vegetation, shredded and smoking, showed no signs of life.
“Move out,” Stoke said when he was satisfied no further threat existed. The squad moved down the hill and onto the muddy trail where the enemy had just died.
Froggy, paused at Stoke’s side, looked at his compass and GPS handheld.
“Allons vite, mes enfants, allons vite!” Froggy said, “Quickly, children, quickly!”
“ALL BACK ONE THIRD,” Brownlow said, eyes on the narrowed river ahead. It was raining so hard it was difficult to make out the vine-shrouded banks on either side. Only radar kept him on course. His depth-sounder depicted nearly impassable shoals and less than ten feet of water beneath his keel. Stiletto slowed to idle speed, barely moving, churning muddy black water at her stern. Any advantage afforded by the boat’s power and speed was long over.
The twisting stretch of river that lay just beyond these shoals was mined. If they could even reach that stretch of water. Any time now, they’d be deploying the two minesweeper probes. According to Brock’s chart, the heavily mined portion of the Black River lay only two miles distant.
These small minesweeper sensors had been developed by the Royal Navy’s Admiralty Mining Establishment, a quaint name for one of the most technically advanced mine countermeasures departments on earth. MCM had developed the two probes now aboard Stiletto. Mounted at the bow, launched underwater much like a torpedo, the probe raced ahead of the boat and sent back a detailed visualization of the minefield. The drone’s electro-optic system provided very high resolution 3-D images for positive mine identification and location.
On paper, AME had shown a vessel could successfully navigate a minefield, even in littoral zones, confined straits, or choke points. But that was on paper. It had never been attempted in the field or under combat conditions. Hawke had readily agreed to be the guinea pig when C had suggested he try the damn things out.
Hawke and Brock appeared moments after the boat slowed, both men outfitted for night jungle operations.
“Talk to us, Cap,” Hawke said, “Are you ready to deploy the probes?”
“We’ve got another problem, sir. We’ve run out of water.” Brownlow tapped his index finger on the 3-D depiction of the river bottom.
“Christ,” Brock muttered.
Hawke leaned over Brownlow’s shoulder and studied the monitor.
“I see what you mean.”
“Whitewater rapids ahead, sir. Judging by the bottom, this is going to get a lot worse before it gets better. I’d say we’re looking at maybe a mile of very rocky whitewater before it opens up again.”
“Any ideas, Harry?” Hawke said.
“Keeps raining like this, the river keeps rising at this rate, we just might be able to get through.”
“Praying for rain is not an option. We’ll take the bloody canoes.”
“What? And leave all these expensive weapons systems behind?” Brock grinned and cocked an eye.
“We’ve got no choice. Skipper, all stop.”
“Aye, sir. All stop.” Brownlow hauled back the throttles and Stiletto ghosted to a stop.
“Mr. Brock, tell the crew on deck to launch all four canoes. Then go forward and inform our team to check their weapons. We shove off in fifteen minutes.”
Hawke headed below to his tiny cabin to retrieve his weapons and ammunition.
“Sir?” the radioman said, sticking his head out into the companion-way just after Hawke passed.
“What is it, Sparks?”
“Call for you, sir. On the scrambled line.”
“Who?”
“Washington, sir. State Department. Urgent.”
“Put it through to my quarters,” Hawke said and went two doors down into his cabin.
“Alex?”
“Hello, Conch.”
“Alex, listen carefully. This is the deep shit call. Where are you now?”
“Still on the bloody river. It’s impossible to go further. We’re launching canoes for the final leg. Weather is socked in. Good, because it keeps the drones from pestering us. Bad, because you can’t see a bloody thing. And how are you doing on this lovely January evening?”
“Insane. The president walks down the steps of the Capitol to be sworn in at noon, less than twelve hours from now. Rumors of some kind of attack are flying so fast you can’t keep track. The Secret Service’s Joint Operations Command has assigned a threat level of most serious and credible. Your idea is only one of many we are running down right now.”
“My idea.”
“A feint on the Mexican border. Originating in the Amazon. An attack on a major city. Washington.”
“Washington? How do you know that?”
“Think about it, Alex.”
“The Inauguration. Christ, Conch, of course. That has to be it.”
“It gets worse. Six hours ago that nice sheriff from Texas called me. His deputy followed a convoy of remote-controlled trucks to Virginia. In one truck was some kind of remote-controlled sub. It was placed in the Potomac. We’ve been dragging the river from Fredericksburg to the Pentagon Yacht Basin. Divers are down everywhere. We haven’t found it yet.”
“What about the airborne minesweepers? Those new helos that laser scan from above?”
“Nothing. There is a move afoot to evacuate key government officials from the city. One more thing. I just got a call from FBI Chief Mike Reiter. He says explosion in Rock Creek Park turns out to have involved at least one Chevrolet Suburban packed with Semtex explosives. Secret Service vehicle, Alex.”
“You’ve got assassins inside the Secret Service?”
“That’s certainly one possiblility, however remote. The other is, someone went to a whole lot of trouble to duplicate a government Suburban. We even found pieces of light bars, the same heavy door armor the Service uses. Before the bomb went off, this Chevy was being transported in a remote-controlled tractor-trailer rig. Just like the one that ferried the sub to Virginia.”
“You said, ‘convoy.’ How many of these big rigs, Conch?”
“According to Sheriff Dixon, a dozen remote-controlled trailer trucks are known to be headed to the northeast from Texas.”
“All going to Washington?”
“I hope not. But we have no way of knowing that. I wish to God we did. We have no idea what we’re looking at here. It’s too bizarre for even me.”
Alex was silent for a long moment and then he said, “Conch, this jungle compound I’m about to take out. It is mecca for combat droids. Armed drones, tanks, you name it.”
“I know. I just read Harry Brock’s report. That’s why I’m calling you, Alex. I think there is at least the ghost of a chance that these remote-controlled trucks are a Muhammad Top operation. Perhaps even controlled from his jungle complex.”
“That could well be it. Brock says there is a heavily fortified command-and-control bunker. Twenty-feet down. Two-hundred-foot antenna disguised as a tree.”
“A tree?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Theoretically, I’ve got a dozen or more phony Secret Service vehicles driving around, each identical to the real thing. And possibly packed with high explosives. Could be plastique, Semtex, could be nuclear for all we know. Perfect bombs, Alex, hiding in plain sight. Movable. And, another weapon, possibly nuclear, may be buried in the muck in the Potomac River. I’ve got to run along now.”
“Conch? One thing. They’ve got Ambrose. When they took him, he was deciphering a code log that could make a difference. The man who wrote the code was trying to stop these people.”
“Oh, God, Alex. Poor Ambrose.”
“If he’s still alive, we’ve got a chance.”
