I Go in Three

 356.

Inside the ProMaster, the four River Kats; Shoemaker, Sheener, Turkin and Hampton each sit at their stations; Hampton at the wheel and Turnkin sitting shotgun. A more accurate, contemporary description might call Turkin sitting in the 'fully automatic assault rifle' position, and not its titular predecessor but the location remains the same; front and to the right of the driver. Hampton has a similar weapon resting on his lap as he mans the port-side watch. The engine idles but the four home-grown militants are not planning an escape of the vehicular variety. In the back sit Boots Shoemaker, operating the details radio communication and Sheener at a super play station wearing headphones watching a monitor and gingerly moving a joystick per the verbal commands of Shoemaker. Behind mirrored aviator shades the sentries up from scan the chaotic area with cold efficiency. There is agitation in the back however as Boots tries to both dispatch and receive real time intel from the four, five-man teams of vigilantes currently approaching the four primary entrances of the Capitol. Sheener is controlling the monster truck with nervous apprehension - and a hint of attitude.

"Let's just drive the fucker right in the front door and light the fuse," he says to Boots as another delay forces another slowdown.

"Shut up and do your job," comes the response from the senior member of the crew.

"What's the hold up?"

"Delta Team was delayed by a Capitol Security Patrol at the South entrance. The plan is to enter together and we have another five minutes before the we automatically move to Plan B. Just hang tight and I'll tell you when to roll."

I am on the ProMaster's right flank, about 100 feet away, covered by a public restroom facility shaded by a perimeter of eucalyptus and persimmons trees. Mustang is closer on the opposite flank. I call AK and give him the location of the ProMaster and the timing of our  assault asking - commanding - him to use our Escalade to pin the ProMaster from the South and if possible toss a flash bang smoke grenade under the vehicle when close enough to do so. I also command - direct - him to have the young agent preform a similar maneuver from the North in his car. I finish with the most crucial part of the plan, "We are out of time AK, we're moving in on foot from the flank in three minutes, please move quickly, out."

My cell rings with The Queens's caller ID, "The Capitol has a anti-radio jam rig, tell them to use 950 Megahertz at full power aimed at the van, that will disable their remote control system." I pass the message along to AK via text in full caps.

By radio I give the adjusted intel to Mustang just as I hear the snare-drum staccato of automatic weapon fire coming from the South. Blinded and deaf to the action I trust that Capitol Security can hold the line long enough till the local police SWAT team arrives. I also pray that AK and the young agent get here sooner than later. It is the first time in many years that I have actually asked for divine assistance.

The sound of a grenade and the resulting smoke shatter the conversation with my maker and I get Mustang back on the radio, "We gotta move, let's go in fast, your target is the drivers side window, mine the passenger side. We have help on the way, we go in five seconds, good luck Mustang, we are the good guys here."

To draw potential fire away from her side, I go on three. Perhaps it is the adrenaline, and for a split second I consider that it could be an answer to my SOS prayer, but my leg and right arm suddenly feel like they did when I was tossing footballs to Davis in college. The sensation fills me with hope and an strange saintly bravado. I drop my cane and with my miraculously empowered right I pull the Glock and with my left I raise the sawed-off shotgun and point it towards the target. I draw a deep breath and move.

In less than ten steps the passenger side window of the ProMaster drops and I see the muzzle flash of 800 rounds per minute.