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  “Sir.” A staffer approached.

  “Yes.”

  “We have live feed up on the screens from Reaper, sir.”

  “Very good, thank you. I want two personnel watching the feed at all times.” The staffer acknowledged and left.

  “What’s your gut feeling, Suzanna, do you think we’ll get lucky or do you think the US now has foot-and-mouth?” Hall lowered his voice as he spoke. “Are we going to be winners or losers?”

  Lopez stared down at her feet then lifted her head. Looking into Hall’s hard eyes, she could almost see her own reflection. “There won’t be any winners after this has finished. Just losers.” Lopez turned abruptly and walked over towards the monitor with the live stream from the Reaper.

  Hall was bemused; her reply had been unexpected, and not what he would have picked. Suzanna Lopez was an incredibly ambitious woman who had succeeded in what was very much a male domain. It hadn’t been easy but she had paid her dues and overcome, outwitted or outgunned a lot of criticism and negative response to rise to her current position. Hall narrowed his eyes, and nodded to himself, before joining her at the live stream.

  Once it arrived at its destination, high above the cattle yards at Inox, the Reaper began a systematic search. The images it sent back were carefully studied at two separate locations. The team at Homeland could see when the sensor operator at Syracuse, guiding the camera, spotted any vehicle or point of interest on the ground, as the camera zoomed in for closer inspection. The next twenty-five minutes clicked slowly by; minute by minute.

  “Sir, ma’am, possible target identified.”

  Hall reacted to the message quickly and came up behind the two seated men, who never took their eyes off the screen. One had a phone headset, in direct contact with the sensor operator at Syracuse. The vehicle matched the description of the suspect vehicle perfectly. The camera focused on the four-wheel drive as it sped westward away from Inox, along a gravel road and sending up a cloud of dust.

  “Someone show me on the map exactly where they are,” demanded Hall.

  “Right here, sir.”

  “Do we know one hundred percent that’s our target?

  “No, sir.”

  It was a familiar dilemma. Put valuable strategic resources into this vehicle or hold off and wait for further confirmation of the target’s identity?

  “Is that Syracuse you have on the phone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hall took the man’s headset. “Director Hall. Can you get in closer so we can see the occupants?”

  “We’ll see what we can do, sir.” Hall could hear the operator giving instructions to the pilot in the background. “Going in closer now, sir.”

  Hall handed the headset back to the staffer.

  “But is that our vehicle?” asked Lopez.

  “Could be, the drone’s going in for a closer look. Lilburn and his team will still be about ten minutes away. That vehicle is sure going like a bat out of hell. There are cattle ranches right through this area, any place they could pull over, stop, lean over a fence and release the virus into the face of a cow. You know I…”

  “Wow!” One of the watchers reeled back in surprise. “Holy shit, did you see that?”

  Everyone’s concentration returned to the live feed. The Ford Explorer had spun around and around on the gravel road before coming to a halt, enveloped in a cloud of thick dust.

  “What the hell just happened?” Hall bellowed.

  “A small tractor pulled out onto the road from nowhere, sir. The subject vehicle had no chance to avoid it and clipped the front before going into those three-sixty spins. Last I saw of the tractor before it was obscured by the dust, it was going over.”

  The team gathered around the live feed could barely see — the dust was only just starting to settle. The Reaper pilot had now put the drone into as tight a pattern as he could. The accident scene began to appear. The Ford had remained upright and come to a complete halt, facing the way it had come and by pure good fortune, still on the road. The tractor was lying on its side. A person could be seen in a spasmodic run heading for the Ford and away from the tractor. The running man made it to the vehicle, everyone saw him bend down and look inside. The man suddenly stepped back away from the Ford, his actions stiff, unnatural. He turned, then started running back the way he came but fell down flat on his face. He didn’t move.

  There was a sharp intake of breath, then Lopez gasped. “I think he’s been shot!”

  The operations room at Homeland went quiet. No one other than the four around the live screen had seen the event but most heard Director Lopez.

  The driver’s door of the Ford opened and a figure got out. The individual moved over to the man lying face down on the road, a pistol could be seen pointing at the man.

  It wasn’t discernible if the weapon bucked in his hand or not, but the general consensus was they had just witnessed a coup de grâce. Two other individuals exited the Ford and could be seen walking towards the executioner. They gathered the body up and disposed of it unceremoniously, off to the side of the road. One of the two men stood in the road and looked up to the sky. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, his eyes closed.

  Director Hall jumped at the opportunity. “Get facial recog on him! Looks like one of the two we’re after!

  “What are you going to do now, Allan?”

  Hall didn’t even look at her. “One Hellfire missile from the drone should do the trick, all over, end of story.”

  “No… you can’t.”

  Hall looked daggers at Director Lopez, who quickly qualified her response. “You can’t blow them up, the virus would become airborne.”

  “Absolutely correct, Director Lopez.” Dr. Crawston made her way to the two directors. “Any release of the virus into the atmosphere, especially in the form of a pressurized spray, could be catastrophic. The virus can travel thirty-five miles or more over land.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Crawston. We won’t be blowing them sky-high just yet, Allan.” Lopez looked triumphant.

  “Sir, confirmation of facial recognition, the person is Yusuf al-Nasseri.”

  “That’s one of our two terrorists.” Hall looked pleased to move on. “Get me Matt Lilburn.”

  Matt Lilburn, flying en-route with three other heavily armed members of the interception team, took the call. The instructions were clear and precise. Lilburn passed the location to the pilot, then briefed the men. Five minutes to target.

  *

  Bomani looked into his side mirror, looking back on the roadside carnage he had just left, dust from his moving vehicle now obscuring most of the scene. It was unfortunate for the farmer that he drove his tractor into the road without looking for traffic, a mistake he would never make again. Bomani’s mobile phone rang, he glanced at the screen. “Yes.” The conversation was short and one sided. He ended the call without saying another word.

  Yusuf and Bashir, watching silently from the back seat, could see that Bomani was troubled. Bomani looked upwards then brought the Ford to a stop. They watched intently as he entered a name into the GPS mounted on the dash. With a few more taps of his finger a line appeared on the screen. The line started from Albany and went directly to their own position.

  The Ford Explorer didn’t stop at the wooden roadside gate leading into a grassed field; it plowed on through the gate splintering around it. Fifty yards away was a group of trees with large high canopies. Bomani chose his angle of entry carefully and brought the vehicle to a halt just out of view from the air. He told his passengers to leave the vehicle and lie down on the ground beside the Ford. Yusuf and Bashir did as they were told. Bomani remained inside the vehicle and crawled over the seats, pushing and pulling himself to the back of the vehicle, where he pushed a button and folded one half of the rear seat up then the other, giving himself more room to move. From the inside, he opened up the rear door. Unzipping the long nylon case he had stored in the back, he pulled out the sleek lines of a bolt action rifle with mounted scope
. Making himself comfortable on the floor, he rested his back on the upturned seats and brought his knees up for support. Bomani looked through the scope and flicked the weapons safety off. He waited.

  *

  “Matt, the vehicle is stationary under some trees two clicks directly to your front in a field, we’re sending the coordinates to the pilot now.”

  The pilot locked in the coordinates and could see the group of trees in the distance. “That’s their location, under those trees — just one click away.”

  Lilburn studied the terrain and the situation. The vehicle appeared to be hiding in a field under trees, for what reason remained unclear. Off the road and in a field gave his team the edge, maneuverability would be harder for the vehicle on grass compared to the road, there were obstacles in and around fields, fences, ditches, so why would the driver go off road? Lilburn wished he had more information from the drone. It just didn’t add up. Why?

  “Half a click till RV. Where would you like me to put Gracie down?”

  From five hundred feet up, Gracie’s occupants could make out the outline of the rear of the Ford Explorer under the canopy. Lilburn saw the rear door was open. Uh-oh. I don’t like this, I don’t like any of this… the hairs on his neck stood on end.

  “Change course, change course!” Lilburn yelled.

  The first bullet struck the EC120 helicopter a glancing blow by the pilot’s feet, punching a hole in the windshield then traveled into the cockpit and embedded itself in the pilot’s seat. The pilot felt the impact. In the short time he had to react and take evasive action, the bolt on the rifle had opened, ejected the spent cartridge and loaded a live round into the chamber. The second round fired from the back of the Ford Explorer was more deadly, its trajectory ending up in the pilot’s left upper arm, mincing flesh. The pilot screamed out in agony as his body contorted. As his right hand involuntarily let go of the cyclic stick his knees knocked it, causing the helicopter to violently pitch and yaw out of control.

  The pain was intense, so much so all self-preservation was lost as he had no choice but to ride where the pain took him. The pilot’s hands had closed tight as he struggled to override his natural inclination to roll up into a ball. A voice next to him was shouting, the shouting gradually penetrated his world of pain, and he understood what was being said. Get control, get control! Expert training kicked in and the pilot began to override his own body; grabbing the cyclic stick and applying pressure to the correct pedals, he leveled off.

  Grunting with pain, he gasped: “I have to land this thing unless you can fly a helicopter?”

  There was little Lilburn could do. “Best you land then. You going to be OK?”

  “Yeah… aw shit that hurts. We still have forward momentum so things could be worse. The landing… Jesus… the landing may be a bit rough. Gracie baby — bring us down.”

  The pilot let Albany know the predicament and grid reference then took the helicopter down. Lilburn watched as the pilot used his knees to control the cyclic stick while adjusting the collective with his good arm. Descending as quickly as he could, the pilot felt lightheaded, shock was starting to set in. Expertly judging his moves, he again juggled the cyclic while reaching across and down to the collective. “Hang on, boys.”

  The helicopter hit the ground much harder than normal; the skids absorbed the shock of a more than usually abrupt landing but to the relief of everyone on board, the craft remained upright. The pilot shut the controls down, his job over. “Good girl.”

  *

  Bomani watched as his second shot appeared to fatally wound the helicopter flying directly towards him. He watched his handiwork as the helicopter swung wildly this way and that, then drilled down to the ground, the final impact obstructed by the contour of the land. The helicopter was one thing to take out, it had presented no difficulty. The drone overhead locked on to his position was another.

  When Bomani fired the rifle, Bashir and Yusuf thought they were being attacked. It was Bashir who first saw the incoming helicopter and it was he who now praised Bomani’s marksmanship.

  “Man! You shot it down… just like that! But… how did you know a helicopter was coming?”

  Bomani didn’t respond, instead he packed away his rifle and told the others to put the rear seats up in the vehicle then get in. There was no time for self-congratulation. At the wheel of the Ford the driver input the route on the GPS to his next objective.

  *

  At Homeland the two staffers with Director Hall watched as the green 95 Ford Explorer left the cover of the tree canopy, crossed the field and regained speed on the road. Lopez was busy with a pressing matter of a downed helicopter and at least one injury.

  Chapter Twenty

  A Jeep approached the downed helicopter, bouncing over the clods of earth from the recently plowed field. The driver, a teenage farmhand, pulled up near the men standing alongside the aircraft. He could see one man with a bloody arm being attended to. When he noticed the men were armed he had second thoughts about being here.

  “Are you folks all right?” the farmhand nervously inquired.

  A tall athletic-looking man approached him and reached for something in his jacket pocket. The farmhand swallowed and thought about how far he could get if he put his foot down. In this plowed field, it wouldn’t be far!

  “Homeland Security, we could do with your help.”

  Lance McAllister felt a surge of relief. Identification flashed before him.

  “Yeah, sure, um, what would you like me to do? I can go get help or something?”

  “What’s your name?” asked Matt Lilburn.

  “Lance. Lance McAllister, sir.”

  “OK, Lance, here’s how you can help…”

  The farmhand gave an awkward wave as four Homeland Security agents left in his boss’s Jeep driving across the field without him. He sat down on the earth next to his bandaged patient propped up against the helicopter. He looked at the pilot curiously. Never seen a man with a gunshot wound — well, not in real life.

  “Does it hurt, mister?”

  “Only when I laugh, Lance. You know any jokes?”

  “Yeah but you just said…”

  “Just kidding. Let’s hear one. We have a bit of time to fill.”

  “Well, all right then, let me think.” Lance McAllister tipped his black cowboy hat back on his head and recited what he remembered of the first, and the crudest, of his repertoire. Eskimo Nell. “From over the hill in a sawn off creek, came a sawn off…”

  *

  The driver stopped the Jeep as he reached the gravel roadside, all the men grateful they’d finished driving over the backbreaking plowed field. In the front passenger seat, Lilburn had his mobile phone to his ear.

  “We’ll have another chopper and a pilot with the downed machine ASAP. The terrorist cell is continuing to head in an easterly direction and the Reaper has them in its sights. We have local units implementing a road block ten miles from you.”

  Lilburn made notes as Director Hall spoke. When the conversation was finished he applied the grid reference given for the road block to his map. At their fastest speed the best they could hope for was to get there as local enforcement were mopping up. If the objective of taking the cell into custody was met cleanly and efficiently then Lilburn had no problem not taking credit for the capture. The problem was, when the hackles rose on the back of his neck, as they did just before the pilot was shot, then the stakes were higher. Lilburn suspected one of the three terrorists was playing on a totally different level — a very dangerous level.

  Lilburn felt for the Sig Sauer on his hip. The bulk and weight felt good.

  The Jeep was driven by a man who enjoyed the thrill of drifting an automobile around the dusty dirt road corners, one who worked the manual gears with dexterity, getting the best performance. Lilburn’s job, to read the map and choose the right roads, wasn’t easy — especially when he was also having to hang on. Five miles ahead two patrol cars had set up a roadblock at the end of a
long straight.

  In the distance the officers could see a cloud of dust approaching. They waited, standing behind and in front of their cars, pistols and shotguns at the ready. Unseen, the Reaper drone circled overhead.

  Akins Bomani drove on. While his two young Takfir apprentices in the rear seats gazed out the windows daydreaming, Bomani never allowed himself such luxury. While his eyes were on the road his mind was on the mission. For him strategy and the continual rethinking of that strategy was everything. The drone didn’t worry him unduly — it was no more than a pesky hindrance, something he had to live with, accommodate and ultimately deceive. He was on American soil carrying a virus, so a bomb strike was unlikely. They can watch, he thought to himself, watch and learn.

  As Bomani turned into the long straight, sunlight glinted off something in the distance. Reaching into the glove compartment, he pulled out a pair of small binoculars and held them out behind him. “Quickly, one of you tell me what is up ahead.”

  Bashir responded and hastily focused in on the road. “A roadblock, two police cars.” Bomani slowed down, just enough to keep ahead of the dust cloud. He checked his phone, there was no text, no missed call; someone had let him down. He would deal with it later. Ordering the two young men to drop one of their rear seats and hang on to whatever they could, he increased speed.

  At three hundred yards the four state-troopers started getting nervous; the green-colored four-wheel drive was still speeding towards them. The two troopers in front of their cars with handguns started to look for escape routes, just in case. The other two with shotguns leaning over their car bonnets fumbled nervously while keeping aim; one turned his head to the side and spat before rolling the chewing tobacco in his mouth.

  At two hundred yards the troopers on the ground had real concerns; the men leaning on the bonnets stood up and took a few steps backwards. The patrol leader’s radio squawked; he didn’t dare take his eyes off the oncoming vehicle to respond.