Convergence
by Asp
"Actor is on the move," declared the leader of the night duty. 'Actor' was the Secret Service name for the President, and he was on his way to his first day of official work as the President of the United States of America, otherwise known as POTUS. For every President, the secret service assigned a new team to protect him. This avoided any potential emotional attachment, and gave the best law enforcement officers in the country the opportunity to live their dream. The head of the Presidential detail had just arrived to work for his day shift, starting at 7:30 am, and staying until the President went to the official residence, known as the House, for the night. Andrew Yushkevich was the first Russian named agent to hold this position. He was tall, at six foot three inches, fair haired, and intense. His boyish good looks belied his actual age of forty two. He was no longer a 'runner,' those that ran alongside the presidential motorcade, though he had done that.
"Okay people, tighten on Blue Room One," he ordered into his radio. Agents from around the West Wing converged around the Oval Office as the President approached it.
"Good morning, Mr. President," Andrew said. "This is your schedule for the day, Mr. President, and everybody on it has been cleared through our screening program." Andrew continued on, explaining the Secret Services methods of screening, and warming the man up to the intrusiveness that would become a part of his life for at least the next four years. The President smiled at him, thanked him and sat behind the antique desk, his back to the bullet-proof Plexiglass windows. His National Security Advisor, and Chief of Staff both joined him, and began their morning briefings.
Andrew walked to the 'closet,' a surveillance station located under a flight of stairs, thus giving it the name. After checking in with his agents on watch, Andrew went down to the first basement to his office. The office for the head of the Presidential detail used to be in the Treasury Building across the street, but Andrew had fought hard to move it to the same building as his principle, for the obvious reason that he needed to be close.
Michael Long had just been promoted to the Presidential detail. He was a young man at twenty-five, but had vast experience for his age. Four years with the LAPD, straight from high school, with three more working the counterfeit division of the Secret Service. Now he was where he wanted to be, or so he thought. He was on a freezing cold street in New York city, one of the Advance Team for Actor's arrival tomorrow. It was his job to ensure that this block that the motorcade would travel down, was free of all threats. Considering it was one of the few residential streets that would be traveled, it made Michael's life a little more difficult.
"Your team finished up there yet, Long?" crackled over his radio earpiece. He hated the earpieces, they gave him ear infections easily.
"Yeah, the last of the tenants are being interviewed as we speak. They've all been told that no visitors will be allowed in the building for the four hours prior to passage, and that we'll have guards at the entrances to each building to ensure it. We haven't, of course, told them about the snipers on the roof tops, sir."
"Good work, Long," the Advance Team commander said.
Michael went into the closest building, both to try to warm up, and to hurry his agents along. They still had ten more apartments to go through, which meant at least twenty more security checks to run.
"Actor is entering Marine Force One," Andrew heard over his radio circuit. He pulled his car out of the underground parking area of the East Wing, and drove towards Andrew's Air Force Base, where the President would exit the Marine Sikorsky helicopter, and enter the VC-25B, a heavily modified Boeing 747, known as Air Force One. Andrew had placed his most trusted agent's with Actor, as he was to drive to the New York landing point.
He arrived at Andrew's AFB minutes before the helicopter, exited the car, and marched to the field agents awaiting their charge. "You know what to do, Johnny?"
"Yes sir. Air Force security has this base tightened down like a two hundred psi bolt. Ain't no one getting in or out. All press people are aboard, as well as all the aids. We're ready to roll, sir." As he said that, the big Sikorsky flared out for a smooth landing, the rotor tips twenty yards from the large Boeing's fuselage.
Andrew shook his hand and returned to his car. Spinning his tires, he fishtailed the car around in a 180 degree turn, and sped to the gate, where the security officer on watch raised the metal gate, and lowered the tire spikes with one button. Both of which could be thrust back into position in under a second, and would stop a tank. He cruised down the road, heading for the highway that the car's navigation system showed on the small tv screen on the dash. He looked to his right, and watched the large aircraft lift gracefully into the sky.
"Think we can beat them?" he asked the empty car.
"Of course, Andrew. If you follow my directions," replied a New England accented voice.
"Then let's go, Kitt."
Aboard Air Force One, Actor was being briefed on the speech he was to give to the Chamber of Commerce. It was thought prudent by his Chief of Staff to get POTUS out into the spotlight, where real people can see him; real people in this case being Wall Street executives and the type. Those that the regular citizens of the US would have nothing to do with if given the chance, but they're the ones who bring Presidents into office, not the common man. Andrew had argued long and hard with the Chief of Staff on this, that that's what the Vice-President was for. To go out and meet the people. But, the Chief had persuaded the President, and that was that. The President, for his part did not really want to bother with these trivialities, but Harry Bennet had been his chief advisor for many years. While Wall Street's money was used, it was Bennet's use of that money that had put him in the Oval Office; the height of power in the free world.
Forty two thousand feet below the jumbo jet, a black Trans-Am streaked along the Interstate highway at over two hundred miles per hour, sirens and flashing lights coming on only when traffic slowed, or a police cruiser was in the vicinity. Air Force One was flying a loop pattern at four hundred miles per hour, while Andrew and Kitt were driving as straight a line as possible. It would be close. Andrew would have preferred to fly with his charge, but Kitt, oddly enough for a computer, had a fear of flying, and would not let anyone else drive. So, here he was, motoring down a freeway at almost five times the legal limit, in a one of a kind car, donated to the Secret Service by an agency called FLAG, or the Foundation for Law And Government. He had worked with FLAG operatives in the past, when he was busting counterfeit rings, and he knew that they had some cutting edge technology, but this car, donated a year ago, and delivered to himself as the designated driver, was something spectacular.
"Take the next turn to your right, Andrew, approaching in five hundred yards."
Andrew hit the brakes, and swung the turn at nearly 100 miles per hour, the tail end swinging out a bit as he did so. He used the throttle to straighten the car out expertly, then accelerated back up to speed. "How long, Kitt?"
"Twenty-two minutes, Andrew. And, before you can ask, Air Force One will arrive in twenty-four minutes, plus an additional five to taxi to the reception area. All stations have checked in with their latest reports. Everything is fine, Andrew. Do try to relax."
"Sorry Kitt, but I don't like these types of excursions. There are just too many things that can go wrong."
"Andrew, you have some of the best men in the country working to ensure the President's safety, before he even arrives. I wouldn't worry yourself about what you cannot control."
"That's just it, Kitt. If I can't control it, it scares the shit out of me."
They pulled into the airport gates just as the VC-25B came in for a landing. Andrew was at the reception line, checking in with the Advance Team commander when the large aircraft rolled to a stop twenty feet away, the air turbulent around the engines. The engines were shut down quickly, and Andrew could see the faces of his agents peering through the windows by the door the President would exit. He gave an imperceptible nod, also vocalizing the clear signal through his radio. The door opened, and one of his agents stepped out first. The agent swept the area once with his eyes, then nodded to inside the plane. Actor stepped out onto the stairway, stopped and waved. Andrew turned his back on POTUS, scanning the crowd, and the buildings for any threat. He reached his left wrist up to his mouth and said, "Give me a full scan, Kitt. Image, thermal, the works."
Kitt started with the people closest to the president. The Secret Service agents all had elevated stress levels in their bio readings, as well as their guns. Next he scanned the spectators who had arrived to watch. Their bio scans proved more normal, though still slightly elevated, probably on seeing such a powerful figure, except for one person in the back of the crowd. His stress levels were higher even than the agents. Kitt scanned the individual more closely. At the small of his back was a combination of plastic and explosive materials.
"Andrew, at the rear of the gallery is a man in a navy blue pin stripe suit, approximately twenty-one years of age, short blonde hair, clean cut. He appears to have a hand grenade at the small of his back."
Andrew replied by calmly speaking into his radio, "Harden!" It was the one word that the agents feared to hear in the field. It meant to surround their charge, push him to the ground, and keep him there until the threat was neutralized. Next, Andrew relayed the information Kitt had given him to the agents interspersed through the crowd. The man was taken down in under fifteen seconds from the time Kitt had given the warning. The President was rushed to the waiting modified Cadillac limousine that would take him to the Chamber of Commerce speech. The man with the grenade would be questioned intensively, then handed over to the local police.
Andrew slid into the driver's seat with a sigh. "Thanks, Kitt. That could have been pretty hairy out there without you."
Kitt said nothing, just moved the car to follow in the motorcade, two cars behind what was termed Ground One.
Michael heard the commotion at the airport over the radio net, and made himself, and the rest of his team even more vigilant. An attempt had almost been made. Probably it was the only one, but there may be more, and every agent knew it.
Jim Bryce was a farmer by trade. He had been farming the land that had been in his family for generations when the bank foreclosed on him. Too many years of drought had made the land untenable. The government was supposed to help him in this kind of a situation, but every agency he had gone to looked at his credit record, which had been good up until the drought, and turned him away. He now lived in a small apartment in New York city, working as a carpenter at one of the numerous small theatres in the town. His wife had left him after they lost the farm, and his son wanted nothing to do with him. He was pissed off. Fed up with it all. So when a group of men asked him if he'd like to get back at the government, he jumped at the opportunity. It wasn't until the Secret Service asked him a bunch of questions, which he answered truthfully, that he realised what his co-conspirators wanted him to do. He had the weapons, supplied by the Freedom Movement, and he had the necessary skills, given to him by the army at Fort Bragg, near the end of the Vietnam war. Now, he had the opportunity. He pulled the RPG, rocket propelled grenade, launcher out of its hiding place under the floorboards. He loaded it with an armour piercing round, opened his window to the street, and stood up on the bed, keeping well back. Lying five feet away from him on his dresser was a fully loaded M16, made by Colt. The exact same model he had used in Vietnam. He was ready.
"Unit sixteen, Ground One approaching 'the alley' now, report."
"'The alley' is secure, sir," Michael Long reported from his post in front of one of the buildings. 'The alley,' as it was known, was his residential block, considered the most hazardous part of the route, another thing Bennet had wanted, and gotten his way on, much to the chagrin of every agent involved. It was said, Michael reflected, that protecting a coward was easy, it's the brave ones that are hard. Well, this President is definitely a brave one.
Michael looked to his left, and saw the first cars of the motorcade turning onto his street. His eyes immediately started scanning windows. Many were open, despite the temperature, and people were looking out to see their leader. Every member of his team continually checked in with him, and he checked in with Andrew. With his peripheral vision, he saw the runners. One at each corner of the limousine. His eyes instinctively traveled to the flapping Presidential flag on the fender of the car, as did another pair of eyes three floors above. He next saw the Trans-Am come around the corner, and almost immediately heard the word yelled in his earpiece, "CONVERGE!" The order meant for all agents assigned in the area to surround the limousine. Instantly there was a flash from above him, followed by a deafening explosion. The President's car sat motionless, the front half ripped apart by the blast, agents bodies sprawled everywhere, the screams of the wounded, erasing almost all sound.
"Andrew, there is a man on the south side, three buildings up, on the third floor with what appears to be a grenade launcher."
Without thinking, following only his training, Andrew Yushkevich yelled into his mouthpiece, "CONVERGE!" He immediately jumped out of the car while it was still rolling, and ran to the limo. He yelled orders for the building to be swept, but before anyone could do that, he was thrown backwards by the blast. He quickly got back to his feet, running even harder now to cover the President. His agents, he saw, were doing their best to control their charge, and keep him out of harms way. Then the unmistakable sound started, and his people started falling, sparks flying off the roof of the car. M-16, his mind told him. His training told him what he had to do. The agents covering the destroyed rear door were falling to the ground, peppered by the 45 calibre bullets spraying down from above. He jumped into the doorway, knowing it would be his last act.
Michael watched, and while his recent training told him to give his life by jumping into the hail of bullets, he realised the gun was being fired from the building he was standing in front of. He turned, and went in, leaping up the stairs as quickly as possible. He got to the third floor, and heard the gun being fired. He went through the stairwell door into the corridor, his Smith & Wesson revolver in his hands. He was quietly making his way down the hall when the shooting stopped and a door flew open. Michael saw a man with the gun in his hands, and snapped off a quick shot that went wide. The man leveled the rifle and started firing in three round bursts. Michael barely made it through the stair door when the first bullets hit. He knew the layout of the building in detail, knew that there was another staircase that led out to the back, into an alley where people parked their cars.
Michael ran back down the stairs, and out the door to the grisly scene. There were more than thirty agents down. He looked for a car that would still work, and his eyes set upon the Trans-Am. He ran to it and lifted the door handle. Locked! His mind raged. "I need a fucking car. The bastards getting away!" The car door automatically swung open, and the engine fired up. Michael had of course heard about the car, had even seen it once, but was not ready for what awaited him as he jumped into the driver's seat. He slammed the car into gear and hammered the throttle, racing beyond belief at the speeds he was already accelerating to, when he hit the corner and turned right. "Where are you, where the fuck are you?" he kept murmuring to himself.
"There is a vehicle pulling out of the alleyway from behind the building on the other side of the block. That is likely our perpetrator."
"What the..." A map came up on the tv screen, and showed him the suspect car relative to his position. He accelerated the car to even higher speeds as he rounded a corner, now heading straight for the getaway car, or rather pick up truck, he thought. He came up behind the beat up old pickup with farm plates, and was surprised to see a man in the passenger seat. This man leaned out the window and started firing an AK 47 at him. Automatically he cringed, seeing his own death.
"Don't worry," the car's voice said, "Their bullets won't penetrate my structure, Agent Long."
"Great, a talking car that can stop bullets, and has radar. What the hell are you?" He was pulling closer to the truck, the man in the passenger seat raining bullets down on the Trans-Am, and obviously getting frustrated that they weren't even cracking the windshield.
"I am the Knight Industries Two Thousand, Kitt to Agent Yushkevich. And I want to stop these...terrorists as much as you do, Agent Long."
"Well Kitt, got any suggestions?"
"Yes, clip the rear bumper sideways. At this speed, with as light as their rear end is, that will spin them out of control."
"Good enough," Michael said as calmly as he could, though his heart was racing from the adrenaline coursing through him. He accelerated, and pulled the nose of the car up alongside the truck, then turned the wheel sharply to crash into the old pickup. He watched as the rear end collapsed from the impact, then the truck started to spin out. The right side tires blew, and the vehicle rolled, killing the gunner in the passenger seat immediately. The car Michael was driving, retained perfect control, as a multitude of microchips and servos kept the vehicle stable. Michael jumped out, gun drawn and approached the wrecked vehicle. He noted the dead passenger, and the driver was scrambling to get out through the driver's side window. Michael holstered his gun, pulled the man up to his feet, looked into his eyes, and punched him as hard as he could. Jim Bryce collapsed to the ground in a heap. Michael, on shaky legs, walked back to Kitt, slid in the driver's seat, and leaned his head back.
"Agent Long, may I say that you have displayed some of the best driving skills I have ever witnessed, not to mention, the intelligence, and courage for the position you are in. Agent Yushkevich is dead. I believe I am in need of a new partner. My I recommend that you be that partner?"
Michael just smiled and collapsed into the seat.
by Asp
"Actor is on the move," declared the leader of the night duty. 'Actor' was the Secret Service name for the President, and he was on his way to his first day of official work as the President of the United States of America, otherwise known as POTUS. For every President, the secret service assigned a new team to protect him. This avoided any potential emotional attachment, and gave the best law enforcement officers in the country the opportunity to live their dream. The head of the Presidential detail had just arrived to work for his day shift, starting at 7:30 am, and staying until the President went to the official residence, known as the House, for the night. Andrew Yushkevich was the first Russian named agent to hold this position. He was tall, at six foot three inches, fair haired, and intense. His boyish good looks belied his actual age of forty two. He was no longer a 'runner,' those that ran alongside the presidential motorcade, though he had done that.
"Okay people, tighten on Blue Room One," he ordered into his radio. Agents from around the West Wing converged around the Oval Office as the President approached it.
"Good morning, Mr. President," Andrew said. "This is your schedule for the day, Mr. President, and everybody on it has been cleared through our screening program." Andrew continued on, explaining the Secret Services methods of screening, and warming the man up to the intrusiveness that would become a part of his life for at least the next four years. The President smiled at him, thanked him and sat behind the antique desk, his back to the bullet-proof Plexiglass windows. His National Security Advisor, and Chief of Staff both joined him, and began their morning briefings.
Andrew walked to the 'closet,' a surveillance station located under a flight of stairs, thus giving it the name. After checking in with his agents on watch, Andrew went down to the first basement to his office. The office for the head of the Presidential detail used to be in the Treasury Building across the street, but Andrew had fought hard to move it to the same building as his principle, for the obvious reason that he needed to be close.
Michael Long had just been promoted to the Presidential detail. He was a young man at twenty-five, but had vast experience for his age. Four years with the LAPD, straight from high school, with three more working the counterfeit division of the Secret Service. Now he was where he wanted to be, or so he thought. He was on a freezing cold street in New York city, one of the Advance Team for Actor's arrival tomorrow. It was his job to ensure that this block that the motorcade would travel down, was free of all threats. Considering it was one of the few residential streets that would be traveled, it made Michael's life a little more difficult.
"Your team finished up there yet, Long?" crackled over his radio earpiece. He hated the earpieces, they gave him ear infections easily.
"Yeah, the last of the tenants are being interviewed as we speak. They've all been told that no visitors will be allowed in the building for the four hours prior to passage, and that we'll have guards at the entrances to each building to ensure it. We haven't, of course, told them about the snipers on the roof tops, sir."
"Good work, Long," the Advance Team commander said.
Michael went into the closest building, both to try to warm up, and to hurry his agents along. They still had ten more apartments to go through, which meant at least twenty more security checks to run.
"Actor is entering Marine Force One," Andrew heard over his radio circuit. He pulled his car out of the underground parking area of the East Wing, and drove towards Andrew's Air Force Base, where the President would exit the Marine Sikorsky helicopter, and enter the VC-25B, a heavily modified Boeing 747, known as Air Force One. Andrew had placed his most trusted agent's with Actor, as he was to drive to the New York landing point.
He arrived at Andrew's AFB minutes before the helicopter, exited the car, and marched to the field agents awaiting their charge. "You know what to do, Johnny?"
"Yes sir. Air Force security has this base tightened down like a two hundred psi bolt. Ain't no one getting in or out. All press people are aboard, as well as all the aids. We're ready to roll, sir." As he said that, the big Sikorsky flared out for a smooth landing, the rotor tips twenty yards from the large Boeing's fuselage.
Andrew shook his hand and returned to his car. Spinning his tires, he fishtailed the car around in a 180 degree turn, and sped to the gate, where the security officer on watch raised the metal gate, and lowered the tire spikes with one button. Both of which could be thrust back into position in under a second, and would stop a tank. He cruised down the road, heading for the highway that the car's navigation system showed on the small tv screen on the dash. He looked to his right, and watched the large aircraft lift gracefully into the sky.
"Think we can beat them?" he asked the empty car.
"Of course, Andrew. If you follow my directions," replied a New England accented voice.
"Then let's go, Kitt."
Aboard Air Force One, Actor was being briefed on the speech he was to give to the Chamber of Commerce. It was thought prudent by his Chief of Staff to get POTUS out into the spotlight, where real people can see him; real people in this case being Wall Street executives and the type. Those that the regular citizens of the US would have nothing to do with if given the chance, but they're the ones who bring Presidents into office, not the common man. Andrew had argued long and hard with the Chief of Staff on this, that that's what the Vice-President was for. To go out and meet the people. But, the Chief had persuaded the President, and that was that. The President, for his part did not really want to bother with these trivialities, but Harry Bennet had been his chief advisor for many years. While Wall Street's money was used, it was Bennet's use of that money that had put him in the Oval Office; the height of power in the free world.
Forty two thousand feet below the jumbo jet, a black Trans-Am streaked along the Interstate highway at over two hundred miles per hour, sirens and flashing lights coming on only when traffic slowed, or a police cruiser was in the vicinity. Air Force One was flying a loop pattern at four hundred miles per hour, while Andrew and Kitt were driving as straight a line as possible. It would be close. Andrew would have preferred to fly with his charge, but Kitt, oddly enough for a computer, had a fear of flying, and would not let anyone else drive. So, here he was, motoring down a freeway at almost five times the legal limit, in a one of a kind car, donated to the Secret Service by an agency called FLAG, or the Foundation for Law And Government. He had worked with FLAG operatives in the past, when he was busting counterfeit rings, and he knew that they had some cutting edge technology, but this car, donated a year ago, and delivered to himself as the designated driver, was something spectacular.
"Take the next turn to your right, Andrew, approaching in five hundred yards."
Andrew hit the brakes, and swung the turn at nearly 100 miles per hour, the tail end swinging out a bit as he did so. He used the throttle to straighten the car out expertly, then accelerated back up to speed. "How long, Kitt?"
"Twenty-two minutes, Andrew. And, before you can ask, Air Force One will arrive in twenty-four minutes, plus an additional five to taxi to the reception area. All stations have checked in with their latest reports. Everything is fine, Andrew. Do try to relax."
"Sorry Kitt, but I don't like these types of excursions. There are just too many things that can go wrong."
"Andrew, you have some of the best men in the country working to ensure the President's safety, before he even arrives. I wouldn't worry yourself about what you cannot control."
"That's just it, Kitt. If I can't control it, it scares the shit out of me."
They pulled into the airport gates just as the VC-25B came in for a landing. Andrew was at the reception line, checking in with the Advance Team commander when the large aircraft rolled to a stop twenty feet away, the air turbulent around the engines. The engines were shut down quickly, and Andrew could see the faces of his agents peering through the windows by the door the President would exit. He gave an imperceptible nod, also vocalizing the clear signal through his radio. The door opened, and one of his agents stepped out first. The agent swept the area once with his eyes, then nodded to inside the plane. Actor stepped out onto the stairway, stopped and waved. Andrew turned his back on POTUS, scanning the crowd, and the buildings for any threat. He reached his left wrist up to his mouth and said, "Give me a full scan, Kitt. Image, thermal, the works."
Kitt started with the people closest to the president. The Secret Service agents all had elevated stress levels in their bio readings, as well as their guns. Next he scanned the spectators who had arrived to watch. Their bio scans proved more normal, though still slightly elevated, probably on seeing such a powerful figure, except for one person in the back of the crowd. His stress levels were higher even than the agents. Kitt scanned the individual more closely. At the small of his back was a combination of plastic and explosive materials.
"Andrew, at the rear of the gallery is a man in a navy blue pin stripe suit, approximately twenty-one years of age, short blonde hair, clean cut. He appears to have a hand grenade at the small of his back."
Andrew replied by calmly speaking into his radio, "Harden!" It was the one word that the agents feared to hear in the field. It meant to surround their charge, push him to the ground, and keep him there until the threat was neutralized. Next, Andrew relayed the information Kitt had given him to the agents interspersed through the crowd. The man was taken down in under fifteen seconds from the time Kitt had given the warning. The President was rushed to the waiting modified Cadillac limousine that would take him to the Chamber of Commerce speech. The man with the grenade would be questioned intensively, then handed over to the local police.
Andrew slid into the driver's seat with a sigh. "Thanks, Kitt. That could have been pretty hairy out there without you."
Kitt said nothing, just moved the car to follow in the motorcade, two cars behind what was termed Ground One.
Michael heard the commotion at the airport over the radio net, and made himself, and the rest of his team even more vigilant. An attempt had almost been made. Probably it was the only one, but there may be more, and every agent knew it.
Jim Bryce was a farmer by trade. He had been farming the land that had been in his family for generations when the bank foreclosed on him. Too many years of drought had made the land untenable. The government was supposed to help him in this kind of a situation, but every agency he had gone to looked at his credit record, which had been good up until the drought, and turned him away. He now lived in a small apartment in New York city, working as a carpenter at one of the numerous small theatres in the town. His wife had left him after they lost the farm, and his son wanted nothing to do with him. He was pissed off. Fed up with it all. So when a group of men asked him if he'd like to get back at the government, he jumped at the opportunity. It wasn't until the Secret Service asked him a bunch of questions, which he answered truthfully, that he realised what his co-conspirators wanted him to do. He had the weapons, supplied by the Freedom Movement, and he had the necessary skills, given to him by the army at Fort Bragg, near the end of the Vietnam war. Now, he had the opportunity. He pulled the RPG, rocket propelled grenade, launcher out of its hiding place under the floorboards. He loaded it with an armour piercing round, opened his window to the street, and stood up on the bed, keeping well back. Lying five feet away from him on his dresser was a fully loaded M16, made by Colt. The exact same model he had used in Vietnam. He was ready.
"Unit sixteen, Ground One approaching 'the alley' now, report."
"'The alley' is secure, sir," Michael Long reported from his post in front of one of the buildings. 'The alley,' as it was known, was his residential block, considered the most hazardous part of the route, another thing Bennet had wanted, and gotten his way on, much to the chagrin of every agent involved. It was said, Michael reflected, that protecting a coward was easy, it's the brave ones that are hard. Well, this President is definitely a brave one.
Michael looked to his left, and saw the first cars of the motorcade turning onto his street. His eyes immediately started scanning windows. Many were open, despite the temperature, and people were looking out to see their leader. Every member of his team continually checked in with him, and he checked in with Andrew. With his peripheral vision, he saw the runners. One at each corner of the limousine. His eyes instinctively traveled to the flapping Presidential flag on the fender of the car, as did another pair of eyes three floors above. He next saw the Trans-Am come around the corner, and almost immediately heard the word yelled in his earpiece, "CONVERGE!" The order meant for all agents assigned in the area to surround the limousine. Instantly there was a flash from above him, followed by a deafening explosion. The President's car sat motionless, the front half ripped apart by the blast, agents bodies sprawled everywhere, the screams of the wounded, erasing almost all sound.
"Andrew, there is a man on the south side, three buildings up, on the third floor with what appears to be a grenade launcher."
Without thinking, following only his training, Andrew Yushkevich yelled into his mouthpiece, "CONVERGE!" He immediately jumped out of the car while it was still rolling, and ran to the limo. He yelled orders for the building to be swept, but before anyone could do that, he was thrown backwards by the blast. He quickly got back to his feet, running even harder now to cover the President. His agents, he saw, were doing their best to control their charge, and keep him out of harms way. Then the unmistakable sound started, and his people started falling, sparks flying off the roof of the car. M-16, his mind told him. His training told him what he had to do. The agents covering the destroyed rear door were falling to the ground, peppered by the 45 calibre bullets spraying down from above. He jumped into the doorway, knowing it would be his last act.
Michael watched, and while his recent training told him to give his life by jumping into the hail of bullets, he realised the gun was being fired from the building he was standing in front of. He turned, and went in, leaping up the stairs as quickly as possible. He got to the third floor, and heard the gun being fired. He went through the stairwell door into the corridor, his Smith & Wesson revolver in his hands. He was quietly making his way down the hall when the shooting stopped and a door flew open. Michael saw a man with the gun in his hands, and snapped off a quick shot that went wide. The man leveled the rifle and started firing in three round bursts. Michael barely made it through the stair door when the first bullets hit. He knew the layout of the building in detail, knew that there was another staircase that led out to the back, into an alley where people parked their cars.
Michael ran back down the stairs, and out the door to the grisly scene. There were more than thirty agents down. He looked for a car that would still work, and his eyes set upon the Trans-Am. He ran to it and lifted the door handle. Locked! His mind raged. "I need a fucking car. The bastards getting away!" The car door automatically swung open, and the engine fired up. Michael had of course heard about the car, had even seen it once, but was not ready for what awaited him as he jumped into the driver's seat. He slammed the car into gear and hammered the throttle, racing beyond belief at the speeds he was already accelerating to, when he hit the corner and turned right. "Where are you, where the fuck are you?" he kept murmuring to himself.
"There is a vehicle pulling out of the alleyway from behind the building on the other side of the block. That is likely our perpetrator."
"What the..." A map came up on the tv screen, and showed him the suspect car relative to his position. He accelerated the car to even higher speeds as he rounded a corner, now heading straight for the getaway car, or rather pick up truck, he thought. He came up behind the beat up old pickup with farm plates, and was surprised to see a man in the passenger seat. This man leaned out the window and started firing an AK 47 at him. Automatically he cringed, seeing his own death.
"Don't worry," the car's voice said, "Their bullets won't penetrate my structure, Agent Long."
"Great, a talking car that can stop bullets, and has radar. What the hell are you?" He was pulling closer to the truck, the man in the passenger seat raining bullets down on the Trans-Am, and obviously getting frustrated that they weren't even cracking the windshield.
"I am the Knight Industries Two Thousand, Kitt to Agent Yushkevich. And I want to stop these...terrorists as much as you do, Agent Long."
"Well Kitt, got any suggestions?"
"Yes, clip the rear bumper sideways. At this speed, with as light as their rear end is, that will spin them out of control."
"Good enough," Michael said as calmly as he could, though his heart was racing from the adrenaline coursing through him. He accelerated, and pulled the nose of the car up alongside the truck, then turned the wheel sharply to crash into the old pickup. He watched as the rear end collapsed from the impact, then the truck started to spin out. The right side tires blew, and the vehicle rolled, killing the gunner in the passenger seat immediately. The car Michael was driving, retained perfect control, as a multitude of microchips and servos kept the vehicle stable. Michael jumped out, gun drawn and approached the wrecked vehicle. He noted the dead passenger, and the driver was scrambling to get out through the driver's side window. Michael holstered his gun, pulled the man up to his feet, looked into his eyes, and punched him as hard as he could. Jim Bryce collapsed to the ground in a heap. Michael, on shaky legs, walked back to Kitt, slid in the driver's seat, and leaned his head back.
"Agent Long, may I say that you have displayed some of the best driving skills I have ever witnessed, not to mention, the intelligence, and courage for the position you are in. Agent Yushkevich is dead. I believe I am in need of a new partner. My I recommend that you be that partner?"
Michael just smiled and collapsed into the seat.