Breakpoint

By Jon T. Harris

As the cold war winds down, forces within the old Soviet
guard struggle to retain the superiority by launching a desperate move into
Western Europe. Phil Swain, while on his first assignment with US intelligence
is caught in the middle as the world collapses around him. Protecting vital
information that may stop the world from spiraling into a nuclear holocaust,
Swain must escape warring armies as the fighting swirls around him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 26, 2008
• ISBN: 9781469121758

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

THE FIRST STEP

701, crackled the radio in Phil’s patrol car. Unit 7-0-1, the dispatcher called again.

Phil reached over and picked up the microphone. 701, go ahead, he answered.

Unit 701, robbery in progress, shots fired, US 90 and Richmond Street, handle Code Three. The dispatcher was reading the call slip handed her in the police substation radio room. She spoke in a monotone, for the call was nothing unusual for the time or place.

Phil threw his paper cup of coffee out the open window of his unmarked patrol car and acknowledged the call. 701 en route.

Patrol officer Phillip Chandler Swain usually had a rookie with him to train. Ten year veterans of the Houston Police Department subbed as wet nurses a lot of the time. But tonight the new kid—what was his name?—had called in sick and Phil was by himself. He put his car in drive and floored the accelerator. The big V-8 of the Chrysler roared as the tires spun out onto the highway. In a moment he keyed the microphone once again.

701, any description? he asked.

Clear 701. One Caucasian male, light colored station wagon, replied the dispatcher.

Phil flicked on the siren, also the red and blue lights hidden behind the patrol car’s grill. Phil was a long way off and wasn’t worried about the noise of the siren alerting the robber. The patrol car was starting to pass cars as if they were standing still. Phil switched the siren’s mode making the siren pitches alternate weirdly. He liked the way it sounded. Every cop he knew did, even if they wouldn’t admit it.

The night was cool and a thin fog was starting to hang in the air. As Phil closed on the robbery he switched off the siren and raced on through the night in silence, except for the noise of the wind through the open window. The red and blue lights reflected on the mist in front of his car like the Christmas lights he hadn’t taken down from the house, even though it was already January. Closer now, he shut off the emergency lights along with his headlights and slowed to pull into the parking lot of the convenience store where the robbery was supposed to be taking place.

Just as he was about to stop, a man with a ski mask ran out of the store and got into the car parked in front. He backed out from the store, smoking the tires all the way, and pulled onto the highway.

Phil turned the lights and siren back on and went after him. As soon as the driver saw the lights of the approaching police car, he floored his car and attempted to outrun Phil.

701, I’m in pursuit, tan over brown Ford wagon, southbound on 90, Phil yelled into the microphone.

701, I show you in pursuit, southbound on 90, repeated the dispatcher. Other units could be heard checking in and advising that they were headed in the direction of the pursuit.

Phil’s breath was fast and he had a grip on the steering wheel so tight that his hands ached. The car continued to flee and the speed was quickly approaching 100 mph. Phil closed on the Ford and could almost see the license plate when the driver hit the brakes and made a turn to the right, almost hitting a car on the side of the road.

Right on Willow, Phil didn’t bother with identifying his unit now; everybody knew who was in the chase.

Right on Willow repeated the dispatcher.

Phil stayed directly behind the Ford wagon. He even got close enough to bump it once but decided not to take the chance of crashing himself. Phil’s heart jumped as the Ford took the next turn. He knew the chase was coming to an end. He’s turning left on Alder this is a dead-end, get me a backup right away.

All units, left to Alder, dead-end, she hurriedly replied. Even the dispatcher sounded excited.

The Ford’s driver evidently didn’t know the streets that well and ran off the pavement and into a field at the end of the street. Phil slammed on the brakes and almost slid into the Ford. He was too close and he knew it. The distance cut down on his reaction time and right now there were too many things to do for the time he had. He screamed into the microphone.

In the field on Al—, FREEZE MOTHERFUCKER. The last part of the transmission wasn’t meant for the dispatcher.

The driver of the Ford was trying to get out and run on foot before Phil could finish his radio message.

FREEZE, POLICE, DON’T MOVE, screamed Phil.

The driver stopped in his tracks and started to raise his hands above his head.

The dispatcher called Phil’s number again but Phil was too busy to answer. After the third attempt to raise Phil without success the dispatcher broadcast a different message.

All officers, assist the officer, unit 701 has suspect on ground at dead-end of Alder, all units acknowledge.

The radio came alive with the various units responding and Phil could hear the sirens in the distance racing to help him. The driver of the Ford heard them too and started moving. Phil had drawn his weapon when he stopped the car and was still holding the driver at gunpoint. The driver started to lower one of his hands.

FREEZE, Don’t move, Phil said this time not quite as loud. He was calming down or maybe he was just catching his breath. The pistol Phil was holding was starting to shake a little and he wondered how long it was going to take for help to arrive. The sirens didn’t seem to be getting any closer.

Then the robber dropped his hand and reached for something in his waistband. Phil knew it was a gun. The man spun around. He had a pistol in his hand and was pointing it at Phil. Phil knew he had to shoot. He knew he was justified.

Come on, pull the damn trigger, Phil’s mind screamed. Why is this taking so long? The man in front of him didn’t seem to be having this problem. He was moving fast enough. Phil’s brain searched for the right electrical impulses to send to his hand. Come on, you’re going to die, pull the damn trigger, he was starting to panic inside. Phil saw the flash of the pistol pointed at him. In his mind’s eye he could see the bullet spinning out of the barrel. It was coming and he couldn’t stop it. He could almost see it, coming closer, splitting the air as it traveled on its deadly path.

Then the flash of his own weapon, felt it more than saw it. One, two, three. The recoil from the Smith & Wesson .45 Cal. Long Colt was tremendous. It was more than he remembered at target practice. He knew his rounds were on target. He never missed but it was going to be too late. The bullet racing toward him had covered the distance. He saw it enter his chest and he felt himself buckling under the impact.

I’m being murdered by a dead man, he told himself as he fell.

Then he woke up. Phil sat straight up in bed, shaking and soaked with sweat. His chest hurt and the palms of his hands were bleeding from marks left by his fingernails after clenching his fists so tightly. He leaned forward and rested his face in his hands.

God, not again, he whispered to himself.

It was always the same. He always woke up in the same place and it always came back. Ever since being transferred to the warrant division he had problems sleeping. He thought it was just the boredom of his new job. He was a patrol officer. More than that, he was a SWAT officer and had no business behind a desk. He needed something. Something more than pushing paper from one stack to the other.

Phil joined the police department right after he returned from Vietnam. The City of Houston was hiring, and with his background in special operations, the recruiters at the police department offered Phil a position on the SWAT team after finishing the police academy. Phil jumped at the chance and stayed with the SWAT team for almost ten years. He had been married, but, like so many other police officers he knew, was now divorced.

Phil hated his new assignment. The department he joined ten years ago was gone, and with it the excitement he thrived on.

Phil now spent his extra time working felony warrants. These were the knock once and kick the door in type. Here was something he enjoyed. It was hands on police work and he was good at it.

While Phil was shuffling the never ending stack of paper from one box to the other, Tom Strickland, the head of the felony apprehension squad and long time friend, came in and sat down in front of Phil’s desk. Feel like a little excitement? Strickland said with a smile.

Are you kidding me? Anything to get out from under this mountain on my desk. What you got working? Phil asked.

Well it seems that a patrolman stumbled into a big deal last night. He caught a small time dealer on a possession charge, said Strickland.

Nothing new about that, commented Phil.

Strickland continued, I agree. The neat part about this deal is that the little turd wants to roll over on his boss. He says he can give us Alonso Pay Raise Vasquez.

Isn’t that the guy that’s supposed to be supplying about half the coke on the street? Phil asked.

One and the same, said Strickland. We’ve got an assistant D.A. working on the warrant now. Interested?

You bet! Where and when? asked Phil.

Be in my office around 2:00 AM tomorrow morning. We’ll go through the raid scenario then. And Phil, bring your vest.

Yes sir, Lieutenant, Phil said as he saluted sarcastically.

Now cut that shit out. Just be there, said Strickland as he shook his head and walked out of the office.

Phil quickly finished up his work for the night, or as much as he was going to do for now, and left for home.

Traffic in Houston is best at about three o’clock in the morning, but this was six o’clock in the afternoon. The ten mile drive to the apartment complex would take at least two hours. Phil pulled onto the entrance ramp of the Southwest Freeway and took his place in the never-ending line of cars that snaked their way down the road. Phil had a habit of talking to himself when he was in his car.

Maybe there’s something on the radio, Phil said as he fumbled with the dials. After three passes through the channels, he gave up and popped in his favorite Pink Floyd tape. Drumming absently on the steering wheel with his fingers, he started talking again. Well Phil, looks like you’ve managed to do it again. Every lane moving except the one you’re in. Phil rolled down the window and stuck his head outside to see. Sure enough, just ahead a car had the hood open.

Shit, that’s just great, he said, pulling his head back in and signaling to change lanes.

He cut in front of the car next to him, even though there really wasn’t room, causing the driver of the other car to slam on his brakes. Phil smiled a little to himself as he pulled into the next lane. He glanced up in the rear view mirror and saw the guy behind him shaking his fist. Phil snickered to himself, Fuck you, and continued to tap the steering wheel.

The rest of the drive Phil spent going over a mental checklist of things to get ready for the coming raid. OK now, number one, food. Nothing at the house, I’ll slip by and grab a burger. Number two, weapons, they’re clean. I wonder where the hell I put that raid jacket?

Phil pulled through the gates of his apartment complex and parked in his usual spot, locked his car and went inside.

God, I’ve got to get my shit together. This place is a mess, Phil said under his breath.

Phil took off his coat and pitched it on the kitchen table. As usual, he stopped to check the messages on his answering machine as he went by.

Mr. Swain, this is Mr. Conner. I calling in regards to an application you submitted with the Federal Government. Please call 512.555.1211 at your convenience during business hours. Thank you.

Phil ran the message again and wrote the number down before listening to the rest of the calls. The next one was from Lieutenant Strickland.

Hey buddy, this is Strick. Call me ASAP, I’m at home. It’s important.

Phil dialed Strickland’s number. The phone only rang once. Hello? it was Strickland’s voice.

Strick, this is Phil. What’s up?

Hey guy, are you in any trouble or something? asked Strickland.

Not that I know of. Why? said Phil.

There were some Federal types asking a lot of questions about you down at the records division after you left. They said they were from the Defense Investigative Service. I don’t know, it just doesn’t feel right.

Phil thought a moment before speaking. Jim, I promise, if anything’s going on, you’ll know. What are they looking for?

They were real interested in your time with the SWAT team. You know, the sniper stuff. Well, it was probably nothing. Sorry to get you wondering, said Strickland.

Thanks a lot. You know how paranoid I get. I’ll probably worry about this all night, Phil chuckled, trying to hide the fact he was already worried. The deal still on?

Sure, see you in a few hours. I’ve got something special in mind for you, said Strickland.

Phil tried to shake off the paranoia that haunts almost every police officer after a number of years and went to work getting ready for the raid. He went to the back closet in his bedroom and got out a black bag made of heavy nylon. It had his name stenciled on the side in white letters.

Contrary to the rest of his house, this closet was organized and clean. Everything in its place. On the wall hung weapons of several types. There were shelves for ammunition, cleaning equipment, and handcuffs. On the other wall were a number of other items used for more exotic police work. These included night vision devices, long distance microphones, rappelling rigs, ropes, and sophisticated photography gear. Crisp uniforms hung in orderly rows evenly spaced on the hangers.

Phil reached for his 9mm automatic pistol and placed it in the bag along with a small MAC-11 sub-machine gun and ammunition for both. The uniform, gloves, boots, (the type the Army uses) and a black jumpsuit was next. Nylon holsters and rigging were added, and his bulletproof vest was last. Satisfied with his equipment, Phil took a shower and settled in for a couple hours sleep before the raid. The alarm, set for 1:00 AM, announced the time with an annoying buzz that all cheap clocks seem to have. Phil shut it off and slipped on the sweat suit heaped on the floor by the bed and his sneakers. He picked up his bag and headed for the station.

At 1:15 AM he walked into Strickland’s office. He was early as usual.

Strickland was busy drawing a diagram of the raid site on the portable chalkboard he used for these briefings.

Hey Jim, you’ll never be an artist, said Phil with his usual sarcasm.

Strickland hadn’t noticed Phil come in and was a little startled, although he tried not to show it. I don’t need any of that from you tonight, Phil, said Strickland.

Damn, aren’t we in a good mood, said Phil.

I’m sorry; I’ve been going over this thing for hours and still don’t feel good about the plan. The house we’re going to hit is a fucking fortress. You know, a crack house with guards and lookouts and the whole bit, said Strickland. He stepped away from the drawing and massaged the back of his neck.

How many men you using? asked Phil.

Twenty five, responded Strickland.

That’s not enough. The damn building is three stories tall and you’ve got to take those two guys in front out before you can do shit, said Phil.

That’s why I wanted you in on this one, old buddy. You were the department expert on this John Wayne kind of shit. What do you think? asked Strickland.

Phil sat down in one of the chairs and