Project Maigo(74)
Collins reached the chopper quickly thanks to Woodstock, who glided Betty in close, just a foot off the ground. Ducking under the rotor wash, Collins passed her case to Alessi.
A gunshot ripped through the air.
Collins shouted in pain and fell forward. Alessi caught her and hauled her inside, shouting for Woodstock to go. Betty lifted quickly into the sky, bullets ricocheting harmlessly off her metal body.
As the bullets faded and the chopper rose, Alessi quickly checked Collins over.
“I’m okay,” Collins coughed.
Alessi stopped her search, finding the bullet embedded in the left side of Collins’s rear body armor. “Thank God,” Alessi said. Collins grinned at the woman’s concern. She hadn’t realize they’d become that friendly, but they’d spent a lot of down-time together while Hudson and Endo had lain in hospital beds.
Collins sat up with a groan, thinking the bullet must have bruised a few ribs. She tore off her black mask and put on a headset. “Get us someplace safe,” she said to Woodstock. “We need to load these up before Jon and Endo become Kaiju snack-food.”
38
Standing under the roof of the West Colonnade, we watch a bevy of cars and limos pull up and quickly whisk away some of Washington’s most important people. The driveway around the South Lawn is typically reserved for foot traffic, but they’re using all exits to evacuate. Not that the people in cars are going to make it very far. By now, the rest of the city is rushing to their cars, too. Within the hour, I suspect people will have given up on driving and will run on foot. The lucky ones are boarding one of five green-and-white Sikorsky SH-3 Sea King helicopters idling on the South Lawn. The choppers are normally reserved for the President, with the lead bird known as Marine One, when he boards it. But right now they’re taking away key staff, including the Vice President. Had we not intervened, President Beck would have been the first one out, leaving on a chopper just for him and his mob of Secret Service agents.
I’ve heard a few people enter and leave the Oval Office behind us, shouting for the President. Agents, aids, maybe even generals, none of them thinking to open the closed shades and look outside. Right now, the President is AWOL and not making decisions. The people who need his approval to act are probably freaking out, but that’s okay. He’s exactly where he needs to be.
I hope.
If I get the man killed, I’m fairly well screwed. Worse than that, so are all the people helping me tonight. As the last of the vehicles pulls away from the South Lawn drive and the helicopters thunder into the air, Agent Dunne returns from the Oval Office. The man looks like he’s going on vacation, carrying six black, hard cases of varying sizes.
I help him with the cases and open one of the three larger ones. “Is this everything?”
Dunne nods.
Inside the large case is a tactical uniform, complete with body armor. One like it came in handy against Gordon before, but we couldn’t wear the gear beneath our disguises. Knowing the Secret Service would have their own on hand, we decided it would be best to borrow theirs. And there’s the added bonus of looking like one of the gang. Hiding behind a row of thick bushes, Endo and I don the gear. As I cinch the last buckle, I feel much more prepared, though still fairly defenseless. To my surprise, Dunne changes into his own armor. He might be an automaton right now, but he’s still doing his job.
I open the next three cases to reveal three different weapons. I take the smallest of them, an FN P90, which has a super high rate of fire and Secret Service-issue, armor-piercing rounds. It’s also small and light, so my mobility won’t be compromised. And that’s important, because I’m probably going to be running for my life sooner than later. Endo takes the second weapon, an M4 Carbine, powerful enough to punch straight through an engine block, and hopefully through Gordon’s skin. Dunne, now ready for battle, takes an MP5 and slaps on a Beta C-Mag, a dual drum magazine that holds a hundred rounds. He can hold down that trigger and spray bullets until the sun comes up.
Dunne reaches beneath his jacket and draws his FN Five-seven pistol, spins it around and holds it out to Beck. “This your idea?” I ask Endo.
“I think it’s better if he can defend himself,” Endo says.
“He’s likely to shoot himself accidentally,” I complain.
“Just tell him he’s a good shot.”
I shake my head. This plan is getting stupider by the minute.
A string of Harrier jets roar by above, heading east, derailing my train of thought. Missiles scream from their undersides, rocketing ahead of the jets. The mix of jets and missiles pass by quickly. For some reason, the wailing air-raid sirens fall silent. The sound of screams fills the void, rising from all over the city—police sirens, squealing tires, people. If there was a soundtrack to Hell, it would probably sound something like this. I cringe, knowing that people are already dying in the city. And it’s my fault. I put them in harm’s way.