CHAPTER 13

KILMARNOCK, Virginia


They were doing it wrong. All wrong. Storm could have told them; but, of course, no one was asking him.

They had set up the operation exactly as Storm had specified. The White House had made its announcement. Both the real and the fake Air Force Ones had been readied. A host of faux-brave officials, from the president to the secretary of state to the speaker of the house, had volunteered to pretend to be on board.

Then they made out the route, both the one announced to the press and the unannounced one planted on the FAA server. The unannounced one made its approach to Andrews from the south. At exactly seventy nautical miles from the field, it passed over Kilmarnock, a small town in the Tidewater part of Virginia. It was in a sleepy part of the state known as the Northern Neck, a peninsula bordered by the Potomac River to the north, the Chesapeake Bay to the east, the Rappahannock River to the south, and a whole bunch of farmland to the west.

It had been strategically chosen for its remoteness and its difficulty of access. The nearest highway, Interstate 95, was close to an hour away. There was only one main road running through the region north–south and only one running east–west. Both were single lane for much of the way. Getting in or out of the area involved crossing bridges. Storm was working under the assumption that the weapon was camouflaged to a certain extent. But, at the same time, it was large enough that it couldn’t be completely hidden. Putting up roadblocks and checking vehicles — car-by-car, truck-by-truck — would be relatively easy. The weapon would not be able to escape.

The plan was perfect.

Then the bureaucrats had gotten involved.

They called it Operation Mockingbird, in apparent ignorance of the secret CIA campaign to influence the media during the 1950s that bore the same name. Still, Storm approved — if only because he so adored the Farrell Lee novel of a similar name. But then they decided neither Storm nor Jones would be allowed to run it. Being that it was on American soil and had to involve more people and equipment than even the CIA could reasonably expect to hide, Storm and Jones had been forced to hand execution of the plan over to the FBI, which had started making mistakes from the moment it took over.

First, they put a man named Jack Bronson in charge. Big, bald, and obstinate, Bronson was ex-military of the worst kind. Too hierarchical in his thinking. Too much enamored with chain of command. Too impressed with the fact that he was at the top of it.

Second, they had set up a task force that involved too many other agencies. The Department of Homeland Security. The Transportation Security Administration. The Federal Aviation Administration. The Department of Defense. The Federal Emergency Management Agency. It really started getting ridiculous when a pencil pusher from the National Aeronautics and Space Administration showed up, making noises about how Operation Mockingbird’s success was needed to keep a satellite launch on schedule. Storm half expected someone from the Department of Agriculture to show up and ask if they were taking proper care not to harm any crops. It was enough to make Storm yearn for another government shutdown.

Third, there was just too much noise. Storm had envisioned an operation where every single piece was undercover, made to blend with its surroundings. The Northern Neck was a quiet area, filled mostly with retirees, farmers, and the occasional Chesapeake Bay waterman who didn’t want to give up on that way of life. Folks moved slow, talked slow, drove pickup trucks, and dressed comfortably in T-shirts and Crocs.

So it just felt wrong to have a bunch of government agents in sedans racing around, filling the air with urgent chatter, wearing tailored suits and sharp-toed shoes. Everyone involved in the operation stuck out as did every piece of equipment that had been brought in. Even if the terrorists were unfamiliar with American culture, they would be able to smell out the trap.

And, having ceded control to the FBI, there was nothing Storm could do about it. He was being allowed to “observe,” with the implicit understanding that observation meant keeping his mouth shut.

Bronson had set up a temporary command post under a set of tents in the parking lot of a bowling alley just off Main Street. There was a thin, pathetic attempt to disguise it as a FEMA training exercise, but even the most guileless locals weren’t fooled. FEMA wasn’t known to have anti-personnel tanks in its arsenal. Some of Bronson’s agents had skipped all pretenses and wore gear with “FBI” emblazoned on it. Storm wondered if Bronson’s next step would be to engrave invitations announcing the task force’s presence.

Storm had his hands in his pockets and, in a shoulder holster, his gun of choice: a Smith & Wesson 629 Stealth Hunter, a sleeker, modernized version of a .44 Magnum Clint Eastwood first made famous. Storm called it “Dirty Harry” in his honor.

Feeling both restless and bored, he roamed from tent to tent, looking at the FBI’s gadgetry with only mild interest. Jones’s stuff was cooler.

He had come in from California on a military transport plane that morning, grabbed his Taurus from the parking lot at Langley, and made impressive time down to Kilmarnock, passing a whole lot of slow-moving traffic on the single-lane roads.

He paused in front of a screen that had been set up in the communications center. There were two pieces of footage playing on a loop on CNN: first the president and other dignitaries boarding the plane, then the mock Air Force One taking off from Andrews.

The plane was scheduled to fly over Kilmarnock at 2 P.M. — which everyone agreed made sense, given that the terrorists seemed to like that time. It was 1:52 when Storm’s journey took him back to the main tent. There he found Bronson, his face glued to his phone’s small screen.

“Things still on schedule?” Storm asked.

“I imagine so,” Bronson said, pointedly not looking at Storm.

Storm looked up in the sky, which was blue and empty of air traffic any larger than a passing sparrow. “Where’s the plane?”

“Not here.”

“I can see that. Is it late? Will it be here soon?”

“Not unless this is Cape Charles.”

“Excuse me?”

Bronson finally looked up. “It’s a town at the tip of the Eastern Shore of Virginia.”

“I’ve heard of it. But what does that have to do with the plane?”

“Oh, that’s right. I forgot you weren’t on that distribution list.”

“What distribution list?”

“We changed the flight plan. We’re bringing Mockingbird up the Eastern Shore instead of over this airspace. DoD didn’t want to sacrifice a plane. Those things are expensive, you know. Boeings don’t grow on trees.”

Storm stared at the man hard. Airplanes were expensive, yes. But human lives were priceless. That’s what the Department of Defense should have been prioritizing. Storm spoke through gritted teeth. “And when were you going to tell me this?”

“It was need to know.”

“You’re really going to pull a ‘need to know’ on me?”

“Yes. All of the people who needed to know did. And that didn’t include the CIA or any of its semi-illegal contractors. It doesn’t change the operation as far as you’re concerned. We’ve got the roadblocks in place. We’ll get the weapon before it gets very far.”

“Please tell me you’ve also got people in place on the Eastern Shore.”

“No need,” Bronson said. “The FAA logged several unauthorized attempts to breach its system coming from Damascus. One of the attempts was successful. The hacker went right for the phony flight plan.”

Bronson bent his head toward his phone again. Storm stared at the top of Bronson’s shaved pate for a moment. “Do you think we’re dealing with idiots?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you really think that people who are smart enough to build a weapon that—”

He stopped himself. Storm figured he was only allotted so many words and so much breath in this lifetime. No sense in wasting either on a man like Bronson.

“Never mind,” Storm said.

If Homeland Security, the TSA, the FAA, the DoD, FEMA, NASA, and untold other federal agencies were all aware of this plan, the terrorists surely were, too. All the people and equipment the FBI had clogging up this little town in Virginia might as well have been actors and stage props. They would not be needed. Not here, anyway.

Storm made a decision and started walking over toward an open field where an FBI helicopter sat idle. The pilot was sitting in the cockpit with the window open, oblivious. He was also paying more attention to his smartphone than anything around him.

Without bothering to speak, Storm reached up into the cockpit. The pilot finally looked at him, more curious than anything. Storm’s hand was traveling for a spot on the side of the pilot’s neck. Storm grabbed, squeezed, held. The pilot made a brief croaking noise, then slumped over.

“Sorry, friend,” Storm said.

Storm quickly boarded the helicopter. He removed the pilot’s helmet and put it in the passenger seat. Storm then unbuckled the pilot’s slumbering body and lowered it to the ground. He closed the helicopter’s cargo door and window, then assumed the pilot’s seat. In front of him was a dashboard crowded with dials, buttons, and switches. He grabbed the flight stick, his thumb naturally finding the trim switch.

An AS550 Fennec helicopter was, fundamentally, similar to an AS350 Ecureuil, which Storm had once flown through a typhoon in the Gulf of Tonkin. He figured flying this one on a balmy day over the Chesapeake Bay would be no problem.

Within two minutes, before anyone from the FBI could figure out why the rotors on the helicopter were whirring, Storm had lifted off and was on his way. The last thing he saw on the ground was a phalanx of stupefied FBI agents running toward him.

He paid them no mind. He had a laser to find.


IT IS A LITTLE-KNOWN FACT that the geographic feature now called the Chesapeake Bay was once a fairly narrow river, back when the world was colder and more of its water was locked in polar ice. And while in this warmer, wetter epoch, the bay is wide enough that a person standing on the shore near Kilmarnock cannot see the other side, it is not so wide that a Fennec Fox can’t get across it rapidly.

Storm tilted the Fennec forward, accelerated to its top speed of 150 miles an hour, and was soon over water. The gas gauge was close to full. The stick felt comfortable in his hands. The chopper responded nicely to his commands.

He increased his altitude to one thousand feet where the flying would be a bit smoother. He figured it would be eight minutes before he was back over land.

He used the time to call someone who might be able to tell him where he was going.

The voice of Javier Rodriguez soon filled Storm’s Bluetooth: “Yo, bro, you don’t happen to know who just stole a helicopter from the FBI, do you?”

“It wasn’t stealing. It was borrowing without express permission,” Storm corrected him. “I’ll give it back when I’m done.”

“From the chatter we’re hearing on the fibbies’ frequencies, you might want to do them a favor and fly it straight to Leavenworth. Because it sounds like that’s where they want to send you right about now.”

“Too bad I’m allergic to Kansas,” Storm said. “They’ll forgive me when I find their laser beam for them and then give them credit. I assume you’re tracking the Mockingbird?”

“It’s on our big screen right now. The only way I could get closer to that plane is if I was on board with a flight attendant serving me pretzels.”

“Good. You got a fix on my location, too?”

“Yeah, I see you. You’re the little funny-looking tweety bird that’s about to get shot down by those F-16s that you should see closing in shortly from your three o’clock.”

“I’ll worry about that in a second. Can you tell me where Mockingbird will be when it’s seventy nau—”

“Check your phone, bro. I already sent you a course correction.”

Storm looked down at his phone and tugged the flight stick until he was heading in the proper direction.

Rodriguez continued: “You’re heading near a little town on the Eastern Shore called Crisfield. I hear they got great crab cakes there. Pick some up for me and Bryan when you’re done, huh?”

“Will do. In the meantime, can you do something about those F-16s?”

“Other than hope that you made me a beneficiary in your will? Not really. Jones is on the line with the air force right now, but so far they’re not interested in anything we have to say on the subject. You seem to have crossed into a serious no-fly zone. They don’t want to hear about anything in the air that doesn’t have their stripes on it. Especially not stolen helicopters.”

“Borrowed. It’s borrowed,” Storm said, aware that a pair of fighter jets was closing in fast above him. “Anyhow, looks like my friends are here. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I seriously hope so, bro,” Rodriguez said.

Storm ended the call and took stock of his situation. A Fennec could be armed, but this one wasn’t. And his 150 miles an hour, which had felt so fast moments earlier, suddenly seemed pokey. The two F-16 Fighting Falcons coming to join him could hit supersonic speeds without straining themselves. And he could see the full complement of sidewinder missiles on their wings.

The helmet was still sitting in the seat next to him. He could hear a voice chattering through the earpiece inside. He got the helmet on in time to make out the voice of what he presumed was one of the F-16 pilots.

“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, identify yourself or you will be treated as hostile.”

“Hostile!” Storm said. “You guys are the ones with the missiles under your wings and I’m the one who’s hostile?”

“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, identify yourself or you will be treated as hostile.”

Storm realized the microphone in the helmet was switched off. He corrected the problem, then said: “I’m actually quite friendly once you get to know me.”

The F-16 pilot did not seem convinced. “November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, be advised you are flying into restricted airspace. Identify yourself immediately.”

“I’m just the orphaned nephew of a poor moisture farmer from the planet Tatooine. Tell Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru I’m not coming home for supper.”

Storm was now bracketed by the F-16s. He could see inside their bubble canopies and look at their pilots, each shielded by the mirrored visors of their flight helmets. They were not looking back at him. They were also not impressed with his knowledge of Luke Skywalker’s backstory.

“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango—”

“Look, fellas, I’m on your team, okay? I’m trying to find a terrorist who shoots down airliners for fun. Cut me some slack here.”

“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, be advised our orders are to get you out of this airspace by any means necessary, including force. Change heading immediately to signify your intent to comply.”

Storm had no such intent. He looked down. He could again see land, both an island off to his left and the more substantial stretch of land that was Maryland’s Eastern Shore. The bay was dotted with pleasure boats and commercial watermen.

He put the helicopter into as steep a dive as he dared. He watched his airspeed indicator climb as his altimeter dropped. He still did not have the advantage of speed over these fighter jets. But by skimming the wave tops he could at least make himself a more difficult target. The F-16s wouldn’t dare go much lower than they already were.

“The change in altitude isn’t what we had in mind November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango. Adjust to heading two-eight-niner immediately.”

Storm leveled out at roughly twenty feet above the water. He had to adjust course a few times to make sure he missed the masts of some of the sailboats.

“Sorry, fellas,” Storm said. “I’ve got a terrorist to stop. You can either join me or not. I could use your help.”

“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, be advised we have been given the order to fire. Change course immediately or we’ll have no choice.”

Storm banked hard toward land, now just a few hundred yards off his starboard side. The F-16s mirrored his move, but well above him. If anything, Storm thought they had increased altitude. It’s not like they needed to be terribly close to him to shoot him down. Their missiles probably had a range of tens — if not hundreds — of miles, not to mention guidance systems that could deliver their warheads between the “N” and the “3” on his tail numbers, if they chose to.

He was over land now, flying just above the rooftops of the houses that dotted the shoreline. He hated using them for cover. But he also knew that, for whatever the pilots were saying to him, there was likely an air force commander somewhere telling them not to take a shot unless they were sure the falling helicopter wouldn’t crash into a civilian’s house.

“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, we have achieved target lock. Change course now.”

Storm saw the town of Crisfield in the distance. But he was now over what looked like wetlands or some kind of wildlife preserve. There were no houses. No cover.

“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, this is your last warn—”

And then nothing. The line in Storm’s helmet went dead.

Expecting a missile was now on its way, Storm veered toward a stretch of forest, desperately hoping he could get the warhead to detonate on a tree instead of his fuselage. He was nearing a stand of pine trees when he heard it.

It came from not far behind him.

A tremendous explosion.

Then another.

It sounded like planes crashing.

Storm craned his neck left, then right, trying to get a glimpse of whatever happened, but he couldn’t see anything. Unlike fighter jets, which gave pilots a near-360-degree view of their surroundings, a chopper only let its flier see ahead and a limited amount to the side. He brought the helicopter up to a hundred feet, then set it into a hover. He slowly rotated its nose in a circle so he could survey everything around him.

Sure enough, there were two smoldering wrecks of airplanes, separated by no more than a few hundred feet.

Something had shot down the F-16s.

And in one sickening second, Storm knew exactly what had done it.


STORM RIPPED OFF HIS HELMET, reached into his pocket, hit the number for the cubby.

“I got Derrick,” Storm heard Rodriguez yelling, before he returned to a more normal tone to say, “Hang on, bro.”

Storm consciously brought his breathing back under control, knowing it would help steady his heart rate. He was figuring it out fast: the lunatic manning the laser had seen the F-16s coming and decided they were either a threat or they made for good target practice.

And, thinking like a terrorist, there was no reason not to shoot them down. One of the advantages of a laser over, say, a missile was that the laser had essentially unlimited ammunition. As long as its power source was good, it could keep firing as often as it acquired a new target.

The only thing that had likely saved Storm was that he was flying low enough that the laser couldn’t target him.

Which meant it had to be close by.

“Storm,” the husky voice of Jedediah Jones filled his ear. “Do you see a water tower with a large red crab painted on it to your right?”

Storm’s eyes went to a gray tower that loomed above the low-slung buildings of the town around it. To the right there was a cove filled with boats, their naked masts reaching upward like a series of white sticks that had been jammed into the water. “Yeah, I see it.”

“Head straight for it. But stay low. Repeat: you must stay as low as possible.”

“I copy.”

“You’ll be looking for a white truck that is currently located in a marina parking lot just short of the water tower as you approach it. Our techs have been studying satellite images of it. It is designed as a surface-to-air weapon, and based on their early estimates, its lowest angle of fire is thirty-five degrees. It effectively creates a blind spot that lowers the closer you get to it. Even staying as low as a hundred feet in the air, you can’t get any closer than one hundred and sixty-three feet or you will be within the weapon’s range.”

“I don’t exactly have a tape measure up here with me. I’d appreciate some help on ideas where to land this thing. I see some streets but they look too narrow. I’m not real keen to mess with those power lines alongside them, either,” Storm said. He pushed the stick gingerly forward, not wanting to tempt the 163-foot circle of death.

Jones’s voice again came into his ear. “Do you see a ferry dock? Should be dead ahead of you.”

Storm’s eyes focused on a slab of concrete jutting out into the water just to the left of the harbor inlet. “Yeah, I got it.”

“Put her down there. Mockingbird is coming into the laser’s range any moment. The terrorists will probably take their shot and make a run for it. But if you can get the chopper down and get on foot, you might be able to catch them.”

“Will do,” Storm said. He pushed the helicopter ahead. He was again over water. The down draft from the chopper’s whirring rotors flattened the water as he passed over it, confusing the wave patterns.

He reached the ferry loading dock — empty, thankfully — and hovered over it for a moment, until he was sure his skids were parallel with the ground. Then he went hard for the concrete surface, not caring that his landing would have failed to impress an experienced pilot. At this point, he was all about speed, not style.

Storm cut the power to the rotors but did not wait for them to stop spinning. He unbuckled himself and spun toward the cargo door, throwing it open and hopping out. He began sprinting in the direction of the water tower, down the middle of Crisfield’s main drag, a wide, four-lane road with a divider down the middle.

“Is the weapon still there?” Storm asked into his cell phone.

“Yes,” Jones said.

“Guide me to it.”

“You are currently on Main Street. Did you see Eleventh Street? You just passed a sign for it.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Go to Ninth Street, then take a right.”

Storm did not bother to take stock of the houses and buildings that blurred in his peripheral vision as he ran. His eyes focused on the street signs: Tenth Street, Spruce Street, then Ninth. He rounded the corner at full speed, his arms and legs pumping.

“Slow down, slow down,” Jones said. “As soon as you reach the end of that building on your left, the parking lot should be in view. The truck is on the far side of it. We have not seen any combatants yet so we assume they’re inside. We also assume they’re armed. Approach with caution.”

Storm slowed as the parking lot came into view. It had space for well more than a hundred cars, although only a smattering of the spots were being used. At the far end, without any other cars around it, Storm spied his target.

It was not just any truck. It was an ice cream truck, painted stark white, complete with decals of various tasty treats on the side. Storm could see a Nutty Buddy, a Strawberry Shortcake, a Chipwich. It could have fooled anyone. The only thing marring its authenticity was a retractable turret that had emerged from a split in the roof. On top of it, there was a metal cylinder with a glass-enclosed end pointed toward the sky. It looked a lot like one of the high-powered spotlights used to strafe the sky at a Hollywood movie premiere.

“I see it,” Storm said, softly. Then he looked up and saw the contrail of an airliner, high overhead. It was the fake Air Force One. The Mockingbird, as the FBI was calling it.

“Good work. Now, listen to me, Storm: the laser is your objective. We’re assuming the human operators are low-level foot soldiers. They are not of consequence. We’ll either capture them or not. The laser is what we’re after.”

“But if all we capture is the laser, how will—”

Storm stopped himself. In that moment, he saw Jones’s play. Jones was more interested in acquiring the United States government another weapon of mass destruction than he was in catching terrorists. The long-ago words that Lieutenant Marlowe had spoken to his father echoed in his head. There ought to be limits. Then he heard his father’s words. We can’t be trusted, either.

“Never mind,” Storm corrected himself, then lied, “I’ll do everything I can to secure the weapon.”

“Excellent,” Jones said.

Storm did a low run from the corner of the building toward one of the parked cars, keeping his eyes on the truck and, more to the point, any humans or gun muzzles that might be emerging from it. But there was no sign of movement coming from it, nor was there any indication they had noticed Storm’s surge.

He hid behind the first car he reached. Picking his way from one vehicle to the next, he could slowly narrow the gap between himself and the truck. But that trick would only last so long. The ice cream truck had roughly 150 feet of open pavement surrounding it.

He began weaving from car to car, never letting his vision drop from the truck.

Which is why he saw the narrow beam of blue light coming from the turret.

It was both strikingly blue and blindingly bright. As a reflex, Storm turned away. He could feel the burn to his retinas from the few nanoseconds he had been focused on it. He blinked several times rapidly. There was a line in his vision, almost like he stared at the sun too long.

“Mockingbird has been hit,” Jones said. “The wing is off. It’s going down.”

Storm blinked again. The line was fading. He looked up in the sky to see the smoking plane entering a death spiral. He dashed toward the parked vehicle closest to the truck and un-holstered his Dirty Harry gun.

“Okay,” he said. “That means these guys have hit their target and are going to close up shop any second. I’m moving in.”

“Don’t harm the weap—”

Storm ended the call before Jones could complete his instruction. He had heard just about enough of that.


STORM CROUCHED BEHIND the closest vehicle to the ice cream truck, which he studied carefully. He was near enough now that he could see inside the cab. It was empty.

The terrorists had to be in back, which was a good development for Storm. There was only so much room in there, especially considering the laser itself had to take most of the space. That meant there were no more than three of them. Perhaps only one.

There were no signs of antipersonnel armaments on the truck, nothing more threatening than the aforementioned Nutty Buddy decal. Still, he did not feel he could approach any nearer. One hundred and fifty feet of open parking lot was too great a distance. He could cover the distance in less than six seconds, yes. But that was still six seconds when he would be totally exposed.

He had to know what — and whom — he was facing. Time to attack. He aimed Dirty Harry at the front-passenger tire and squeezed the trigger. The tire exploded. The truck, now partly disabled, lurched toward its front right.

Storm waited.

No response.

Maybe the people inside were so focused on the laser they didn’t feel it. It’s possible they also might not have heard it, too. The inner compartment could be soundproof to a certain extent.

Storm aimed at the rear-passenger tire; shot it out, too. The truck was now leaning to its right at fifteen degrees. There was no way anyone inside could be unaware of the sudden incline.

They would be coming out any second to inspect what was happening. There was no door on the back. There was an opening on the right side — an awning that could be brought up, allowing ice cream to be sold from underneath. But that was bolted down. Storm was reasonably sure it was just for show.

No, the only way out of the interior would be through the cab. Storm trained his vision on that part of the truck. He counted to ten. There was no sign of movement. He counted to thirty. Still nothing.

He put three quick shots into the passenger-side door, in case anyone was crouching behind it. Storm was using hollow-tipped rounds, which were not ideal for penetrating thick armor. But the ice cream truck’s side was only marginally thicker than a tin can. It was no match for the force of a .44 Magnum.

Storm counted to thirty again. The truck just sat there, forlornly, tilted to one side on its rims. It wasn’t going anywhere; that was for sure. And the cautious thing for Storm to do would be to wait until he had backup. Jones was surely sending reinforcements.

But then the laser would be in Jones’s hands by the end of the day. That outcome was unacceptable to Storm. He couldn’t lose control of this situation. He had to handle this himself.

With Dirty Harry still drawn and ready to fire, Storm approached the truck in a low crouch. The wind stirred. The smell of brackish water filled his nose. From somewhere nearby, he heard the shrill cry of an osprey.

There was a stillness about the truck that was simply eerie. It was like the thing was being operated by ghosts. He was next to it now, his back flat against its side. He risked a quick glance in the cab.

Empty. For sure. He yanked the handle. The door opened. He climbed in.

The inside was remarkable only inasmuch as it kept faithfully to its pretense of being an ice cream truck. There was even a button to ring a bell that would alert children to the presence of frozen-dairy deliciousness coming near.

There was an opening between the two seats with a small door that a man would have to crouch to go through. This was the entrance to the laser area. Storm aimed at the top of it. If someone was crouched on the other side, lying in wait for him, that’s where his head would be. Storm fired.

The noise of Dirty Harry discharging in such a close space was deafening. Storm couldn’t suppress his flinch reflex. When he looked, he saw that the bullet had not penetrated the door. It had bounced off and buried itself in the dashboard on the other side.

The door was bulletproof. This was no ordinary ice cream truck after all.

Whoever was inside the trailer was now fully aware of his presence. Storm assumed they were laying an ambush for him. He couldn’t risk being in the middle of the doorframe when he opened it.

He hopped over to the driver’s seat, crouching on it. With his body out of the way, he pulled the door handle.

He half expected a bulletproof door would be locked, but it swung open easily. He three-quarters expected its opening might be greeted by a bullet coming out, but no projectiles passed. He fully expected to be met by some kind of resistance, but there was none.

Finally, he allowed himself to look in. What he saw was a marvel of engineering, for sure — a series of mirrors and crystals and engines whose purpose he could only guess. It was both exotic and beautiful, and a part of Storm wanted to spend all day studying it.

But in that moment, what he saw was not as pressing as what he didn’t see. There were no human beings inside. There wasn’t room for any amid all the machinery.

Storm had thought the laser was being operated by ghosts. It was actually being operated by remote control. The terrorists had moved the truck into place and were firing it from somewhere else. Perhaps somewhere nearby. Perhaps many miles away. Perhaps a bunker outside Jalālābād.

From overhead, Storm heard the beating of helicopter rotors getting closer. The reinforcements were arriving. Perhaps they were Jones’s people. Perhaps they were FBI.

To Storm, it didn’t matter. They had their priorities. He had his. We can’t be trusted, either.

He waded into the back of the truck, amid all that fancy, delicate hardware. As a lover of technology, he felt some small regret for what he was about to do. As a lover of humanity, he felt none.

He turned Dirty Harry around, gripping it by its still-warm barrel so it was less like a gun and more like a hammer. And then he started swinging.

The truck trailer was soon filled with the sound of glass shattering and metal being twisted. If his gun barrel wasn’t strong enough to destroy something, his booted foot took over. Storm took three minutes to wreck as much as he could. The helicopter was getting closer the whole time.

When he was satisfied he had reduced the guts of the weapon to a shattered mess — beyond any hope of reconstruction or even comprehension — he stepped back outside the truck and called Jones.

“Storm!” he heard. “What’s going on?”

“There’s no one inside,” Storm said. “They were operating it remotely.”

“But we have the weapon.”

“Yes and no. I think they must have been monitoring the truck and seen me coming. I heard a small charge go off inside as I was approaching,” he lied. “They sabotaged their own weapon rather than let us get it. It’s a mess inside.”

Jones took a second to absorb this information. “Well,” he said, philosophically. “I suppose we could have anticipated that. We’ll get it back here and study what’s left. In the meantime, I have another task for you. One of our agents picked up some chatter as to who might be behind this and why. But we can’t afford to compromise him. I’m hoping you can go in and, ah, extract some information.”

“Okay. Where am I going?”

“Panama.”

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