Seven Days To Brooklyn: A Sara Robinson Adventure (22 page)

Sara steps inside the building over broken glass leftover from looters months earlier. Rows and rows of slot machines line the interior of the room, silenced by the lack of electricity and no one to maintain them. Following her deep inside the casino, Mac and Aren walk in silence as they move to the back of the room. A sign above is posted in large black letters: Hotel.
 

“We need to get to the roof so we can see them coming.” Looking back at Mac, Sara is clearly in charge again.
 

“Go ahead; I’ll help Aren. You get set up on the roof.” Mac gives Sara permission, something she does not need but that allows her some relief in abandoning them, knowing it will take a long time for Aren to climb the twelve-story building to the roof. Sara runs up the twelve flights of stairs and finds the door to the roof. Climbing one last flight of stairs, she comes up to the locked door. Pulling out the .38 revolver, Sara shoots at the lock, blowing two holes in it, opening the door. The roof is flat and nearly the size of a football field. Multiple air-conditioning units line the center of the roof. Walking over to the south end of the roof, Sara sets up the rifle, scoping out the street below her. Looking through the high-power scope, she zooms in on the other end of the street near the airport. Rounding the corner of the street Sara is scoping out, the squeal of tires on asphalt echoes across the city as the military dune buggy slides into her view. Steadying the rifle on the edge of the roof with the bipod, Sara slowly squeezes the trigger, touching off a round, sending it down from the rooftop to the buggy below. A split second later, the bullet rips through the driver’s chest, killing him instantly, sending the buggy swerving across the street and up onto the sidewalk. Scrambling out of the buggy, the rest of the commandos move out and over to the side of a building, unaware of the location of the shooter. By this time, Sara has pulled the bolt of the rifle back, ejecting the spent casing and reloading a fresh shell. The commandos do not hear the crack of the rifle as the leader drops to his knees clutching the hole in his throat that is now spurting blood. Collapsing on the ground, he is dead right where he lands.
 

“Move out, shooter ahead, probably on a rooftop,” one of the remaining commandos yells as he runs across the street and out of Sara’s view. Running up the street toward Sara’s position, the other two commandos scramble forward while covering each other, keyed in on her location by the last shot. They set up a hasty position behind an abandoned, burned-out vehicle while looking through the back window, using the bulk of the vehicle to conceal their position. Looking through the scope of his MP5, the commando can see the end of a rifle barrel and the silhouette of Sara’s body. Still too far for his weapon to be effective, the commando squeezes off a couple of rounds at Sara, striking a window two floors below her. Sara patiently waits for the commando to move before sending another round. A few minutes later, lulled into a sense of bravery or boredom, the commando behind the car waves at his buddy to move up from the side of the building. Sara watches the commando behind the car wave to his buddy. Moving the scope up the street twenty yards, she catches the commando running, pulling him off his feet with a well-placed round. Her second shot cuts through the empty interior of the burned-out car, taking half of the commando’s face off before exiting the rear of his skull. Sara is humming one of her favorite heavy metal tunes as she reloads the weapon. “Like the pied piper,” she says as she refocuses down the opposite street, searching for the last soldier. Scanning quickly from side to side, she picks up movement but loses it behind smaller buildings. Up ahead of the movement, an intersection waits for the commando who is alone now.
 

“Lancer, this is Timber Wolf Six Bravo, over.” The commando radios back to the C-130 that is waiting on the tarmac in front of the hangar where Sara acquired the Porsche 911.
 

“Go ahead, Timber Wolf. This is Lancer.”
 

“Timber Wolf Six Bravo cannot reach the rest of the team members; believe I’m the only survivor. Request fire support, over.”
 

The radio operator in the aircraft yells up to the pilots to prepare the aircraft for departure.
 

“Good copy, Timber Wolf. We will be overhead in three minutes; send target coordinates.”
 

“Lancer, the target is a single shooter on top of a building two blocks from my position; I will paint the target.” The commando relays his message and does not have to send a grid coordinate. In his possession is a high-power laser that the aircraft will be able to track to the target when they get overhead. Still scanning the scope for any movement, Sara picks up on the sound of the C-130 moving overhead above the low cloud layer. With Mac and Aren still inside the building and their location unknown to her, she decides to leave the rooftop and go back down the staircase.
 

“Lancer, Timber Wolf here; I am painting the large building just north of my position. Fire when ready.” The commando holds the laser beam on the side of the building near the roof.
 

“That’s a good copy, Timber Wolf; we are locked on and ready to fire.”
 

The weapons officer inside the C-130 gunship locks onto the laser beam and then pushes the button on the control panel, putting the ship into auto fire, letting the computer calculate distance and trajectory. Seconds later, the large cannon sends a round down on top of the roof, knocking Sara off her feet, two stories below in the staircase. Looking up at the roofline, the commando scans for signs of the shooter. Confident that the shooter was killed in the blast, he quickly moves to the front of the building, running inside past the rows of slot machines. Eyeing the staircase at the back end of the casino, the commando rushes up the stairs. Four flights up, Mac and Aren are rocked by the blast and decide to go back to the lobby. Looking down the staircase around the corner, Mac can hear the commando coming up the stairs to him. “Come on,” he whispers to Aren.

Mac grabs Aren and steps out of the staircase and into the hotel hallway leading to the hundreds of rooms. As the commando rounds the fourth flight of stairs, he catches the closing movement of the door Mac just went through. Carefully opening the door, he steps into the empty hallway. The hallway is more than a hundred yards long with room after room on the left and right. Walking slowly with his Mp5 machine gun at the ready, the commando checks door after door that is locked. Walking around a ninety-degree corner, he hears a sneeze.

“Quiet.”
 

Mac puts his hand over Aren’s mouth, trying to muffle the sound. On the other side of room 433, Mac and Aren stand less than ten feet away from the commando. With shotgun ready, Mac prepares for the coming assault.
 

There is a loud thump on the other side of the door.

Mac looks at Aren with a confused expression on his face. The door to the room slowly swings open, and Sara is standing over the commando, removing the knife from the back of the soldier’s neck. The double-edged blade, perfectly balanced and expertly thrown, made contact with his spinal cord, killing him instantly.
 

“What are we waiting for? Ain’t got all day.” She wipes the blade off on the commando’s clothing.
 

“Thanks. Thought you were dead. That blast was major.”
 

Back inside the hangar, General Edwards walks up to the car cover lying on the floor. The 1974 Porsche 911 was his prized possession; it was a loss like losing a son or daughter. Wondering what happened to it, Edwards stares at the empty spot and cover on the hangar floor.
 

“Son of a bitch. Leave a car for a week and it’s gone before you know it.”
 

The radio in his right hand squelches as he walks back out of the hangar.
 

“Watchman Zero Six, Lancer here.”
 

“Go ahead, Lancer.”
 

“Sir, we’ve lost contact with the entire team.”
 

General Edwards curses out loud as he kicks the air in front of him. “Lancer, I’m ready for extraction as soon as you can get back here.”
 

The operator in the C-130 tells the pilot to turn around and fly back to the airport.
 

“Good copy, Watchman Zero Six; we’re on our way.”
 

Walking out of the casino, Mac, Sara, and Aren run down the street to the dune buggy. Overhead, the C-130 is losing altitude on its approach to the airport. Mac is the first one to the dune buggy and has it started, moving it up the street to pick up Aren and Sara. Still tired from a mysterious ailment, Aren is a couple of blocks behind Sara. Rolling up to Sara, Mac stops the buggy to pick her up.
 

“Come on; let’s get Aren, then turn around. We’re going to head out to the airport.” She yells.

Sara has again formulated a plan and will put the .50 caliber machine gun that is mounted on top of the buggy to use. Pulling alongside Aren, Sara steps out and helps her get into the front seat, buckling her up in the five-point harness. Climbing into the back of the buggy, Sara grabs the handles of the machine gun and slides the cocking lever back, ejecting a round, preparing them for battle. With all occupants on board and strapped in, Mac spins the steering wheel around while pushing the throttle to the floor. The buggy’s tires squeal as they slip on the asphalt and sand that has blown in from the desert. Sara can see the C-130 making a low approach to the runway as they head to the airport.

“Faster, faster, they are landing. Now is our chance!” Not sure of exactly what they will do when they get there, Mac complies with Sara’s order and pushes the buggy harder, picking up speed, hurling the trio to an uncertain destiny. Sliding around the next intersection while turning into the airport, Mac downshifts then floors it again, bringing the buggy out onto the airport taxiway. Two thousand yards away, the C-130 has already loaded the general up and is slowly taxiing out into position on the runway. The roar of the turboprop engines rumbles in the distance as the aircraft starts rolling down the runway.
 

“Get out on the runway; let’s play some chicken,” Sara yells over the wind noise, still hanging onto the machine gun. Swerving out onto the runway, they are on a collision course with the aircraft. Behind Mac’s head, the fifty-caliber machine rips through the wind noise, sending a hail of lead toward the aircraft, every fifth round a tracer, showing the flight path of the bullets. Aiming directly at the nose of the aircraft, Sara makes multiple direct hits, knocking out the radar and computerized target acquisition system. Almost like a slow-motion scene in a movie, the two vehicles close the distance between each other in mere seconds, with the C-130 pulling the nose up and lifting off just in time to miss hitting the buggy. Slamming on the brakes, Mac puts the buggy into a slide, spinning it around to face the rear of the aircraft. Sara squeezes off another hail of gunfire, sending more lead up into the tail of the aircraft. The last round of gunfire rips through electrical wiring, disabling some of the flight control systems. Struggling to maintain controlled flight, the aircraft slowly rolls left until it is at a ninety-degree wing low position. Smoke trailing from the rear of the aircraft is the first indication that there is a fire inside. Watching the aircraft struggle to maintain flight, Sara jumps up and down, waving her fist at the aircraft while mumbling obscenities. A white parachute, then two more, is the first indication that the aircraft is going down. Disappearing over the horizon, a flash, then smoke, followed by a loud bang gives the group satisfaction that they will have no more trouble from the C-130.
 

Sitting down in the backseat, Sara pats Mac on the shoulder. “North.”
 

Driving out of the airport, the trio head north out of town on their way again to Brooklyn.
 

Pulling the journal back out of her coat pocket, Sara thumbs through the map pages, finding a route north.
 

“Take highway ninety-five out of town, which will take us up to Reno and back on track.”

Looking over his shoulder Mac gives her a thumbs-up. In the right passenger seat, the outdoors and the beauty of the early morning in the desert overwhelm Aren, who is moving her head from right to left, trying to soak in everything she is seeing.

15

LOOKING ABOVE THE steering wheel, Mac strains his eyes to see down the road in front of him. Up ahead, the heat simmering off the asphalt makes the road look like a lake. A mirage you can never reach, Mac is sure it is an apparition. The closer they drive to the lake, the farther away it seems to be.
 

Just north of Vegas, a parachute blows across the ground, its occupant still attached but motionless. Rolling over on his side, General Edwards lets out a painful groan from the recent impact with the ground. A few yards away, a voice from one of the airmen calls out to him.
 

“Sir, are you okay?”
 

He doesn’t answer, the fog of semi-consciousness still gripping his brain. The airman kneels down and unclips the chute from the general’s harness. The chute blows across the desert and out of sight. Pulling a satellite phone out of the general’s field pack, the airman dials up command. The phone rings at SOAC in Colorado.

“SOAC, airman Rodriguez.”
 

“This is Lancer; we are down. Request immediate medevac and extraction for Watchman Six Bravo.”

 
Rodriguez is stunned that the aircraft is down, pausing a few seconds before he replies. “I understand your situation; we are dispatching med-evac to your position immediately.”
 

Hanging up the phone, Rodriquez runs over to the computer operator and tells him to scramble a med-evac helicopter to the area where the C-130 crashed just minutes earlier. Ten minutes later, a Blackhawk helicopter takes off from the remote mountain base on its way to the crash site.