Cloudburst (51 page)

The Genie’s 1.5-kiloton warhead was armed, and the bay doors were open. Power was already flowing to the weapon’s firing circuits, and was allowed through to the two-phase detonator. The loop would be complete after the missile was fired, when, two miles from the fighter, the stored energy would be released from the shaving-cream-can-size capacitor. The high explosives would fire, triggering the nuclear explosion.

From Major Cooper’s vantage the 747 was cast in an eerie pulsing glow. The huge jet looked small from three miles away, and the moist air enveloped it, diffusing the external lights into a sphere brighter than the surrounding night.

He again checked the frequency setting. This was the third time in two minutes. It was right. “Come on. Come on,” he coaxed the silent radio.

The M.D. from Louisiana waited until only ten seconds were left. Twenty years before he would have removed his bulky glove, but flight garments had come as far as his usual ride. His fingers moved easily, finding the fire button, mounted at a slight upward angle on the stick. He breathed heavily, hearing it through the mask-mounted microphone that carried sound like an intercom.

What…
At first he thought an unseen wave of heavy air had swept in from the side, blocking the 747 from view. But then it was back, but without its anti-collision lights. A stream of moonlight penetrating the cloud cover above glinted off the white body of the aircraft. Cooper stretched his thumb upward. It was time. His neck craned upward slightly to sight in on the target. The magnification made the jet fill the reticle.

“Sweet Jesus…forgive me—”

His eye caught it through the sight first, then he backed his face away. It was visible to the naked eye.

The bright landing lights on the 747 came on, then went off. On again, and off. One more time the sequence repeated. Cooper’s thumb hovered over the fire button. After a brief pause the lights came back on, shining distinct cones of light from the xenon lamps into the clouds ahead. They went off quickly and back on for a longer period. It was Morse!

“You lucky bastard,” Cooper said. His thumb went back to the side of the stick. “We’ve got an S and an A, fellas. C’mon with the rest.”

The F and the E followed, but Snoopy wasn’t going to shoot down anybody for a misblink if there had been one. He allowed himself a breath before closing the bay doors and safing the Genie.

“Springer Seven-Eight, we have a Sierra—Alpha—Foxtrot—Echo. Copy?”

“That’s a big a-affirmative Romeo. We didn’t catch it on our radio. What gives?”

“Something’s wrong with the aircraft’s radio.” It was no longer a target. “I can’t figure it, though. I’m gonna move up and check it out. My Morse ain’t too awful bad.”

Flight 422

Graber watched the seconds tick past the time limit until a full minute was gone. “I wish you guys had a rearview in these big birds. I’d give my right nut to see what that fighter’s doing right now.”

Buxton came in. “Cap.”

Hendrickson and the Delta captain both looked back. The pilot turned back to his work upon realizing his reflex reaction. The kid sounded like Buzz.

“Yeah.”

“Four bad guys down—all dead. One”—he thought of the right word to use—“American dead. There’s a couple of wounded passengers, all from the flash-bangs. Lewis is with them. They’ll be okay. Goldfarb says Blackjack’s pretty bad. He can’t tie the wound off all the way. Well, you saw the blood.”

“Right.” Graber thought about where he was sitting. “Hey, Captain Hendrickson, do you need someone to sit here and help with anything?”

“You a pilot?”

“Nah, but maybe there’s someone on board who is.” To the lieutenant: “Bux, check it out below. See if there are any pilots on board. Small plane, commercial, hell, even any helo jocks would do.” Nam had bred a whole generation of whirlybird fliers.

“We’ll get you someone,” Sean said, turning back to the captain. His face, he saw, was flat and passionless. The guy must have been a good friend. He stared down at the blood. McAffee suddenly filled his every thought. No matter how much training there was, it never prepared a man to lose a friend in combat. This was combat, after all. Blackjack wasn’t dead, Sean reminded himself, erasing the morbid yet from the sentence in his mind.

“You wanted to see the fighter?”

The words startled Graber. “What?”

Hendrickson tossed his head to the left. Sean bent forward and looked past the pilot out the side window. The fighter was there, off the left front. It was lit by its own lights. “What the hell’s that?”

Hendrickson looked. “A relic, son.”

*  *  *

“What do you fly?” The black-clad soldier seemed to tower over him.

“Helicopters,” Michael Alton answered. “Crop dusting, mostly. We spray pesticides in the San Joaquin Valley.”

“Where?” Buxton asked.

Michael shifted. “California. Ever hear of the Medfly?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay, where’d you learn to fly? Army?” The question was natural.

“Air Force,” Michael replied, feeling that slight rise in interagency rivalry and pride. The old military BS did stick.

“C’mon, we need your help.”

Michael turned to his wife. She looked scared, still, but in a different way. “I’ll be back, okay? I’m just gonna help out.”

*  *  *

Joe had the location of the U235 pegged in each chute. It was near the top of each, yet still left enough room for whatever release mechanism was there. It was a timer, he was convinced, which gave him some time to work.

A thud came from forward. Quimpo dropped through the right-side entry hole. “Anderson, you need some help?”

“Stick close: I might.”

“Captain said to tell you that everything topside is under control. All the bad guys are dead.” The Filipino soldier flashed a ‘we told you so’ smile.

Joe turned back to the reactor. “See those boxes? Tear the wood off and shove it back there.”

“Yes, sir.”

The logical thing to do came next. He had to secure each of the U235 plugs in their respective chutes, blocking them from falling into the core. But how? There were some options that were risky, and he discarded those without second thoughts. The best way, he decided, was to simply put something in the way of the plugs.

He took the neutron analyzer again and checked the position in the chutes another time. When the lowest point of the U235’s location was found, he removed a drill and long bit from his equipment bag. His plan was to drill into each chute below the mark and insert a rod through the hole on both sides to act as a “stop” for the plugs. It should work.

The bit slid into the holder and he set to work, boring into the soft lead housing.

*  *  *

“It’s not good,” Goldfarb said. “The bleeding stopped, then started up again. It’s deep in his arm, Cap. I can’t do much about it.”

“Sergeant, you’re a combat medic! For Christ’s sake, what would you do in combat?” Sean yelled.

“I’d take the arm off and tie the arteries,” Goldfarb answered. It wasn’t the response he wanted to give.

Graber didn’t hesitate. “Then do it. Save his life.”

The Delta captain walked over to the seat where the bomb lay. Just two feet from it was a bloodstain, marking the spot where the head terrorist had fallen. The body was gone, moved to one side of the downstairs lounge with the other three corpses, but the image was fresh in Sean’s mind. There was the body, facedown, lying on the Uzi, and one hand outstretched toward the…

Wait
. That didn’t make sense. If the terrorist had wanted to knock the aircraft out of the sky, all he would have needed to do was shoot up the cockpit. He killed one pilot, so why not finish it? That would be a sure kill. Trying to get to the bomb to blow up the jet might be a notion of grandeur, but quite unnecessary, and equally likely to fail. And it did.

Sean knelt down by the vest. “Antonelli!”

The big trooper trotted over from his spot by the cockpit door. “Yeah?”

“Give me a hand.” Graber lifted the vest and laid it out on the carpet, the inside of it down, exposing all the pockets. “It’s safed, don’t worry.”

“Yeah, sure,” Antonelli answered warily.

“I’ve got a bad feeling. Let’s check the pockets.” The captain’s body lay flat next to the thing. “You got your mini-light? Good. I’m going to lift each flap to get a look inside the pockets. You give me the light.”

“Cap, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Listen, this guy went for this thing instead of just smoking the pilots to make us crash. Now, maybe he was into big bangs, or maybe this thing has a connection to that shit in the hold.
Capishe
?”

“
Si
.”

Sean began working his way through the pockets. The intelligence from the British described what he was seeing, three-by-one-by-four blocks of wrapped whatever, probably explosives. He moved his body around the vest, leaving it still. The pocket with the safe mechanism showed up. “More light.” There were the four rocker switches, set in a sequence that must interrupt the firing circuit from the thumb switch. “Okay, next one—”
Just a minute.

The lieutenant saw his captain recoil an inch or so. “What is it?”

“The Brits said there were three rocker switches on the safety—this has four.” Sean maneuvered his head up, down, and side to side, examining the box closer. “Holy shit…”

“What?” Antonelli asked, his tone pushing for an answer.

Graber snapped up to a crouch. “He wasn’t going for this thing to blow it; he was going to set those things in the hold off. This thing has an extra switch!”

“That’s a guess, Cap.”

Sean stood, his breaths now coming heavy. “You’re right, and I might be, too.” He spun and ran to the stairs, disappearing to the main level.

*  *  *

Michael gave the soldier running past him a long look before continuing up, following Lieutenant Buxton to the cockpit.

“Captain, we’ve got someone for you.”

Hendrickson noticed the panicked look on the man’s face. It was visible even in the flashlight-lit cockpit. “Sit there,” he directed. Michael took the right seat, and the Delta trooper left them.

“The name’s Michael.” He looked around, not even bothering to belt himself in. The captain wasn’t either, he noticed. “What can I do?”

“I’m Bart. What have you flown?”

“Helicopter. UH-60s and Kiowas mostly.”

Hendrickson knew it wasn’t ideal, but the guy was someone with experience. “Okay, this is what we’ve got: The number three engine, over there, is out; no flaps, so we’re pretty nonresponsive when landing and taking off; no brakes; our trim is lousy because of the stuff they loaded on our hold; and, as you can see, no power on the flight deck. She does respond, though.”

The civilian in Michael tried to fall back on his long-ago military training, but all he could do was stare at the blackness of the cockpit. “No instruments or radio?”

“None. Are you ready?”

Michael’s head snapped to the left. “Ready for what?”

“Your first flying lesson in a 747.” The captain leaned just slightly over the center console. “I’m retiring after this flight, so I plan to make it down. It’s going to take two of us, so I need you to help me make it to retirement. Now, take the stick. We’re going to give you a feel for the
Maiden
.”

His hands wrapped around the column handles. “The who?”

Hendrickson’s full smile was apparent, and would have been without any illumination.

*  *  *

“Anderson!”

Both Joe and Sergeant Quimpo were startled by the yell. Graber dropped through the hole a second later.

“What?” Joe sensed the urgency. He lowered the drill, removing the bit as the captain approached.

“I think these things might be triggered by a signal from that vest the head guy was wearing,” Sean said. He was crouched over, panting, his hands resting on one knee.

Joe didn’t see the need to question the captain’s word. “If that’s true, and my theory is true, then there are two ways to set these off; timer and signal.”

Sean nodded. “That would make sense. The guy was going for the thing, and there was an extra switch on the safety. It has to be it.”

There wasn’t time to be too delicate. “Sergeant, get those wire rods from the tray supports.” To Graber: “Your man here thinks quick.”

“How so?”

“I drilled holes completely through each of these chutes.” Joe pointed to the three-sixteenths hole. “We need to stop any of the fuel plugs from dropping into the core. Sergeant Quimpo thought the wire supports on the fold-down trays upstairs would work to fit through. Quick thinking.”

There was a change in Anderson’s attitude, Sean noticed. Subtle, but still there. “So does this affect anything?”

“It could. If the plugs just drop in, the wires should hold. But if there’s a charge of sorts to release them, then the force could push them right through the wires.”

“Which would screw us all,” Sean observed.

“Precisely. As it is now, with these little holes here, there’s an increase in radiation down here.” Joe saw the captain’s head straighten up. “Don’t worry. It’s not enough to do any harm.”

Quimpo came back down with two handfuls of the chromed wires. “I got twenty.” He handed them to Joe.

“Tie off one end in a big knot so it can’t slip through the hole, then insert them all the way through.” Joe motioned to the devices. Sean was observing. “Take your time. I’ll do some, and you do the others.”

The sergeant nodded. They went about the task. Five minutes later they had the wires through both sides of each chute. Then came the tricky part: tying off the loose ends. There wasn’t much room at the free ends, and the stiff wire didn’t lend itself to effective knotting. But there was little else to do. Joe and the sergeant went to each together, checking each as best they could.

“Cap, you wanna take a look?” Quimpo asked.

Graber shook off the question. “Nah. I’ll keep my gonads away from that shit.”

Romeo Flight

Cooper had his landing lights on, and was a quarter mile ahead and to the left of the 747. The pilot seemed to be following his lead, which was the first hurdle. With no instruments the big jet would be entirely dependent on him for guidance.