Shussman’s people were set up right on I-278. They must have blocked onloading traffic farther behind us on the highway because there wasn’t a single car on either side when I looked through the tiny armored windows. I was up front, standing on a slightly raised platform, holding a a Barret Light Fifty anti-material rifle whose barrel poked out the right-hand firing port. To my left, JJ also stood on a raised platform, his 11mm e-mag rifle pointing out the left-hand firing port. But while he faced forward, I faced the rear of the vehicle. The firing port turrets could turn three hundred and sixty degrees. In front of us were two new black SUVs, a black pickup truck with a blue tarp across the back, a robotic excavator, and two big self-driving dump trucks. Molded concrete construction barricades blocked off the entire width of the road ahead. My view showed just the two ominous black SUVs holding a steady position seventy-two meters behind us.
Martin was still watching his sensor screens and Brad was back in the commander’s chair, but neither of them were touching any controls. Sitting just ahead of JJ and me, Astrid slowed the heavy vehicle down as we closed on the concrete barricade and the men crouched down behind it.
The LAV came to a gradual stop and for a long moment, nothing happened.
“AJAYA GURUNG, ASTRID JOHNSON, BRAD JOHNSON, JEFFREY JAMES JOHNSON, AND MARTIN JOHNSON. POWER OFF YOUR VEHICLE AND SURRENDER YOURSELVES,” a bullhorn bellowed from behind us, Calvin Shussman’s voice in god mode.
Overhead, in a veritable cloud of machinery, countless news drones hovered or flew tight circles around the confrontation.
Brad reached forward and touched a button on his panel. “CALVIN SHUSSMAN, DROP YOUR WEAPONS. YOUR ASSAULT ON CIVILIAN AND LAW ENFORCEMENT PERSONNEL IS OVER. AS I SPEAK, OVERWHELMING VIDEO, AUDIO, AND EMAIL EVIDENCE IMPLICATING YOU IN THE DRONE NIGHT ATTACK CONSPIRACY IS DISSEMINATING TO THE WORLD VIA THE INTERNET.”
If I turned my head, I could watch the screen at Brad’s station, while JJ could do the same with his brother’s monitor. The rear camera on the LAV currently showed the same image I was watching through my high-powered rifle scope.
Shussman was talking on a phone, the bullhorn hanging from his right hand at his side. He gestured violently with the horn, clearly yelling into the phone. Finally, in a fit of rage, he threw the phone down and turned to one of his men, yelling some more.
With a shrug, the tactically attired operator lifted a long, slender tube from the back cargo area of one of the SUVs.
“Russian Rasputin Mark 4 anti-armor, triple warhead,” Martin announced casually.
“Hmm,” Brad acknowledged, pausing to take a sip of coffee from a stainless-steel mug.
“Dad, guy in the front group just pulled the tarp off the back of that truck. Looks like a HJ-12 Chinese Red Arrow,” Astrid reported.
“Good missile. Old but good,” JJ said. “I have a bead on the guy in front.”
“I’m clear on the Rasputin,” I said, thumbing my safety to off.
“Hold tight, both of you. Let’s see how this plays out,” Brad said. “Ajaya, your buddy is still on this, right?”
“Affirmative, Colonel Johnson. As you might say… I have this,” Rikki said through our headsets and, if our information was correct, live out into the rest of the world.
The hired killer in my sights lifted the heavy missile onto his shoulder and tucked his head down against the sight. Almost instantly, I heard an electrical hum and buzz on the roof of the LAV almost over my head.
“He’s fir—” I got out, and then flame gushed from the front of the missile. Immediately there came a ripping buzz from overhead and fire exploded all over the ground, air, and space in front of the shooter. Simultaneously, behind me and outside the armored vehicle, I heard and felt a single massive thump that shook the ground. “Oh yeah!” JJ yelled.
I looked away from the rifle scope, the glare too strong to look at, turning my head to watch Brad’s monitor. Split screens showed me the rearward missile shooter rolling around on the ground, his body engulfed in flames while the other monitor showed the back of the pickup smashed flat by the massive excavator bucket.
“Both anti-armor threats nullified,” Rikki reported.
Shussman was freaking out, yelling desperately at his people while moving for one of the two vehicles. I put the crosshairs on the hood of the left-hand car and fired, immediately moving the rifle to the hood of the second one and sending one more heavy round downrange.
Both vehicles’ hoods exploded upward as the big .50 caliber bullets easily penetrated the battery compartments, the front electric motors, and the heavy lead shielding that protected the passengers’ internal organs from excessive electromagnetic energy. People scrambled to get away from the cars and Shussman, himself, dove for the ground, hands covering the back of his head.
Above me, I heard the M-134 mini gun turn around on its gimbal mount, the spinning of the barrels loud enough to hear through the armor. Immediately, the shooters at the barricades dropped their weapons and went hands up.
Mere moments later, about a thousand cop cars careened into the space around us while a swarm of law enforcement drones swept into the sky above, forcing the news UAVs to pull back.
At that point, one of the big self-driver dump trucks suddenly started rolling forward, driving over and crushing one of the SUVs as it headed for us. The massive excavator lifted its bucket off the crushed pickup and knocked the truck over onto its side. The action was over.