'Come on,' Schofield said. 'Let's get you out of here.'
Book II landed on the nonskid deck of the mini-elevator, next to Juliet and the President, eight feet below the downward-moving main platform.
It was dark down here, in the shadow of the principal platform.
As soon as they were all on the detachable deck, Juliet hit a button on a small console built into its floor.
The detachable deck began to glide quickly down the side of the shaft, traveling on its own set of wall- mounted rails, moving faster than the gigantic main platform above it.
Pulling away.
Schofield began to haul Love Machine out of the cockroach.
As he did so, he saw several weapons strewn about the exploded-open cockpit of Nighthawk Two — a couple of MP-10's, some grenades, a chunky.44 caliber 'Desert Eagle' semiautomatic pistol, and, most pleasing of all for Schofield, two gunlike weapons, still in their black-leather back holsters, that must have spilled out of Nighthawk Two's weapons cabinet when it had been blown apart earlier.
They looked like high-tech Tommy guns, each possessed of a short stubby barrel and two handgrips. Sticking out of each gun's barrel, however, was a chrome grappling hook with a bulbous magnetic head.
It was the famous Armalite MH-12 Maghook, a grappling hook which also contained a high powered magnet for adhesion to sheer metallic surfaces.
'Oh, yes…' Schofield said, grabbing the two Maghooks and handing one of them to Love Machine. He also grabbed an MP-10, and the big Desert Eagle pistol, which he shoved into his belt…
Ping!
At that moment, the doors to the nearby personnel elevator abruptly opened — revealing ten fully armed 7th Squadron men!
Python Willis and the men of Charlie Unit.
Python's eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw Schofield standing so close and dressed in 7th Squadron attire.
His men raised their P-90's instantly.
'Oh, shit!' Schofield said as he shoved Love Machine back into the cockroach's driver's compartment and clambered in there with him as a volley of bullets slammed into the cockroach's frame.
Schofield jammed the stick into reverse — hoped to God it would still go — and planted the gas pedal to the floor.
The cockroach squealed off the mark, its rear tires smoking, shooting backwards out of the wreck of Nighthawk Two, impact sparks chasing it across the floor.
The cockroach rushed across the hangar floor in reverse, narrowly missing the edge of the elevator shaft as it rocketed toward the now-abandoned barricade on the eastern side of the shaft.
Schofield turned in his seat as he drove — saw the barricade rushing toward him a second too late.
He hit the brakes and the big three-ton towing vehicle did a wild 180-degree spin. The front end of the cockroach came swinging around like a baseball bat and took out the barricade with one devastating swipe, sending crates and Samsonite containers flying everywhere.
The cockroach jolted to a halt. In its driver's compartment, Schofield lurched forward. When he looked up to see where he was, he was surprised to see that, right next to his door, not three feet away, stood the chair upon which sat the President's briefcase — the Football.
Holy shit.
The briefcase's handgrip was still tethered to the floor by the length of superstrong titanium cord, but now, since the President had successfully reset its ninety-minute timer, it had been abandoned by the 7th Squadron men, rightfully assuming that the President's sole objective was now to get out.
So now the Football just sat there, alone, completely unguarded.
Schofield saw the opportunity, and took it.
He leapt out of the driver's compartment and slid to the floor beside the Football.
The men of Charlie Unit were charging across the hangar, guns blazing, pummeling the exposed rump of the cockroach with a million rounds of lead.
Sheltered by the big towing vehicle, Schofield brought one of the tiny 7th Squadron Lock Blasters out of his pocket, attached it to the tie-down stud in the floor that held the Football to the ground, hit the activate button, and dived away.
One, one-thousand…
Two, one-thousand…
Three…
The blast was short and sharp.
With a loud crack! the tie-down stud broke free from the floor, and suddenly the Football — with the length of titanium cord still attached to it — was free.
Schofield scooped it up and dived back into the cab of the cockroach, just as the first 7th Squadron men arrived.
Two of them leapt up onto the back of the cockroach, landing on it at the exact same moment that Schofield floored the accelerator and the cockroach took off, the sudden lurch of motion sending one of the commandos falling ass-over-head off the back of the towing vehicle.
The second man had better reflexes. He discarded his P-90, giving himself an extra hand, and somehow managed to hang on to the roof of the speeding vehicle.
Schofield swung the cockroach around the southern side of the enormous elevator shaft — tires squealing, engine roaring, and now with an extra passenger on its back.
He saw Marine One up ahead, standing on the western side of the shaft, its rotor blades still turning.
That was where he wanted to go. Pull alongside Marine One, race inside it and then leap down into its floor hatch and escape into the ventilation shaft below it.
But his hopes were dashed when he saw the three black clad men from Alpha Unit appear from the other side of the Presidential helicopter, guns up.
Ready for him.
But for some reason, they didn't fire.
Why weren't they?
With shocking suddenness, the small rear window of the driver's compartment behind Schofield's head exploded all around him, showering Schofield and Love Machine with glass, and a pair of black-gloved hands appeared on either side of Schofield's head, one of them brandishing a knife!
It was the 7th Squadron commando on the back of the cockroach. With his head held above the driver's compartment, he was reaching in with his hands to kill Schofield.
On a reflex, Schofield grabbed the man's knife hand, while the assassin's other hand clutched madly at his face. They were still rushing toward Marine One, the cockroach — its two front tires punctured, its driver fighting for his life — caroming wildly across the shiny hangar floor.
Grappling with the commando behind him, Schofield saw Marine One ahead of them, saw its rapidly spinning vertical tail rotor, a blurring circle of motion about six feet off the ground, a few inches higher than the roof of the cockroach…
Schofield didn't miss a beat.
He threw the fast-moving cockroach into a skid, fishtailing the big vehicle sideways — sliding it underneath the tail rotor of Marine One, so that the buzz saw-like blades of the vertical rotor passed low over the cockroach's roof.
Then he heard the commando behind him scream in terror before — abruptly — the yell was cut short as the tail rotor sheared the commando's head clean off his body and a shocking waterfall of blood gushed down from the roof of the driver's compartment.
The three men of Alpha Unit standing near Marine One hurled themselves clear of the sliding towing vehicle as it shot beneath the tail boom of the President's helicopter.
