The flight time to Andrews from Reagan National is measured in minutes, so Troy and Jenna were confident that they could catch Harris.
Their confidence was misplaced.
'Falcon Three, target is on the main runway,' Jenna said urgently as they got their first visual on the dart- shaped Raven.
'Go for it, Falcon Two,' Troy said as Jenna dove toward the runway.
The dark-gray aircraft was already on its takeoff roll as Jenna took her F-16 to two hundred feet.
It was racing down the runway at seventy-five knots, then a hundred knots, as Jenna overtook it at much higher speed.
She lined the aircraft up in the ring on her head-up sight and thumbed the trigger of the M61 Gatling gun. Nothing.
The Raven continued to roll.
A hundred and fifty knots.
She thumbed again as the Raven reached takeoff speed. Still nothing.
'Falcon Three, my guns are jammed!' Jenna shouted, banking hard to the left. 'Go for it!'
Troy was on the deck, just behind Jenna as she rolled left.
He had a clear, unobstructed view of the Raven as Harris achieved takeoff speed and lifted off the runway.
He thumbed his trigger and watched a stream of twenty-millimeter cannon shells pour toward the Raven.
Harris banked hard right just as Troy flew past him.
'I still have a visual on him,' Jenna said calmly. 'I'm turning to give pursuit.'
'Don't lose him,' Troy said as he slowed his F-16 to come around. 'He's invisible on radar.'
'Roger that. I've got him northbound over Greenbelt, flying very low.'
Raymond Harris had not turned to fight. He was single-minded about his mission. It was a strike mission, and he had a high-value target that he must strike.
Albert Bacon Fachearon sat at Camp David defying the authority that had been given to Harris by Congress.
Articles of impeachment had been passed.
Duly constituted authorities had been authorized to use deadly force to remove him.
Raymond Harris was the duly constituted authority. Albert Bacon Fachearon must go. Deadly force must be used.
Somewhere at the Camp David complex, Fachearon was hiding.
Raymond Harris did not know exactly where, but he did not care.
He might be at the large, hotel-sized Laurel Lodge, or in the comfortable presidential quarters at Aspen Lodge — or lie might be skulking in the theoretically bombproof bunkers beneath.
Raymond Harris didn't care.
With a twenty-kiloton nuclear weapon coming down upon his head, Albert Bacon Fachearon would not survive.
Chapter 51
'Are you worried about your job?' Aron Arnold asked the young U. S. Navy petty officer who was escorting him. Officially, Camp David is a landlocked Navy base, Naval Support Facility Thurmont, so the uniformed staffers are mainly from that branch of the service.
'No, sir,' Tiffanie Talleigh replied nervously, her hand unconsciously brushing the holster that contained her M9 sidearm. When this slender, average-looking man with short-cropped hair had driven up to the main gate in a Firehawk Lexus an hour ago and had explained his purpose, she had been assigned to follow him wherever he went at the facility. Had conditions not been in such turmoil, had Camp David not been so thoroughly understaffed because of the crisis, there would have been a whole platoon of Marines escorting Arnold, but today, it was just Petty Officer Tiffanie Talleigh.
'Are you nervous that you're on the wrong side of history?' Tiffanie asked.
It had been too early for lunch when Albert Bacon Fachearon had invited Arnold to remain, but he had seen nothing wrong with stopping in at the post commissary for a cup of coffee. He was in no hurry to get back to the mess in Washington.
'I don't see this change of direction in history as having 'sides.' I think that it's just what it is,' Arnold said as they walked beneath the dogwood trees. It was a cold day, and the gloomy, gray clouds added to an atmosphere of despair that seemed to hang over the people whom they passed.
'Like the president said, it's a coup,' she replied. 'These guys… Kynelty and Harris… like they overthrew the government!'
'I don't really want to get into a debate with you.' Arnold smiled. 'But I could remind you that this is the will of Congress, which I believe is elected?'
'They passed that bill this morning with tanks on the streets outside.'
'Even if that mattered, what about the House of Representatives yesterday?' Arnold said in a gotcha tone.
The young petty officer had no reply, just a stern, angry glance at Arnold.
'Where are you from?' Arnold asked.
'Why is that important?'
'Just making conversation.'
'Logan, Utah… and yes, sir, I'm LDS… Mormon.'
'Then you answer to a higher authority than that flag over there?' Arnold observed, nodding at one of the camp's many flagpoles.
'What are you saying?'
'I'm saying that authority — and allegiance — are relative.'
'What authority do you answer to — the authority of Firehawk?'
'I'm just a pilot.'
'What are you doing here?'
'My job.'
'Harris must be running short of staff if he's sending pilots to do a diplomat's job,' Tiffanie said, apparently pleased with herself for getting a verbal dagger through a chink in Arnold's suave armor.
'Touche.' Arnold laughed. He liked her spunk.
'Do you really believe that the American people are going to tolerate Harris and Kynelty running the government?'
'Like I said… Congress already does.'
'What happens to you if this thing unravels?'
'I'll get another job.' Arnold shrugged. 'What happens to you if it doesn't?'
'It will, sir,' she said, her tone uncertain. 'It has to. This has never happened before.'
'That means that it can't happen now?' Arnold asked.
As they reached the commissary, they heard the sound of a low-flying jet aircraft. Both Aron Arnold and the young petty officer craned their necks, searching the sky for a sight of the plane, but the sound died away.
Chapter 52
