The garage was cavernous. You’d never know it from the facade on the street outside. Inside, it looked like two or three old warehouses had been combined into one. You could easily get twenty tractor-trailer rigs inside.
It was now empty except for the three black Chevy Suburbans with blacked-out windows parked along one wall. Dutch was running back and forth alongside all three vans. They were sheathed in clear thick plastic covers. Hernandez crossed the greasy floor and approached the first one, running his hand along the smooth black fender where the plastic had been partially peeled away.
“Dutch! Come!” Dixon said. He’d found something interesting on the far side of the garage. The dog raced over to him, started pawing through the stuff in the corner.
“Will you look at this?” Rocky said, ripping back the torn plastic covering one of the big vans, his voice a mix of admiration and dread. “These things are perfect! Light bars, antennas, running boards, grab handles, the whole nine yards right down to the five star U.S.S.S. decals on the doors.”
“Stay away from that thing, Rocky!” Dixon said, keeping his distance. “Don’t touch it!”
“Why?”
“Two cops already died finding out. Come here and see what Dutch has got. Huge pile of plastic wrappers over here in the corner. Maybe thirty or forty of them. That means the rest of the vehicles are already on the streets.”
“Yeah…”
“Don’t do that!”
“Aw, c’mon, Sheriff, we’ve got to find out what’s inside these things, don’t we? I mean—”
The explosion was blinding.
79
THE BLACK JUNGLE
T op was ecstatic as he left the prisoner alone in his room overlooking the river that morning. He and Khan had just pushed the man to the edge of endurance and beyond. The Englishman was near death now and would probably expire before his scheduled beheading at sundown. Pity. Still, both Top and the doctor were now fully convinced the English detective had not communicated anything to this man Hawke; or to anyone else.
Their plans thus intact, with no need of dangerous last minute alterations, he and the doctor rushed across the rope bridge leading to the subterranean bunker.
The rain was heavy.
His drones, sadly, were grounded. Even the patrol tanks were having a rough go of it in the deepening mud that carpeted the jungle floor. The river was rising. It was possible an early flash flood might occur. This was of no concern. His bunker was secure and his fortress built in trees for just this kind of situation. He who has the high ground, reigns, Top reminded himself.
The hour was at hand. He was surprised to find that he was wholly at peace. Unconcerned with trivialities or small setbacks such as had occurred on the farm in Virginia and in Rock Creek Park. It was too late for the Americans. They just didn’t know it yet. Nothing could stop him now. He had built his fortress well. Nothing could stop his machines.
There had been scattered reports of incursions on the northern perimeter. There had been probes along the western front as well. Let them probe. His men were ready. His remaining Guards would fight to the death. He was also unconcerned about an attack by this nobody named Hawke. His vessel was now stopped, stymied by the rapids just as Top had expected it would be. He’d seen her size on the live feed from the aerial drones. There was no way a boat that size could navigate this stretch of the Black River.
Hawke was nothing but a runaway slave and when he was found, he would be dealt with in a manner befitting his station and his sins.
Four entire divisions had moved out from this camp as well as the satellite camps in the jungle. His soldiers, wearing the new red patches proclaiming them BOLIVARISTAS, were on their way north, en route to Colombia. There, in the jungles outside the city of Medillin, his forces would join a large battalion of FARC guerillas and launch their assault on the first stepping stone in Central America, Panama. After the fall of Panama City, the unstoppable Bolivaristas would advance into Costa Rica and Nicaragua where they would be joined with yet more of their brethren.
And then into San Salvador they would march, gathering strength as they moved into Guatemala for the final surge before joining their comrades in the mountains of Mexico. The final push would, of course, be north across that beleaguered borderline, north, always north, until the lost territories of his friends in Mexico City were at long last recovered.
What Simon Bolivar had begun in 1820, Muhammad Top would finish. A united continent, brothers-in-arms, true believers all, faithful soldiers of Allah.
Now, to the matters at hand.
He and Khan entered a short tunnel, brilliantly disguised inside a large flowering fern, and came to the blast door that protected the elevator.
Seconds later they were inside and descending to the bunker.
Khan and Top entered the Tomb. They could hardly contain their joy at the images on the multiple screens. His black Chevrolet war wagons were circling the American capital. Their cameras were sending back pictures of a cloudy January morning in Washington. A holiday. Parade marshals were directing traffic around the capital building itself. High school marching bands gathering on side streets, tubby children tooting their tubas. Even now, joyful Americans were lining up three deep behind the ropes that lined the parade route from the White House.
Top looked up at the digital clock he’d positioned so carefully where all eyes could read it.
9:59 a.m.
In two hours, the president of the United States would place his hand on the bible and swear to uphold the Constitution and defend his country. At that exact moment, America, its entire government decapitated, would go crashing to the ground with a sound that would be heard around the world.
The bible was a nice touch, Top thought. One of Khan’s better ideas.
“IT’S TIME,” Saladin said, handing the field radio back to his radioman. He’d just talked to Brock. The canoes were on the river, headed for Top’s compound three miles distant. Saladin moved his men quickly east through the jungle. The rain was heavy, but they’d trained in worse. At his hand signal, the men halted just inside the tree-line. The wide ravine lay ahead. And the great rope bridge.
Thanks to Caparina, who had shaved her head and disguised herself as a lowly foot soldier inside the compound, he now knew this was the weak link. It was the back door of Top’s compound. A lot of troops had moved out, and were marching north. His scouts had pinpointed the position of the main force and communicated the troop’s position to Fire Control aboard Stiletto.
The compound would be primarily guarded by Trolls now. But he and his demo experts had figured out a way to reduce the Troll population of the Black Jungle.
Now, Saladin ran from man to man, making sure the main body of his squad was well situated within the tree line and knew their orders. Then he looked at the two young Brazilian Spec Ops guys who would accompany him across the bridge. They had volunteered for the most dangerous part of this mission. “Ready?” he whispered
They nodded, their faces smeared with camo paint.
Into the jaws of death, Saladin thought, but he kept those dark words to himself.
“We go.”
Saladin and his two volunteers sprinted across the open ground and raced out onto the swaying bridge. He’d left the main body of his squad inside the trees, weapons ready. When it was time, they would strike. At the far end of the bridge, they could see the enemy forces aligned, waiting for them. Each of his two comrades had been told to hold his fire until his signal. They would get as close to the far side as they could before engaging. That was the plan.
