Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 74
Five Days, Eight Hours, Twelve Minutes
Lifting his head slightly against the cold wind, Secret Service Agent Nolan Murphy stopped running. He angled his eyes toward the horizon, reaching up with a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and he studied the horizon.
Not looking, Trace Hightower ran into his government bodyguard, but Murphy's strong legs – despite their protests – held them up. They had been running – pounding their feet across the frozen plains – for better than eight hours now, slowing down only when one or the other grew winded from the workout. They had spent a few hours' fitful sleep in a makeshift cavern they had fashioned in the snow, and, when they awoke, they felt rejuvenated. They knew they'd make Zulu Base today – so long as they didn't cramp up once too often – and they knew they'd feel the warmth of the barracks and a good meal in their stomachs. They'd call the White House and assure the President that they were all right. They'd call their respective families, convince them that any news reports of their deaths or injuries were greatly exaggerated, and then they'd sleep in warm beds in the comfort and safety of the United States military.
"What?" Hightower asked, quickly righting himself in the snow. "What is it?"
"Quiet, sir."
"What is it?" he pressed.
"Sir …"
Then, he heard it, too … the convulsive whoop-whoop-whoop of helicopter blades slicing the air. From the sound of it, the craft wasn't too far away, and it was on approach.
Elated, Hightower screamed, "Thank God!"
"Sir, please."
Murphy stuck his ear to the wind and closed his eyes.
"What's the matter with you?" the younger man asked, reaching out and patting the agent hard on the back. "You can't tell me that that sound – that sweet, sweet sound – isn't the best thing you've ever heard? Come on, Murphy! We're being rescued!"
Slowly, the agent shook his head. "We don't know that yet."
"What?" Hightower turned his eyes toward the white mesa, squinting at the cloudy-filled sky, hoping for a glimpse of the craft. "What makes you say that?"
Quickly, the elder man pulled his Glock from under his jacket. Pulling back the slide, he chambered a round.
"Mr. Hightower," he began, "whatever hit the ground near us resembled an atomic blast. I don't know that it was radioactive, but within a matter of minutes all of our mobile technology was rendered useless. Your GPS unit. My satellite phone. Both of our cell phones. The circuits were fried as if they had been struck by an electromagnetic pulse."
"So?"
Murphy thought the thunder from the helicopter had abruptly changed directions. He guessed that the sound was echoing across the open frontier, and he couldn't be absolutely certain which direction the craft would be coming from. He scanned the horizon, looking for the hail of snow that would be thrown into the air in the chopper's wake, but he couldn't yet identify one.
"So it's very likely that the effect would've corrupted all of the circuits at Zulu Base as well," he explained. "Given that likelihood, I think it's a safe guess that this helicopter isn't one of General Nash's."
The young man leaned down, clutching his gloved hands on his knees. He took a few deep chilled breaths before he offered, "Then it only makes sense that, once they declared the area clean of radiation, the President would have them send a rescue helicopter from Anchorage … or somewhere else … doesn't it?"
"It does, yes, but …"
"But what?"
"But I'd rather play it safe."
There.
On the horizon to his left, Murphy saw the wisps of white fluff suddenly thrown against the clouds. There was a flickering of light – the blades slicing into the pale light – and he knew they were about to be 'intercepted.'
"Get down, sir."
"But, Murphy …"
"I SAID GET DOWN!"
Forcefully, the agent slapped his hand onto the young adventurer's shoulder, and he pushed him down hard into the snow.
"Stay behind me! Stay behind me!"
Before he turned back, Murphy heard the roar of the chopper as it soared over the horizon. He spun back, lifting his pistol up to his sights, and he aimed at the black craft. He watched as it dropped its nose a bit – clearly, the pilot had seen the two of them. The copter banked slightly to the right and flew over their heads, the agent following the aircraft's course with the muzzle. Staying focused, Murphy shifted on his feet to place himself between the President' son-in-law and the helicopter. He kept his arm extended, his Glock aimed at the chopper, as it slowly descended, blowing up more snow in its wake, and it set down on the ground.
"Mr. Hightower, I want to stay behind me at all times!" he exclaimed over the rattle. "Stay down on the ground, and stay behind me!"
The agent glanced down quickly. He watched as the young man nodded, a grim expression now on his face …
… and then Murphy saw the second and third helicopter fly over the nearby ridge.
"Sonuvabitch," he muttered.
Glancing up from his spot on the ground, Hightower yelled, "What is it?"
"Nothing," Murphy hollered back. "I just sure hope to hell that these fellows are on our side."
Turning back to the first chopper, he watched as the side hatch swung open and a single man wearing dark fatigues climbed from the cockpit to the ground. Shielding his eyes, the man quickly trotted in their direction, and Murphy watched as the man's thin hair shuffled about in the gale from the copter's blades. He approached, and, to the agent's delight, the man raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
"At ease, soldier," Ramsey cried out over the rolling mechanical thunder. "My name is Nathan Ramsey. I'm with the NSA. The President sent me here to rescue you."
Murphy locked his eyes on the man. "If you're with the United States … if you're here on order of the President … then what's the call sign for this trip?"
Slowly, the older man nodded. "Snake eyes."
The agent breathed, his breath a thick white streak in the space before him. He lowered his gun.
Quickly, Ramsey turned back to the helicopter, and he flashed a gesture – he drew a line across his throat – back at the pilot, instructing for the craft to power down.
"Now, can I officially say … Thank God?" Hightower asked, rising up to his knees.
"You bet your red, white, and blue stripes you can, son," he said.
Reaching out, he helped the man to his feet. "You must be Trace Hightower."
"Thank you, Mr. Ramsey."
"Just remember to thank your father-in-law, son."
"He's next on my list."
"He'll be relieved to hear that you're looking none the worse for wear." Nodding at the Secret Service agent, he added, "You, too … mister?"
"Nolan Murphy," the guard replied.
Nodding back toward his aircraft, Ramsey explained, "All right, the introductions are over. We should get the hell out of here while the getting's good."
"What do you mean?" Murphy asked.
The director lifted his head up and scanned the sky.
"Mr. Ramsey … what is it?"
"To tell you the truth, I don't understand it," he said. "There's supposed to be an unfriendly in the area. Some kind of top secret attack aircraft. A helicopter."
"But … not one of yours?"
"No, I'm with some Russians." Ramsey realized that his reply probably didn't make much sense to the two men.
"Russians?" Hightower asked.
"Yes, but don't worry. They're friends of mine."
"Can't you pick up the aircraft on your chopper's radar?" Murphy tried.
Slowly, the man shook his head. "My best guess is that it must be some kind of stealth." He planted his hands firmly on his waist, pivoting his body as far as he could to study the skies, but he found no signs of the enemy. "Well, I can only guess it had some kind of stealth technology. I don't know much about it … except that we had every reason to believe that it was coming here to finish the job on you and Mr. Hightower."
"Me?" Hightower asked. "But why?"
"It's a really long story," the director explained. "As short as I can make it, we've been without satellite capability for some time. The only tactical information we could get on what happened up here – that blast – came from a variety of secondary sources, none of which we believed were one hundred percent accurate or reliable." He shrugged. "I'm just glad that the two of you are all right." Grimacing, he offered, "You're absolutely certain that you haven't seen any sign of it? The other helicopter?"
Murphy shook his head.
"It should have beat us to the punch," the director muttered.
Slowly, Ramsey brought his hand up and covered his mouth. The two men watched as he opened his eyes wide.
"Oh, no," he mumbled.
Turning, he started back toward the Havoc.
"Sonuvabitch," he swore. Then, he shouted, "Sonuvabitch!"
Instinctively, Murphy grabbed Hightower and pulled him in step behind their rescuer.
"Ramsey, what is it?"
Ignoring them, the man pulled a radio from his belt. "Yuri, do you copy?"
The other helicopters were circling now, slowly creating an aerial defense perimeter.
"Go ahead, Nathan," the voice barked through the static.
"Yuri, set 'em down."
"What?"
"I repeat: set those craft down." Continuing toward the Havoc, Ramsey twirled around as he walked, studying the skies for any sign of their enemy. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" he exclaimed. Shaking his head, he shouted into the radio, "If you have them, I want temporary structures – tents, igloos, I don't give a damn if it's an outhouse – I want 'em up and operational as soon as your men can make it happen. Whatever you have, we might need them. Also, let's offload any heavy artillery that we might need to use for a temporary base of operations. Surface-to-air stuff. Missiles, if you have 'em. That bird may show its ugly feathers yet, and, if it does, who knows? We might only get one shot at the thing, but we're going to have to make it count."
"Copy that, Nathan."
"Also, I'm going to need to use your equipment to get a call in to Washington," he continued. "If the big boys have any information on what may have happened here, then I'm going to have to get it. Your daughter's a helluva pilot. Once you're down, let's have her run a quick recon over Zulu. I don't want her breaking the strike zone. We don't know what we'll find back there, and I'm not about to ask you to risk the life of your own flesh and blood. I'd do it myself, but I can't fly this Havoc of yours. Also, if you've any favors left in the fallen Soviet guard, you might want to call them in. Get us the straight skinny on what your satellites are picking up in a fifty mile sweep of our coordinates."
"Really? That would be spying, comrade."
"Don't comrade me, you old Russkie," the director chided his friend. "You and your crew might need a longer visitor's pass than I expected, and I'm the only one who can make that happen."
"Mr. Ramsey!" Murphy shouted. "What is it? What's going on?"
The director stopped. He fixed his eyes on the sky. Resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to find what he was looking for, he finally explained, "Agent Murphy, I don't think that helicopter was coming after you and Mr. Hightower at all, but that's what we were supposed to believe, and all of us – including the President – did. We bought it hook, line, and sinker. No offense, boys, but the two of you were just a planned distraction to keep the eyes in Washington looking slightly in the wrong direction. You were part of a much bigger plan. The question is … what?"
"That doesn't make sense."
"Terrorism rarely does, agent," Ramsey announced. "Don't get me wrong: that bird was bound for Alaska all along. You don't fly a top secret attack craft cross-country for no reason. Of that, there isn't a doubt in my mind." He brushed a quick hand over his face, wiping the chill that had gathered from his skin. "I think it was headed for Zulu Base … and what I need to know is why."
END of Chapter 74
