Tom Clancy's HAWX

Chapter 50

"This is a Firehawk-authorized operation," Jenna said sternly — and she could be very stern when the moment demanded sternness — as she flashed the Firehawk ID card with its high level of security authorization.

"I don't know," stammered the guard at Reagan National's government hangar. "I wasn't given any advance not i f—"

From the airport, they could look across the Potomac and see the dome of the Capitol building. "In case you aren't aware, this city is in crisis mode this morning," Jenna said angrily. "Not everyone is getting advance notification of everything. In fact, damned few people are."

"I'm still not—"

"Do you want me to put you on Raymond Harris's personal shit list?" Jenna asked.

"No—"

"Do you know what will happen to you for impeding a Firehawk operation at this time?"

"Well—"

"Trust me, you have better things to do with your life than to be sitting around in a cell waiting to be executed for treason," Jenna asserted.

"Okay," the guard said, glancing again at Jenna's ID. "Thank you," she said impatiently.

"What about him?" the guard said, nodding at Troy.

"He's with me," Jenna said, pushing the guard aside.

"Nothing works on a day like this like a Firehawk Ill," Troy quipped as they entered the hangar.

"Wish you had brought your Firehawk Ill," Jenna said.

"I left it in the jungle." He shrugged.

Parked before them were a pair of Virginia Air National Guard F-16s. When the PMCs had taken over for the armed forces, the assets of the National Guard, which were under state control, were not included.

Shortly after she had hung up from Lucy's phone call, Jenna had a brainstorm.

Troy's first reaction was one of "We gotta stop that bastard!"

Neither he nor Jenna had any idea how.

According to Lucy, Raymond Harris was already headed for the car that would take him Andrews Air Force Base. She had promised that she'd try to delay Harris, but they all knew he could not be stopped.

That was when Jenna had her brainstorm. She remembered that the Air Guard kept F-16s on strip alert at Reagan National. After September 2001, every state on the eastern seaboard kept at least a few interceptors primed, even though more than a decade had passed without their having been called into action against a serious threat.

Amazingly, Troy and Jenna caught a taxi on nearby M Street — one of the cabs that were avoiding the disarray downtown. The driver crossed the Potomac on the Key Bridge, bypassing all the congestion around the White House, and made it to the airport from Georgetown in fifteen minutes.

They knew that it would take Harris at least a half hour to get to Andrews Air Force Base, where the Raven was parked. They also knew that he'd be in no rush. He was out to attack a fixed target at Camp David — one that was not going anywhere.

Troy and Jenna found flight gear and helmets in the hangar and suited up. Being on strip alert, both aircraft were fueled and ready to go, so the two concentrated on making sure that the AIM-9 Sidewinder air-to-air missiles were live and armed, and that the M61 cannons each had a magazine full of ammo.

"First time I've been in an F-16 since Sudan," Jenna said longingly as she started up the stairs.

"Just like riding a bicycle," Troy said. "It all comes right back to you. Let's take it low level to Andrews and try to get him on the ground."

"Roger that," Jenna agreed. "From what I've heard about the Raven, I sure would rather take it out on the ground than have to fight it in the air."

The Air Guard personnel dutifully pushed open the doors as they powered up their General Electric F110 turbofans, and Troy gave Jenna a thumbs-up to taxi out ahead of him.

"Ladies first," he said over the radio.

Jenna just replied with her middle finger and released her brake.

Seeing the two Air Guard fighters leave their hangar, the air traffic controllers in the Reagan National tower dutifully followed procedure, ordering a ramp hold on all commercial takeoffs and instructing all incoming flights to remain in the pattern. The Air Guard always went to the head of the line.

With both runways available, Troy and Jenna took off simultaneously. They kept their altitude to a thousand feet, low enough not to stand out on radar, but high enough to avoid transmission lines and power poles in the congested area around Washington.

They deliberately avoided overflying the city itself, not wanting to have the hundreds of news crews down there speculating about what these two F-16s were doing and alerting whatever air assets Firehawk might have flying this morning.

The flight time to Andrews from Reagan National is measured in minutes, so Troy and Jenna were confident that they could catch Harris.

Their confidence was misplaced.

"Falcon Three, target is on the main runway," Jenna said urgently as they got their first visual on the dart-shaped Raven.

"Go for it, Falcon Two," Troy said as Jenna dove toward the runway.

The dark-gray aircraft was already on its takeoff roll as Jenna took her F-16 to two hundred feet.

It was racing down the runway at seventy-five knots, then a hundred knots, as Jenna overtook it at much higher speed.

She lined the aircraft up in the ring on her head-up sight and thumbed the trigger of the M61 Gatling gun. Nothing.

The Raven continued to roll.

A hundred and fifty knots.

She thumbed again as the Raven reached takeoff speed. Still nothing.

"Falcon Three, my guns are jammed!" Jenna shouted, banking hard to the left. "Go for it!"

Troy was on the deck, just behind Jenna as she rolled left.

He had a clear, unobstructed view of the Raven as Harris achieved takeoff speed and lifted off the runway.

He thumbed his trigger and watched a stream of twenty-millimeter cannon shells pour toward the Raven.

Harris banked hard right just as Troy flew past him.

"I still have a visual on him," Jenna said calmly. "I'm turning to give pursuit."

"Don't lose him," Troy said as he slowed his F-16 to come around. "He's invisible on radar."

"Roger that. I've got him northbound over Greenbelt, flying very low."

Raymond Harris had not turned to fight. He was single-minded about his mission. It was a strike mission, and he had a high-value target that he must strike.

Albert Bacon Fachearon sat at Camp David defying the authority that had been given to Harris by Congress.

Articles of impeachment had been passed.

Duly constituted authorities had been authorized to use deadly force to remove him.

Raymond Harris was the duly constituted authority. Albert Bacon Fachearon must go. Deadly force must be used.

Somewhere at the Camp David complex, Fachearon was hiding.

Raymond Harris did not know exactly where, but he did not care.

He might be at the large, hotel-sized Laurel Lodge, or in the comfortable presidential quarters at Aspen Lodge — or lie might be skulking in the theoretically bombproof bunkers beneath.

Raymond Harris didn't care.

With a twenty-kiloton nuclear weapon coming down upon his head, Albert Bacon Fachearon would not survive.