The Last Jihad Read Free Page B

pair of AH-64 Apaches were state-of-the-art combat helicopters. Both could fly at a maximum speed of one hundred and eighty-six miles per hour and both carried sixteen Hellfire laser-guided missiles and 30mm front-mounted machine guns. But both—on loan from the Army’s Fort Hood in Texas—might actually end up being useless to him.
    After the suicide airplane attacks against the Twin Towers and the Pentagon, the Secret Service had decided that motorcades should be tailed by Apaches. “Just in case” was, after all, the Service’s unofficial motto. But the White House political team went nuts. It was one thing to keep the president secure. It was another thing to have military helicopters flying CAP—combat air patrols—over city streets and civilian populations year after year after year. A compromise was reached. The Apaches would be pre-positioned and on standby at each airport the president or vice president was flying into, but wouldn’t actually fly over the motorcades. It seemed reasonable at the time. Not anymore. But it didn’t matter now. Moore’s mind scrambled for options.
    “Nikon One. Nikon Two. This is Stagecoach. Turn around and get in front of this guy.”
    “Nikon One, Roger that.”
    “Nikon Two, Roger.”
    The two Denver Metro Police helicopters weren’t attack helicopters. They certainly weren’t Apaches. They were basically reconnaissance aircraft using night-vision video equipment to look for signs of trouble on the ground—not the air. But they immediately peeled off the formation and banked hard to get behind Gambit’s limousine. The question was: Could they make the maneuver fast enough? And what then?

     
    The Gulfstream pilot ripped his headphones off and tossed them behind him.
    The tower was screaming at him in vain to change course immediately or risk being fired upon. Why be distracted?
    He could see the police helicopters beginning to break right and left, respectively, so he increased his speed, lowered the nose and began bearing down on the two limousines, now side by side.
     
     
    “Tommy, you got an exit coming up?” Moore shouted back to his driver.
    “Sure do, boss. Coming up fast on the right—270 West.”
    “Good. Stagecoach to Dodgeball.”
    “Dodgeball—go.”
    “Pull ahead and break right at the 270 West exit. 270 West—go, go, go.”
    Agent Tomas Rodriguez imperceptibly eased his foot off the gas, just enough to let the decoy limousine roar ahead, pull in front of him, and then peel off to the right—just barely making the exit ramp.
     
     
    For the first time, the Gulfstream pilot let out a string of obscenities.
    With one limousine peeling off to the right, and two Chevy Suburbans going with it, he suddenly doubted the intelligence he’d been given. Which limousine was he after? Which had the president? He was pretty sure it was not the one that had just peeled off. But now he hesitated.
    His heart was racing. His palms were sweaty. His breathing was rapid and he was scared. Yes, he was ready to die for this mission. But he’d better take someone with him—and the right someone at that.
     
     
    “Tommy, how far to the interchange?” Moore demanded.
    “Don’t know, sir—five miles, maybe eight.”
    It felt like they were moving at light speed, but Moore didn’t like his odds. After all, they were rapidly approaching the outskirts of Denver. He could clearly see the city skyline and the bright blue Qwest logo, high atop the city’s tallest building. All around him, industrial buildings and restaurants and hotels and strip malls were blurring past him on each side of the highway. In his race to escape he was drawing the G4 into the city and putting thousands of innocent civilians in danger.
    “Cupid, Gabriel, this is Stagecoach. Do you copy?” Moore sure hoped they did.
    “Stagecoach, this is Cupid. Copy you loud and clear, sir.”
    “Roger that, Stagecoach. This is Gabriel. Copy you five by five.”
    “You guys got a shot?”
    “Yes,