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Authors: Mack Maloney

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BOOK: Strike Force Charlie
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Ring hit the deck. He happened to fall right next to a docking hole, so he still had a good view of what was happening not 200 feet away.
The gunfight went on unabated. The guys in the black uniforms were using tracer ammunition. It looked like a fireworks display gone wrong. When one of the people on the boat started moving toward the rear deck, a man in the copter's cargo bay opened up with a huge gun. The noise from it was so loud, Ring involuntarily put his hands to his ears.
The gun on the helicopter began tearing the boat in half. One of the boat's crew foolishly turned his pistol toward the hovering helicopter. That's when another person in the cargo bay opened up with another big gun. In the blink of an eye, the man was shredded to pieces.
Now there appeared to be only one person left among the boat's passengers. The two men from the helicopter advanced on him, this while the copter came down even lower. The man didn't know what to do. It appeared the guys in black were trying to converse with him. Put up your hands, they were telling them. Throw away your gun and we won't hurt you. The man finally compiled.
At this point, Ring could see the commotion had caused so much attention, people had stopped their cars on the expressway and were witnessing the unexplainable event. The same with the marina, people running out to its docks to see what all the ruckus was about.
Ring turned back to the yacht. The man was now having an animated conversation with the guys in black. They were asking something—this as the boat was starting to burn fiercely around them. Another man jumped down from the copter and went directly below. He emerged just a few seconds later, with a weapon that Ring was almost sure was a missile launcher. This man went back up the ladder as quickly as he'd come down. He was a strange-looking soldier, though, rail thin and wearing a goatee. He looked very weird in the SWAT-type combat suit.
This done, his colleagues turned their attention back to the lone remaining passenger. They were asking him for something else. He reached in his shirt, reluctantly at first, but then came up with two cell phones. He gingerly passed them over to the gunmen in black, then raised his hands
above his head, smiling now that he'd done everything his attackers asked and had saved his own life.
But no sooner were the cell phones in their possession than the men raised their weapons and shot the man, six times, right in the throat. He stood there for one surreal moment, his face screwed up in disbelief that the men had lied to him. Then he toppled right off the side of the burning boat.
That was it. The two armed men climbed back up to the copter. It started to move away even before they were safely inside. The aircraft turned a 180; then someone onboard hit the gas—and off it went, in a burst of exhaust and power.
Just like that, it was gone.
In all, the entire incident had lasted less than two minutes.
 
Ryder and Gallant pushed the big copter up and to the left. Their escape plan was all set. They would pass over South Milwaukee and then back around to the north, to the Rock River beyond. They'd already scoped out its banks for some good hiding places, of which it had many, as it turned out. The most ideal was a grove of willow trees overhanging an isolated portion of its banks. With the pontoons inflated, the crew could maneuver the Sky Horse under the covering flora, where they would wait until dark or until they heard someone coming and had to leave in a hurry.
And everything was going well toward that aim. They went up and over the expressways and over the working-class neighborhoods of South Milwaukee. The more wooded areas lay just over the horizon. Milwaukee air traffic controllers were frantically trying to contact them, but they ignored these calls. This looked like it was going to be another clean escape.
Until …
“Shiiiiiit …” Gallant said slowly.
Ryder didn't like the sound of that.
“What's up?” he asked Gallant, quickly glancing at the control panel. Everything was green. Their power plant was OK.
But Gallant wasn't looking at the control panel. He was
looking at the bank of TV monitors for the handful of video cameras placed around the Sky Horse. There was nothing directly in front of the helicopter. Nor was there anything off to their sides or above them, looking down. But the monitor showing the view behind them was not so empty.
In fact, it was turning a very bright blue.
“Damn,” Ryder whispered.
A TV news copter was coming right up behind them.
It was a Bell Textron, a very fast, very modern, very nimble, if smallish, helicopter. It was really bright blue with the logo
TV3
Sky
Eye
painted on it so large, it could be seen from a mile away. Even before the pilots noticed the other copter on the TV monitor, the swift little aircraft was moving up on their left side.
“Get rid of the guns!” Ryder hastily yelled back to the three men in the cargo bay. But Fox had already taken care of that, just in time, too, as the news copter was now right beside them, matching their speed. A man belted into its open bay was catching everything on a video camera.
“First the newspapers, now TV,” Ryder said. It was happening so fast, neither he nor Gallant had taken any evasive action.
“Hang on!” Gallant yelled as he was about to kick the S-58's engine into overdrive.
“Wait!” Fox yelled though from the cargo bay. “Now that they're here, it's not a bad thing if they see us! Just for a few seconds … .”
Ryder looked over his shoulder to see the three men in black had lowered their ski masks over their faces and were holding their large Revolutionary War flag, the one given to them by the Doughnut Boys back at Cape Lonely. The three of them were waving and giving the camera the V-for-Victory sign.
Puglisi went halfway out the hatch so the cameraman could get a good shot of his shoulder patch, the unit's talisman, the drawing of the World Trade Towers with the initials
NYPD
and the
FDNY
and their motto,
We Will Never
Forget
.
“Get a good shot of that baby!” Puglisi was yelling at the cameraman now. “Remember 9/11!”
Then Fox cried out, “OK—time to go!”
Gallant pushed the copter's throttle forward and the oversize engine kicked in. It was like hitting the afterburner in a fighter jet. Suddenly they were pulling away from the news chopper at very high speed, literally leaving it in a cloud of exhaust.
It was the first time the pilots had really put the S-58 into high gear, simply because it used so much gas. But now both were very impressed.
“Those doughnut heads really knew what they were doing,” Gallant said.
Ryder was watching the news chopper fade in their rearview monitor. He could barely move his head, though; the Gs were that high in the suddenly accelerating copter.
“You got that right,” he replied.
They were quickly a couple miles ahead of the news copter when they finally laid off the throttles. They could see the other aircraft, now just a bright blue smudge in the sky turning away, heading back toward the city. No doubt the Sky Horse's unexpected acceleration had served as a fitting end to what was probably a dramatic piece of news footage, ensuring all of America would finally know about the team by the time the evening news aired that night—if they didn't know about them already.
“No such thing as bad publicity,” Gallant said. “Now maybe someone in Washington will wake up.”
Ryder just shook his head. “That's what I'm afraid of … .”
Now all the team members had to do was make good their escape, heading for the next hiding point, without any interference.
But that was not to be, either.
Because just seconds after the TV copter turned away, Ryder heard another commotion back in the cargo bay. Instinctively he knew something else was wrong.
He looked up from the GPS map he and Gallant were
reading, trying to find the coordinates of the next hideout, and turned to see that all three of the guys in the back had their noses pressed up against the cargo door window. They were shouting and swearing. Instead of yelling down to them or checking the TV monitor, Ryder simply turned and looked out his window.
That's when he saw the two fighter jets coming right at him.
This was not good … .
It was strange, because the jets were flying so fast and so dead on, all Ryder could really see was the two trails of exhaust pouring out behind them. They went over the copter just a second later, one clearing the top of the rotor by no more than 50 feet. The other plane went right by the nose of the Sky Horse, and for the first time Ryder could see exactly what type of plane they were: A-10 Thunderbolts … More attack planes than fighters, they were essentially flying cannons, the weapon being the fierce GAU-8 gun. One of these babies could tear up a tank or an APC in about three seconds. While they were not really dog-fighters, the two A-10s would certainly have no trouble blowing the Sky Horse out of the sky.
“We're screwed now …” someone moaned from the back.
“Just make sure all those goddamn guns are out of sight!” Gallant yelled.
Luckily, Bates had the presence of mind to yank in the forward gun before the two A-10s went over. There was no way they wanted these guys to see them carrying those big fifties.
The Thunderbolts went way out and turned, slowly, almost as if the two pilots were talking about what their next move may be.
“The most they can do is force us to land!” Bates yelled.
“Don't be so sure,” Fox replied. Again, they had to realize the pilots were operating under rules written after 9/11. Shoot first, ask questions later.
The two jets approached them again. This time much slower, as if in attack mode.
“Shit!” Bates yelled. “They're going to pop us!”
But at the last moment the jets split off, did a wide half-loop, and were soon riding off the right side of the copter.
Everyone aboard the copter breathed a sigh of relief. At least for a second or two.
“If they blink their lights we're going to have to follow them,” Gallant said dejectedly. Blinking one's navigation lights was the universal aeronautical sign for Follow Me. Implied in the message was that the nonresponding party would get shot to pieces if they didn't comply. “And that
will
be the end of this little party … .”
But the A-10s didn't blink their lights. The two planes simply pulled a little closer to the copter, and on cue, both pilots saluted.
Then they gave the team members a thumbs-up.
Then they banked sharply and disappeared.
The Last of Gallant
The traffic in D.C. was a nightmare.
It was late morning, a Thursday, and every intersection within four blocks of the White House was gridlocked.
This was bad news for the person driving the heavily armored limousine code-named for this occasion
Lollipop.
He had to get to the White House or, more accurately, the Executive Office Building, which was right across the street from the presidential residence. But why all the traffic? Or better asked: why more than the usual traffic snarl?
It was the damn military vehicles. Hummers and troop trucks. They seemed to be everywhere lately. Washington was already overflowing with Lincolns, Cadillacs, SUVs, and tourists' cars. The crowded streets didn't need an endless parade of Army trucks, driving around and around, making a bad situation worse. But that's exactly what was happening.
The limo driver finally fought his way through the jam-up, reaching his destination only five minutes late. But considering who he was working for, those five minutes might cost him his job. Or worse.
He pulled up to the side entrance of the EOB, hidden in a U-shaped turnaround driveway. The two Chevy Suburban escort vehicles that had been following the limousine screeched to a halt right behind him. This was a stretch limo he was
driving, big and black without an ounce of ornamentation on it. It was a tough car to drive, too. It was so heavily armored, it could take a direct hit from a 20mm cannon and still not get much more than a dent. But it was
so
heavy, it was a bitch to maneuver into the small oval parking area.
There were no fewer than two dozen security people waiting at this entryway to the EOB. Six Secret Service agents in plainclothes surrounded the limo even before it stopped rolling. Beyond them a phalanx of uniformed White House guards lined either side of the entryway's red carpet. Up on the roof, a squad of armed snipers watched the street in front. Inside the lobby was yet another small army of Secret Service agents.
The limo driver just shook his head at all the security. The person he was working for was getting more paranoid every day. Of course, that was fast becoming the worst-kept secret in Washington. That and a few other things.
The limo driver got out, ran around to the back of the car, and opened the passenger-side rear door. A 4-year-old girl stepped out. Behind her, twin 10-year old boys. Then a girl, 11, a boy 13, and another set of twins, two girls, age 15. A pretty but haggard woman came out next. She was holding an infant.
She nodded brusquely to the driver. Behind him, he heard a Secret Service agent speak into his wrist-mounted microphone.
“Tell General Rushton his family is here,” he said.
 
The family was escorted through the lobby, onto an elevator, and up to the second floor. They trooped into a large office that had been filled with flowers, pink roses mostly. A photography team was also inside: cameraman, lighting person, and makeup artist. About a dozen members of the press were here, too. This room was known as the Presidential Service Office, a place where small ceremonies were held occasionally, minor legislation signed, and so on. But today the room would be used as a backdrop for the Rushton family photo.
The family members were put in their positions for the
portrait, and the makeup people went to work on them. The younger children were bratty; the older ones, sullen. All were uncooperative, including Mrs. Rushton.
After ten minutes of primping and much pancake powder, the family was set. The photo-lights were warmed and tested; the camera was loaded. But then everyone involved just sat down to wait, including the press.
The most important person for the occasion, General Rushton himself, was not here.
 
Up two more floors from the service room was a particularly dark and gloomy hallway.
It served as an outer office, but the secretary's desk here was covered not with paper clips and staplers but with ammunition for weapons: M16s, Glock 9s, Uzis. Yet another squad of security men was on hand here. Dressed in dark green combat suits, they were private hires from a firm called Global Security Inc., a company with blatant CIA ties. They'd been on guard here, around-the-clock, for the past five days.
Two were standing ramrod straight against the far wall of the hallway. Two were stationed on either side of the elevator doors. Two more were standing in front of the huge oak door that was the focal point of the outer office. There was no name on the door, no indication as to who might be on the other side of it. This was no big deal. Much of Washington's business these days was done behind doors such as this. No name on the door meant no accountability. All kinds of secrets could be kept within.
The elevator door opened and two Army lieutenants walked out. They were Rushton's military administrative aides. Six guns were on them in a heartbeat. Both men quickly began waving their security badges over their heads.
“God damn it, you guys,” one of the officers grumbled as the lead security man checked his ID. “Don't you recognize us by now?”
The security man just scowled. “You're cleared,” he said gruffly. “Proceed … .”
The two aides approached the pair of guards standing watch outside the office door. They'd learned over the last week that these two were a little less hard-ass than their boss.
“Have you heard anything from inside lately?” one of the officers asked them cautiously.
Both guards shook their heads.
“Nothing,” one replied. “Except for the sound of the TV, I'm not even sure he's in there.”
The military aides looked at each other in horror. “He'd better be in there,” one said under his breath.
This man put his ear to the door. “I can hear a TV,” he reported. “Or is that him talking on the phone? Or both?”
The other officer checked the time. “We've got exactly two minutes to get him downstairs. He's got his family and the press in one room, and he's got, well …
his guests
in the other.”
Again, a very cautious use of words.
“Someone's got to go in and get him,” the other officer said. They both looked at the private guard. But his sneer answered the question for them. No way was he going in there.
“I'll have to do it,” the first lieutenant said.
The other officer laughed darkly. “Yeah, well, leave a trail of bread crumbs behind you … and a list of your next of kin.”
The aide tried the door. It was unlocked, maybe a good sign, maybe not. He held his breath, bit his lip—and then let himself in.
Old Spice. Oak. Cigar smoke. These three odors hit his nose first. Not a big surprise. He'd been in this room many times before. The place always reeked of them.
It was also very dark in here, but he was used to that as well. The room was huge. It looked more like a prestigious university library than the secret office of a military man. But again the aide knew that while there might be several hundred books in the expansive office, some by the classic writers, its occupant hadn't cracked more than a couple of them, if that.
He was standing in the far corner of the room. Short,
bulbous, with soft, fleshy skin, and a very red face, General Rushton did not exactly have the cut of a military man. And his TV was indeed on. But the general was standing in front of it, preventing the lieutenant from seeing what was on. The aide could tell Rushton was absolutely riveted to it, though, and not in a pleasant way. His body was shaking, his right hand clenched. He was also talking on the phone. Not his desk phone—a cell phone.
As soon as Rushton realized he was not alone, he discontinued his conversation, then, with absolutely no grace, dropped the cell phone to the floor and crushed it with his foot.
“I'm sorry, General,” the aide finally spoke up. “But we have to get you downstairs. Your family is waiting. The press is here. And people are arriving in the function room.”
Rushton tried unsuccessfully to kick the remains of the cell phone under his desk. “How many guards were out in the hallway when you arrived?” he asked the aide harshly while turning off the TV
“Six, sir,” the lieutenant replied.
“How many teams escorted my limo over here?”
“Two teams in two trucks, sir … .”
“And downstairs?”
“Two teams of Secret Service, plus White House police. All the roofs are covered as well.”
“Did it seem like enough people to you, Lieutenant?”
The young officer hesitated a moment. “Yes, sir,” he finally spit out. “For the time being—for this occasion.”
Rushton's red face went to a deeper shade of crimson. “‘For the time being?'” he asked icily. “Why don't you realize I need these people around-the-clock? Those fanatics are doing everything they can to get to me. To my family. That's why I need so much security. Why do you have problems with that?”
The officer gulped once—he really wasn't sure just what fanatics Rushton was talking about. Islamic ones or someone else? But he'd been down this road before. “The only problem I have, General,” he said, “is that you'll miss your family photo, your opportunity with the press—and that the
guests in the function room will get restless. So, sir, may I suggest we get going?”
Rushton stood still as a statue for a moment, a bit dazed.
“Did your people leak that memo?” he asked sternly.
This was another unsettling thing. Rushton was scheduled to sit down at 2:00 P.M. for an extensive interview with the
Washington Times,
a very conservative newspaper. Earlier this day, he'd arranged for a leak that indicated that during this interview Rushton was planning on laying a bombshell on the country: that there was a better than 50-50 chance that terrorists would set off a nuclear explosive of some kind inside the United States in the next week—and that there was really nothing anyone could do about it.
The leak was particularly cynical, as it was actually a
denial
of what the general intended to say. This was an old Washington tactic. Rushton's hero of fifty years before, Douglas MacArthur, would dispatch aides all the way from the wartime South Pacific to Washington simply to
deny
that the general was going to run for President. In this way, you were able to say what you wanted to say while at the same time denying that you ever said it. Rushton played by this set of rules.
But it was the last thing the country needed right now. From sea to shining sea, it was a continent of jitters. Yet because of his high, almost czarlike position, only Rushton, and maybe a handful of other people, knew whether the nuke bomb scenario was true or not. Even his closest aides never knew when to believe him. The capital had been rife with these kinds of stories for weeks, but so far, that's all there were: stories. In other words, it was a case of missing WMD—real or not—this time right inside the country.
“That ‘message' was put out, yes,” the lieutenant finally replied. “That's why we have so many press at the family portrait. They're expecting you to comment on it … .”
This did not seem to cheer up Rushton any.
“And what about the search for that Iranian airplane?” he asked.
The aide felt his shoulders slump again. This was another
bugaboo with Rushton—his new obsession with finding the wreckage of an Iranian cargo plane that had crashed off the coast of Cuba the week before. The aide had no idea what the Iranian plane was doing in Cuba or why Rushton was so interested in it, but only that he had diverted valuable Homeland Security assets to look for it, both Coast Guard and Navy search planes, and asked about it on an hourly basis.
“Nothing on that yet,” the aide replied quickly.
Rushton did not like the reply and glowered at the aide for a moment. Finally, though, the general just said, “OK, let's get going.”
With much relief, the lieutenant walked to the door, opened it, and gave a signal to the private security guards. They went into action. Two secured the hallway; two more cleared the first elevator that arrived. Then all six arranged themselves around Rushton, covering him from all sides.
They left quickly, onto the elevator and down to the second floor. Only then did the two lieutenants return to Rushton's office and turn the TV back on. What had Rushton been watching that seemed to upset him so? It was a repeat-loop videotape of the TV news footage shot two days before over South Milwaukee showing the mysterious white helicopter, with the men inside brandishing the old Revolutionary War flag. This video, of course, had been playing nonstop around the country for the past 48 hours.
But for the general to be watching it, over and over again?
One of the lieutenants just shook his head and said to the other, “Now,
this
is disturbing … .”
 
Down on the second floor, in the Presidential Service Room, one of the advance security men took a message in his earphone. He signaled the photographer.
BOOK: Strike Force Charlie
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