Chapter 5 - AMBUSH AT CEDAR RUN
"Hold on!" our driver shouted, slamming the accelerator to the floorboard. The heavy engine roared, its supercharger whining as three tons of armored steel surged forward into the dark.
Behind us, the first pickup slammed directly into the disabled rear escort vehicle, sending it skidding into the ditch. The second truck gunned its engine, matching our speed and pulling up along our blind side. The passenger window rolled down, and the silhouette of a man holding an automatic shotgun emerged.
"Get down, Commander!" Kane drew his service Sig Sauer and fired three controlled shots through the reinforced gun-port in the suburban’s passenger door. The composite glass cracked into spiderwebs, but Kane’s rounds found their mark; the pickup's shooter jerked backward, collapsing into the cabin as the shotgun fired wildly into the treetops.
"They aren't local deputies!" I yelled over the deafening mechanical roar. I reached into my coat, drawing my own standard-issue Beretta with my uninjured left hand. "Those are corporate contractors! Look at the kit—Crye Precision rigs, encrypted radios! This is the maritime security firm Vance was subcontracting for!"
The pickup swerved toward us, attempting a PIT maneuver on our rear quarter panel. The impact tore through the silence like a sledgehammer hitting sheet metal. My head whipped sideways, teeth rattling, the fractured collarbone screaming in agony.
"Reroute to the bypass!" Kane ordered the driver. "Call air support! Reynolds has two Seahawks patrolling the coastline!"
"Radio's jammed!" the driver grimaced, fighting the steering wheel as the pickup rammed us a second time, grinding against our doors with a shower of orange sparks. "Broadband jamming device on that lead truck. We’re cut off from the tower!"
"Not from the sky," I muttered.
I leaned toward the center console, flipped open the glove compartment, and pulled the emergency military beacon—an infrared strobe linked directly to the transponder frequency of the Navy’s carrier strike wing off Norfolk. I cracked the sun-roof just two inches, jammed the magnetic base of the strobe onto the roof of the Suburban, and armed it.
Three seconds later, the low, predatory thunder of twin turboshaft engines drowned out the screech of shredding tires. Out of the pitch-black clouds above the tree canopy, a dark shape descended like a falling fortress. The Seahawk’s 30-caliber spotlight hit the road with blinding, surgical brilliance, bathing the hostile truck in daylight. Over the helicopter's loud-hailer came a voice as steady as iron:
May you like
*"Hostile vehicle, this is United States Naval Air Corps. Cut your engines and dismount, or you will be engaged with lethal force."*
The driver of the pickup hesitated, stomped the brakes, and attempted to turn across the median. He was too late. The tactical rotor wash alone slammed the light truck sideways, sending it tumbling over the guardrail into the rushing black waters of Cedar Run.
