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At 12:45am Benny’s ambulance arrived at the Eisenhower Hospital at Fort Gordon, Georgia.
Agent Moss made a call on his phone. “Hello, is this the Fort Gordon MPs? ... Good. This is Agent Moss of the FBI. I just arrived at your hospital with a prisoner I’d like to sign over to you ... Yes, I’ll hold.”
He held for two minutes.
“Hello, is this the Fort Gordon Duty Officer? ... Good. This is Agent Moss of the FBI. I just arrived at the Eisenhower Hospital and I’ve got a prisoner I’d like to sign over to you ... What do you mean ‘hold’? I already held once. I just need to sign over a prisoner so I can go back home to San Francisco ... Oh, goddammit!”
He held for two more minutes.
“Hello, is this the Base Commander? ... This is ... ”
The Base Commander cut him off. General “Cattle-prod” Maxwell was medium height, 100% gristle, gleaming bald, and standing in his bedroom wearing nothing but tighty-whities while he talked on the phone. Maxwell was an old pro at waking up mad. “I know who the hell you are! And you just woke me the hell up. Hell NO, you can’t hand him over to my MPs! The President says he’s been released. That’s the President, as in ‘my Commander-in-Chief’! And that’s end-of-story as far as I’m concerned. Your prisoner is your problem. All yours. Besides, I heard about the FBI’s humiliation in that New Orleans courtroom. Everyone’s heard about that FBI cluster fuck. If you think I’m gonna let the FBI spray any of that crap on me, you’d better think again. You’re lucky I’m allowing your prisoner in my hospital. I want you and him off my base as soon as possible in the morning, as soon as he’s well enough to move. And if there’s any trouble between now and then, any trouble at all, if you so much as spit on my base, hell, if you sneeze on one of my nurses, I’ll personally hang you by the balls from the flag pole on my parade ground. Understand?”
The General disconnected the call before Agent Moss could answer.
Moss ground his teeth and turned to his partner. “He fuckin’ refused.”
They both grimaced.
Moss said, “You call FBI Atlanta. Get us a relief team so we can fly home. Hopefully they can get here before noon tomorrow. We’ll have to pull guard duty on that damn Baruch tonight. But ... by God ... I’m gonna get on my computer and file so many charges of assaulting a federal officer and resisting arrest and endangerment and criminal mischief ... anything else I can think of ... he’ll die in prison ... or the looney bin. Release him ... my ass! I’ll get him arraigned tomorrow morning. It’ll be my pleasure to personally perp-walk him to prison.”
At 12:58am, flying over the central US, Rachel read the first draft of the charges about to be filed against her son. Quietly, trembling only very slightly, she reached to the seat next to her, and picked up a pistol that lay there. She held it in her right hand, feeling its heft. And she looked at it, admiring its efficient lines. Then she ejected the magazine into her left hand, looked at the rounds in the magazine, and slammed the magazine back in place. She did not chamber a round. But the safety clicked off. Then it clicked back on. Then off. Then on again. Then she put the pistol back down and activated her headset comms. Her voice was smooth, betraying no sign of stress. “All teams, Command. Benny is in custody, under guard at the hospital and has been charged with assaulting federal officers. So the rescue mission at the hospital is a go.”
At 1:03am, the Strike team crossed the point of no return.
“The helicopter is fueled and ready,” said the pilot smiling. “Time to get aboard.”
The smile vanished as all six Israelis pulled their pistols. A crazy person might argue with one pistol. Not even a batshit crazy person argues with six.
“Walk to that far corner of the hangar,” said an Israeli, gesturing with his pistol, “and no one gets hurt.”
Two Israelis pulled out rolls of duct tape and started binding the helicopter crew’s wrists, ankles, and mouths. Three others went to pick up duffel bags by the side of the hangar. Now seeing only one gun guarding him, the pilot swore loudly and turned to punch the Israeli behind him. It was bad judgement. The Israeli blocked his punch with ease, then hit him on the side of his head with the butt of his pistol, just hard enough to knock him to the ground, stunned.
“Relax,” said the Israeli. “No one’s getting hurt, like I said. We just need to borrow your helicopter. We won’t damage it, and we’ll leave it where you can find it.”
Was that a shout? Gilly the mechanic woke with a jolt ... then a grimace. The passenger bucket seats of a helicopter are a comfortable place to sit. Not so comfortable to lie across them and sleep. It was like sleeping across a small mountain range. Different parts of him were propped up at different altitudes, while other parts dangled across valleys like a suspension bridge. And the seat belt buckles dug into his gaunt ribs like sharp boulders.
Gilly thought, Damn seat belt buckles. (Style 1A with FD34904 end fitting certified TSO-C22f.) If it weren’t for beer I wouldn’t get any sleep around here. Dammit, did I just hear Luther shout? (Luther Hamilton Dillon, ex-Army warrant officer pilot, 486-97-1132, good pilot but has a corncob up his ass.) Nah, must’ve been a dream.
Gilly slowly sat up, rubbed his complaining ribs where he’d been lying on the offending seat belt buckle, rubbed his scruffy beard, then rubbed his eyes. He peered out the window of the helicopter he’d been working on, which was parked near three others.
That’s a Glock 9mm (G-17 Gen 4 with GTL laser pod). Why is that guy pointing it at the second shift? Am I dreaming? Lemme wait a bit and find out. Do I have any beer left? (Bought six, drank four.) Yes. But they’re in the fridge, (Magic Chef 2.4 cubic ft with two adjustable shelves), on the other side of that Glock. Think I’ll wait a minute.
Whoever they are, they’re duct taping the second shift real well. (Nashua brand heavy duty duct tape, silver, 60 yds x 10 mil, polyethylene-coated.) That’ll do the trick. They seem to know their shit. I hope they don’t take my beer (Atlanta Beverage Company, Hurricane Malt Liquor).
Now they’re boarding the Bell (Long Ranger 206L-4, call sign November 332 Charlie Foxtrot, intermittent fault in Main B electrical, probably a bad circuit breaker). I guess they’re stealing it. They’ve got three duffel bags, (military 2-strap 24” x 36”). Looks like they’re full of weapons and ammo magazines. Good, they didn’t take my beer.
Looks like the pilot’s following the checklist. (Throttle, governor, radio/nav, hydraulics, frictions. Proper warmup.) Yeah, they know their shit. Taking off, heading east-south-east. I can get a beer now. Should I release the second shift? Yeah, probably. (Before or after beer? Oh, hey, I gotta take a leak first.)
As soon as they were airborne, the Strike team phoned the G-5 that they flew in on, now given call sign Getaway. It had stayed on the ground on standby alert in case anything went wrong. Since it looked like everything was going right, it took off and headed to their rendezvous point.
Everything always seems fine just before the world turns to shit.
One minute after the Strike chopper went airborne, Gilly released the second shift. One of them had a girlfriend who worked for TSA at the Atlanta airport. He got on the phone and told her that armed terrorists had just stolen a helicopter. She immediately called her boss. Her boss called the Director of Homeland Security.
If Rachel had called the police herself, her plan could not have drawn more national attention, or been utterly screwed any faster. And if she had called the police herself, she would have at least known the plan was screwed. But as far as she and her team could tell, everything was going hunky-dory.
At 1:16am, the Department of Homeland Security activated the White House Terrorism Watch Team. The 24-hour staff readied the Situation Room while local police rushed to the homes of the Terrorism Watch Team members, woke them up, and drove them to the White House.
The Situation Room is not just a vast conference room in the basement of the west wing of the White House. It contains communications gear and support personnel to enable the President to control US forces around the world. A sophisticated command and control center, it links together all the resources of the government’s executive branch, especially the military, the intelligence community, and law enforcement. It operates 24 hours a day. Even when there are no active emergencies, which is rare, the support staff constantly prepare and update briefing materials to keep the President and National Security Council informed up-to-the-minute.
At 1:28am, enough Watch Team members were either present in the Situation Room or linked by phone for the team to start making decisions.
They mobilized Atlanta police and SWAT teams. Also the FBI, DEA, and ATF. The police forces of the entire country were put on alert.
Alerted, the Delta Force (1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta) at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, forty of the most lethal soldiers in the world, armed to the eyebrows, would be airborne in four Blackhawk helicopters in fifteen minutes. But they waited to be told where to go.
Air Traffic Control at Atlanta International airport reported not tracking any helicopters at the moment. They speculated that the transponder of the craft in question may have been switched off. The helicopter could also be out of range or flying too low to be seen by radar.
The entire national ATC network looked for that helicopter. Atlanta air traffic controllers replayed recordings of radar signals from 1:00am. They found a track of the helicopter heading east-south-east from Cumming before they lost it.
The Watch Team alerted the Air Force. Did they have any aircraft in the area that might be able to track a helicopter at low altitude? As luck would have it, a B-1 bomber on a night training mission not far away had a look-down radar perfectly suited to that task.
At 1:30am, the Getaway G-5 landed at Thomson-McDuffie County Airport a few miles from Fort Gordon. Since they couldn’t get to Israel in a helicopter, the plan called for transferring Benny and the Strike team from the Strike helicopter back to the Getaway G-5 jet after they rescued Benny. They chose Thomson-McDuffie as the rendezvous point for the helicopter and the jet for several reasons: (1) it was reasonably close to Fort Gordon, yet remote enough that they could avoid police scrutiny; (2) it was an uncontrolled airport, meaning no control tower to govern aircraft movements, so they didn’t need permission to take off and land; and (3) it had a runway long enough to handle a G-5.
At 1:34am, Rachel received an email from the soldier on the cargo plane. It had cleared US airspace, heading north over the Pacific coast. It would reach Israel via Canada, Iceland, and Europe. The movers had received the second shoe box and would probably celebrate for the next three days.
Rachel thought, I’ve got only enough cash left for one more shoe box. I hope I don’t need it.
At 1:44am, the President arrived in the Situation Room. The Terrorist Watch Team brought her up to speed.
Also at 1:44am, the B-1 training flight reached the area and, with its look-down radar, found the sole helicopter in the air. They reported its position and that it was flying low, at treetop level, just above powerlines. The Watch Team designated it “Red-1”.
Watch Team members plotted its position on a map. The President observed silently as the team chattered.
“Where are they going? Obviously not Atlanta.”
“If we follow their line, they track just south of Augusta. What potential targets are there around Augusta?”
“Nothing a terrorist would be interested in. The only potential civilian target is a shopping mall, and it won’t be open for ten hours.”
“Any military targets?”
“Just a small Army base nearby. Nothing of interest.”
“Extend the track further. Where’s it go?”
“Red-1 will reach the coast near Charleston. What’s in Charleston?”
“Not much for civilian targets. No reason to attack a plantation museum. Wait, there’s a big Navy base there.”
“Alert them now, just in case.”
“What’s at the Navy base?”
“Let’s see. The database says it’s a joint base, used by all four services. Uh, there’s an airlift wing, a Marine reserve center, a major Coast Guard base, Army transportation unit ... Oh holy shit! There’s a Naval Weapons Station there. They store 145 nuclear warheads. And there’s a Nuclear Power School there. They have four decommissioned subs with operational nuclear reactors used for training.”
“Bingo! Direct the Delta Force to Charleston. And alert the Charleston police to reinforce the soldiers at the base.”
“Alert the Nuclear Emergency Support Team. Get them moving.”
“Scramble some helicopters from the Navy and Coast Guard stations. See if they can intercept and escort Red-1. Maybe they’ll abort their attack if they know we’re on to them. Get them to land. Get some guns on those helicopters.”
“Now it makes sense. The helicopter crew said the terrorists took a gurney with them. Those nuke warheads are heavy. With a gurney they can move two or three warheads at a time.”
“What if we’re wrong? What if they go someplace else, like in Augusta?”
“We have to defend our most precious assets first. Alert the police in Augusta. If they’ve got a helicopter, get it in the air. They’ll have to take care of themselves for now.”
“The B-1 confirms Red-1 is still on course for Charleston.”
“Good. Keep it on station. Refuel it if necessary.”
“I’ve got an idea. What if we get the B-1 to buzz Red-1?”
“That would sure shake ‘em up. They’d know we’re tracking them. They might abort.”
“That B-1 costs a third of a billion dollars. You want to risk that with a low-level stunt?”
“What’s the cost of a nuclear reactor leak in Charleston? Or a tac nuke in New York City?”
“Do it!”
The orders didn’t go through the FBI, so Rachel didn’t know about it, so she couldn’t warn her Strike team.
At 1:56am, the pilot and co-pilot of the Strike helicopter were continuously double-checking navigation charts for landmarks and obstacles such as radio towers and power lines. Night flight carries a high workload. Pilots have not a moment to relax, especially at low altitude. They confirmed they were solidly on course. And kept confirming it every mile.
The co-pilot said, “Do you hear something?”
Like an eagle stalking a butterfly, the B-1B Lancer came from behind at low speed. Low speed for a B-1, that is. Twice the speed of the Strike helicopter, which could fit in the Lancer’s glove compartment. When he was a mere fifty feet above Strike, close enough to say “Boo”, the B-1 pilot slammed on his afterburners, all four of them. An afterburner is basically a rocket engine - a continuous explosion in an open can - and the explosion has no place to go but out the back. It burns almost ten times as much fuel as during normal flight. A B-1 Lancer weighs a third of a million pounds, but the afterburners can push it to supersonic speed in a few seconds. Calling them merely loud is an understatement of biblical proportions. They were four mouths of God, each roaring blue flame a hundred feet long.
The Strike team’s eyes were accustomed to darkness when the world lit up fiery, incandescent, blistering hot blue.
“HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!!! IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS??!!”
“FOUR GODDAMNED AFTERBURNERS!! YEAH, THAT’S WHAT YOU THINK IT IS!! I’M STARING INTO FOUR GODDAMNED AFTERBURNERS!!”
Even inside the helicopter, wearing noise-cancelling headphones, the roar was beyond sound. It was a continuous shock wave, a continuous explosion, shaking every bone in their bodies like a paint shaker, trying to turn them into jello and their helicopter into a loose collection of parts.
“YA THINK THEY KNOW WE’RE HERE??!!”
“Strike, this is garble garble fsst pop hiss.”
“WHAT?! STANDBY! CAN’T HEAR A DAMNED THING!”
The B-1 climbed rapidly and switched off its afterburner. It vanished, like a light switching off. A fire breathing dragon just ... vanished into the black sky. It was disconcerting. The Strike co-pilot knew it was still out there. And it might be on its way back right now. From any direction. Invisible. I’m a toy it’s playing with. It would be kinder to shoot me.
The Strike pilot said, “Okay, that’s better. Say again, please.”
“Strike, this is Command. Yes they know where you are. But they don’t know where you’re going. I’m getting reports from the FBI that they think you’re terrorists going to Charleston to steal some nuclear warheads. Let’s surprise them and do something else.”
“Command, Strike. If they think we’re after nukes, they’ll mobilize everything they’ve got. We can’t outfight the entire United States of America. That B-1 damn near turned us into crispy tofu, and it didn’t even shoot.”
“Relax. As soon as you land at the hospital, they’ll realize we’re not after nukes.”
“That’s five minutes away. We could die a lot in five minutes.”
“If they’d wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. You’ll make it.”
“Appreciate those encouraging words. Good pep talk. Four minutes to go.”
The Strike pilot turned to his co-pilot, “You just know that bastard B-1 pilot is grinning ear-to-ear right now. Fuckin’ asshole. God, I wish I could fly one of those.”
His co-pilot nodded. Still shaking with adrenaline, he forced himself to focus on the map in his lap. Which, annoyingly, kept vibrating.
At 2:02am, the Strike team helicopter landed at the Eisenhower Hospital. It is a relatively small hospital, only 93 beds. But it excels at wound care for the military. The small size of the hospital made it easier for the Strike team to move in and out quickly.
At the same time, the Overwatch team’s G-5 from Vermont passed over Augusta and descended to lower altitude to assist if needed. Augusta air traffic control told them they were entering an emergency restricted area. They must leave immediately.
They didn’t leave. Instead they circled slowly around Fort Gordon at 2000 ft altitude. That was low enough that they could see details on the ground, and high enough so, in the clear night air, they could see all of Augusta and halfway to Atlanta. They immediately came to the Watch Team’s attention. They were tagged as Red-2, likely involved in the terrorist attack.
“The B-1 reports that Red-1 just landed at the helipad at the Eisenhower hospital at Fort Gordon.”
“What!? Have we been following a Life Flight helicopter? Did we lose the terrorist helicopter?”
“Get the Fort Gordon MPs over there right away.”
“And get the Augusta SWAT helicopter over there.”
“Re-run the radar tapes. Are we sure we’ve got the right chopper?”
“What the hell are terrorists doing at a hospital? This doesn’t make sense.”
“But if it isn’t terrorists, what the hell is Red-2 doing circling there? That’s too much of a coincidence.”
“But it does explain the gurney.”
The President, who had been silent until now, studying like a pro how her team was working. Now she stood up from her chair. “Did you say Fort Gordon? Who’s linked to the FBI right now?”
All eyes turned to her. “I am,” said one of the men at the table.
“Ask them where Benjamin Baruch is right now.”
“Benjamin who? What are you talking about?”
“Just do it.”
“Yes ma’am ... Benjamin’s been arrested. And he’s injured. He’s at the Eisenhower Hospital at Fort Gordon, ma’am.”
The President gripped the edge of the table, raised her head, and howled in frustration. Then shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen! This isn’t a terrorist attack. It’s a jailbreak!”
She sat back down, gritted her teeth, and muttered, “Who will rid me of these troublesome scientists?”
“Command, this is Strike. Our microphones are open. We’re on the ground. Doors are open. Four soldiers and a gurney are heading to the hospital’s front entrance at a dead run. Two soldiers in reserve.”
Dull sound of many footsteps running outdoors, a gurney wheel rattling, and soldiers breathing.
“We’re in the front entrance. We just smiled and waved to the night receptionist. She waved back. Splitting up now, two in Alpha team with the gurney are heading to the near stairs.”
“Two in Bravo team are heading to the stairs at the end of the hall.”
Sharper sound of footsteps and gurney rattling indoors.
“Alpha in the stairway.”
“Bravo in the stairway.”
Sound of door latches opening simultaneously. Some grunting, carrying the gurney upstairs at a run.
“Alpha at the top of the stairs.”
“Bravo at the top of the stairs.”
Some panting.
“Go!”
Door latches opening.
“Converging. Teams in sight. We’re at the target room. One agent awake, one asleep.”
A sound like a champagne cork popping. It popped a second time. “Two agents asleep.”
“We’re lifting Benny onto the gurney. Tucking him in with a comfy blanket. Strapping him down.”
“Strike, Command. Grab any paperwork you see. Any records of any drugs they’ve given him.”
“Nothing here. Must be at the nurse’s station. Wait, there’s a dry-erase board with info.”
“Photograph it. Forget the paperwork. Go.”
“We’re going.”
One soldier lagged behind briefly to make an ... adjustment ... to Agent Moss.
“Strike, this is Overwatch. I’m circling overhead. I see police lights flashing near the parade grounds. Now moving in your direction. Probably MPs. Estimate you have two minutes. No, make that one minute. More lights flashing in Augusta. Five minutes away.”
“We’re in the hallway ... On the stairs ...” More grunting and panting, carrying Benny and his gurney down the stairs. “Smiling and waving to the receptionist ... Out the front door ... Running to the chopper ... Boarding ... Strapping in the gurney ...” A lot more panting. The sound of sirens approaching. “Headcount ... All accounted for ... Door closed.” The sound of a helicopter door sliding closed and slamming, cutting off the sound of the sirens.
“Taking off. Clearing the trees. MPs with flashing lights are arriving below us. We’re heading for the rendezvous. Oh, shit, there’s another chopper coming in from Augusta. It’s only a few seconds behind us.”
At 2:05am, in the Situation Room:
“The Augusta SWAT helicopter is right on Red-1’s tail. They can’t get away now. That’s a six-man SWAT team. When they land, the SWAT team will be all over them.”
“The Marines in Charleston are prepping Apache helicopter gunships. Airborne in fifteen minutes.”
“We’ve got a heading for Red-1. They’re heading directly for a small airport nearby. Thomson-McDuffie County Airport.”
“They’re probably planning to rendezvous with Red-2 there.”
“But Red-2’s not landing.”
“Maybe there’s another aircraft already on the ground there.”
“Pull the radar recordings at Atlanta and Augusta. See if another aircraft landed at Thomson-McDuffie.”
“The FBI just reported simultaneous explosions at their field offices in Atlanta, Columbia, Charlotte, and Knoxville. No casualties reported so far. They are evacuating those buildings and moving to their backup command centers. They’ll be offline for half an hour.”
“Sounds like a coordinated terrorist attack. We need to treat it as such.”
“Or it’s a diversion.”
“Either way, whatever’s going down is going down in the next half hour. Probably going down right now.”
“The FBI can take care of itself. Treat it as a diversion. Stay focused on Red-1.”
“Thomson-McDuffie’s an uncontrolled airport. No tower. No one there to contact at this time of night.”
“There’s a small town of Thomson three miles south of the airport. Get their police to the airport now. Block the runway. Don’t let anyone take off or land.”
“Yes, a bizjet landed at Thomson-McDuffie 35 minutes ago. Designate Red-3.”
“The Thomson police are on their way. They’ll be there waiting for Red-1. Finally, we’re a jump ahead of them. Go get ‘em, boys and girls!”
2:08am:
“Getaway chopper, this is Overwatch G-5 circling overhead. I see flashing lights in Thomson, three miles south of you. They are heading your way. I estimate they’ll reach you in about three minutes. Strike is still ten minutes away. You need to rendezvous somewhere else.”
“All stations, Strike here. It won’t make any difference where we rendezvous if I’ve still got this chopper on my tail. It’s probably police or SWAT. Command, I know you didn’t want any shooting, but I don’t see any alternative.”
“All stations, Command. No shooting. I say again, no shooting. If we fail, then those who can escape will escape. The rest of us will surrender. Israel will get us back eventually so long as no one shoots. But if anyone shoots, we’ll rot in prison.”
“Strike here. Copy that. No shooting.”
“All stations, Overwatch. I’ve got an idea for slowing down the SWAT chopper without shooting. I’ll do that while you find another place to rendezvous.”
2:11am:
“All units, this is Getaway. Copy that. Good luck. I’m taking off from Thomson-McDuffie to the east. Police cars are just entering the airport. I’m clear. Now what? There’s an interstate highway just a mile away. Can we rendezvous there? Maybe a few miles away?”
At 2:11am, in the Situation Room:
“Red-3 just took off from Thomson-McDuffie.”
“Goddammit! They must’ve seen the police coming. Red-2 must be airborne surveillance. Tell the police to turn off their damned flashing lights.”
“Strike, this is Overwatch. I’m maneuvering my G-5 in between you and the SWAT chopper. I’ll slow him down as much as I can. You go flat out. Oh, man, this is gonna be close.”
“Overwatch, Strike. You can go this slow? A G-5 business jet trying to block a chopper? That’s crazy!”
“With full flaps my stall speed is 106 knots, maybe lower since my gear is up. That gives you at least a 30-knot advantage. I’m above and to the right of your tail. I’ve matched your speed. Anyone got any K-Y jelly? ’Cause this is gonna be tight. Here we go ...”
The G-5 is a big business jet, thirty meters long. And the distance between the Strike helicopter and the SWAT helicopter behind it was only fifty meters. The G-5 barely fit between them. The G-5 is designed to fly at 475 knots and land at 150 knots. It was now flying beside the choppers at only 130 knots. It wallowed like a wildebeest in quicksand. And it was a wildebeest trying to cram itself between a tiger and its gazelle prey.
“I can’t look. I’m closing my eyes.”
“Fuck, no! You’re the pilot!”
“I’m in. Oh, shit, that was close. Floor it, Strike. I’m slowing down to 110 knots.”
“Overwatch, you got way more guts than brains.”
“Yeah, my wife agrees. You guys in the back. Look out the windows and tell me where that SWAT chopper is behind me. Shout out port, starboard, high, or low. I’m slowing down and I can’t let him pass me.”
“Looks like they veered off about 100 meters when you pulled in. Good. But they’re coming back now.”
“Port side! ... ”
“Too far! Starboard! ... ”
“Overwatch, this is Strike. I’m going flat out now, past the redline. Gaining some ground. Keep it up. Slow ‘em down.”
“He’s going high! ... ”
“He’s going low! ... Lower! ... Now he’s going high fast! ... Wow, they’re on a rollercoaster ride! ... ”
“Hey, each time he goes through your exhaust he gets blown around. I think that slows him more. Try to hit him with your exhaust.”
“Port! ... More port! ... No, he’s doing a full circle! ... Starboard fast! ... Wow, that was fuckin’ close! He almost hit us.”
“Now he’s just hovering back there. Great! Strike is gaining time.”
“This is Overwatch. I’m zig-zagging my jet to stay back near the SWAT copter. At this speed I feel like I’m giving ballet lessons to a hippopotamus. Whoever came up with this idea is an idiot!”
“The SWAT’s coming after us again. Starboard! Starboard!”
“Strike, this is Getaway. I’ve got an idea. You land your chopper on Interstate 20, eastbound lane, just east of the Route 150 on-ramp. Block all lanes so cars can’t get by. That will clear the lane east of you within a minute. I’ll land my G-5 east of you, westbound, toward you. I’ll taxi to you and we’ll load your people. Then I’ll turn around and take off to the east.”
“Getaway, Strike. That’ll work if Overwatch gives us enough time.”
“We’ve got another choice?”
“I’m on my way. I have the Route 150 on-ramp in sight. I’ll be there in three minutes. I don’t see any eastbound traffic for a couple of miles. You can land now.”
“Copy. Landing in three minutes. Damn, I think Route 150 is too close to Thomson-McDuffie airport. The police’ll be on us too fast. Can we land further east?”
“Strike here. Not east. I’d have to double back. The SWAT chopper would catch up faster. And further west won’t improve that. The chopper is the most urgent problem, not the cops on the ground.”
“Copy. We’ll have to transfer damn fast.”
2:17am:
“Getaway, this is Command. Google maps shows powerlines on the west side of the overpass where White Oak Road crosses I-20.”
“Copy that, Command. Powerlines at White Oak Road overpass. Thanks, I was getting bored. I’ll do a steep approach. Getaway will be on the ground in one minute.”
“Strike here. Also on the ground in one minute.”
“High! High! ... ”
“Port! ... Port! ... Oh, you got him good that time, Overwatch. He rolled almost ninety degrees.”
“High! ... Starboard! ... Bullseye! Damn, you rolled him almost ninety degrees again. Must be like a dice shaker in there. I get nauseous just watching them.”
“Starboard! ... More! ... Oh, shit, he turned off his running lights. Hard to see.”
“Lights off?! That makes me wonder which of us is stupider. And I already know I’m pretty stupid.”
“Port! I think. No. Wait. Nothing there.”
“Starboard and low! Starboard and low! He’s under us to starboard.”
“He’s past us, low and starboard. He’s turned his running lights back on.”
“Oh, damn! All units, this is Overwatch. The police chopper slipped past us. He’s only a minute or two behind you. There’s no time for me to get in front of him to slow him down any more.”
At 2:18am:
The Strike helicopter with Benny aboard slammed down at tactical speed on the highway, blocking it as planned. Tactical landing is a familiar maneuver for any special forces team. They crouched on the deck to absorb the shock, and were out the doors carrying Benny’s stretcher before the chopper had finished rocking. Fortunately, this late at night, no traffic complicated matters. The co-pilot unstrapped while the pilot hit the engine kill switches. Then the pilot ripped off his headset and followed three seconds behind the co-pilot.
The Getaway G-5 landed at the same time and taxied at high speed to the Strike helicopter, screeching brakes to stop close to it. The G-5’s door opened even before they stopped. The Strike team started boarding while the G-5 rolled to a stop.
“All units, Getaway. We’re loading Benny and the Strike team now. We’ll start our takeoff in one minute.”
“Getaway, this is Overwatch. I have you in sight. You won’t make it. The SWAT chopper will land in 30 seconds. They’ll block you.”
“Getaway here. Everyone’s aboard. Turning around. Door is closed. I see the police chopper. They’re landing on the road about twenty yards in front of me. With Strike chopper behind me, I’m blocked. No way out.”
“Damn, damn, damn. So close. So fuckin’ close!”
“Getaway, this is Overwatch. There’s three pairs of headlights heading your way from Thomson. Probably police with their flashing lights turned off. They are moving! Doing well over a hundred. They’ll be on you in one minute. I’ll make a low pass to try to slow them down.”
In the Situation Room:
“We have them, Madame President. The SWAT chopper just landed, blocking Red-3 from taking off. And police reinforcements are sixty seconds away.”
“Good. Very good.”
Her tone of voice was almost normal. But the grin on the President’s face scared everyone in the room.
“Command, this is Getaway. I’m facing the side of the police chopper. The police have opened the chopper door. Four men are jumping out. They’re wearing helmets, body armor, and have assault weapons slung to their chests with tactical slings. Must be a SWAT team. They’re pros. We’re done here.”
“Getaway, Command. I’m sorry. It’s time to surrender. I’ll buy your freedom as soon as I can. I ... ”
“Command, Getaway. Something’s wrong. The four police officers are down. I say again, the SWAT team is down. All four are on their hands and knees on the pavement beside the chopper. Holy shit, one just barfed his guts out. Jesus, he had spaghetti for dinner! Another one’s barfing now. Vegetables. Some green. Some carrots. The two others just fell flat on their faces on the pavement. They’re not moving. There’s two still in the chopper. Both are on the floor. One’s not moving. The other just dragged his head over the side. Oh my god, that’s definitely a bazooka barf. He could moonlight as a fire hose. The rotor wash just splashed some of it on my windscreen. The barf has hit the fan! Oh, man, I can smell it already. The inside of the SWAT chopper is covered in vomit. Lotsa different colors. The smell in there must be incredible! Like bathing in a goat’s stomach. The cleanup crew’s gonna love them. Overwatch, you done great! You busted ‘em up. Now if I could only get around their chopper. There’s clear highway on the other side.”
“Taxi on the median!”
“Grass. Too soft.”
In the Situation Room:
The communications tech’s eyes were wide. “I’m hearing screaming from the Thompson police!”
“Overwatch here. I did a low pass, practically scraping the roofs off those cop cars. They scattered briefly. But I don’t think I delayed them more than a few seconds. They’ll be on you in thirty seconds. And now they’re pissed. Sorry about that.”
“Getaway, Strike here.” Heavy panting. “Just plugged into your back seat. This is Georgia. There’s Georgia clay under that grass. They make bricks out of that shit.”
“Getaway, this is Command. You got nothing to lose. Go for it.”
“All units, Getaway. I’m pivoting toward the median now. Gunning it. I’m on the median. Bumpy, but seems okay. I’m turning and taxiing past the nose of the SWAT chopper. The inside of the front canopy is almost completely covered with vomit. But there’s clean spots directly in front of the pilot and copilot. Looks like someone behind them bazooka-barfed on them, leaving their barf shadows on the canopy. The pilot is giving me the finger. No, it’s a woman, and she’s giving me two fingers. Birdies in stereo. And she’s wiggling them. You hug your momma with those hands, lady?
“The SWAT co-pilot is unbuckling. Looks like he’s gonna drag the two SWAT officers off the chopper so they can take off and block us again. His back and his helmet are completely covered with vomit. I wonder if it’s dripping down the back of his neck.
“Damn! He just slipped in the puke on the deck. Legs in the air. Oof! Flat on his back on the metal deck. Oh, that’s gotta hurt!”
“Getaway, this is Overwatch. The police cars have reached the Strike chopper. They’re going around it on both sides, on the median and the shoulder. They’ll be on you in five seconds.”
“We’re accelerating past the SWAT chopper. Very bumpy. Back on the highway. Flaps 20 degrees. Full throttle. Accelerating as fast as I can. Oh, shit, I’ve got police cars on both sides of me. They’ve turned on their flashing lights. They’re trying to get ahead to block me. But I’m on the road and they’re on the shoulders. It’s a race to see who can accelerate fastest. Overpass and power lines ahead. Can the throttles go any further? God, what I’d give for afterburners or a JATO unit right now. I’m doing sixty knots and the police are right beside me. Seventy. Eighty. Ninety. Geez they’re good drivers. C’mon baby. C’mon baby. Hundred. Faster. Please. One ten. The police are falling behind. One twenty. Rotate. Weight off wheels. Gear up! Climb! Climb, I said! Climb more, dammit! I’m not gonna make it. I’m leveling out to go under the power lines ... ”
“Well ... uh ... wow, we cleared that overpass by at least two feet! And under the power lines by three feet. What was I worried about?”
“Getaway, Overwatch. I saw that. You fucking idiot! If you crash, we’ll lose the deposit on that G-5. And I think you nicked a telephone pole. You know how much those telephone poles cost? What is this, a contest for fucking stupidity?”
“Command, Getaway. We’re clear. Turning due east toward Bermuda. Climbing to cruise altitude. Overwatch, I’m a lot stupider than you. You can’t hold a candle to my stupidity. Command, is this a good time to ask for a raise?”
“Getaway, Overwatch. No way are you stupider than me. You’d have to be ten times dumber just to see how stupid I am. I’m pulling into wingman position on your right.”
“Getaway here. What a crock! I’ll admit you’re stupid. But compared to me you’re Einstein. Help me find a rainstorm. I need to wash the puke off my airplane. I don’t want to land in Bermuda with puke on my plane. People will know how stupid I am.”
“All units, Command. I’m an hour behind you. Bravo Zulu soldiers. Bravo. Fucking. Zulu. Million-dollar bonuses all around. Bloody well done!”
“No, I’m stupider. Though I think that SWAT pilot deserves an honorable mention. I’m older and I’ve been stupid a lot longer than you.”
“Bullshit, I’m way stupider. I got the stupidity of youth on my side. And I got witnesses. My own mother would testify against me ... ”
At 2:32am in the Situation Room:
“Red-2 and Red-3 are climbing in formation to cruise altitude, heading for the coast. Looks like they’re headed for Bermuda. Probably refuel there, then on to Israel.”
The President said, “No extradition treaty with Bermuda. I don’t suppose we can shoot them down? Just for fun? No. I know we can’t. Just wishful thinking.”
She stood up and walked out of the Situation Room. Everyone got the hell out of her way.
When they arrived at the hospital, the MPs found the two FBI agents snoring comfortably on their sides in beds, both with red-plumed tranquilizer darts sticking out of their butts. The only difference between them was that Agent Moss’s pants had been pulled partway down, and his private parts liberally sprayed with indelible light green helicopter primer paint. And a post-it note, strategically placed, said, “Hello from Benny’s mom.”
Later, in his report, Agent Moss described the Israeli shooter as a short, mousy woman with eyes like a wild animal.
His boss asked how, if he was facing the intruders, did he get shot in the butt? His answer was vague.
When Getaway and Overwatch landed in Bermuda, everyone but the pilots slept soundly. Unfortunately, at 4:30am in Bermuda, there’s no place to get breakfast.
An hour later, Command also landed. Also with all but the pilots asleep.
Everyone checked into a nearby hotel. The pilots needed sleep before continuing to Israel.
Two hours before landing, Rachel had called a 24-hour nursing service, which sent an RN to the airport to monitor Benny, still sleeping on the floor of the Getaway G-5. And the nursing service contacted the Eisenhower Hospital to find out what meds he’d been given.
“Yes, I need medical records for Benjamin Baruch, the one who just escaped from FBI custody at your hospital ... Yes, that’s the one ... Oh, heavens no, we treat escaped criminals all the time. Our law may not be your law, but our Hippocratic oath is the same as yours. At least this fugitive doesn’t have bullet holes in him. That’s a refreshing change ... Yes, we can deal with profound autism. That’s nothing compared to surgically removing a live grenade ... That was a drug lord from Columbia ... Yes, it worked out well for the proctologist. That grenadectomy paid enough to renovate his kitchen. He’s thinking of specializing ... ”
Shortly after noon, after naps, showers, and a change of clothes, the itinerant army of Israeli Special Forces gathered for lunch at a nearby resort restaurant. The woman with the wild animal eyes had washed off the angular dashes of shadow at the outside corners of her eyes that made her look like a stalking cougar. Without the makeup she looked less like a cougar and more like a kitten. She asked to sit with Rachel and introduced herself as First Lieutenant Hagar Jones. “If you don’t mind, Mrs. Baruch, I’d like to chat with you a bit about career paths. I’m considering a change from the Sayeret Matkal. I understand you started there yourself. I’m hoping you might give me some career insights?”
“I’d be delighted, Lieutenant Jones. Please call me Rachel.”
“Thank you. Please call me Hagar.”
“Of course, Hagar. Yes, I was in the Sayeret Matkal before moving into the intelligence community. What are your plans?”
“That’s just it, I’m not sure. I want to serve Israel. I’m hoping to find something that allows me to stay in one place for a while. Maybe build a family. But not a desk job. That would kill me. I need activity. Now I look at you. You were able to do that. I’m wondering how?”
Rachel said, “I got a job with the Finance Ministry. That allowed me to settle down.”
Hagar’s eyes grew wide and puzzled. “You work for the Finance Ministry? I ... what ... how ... finance?”
Rachel smiled, “Well ... not the part of the Finance Ministry you hear about. I was an industrial spy for thirty years. My husband and I were venture capitalists in Silicon Valley. Lots of interesting things going on there. The Finance Ministry provided the money we invested. And that money opened a lot of doors. And mouths. There wasn’t much happening there that we didn’t know about.”
“Oh, that’s clever!”
“It worked well in the US. Not so well elsewhere. When Benny was a baby, not long after the fall of the Soviet Union, my husband went to Russia to set up a similar operation. Unfortunately, the Russian mafia thought he was competing too much in their sandbox. They killed him.”
“Oh!”
“It’s a risky career. For you and your family. Maybe you noticed that last night, when you pulled my son’s ass out of the fire. You can’t ever forget the risk. You live with the risk every day.”
“That’s something to think about,” said Hagar. “Especially the risk to family.”
“Yes, it should give you pause,” said Rachel. “We each have to deal with risk in our own way. On the other hand, you can get hit by a truck crossing the street on your way to a desk job. Case in point, that happened to several members of the Russian mafia.”
Hagar giggled. “That poor truck! But how does one apply for such a job? They don’t advertise in the newspapers.”
Rachel said, “The intel community is always looking for good people. But getting a job there depends on who you know. It’s an extremely tight community. Everyone is linked to everyone else by family or friendship. Only old and trusted friends referred by other old and trusted friends get in. Our lives depend on trust. Do you know people on the inside who can vouch for you?”
“A couple, I suppose.”
“Well, you can add one more to that list. After what you’ve done for Benny, I’ll vouch for you. In fact, I can refer you to a couple of people who might hire you. There’s my boss and uncle in the Finance Ministry. And he has good contacts in Mossad. If they don’t have a job for you, they can refer you to other agencies.”
Hagar beamed, “Oh, Rachel, I can’t thank you enough! You are an inspiration to me! And, by the way,” she paused and lowered her voice, “to the men, you are a goddess.”
“Thank me at the end of your career, if you still want to. As for godhood, you’ve never seen me without makeup. Quite literally, no one since my husband died has seen me without makeup. I was attractive for a while. But for the past ten years, I’ve had to become a makeup artist. And I got expert training from professionals in show business. It was essential to my job. A good makeup artist doesn’t just accent an existing face. They literally paint a new face over the old one. Look at before-and-after pictures of work done by really good makeup artists. In many cases those aren’t accented faces. They’re brand new faces. I’m impressed by what you did with your cat eyes. Very clever. And very effective. I do the same thing. I just use a bigger brush and a lot more paint.”
Hagar laughed. “It’s more than your face. You know that.”
“Well, yes, of course,” said Rachel. “It’s also how you hold yourself and how you move. But that doesn’t come naturally, either. Not for anyone. I’ve had expert training from professionals in that, too. It’s like ballroom dancing. Or Krav Maga. It’s not easy. It takes training, discipline, and practice.”
“But the grace and beauty!” breathed Hagar.
“Are an illusion! It’s acting, which takes training and practice,” said Rachel. “Yes, it has its rewards. Like the pride of being a good dancer. But you can’t let it go to your head. It’s not really you. It’s not even real. It’s an illusion intended solely to deceive and manipulate others. You start thinking it’s real and you’re deceiving yourself. In this business that’s fatal.”
They were quiet for a few minutes while they ate. Hagar was deep in thought. Then she said, “Benny was part of that illusion, wasn’t he?”
Rachel sighed, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry to pry,” said Hagar, “but I have to. You’re teaching me so much. I may never get another chance like this. Benny isn’t a computer genius, is he?”
“No,” said Rachel, “he isn’t. He’s profoundly autistic. Barely functional. I taught him to play on a keyboard. He likes typing randomly and seeing letters appear on the screen. I think, for him, it’s soothing, like my knitting. Making people think he was a computer genius was the only way I could get him any respect. You know how people treat autistics in Western culture? Like God’s mistakes. Like it’s unfortunate that they’re alive. Like it’s unfortunate they can’t be shuffled off somewhere unseen to die.” Rachel was getting angry. Despite the nap she was still exhausted.
“I’m sorry,” said Hagar. And she meant it. “I’m very sorry. Rachel, I said you were an inspiration to me. What you’ve done for Benny only increases that. You are a hero for him. You’ve manipulated an entire culture for his benefit. I salute you. I can’t imagine how hard that’s been.”
Rachel took a couple of slow breaths. “Thanks. That’s very good to hear. You can’t imagine how rarely I hear it. It is hard parenting a kid on the spectrum. Ask any parent of one. Once in a while, you get a reward. Six months ago he hugged me. That was good. And every few weeks he smiles. But mostly it’s hard.” She looked around. “It looks like everyone’s getting ready to head back to the airport.”
“I’m looking forward to getting home,” said Hagar.
“Me too,” said Rachel softly. “It’s been thirty years.”
Benny woke up in his own bed in a nearly exact replica of his San Francisco basement. Except he was now in a suburb of Tel Aviv. After going to the bathroom and getting a drink of water, he sat down at his computer and started typing. Rachel, sitting in a recliner nearby, watched him.
After a minute Benny stood up and walked over to his dresser. He looked at it, at first confused, then accusingly, like something that should be there wasn’t there. He walked over to his closet and leafed through his trousers on hangars. He found the pair he was looking for. He reached into a back pocket and pulled out some items. Head down, watching the floor as he walked while holding the items in his hand, he walked over to Rachel. He placed the items on her lap. In total silence, not making eye contact with her, he leaned over and gave her a brief but vigorous hug. Then, eyes still looking at the floor, he walked back to his computer, sat down, and resumed typing.
Tears in her eyes, Rachel picked up and examined the items he had put in her lap. They were a full key chain and a badge belonging to Agent Moss.