Bryce Larkin slowly and painfully extricated himself from his seat.
What had ten minutes before been a Lear 35J – or a VC-21, as the Air Force designated it – was now a smoking heap of scattered wreckage. There had been a huge explosion, and the Lear had headed for the ground.
Having been on approach to Reagan National Airport, the pilots had not had much of a chance to aim the plane for an unpopulated area. They had aimed it for the Potomac River, but it had skipped off the water and crashed onto the island that housed the Jefferson Memorial.
Miraculously, the plane seemed to have largely missed the white monument to the third President – a chunk or two of plaster and marble seemed to be missing from some columns, but that was about it. However, a crowd of terrified but curious people was now gathering around the wreckage.
Sarah had been sitting at the other end of the cabin. Bryce couldn’t find her. “SARAH!”
He looked around. “SARAH!”
He started searching for her. No luck. He did find the part of the fuselage that the cockpit was in, though.
Bryce wrenched open the door. Captain Rick Mahoney and Lieutenant Kayla Martinez sat in the cockpit – both dead. Mahoney’s eyes were wide open, his mouth open in shock.
Where the hell was Sarah?!
That’s when he saw it – blonde hair, sticking out from under a bush. He ran to the bush, which had clearly been misshapen by something.
He looked under, and there was Sarah, still strapped into her seat. The seat had come loose and slid across the ground, coming to rest under the bush. She had horrendous scrapes on her face from sliding across the sidewalk at high speeds, and she had to have internal injuries.
Gently, Bryce reached in and released the seatbelt, catching her before she could fall to the ground. He slowly dragged her out from under the bush, and checked her vitals.
She was barely breathing, and her pulse was thread. He looked around, and pointed at the first person he made eye contact with. “YOU!” he shouted, pointing.
The teenager made a hand motion like, Who, me?
“Yeah, you,” Bryce said. “Call 911!”
“What should I tell them?”
That’s when Bryce saw the headlights. Two old pickup trucks, coming across the bridge on Ohio Drive. Flying down the road, really.
Bryce had a choice. Save Sarah’s life or save the lives of the hundreds of people at the monument.
Bryce looked at the teenager. “Tell them that Hizbollah just shot down a Learjet over the Jefferson Memorial, and that they’re on their way to clean up.”
Two weeks earlier
“Agent Walker, Agent Larkin, you are going to Israel,” Director Graham said.
“Why Israel?”
“We’re getting some bad, bad vibes from the Holy Land,” Graham replied. “We’re afraid that le merde is about to hit the fan, as it were.”
“Like what?” Sarah looked at him curiously.
“Like Hizbollah’s getting restless, like the Lebanese have been restless for over a year – ever since their former president was assassinated. It’s just not a good situation over there, and I want somebody there who I can trust to keep their eyes on it.”
Director Graham gave Sarah a piercing look. “I can trust you, correct, Agent Walker?”
Sarah bowed her head. Ever since the curious mixture of failure and success in her Brazil mission several months before, she had sort of been on the bench. She’d been doing a lot of office work, a lot of analysis, and not much field work.
So, to be sent back out in the field – especially on as sensitive an assignment as anything in Israel was – was huge for her. “Yes, sir, you can trust me.”
“Very good,” he said. “There’s one more thing, though.”
He sighed, clearly not wanting to say what he had to. “After the Brazil mission, I removed you from supervisory duties. I thought that it would be temporary. However, the House Intelligence Committee has decided to make it permanent. You will not be Agent Larkin’s superior on this mission. You will be partners.”
Sarah wasn’t really surprised to hear the words, but they still came like a punch in the gut. Who was Congress to say that she wasn’t fit to be a supervisory officer? How many of them had ever been in the field?
She bit back her thoughts. “Yes, sir.”
Sarah kept her composure all the way back to the apartment she shared with Bryce. They had moved in together back in May, and were still getting a little accustomed to living with each other.
She walked into the living room and slouched down on the couch, keeping her face carefully guarded. Picking up the remote, she turned on the TV. A rerun of House.
As she sat back to watch Hugh Laurie try to kill his patient in new and inventive ways, Bryce walked into the room. “We don’t really have any food in the kitchen.”
They never had any food in the kitchen. Who was he kidding?
“You okay with Subway?” he asked.
“Yeah, fine.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t really care,” Sarah replied. “Just, make sure there are no olives on it. I hate olives. And if you get cheese on whatever it is, make sure you don’t get muenster. I hate that almost as much as olives.”
“Dually noted,” Bryce replied. “Extra olives, and slabs of muenster.”
Sarah cracked a little bit of a smile, but didn’t really come out of her self-imposed shell. “I’ll be back in a few,” Bryce said.
Three days later, they were in Tel Aviv. The IDF had graciously allowed them to be observers in what was rapidly turning from a border conflict into an all-out war. They had been told, however, that there was no possible way they’d be allowed anywhere near the fighting.
On July 21st – nine days into the conflict – Sarah and Bryce finally convinced a Mossad agent to take them up to the front. What they saw at the border was fairly horrific.
Damage from Hizbollah rockets that had been fired into Israel was nightmarish, and judging by the amount of ammunition that Sarah saw flying in the opposite direction, she figured that it had to be just as bad, if not far worse, on the Lebanese side. All because a bunch of hotheaded militants couldn’t keep their rockets to themselves.
“What exactly does Hizbollah have against Israel?” she asked the Mossad agent, Michael ben Jakob.
“They believe that we have usurped their Holy Land,” ben Jakob replied. “And that’s not entirely untrue. The West Bank and Gaza aren’t really Israeli territory, and the government has said that they’re willing to give the territory up to make a Palestine.”
“So, what seems to be the problem?” Bryce asked.
“It’s a difficult situation,” the Mossad agent said. “Fatah, the party that Yassir Arafat founded out of the PLO, would be happy to take the territory. They’re tired of the fighting, of the pointless death. They just want to live in their own land, and you can’t really fault them – that’s why Israel was founded too.
“But the militant groups – Hamas and Hizbollah, with heavy support from Iran and Al Qaeda – don’t think that’s good enough. They won’t rest until Israel has been wiped from the map. They say it is ‘the will of God’, which is utter bullshit, because if you actually study the Koran, it makes it quite clear that war is abhorrent and that peace is the will of God.”
Sarah looked at ben Jakob curiously. “You’ve studied the Koran?”
“I’m an intelligence agent, Ms. Walker, just like you. One of my biggest things is that you should know your enemy. That’s why I studied the Koran – to know, to try to understand, the motivation of my enemy. And the thing is, studying the Koran has helped me to better understand and to respect the millions of Arabs and Muslims who AREN’T my enemy.”
She nodded. “That makes sense.”
As she spoke, a hail of bullets erupted in front of the Hummer they were in. “Exactly what does the Koran say about that?” Bryce asked wryly.
Ben Jakob chose to ignore him, instead standing on the brakes and throwing the Hummer into reverse. The gunners aiming at them got better aim, and Sarah heard bullets pinging off of the Hummer’s body.
“The gunfire’s coming from that old van over there!” Bryce shouted, pointing.
“Agent Walker!” ben Jakob yelled, keeping his eyes on the road. “There’s a LAW missile in the back. If you can get that out, can you poke up through the turret and take the van out?”
“I think so!” she replied. Digging around in the back of the Hummer, she uncovered the light anti-tank weapon. Attaching the trigger unit to the tube, she waited while it warmed up.
Opening the turret in the top of the Hummer, she stood up, aimed the missile, and waited till she got a tone. She tried desperately to ignore the poorly aimed bullets whizzing past from the van, in hot pursuit of them.
Finally, the missile sounded a steady tone. Sarah pushed the launch button.
The missile rapidly departed the tube, flying toward the van. It hit the engine compartment and exploded.
The van came to an immediate halt, the front end being shoved down while the back end flipped up and over. It slammed down on its roof and exploded.
“Nice shooting, Agent Walker,” ben Jakob said.
“Thanks, I think,” she replied.
When they returned to the IDF outpost, she was shocked to see a picture of herself on a television screen. It was a grainy picture, but still identifiable as her. The network bug in the corner identified it as Al-Jazeera.
An English translation was running at the bottom of the screen. “This is the Zionist terrorist responsible for the death of Commander Hamid Al-Buswar,” the translation said. “Hizbollah is offering a reward of ten thousand Euros for whoever kills her.”
Bryce looked at Sarah. “Shit,” he uttered.
“We’ve got to get you out of here, now,” Michael ben Jakob insisted. “Agent Larkin, call Ben Gurion Airport, get your airplane ready to go. You have to leave Israel right now, or you’re as good as dead.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “Who the hell is Hamid Al-Buswar?”
“He was a Hizbollah commander,” ben Jakob replied. “He must have been in that van you blew up.
“He shot first!”
“That does not matter to religious fanatics,” ben Jakob said, picking up a Kevlar vest. “Put this on.”
Sarah, beginning to get a little dazed, complied, slipping her arms through the holes. Ben Jakob made her put on a helmet as well, and then led her and Bryce outside to a different Hummer.
This one had no windows, and appeared to have enough armor to stop a crashing satellite. “When we reach Ben Gurion, I will pull up right next to the airstair,” he said. “Get out and immediately get into your airplane. Tell them to take off as soon as you’re onboard.”
As they sped through the streets of Tel Aviv, ben Jakob grew a worried look on his face. “We have somebody on our tail,” he said.
The first bullets flew past the armored Hummer just before they reached Ben Gurion Airport. Fortunately, there were IDF units waiting at the gates of the airport. The Hummer passed; the two pickup trucks behind them were stopped.
Ben Jakob did a powerslide up to the Lear that would have done a drift racer proud, pulling up right next to the airstair. “GO!” he shouted.
Sarah and Bryce practically dove out of the Hummer and ran up the stairs. “Go NOW!” Sarah shouted to the cockpit as Bryce closed the door.
Ben Jakob was driving back to the gate when he noticed a man standing by the airfield fence, a pair of binoculars in hand. “That is not good,” he said.
That was the last thing he said, right before the TOW missile hit the side of his Hummer and erupted into the interior.
Mahmoud “Mark” al-Rahim was just closing up his shop for the evening when the phone rang. An immigrant from Palestine as a teenager, he had made a fairly successful name for himself as a custom car designer in Arlington. In fact, he was THE man to go to if you wanted a custom Mustang, Charger, Camaro – you name it.
“Arlington Customs, this is Mark,” he answered the phone.
“An angel alights upon the pillar,” was the reply, and then the phone was hung up.
Al-Rahim’s stomach dropped. When he had left Palestine, he had been told by Arafat himself that he might get that phone call someday. He had specific instructions on what to do.
Locking up the shop, he got into his 1969 Pontiac GTO Judge, and drove about two miles from the shop. He stopped at a 7-11, got out, and dialed a number on the payphone.
“You have a target,” he was informed, with no preamble. “It is a Learjet, identifier N9957CJ. Its flight plan is to Reagan National Airport. You are to shoot it down.”
He drove back to the shop, and went into the back. He opened the trunk of a 1967 Oldsmobile 88 which had been “under restoration” for years.
Al-Rahim never planned to actually restore it. It was the storage compartment for a solitary Stinger missile, which he loaded into the non-descript Chevy Corsica he kept around for something like this.
He got in the car and drove a couple miles, till he was just outside the airport boundary. Opening up his glovebox, he removed a device and plugged it into the cigarette lighter. It lit up immediately.
It was an ingenious little device, really. Compact, efficient, it used a radio signal to hack into the radar data used by the National tower. Then, he could isolate any one radar return and track it to whatever point he wanted.
After about ten minutes, N9957CJ came onto the screen. He isolated the return and waited.
Five minutes later, the device indicated that the Learjet was in visual range. Pulling the Stinger out of the backseat, he looked out the shotgun window with a pair of binoculars. Yep, there it was. N9957CJ on the tail.
Al-Rahim aimed the Stinger missile. After a minute, he got a lock-on tone – the Stinger’s infrared seeker had locked onto the Lear’s port engine. He waited another second to be sure, and then fired.
The Stinger whooshed out of its tube, propelled by a burst of compressed air, and then, as soon as it was free of the tube, the rocket ignited. It rapidly accelerated upwards.
“SHIT! Rick, somebody just launched a missile at us!” Lieutenant Kayla Martinez shouted.
Rick Mahoney’s eyes went wide. He hit the PA button. “EVERYBODY GET INTO CRASH POSITIONS!” he shouted.
In the cabin, Sarah Walker’s eyes went wide. She had sat at the opposite end of the cabin from Bryce so that he could get some sleep while she worked, but now she found herself wishing she was next to him.
Nonetheless, she made sure her seatbelt was tight as it could be. Remembering what it showed on the old airline emergency cards, she bend at the waist, covering her head with her hands.
In the cockpit, Mahoney had jerked the Lear into evasive maneuvers – but it was no good. The Stinger was one of the best pieces of technology ever developed by Raytheon, and it flew straight and true.
As al-Rahim watched, the Learjet took desperate evasive maneuvers. But it was no use. The Stinger flew directly to the port engine, and exploded.
The debris and the explosion combined to make the port engine lock and tear itself apart. There was a secondary explosion as it blew itself off the fuselage of the aircraft.
Al-Rahim watched as the Learjet veered off. He watched it through his binoculars. It made him almost sick as he watched it bounce off the Potomac River and spin up onto the island the Jefferson Memorial was on.
In silence, he drove back to his shop. As he entered it, though, his conscience started talking to him.
“I have sinned,” he whispered. “Allah, forgive me. Forgive me for my sin, and for what I am about to do.”
Going to his office, he spun open his safe. Reaching in, he retrieved two loaded Ingrams MAC-10 submachine guns. Walking outside, he went to the GTO and tossed the guns in the shotgun seat.
Bryce had a choice. Save Sarah’s life or save the lives of the hundreds of people at the monument.
Bryce looked at the teenager. “Tell them that Hizbollah just shot down a Learjet over the Jefferson Memorial, and that they’re on their way to clean up.”
As the teenager did that, Bryce gently laid Sarah down on the grass. “LISTEN UP!” he shouted, jogging toward the people gathered around the wreckage. “I NEED EVERYBODY TO GET INSIDE THE JEFFERSON MEMORIAL, RIGHT NOW, AND GET ON THE GROUND!”
Interestingly enough, nobody argued with him. “Here we go,” he said, unholstering his gun. “Me against Hizbollah.”
As the trucks drew closer, he raised the gun – and then something totally unexpected happened.
A Pontiac GTO came roaring down Ohio Drive, darting between the two trucks. Then the driver did something insane.
Mark al-Rahim yanked up on his emergency brake and yanked the wheel to the left, causing the GTO to do a one-eighty. Gritting his teeth at the knowledge of what he was doing to his transmission, he jammed it into reverse and hit the gas.
Steering with his knees, he grabbed the two MAC-10s. Shooting out the windshield, he aimed at the two oncoming pickup trucks. “Eat shit and die!” he yelled
He hit the driver of one of the pickup trucks. The truck lost control, skidding across the road, right into the path of the other truck. Al-Rahim kept firing, even as the GTO rolled further and further away.
Finally, a lucky bullet found the gas tank of one of the two trucks. It fireballed, the other joining it quickly. He stood on the brakes and the clutch, coming to a stop next to a very perplexed looking man who was, himself, holding a gun.
“Jesus Christ,” the man uttered. “Who the hell are you?”
“Just a concerned citizen,” al-Rahim replied.
He was about to drive off when the man got a thoughtful look on his face. “How fast does this thing go?”
Al-Rahim almost laughed. “How fast do you want it to go?”
“Very,” the man said urgently. “I was in a plane that crashed here, and a friend of mine, I think she was badly injured.”
Mark’s face went pale. He was talking to one of the people he had been sent to kill. As he closed his eyes and thanked Allah that the man was still alive, he had to fight down the bile building in his stomach.
“Where is she?”
Six hours later, Sarah awoke in the Ronald Reagan Institute of Emergency Medicine at George Washington University. It turned out that she had broken her left arm and her right lung had deflated. She had also lost some blood, but all in all, it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.
“What happened?” she asked softly.
“Somebody shot us down, and we crashed at the Jefferson Memorial,” Bryce replied. “FBI has no idea who. They don’t even know where to begin.”
“What happened after that?”
“The strangest thing,” he said. “Two pickup trucks came flying down Ohio Drive. I had this premonition that they were sleeper cells, coming to finish the job – and according to the NSA, it turns out I was right.
“But just before they reached us, some guy in an old Pontiac GTO came flying down the street, did some driving that you would’ve been proud of, and using MAC-10s that he got from God knows where, took out the trucks before they could reach us.”
“Who was he?” Sarah asked, a look of puzzlement on her face.
“I have no idea,” Bryce replied, “and he didn’t say. But given the weapons that he had, I’d say there’s a chance that he was himself a sleeper who had a change of heart.”
“Did you tell anybody?”
Bryce shook his head. “No, and I’m not going to. If he hadn’t been there to get you to the hospital, you might have lost too much blood.
“As far as I know, he was just a concerned citizen trying to help out.”
Author’s note: Unlike the events of the previous chapter, this one takes place peripheral to what was a very real event.
The Second Lebanon War/July War between Israel and Lebanon took place between July 12th and August 14th, 2006. It was instigated when Hizbollah militants attacked two Israeli HMMWVs patrolling the border. Of the seven soldiers in the two Hummers, two were wounded, three were killed, and two were abducted. In response, Israel launched massive airstrikes and artillery bombardment on targets in Lebanon.
By the time the conflict ended, more than a thousand people – mostly Lebanese civilians – had been killed. During the course of the conflict, approximately 975,000 Lebanese and as many as 500,000 Israeli civilians were displaced from their homes. Most were able to return, but some parts of Southern Lebanon still remain uninhabitable due to unexploded cluster bombs.
