cannon turret containing a beam director and infrared sensor scanned the horizon for missile launches.
The beam director shot a low-powered laser beam to track the missiles and measure atmospheric distortion.
Meanwhile, inside the forward fuselage of the Defender, a mirror adjusted while the displays of a computer console flashed. One display read Atmospheric Distortion 34.222. Another display read: missile tracking: locked.
The mirror locked into place.
Inside the rear fuselage of Defender One, walls of transparent storage tanks lined both sides of a narrow aisle—30,000 pounds of chemicals moving at supersonic speeds, mixed in a rocket engine-like chamber. A flash in the mix lit up and shot through the clear shaft.
The laser burst out through the beam director in the nosecone of the 747.
Over the Pacific Ocean, the first Minuteman exploded over black waters.
Not cheers but stunned silence lay like a cloud over the Northern Command headquarters as one by one the blips representing Minuteman missiles coming down on China disappeared.
Block exhaled with both admiration and horror. “Goddamn Marshall.”
It didn’t take long for General Zhang to call.
Block picked up his red phone. “What do you want, Zhang?”
Zhang said in perfect American English, “We wish to cease hostilities.”
“I’m sure you do,” Block said. “You saw that we can destroy our own missiles. Which means we can destroy yours too.”
Zhang continued, “We suggest an immediate, verifiable cease-fire.”
“Lucky for you, President Sachs agrees. But she wants a long-term, verifiable treaty we’ll work out later.”
“Agreed.” Zhang said. “Over.”
Before Zhang cut off, Block caught several more words in Mandarin that he didn’t understand. He hung up and looked at his senior controller, who was fluent in Mandarin.
“Tough broad,” he translated. “But what can we do?”
“You got that right,” Block said. “Tell her we’ve got teams from Grand Forks on the way to her with medical attention.”
But his senior controller said, “She’s not responding anymore, sir.”
58
Jennifer came to a half hour later, struggling as the Green Beret on top of her forced her against the floor caddyshack, one hand grabbing her hair and snapping her head back, the other pawing at her breasts. Her clothes were still on, nothing open so far, thank God. This drunken perv had only dry humped so far, but his grinding repulsed her like nothing before in her life.
“This isn’t frickin’ Afghanistan!” she screamed, kneeing him in the groin. “You can’t just rape girls!”
He bellowed in pain but didn’t let go of her, pulling her tighter until she winced in pain. “Oh, I’m going to like you,” he told her, forcing his mouth on hers.
She reached for his empty Sam Adams bottle on the floor beside them. Her fingers fumbled, then grasped one by the neck but couldn’t get a firm hold. She was about to lose it as he shifted on her.
She grimaced, then slipped her tongue into his mouth and he came alive. She used the moment to grab the bottle and club him across the side of his head.
“Bitch!” he cried out, staggering to the side as she hit him again, sending him face down on the floor.
“Believe it, asshole!” She kicked him out of the way, the rage in her so strong that this time instead of opening the front door, she just kicked it open with little difficulty and ran out to blazing lights and guns and froze.
A dark, thin figure emerged from the lights, like one of those aliens from the movies.
“Jennifer, I’m Sergeant Wanda Randolph of the United States Capitol Police. Your mother sent me to help you.”
Jennifer wanted to cry like a baby. Instead she fixed her eyes on the long sniper rifle Randolph’s hands. “That’s a sweet Barrett M107 50 caliber. Can I hold it?”
59
It was the 91st Security Forces Squadron team that reached Sachs first at the Safeguard complex. She was unconscious on the floor under a console, her clothes, hands and hair a bloody mess. But she was breathing, and they stabilized her quickly then moved her outside.
As dawn broke over the 80-foot pyramid radar building, she blinked her eyes open into the cold light of day. It seemed like there were hundreds of soldiers, federal agents and FEMA officials on hand. News crews too, although they had been fenced off beyond the base.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“You,” said a familiar voice. “You’ll be just fine. But we’ll need to airlift you for surgery to get that bullet out of you. I got lucky. Mine passed clean through.”
She looked over to see Koz, his shoulder in a bandage. “Koz.” She paused. “Captain Li?”
Koz shook his head, clearly broken up. “Last official casualty of the D.C. attack. But it’s over, thanks to you.”
There was a shout, and a soldier ran up with a phone for Koz. “General Block, sir.”
Koz took the phone and said, “Captain Li is dead, sir. So is Marshall.”
Sachs could hear Block’s shocked voice on the other end. “You killed Marshall?”
“No, sir,” Koz said, looking at her. “She did.”
“Sachs?” Block repeated, even louder.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
There were more shouts and the snow kicked up. Sachs looked around, bewildered. Suddenly a Black Hawk chopper landed on the missile field. Her body instantly seized up in terror. Then the chopper’s big door slid open and out jumped a tall, thin African-American officer. And right behind her was Jennifer, running toward her.
“Mom!” Jennifer called. “Mom!”
Jennifer ran up to her and embraced her. Sachs cried her eyes out, kissing Jennifer all over, squeezing her until her baby could barely breathe. “Oh, baby.”
Koz had to gingerly pry them apart.
Jennifer straightened and looked over Koz once, then twice, and without disappointment. She must have seen something, because she smiled and saluted him.
Koz returned the salute, and Jennifer gave her mom a big thumbs-up, as if to say that, despite everything that had happened, America was going to be OK.
