Home Invasion - J. A. Johnstone [116]
The drivers had no choice except to bring their vehicles to a halt. They had been warned about avoiding accidents during the trip to D.C. Crashing into a helicopter would certainly qualify.
“Code Red, Code Red!” the driver of the first truck said into the intercom connecting him with the guards in the back of the vehicle. They were outgunned, no doubt about it, but they would fight to defend the cargo. Satellite surveillance was supposed to be following them on their journey, and this interception would prompt a rescue team to be scrambled and sent out. Maybe they could hold out long enough for help to get here.
Surprisingly, only one man jumped down from the chopper that had landed in front of the trucks. He strode toward them, a stiff-backed, middle-aged man with a wind-burned face, graying sandy hair that was cut close to his head, and a small mustache. He wore close-fitting black combat gear, and the only weapon he appeared to be carrying was a holstered pistol strapped to his hip. He looked familiar to the driver.
As the man approached, he motioned for the driver to lower his window. The driver did so, wondering if he was going to be killed.
“At ease, son,” the man barked. “I’m General Wendell Stone, director of the Federal Protective Force. Change of plans.”
The driver recognized General Stone from news reports about the man’s ouster from the army and his subsequent appointment as head of the newly-formed FPS. That made the driver relax a little, but not much. Nobody had told him about a change of plans. Fortunately, there was a protocol for handling things like this.
The driver put his right hand on the gun beside him. “Sir? Are you sure about that?”
Stone smiled thinly. “Authorization Zulu Niner Bird Dog. That good enough for you, son?”
The driver blew out his breath in a sigh of relief. That authorization code came from the top. The very top. He nodded and said, “Yes, sir, what can we do for you?”
“My men and I are here to take charge of that cargo you’re carrying.”
“I thought it was supposed to be low-profile all the way to Washington.”
“Like I said, change of plans. You’ll cooperate, of course?”
The driver wondered for a second if there was a veiled threat in that question. Deciding that there wasn’t, he nodded and said, “Sure. We were supposed to turn the stuff over to you, anyway. We’re just doing it a few days sooner, that’s all.”
Stone grinned. “You’re right, that’s all.” He turned and motioned to the choppers. Men clad in similar black outfits disembarked and started to gather around the trucks.
The drivers and the guards climbed out to watch as nine of the ten cases containing the mysterious cargo were unloaded from the trucks and placed aboard two of the helicopters, four cases in one and five in the other. The tenth and final case was carried to the command chopper.
General Stone nodded in satisfaction when it had been loaded aboard. “Thank you for your cooperation, son,” he said to the lead driver.
“Just following—”
That was as far as the driver got, because at that point Stone drew his gun and shot him in the head, killing him instantly. The driver was dead when he hit the pavement, so he didn’t hear the yells and the gunfire as the rest of his companions were wiped out.
Less than ten minutes later, the bodies had been tossed in the now-empty trucks. Some of Stone’s men got into the cabs to drive the vehicles out into the empty West Texas landscape and dispose of them in a ravine that had been located on satellite photos. A few expertly placed charges would collapse the wall of the ravine on the trucks, burying