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Junior Weems, the FBI’s special agent in charge of the Pittsburgh office, had emphatically ordered the pilot of the forward helicopter to stay far enough from the Banks’ property to avoid detection. The pilot, one Wilson Smart, was monitoring radio traffic for the operation as he approached by way of the valley to the northwest. When the sheriff’s men moved into position, Smart decided to join the action in case the suspected terrorists ran.
Weems was furious. It was one thing for the sheriff’s deputies to move in. They had, after all, been revealed when the terrorists started to leave. But the helicopter’s appearance signaled a much bigger operation. The operation was, in fact, potentially huge. As Weems flew to the site, he made radio contact with his superiors and joined the debate over mobilizing enough National Guardsmen to create a virtually escape-proof perimeter. Apprehending the ringleaders of the three worst attacks on American soil since 9/11 was easy justification for throwing such an overwhelming force against only two men. But the uncertainty over whether these were indeed the terrorists sought nationwide gave the bureaucrats pause. Identifying the terrorists turned on the beliefs of an old man suffering from Alzheimer’s and a hard drinker who had dropped out of sight. If wrong, the federal officials’ misjudgment would be the butt of cartoons and late night comedy for weeks, a national embarrassment of the first order. Avoiding blame was a cardinal rule for any good bureaucrat.
Already, about one hundred SWAT officers were being helicoptered to the scene. They included sniper teams that could attack from aloft or drop into ground positions. Weems also had called for half a dozen officers expert with rocket launchers, seeing delicious payback in killing the terrorists with an RPG.
The special agent stifled his anger as his helicopter and others carrying SWAT teams came within sight of the trailers. No reason for stealth now. The men the sheriff had identified only as Alexander and Demetri no longer had any doubt they were facing an overwhelming force. Even so, the helicopters settled on the road leading to the property, well out of range and sight of Stickman and Maple. SWAT teams ran in a low crouch up the lane to bolster positions of the sheriff’s men north and east of the trailer and expand the east perimeter south of the Banks’ house. By now, other teams had been dropped in clearings about a half-mile away. They would move in through the woods, blocking escape to the west and south. But, thought Weems, with darkness approaching, finding their way across unfamiliar, rough terrain will take time, perhaps too much time. He worried about the terrorists slipping away in the gloaming, through woods they have had time to know well.
That exact scenario was foremost in Stickman’s mind, too, when Weems decided there was nothing to lose by demanding surrender.
“You men, this is Special Agent Weems of the FBI. You have been identified as suspects in acts of terrorism against the United States. You are surrounded by an overwhelming force. Put down your weapons and surrender. You will not be harmed. If innocent, you will be released.”
Sweat popped out on Stickman’s forehead. He had always known things could come to this, but had never methodically outlined how he would react. Until now, his response always had been to attack or run. Now, if the FBI agent was believable, the option of attack was gone. That left running, and he could see no clear path. He wondered if the FBI agent was overplaying his hand. He had not heard or seen any activity to the south – the direction of the pickup – or to the west.
“What think, Maple?” he asked from the end of the van nearest the trailer.
“Not yet,” came Maple’s response from near the water hydrant. “They’d spot us trying to slip out for sure. I think we’ll have a better chance when it’s dark, even if they’ve had time to move in. Maybe in half an hour ...”
“Have you heard anyone to the south or west?”
“No. That FBI guy could be bluffing. Maybe his troops haven’t got here yet.”
“I don’t think they have. That’s why the ones out there now are sitting tight. They’re waiting for the rest. But we have to wait until it’s darker.”
Even with adrenaline pumping, Maple felt surprisingly detached. He wondered if that was another sign of exhaustion, then wondered anew why the hell he was playing doctor at a time like this. The rocket launcher in his hands fed a growing appetite. It gave him comfort, a sense of strength. But stronger was his wish for something to happen. His urge to fire on the government – sheriff’s deputies, feds, he didn’t care – was so intense he had lost his fear. “I want, really want that fucking helicopter to close in and hover,” he said, almost pleading.
Stickman cast an uneasy glance. “That’s fine, my friend, but more important is getting out of here. Ten minutes and we could be at the pickup, then get to the interstate and slip into traffic.”
Maple’s priorities were shifting. He shook his head stubbornly. “I want these fuckers to suffer. I need to use these rounds, and I don’t think I can make the run with the launcher. It would slow me down too much.”
“Leave it, don’t matter if you knock out another pig or two.” Stickman was surprised at his words. He was not a child of the Sixties. Mostly, he worried that Maple was starting to come unglued. “Who cares if all the rounds get used?”
“It matters to me,” said Maple. He closed his eyes for just a second to gather himself and immediately was beset by the horrific images, images that now could haunt him in the blink of an eye. They were almost always stark, seldom filtered. The gray and black ones tormented him enough, but then cruelly gave way to vivid Technicolor.
Still not a shot fired. The FBI was clearly waiting for greater advantage, the upside being that the noose had yet to fully tighten. Stickman willed the dusk to darken faster.
A bullhorn broke into Maple’s ricocheting thoughts, adding the disjointed observation that bullhorns must still be the amplifier of choice in police standoffs. But hasn’t technology ...
“You men, Alexander and Demetri. This is Special Agent Weems again. Your situation is hopeless. You know that. There is no reason for bloodshed. I urge you to surrender. You have my word that you will not be harmed.”
As Weems’ voice crackled eerily, Maple peeked over the concrete slab and spotted motion. Three, no four crouched officers, cautiously moving up, from one tree to the next. “Not be harmed, my ass. I’m going to up the fucking body count.”
“Wait Maple, just wait,” he heard Stickman say. “Firing now could set off a shit storm. Settle down, man, it’s almost dark enough to get out of here.”
Maple paused briefly, but the advancing men won him over. He sighted in at a center point of the four lawmen and was surprised when the one in the lead rose from his crouch and sauntered forward, apparently believing he was protected by a huge red oak. Following his lead the other three men stood upright, too. “Here we go, Mr. Stick.”
“Wait, Maple. I think we can lea ...”
The rocket’s roar drowned out Stickman. The SWAT officers flew from sight, maybe dead, maybe just momentarily lost in the dust and debris of the exploding RPG. But Stickman was right. A shit storm came at them with a vengeance, some SWAT officers firing with abandon as those better trained laid down cover for others scooting forward. Maple dropped to a fetal position behind the water hydrant’s protective base. He forced his eyes to stay open even as the hail of bullets sent chips of concrete spitting from the slab, opening superficial wounds on his face and arms. Stickman fared better, if only because most of the return gunfire zeroed in on the location of the rocket launcher, at Maple. Even so, shattered glass from the van’s windows also hailed on Stickman as he hugged a depression in the ground. Bullets riddled the van’s tires.
As the return fire subsided, Stickman eased around the van’s bumper to see two men moving forward from Cornell’s trailer. Bringing his assault rifle to bear, he fired once. One man went down and the second retreated. He scooted to the opposite end of the van, drawing fire.
“You okay, Maple?”
“I’m hit, man, bad. You get the hell out of here.”
“Still too light. Do sunsets always take this freaking long?”
In the eerie silence, the helicopter piloted by Wilson Smart, hovering out of range, could be heard revving up, moving closer. Suddenly it was above the northwest tree line. Maple, ignoring the wounds he had exaggerated, took aim, but did not fire. The shot was too long. He was startled when a rocket was launched from the copter and, as if to make his point, landed harmlessly short. But it had acted as a range finder and Smart, emboldened by that information, moved in as his shooter reloaded. Smart moved too fast, before his shooter was ready, and it was Maple who squeezed off the next round, uncertain he had waited long enough. He had – and the helicopter exploded in a ball of fire before making an ungainly, tumbling descent to the ground, blades churning.
Retaliation was intense. Within seconds the darkening sky was alive with copters, a sure sign they had made their drops to the south and west – perhaps some time ago. SWAT teams could be within minutes of having the Banks’ property surrounded.
The copters hung at the fringe of what pilots perceived to be Maple’s accurate range. Then, on command, one would sweep over at high altitude, sharpshooters seeking targets. Exposed at the corner of the van, Stickman quickly crawled beneath the trailer. There he was only a random target, hidden somewhere within the trailer’s large outline. In its deepening shadow he had a better vantage point for spotting SWAT officers on the ground. As another helicopter swept overhead, he saw movement at the far corner of Cornell’s trailer and fired a burst. No more movement, at least for the moment.
At the same time, Maple was scrambling around the concrete slab, corner to corner in a dance choreographed by the next helicopter’s line of attack. The air game was at an impasse, helicopters too high for Maple to risk wasting a shot, also too high for their snipers to be effective. But, he realized soberly, it was only a matter of time – likely not much time – until Special Agent Weems put another rocket launcher in the rotation.
A pilot, seeking better advantage for his sharpshooters, dropped suddenly in altitude. Waiting hopefully for that to happen, Maple was ready, rising to his knees as the helicopter nearly slowed to a hover. He fired quickly. The rocket found its target, again creating a fireball and this time crumbling in pieces, two of them looking like flaming bodies. Maple quickly dropped behind his concrete sanctuary as ground fire raked the hydrant’s base, more chips adding to his stinging wounds.
“Mr. Stick,” he called softly, “I’m hit again. You get out of here now. It’s plenty dark.”
“No. I’ll give you cover and you get over here. We’ll go together.”
“Can’t make it, man. You go now.”
“No! We’re running together, mon, or we’re not running.”
Maple reloaded. His last rocket, this one anti-tank. He heard Stickman firing steadily behind him as he watched for another helicopter to make a run. There was a pause as Stickman slapped in a fresh clip, or switched to his other assault rifle, then the deadly bursts resumed. Maple could see shapes moving swiftly in the dim light, bursts of gunfire as more SWAT officers found the protection of Cornell’s trailer, Stickman answering their fire. Maple put down his launcher and grabbed an assault rifle, triggering a long burst until return fire had him again hugging the slab. Another thought swept by: We should have wired fucking loser’s trailer to greet the feds, using Cornell’s explosives, of course. The chatter of Stickman’s assault rifle intruded on his weird musing, hurried him back to the firefight. Shadows moved toward him from Cornell’s trailer, accompanied by lighted bursts of gunfire, punctuating the near-dark. Stickman opened fire and Maple rose to create an M-16 duet. The chatter was lovely, deadly. The advancing bursts went silent, and Maple was startled to hear he alone was firing. A funereal sensation swept over him.
A flare and then a second and a third draped a shadowy blue-gray light all around him. Another helicopter began its run from the northwest, coming in just above the tree line. Maple waited as it foolishly came at him full speed, the sharpshooters losing any chance of a clear shot. Maple rose to his knees, weighing whether to unleash the anti-tank rocket, his last, on a target moving so fast. He tried to gather the copter in his sights. There was a blast from near a maple tree along the lane. In the fading light of the flares, the RPG, like many he had fired with devastating effect, ripped into the side of his chest and exploded.