Empire

Great Falls

On the way down US 15 to Leesburg with two Secret Service agents in the back seat, Cole and Rube debated about where they should stay. Neither Rube’s house nor Cole’s apartment seemed like a good idea, given that there were people who thought it was quite important to get them out of the picture.

The Secret Service guys voted strongly for a single hotel room. “We patrol the hall in shifts all night.”

“That’s not subtle,” said Rube.

“If we meant to be subtle,” said the agent, “would we dress like this and openly scan the crowds?”

“So the ‘secret’ part of your agency’s name—”

“A holdover from the old days,” said the agent. “We’d rather scare amateur assassins away. And make life very hard for any pros that might give it a try.”

“You’d really take a bullet on purpose?” asked Cole.

“For the President,” the agent said. “For you, I’ll just subdue the guy who shot you so we can try him for the crime, and then call an ambulance.”

“I wouldn’t think to ask for more.”

In the end, Rube and Cole shared one hotel room and the agents shared an adjoining one. Cole had argued for the Ritz-Carlton but they settled for the Tyson’s Corner Marriott. It was expensive enough.

As soon as they were safely installed in the room and the agents had swept for bugs and other surveillance devices, Rube called DeeNee’s home phone on his cell. Cole only heard Rube’s side of the conversation, but it was clear enough. Rube ascertained that DeeNee still had access to all the files and that none of the office locks had been changed. Then he asked DeeNee to come to work at 0500 so they’d have less chance of being interfered with. “I don’t want confrontations.” She resisted, but finally agreed.

Then Rube called the other members of his team and set up a rendezvous for 0730 at the same Borders where they had met before. “But be up early,” he said to each one of them. “Because if something goes wrong at the Pentagon, our rendezvous may change, time and place.” Every one of them volunteered to come along to the Pentagon with them, but he turned them down. “If something goes wrong, if I get arrested and Cole, too, I don’t want you guys caught up in it. I don’t want them to know your faces. Besides, we have Secret Service protection.”

Every single one of them commented that so had the President on Friday the Thirteenth. Every single time, Rube gave the same little smile.

They both showered before they went to bed, so there’d be no delays in the morning. By the time they were done with their showers, the agents showed up with the uniforms Rube and Cole should wear to work, and several other changes of clothes. They apparently had sent some flunky from the office to both their homes to pack for them.

So when they got to the Pentagon, they were crisply dressed in the right kind of uniform. Cole would rather have been wearing fatigues and body armor, but the idea this morning was to be relatively unobtrusive.

There was a discussion with the guards about the pistols the Secret Service agents were carrying. The Secret Service won, partly because of Rube’s letter from the President. Orders from the President superseded the standing policy. The guards pointed out that Rube and Cole weren’t the President. The Secret Service agents said to shut up and let them through.

Cole noticed that Rube didn’t lead them on the same route through the building that Cole had always taken. There were about nineteen different ways to get from point A to point B in the Pentagon, none of them convenient. Cole memorized this one as an alternative route.

When they got to the office, DeeNee was already there, with files stacked in boxes. How early did she arrive, Cole wondered. He was happy to see that she had the same cold and sarcastic attitude toward Rube that she had toward him. It wasn’t just that he was new—she talked to everybody that way.

“You know that everything in here has already been photocopied about three times. If they removed anything, I don’t know. And I’m not helping you carry this out to your car.”

“I never expected you to,” said Rube as he picked up one of the two boxes.

Cole looked at the Secret Service agent nearest him and gestured for him to feel free to pick up the other file box. The agent looked at him coldly. Apparently protecting somebody did not allow for carrying boxes. Cole stepped forward to pick up the other.

“So you’re on assignment from LaMonte Nielson?” asked Dee-Nee.

“We’re going to prove that these Progressives planned and carried out Friday the Thirteenth,” said Rube.

DeeNee bent over and opened a desk drawer. “Well, I can tell you right now who copied your assassination plans and kept the one with your fingerprints to use as evidence against you.” There was a.22 pistol in her desk drawer. She pulled it out. Why was she showing them a weapon? Did she feel that some threat was imminent?

“I did it,” said DeeNee. Then she stepped toward Rube and aimed straight at his left eye and shot him with the barrel no more than two inches away.

First Rube dropped the box of files. Then he followed them to the floor. He never made a sotind. He was dead the instant the bullet entered his skull. It did not come out. There was no functioning brain inside.

Cole realized that the Secret Service agents had started reacting the moment they saw the pistol in the drawer. They were only a split second too slow. They both fired simultaneously and their bullets knocked DeeNee halfway across the room.

Immediately two doors opened and men with weapons came into the office. One of the agents shoved Cole backward and down as they began shooting at the intruders.

But Cole was not going to leave without two things: the PDA and the car keys. So he lunged for Rube’s body and got both of them out of his pockets. In the midst of doing it, in the midst of all the noise of gunfire, he heard one of the bad guys say, “PDA.”

The agents were good at what they did. Neither of them was hit as they scooted out of the room through the still-open door. Cole didn’t follow the route they had just taken to get there; his own normal route got them out of the corridor sooner. Because the bad guys weren’t wasting any time in following him. Whether they cared about Cole was moot. They wanted the PDA.

As he and the agents raced down the stairs, one of them said, “They’ll have somebody in the parking lot watching your car.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I would,” said the agent.

Nobody was shooting now—the gunfire that had already taken place had alerted the security guards, and they would instantly call for support. Soon enough the chasers would be chased.

Unless the security guards were in on it.

They weren’t. But they weren’t helpful, either. They saw the drawn guns of the Secret Service agents and had their own weapons out.

“We’re Secret Service assigned to protect Captain Cole. We’re being pursued by assassins. They’ve already hit one of our men.”

But while this explanation was still registering, the bad guys got into the hall and now the shooting began again. They hit one of the guards and one of the agents. The other agent and the other guards returned fire.

Between shots, the remaining agent hissed at Cole. “Get out of here while we keep them busy.”

He was right. There was no reason for an OK Corral showdown, if Cole could simply get away. He broke for the door and headed for the car.

If there was somebody watching the car, they didn’t shoot at him. Maybe they were waiting for Rube to come out.

As he started the engine and pulled out of the parking place, Cole noticed Rube’s cellphone sitting in the cup holder. All the numbers he had called last night would be in its memory. Thank heaven Rube left it here. Thank heaven Cole hadn’t thought of the cellphone back in the office and wasted time trying to find it along with the keys and the PDA.

As he drove—at a normal pace, because there was no obvious pursuit—he tried to make sense of it. DeeNee. Did they bribe her? Blackmail her? No. Her hand didn’t even shake as she aimed the weapon. And she knew where to shoot to make a.22 lethal without fail. She had been trained.

She was a civilian employee. She never chose the military the way soldiers did. Maybe her nastiness to soldiers was because she hated the Army. Maybe she originally took the job because she needed the money. Or maybe she was a true believer who planned all along to bide her time until she could cause real damage to the evil U.S. Army.

Trust. Who else could have drawn a weapon on Reuben Malich without triggering an instant response. If his hands hadn’t been full with the box she gave him, if he hadn’t simply assumed that Dee-Nee meant no harm, she would never have gotten that shot off.

Oh, God! Rube is dead! He found himself gasping with the shock of it.

Then he heard the screel of tires behind him. Once again he went with the adrenalin and set aside his feelings. Survival first. Mission second. Grief next week, next month, but not now.

A van and a sports car—one pursuer with mass and the other with speed. He wasn’t going to get away easily, not in a PT Cruiser.

His only hope for the moment was to get into traffic, where they’d find it harder to catch him.

Monday morning traffic. But still early. Barely 0530. Not enough cars.

So he made turns. Enough turns that he ended up on the bridge heading into DC.

But he didn’t want to go there. His only help would be Rube’s jeesh.They were planning to gather in Tyson’s Corner.

He couldn’t just turn around. These guys wouldn’t hesitate to ram him if they saw him coming the other way. Besides, Cessy had complained yesterday about the PT Cruiser’s lousy turning radius. If he tried, he’d just run into the concrete wall of the bridge.

He didn’t want E Street or Constitution Ave. He took the exit leading toward the Rock Creek Parkway.

All the cars were coming the other way, into town. There was no park traffic at this time of day—nobody went to the zoo this early.

But as he got up into the park, there were joggers everywhere. A lot of them kept out of the way of traffic. But a lot of them thought that they had as much right to Cole’s lane as he had.

I’m so clever, thought Cole. I’m taking a PT Cruiser uphill in order to evade pursuers.

Very quickly they were right behind him. They weren’t shooting yet. But as the sports car slowed down to let the van pass, Cole could see the plan easily enough. A few bumps from that van, and the PT Cruiser would be in the creek, against the cliff, or wrapped around a tree.

He picked up the cellphone and pressed send. Nothing happened. It wasn’t on. So he struggled to find the power button, and when there wasn’t one, he pressed everything, one at a time, and held it down until finally one of them worked and the screen lighted up. Then he pushed send.

Meanwhile, he was trying to drive around oncoming cars—there were rather a lot of them, this was a major commuting route into the city—and joggers. He couldn’t steer the winding road, hold the cellphone, and lay on the horn at the same time.

Where were the cops when you wanted to be arrested?

No. He didn’t want cops involved. They’d gone to too much trouble yesterday trying to save the lives of cops for him to want any of them to die today.

Rube was dead.

Don’t think about that. He pressed the cellphone to his ear with his shoulder and steered while pressing on the horn. The van came up behind him. He tried to swerve and nearly hit a runner. He hoped the guy was still on his feet and flipping him off instead of flat on his face torn up by asphalt.

It was Drew, the American University professor, who answered.

“Rube’s dead,” said Cole. “DeeNee shot him in his office. I’m alone, in his car. I’ve got his PDA. I know his password. I’m in Rock Canyon with two vehicles in pursuit, trying to ram me, and I don’t know where the hell I’m going.”

“I know the park,” said Drew. “Stay on Beach Road. Way up the canyon you come to a place where Wise Road is a very, very sharp left. Take that turn. It gets you up to Oregon Avenue. Take that to Western Ave. There’ll be traffic. You want traffic, right?”

“I want my mommy,” said Cole. But it wasn’t really a joke even though he meant it to be. “Rube’s dead. I’m sorry. It came out of nowhere. We were holding file boxes.”

“Shut up. I’ll call you back in a minute. I’m calling the other guys. We’ll try to get you some help.”

Cole pocketed the phone in time to swerve sharply. There were weapons in the car. He hadn’t thought to grab any when he got in. He reached behind him, fumbling to find something.

He was hit from behind. It nearly knocked him into a jogger, a woman, who screamed at him as he swerved and fishtailed. An oncoming car ran off the road. Sorry sorry sorry. Not my fault. He got control of the car. He also got his hand on a pistol. That was something. He felt better.

He opened all the windows in the car. No reason to deal with flying glass shards if he needed to shoot.

There was an intersection ahead, with a light. He laid on the horn, jabbing at it to warn people he was coming through. He could see the van behind him lay back, trusting him to have his own wreck.

Instead Cole braked sharply and swerved off the road to the right. The car stopped abruptly and the airbag would have smacked him except he already had the door open and was leaning far to the left. He released the seatbelt and rolled out of the car.

The van was still going too fast to stop, despite squealing brakes and the fishtailing. Fine. He didn’t want the van. He wanted the sports car.

It was doing a better job of stopping. Cole didn’t want the windshield broken. But the passenger window was already open. There was a rifle pointing out of it. What an idiot, to bring a rifle to shoot out of a car window. Maybe these guys were amateurs after all.

Cole stood, feet planted, two hands on the pistol. He fired once and shattered the hand of the man who had been holding the rifle.

The driver’s door was already opening. Good. The moment the driver’s head showed above the roofline, Cole shot off the top of his head.

Then he ran back around the PT Cruiser, yanked open the back door, pulled out Rube’s M-240, and opened fire on the van, figuring that the bullets would easily go through the metal sides and the seats.

He scooped up Rube’s Mollie vest because it held the ammo for the M-240 and the pistol. Then he ran to the sports car. The guy he had hit in the hand was halfway out of the car, holding a pistol—he had a pistol all along, the idiot!—but it wasn’t his good hand and he hadn’t practiced with it that way. Cole shot him in the face so the bullet wouldn’t damage the car. He tossed the Mollie vest and the M-240 through the window and then ran around to the driver’s side. He could see now that the driver’s door of the van was open and there was a dead body draped down onto the asphalt.

He turned around as he went for the sports car’s door. He could see two humvees coming up the canyon at a high speed. So they had already called for backup.

The sports car was still running. He swerved out around the van just as the light changed and civilians started trying to turn into the lane he was driving in. He held the pistol in his left hand and showed the weapon out the window. They stopped honking at him. He ran the light and didn’t hit anybody.

Now he had some power going up the hill. The Humvees really weren’t built for this.

But they were undoubtedly calling somebody else to intercept him. How many military people were involved in this conspiracy?

No. No, these humvees were regular soldiers. Loyal guys who had got a call through military channels. No doubt they had described Cole as a dangerous assassin who just killed an officer, a civilian employee, and shot or killed multiple agents in a shootout in the Pentagon. There was no way—there would be no chance—for Cole to identify himself to them and wave the letter from the President. Besides, he didn’t have that letter. It was in Rube’s pocket. Probably about to be used as evidence to embarrass President Nielson.

The cellphone rang. It was Drew.

“I’m on Oregon,” Cole said immediately.

“Pass Western and then jog right on Wyndee, then left again. You’re back on Beach but it isn’t one-way. Turn left on the East-West Highway.”

“I’m not in the PT Cruiser anymore,” said Cole. “I’m now in a Corvette C6, black. I’ve got an M-240 and a pistol.”

“Good,” said Drew. “I was afraid you didn’t know how to Rambo this.”

“The point is I’ve got some speed now.”

“Then when East-West splits, stay right and then turn right on Connecticut. It’s the first big street. One more light and it clover-leafs onto the Beltway heading west, toward Virginia. If you see the Mormon temple you went the wrong damn way.”

“I don’t think I should try to get to that Borders.”

“No, no. You can’t stay on the Beltway long. It’s going to be clogging up pretty bad and now that you’ve got speed, you want lonely side roads. But do you still want to meet up with us, or get up to Gettysburg?”

“I don’t think I’ll make it to Gettysburg without help,” said Cole. “They’ve called in the Army against me now.”

“Some of the roads are one-way the wrong way in the morning,” said Drew. “Best route—take the MacArthur Road exit. Heading west. It curves around past the Great Falls Park and then it joins River Road, which is Maryland 190.”

“You know these roads that well?”

“I’m looking at Google Maps on my laptop, what do you think? But I’ve driven all these roads. Stay on 190 a long way. Till you have to turn right onto Edwards Ferry Road, and stay on that up to 107. By then we should have Babe with you, he lives out that way. He’ll guide you the rest of the way to a rendezvous on the Maryland side of the Leesburg bridge.”

“If you think I memorized this—”

“Call me as often as you want. But I’m hanging up now to go get in my car. No more laptop. Sorry.”

By now Cole was doing the ramp up to 495. Whereupon he found himself stopped cold behind traffic waiting to merge, as the humvees came up behind him. There were a couple of cars between them and him, but these guys weren’t going to stay in their lane or even in their vehicles.

Cole debated between getting out and commandeering somebody else’s car, or betting on the gods of traffic to help him. He could imagine himself stuck with an M-240 on the side of the road, unable to shoot without hitting civilians, choosing between surrendering or running into the nice little jogging park where snipers could take him out at leisure.

The traffic gods came through. The car ahead of him moved. A couple of aggressive Maryland drivers fudged their way into traffic and things broke free. He checked the rear view mirror and saw that the first humvee left two of its guys behind and the second one didn’t stop for them. They looked pissed off. That’s what you get for leaving your transportation without first ascertaining the enemy’s intentions and capabilities.

Except he was the enemy, and they were the U.S. Army.

Now he was moving with traffic, driving the Corvette into gaps so small that other drivers not only honked at him, it looked like they wanted to ram him. But he didn’t show the pistol again. No reason to cause extra panic. He’d just look like an asshole in a sports car, which was exactly what people expected anyway. A normal day of driving in Maryland.

Now he had time to make another call. The one he hated worst. But he had to make it, not just because Cecily had a right to know, but because he needed her to get Nielson to help him from the other end. Call off this chase if he could.

He knew her cell number—he had memorized it, of course—and she answered on the first ring.

“Cecily,” said Cole. “This is the worst call you’ll ever receive in your life, but I need help desperately. So get near someone so they can take over this call if you can’t continue it.”

“He’s dead,” said Cecily.

“DeeNee shot him and he’s dead. There is no hope that he survived.”

“DeeNee… ”

“She was working for them. She turned over the plans to the terrorists. Cecily, are you still with me? I’m being pursued by regular Army troops. I need the President to call them off. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” she said. “Call off pursuit.”

“I’m in a stolen black Corvette C6. The two humvees following me are to let me go and not follow me. No other pursuit is to be permitted. Do you have that?”

“I do.”

“I’m sorry, Cecily. You know I’d have taken the bullet for him if I could have.”

“Do you have the PDA?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Then get back here alive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m at the President’s door. Stay on the line if you can.” He heard talking.

Then Nielson was on the line. “This is Cole?”

“Yes, sir. Major Malich is dead. The secretary set up a trap and she pulled the trigger on him herself. After I left the Pentagon I killed the first wave of pursuers—they were definitely rebels. But the guys chasing me now are regular Army. They’ve undoubtedly been told lies about who I am and what happened in the Pentagon.”

“I’ll take care of it, son,” said Nielson. “That’s what Presidents are for.”

The connection broke. Cole ended his side of the call.

He had to give the humvee drivers credit. They did a good job of keeping in hot pursuit through traffic. Once he got on the open road, he could open up the Corvette and leave them in the dust.

Cole had no idea how long it would take Nielson to call off the chase. It would be so stupid to get killed—or to kill somebody else—during these minutes waiting for the word to filter down. Battle of New Orleans all over again.

MacArthur Road was packed coming toward him, but there was nobody going his direction. The trouble was, if he did overtake somebody, there was no way to pass on the left with all those cars. And, sure enough, he came up behind a farmer’s stake truck and watched the humvees come up behind him.

But these guys didn’t do any ramming. They stayed behind him, but didn’t move in. Maybe they were on the radio right now.

Drew called. “Where are you?”

“MacArthur. Just past where Clara Barton splits off, but I’m stuck behind a farm truck. I think President Nielson might be getting the order down the line for them to leave me alone.”

“Stay on the line and tell me if they back off. We can change your route, then. No reason to go to Leesburg if you aren’t being pursued.”

The humvees weren’t tailgating him now, but they hadn’t given up, either. “He was supposed to tell them not to follow me, but—”

The second humvee blew up.

“Somebody’s shooting at the humvees,” Cole shouted into the phone.

The humvee right behind him was swerving, taking evasive action. What was following it?

Cole saw a break in the oncoming traffic. Not enough of one for any sane person to pass, but whatever was shooting at the humvees probably just wanted them out of the way so they could get to Cole. He swung out and started around the farm truck as the remaining humvee also burst into flames and blew up.

The driver of the farm truck could see what was happening and even if he didn’t understand the explosions, he did understand being passed by a madman. He pulled hard to the right. Meanwhile the oncoming cars slammed on their brakes and swung right. Cole barely made it through. Then he floored it.

At first the other drivers were cursing him. Then they saw what was following Cole now. About a dozen one-man hovercrafts, looking like rocket-powered motorcycles, and at least two of them had anti-tank weapons mounted on the housing. They didn’t actually have to overtake him. Even a Corvette C6 can’t outspeed a rocket.

Fortunately, the road started curving, and there were cars trying to join the inbound traffic. Cole had to drive for his life, trying not to hit anybody while staying on a road that wasn’t exactly designed for ninety miles per hour. At least there weren’t any joggers. Oh, wait. Yes there were.

Apparently the greenery to the left was part of the Great Falls Park.

“Drew,” said Cole into the phone. “The humvees are gone. Killed. They’ve got hovercycles with what looks like anti-tank weapons. MacArthur is curvy enough they can’t get off a shot yet, but I’ve got to know what—”

“Look,” said Drew, “this is real bad. If you stay on MacArthur it dead-ends in the park. You have to turn right on Falls Road to stay on track. And it runs straight as an arrow away from the park.”

“These guys may be bastards, but they’re still Americans and I don’t think they want to hit civilians. Maybe they’ll—”

“Bullshit,” said Drew. “They’ll kill anybody they want and blame it on you. And they’ll mean it, too, because it’s your fault for getting away.”

“So what do I do?”

“Babe is heading toward you. I’m with Cat now, and he’s calling him to tell him to hurry.”

“Only if he’s armed to deal with anti-tank weapons. Here’s the turn for Falls Road. If I can make this turn without slowing down enough for them to blow me up… ”

He made the turn. And immediately regretted it. Heading straight toward him, filling Falls Road from one side to the other, were six of the two-legged mechanicals they had fought in New York City yesterday.

“They’ve got mechs ahead of me,” said Cole. Then he pocketed the phone and made a U-turn going way too fast.

In the movies these always looked cool. In real life, cars usually flipped and rolled. The Corvette acted like it was definitely considering the flip-and-roll. But American engineering was good enough this time that Cole didn’t end up smeared on the asphalt.

Now he was headed straight back at the cycles, which were just rounding the turn from MacArthur. Cole deliberately wove back and forth so nobody could aim at him properly. Instead, they swung off the pavement. Didn’t bother them at all. Hovercycles didn’t need a paved surface. They only slowed down so they could turn around and follow him.

When he got to the MacArthur turnoff, he could have turned left, but soon enough he would run into the inbound traffic and not only would he probably die, several civilians would likely die with him.

Besides, he was getting a glimmer of another plan. A stupid, dangerous one. But that seemed to be the kind that was needed right now.

This was Great Falls Park. He remembered seeing it from the Virginia side. From the observation points on that side, he could see an observation point on the Maryland side. He picked up the phone as he went with all deliberate speed into the park.

“Drew, I’m back on MacArthur heading into the park.”

“It’s a dead end!”

“I’m going to cross the river at the park.”

“You can’t cross the river!”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?”

“People drown there. Not just some of them. Everybody who tries to hop the rocks.”

“But I’m Ranger trained,” said Cole.

“I don’t care if you’re a damned SEAL,” said Drew.

“I’m a dead man if I stay in this car and on those roads,” said Cole. “So this is my best chance.”

“Then your chances suck, man.”

“I’ll deal with the river if you guys can lay down suppressing fire.”

“Damn. It’ll cost five bucks a car to get into the park.”

“Shut up,” said Cole. He ended the call and concentrated on driving.

The park entry booth loomed ahead. There was a car at the booth chatting up the ranger. Cole approached at top speed. The ranger saw him coming and ran out of the booth, yelling for him to stop. Cole didn’t. He went around the booth on the other side. He didn’t need the rearview mirror to know that the ranger was on the phone instantly, calling for whatever backup rangers called for. That was good. Because in a moment he would use that phone connection to tell whoever it was about mechs and hovercycles blowing through in hot pursuit.

For a crazy moment he thought about those two soldiers who had been left beside the Connecticut Avenue freeway onramp. That was the luckiest move of their lives, getting out of that humvee.

Cole didn’t worry about parking nicely. He did take the Mollie vest and the M-240 because even though it was useless against the mechs, it would do fine against anybody who got out of a hovercycle.

He headed for the woods, at first on the path, but soon getting off it. He didn’t want to get trapped at the observation point. And he wanted to improve his odds a little.

Sure enough, the bad guys tried to stay on their hovercycles along the path to the observation point. Only when they found he wasn’t there did they stop, settle down to the ground, and get out. The mechs were probably still lumbering up the road. So it was Cole, his M-240, and now, by actual count, eight guys. Unless there were two others who had stayed behind and were now approaching on foot. Because his initial count had been ten. Had to remember the possibility that there were bad guys behind him. The trouble is that a machine gun is best against massed troops. It isn’t much of a tool for taking guys out one by one. And if he got close enough to use a pistol, they’d overwhelm him by sheer force of numbers.

But for the moment, as they were still getting out of their hovercycles, they were massed enough. Cole set up the weapon and let fly. Short bursts, to husband his ammo, because there wasn’t much.

He was pretty sure he put four of them down. Maybe disabled another. But from this moment on, the M-240 was useless. He had to get to the river, where sniper fire from Reuben’s jeesh would be his only protection while he negotiated the river.

Getting to the edge of the cliff wasn’t bad. Getting down the cliff face wasn’t all that hard. And he really had tried to pick the point with the narrowest gap over the rushing water of the falls. From above, it didn’t look too bad. From here, it looked impossible. Because the boulders didn’t conveniently line up with two flat surfaces. Instead, they were rounded and jagged and even though he could easily make the jump, there was nothing he could be sure of gripping on the other side. So easy—so likely—to slide off into the water and get carried down the rapids, the pieces of his body eventually assembling in the smooth water downstream.

He heard the slap-plunk-whine of sniper fire from the Virginia side. The guys had gotten there, even at five bucks a car.

But that didn’t guarantee that somebody on the Maryland side couldn’t get off a round at him while he was exposed on the rock.

A quick prayer. And then a little aside to Rube: I don’t know if they give angel status that fast, but if you can, look out for me here. I’ve got your PDA and Cecily needs it.

Nothing for it but a run and a leap. So he ran. And he leapt.

And even though he scrabbled a little on the rock, he was solidly on and there was nothing for it but to make a shorter leap and then one that was more like a step and now he was on the big center island.

It was rough going. But the guys were doing a good job of suppressing sniper fire.

And then suddenly they weren’t.

Because it wasn’t sniper fire. It was mechs. They were just stepping over the gaps that had been leaps for Cole. And the sniper fire from the Virginia side couldn’t do a thing against them. They knew it. And since the bad guys also knew it, they weren’t exposing themselves anymore. Let the mechs do it, they were no doubt thinking.

His cellphone rang.

He cowered in a depression in the rock, trying not to present a target to the oncoming mechs. Fortunately, the mechs weren’t really designed to walk on terrain as rough as this rock. One of them even tripped. It was keeping them busy. But eventually they’d get where his hiding place no longer hid him, and then he’d be dead. “Hello?” he said into the phone.

“Any way to take those suckers down?” asked Drew.

“Either an AT-4 or two guys pressing the legs apart while two cars run into it.”

“Nobody’s willing to sacrifice their cars,” said Drew. “But hold tight. We’ve got backup.”

“From who? The U.S. Army doesn’t know I’m on their side.”

“Think, Cole,” said Drew. “Our side doesn’t have those mechs. Wherever we see them, it’s okay to kill them.”

It was only a few more minutes, and the Apaches came up the river. No focused-EMP weapon now—where would they plug it in? The mechs didn’t even try to run away. As hard as it was for them to get as far as they had gotten, there was no going back. They aimed at the choppers but before they came in effective range, the missiles the choppers sent by way of greeting ended the conversation.

Cole got up and waved his thanks. He knew there was no way they could land on the island. It was safer for them to get out before the guys from the hovercycles—if there were any left—tried out their antitank rockets to see if they could bring down choppers.

So Cole was on his own getting to the narrowest place on the Virginia side.

Arty and Mingo had both climbed down to the nearest point. What, did they think they were going to catch him?

No. They had a rope.

He caught it. He tied it around himself, up under his arms. Mingo wrapped it behind his back and sat down and braced himself. If Cole fell in the water, they could haul him out, hopefully before he had been beaten to death on the rocks.

He jumped.

He landed.

Arty caught him by the wrist and Cole didn’t even get wet.

Arty and Mingo helped him get up to the observation point.

“Good work,” he said to them.

“You, too, sir,” said Arty.

Drew was waiting up top. He made a point of turning off his cellphone. Cole held up his cellphone and ended the call, too.

“Does Cecily know?” asked Load.

Cole nodded.

Then he staggered to the railing and stood there, leaning on it, and trembled from the spent adrenalin, and then found himself crying, and he decided that it wasn’t for the ordeal he’d just been through, and it wasn’t for the fear, and it wasn’t from killing a bunch of guys in Rock Creek Canyon and back on the Maryland side of the park.

“I only knew him for three days,” he said.

“He makes an impression,” said Load softly. One by one they each touched his shoulder. And the kind touches were enough to revive him. Calm him. He walked back with them along the path, around the ranger station, ignoring the civilians and rangers who were being watched over by a heavily-armed Benny.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” said Benny. “I’m happy to tell you that the operation was successful. You can resume your normal activities.” Then he joined them on the walk to their cars.