The Curse of Medusa

That, at least, had been corrected in the past few weeks they’d spent together in her father’s hunting cabin in the mountains. It was a peaceful time, and in many ways he had wished it would never end. Watching Alex learn to walk again had been an amazing experience, for one thing, and it had helped him avoid thinking about the ECHO problem for another.

“I need to get some back-up,” Hawke said ignoring Alex’s question about Lea.

“My Dad has some back-up,” Alex said. “It’s called the US Army.”

Hawke grinned, pleased to hear some levity in the chaos. “No, I mean someone I really know.”

“I thought you weren’t on talking terms with ECHO since you flounced off like a spoiled little girl?”

Hawke ignored the barb and sent the text. “This person’s in the Everglades on a job and can be in DC fast.”

“Who are we talking about?”

Before Hawke could reply, Alex’s father, known to the rest of the world as the US Secretary of Defense, came and sat down in the jumpseat behind them. He rubbed his face and sighed. “Now we’re out of that shitstorm, just who the hell were those guys, Joe?”

“Germans.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Germans, Jack. The grenade they threw at us in your cabin was a DM51, a classic fragmentation grenade originally equipped to the West German Army back in the Cold War.”

“But anyone could have got hold of them.”

“Sure, but they were all carrying German submachine guns and their accents sounded German to me. I think we’re dealing with Germans, Mr Secretary.”

“Germans?” Brooke looked confused. “That doesn’t make any sense at all! The Germans are our allies. What the hell would they launch an attack on the United States for?”

“The German Government is your ally, sure, but these crackerjacks could be anyone. Think Hans Grüber from Die Hard and you’re roughly in the right ballpark, I reckon.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, just thinking out loud. Any details about the President and Vice President?”

Brooke nodded his head grimly. “What Lopez said is true, I’m sorry to report. Vice President Thorn is dead — he was killed at Observatory Circle this morning by a similar crew of thugs that tried to kill us today back at the cabin. So is Todd Tobin, murdered by an assassin at a football game right in front of his wife.”

“And the President?”

“He was at a university in New Orleans when they kidnapped him. Our guys say that the driver of the limo may have been compromised.” Another heavy sigh. “I just don’t know — the whole day has descended into total chaos. All the information we have is just in crazy fragments and no one really knows what’s going on. How long till we get there?”

Hawke glanced at his watch. “Just over an hour now.”

* * *

An hour later, Joe Hawke watched the carnage unfolding in the streets of Washington as he turned the Embraer to line up with Andrews Air Force Base, just twelve miles southeast of the US capital. Smoke poured from several sites and the curfew’s deserted streets lent an eerie quality to the whole scene.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Brooke said, looking down from the cockpit window. “What the hell are we looking at?”

“The worst terrorist outrage on American soil, Jack,” Hawke said.

Brooke nodded and rubbed the stubble on his jaw. A look of deep anger flashed in his eyes. “I want the response to this to be totally disproportionate.”

“That’s the President’s choice, Dad,” Alex said. “Not yours.”

“And right now that’s Teddy Kimble,” he said. “And that doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

Hawke hoped he was wrong — he knew America needed a strong leader now more than ever. He turned to look once again at the terrible sight of smoke pouring out of the top of the Jefferson Memorial.

“My God!” Brooke said. “Even the Monument’s been blown to pieces — look!”

Hawke’s eyes flicked over the river to the Washington Monument, now no more than a smouldering stub sticking out of the earth. The ring of American flags that encircled its base was broken down and on fire. Here and there he saw a few terrified people running for their lives or piling their belongings into the backs of the cars.

“Looks like some are breaking the curfew.”

“This could get really ugly.”

Brooke banged his fist against the cabin wall. “Whatever son of a bitch is responsible for this will die for it, I swear!”

“They’re trying to flee the city,” Hawke said.

“Bad idea,” Brooke said bluntly. “There’ll be roadblocks on every exit route by now just in case the assholes behind this are still inside the Beltway.”

Hawke reduced speed, extended the flaps and deployed the gear. They would be on the ground in minutes.

Moments later, their SUVs sped north through the suburbs of Camp Springs and Oxon Hill before crossing the Anacostia River on the 11th Street Bridge. At the north end of the bridge they slowed for a road-block manned by a mix of Metropolitan Police Department officers and heavily armed US Marines, but when the men saw who was inside the SUV they waved them through with salutes.