Chapter 6 - Fire from the Sky
The interior of the tactical mobile command unit hummed with the high-frequency vibration of encrypted satellite uplinks. Green and amber telemetry cascaded across three panoramic touchscreens bolted to the reinforced bulkhead. Outside the bulletproof, tinted windows, the Virginia countryside whipped past in a dark blur of frost-covered pines and barren winter fields, our four-vehicle motorcade tearing toward Joint Base Andrews at ninety miles an hour under full emergency clearance.
"Falcon Actual, this is Saber Two-One," a pilot’s voice tore through my headset, sharp and saturated with static. "We are on station above Grid Echo-Niner. Thermal confirms multiple hostile technicals mounting heavy ordnance. They are peppering the south courtyard of the stone compound. Defensive fire from the ruin is minimal—single rounds, controlled, conserving ammunition."
My throat locked, but my hands remained entirely steady on the tactical console. "Saber Two-One, identify friendly signature."
"Friendly is hunkered beneath the collapsed masonry in the western annex," the pilot replied, the drone of twin turboshaft engines bleeding into the microphone. "Infrared strobe is flickering, frequency verified. It’s him, Colonel. He’s alive. But he’s running on fumes. Hostiles are moving an armored breach vehicle toward his position."
"Take it out," I ordered, my voice dropping into the cold, clinical register I had spent twelve years perfecting. "Ripple fire on all hostile platforms. Clean the courtyard."
"Copy, Falcon Actual. Saber Two-One, pickle, pickle."
On the live thermal feed mounted directly before me, two blinding streaks of white light blossomed from the weapon pylons of the AH-64 Apache. Four seconds later, two incandescent blossoms of heat obliterated the lead hostile technicals. The shockwave scattered the mercenaries like ants caught in an iron storm. Secondary explosions rippled through their fuel reserves, turning the Syrian ridgeline into a jagged sea of fire.
"Direct hits on target," the weapons officer called from the jump seat to my left. "Hostile perimeter broken. Surviving elements are falling back into the ravine."
General Marcus Hayes stood behind my chair, his large hand gripping the steel rail overhead, his eyes fixed on the pulsing beacon in the center of the satellite projection. "He bought himself thirty minutes, Elena. Not much more. That strike will alert every corrupt warlord and Blackwood contractor within a fifty-mile radius."
"Then we don't give them thirty minutes," I said, leaning toward the keyboard and executing an emergency flight manifest. "Where is the C-17?"
"Pre-flighted and spooling on Runway Two at Andrews," Hayes answered. "We have a team of Tier-One operators from the 24th Special Tactics Squadron already on board. We fly direct to Incirlik, refuel in air over the Mediterranean, and run the ground intercept before sunset."
A chime broke through my secondary comm line. Master Sergeant Miller’s voice came over the speaker.
"Colonel Vance?"
"Report, Miller," I said.
"The federal marshals have concluded their preliminary sweep of your residence," Miller stated, the grim satisfaction in his voice unmistakable. "Julian Wallace's personal laptop and encrypted flash drives were seized from your kitchen counter. He had a secondary offshore routing protocol running in the background. The marshals found three million dollars in unlaundered escrow, directly wired through a front company tied to Sterling Global Defense—the parent shell for Blackwood Security."
"Did he talk?"
"He started sobbing the moment the federal agents pulled out the Title 18 treason indictment," Miller replied. "He told them he thought he was just moving consulting fees for executive security personnel. He claim he didn't know David was the specific target marked for termination in the ledger."
I closed my eyes for a single heartbeat. *Julian knew.* He might not have known the tactical coordinates, but he knew David had uncovered an illegal arms-pipeline and money-laundering conduit running out of Erbil. Julian had traded my husband's life for a piece of the financial spread, and then walked into David’s home on Thanksgiving morning and told me to sleep on the freezing concrete of the garage.
"And my family?" I asked.
"Their sixty minutes expired twelve minutes ago, ma'am," Miller said. "Your father attempted to barricade the front foyer, claiming squatter's rights under Virginia civil code. The county deputies we summoned informed him that federal sanctuary protocols supersede municipal evictions by executive decree. They were escorted past the perimeter gates on foot. Your mother is currently on the shoulder of the public access road in her slippers, trying to flag down a rideshare. Harper is sitting in the gravel crying. All household locks have been digitally re-keyed, biometric access is active, and an armed squad is posted at the perimeter until your return."
"Leave them on the road," I said, my voice completely devoid of pity. "If any of them steps back onto the grass, have the deputies process them for federal trespassing."
"Understood, Colonel. Safe flight."
The line clicked off. I exhaled slowly, my left hand unconsciously resting against the curve of my stomach. The baby kicked—a sharp, deliberate flutter beneath my palm.
May you like
*Hang on, David,* I thought, staring at the lone green dot pulsing against the barren mountain ridge thousands of miles away. *Just hang on. I’m coming.*
***
