America's Trust (30 page)

When they hit the ground level, Butler threw the car keys at Swanson.

“You drive!” he shouted, training his rifle on the exit door they had just used.

“Where to?” she said, fumbling the keys into the ignition.

“Anywhere but here.” His eyes remained fixed on the door. When the door began to move, he fired into it.

Swanson hit the gas and sent them screeching through the exit, while Butler did everything he could to protect their identity. His bullets had held up the troops on the stairwell. It seemed none were overly keen to open the door.

The attack chopper pilot checked his orders. They were repeated. He had just witnessed ten of their troops land on top of the building he had been ordered to attack. He pulled his chopper off the roof of the FBI building and swung around. His compatriot in the second attack chopper followed his motions almost exactly, although his orders were to attack the east side of the building while his compatriot’s orders were for the west side.

He maneuvered quickly into position, waited for the troop helicopter to lift off from the building and, checking his compatriot was in place, they fired all thirty-two of their anti-tank missiles into the St. John’s building at the same time. Built to withstand a hurricane, it didn’t stand a chance against the high explosives in such massive quantities. Flames exploded from the ground floor before it was flattened by the upper floors as they crashed to the ground.

“
What the fuck was that?!!” screamed Swanson as the car was buffeted by the exploding force of the missiles behind it. Butler looked up and caught sight of the attack chopper as it sped away in the opposite direction. It hadn’t noticed their
Smokey and the Bandit
-style exit from the rear parking lot, all four wheels having left the ground as Swanson had taken his ‘as fast as you can’ a little too literally, barely avoiding crashing into a truck when they joined the main carriageway. It was the same truck that had obscured the attack choppers’ view of them leaving.

Swanson caught sight of the ominous aircraft in her rear view mirror as they sped around the bend and out of sight.

“What was that? A fucking Apache helicopter?” she shouted, adrenaline and fear coursing through her body in equal quantities.

“Not quite,” replied Butler having recognized exactly what it was. “But let’s just say, it has confirmed that I was right all along.”

The news coming back from Baltimore was not good, the Colonel was furious at the onsite commander’s decision to flatten the other building. However, given the feedback, it seemed he had little option. With seconds to spare before local authorities and the National Guard responded to alarm calls from the FBI offices, it was the only real option to deal with the targets. Above all else, his orders were to avoid a battle with local forces and to cover his tracks. It was not the time for them to be exposed. Their parting gesture was to trigger a massive explosion in the FBI offices. It would take the authorities days to sift through the debris and uncover what had really taken place. Losing nine troopers was bad enough but receiving the news from the sole survivor of the St. John’s building that the targets had escaped was disastrous. Two buildings destroyed, nine troops and dozens of FBI personnel dead and all for nothing.

It had not gone over well with Roger Young. He had uncharacteristically lost control with the Colonel. The Colonel, not one for histrionics, would give him one pass. After all, the news was bad and ultimately reflected on Roger. To be frank, the Colonel had more to worry about than Tom Butler. His role was far bigger than even Roger was aware. In fact, should Roger get in his way, he had the authority to replace him. Roger’s usefulness was coming to an end. However, such a move was not without major problems that the Colonel would rather avoid if possible. On top of all that, however, the Colonel owed Roger; it was Roger who had sought him out and put him where he was today, back in the realms of where he had always felt most comfortable.

The Military Operations Center around him buzzed with excitement. The deployment of the National Guard had afforded them the ability to use equipment that, at any other time, would draw close scrutiny, hence his ability to send out four military choppers to Baltimore, including two attack choppers. Adorned as if part of the US military, they blended perfectly with the other military equipment deployed throughout the state. The only problem would come if somebody recognized they weren’t normal US kit.

When his phone buzzed, he ignored it. He was busy. When it buzzed again, he checked the caller ID. It was Roger Young, no doubt wanting to apologize for his earlier outburst. He ignored it. When it rang a third time, he picked it up.

“I just rang to apologize,” said Roger, rather pathetically.

“Thank you,” replied the Colonel halfheartedly. He didn’t really care anymore.

“I was out of line but you do realize how dangerous Butler is to us, don’t you?”

To be honest, the Colonel didn’t believe he was. The clock was already ticking down with an inevitability that was unstoppable. Whatever Butler could do, the Colonel failed to comprehend how it could in any way stop the plan. In fact, with the ingenuity of what was to come - it was impossible for anyone to stop it. Even the president of the United States couldn’t stop it. In a little over forty-four hours, America would no longer exist. However, he was also a pragmatist. There was no point tempting fate.

“Indeed,” he replied.

“So what is the plan to stop him?” asked Roger.

“Quite simply, Washington is closed to them. They won’t get through. We have checkpoints on every road coming into the city. The National Guard being deployed has made our life a lot easier. However, that doesn’t stop them just calling someone.”

“That’s covered from my end,” Roger replied. “Although I’m not sure there’s anyone left for them to trust,” he laughed.

The laugh grated on the Colonel, whose gratitude towards Roger was seriously waning.
Forty-four hours
, he thought. After that, Roger’s role was complete. And the Colonel’s orders were clear. Roger Young would become a liability and was to be killed.

Poland

With over fifteen hundred miles of border to protect and defend, Admiral James G. Keeler, the Unified Combatant Commander of Europe and Supreme Allied Commander Europe for NATO, wanted to see exactly how things on the ground were progressing. He had seen enough projections and charts over the last thirty-six hours to fill a lifetime. Nothing replaced seeing it up close and personal. The news that Ukraine had acceded to the overwhelming economic and political pressure from Russia had made his job all the more difficult. Although aging, the Ukraine forces were significant and more importantly, her borders would stretch his forces even further.

The flight from his base in Stuttgart had been low and slow. The massive operation below was put into perspective as trains stretching into the distance carried heavy equipment, artillery pieces, tanks, personnel carriers and troops to the front line. Fighters, helicopters and attack choppers flew past them almost continually as the NATO forces repositioned their forces. Landing at the Minsk Mazowiecki airbase put the projections and charts into even sharper focus. It was chaos, but organized chaos. The small base was swamped with aircraft parked in every spare inch of ground while engineers hastily prepared a temporary runway to double the base’s capability. At only fifty miles from the Belarusian border, where the Belarusian and Russian forces were amassing, it was going to be a vital backup to the ground forces ahead.

“Sir, we have your helicopter prepped and ready to go,” said the base commander, saluting the Admiral from his small prop plane.

“Thanks, I’ll have a quick walk around, speak to some of the men and I’ll be out of your way in ten minutes,” he promised. He knew his presence would only detract from the work that was underway.

Admiral Keeler lasted five minutes before it became apparent he was just a hindrance. He boarded the small UH-72 observation helicopter and instructed the pilot again to keep it low and slow. He wanted to see what was happening below, although this time, he would have the benefit of being able to stop when he wanted and speak to the troops. After forty miles of flight, the transports below began to come to a stop as the tanks took up positions. The Polish countryside was already littered with vast quantities of equipment. The Admiral shook his head at how quickly it had all been deployed. Most of the equipment already in situ was the regular kit from across the NATO forces in Europe. The equipment still on transports had been in storage for just this type of event. The equipment on show was the most advanced available to each of the forces present. Much more remained in storage, such as older models that could be called upon if needed. Mechanics and engineers were working around the clock, getting them battle ready. Admiral Keeler hoped he’d never need to call on them.

German Leopard tanks gave way to British Challengers and French Leclerc’s. He began to wonder if the US troops were even there. Finally the US contingent came into view, line after line of the most powerful main battle tank ever designed. Faster, bigger and more powerful than any previous model, the new Abrams was a sight to behold. It could outshoot and outrun any of its NATO counterparts, who themselves could outshoot and outrun anything the Russians had to offer. Apache attack helicopters waited ominously, ready to support their ground-based cousins. Mobile missile units and artillery guns were in place, adding even more firepower to the forces below.

The Admiral instructed the pilot to fly towards the border. He wanted to see what they were up against. The short flight was one of stark contrast. The professionalism of the NATO forces was in no way matched by the halfhearted preparations of the Russian forces who, the Admiral had to remind himself, were the aggressors; it was they who had started the tensions that had led to President King deploying forces. The Admiral had known the president for many years and knew that when it came to the fight, the president did not hold back. He fought hard and fast. Perhaps the Russians did not understand just how he operated. He didn’t hold back; the president believed overwhelming forces and firepower saved lives. Well, certainly American lives. And from what the Admiral could see, they were going to save a lot of American lives. The NATO forces below were already impressive and would continue to grow for the next few days as more and more equipment and men made it the front line.

The Admiral looked again at what faced them. It was going to be a massacre. What the hell were the Russians playing at? As everyone knew, they were in no position to start a war.

He signaled for the pilot to head back to base. His return to Stuttgart would be by fast jet. It would be too dark to see below and he had a conference with the president and the other combatant commanders to dial into.

“I’m not entirely sure what you’re telling me,” said Jack irritably.

“The FBI office in Baltimore has been destroyed, no survivors have been reported,” replied the FBI director.

“Jesus, man, that’s the bit I understand! How did it happen?”

“A massive explosion, so big it seems to have taken down the building opposite as well.”

“Butler and Swanson?”

“Prime suspects at the moment. We can’t ignore the fact they were handing themselves in there at the time it happened.”

“Explain that one to me,” Jack said, confused at the logic.

“Well, we’re not entirely sure what took place, they are fugitives after all.”

“What’s Swanson done to be classed as a fugitive, taken a day off work?” asked Jack, struggling to keep up with the FBI’s reasoning.

The FBI director fidgeted awkwardly on the sofa, wishing he hadn’t personally gone to see the president and had instead updated him on the situation by phone.

“The Secret Service--”

“Whoa, just slow down,” interrupted Jack. “The Secret Service who are unaware of who Jack Butler is?’ he asked sarcastically.

“It turns out that was an error. They were aware of him. A computer glitch had stopped information on new cases updating their systems.”

“Bullshit,” said Jack. “This whole thing stinks of bullshit.”

“I’ve been briefed on Mr. Butler’s background, it seems he is an explosives expert,” said the FBI director, as if it was a conclusion.

“Who briefed you?”

“The CIA.”

“Wait a minute, when did they get involved?”

“Tom Butler is ex-CIA,” replied the director, as though Jack should have known.

“The Secret Service agent who briefed me never told me that.”

“It seems they have only recently been made aware themselves.”

Jack shook his head. The plot thickened. An ex-CIA agent who had left a message for him was working with the head of the FBI’s Washington office and had supposedly offered to hand himself in to the Baltimore office but decided to blow up it and all its agents instead? All for no apparent reason or benefit?