Brown, Dale - Independent 04 by Storming Heaven (v1.1) Page B

kind of hellish
nightmare—the airport was systematically being destroyed all around them, and
Henri Cazaux was chatting on about business matters as if the explosions were
just the twinkling of fireflies. Krull saw one explosion erupt under the
control tower, but the darkness and smoke obscured his view and he couldn’t see
if the concrete and steel structure hit the earth.
                 “Rather
like setting up dominoes in a row and watching to see if the pattern completes
itself, no?” Cazaux asked Krull. “You cannot help but watch. The disaster is
magnetic.”
                 Sixty
seconds ago, Special Agent Russell Fortuna was in command of three trucks
filled with seventeen heavily armed ATF agents—now, two trucks had disappeared
in balloons of fire, and his own truck was abandoned and they were taking cover
behind it. Like a freight train out of control, the six agents were helpless as
the columns of fire erupted all around them. A small single-engine Cessna with
a Playboy bunny painted on the tail disappeared in a flash of light and an
ear-splitting sound only twenty yards away, shattering the windshield in the
truck and blowing out two tires. Two agents were dazed, one finding blood
oozing from a ruptured eardrum in one ear. All the rest appeared unhurt—four
out of a strike team of eighteen. Aftermath of a typical Henri Cazaux ambush.
                 “Team
two, check in . . . team two, check in,” Fortuna tried on the portable radio.
Nothing. ‘Team three ...” He didn’t try team three anymore, because he saw those poor bastards get blown away
when the booby traps Cazaux’s thugs were carrying went up. “Damn it, somebody
answer me!”
                 “Russ,
this is Tim,” Chief Deputy Marshal Lassen radioed. “I’ve been monitoring your
frequency. What’s your situation?”
                 “The
target booby-trapped this entire airport,” Fortuna replied. “No reply from my
two support units.” He was not about to say on an open frequency, scrambled or
not, that both his assault trucks had been blown sky-high. “Suspect is taxiing
to the northwest for takeoff on runway one-three left. What’s your position?”
                 “We’re
five minutes out, Russ,” Lassen replied. “We’ll try to block the runways.”
                 Lassen’s
three-helicopter SOG team was less than five minutes out—they were close enough
to see the burning aircraft, like large bonfires, dotting the darkness around
the airport. The runway lights, taxiway lights, and tower rotating beacon were
all out. The flight crew of the Black Hawk had to lower night-vision goggles in
place to find the airport. The moving shape of the large cargo plane was now
visible, moving rapidly down the inner taxiway. Only a few dozen yards and
Cazaux would be at the end of runway one-three left, lined up for takeoff. “I
want one Black Hawk in the middle of one-three left,” Lassen radioed to his
other helicopters, “and the Apache hovering at the southeast end to cover.
We’ll fly overhead and take one-three right in case he tries to use the shorter
runway. I want—”
                 Suddenly
a bright flash of light erupted on the ground ahead of them, and a streak of
light arced out across the sky, heading right for them. Lassen’s Black Hawk
banked hard left, away from the second Black Hawk, which was flying along in
formation on their right. The streak disappeared immediately, and Lassen was about
to ask what it was when a brilliant burst of light flashed off to their right.
The second helicopter was illuminated by an orange-blue sheet of fire on its
left side. “Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” the pilot of the second Black Hawk
radioed. “Hunter Two has taken some ground fire. One engine on fire, losing oil
pressure. We’re going down!”
                 “Hunter
One, this is Wasp,” the pilot of the Apache attack helicopter