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“There’s more guys than that,” said Coleman. “Somebody cut those phone lines.”
“I wonder what that sign says,” said Reuben.
Whatever it said, it was enough to keep the drivers in place without much honking. And because of the blockage going that direction, traffic was stopped cold the other way, too. It would delay any military vehicles that might attempt to stop them. And delay was all they needed. With these guys, there’d be no escape plan. Though if they did happen to live long enough to get away from the Tidal Basin, they’d no doubt run to the Holocaust Museum and start killing Jews and Jewish sympathizers—which is what they would assume the Holocaust Museum would contain. Oh, yes—and schoolchildren.
Reuben knew they wouldn’t get that far.
He and Coleman had line of sight. They got down, and—
And a bullet pinged into the guardrail.
So they dropped down prone and sighted under the rail. They both fired.
The guy with the protractor spun and dropped. A shoulder wound, probably, thought Reuben. “Were you aiming at him?” he asked.
“No,” said Coleman. He’d been sighting on the guy with the sign.
“Then I must have been,” said Reuben.
One of the boneheads in the car behind them had rolled down his window. “Is this, like, a war game?”
“This is not a drill,” said Reuben calmly. “Get down inside your car as low as you can.”
By now the guys with the launchers were lying flat, still preparing their launch. There was no clear shot at them.
The guy who had held the sign was firing at them. And Reuben and Coleman couldn’t get to a different position, because now the shots hitting around them were pretty steady. The close ones were not coming from the guy with the sign.
“They’re not trying,” said Reuben. “Wherever their sniper is, he could kill us anytime.”
“Just trying to pin us down,” agreed Coleman.
“Shoot for the launchers themselves,” said Reuben.
“I’m left,” said Coleman.
But by the time he said that, Reuben was already firing at the lefthand launcher. Which their bullets knocked over. And by the time they corrected to aim for the other, the rocket had launched.
Reuben guessed that their sniper would be unable to resist watching for the explosion when the rocket hit. So he got up and ran to a different position and Coleman followed him, and there would be no last stand in the Holocaust Museum because they got all three of the remaining wet-suit guys . . . as they watched the column of flame and the plume of smoke rise above the grassy hill of the Washington Monument.
“Either they hit the White House or they didn’t,” said Reuben. “We’ve got that sniper to catch.”
“He was shooting from over to the left of the World War II Memorial,” said Coleman.
“And you can bet he’s got a car.”
Their pursuit of him ended quickly. Now the choppers were coming in and military vehicles were jouncing over the lawns and here was Reuben in civilian clothes carrying a rifle and so he had to stop for a conversation. It wasn’t long—Coleman’s uniform helped—and soon there were soldiers and choppers in pursuit of the sniper. But what kind of pursuit was it when nobody knew what he looked like, what he was driving, or where he might be going next?
“Did any of those clowns from the ranger station get a message to you, or did you just come when somebody reported shooting?” said Reuben.
“The choppers went up,” said the lieutenant, “when the cellphones started jamming.”
“And you didn’t send them to the Tidal Basin?” asked Reuben.
“Why would we do that?” asked the lieutenant.
Which meant that indeed, no one knew about the plans that Reuben had drawn up. Except, of course, the terrorists who had followed them.
There was nothing useful to do now except get to the top of the hill and see where the rocket had landed.
