Chapter 36 - Daylight at the Perimeter
The gunfight in the vertical shaft was brief, brutal, and decisive.
With Arthur providing disciplined, precision fire from the lower platform and me advancing along the blind corner of the spiral staircase, the three Blackwood contractors were outflanked within ninety seconds. Two fell through the safety netting into the subterranean abyss below; the third dropped his rifle and threw his hands up, realizing that the man advancing on him with an empty pistol and a combat knife was the decorated veteran of Al-Qaim who had survived far worse odds than a damp staircase.
We breached the surface through an auxiliary ventilation intake hidden inside a ruined drainage culvert two hundred yards outside the flaming perimeter of Hangar 4.
The rain was falling in torrential sheets, washing the grime, blood, and sweat from my face as we scrambled up the muddy embankment into the cold night air. The storm was deafening, but it couldn't drown out the sound of four heavy-lift CH-53K King Stallions circling low over the perimeter, their massive seven-bladed rotors chopping the damp air into a rhythmic, concussive thunder.
Everywhere across the black site, searchlights swept the ground. Armored personnel carriers bearing the insignia of the 75th Ranger Regiment and the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s Hostage Rescue Team formed an impenetrable cordon around the burning wreckage of the hangar.
"Down! On the ground! All of you!" shouted a squad of Rangers advancing through the tall grass, their weapon-mounted lasers painting crimson dots across our chests.
"Hold your fire!" Arthur’s voice pierced the engine roar, clear and commanding. He stepped out of the shadows of the culvert, holding the gold-sealed presidential dossier high above his head. "This is Lieutenant General Arthur Vance, Special Operations Command, operating under National Command Authority Directive 99-Alpha. I have the prisoners."
The lead Ranger captain lowered his rifle, his eyes going wide beneath his night-vision goggles as he recognized the man who was supposed to be a name carved into a marble wall at Arlington.
"General Vance, sir," the captain stammered, saluting crisply despite the driving rain. "Admiral Sterling is on the line from the airborne command post. He instructed us to escort you and Captain Marcus Vance directly to the secure transport. The prisoners are to be transferred to the Provost Marshal's custody immediately."
Behind me, Julian collapsed into the mud, his face pressed against the wet grass, sobbing uncontrollably as two military police officers wrenched his arms behind his back and replaced the plastic ties with heavy steel handcuffs.
"Marcus!" Eleanor’s voice rose over the screaming helicopter engines. She was being held firmly by two female federal agents, her soaked evening gown clinging to her like a shroud. She struggled against their grip, her eyes wild, staring directly at me through the rain. "Tell them who he is! He’s your brother! You're a Vance! You are destroying your own blood!"
I walked past her, my boots sinking into the saturated turf. I didn't stop. I didn't look back.
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"The blood was poisoned, Eleanor," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet loud enough to reach her ears over the storm. "I just drained the wound."
***
