down. Gravitrons that were already flowing from the generator would need to be dissipated. If the flow was summarily disrupted, the reasonable speculation was they would implode back into the nuclear core. If this conclusion was correct, the gravitrons would cause the nuclear material to begin fusing, generating tremendous surplus energy. Uncontrolled nuclear fusion could precipitate a thermonuclear event. If that worst case came to pass, everyone near the generator was in peril.
“Too late, mister…get out now before the machine implodes,” he ordered.
A powerful vibration coming from the ground gave both men pause. Jarrod couldn’t be sure if the vibration was the result of the generator scram, or if the gravitrons were already backing up. Either way, it wasn’t a good sign.
“Move, Professor, you’re done here!” Rafie yelled, grabbing him by the collar and jerking him to his feet. “Jesus, what have you done?”
As Jarrod emerged from the command module, he couldn’t believe his eyes. The vibration wasn’t coming from the generator at all. Rather, a sortie of M1 Abrams tanks was rumbling on fast approach toward the depository. The roar of the M1 Honeywell aircraft engines propelled the sixty-ton tanks with incredible speed and precision. It was an ambush. Base Commander Brigadier General Sam Hershey had secretly deployed the Fort Knox 3rd Cavalry Tank Regiment to defend the Treasury Depository. Kilmer’s siege was over; his men were sitting ducks.
The scene unfolding before them was surrealistic. Sirens continued a relentless blaring and the night sky seemed brighter than a football stadium under lights. The hulking but agile tanks surrounded the perimeter of the depository within minutes of their arrival. With infrared night-vision, unparalleled firepower, and a top speed of thirty-five miles an hour, anything threatening the security of the vault was about to bear the brunt of the M1’s considerable resistance. The $7-million price of each tank made it an invincible adversary.
Jarrod saw one tank split off and quickly bear down on their location. The Abrams tank fired a 120-mm missile with a deafening roar, hitting the electrical pole adjacent to the Peterbilt. The direct hit from the cannon knocked out the power to the antigravity generator in a single blow. All hell was breaking loose below their feet.
Kilmer’s men used their automatic weapons to no avail. Lacking Army personnel to shoot, they directed their futile resistance at the tank, but the M1’s steel-encased depleted uranium mesh armor was impervious to their bullets. The tank’s gunner laid down suppressive fire with the onboard. 50mm-caliber machine-gun keeping the bullets low and focused at the wheels of the Peterbilt. It was rendered immobile in seconds, while the generator atop the trailer remained intact and unharmed.
Kilmer and Ventura recognized what was happening and hastily jumped onto the trailer, dodging the tank’s lethal strafing fire. Mills and Marlon were not as fortunate. Mills had been taking cover behind the tandem wheels of the trailer and the. 50mm rounds cut him in half. He never felt a thing. Marlon, too, made a bad choice. Rather than hop on the trailer, he chose to run and a round caught his upper left thigh, ripping the leg from his body. He lay about fifty yards from the trailer, his screams of agony barely discernable above the commotion of battle. Colt and Sully recognized the danger and fell face down, the bullets whizzing closely over their heads.
God have mercy, Jarrod thought. He was trembling from fear. While the heavy machine gun fire was unsettling, his greater concern was the state of the gravity machine. The trailer on which he stood was violently vibrating, much more than when the tanks first appeared. He looked at the microwave dish but saw that the waves of gravitrons were no longer spewing toward the depository. The generator housing containing the plutonium rocked back and forth, the bolts staining to keep it mounted to the trailer. The excess gravitrons predictably fought to reseat themselves within their previous physical construct. The nuclear core was being heavily bombarded.
“We’ve got to warn these people to get away,” Jarrod screamed over the relentless sirens. He grabbed Rafie’s arm. “It’s beginning to implode. If it reaches critical mass, it’ll go nuclear. Tell everyone to move back!”
“We stay right here, Professor,” Rafie yelled back, gripping Jarrod’s wrist. “The tank’s gunner is watching our every move. You’re an infrared object…the safest place is on this trailer. If she blows, she blows. Nothing we can do about it now,” he retorted authoritatively.
From the front of the trailer, Kilmer looked past Rafie to the two vehicles fast-approaching their position. Even with his night goggles he couldn’t make them out at first but didn’t imagine they would help his cause. When he finally did recognize the Navigator, he realized it had come from Wildcat and was most likely responsible for cutting off Starkovich. “Bag that piker,” he said, triggering a volley of lead from his automatic machine pistol. “I want the prick dead.”
Ryan Marshall had the Lincoln traveling 100 miles per hour, driving toward a destination he couldn’t begin to fathom. Everything on the horizon was either lit up, exploding, or on fire. Suddenly a wicked pain creased his shoulder as if he’d been stung by a hornet. Another sting swiped his neck; then another parted his scalp. It was then he noticed the bullet holes peppering his windshield. He set the speed control to keep driving forward and instinctively slumped behind the dash. He could barely make out the road ahead anyway, blinded by the intense searchlights coming from the depository. His entire focus was to stay the course until he reached the Peterbilt or die trying, whichever came first.
His progress measurably slowed when a stray bullet pierced the radiator, disabling the engine. A cursory peek above the dash showed the Peterbilt just a few hundred yards straight ahead. He figured momentum alone would carry him the remaining distance. Go, you dog…go!
The Lincoln Navigator remained steadily ahead of Henry and Palmer as they tried to overtake Marshall advancing to the scene. Emerson couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the vehicle had been hit; wisps of steam were curling from beneath the chassis.
“Stop the car, Jason,” Palmer yelled. “Shut off the lights.”
“It won’t matter, Emerson, they’re all wearing night goggles,” Henry argued.
“Just do it; now!”
Henry came to a screeching halt in the center of the road and Palmer jumped from the car with the night- scope. Henry then realized that the headlights would overamplify the night-vision, disrupting Emerson’s view. Stupid.
“Okay, there’re four men on the trailer. Man, it’s rocking hard… looks to blow any moment,” Palmer reported. “Rafie’s standing apart from the other two. There’re shooting at Marshall’s car. You’re right about Rafie…he’s covering the professor. There may be others I can’t locate. But we’re out of time…we’ve got to engage right now.”
Palmer grabbed the second Winchester 30.06 the men had bought from the Bass Pro Shop. He steadied the rifle on the open door of the car. Concentrating on the men near the back of the trailer, he took a deep breath and squeezed the trigger. The bullet missed the mark. Damn, no time to adjust these sights.
Richard Kilmer heard the bullet zing past and knew counter-forces were drawing closer. His final priority was Jarrod Conrad. No way he makes it out alive.
“Rafie… move,” Kilmer yelled, pointing the gun in his direction. “I want Conrad dead!” When Rafie didn’t immediately respond, he roared, “Ya gone berko? Move yer arse…hear me?”
A second bullet came from nowhere, hitting Kilmer in the stomach just below his Kevlar vest, doubling him over. He knew wounds to the gut were always lethal, but took time to put a man down. Kilmer figured he had about ten minutes before he bled out and lost consciousness. He would take great pleasure knowing that the last man he’d kill would be Jarrod Conrad. See you in hell, Professor.
Kilmer straightened up and was met by a startling sight. Rafie had now leveled his gun directly back at him.
“It’s over, Richard. I’m a federal agent…you’re under arrest. Give it up.”
“Nooo…ya motherfuckin’ traitor,” Kilmer bellowed. He was apoplectic to discover that his second-in- command was a double agent. His shriek of outrage reverberated through the night like the cry of a wounded animal sensing the hunter, closing for the kill. “Yer a mug! I’ll cut yer heart out,” he said, spitting blood. Kilmer drew a knife and staggered toward Rafie, meaning to make good on his threat.
At that same moment, shots rang out from multiple directions. Rafie fired a shot at Kilmer’s head, a crimson spray of blood and brains erupting from his skull as the bullet entered just below his right eye. Two other shots hit him almost simultaneously in the torso-the frontal shot arched him backward but was stopped by his body armor; the. 50-caliber round from the tank’s gunner, however, entered his back, ripping the vest and both arms off his
