just a determination to get the hell out of there.

Sam and Burgess crossed tree-lined Madison Drive. Once on the grass they slowed to a walk. The Washington Monument was half a mile to their right. A mass of bodies between here and there, most listening attentively to the evangelising from the platform, relayed on rock concert speakers.

Burgess pushed through the throng almost forgetting
Sam was with him. There was one face he was looking for and one face only: the pert, boyish looks that belonged to his wife. Carole was tall for a woman. Should make it easier to see her. But how the heck would he find
anybody
in this crush?

‘Dean,' Sam panted. ‘Stop a minute.'

Burgess swung round, a wild look in his eyes. He wore an earpiece connected to a communications set in the inside pocket of his light-grey jacket. Half his mind was listening to the feedback from the agents and police dispatched into this crowd to organise its dispersal.

‘Hamdan's here because the Hawk needs terminal guidance, right?' snapped Sam. ‘A radio signal to release the anthrax.'

‘We guess, yes.'

‘But unless he's suicidal, standing right here among the people he's trying to kill won't be his plan.'

‘But the TV camera caught him with the Smithsonian behind him,' Burgess pointed out. They'd replayed the tape before leaving the SIOC.

‘I know. But he won't be there when the missile comes over. He'll be well upwind of this place. Standing high up where he can see the thing coming.'

They turned as one towards the Capitol.

‘Well,' Burgess shrugged, ‘I guess that's the only hill in town.'

‘C'mon!'

Mrs Betsy Jones sat in the back of the patrol car pointing past the driver's ear as he motored as fast as he dared
down the lane that ran through the spread-out hamlet.

‘Two more bends, then we're at Matt's old barn,' she croaked, scared but excited by the drama. Above all she was relieved beyond measure that the arrival of the police had not meant bad news about her children.

Suddenly the driver hit the brake and swerved onto the verge. A small blue Chevvy had careered round the corner towards them.

‘Hey up . . . who's that ma'am?' the woman officer asked, her eyes tracking the darkhaired driver as the economy car zipped past them.

‘I've no idea. Certainly not anyone local.'

‘Okay . . .' The officer grabbed the microphone and called in the car's description. ‘There's a patrol back on the highway should pick that one up,' she explained when she'd finished.

The police driver swung back onto the carriageway and rounded the second bend.

‘This it?' he asked, pointing at the barn.

‘It sure is. Guess they must have put the trailer inside. There's plenty room for it. It's a big barn. Well, you can see . . .'

The patrol car stopped on the stony track that led up to it. Both officers got out, unbuttoning their pistol holsters and drawing their weapons.

‘Stay in the car ma'am,' the woman officer ordered as Betsy made to follow.

‘Hear something?' the driver asked.

‘Sure do,' the woman replied. ‘Pump or generator.'

Suddenly there was a roar like an earthquake. White smoke exploded from the barn door, then a long, grey dart burst into the air, streaking up into the sky, streaming fire.

‘My God!' the woman officer screamed, pointlessly levelling her pistol at it.

Ive Stobal hunched over the central command console, his hand on the microphone that would link him live to the police, fire and public health departments.

The alert from the patrol in Lower Layton had come in just seconds ahead of a Pentagon report that the missile launch had been detected by a Navy E-2C Hawkeye and a pair of F-16 interceptors were being vectored onto its flight path. The Hawk was heading towards Washington.

‘It's DC, folks.' Stobal's deep voice was deceptively calm as he spoke into the microphone. ‘I guess the missile's heading for the Mall. For God's sake get those people outta there! And get all public buildings in downtown Washington to turn off their ventilation fans. And the subway – no more trains to enter the central area.'

Jess Bissett put down the phone from the Maryland state police. They'd just arrested a very frightened Arab in a small blue car. She turned to see how Burgess was getting on and noticed for the first time that his chair was empty.

She guessed where he'd gone. She knew more about his problems with Carole than he realised.

‘Dean, you asshole! What're you
doing
?' she mouthed.

Sam's lungs burned as they pounded towards the Capitol. No way of knowing whether the Hill was where they needed to be, but where else could they go? Burgess was ahead again, one hand pressing the communications insert more firmly into his ear.

They'd reached the reflecting pool. Three hundred more lung-bursting yards to the Capitol steps. They were well beyond the crowds attending the Pledge rally now.
The steps looked empty as far as he could see. Burgess had radioed ahead for the Police Department to send officers out from the Capitol to check for a tall man carrying a radio.

At the foot of the steps, Burgess stopped and pressed the flat of his hand against his ear as a new message came in.

‘F-16 pilot has the Hawk on radar but can't get missile lock,' he told Sam between gasps for breath. ‘The drone's too small. Too close to the ground.'

Sam's shins thrummed with pain from the running. Both of them were out of breath.

‘Jeez!' Burgess gasped. ‘The pilot says the drone's just two minutes away.'

‘Christ! Come on then!' Sam thundered on up the steps. When they reached the top an overweight black police officer waddled over, waving them back.

Burgess whipped out his FBI badge. ‘Seen a big guy with a radio?' he panted desperately.

‘None that matches the description that come over from headquarters,' the police officer drawled. ‘We done cleared the place anyways.'

Sam spun round. The two stone staircases leading down from the Capitol were indeed empty, as was the Capitol terrace itself. His heart sank. Hamdan was going to win.

Burgess looked down at the Mall stretching away to the west; tens of thousands of people still gathered by the Washington Monument a mile away. He felt paralysed. Among that crowd was his own family. Carole was as stubborn as hell. No way was a terrorist going to stand between her and a pray-in that might yet get her husband back on track.

Suddenly Sam felt a cool breeze on his face, whistling up from the south, like a softly whispered message.

‘This way,' he snapped, desperately pointing along the terrace. ‘Hamdan's going to be upwind if he's here at all.'

They began running again, Sam in front now. A police barrier blocked the terrace, but they vaulted it.

‘Missile's one mile east of the Capitol,' Burgess shouted, monitoring his radio.

As they reached the end of the terrace they both looked up at the sky to their left. One mile was ten seconds, Sam calculated.

‘Shit!'

No sign of Hamdan here. He'd guessed wrong. The chance to avert a disaster was slipping from their hands. He stared across at the tall buildings on the south side of the Mall.

‘Can people get up on top of those?'