backup in case you were not. We’re unarmed out here, and we don’t know how many guys are after us. My job is to get you out of danger.” He grabbed his radio and tuned it to an emergency frequency as the
“Quantico Tower. Quantico Tower. This is Gunnery Sergeant Kyle Swanson. Mayday. Mayday. Mayday.” Kyle had his radio at his lips and fumbled his map open with the other hand.
The calm voice of an air traffic controller responded immediately. “This is Marine Corps Air Facility Quantico Tower. I read you, Gunny. What is your emergency?”
“A Coast Guard helicopter was just shot down by a SAM missile on a training exercise,” he said, reading off the coordinates. “Now my partner and I are under fire in an ambush by at least one individual and are evading. Send anything you have in the air to buzz this site to keep their heads down.”
“Roger that, Gunny. Be advised we are diverting a fast-mover for a flyover, and it’s on the way. A Cobra should be right behind him. The Quick Reaction Force is being alerted.”
Kyle responded, “We’re moving at one hundred ninety-eight magnetic azimuth. Swanson out.” He stuffed the radio into a pocket and turned to Ledford. “We’re heading for that clump of trees about fifty meters down the slope. It will take between six and seven seconds to get there, with minimal cover. I will go first, at an angle to draw his fire, then you run like your life depends on it, Beth. Somebody wants you dead real bad.” With that, Swanson broke from cover and headed downhill, dodging sharply to his left. Ledford raced out a moment later, her arms windmilling for balance on the treacherous slope.
MAJOR CHARLES MARSHALL JONES saw the spiraling black smoke from the downed helicopter, then the bald spot of the landing zone. He had been only a few miles away, approaching the air station in his Lockheed Martin F- 35B Lightning when the controller issued the emergency orders. Instead of setting up for a slow vertical landing, Jones peeled away and punched the Pratt & Whitney turbofan engine into afterburner. The stubby wings and the speedboat lines of the latest generation fighter jet had him climbing and turning at five hundred miles per hour in seconds.
He had no idea what was going on down there. Incredibly, someone was attacking American troops inside Quantico, one of the nation’s premier military installations. The tower only wanted him to buzz the LZ, which was good because he had no missiles on the hard points, nor anything in his cannon. As a Marine aviator, he had been trained to fly low and fast in support of the ground troops, and he coaxed the Lightning down to two hundred feet above the deck as he sped into the area.
Jones saw two figures running down the hillside on the same azimuth he had been given, scrambling away from the LZ. They had to be the people he was to cover, and he scooted lower as the terrain rose up higher. The Lightning passed with a sonic boom, and a concussive wave of displaced air churned the LZ into a noisy dust storm. The major hauled hard back the stick and bored a hole straight up into the sky, bent his plane into a 5-g turn, and came back in for another run from the opposite direction. Another sonic boom slammed the hillside.
BETH LEDFORD AND KYLE Swanson hustled downhill on parallel courses through the pine trees, their boots crunching the carpet of brown fallen needles, twigs, and cones. Her lungs were on fire, and her legs were barely under control.
Swanson ran closer and called, “Twenty meters straight ahead. Into that ditch.” He watched as she jumped into the depression feet first; then he did the same and immediately rolled back over to see if anyone was chasing them. At least, they were no longer alone. The F-35’s two passes, plus the Cobra that was now nibbling around the LZ, had been more than enough to warn off the attackers, but he would not take that chance. Whoever had been smart enough to penetrate deep into a Marine base might still be lurking around up there, or worse, still following them.
There was a roaring growl behind him, and a Humvee came bursting up a nearby dirt road. Kyle ducked down again.
He clicked his radio and raised the tower again, which acknowledged the call and transferred it to the commander of the Quick Reaction Force. The QRF was only a minute out, and Kyle could hear the rotors of their helicopter. Beth Ledford raised her head, and he shoved her back. “Stay put,” he ordered.
After receiving the new coordinates, the helo changed course and slowed until it was directly overhead. Then it came to a hover and Marines were coming out of the bird, sliding down thick ropes, landing on the narrow road. Weapons ready, they automatically formed a perimeter, and a sergeant major was barking orders. A captain in full battle gear walked over to the ditch in which Kyle and Beth had taken shelter, his pistol drawn.
“You Gunny Swanson?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied, panting and out of breath. “This is Petty Officer Ledford.”
“Sir,” she said. Beth struggled upright. Her face and hands were bleeding from scratches from the dash through the pine forest.
“What the hell is going on?” asked the captain.
“Don’t know, sir. It’s a complicated national security matter that I’ll explain later, but we need to get Petty Officer Ledford to a secure location ASAP. Alert your people that this is no drill. A helicopter has been blown out of the sky by a SAM, there is a terrorist shooter running loose around here, and she’s the target.”
“OK. Both of you stay in that ditch until we get a medevac chopper in here and a gunship to fly cover.” The captain sent ten men up to comb the LZ and pulled the rest of his force into a tight circle around Swanson and Ledford. He looked over at Swanson. “Terrorists? At Quantico? They’ll never make it off the base alive.”
Kyle said, “They made it in okay. They have some plan for egress, and a Humvee just went tearing past us, heading up the road. My guess is it was their ride. Your QRF is dealing with professionals.”
10
THE BUREAU OF AMERICAN-ISLAMIC Affairs was less than two years old, a new bureaucracy within the U.S. Department of State, with the onerous portfolio of trying to chart a stable diplomatic course in the fractious Muslim world. Career workers who were specialists in the field had been culled from other sections to take up duties in a heavily guarded and secure office complex outside of the Washington Beltway, but the heartbeat of the bureau was a remodeled three-story Victorian building at Thirty-fourth Street and Massachusetts Avenue NW, on the grounds of the United States Naval Observatory. In that ornate building, Arab princes and Persian potentates and the bewildering array of leaders in the volatile Muslim world were welcomed and entertained almost on a daily basis. In its short existence, the mansion had become an important back door to power.
From his lavish office on the third floor, Undersecretary William Lloyd Curtis could look over the treetops and see the groomed front of One Observatory Circle, the stately official home of the vice president of the United States. While the White House was the most visible point of government in Washington, hardly anyone even knew where the vice president lived. It was therefore easy to arrange private sessions between Muslim leaders and U.S. government officials without drawing undue attention. The American representatives would say they were visiting the home of the vice president; the Muslim representatives would declare they were in private meetings with Undersecretary Curtis. In reality, they could all be in a secure conference room on the second floor of the BAIA.
Curtis was a tall and broad-chested man who wore tailored suits that were obviously cut from cloth rich enough to denote private wealth, as did the patrician Massachusetts accent. Deep gray eyes matched the thick brows and carefully barbered hair that was thinning but was still full for a sixty-year-old. A closer look at the calm face would show hard lines that had been etched at the corners of his eyes from staring into the desert sun too
