Free Last Stand (The Survivalist Book 7) by Arthur Bradley

someone else’s doing.”
    “We don’t want eyes on what we’re about to do, General.”
    “Agreed. Can you get rid of them without a lot of fuss?”
    “I’m sure we can manage.” Morant stepped away from the window and made his way up to the cockpit.
    The co-pilot turned to face him.
    “Sir?”
    “Have Blackbird 1 take ’em out.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The co-pilot spoke into his microphone, and seconds later, one of the SpeedHawks broke from formation. Morant returned to the window just in time to see two AGM-114R Hellfire Romeo missiles separate from the SpeedHawk’s external wing assembly. Traveling at nearly a thousand miles an hour, the 110-pound missiles took mere seconds to reach their target. Two thunderous fireballs erupted in unison.
    General Hood grabbed the back of one of the seats as shock waves rocked the helicopter.
    A few surviving soldiers stumbled out of the billowing cloud of black smoke, only to be ripped apart by the miniguns. The SpeedHawk hovered in place for a few moments longer, a steady stream of shell casings raining down as the minigun sprayed thousands of rounds at the target. When it finally stopped firing, charred and bloody bodies lay strewn across the train station’s parking lot.
    “I thought I said without a lot of fuss,” growled Hood.
    “Perhaps our definitions differ, General. For me, that was without a lot of fuss.”
    “How so?”
    “No one shot back.”
    Hood eyed the man uneasily, once again reminded that professional killers were just that, professional killers.
    He nodded and cleared his throat.
    “Right.”
    The Chinook banked left, and both of them turned back to the window and watched as The Greenbrier slowly came into view. The white Victorian manor was roughly in the shape of a giant sideways L, behind which lay a lush green golf course.
    Morant immediately turned to Buckey. The man was sitting in a nearby jump seat with his eyes closed and mouth dangling open.
     “Wake up, sunshine,” he said, kicking Buckey’s feet. “You’re up.”

    General Kent Carr approached the far end of the four-hundred-foot-long West Tunnel, listening to the sound of his boot heels thudding on the dull gray cement. The air in the tunnel was stale and somewhat humid from the lack of circulation. Despite clearly seeing that the twenty-five-ton blast door remained closed, he felt the need to once again lay his hand on its heavy metal wheel, like a person suffering from an obsessive compulsive disorder.
    The safety of all those in the bunker depended on the blast doors. If Hood and his commandos managed to find a way in, President Glass and her small untrained group of supporters would be systematically eliminated. Thankfully, even with modern munitions, Carr didn’t believe that it would be possible for them to breach the doors, certainly not without making a real mess of things outside. And a mess was exactly what they would be trying to avoid.
    Nevertheless, firmly believing that paranoia was the bedrock of safety, he had established around-the-clock foot patrols. Duties included walking the enormous bunker, as well as inspecting each of the four doors at least once per shift. With General Carr, Bill Baker, Tom Pinker, Jack Fry, and Dr. Tran now passing the baton of guard duty every hour, it meant that there would never be more than sixty minutes between inspections of the doors.
    Carr placed his hand on the cold metal wheel and double-checked that the pistons were fully recessed into the wall. They were. He turned around and spotted a lone figure standing at the other end of the long tunnel. Even at a distance, he could see that it was Bill Baker, the nation’s Secretary of Energy, if such a post still existed. Baker was a big colorful chap, full of life, not to mention inflated stories of his many worldly exploits.
    They approached one another, each adopting his own pace.
    When they finally met, Carr glanced at his watch.
    “You’re five minutes early.”
    Baker shrugged.