Cloudburst (52 page)

“Springer Seven-Eight, this is Romeo. Where should I lead this guy ?”

The controller aboard the AWACS signaled him to stand by. Major Cooper flashed out a question to the 747, asking about their ability to keep him in visual contact. An immediate reply told him that the line of sight was good.

“Seven-Eight, let’s give me a vector,” Cooper implored to no one.

Flight 422

“What’s that?” Michael asked as the tremor shook through his hand and wrist.

Hendrickson felt it, too. “Heavy air. We can’t get above this weather, so we’re going to have some turbulence.”

A jolt shook the
Maiden
, almost on cue, as the captain’s last word was uttered.

*  *  *

Antonelli was standing from a kneeling position as the reverberation of unstable air shook the aircraft. He was naturally off-balance from the stance, and the movement ensured a fall, wanting to push him forward. But that would have landed him right on the major. To avoid that he tossed his arms back, realizing too late that he was falling right on top of the vest.

The strange buzz came next, but no explosion. He was relieved, but only for a second. “Oh my God…”

*  *  *

The sound was that of metal sliding against greasy metal, then of wire twanging as the fuel plugs dropped toward the four cores. One sound, though, was different, coming a split second after the others. Joe knew what had happened. The plugs were all loose, and one of the sixteen had made it past its wire restraint and was in the core…in the reactor right next to him.

“You, out!” Joe ordered Sean. To Quimpo: “Check the wires on those three, and then get out, too! Hurry.”

Neither man argued. The Delta captain was through the hole into the cabin within three seconds, while Sergeant Quimpo circled each of the other three reactors, checking the tautness of the restraints.

“Everything’s fine. They’re stretched, but holding.” Then he, too, was gone. Both Quimpo and Graber waited near the hole, looking down into the hold and listening to silence.

Joe slid the neutron analyzer onto the suspect reactor. As it passed the hole in the nearest chute, the readout went into the danger zone. A quick calculation confirmed what Joe had feared: He was getting almost a direct shot of two hundred rems from the near chute, and Lord knew how much background radiation from the others.

He checked the four chutes. One wire hung limp on the inner hole, and was not visible on the outer side. One slug, three quarters of a critical mass, was in the core; another would send it into a critical state. Joe wasn’t going to let that happen.

“Stay out of here!” Joe yelled, just as a reminder. He checked the other three chutes on the reactor. Two were holding good, but the third…

No!
Joe took a pair of needle-nose pliers from his belt pack and grabbed the outer wire end as it was about to slip in, releasing the second plug. “Ahhh!” The weight of the plug was more than he’d expected, and it strained on his hand muscles as they squeezed the pliers closed on the wire. He was now holding one end, as the knot had come completely undone.

He was also receiving a consistent, deadly dose of radiation through the seemingly small hole. The pliers were non locking, requiring him to stand in place to hold the wire. “Captain!”

Sean lowered his head into the hold. “I hear you.”

“Tell that pilot to get this thing down, fast. I can’t hold this forever.”

“We’ll help.”

“No!” Joe said, adamantly. “No one else needs to be contaminated. Just get this plane on the ground! And,” Joe continued, “find out what happened.”

*  *  *

Antonelli caught Sean on his way up the aisle and explained what had occurred. Graber heard, but ignored it. There was something more important to do.

The captain’s head sank, then bobbed up. “What is it?”

“The things in the hold, one of them started to go off, or whatever they do. Our DOE guy says to set this aircraft down fast.”

Hendrickson found the landing light switch and began flashing out the newest problem.

Romeo Flight

Jesus Christ.

“Seven-Eight, Seven-Eight. I need an immediate vector, now! Four-Two-Two is declaring an in-flight emergency. They have a problem with something in the hold.” Cooper purposely didn’t mention the reactor comment in the Morse message, for both security reasons and because he technically wasn’t supposed to know the particulars.

“Romeo, turn left to heading two-seven-five. We’re going to set you down on a long one. Copy?”

“Roger.” Cooper signaled the 747, then banked gently to the left, side slipping at the same time to keep position with his follower. The
Clipper Atlantic Maiden
turned with him, but took a longer time to settle into the new course.

Cape Canaveral

The shuttle
Endeavour
was bathed in the white lights on her launchpad five miles from the Launch Control Center. She was ready for a launch in forty-eight hours.

The morning senior watch officer yawned at the phone before picking it up. “LCC.”

His tired face became instantly awake as the voice on the other end gave the orders and offered only a brief explanation.

“Right.” He straightened up in his chair, pushing the center wide alarm next. The intercom switch was flipped to open. “Attention. Attention. Emergency alert, condition orange. This is not a drill. Clear the shuttle-landing runway of all nonemergency personnel. Crash crews set up at the far end. All other personnel immediately go to your assigned shelters.”

He turned to see his three fellow watch officers stand, unsure of what to do. His expression convinced them, and they left for their bunker-like shelter, leaving the senior watch officer to direct the coming unorthodox happening. It wasn’t surprising. An orange alert was intended to be used only in the event of a problem with the shuttle while it had a nuclear payload onboard, such as a reactor-powered satellite.

Whatever was coming in would be met by crews trained to deal with a radioactive situation, though not in a manner they were accustomed to.

Flight 422

Joe shifted one hand off of the pliers. His position allowed no room to maneuver into a place for shelter from the deadly radiation bombarding his body. Most of the damage was being done in his hands as the rays penetrated and did their work on his blood cells.

The results would be obvious, he knew. There was nothing left to do but hold on. He could, after all, save some lives.

*  *  *

“Sorry.”

Sean saw the true regret in the lieutenant’s eyes. “Hey. I should have moved it.” The Delta captain blamed himself as much.

“Cap,” Goldfarb said. Something was wrong.

Graber took two steps over. The carpeted area was awash with blood, the sound coming up from the soaked material in wet squishes. The medic was on his knees, but not hovering over Blackjack as before.

“I lost him,” Sergeant Goldfarb said. “I just couldn’t stop it.”

The scene should have been revolting, with the major’s amputated left arm lying a foot from his head, but it wasn’t. Sean only saw Blackjack’s face. It was tilted back, its eyes open with only the whites showing.

“Hey, I…”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Sergeant,” Sean suggested.
Men die in a war.
And this was a war, he believed.

The captain walked to the stairs, paused, then descended. Perfection, so he was learning, came rarely in any action.

*  *  *

Hendrickson followed the fighter directly on now. They were lining up on the long shuttle runway at Cape Canaveral. Fifteen thousand feet-plus of beautiful concrete was awaiting them.

“How much visual referencing have you done on landings?” The captain asked his assistant.

“Plenty,” Michael answered automatically.

“Then that’s your job. That runway has the standard red- green split circulars at the threshold. I’ll fly her in, but you’ve got to call me out as high or low. Just remember, you’re sitting four stories off the ground.”

Michael flexed his hands on the column. “Okay. What about the stick?”

“I’ll give you the word when it’s time to shove it forward, all the way.” Hendrickson adjusted the
Maiden’s
position behind the glowing blob ahead. “It worked once before; it might again. Maybe we’ll be able to stop this girl one more time.” He quieted for a second. “Ain’t that right, girl. You’re going to do it once more. Just once more for this old fart.”

*  *  *

“Did you get all that?” Joe asked, yelling.

“I got it,” Sean replied. When the aircraft stopped—if it stopped—he had clear instructions from someone who should know.

“Cap,” Quimpo began, “that crap’s gonna kill him, ain’t it?”

Sean didn’t answer. There were already two good guys dead. That was too many. But Anderson…he had no control over it.

Romeo Flight

Major Cooper flashed off a final ‘good luck’ to the
Clipper Atlantic Maiden
before peeling off to the left, clearing the way for the 747 to come right in on the row of lights dead ahead. He wanted to stay overhead, acting as a chase plane of sorts, but knew better. His cargo was as dangerous as that on the big jet, and they would be anxious to get it into safe storage once again.

He threw a salute as the jet passed him on the right. “God speed, folks.” A minute later he was heading south at speed, careful to stay over water all the way back to Louisiana.

Flight 422

“Everyone’s belted in,” Antonelli told the pilot.

“You do the same,” Hendrickson instructed.

Michael craned his neck, trying to compensate for the thinning clouds. “I see the lights. We’re low, just a little.”

“Good. I want to bring her up right at the end. We’ve only got elevators.” Hendrickson put his right hand on the throttle levers.

The pattern changed from red on the bottom to green. “On slope. It’s steady.”

The captain cut the number two engine completely. The
Maiden
responded with a noticeable slowing and a falling sensation. He pulled back on the stick and throttled numbers one and four up. The speed stayed lower, but the falling sensation ceased, replaced by the familiar gentle gliding.

Michael practically had to stand in his seat to see over the abnormally high nose. “Still good. On slope. We’re close.”

The triple rows of referencing lights came at them fast, and the 747 came down toward them equally as fast.

“On slope!” Michael’s voice rose with the excitement. He was operating now as a pilot, forgetting completely the fear. “Slope! Slope! Threshold!”

The lights disappeared beneath the
Maiden
. She was now over concrete.

Hendrickson kept his eyes forward. He pulled back on the throttles, reducing engine power. His aircraft responded accordingly, her body dropping hard onto the runway below. When the mains contacted, the remaining right-side tires and two left-side blew out with a forceful
bang!

The rear of the jet scraped the runway for the first hundred yards, sending a fountain of sparks behind her. Hendrickson smoothly pushed the stick forward until the nose wheel touched with a screech. They were forty knots over speed when he reversed the two engines.

“Now!” Both men pushed the sticks forward, to the console. The
Maiden’s
nose drooped toward the runway.

With no speed indicator, Captain Hendrickson had to go by dead reckoning when judging if he could weave the 747 to each side of the runway as he had before. He tapped the brakes, just to check, but they were nonexistent.

“It looks like they’re waiting for us,” Michael said, seeing the rotating strobes at the far end of the runway.

“Let’s oblige by not creaming them.”

The sensation of speed was diminishing. A terrible screeching roar was coming from below the aircraft, signaling that the blown tires had disintegrated, leaving the metal wheels to drag along the pavement. The friction was welcome, as it slowed the
Maiden
, but it required compensation as it also pulled the jet to the right.

They passed the halfway point at about a hundred knots. Hendrickson started weaving about then, when his ‘aviator’s stomach’ said it was okay. “Help with the rudder.” It was getting harder to weave and compensate for the right-pulling drag.

Michael touched the pedal. It was down and stiff.

“Now some right,” Hendrickson said. They worked it together, going left to the edge of the pavement, and back right, though not as close to that side. Back and forth, and back and forth. On the fourth weave the
Maiden’s
nose wheels blew.

“Jesus!” Michael yelled. The violent contact of metal to pavement vibrated through the rudder pedals, jabbing an invisible spear into his heel. Instantly the aircraft slowed considerably.

“Easy left. Easy left.” The captain wanted to bring the
Maiden
back onto the centerline, but her steering system, crippled by the last blowout, followed the right-leaning groove into the grass at the runway’s edge. Rain had soaked the earth. The nose gear dug in and sank a full two feet into the ground, and a second later the right mains did the same.

Then, it was over. The
Clipper Atlantic Maiden
came to a full stop.

Captain Hendrickson killed the remaining two engines. His body leaned forward, his head resting on the dark instrument panel. A few breaths came rapidly and deep, then he sat back up.

Michael let go of the column and examined his hands. They trembled, but were dry as his mouth.

“Come on.”

The reluctant co-pilot looked up.

“Michael, let’s get out of here.” Hendrickson reached for his arm. “You did good. We’re down. Now, we need to get out. You have a little lady back there, right?”

That struck home. “Right. Let’s go.”

*  *  *

The Delta troopers and the flight attendants opened only the forward doors, deploying the yellow evacuation slides with them.