Chapter 503

Wednesday morning Ed met me in the garage to put me in the heavy vest and walk me to the Suburban.

“Ed, the hair on the back of my neck feels like it is standing on end, not a good sign,” I said.

“I have an itch where I don’t normally have an itch and I haven’t had that since I left the sand box,” he replied.

“Bill said he feels like he was being watched a couple times in the last few days,” Ed said.

“We decided that both Blackhawks are going to make the trip starting today. Both will be flying high,” Ed added.

“When you get back this morning, check in with Robert to see if they have made any progress with the new coding the Prince is using,” I replied.

The trip to 1600 was uneventful and the day so busy I did not think any more about our conversation.

Ed carried the vest inside the White House for me to put on, “Robert said, they are randomly varying the codes in the same transmission; checking with his contacts he thinks it is of Iranian origin and sequencing.”

“That would not be surprising with all the IED’s they had that were Iranian,” I replied.

“That also means that an supposedly trustworthy ally in the Middle East may be on the verge of being flipped, on the verge of civil war or maybe Iran has an arrangement with the Prince,” I said as we were walking out.

The ride home was uneventful until the 301 North intersected route 50; that intersection and ramp was a hi-speed merge into six lanes gradually dropping to three lanes.

The convoy was made up of two Maryland State police cars in the lead, then the four Suburbans, and then two Transit Authority cars bringing up the rear. The convoy was in the hi-speed lane.

From the 301 south ramp four dump trucks merged onto US 50 in the outside slow lanes doing anything but slow. When the convoy started to pass the slower trucks, the trucks steered hard to the left crossing four lanes of traffic. Each truck had taken a Suburban to plow into the side.

Even before the impact the Blackhawk with the mini guns saw what was happening. The pilot started screaming into the radios.

“The convoy is being attacked! We need backup up now at the Bowie 301/ 50 merge.”

What I did not know was that with the three of us being uncomfortable this morning, Ed had changed protocol today. When the convoy was traveling this afternoon, the other two Blackhawks and two Bell 407s were to be in the air over the shore, fully manned with heavily armed security personnel.

They were flying a controlled approach practice to the small Bay Bridge airport where we first started our business as cover for being in the air a couple miles from the Bay Bridge.

The dump trucks hit the Suburbans so hard that it shoved them into the guard rail separating the highway.

With all the armor in the body and the high dump truck bumper, when the chassis came hard against the guard rail, the weight of the dump trucks and momentum sheared the body off and it went over the guard rail into the other west-bound lane of traffic.

The body rolled at least once - possibly more - into the oncoming traffic that I could hear crashing into other cars and Suburban. I was hanging upside down by the seat belts, so was everyone else in the truck. It is impossible to release the seat belt latch with your body weight hanging on it.

Rescue crews have a tool to cut the seat belt but they usually have someone in there to help you get oriented feet down; to have your body weight drive your head and neck into what is now the floor with all the other junk that was now resting on it is not a good thing. It kills you or you run the risk of being a quad.

I was going to grab the seat in front of me with one hand and cut the belt with the other to let me fall on my side.

Just as I was reaching for my knife there was a tremendous explosion that rolled the body one more time and buckled the side. The armor plate on the inside of the side and rear windows had saved me from the one inch thick pieces of flying glass.

I was now back upright in the seat and ready to get out and fight back.

One of the dump trucks had been a truck bomb. They had to know that in a four vehicle convoy, the VIP would be in one of the center two vehicles.

The hand-held aviation company radio was still working and screaming, “Stay in the trucks, stay in the trucks.”

I could hear bullets hitting the Suburban’s body; we were being shot at with semiautomatic rifles. The armor in the body was still intact even after being sheared off the chassis and being rolled at least twice.

Moments later there was a definite change in the gunfire and then all of it stopped. The change had been the Blackhawk with the mini gun. There had been four cars following the dump trucks with fighters to pick off survivors. That was what the first shots were.

The gunner in the Blackhawk had opened fire on the shooters with the mini gun. A few quick burst ended that problem. Traffic was now completely stopped on a major highway in both directions with debris filling the roads.

Ed had been in the front passenger seat, “Is everyone in here OK?” he asked.

“I think my arm is broken,” came from the back, everyone else answered, “OK.”

“BJ stay in here, we will check things outside. Other helicopters from Morton are on their way and should be here in a few minutes. As soon as they get here I will get you in one and get you away from here,” Ed said.

My mind was racing, trying to think how to turn this fiasco into an advantage.

“Ed, if they think I am dead it may lead to a bonanza in communications to our advantage. Work this as if I am dead but make no official statement to that effect,” I said.

I waited while things were checked out. I could hear the helicopters coming in the distance.