Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) (9 page)

6:05 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Washington, D.C.

The gray haired politician blew an exasperated breath from
his lungs. He settled back into the deep black leather of his armored limousine
and poured a glass of scotch as the Vice Presidential motorcade cut a swath
through the light Saturday traffic of the nation's capitol.

The late model Cadillac limousine was probably the safest
vehicle in the world. Its three inch bulletproof glass and armored shell
rendered the luxury vehicle close to impenetrable. But the Cadillac's hardened
exterior was only one layer of protection for the Vice President. With the D.C.
Metropolitan Police and Secret Service vehicles making up the rest of the
motorcade, the sixty year old Vice President couldn't have felt safer.

The deep blue eyes of Vice President Colgan peered through
the darkly tinted windows of the rolling fortress, lost in thought.

Colgan rarely had the opportunity to be alone and reflect
upon his thoughts in private.

In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he had been
alone in the back of a limousine. He was thoroughly enjoying the few moments of
solitude as he took a small sip of the Glenfiddich single malt scotch whisky
that he held in his soft and lightly trembling hands.

The small flat screen television securely affixed to the
forward bulkhead of the vehicle remained dark as the motorcade proceeded
towards the Vice President's home at the US Naval Observatory.

He was looking forward to a quiet evening at home with his
wife, another event which had become all too rare in his busy political life,
especially with only two months to the November elections. He tried to remember
the last time he'd seen Margaret.

Three weeks ago, he recalled sullenly. It had been at a
fundraiser in New York.

The Vice President had been on the campaign trail for months
now.

Luckily, he continued to lead in most key states. But a few
remained contentious.

The two that he and his advisors remained the most concerned
about were Florida and New York.

Both were worth 29 electoral votes. Either could make or
break the election for the Republican Presidential candidate. He peered out the
window of the luxury vehicle as he counted the states his advisors considered
to be solidly red.

He was still short of the 270 he would need to take the
White House.

The heavy black limousine cruised down K Street now, past
the The George Washington University and west towards the cobblestone streets
of Georgetown. The Vice President sighed, wishing the windows of his limousine
rolled down. He would have enjoyed the fresh air.

He took another sip of the expensive
scotch
whisky and peered out the dark windows into the bustle of the nation's capitol.
If he was to take the election, he would need to take one of the two key swing
states from his opponent, the two-time Democratic Congressman from California.

He felt confident that he would.

His business experience alone should make him a no-brainer
for the few true undecided voters that remained.

Vice President Colgan smiled, shrugging the stress from his
shoulders. He could almost taste his coming victory in the November elections.

Without strategists and advisors for the first time in
months, the Vice President was finally able to reflect on his political
strategy. It was amazing, he thought, how much the political landscape can
change in a few short years.

When his predecessor and current boss, President Butler had
come to power, winning the vote meant solidifying the party base around the
rallying cries of Christian principles and lower taxes. Now, all the voters
seemed to care about was the economy and the impending U.S. debt crisis.

Colgan took another long sip of the Glenfiddich Scotch
whisky, draining the glass as his soft hands reached once more for the bottle.
He splashed the brown liquor liberally into the glass and replaced the bottle
in the small bar beneath the long armored window of the dark limousine. He took
another deep draught of the brown liquid. It was smooth as it flowed easily
down the throat of the elderly politician.

Recent polling told the thin politician all he needed to
know about the American voter.

He smiled. All but two percent of the American public had
already decided who they would vote for in November. For Colgan, that meant
that he only had to concentrate on two percent of the voting population in the
states of Florida and New York.

According to his advisors, winning either state should hand
the Vice President the election. And he was polling better in both states on
the economy.

The media had made a great deal of fuss over his record as
an international businessman.

He shrugged. To the Vice President, it was a non-factor. But
to the American public, the Vice President's graduation from Columbia
University and Harvard Business School meant something, especially in this
economy.

The key positions that Colgan had held throughout the
financial sector didn't hurt his chances either. Over a twenty year career in
private industry, the current Vice President of the United States had
eventually worked his way to becoming the CEO of Carmike Industries, one of the
largest corporations in the world, a position that he had resigned just before
being asked to become the current President's running mate.

Colgan rested his head heavily in the soft embrace of the
limousine's leather seats as the motorcade continued to cut through the light, late
afternoon Washington D.C. traffic. His gaze shifted lazily between the crystal
glass in his hand and the Saturday afternoon Washington bustle as the motorcade
cruised down the cobblestone streets of Georgetown and turned right onto
Wisconsin Avenue.

The Vice President peered through the tinted window, momentarily
distracted by a flash of light that glinted brightly in his eye.

He searched for its source.

A white utility van sat idling at a crossing red light. Its
high beams were shining directly at the Vice President's motorcade at eye
level. The Vice President sighed and drained his second glass of whisky peering
in disdain at the young black driver distractedly resting on the steering wheel
as the motorcade passed by, his orange working vest glinting in the late
afternoon sun.

Some people just had no consideration, thought the Vice
President as he closed his eyes and pressed his head once more into the supple
leather of the limousine's headrest before unfolding his black Motorola cell
phone.

His wife hated it when he didn't call on the way home.

The Vice President dialed his home phone number and waited.
After three rings, his wife answered, her voice broadcasting clearly through
the wireless device, "Hello?"

Vice President Colgan's famously deep and soothing voice
responded. "Hi sweetheart, I was just calling to let you know I'll be home
in about ten minutes."

"I can't wait!" Said his wife as the Vice
President flipped the phone closed.

7:15 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Outside of Norfolk,
VA

Retired Chief Petty Officer Mike Jones hefted his six foot
four inch frame from the handmade chair in his kitchen and nodded at Jackson.
Both men stepped towards the back bedroom. Down a short hallway, they entered
Mike's bed chamber and Jackson followed the much larger black man's lead,
turning to face the interior wall of the meticulously clean home.

Jackson chuckled. As he had expected, Mike was in possession
of an arsenal of weapons. Jackson doubted the legality of most of these
armaments, and knew some of them to be outright banned by federal law.

Jackson whistled through pursed lips as he stared at the
array, which included hand grenades, knives, fully automatic rifles including
the AK-47 Jackson had seen earlier, even a rocket launcher.

The weapons were secured in a hand-made gun case that took
up the entire wall.

"Holy shit, Mike.
You get
caught with this stuff and you'll do some serious jail time," said
Jackson, admiring the collection as he waited for his friend to unlock the gun
case.

Mike Jones didn't bother to address Jackson's concerns. As
far as he saw it, he had the right to bear arms. The framers of the
constitution had not limited that right to certain weapons. So as far as Mike
Jones was concerned, this collection was on a fundamental level, quite legal.

Mike Jones shook his head and rolled his eyes as he pressed
his thick thumb to the finger print scanner on the front of the gun case. After
several metallic clicks, the locks released and Jackson took a step back,
allowing the door to swing open fully.

"Take your pick," Mike said simply, picking up a
silenced Beretta 9mm handgun and sliding a fully loaded magazine into the
receiver before racking the slide and placing the safety on. He tucked the
weapon into his belt loop and stepped back.

He tossed a bullet proof vest to Jackson before strapping
one on himself, tightening the thick Velcro straps around his chest as he
checked for full range of motion in his arms. Both men stared into the weapons
cache.

Jackson clipped two smoke grenades onto his vest and pulled
the silenced Glock 17 that he had taken off of Mohammed Fatal from his waist
band. He handed the weapon to Mike.

"This weapon is probably hot," he said simply as
he pulled a silenced Beretta 9mm from the case, tucking it into a shoulder
holster that he strapped above his bullet proof vest.

He tucked the weapon beneath his arm and slid on his black
motorcycle jacket as he strapped Mohammed Fatal's Ka-Bar onto his belt and
checked his own range of motion and weapons accessibility.

Mike nodded as he took the Glock 17 that Jackson had just
handed him and placed it in a drawer beneath the weapons case. Jackson had no
doubt that the weapon would be stripped for parts and unrecognizable before
long.

Jackson peered through the case while Mike picked up an MP5K
submachine gun and several extra magazines. Jackson chuckled without mirth to
himself as he too retrieved an MP5K submachine gun from the case, tucking three
extra magazines into the pockets of his motorcycle jacket.

Jackson watched Mike secure the gun case. How his friend had
obtained these weapons, normally reserved for military special operations,
Jackson didn't know. And he didn't care.

He was grateful for the Chief's arsenal, and for once,
grateful for Mike's unnatural aversion to political and legal authority. No one
told the Chief what types of weapons he could and couldn't own.

The two men looked each other over.

Old habits die hard, and the men had grown accustomed to
checking each others' gear, parachutes, and weapons prior to every mission.
They nodded to one another before stepping towards the front door.

The sky was beginning to darken as twilight descended on
September in eastern Virginia.

Jackson and Mike stepped past the thick steel door of Chief
Jones' home. Mike turned, scanning his right thumb on the fingerprint scanner
by the door frame. The magnetic door locks could be heard securing the heavy
door.

"Alright man," said Mike, "first things
first. We need to get rid of this stolen vehicle."

The two men walked over to the rusting Cadillac Fleetwood.

Mike whistled. "I like your style, Jackson. Powerful
engine, non-descript and non-computerized. I was leaning towards torching the
car. But it would be a shame to waste such a nice old car like that. Tell you
what... Help me get the car in the garage. I'll take care of the VIN numbers
and get it a new paint job later. It'll make a good Sunday driver."

The two men pulled Chief Jones' blue Chevrolet Silverado out
of the garage, and replaced it with the fading black Cadillac. They piled into
the truck, placing the machine guns underneath the gray cloth seats while they
fastened their seatbelts.

The well maintained Silverado turned over immediately and
Mike pulled the vehicle onto the narrow and windy dirt road that led from his
home to the main road that would take them to the interstate.

Jackson and the Chief rumbled down the street without
speaking for a few minutes before Jackson interrupted the silence. "Take
the interstate southbound and I'll let you know when we are getting close to
the exit."

"Roger," said Mike, allowing the silence of the
car ride to wash over the two men as they proceeded south along the interstate,
the red setting sun in the window.

It wasn't long before Jackson again broke the eerie silence
of the transit.

"This is your exit," he said simply, and Mike
complied.

The vehicle merged into the right lane and exited the
interstate highway. After a few more turns directed by Jackson, the vehicle
pulled up behind a copse of trees that divided a two lane road from the
non-descript office building which housed Carmike's secretive Special Security
Group.

The two men sat silently for a few seconds before Jackson
spoke up.

"Mike, from what I remember, the only way in is going
to be the front door. I'm going to need a distraction." Jackson said this
with a concerned look on his face as he surveyed the well lit parking area
adjacent to their current location.

"I bet they have a pretty good fire suppression
system," said Mike, a mischievous grin crossing his face for a moment as
he pulled a smoke grenade from his jacket.

"You know Mike, I bet they do." Jackson returned
the smile.

Darkness had descended fully on eastern Virginia now, and
Jackson and Mike stepped from the vehicle, sure to close the doors of the
Silverado pickup truck softly.

They left the machine guns behind. If things went well, they
wouldn't need the weapons.

Jackson crouched behind the tree nearest to the parking lot
as Mike walked casually towards the side of the building, quickly spotting a
weak area in the facility's security and stepping towards the four story
building while Jackson waited patiently in the shadows of the trees near the
parking lot.

Mike drew his silenced Beretta from his belt and took aim at
the floodlights which illuminated the side of the office building. They were a
much easier target than the cameras which were distributed throughout the area,
and their absence would achieve the same result. The cameras would be rendered
ineffective.

Mike shot out the three lights which illuminated the east
side of the office building with three well aimed shots from the handgun as he
walked. The side of the building was shrouded in darkness immediately.

Mike scaled the fire escape, his black clothing concealing
his movements as he skillfully climbed the wrought iron ladder that led to the
roof.

Reaching the roof, Mike spotted intake for the ventilation
system immediately, and walked rapidly towards the air inlet.

He drew a sharp black Ka-Bar knife from a leather sheath on
his hip and pried the cover of the ducting off before pulling the pin on two
smoke grenades. He dropped the two grenades into the blackness of the
ventilation ducting.

He turned his back and grinned broadly as smoke billowed
from the ventilation system.

Jackson had his distraction.

Mike was quick but judicious in his movements now. He was
down the fire escape in seconds as the fire alarm began to sound loudly, the
smoke from Mike's distraction billowing quickly through the building's
ventilation system.

Mike walked towards Jackson's position, shrouded by darkness
as he signaled for Jackson to make his move.