Chapter 18 - The Ambush at the Strip
With the transponder retrieved from the abandoned church boiler room, our small convoy moved toward an auxiliary private airstrip hidden in the rural valleys of western Pennsylvania. Vance had arranged for a decommissioned twin-engine turboprop owned by a network of retired military loyalists who still believed in Captain Sarah Cross.
The night had turned brutally cold, a thick freezing rain turning the tarmac into a sheet of reflective glass. Hannah remained close to Brooke, holding a bug-out bag containing our remaining falsified documentation, while Vance inspected the aircraft’s landing gear.
"The transponder is active," Brooke said, checking her tablet under the wing's shelter. "It’s broadcasting a ghost signal recognized by the Azores offshore radar as an authorized diplomatic maintenance shuttle. We have a four-hour window before the defense department notices the rogue transponder code."
"Then we board immediately," Vance replied, racking the bolt of a tactical rifle and slinging it over his shoulder. "Once we touch down on Santa Maria Island, we take a high-speed zodiac raft to the perimeter of Site Obsidian. We have no air support. If we get pinned down, there’s no cavalry coming."
"I don't need cavalry," I said, checking the tactical sidearm Vance had given me earlier. "I just need my mother."
Before we could ascend the airstrip boarding stairs, a blinding beam of light erupted from the perimeter woods, pinning our plane in a searing spotlight.
The distinct thud of high-caliber tactical rifles cut through the freezing rain.
"Down!" Vance shouted, lunging forward to tackle Brooke and Hannah behind the reinforced steel fuel drums beside the hangar.
A burst of armor-piercing rounds ripped through the plane’s left engine cowling, sending a shower of sparks and shredded metal across the runway. Out of the darkness, two black tactical SUVs charged through the perimeter chain-link fence, their doors flying open as heavily armed mercenaries in unmarked black tactical gear spilled out.
"Director Hunt’s cleaners!" Vance yelled over the gunfire, returning precise, controlled bursts from behind the drums. "They tracked Daniel’s transponder activation!"
Hannah screamed as a ricochet chipped the concrete inches from her boots. Brooke immediately shielded her with her own body, drawing a compact pistol from her trench coat and returning fire with surprising accuracy. "We can't take off! The port engine is shredded!"
"We don't need the plane," I realized instantly, spotting the private airfield’s fuel truck parked beside the second hangar.
Adrenaline surged through my veins, wiping away all fear. For fifteen years, these people had made me feel like an invisible ghost, helpless and powerless in the face of their corrupt institutions. But I wasn't their victim anymore.
Sprinting through the freezing rain, staying low beneath the hail of gunfire, I reached the driver's cabin of the heavy fuel tanker. The keys were still in the ignition.
"Rebecca, no!" Brooke screamed through the chaos.
I slammed the heavy diesel engine to life, threw the transmission into reverse, and stomped the gas pedal. The twenty-ton truck roared backward, its massive steel chassis acting as a moving battering ram between Hunt’s mercenaries and the aircraft.
The mercenaries panicked, shifting their fire toward the monstrous truck, but the heavy engine block absorbed the impact. With a deafening crunch of crushing metal, the tanker’s rear bumper slammed directly into the lead tactical SUV, crushing its hood and flipping it onto its side.
Vance seized the opening. "Move to the maintenance hangar! Now!"
He provided covering fire as Brooke, Hannah, and I scrambled into the secondary hangar where an older, fully fueled Bell 412 utility helicopter sat ready on the launch pad.
"Can you fly this?" I yelled to Vance through the storm.
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"I flew these in Bogota before you were born, kid," Vance yelled back, kicking open the cabin door. "Get in!"
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