Shadow Catcher (28 page)

CHAPTER 63

P
anic broke out among Zheng's troops when the long black silhouette of a five-thousand-pound bomb dropped out of the Wraith's weapons bay. Some shouted in rapid Mandarin. Others ran for the cover of the factory. Zheng stood frozen in utter shock.

Nick stared as well, trying to gauge the bomb's speed and trajectory, trying to see where and when it was going to hit. He quickly guessed at a time to impact.

Seven . . .

Movement at the flatbed trailer holding Shadow Catcher caught his eye. A solitary individual rolled out from under the vehicle and popped up to one knee. Quinn.

The soldiers to Nick's left and right gaped up at the sky, their hold on him loosened by the sight of the unthinkable.

Six . . .

Adrenaline pumped through Nick's system, heightening his senses. He could hear the whisper of the bomb, every syllable shouted by the soldiers, the slap of their boots on the wet pavement. He sidestepped to his left, yanking his arm away from the man to his right. Then he grabbed the other soldier by the vest with both hands and threw him over his hip, slamming him to the ground. He turned toward Novak, knowing that the man behind him was reaching for his weapon, acting on faith that he would never get the chance to use it.

Five . . .

The commotion roused Zheng. He screamed orders at his men. Nick ignored him. He sprinted toward Novak. Water splashed up in a rooster tail behind him from the impacts of his bare feet.

Four . . .

Bewildered soldiers lifted their guns to stop the crazed American, but as each one reached for his trigger, he fell. Nick could hear the whistle of the bullets as they cut through the rain, the dull thud as each one struck its target with perfect precision.

Three . . .

The soldiers on either side of Novak released their grasp on his arms and lifted their rifles at the same time. One dropped from Quinn's bullet before the stock of his weapon ever made it to his shoulder. The other continued to take aim, and Nick realized that Quinn did not have a clean shot around the prisoner. He bore down. He had to reach the man before he could fire, but he knew that to be impossible. Then his eyes met Novak's.

Two . . .

Instead of the unfocused stare of a despondent prisoner, Nick found a look of recognition, determination. Novak clasped his bound hands together and brought them down hard on the rifle. Flame spouted from the barrel. The bullets flew wild, kicking up fountains of sparks and water from the pavement. Then Novak swung his hands up under the soldier's chin, knocking him off his feet.

One . . .

Without breaking stride, Nick lowered his shoulder and thrust his body upward, catching Novak in the gut and lifting him off his feet. Together, they tumbled over the side of the truck.

Zero . . .

The impact was deafening. Nick hit the pavement on top of Novak behind the shelter of the heavy tires, trying to cover him with his body. He closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands, but the orange-red glow of the flash still penetrated his vision. Intense heat washed over him. The thirty-ton truck groaned and shuddered. For a moment, he feared that it might tip over and crush them. Then, with the echo of the explosion still rolling across the valley, it was over.

As the echo died, Nick struggled up to a crouch. He looked down at his fist and unfolded his fingers. In his palm, he held the key that he'd ripped from the soldier's vest when he threw him over his hip. He quickly unlocked his handcuffs and then did the same for Novak.

“Oh, the ringing,” complained Novak, blinking and shaking his head.

“It'll stop soon,” said Nick. “Are you okay?”

Novak looked up at him with perfect clarity and gave a pained smile. “I'll live,” he said.

“That you will, my friend,” said Nick, smiling back. He placed a hand on Novak's chest. “Stay down.”

Nick cautiously peered over the bed of the truck. The shower had intensified into a downpour, as if the explosion had ruptured the clouds overhead. Through the sheets of rain, he saw that the bomb had struck an auxiliary building on the far side of the factory, reducing it to a blazing pile of twisted, melting steel, sizzling and popping in the rain. The blast had also collapsed the northeast corner of the factory itself, exposing cracked ivory walls and overturned desks. The rubble burned despite the rain. “You gotta love thermite,” said Nick under his breath.

The shock wave had fractured the fiberglass shelter, contorting it so that one leg jutted out to the side and the other threatened to buckle and bring it crashing down. None of the remaining soldiers had kept their feet. Some lay dead; others writhed on the ground in pain. Nick saw Sung, dragging an unconscious Zheng off the tarmac. He started after them, but then he heard Quinn shouting.

“Come on!”

He looked over his shoulder at the pararescueman, who had set about removing the tarp that covered Shadow Catcher. Quinn beckoned to him. “We've got to go!” he shouted.

Nick turned back toward the factory, squinting through the water pouring into his eyes. He caught a blurry vision of Sung pulling Zheng through the shattered frame of the glass doors. Then they disappeared.

“Can you move?” he asked Novak.

“Do I have a choice?”

As he bent over to help the CIA pilot, Nick noticed his tactical harness lying on the ground beneath the flatbed. “Hold on.” He grabbed the harness and thrust his arms through the shoulder straps. “All right, let's get out of here.” He pulled Novak to his feet and wrapped an arm around his back.

Together they jogged toward Shadow Catcher. With every hobbling step, Novak winced with pain. Then he slipped on the wet pavement. Nick lost his grip, and the older man crumpled to the ground. “My leg,” he said. “I think it's broken.”

“I was afraid of that.” Nick turned around and heaved Novak up again. “The gunshot to your leg did most of the damage. I probably finished it off when I tackled you.” He crouched down and put his shoulder into Novak's midsection, careful to wrap his arm around the good leg as he stood up. He found the malnourished prisoner incredibly light. “Shoot. I should have done this to start with,” he said.

“Let's go!” shouted Quinn. “Drake says there are more troops coming.”

Nick lumbered toward Shadow Catcher with Novak over his shoulder, the torture wounds in his legs burning with every step. It seemed an eternity before he reached the truck, but finally he laid Novak down on the bed beneath the aircraft. Quinn had already managed to remove the tarp and two of the three nylon tie-downs that secured Shadow Catcher to the vehicle.

“I told you to guard the plane,” said Nick.

“What does it look like I'm doing?” countered Quinn. He grimaced. “You look horrible.”

Nick glanced down at his bare legs, underwear, and tactical gear. “Good point. I've had anxiety dreams like this.”

“I meant your injuries,” said Quinn, pointing at the dirty bandages hanging from Nick's body. “That's shoddy work. I'll fix you up later. Right now, we've got to move.” He pointed at a gate in the chain-link fence on the opposite end of the tarmac. “Drake is tracking a column of vehicles headed for the south access point: two troop carriers, two FAVs, and a couple of fire trucks.” He stepped back and gazed up at the aircraft. “How are we going to get our baby off this flatbed?”

“We can't,” replied Nick, looking at the nose gear, “not without a crane. The nose will collapse if we try to jump her off with thrust. Then there'll be no way to get her going.”

He walked up and down the truck, scanning Shadow Catcher, searching for an idea. Then he looked in the cab and saw the keys in the ignition. He checked the aircraft. Thankfully, the Chinese had placed her on the truck with her nose facing forward.

Nick waved a hand toward Novak. “Get him into the jet. Use the deployable stretcher.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I don't have time to explain. Just trust me.”

Quinn opened his mouth to argue but then stopped. “I can do that,” he said with a nod, and then scrambled up onto the bed.

By the time Nick had cranked the engine and removed the final strap, Quinn had secured Novak onto the deployable stretcher and sent it up into the jet. The pararescueman crawled into the cockpit to check his handiwork and then stuck his head out. “Novak's all set,” he shouted, offering a thumbs-up. “What's the plan?”

“We're going to use the truck as a catapult,” replied Nick. “Shadow Catcher is a flying wing. With the vectored thrust helping, she only needs about fifty knots of airflow over the lifting body to get airborne. We can get that with the truck.”

A fusillade of bullets struck the side of the truck, forcing Nick to duck behind the cab and Quinn to retreat back into Shadow Catcher. Three soldiers came running across the tarmac, firing their rifles. “Where did they come from?” asked Quinn. He leaned out of the hatch and returned fire.

“I think that's the crew that Zheng sent out to the runway,” yelled Nick over the earsplitting crack of Quinn's XDm. “I guess they finally figured out that the plane wasn't going to land.”

Quinn picked one of them off, but the others took cover behind equipment on the tarmac. They kept firing. He ducked back inside Shadow Catcher as bullets skipped across the truck bed. “Get in here! I'll drive the truck.”

As the soldiers settled into their cover, their bursts of gunfire became more accurate. Nick gauged the distance from the cab to Shadow Catcher's hatch. Too far. If he and Quinn attempted to trade positions, at least one of them would wind up taking a bullet. “Too late,” he yelled. “You have to get her airborne. Do it just like I told you in the text.” More bullets hit the truck and glanced off Shadow Catcher's composite shell.

“I can't fly this thing. I'm not a pilot.”

“You flew the Wraith. One lesson will have to be good enough. Now shut up and get her ready.”

Quinn stopped arguing. He tossed Nick a radio from Shadow Catcher's supplies. “I'll be on channel three.”

Nick jumped into the cab and ducked below the steering wheel as more bullets tracked up the hood and into the windshield. But the windshield didn't shatter. He cautiously sat up and glanced around the cab. All of the windows were made of Lexan. “Thank God for Chinese overkill,” he said out loud. He shoved the clutch down with his bare foot, shifted into reverse, and accelerated backward until the rear fender slammed into the chain-link gate. Ahead of him, he saw the Chinese troops ditch their cover and advance. “Oops, you guys think I'm trying to get out,” he said. He shifted into first. “You couldn't be more wrong.”

CHAPTER 64

T
he truck lurched forward as Nick released the clutch. He pressed lightly on the gas at first, willing the tires to gain traction on the wet pavement. Then he shifted straight into third and pressed it to the floor. “You ready, Quinn?” he asked, keying the radio.

“No, but that's not going to stop you. I've got her idling. Are we gonna make our speed by the end of the tarmac?”

Nick checked the speedometer; they were passing thirty kilometers per hour. Some quick math told him that he'd have to get the gauge up above ninety-five to make fifty knots, and he wasn't exactly a genius with heavy equipment. He had no idea if he could make that speed before he ran out of pavement. “Sure. No problem,” he said into the radio.

A new voice joined the conversation. “How's it going, Shadow One?”

“Drake!” exclaimed Nick. “It's good to hear your voice. Nice shot with that bomb. Although some might call it overkill.”

“Ordered by Lighthouse,” replied Drake. “He figured out that Zheng was making missiles for an attack on Taiwan.”

Bullets continued to ricochet off the windshield. The Lexan covering cracked in a few places, but it held. Nick adjusted the wheel, angling toward the approaching soldiers. “It's pretty ugly down here, buddy.”

“Well, it's about to get worse. In less than a minute, two full platoons of PLA are going to reach your position. I jammed all signals out of the compound, but there was no way to hide that explosion. I have another bomb. Do you want me to use it?”

“No, they're just responding to the blast. We don't know if they're part of Zheng's group.”

“Then what's your plan?”

Nick checked his speed. Sixty-five kilometers per hour. Not good enough, and the truck was eating up real estate fast. “I'm still working on it.” An instant later, he plowed between the bewildered Chinese soldiers. They tumbled out of the way to either side, but one of them came up firing. Suddenly, the truck started to shimmy. Nick struggled to hold it on a straight line. He fought back the urge to let up on the gas.

“What was that?” asked Quinn.

“I think they got a couple of our tires.” Nick checked the speedometer. It read seventy and continued to climb. “The trailer has four on each axle. It can still make it. Go ahead and position the exhaust ports for vertical thrust.”

As the truck passed the pavilion at the center of the tarmac, the speedometer topped eighty-five. The hangar loomed ahead. Nick suddenly realized that Shadow Catcher would be too close to clear the structure. He jerked the wheel left to adjust his trajectory, pushing closer to the grass between the tarmac and the runway. As he cranked it back to the right to hug the edge of the pavement, the flatbed lifted up on one side, threatening to tip over. It slammed back down and started rumbling again. The speedometer faltered in its climb. “Come on,” he urged.

Finally, the gauge read ninety-five. “Punch it!” Nick shouted into the radio. Blue flame shot out from both exhaust ports. Shadow Catcher lifted on her struts and wobbled on the back of the truck, her tires barely in contact with the rusty bed. The fence was approaching fast. At exactly one hundred kilometers per hour, Nick slammed on the brakes. Shadow Catcher leapt into the air, just clearing the cab. For a terrifying moment she dipped down in front of Nick and skimmed along the tarmac, mere inches above the pavement. Then Quinn banked her away and she gradually lifted into the air over the field, leaving a trail of fire across the grass.

“Yeah!” shouted Quinn. “I'm up.”

“The column is almost at the gate,” warned Drake.

“I've got that covered,” said Nick. His braking had cut the truck's speed in half, but it was still rolling. He shifted into gear and pushed the gas pedal back to the floor, accelerating toward the gate and the approaching troops. He could already see the FAV at the head of the column. Fire spouted from the machine gun mounted on its back end.

“Quinn, get up above the clouds,” ordered Nick.

“What about you?”

Nick's eyes narrowed. If he slammed into that FAV he could silence their lead gun and block the road. “I'll buy you some time. There's nothing left for me back home. My family is dead.”

The next words that came across the radio hit Nick like a city bus. “Negative!” shouted Drake. “Lighthouse has them! Katy and Luke are alive!”

Nick went numb. He couldn't feel the steering wheel in his hands. The icy hatred that he'd built up inside melted back into waves of emotion. Sorrow. Joy.

Terror.

For the first time in ten years, Nick stopped his subconscious from blocking the fear. In that instant, he let it through, he let it hit him full force. And in that instant, he realized that he was not afraid of dying. He never had been. Rather, he was afraid of leaving his family behind like Danny had, of leaving Katy alone, of leaving his newborn son fatherless.

Nick took hold of that fear. He owned it, made it his driving force. Filled with hatred for Zheng, he would have done anything to kill him. Now, finally accepting the fear that came with the love of his family, he would do anything to get home.

The gate and the FAV were less than twenty meters ahead. The gunner lost sight of Shadow Catcher and turned his weapon toward the truck. Nick knew that the Lexan windshield would not hold up against the high-power rounds. Without another thought, he hooked the radio into his harness, unbuckled his seat belt, and cranked the steering wheel hard to the right.

The cab jerked sideways. The trailer fishtailed, skidding into the grass to his left. With an awful groan, the truck began to tip over. Then it crashed onto its side and continued sliding toward the gate. The driver's-side window caved in. Sparks flew up from the skidding armor, spraying into the cab, burning Nick's bare leg. He pushed open the passenger's-side door and climbed up onto the frame.

Bullets slammed into the cab and ricocheted off the hood as smaller weapons joined the machine gun. Nick wasted no time. He dove off the sliding truck and rolled out onto the pavement, banging his shoulder and hip in the awkward landing.

The truck crashed into the fence, its cab and trailer completely blocking the gate. As Nick struggled to his feet, he could hear shouting on the other side. That barrier wouldn't hold them for long. He wiped his forehead with his hand. The smell of diesel overwhelmed his nostrils. Looking down, he saw a glossy trail leading down the tarmac to the truck. The abuse of sliding on pavement had ruptured its fuel tank. That gave him an idea.

Quickly, Nick patted the pockets of his tactical harness until he found a miniature signal flare, the size of a fountain pen. Taking care to keep the business end well away from the diesel dripping down his body, he popped off the cover and pulled the tab. The chemical charge sparked into a blinding white flame.

He dropped the flare onto the trail of fuel and turned to run. From behind, he heard the distinctive
whoomp
of fire eagerly gobbling up hydrocarbons. He didn't dare look back. Instead, he ran until he could no longer stand it and then threw himself to the ground, covering his head with his hands.

The truck exploded in an angry roar, sending a blast of intense heat across Nick's back. In the next moment, he was up and running again. “Drake, I have my harness. Get Skyhook ready.”

“I don't think that's a good idea, boss. Maybe you should have Quinn turn around and pick you up.”

“Talk about your bad ideas,” interjected Quinn. “I can't land this thing. And even if I could, the nose gear is trashed.”

“Just do it, Drake,” said Nick.

“That system doesn't work,” argued Drake.

“We know it will pick me up. If it doesn't reel me in, you can drag me out to sea and drop me over international waters. I'll just pull the reserve parachute. Now get her ready. I'll deploy the balloon at the center of the tarmac. That should keep you well away from those machine guns on the other side of the fence.” Nick looked over at the factory's shattered glass doors where he'd last seen Zheng. “Just before you grab me, release your bomb. I want that factory destroyed.”

Bullets whizzed past Nick's ear. The two soldiers who previously shot at the truck ran toward him, firing short bursts from their rifles. He took cover behind a green aircraft utility cart. “You two are really starting to tick me off,” he muttered, reaching for his Beretta. The holster was empty. He'd forgotten that his captors had removed it from his harness. The clang of bullets slamming into the metal cart stopped. The Chinese shouted to one another. He could hear them flanking his position. In a few seconds, they would have him.

Nick glanced down at his harness, looking for ideas. He smiled. Zheng's men had missed something. He still had his stilettos. He drew two of them, gripped them by the blades in each hand, and waited.

He made his move just as the soldiers came around either side of the utility cart. With colossal effort, he leapt up to the top of the four-foot-tall cart, launching himself upward again as soon as his right foot found purchase on the metal. By the time the soldiers opened up with their machine guns, he was already well above the level of their fire. He let the first blade fly before he reached the apex of his jump, twisting in midair to give it power. It found its mark, embedding in the soldier's skull at the temple.

The second attacker raised his weapon, adjusting to Nick's height, but Nick was ready for him. He let his natural momentum turn him halfway toward his target and then hurled the second knife with a powerful backhand. This one missed the soldier's temple, but it stuck deep into his right eye, accomplishing its mission just the same.

Nick landed hard, rolling out over his shoulder, and came up running. “How long, Drake?”

“I've almost reached my final approach now. Deploy your balloon.”

At the center of the tarmac, Nick unzipped the pouch that held Scott's miniature Skyhook balloon. He tossed the contents out ahead of him and pulled the rip cord. The balloon did not climb into the air as expected. Instead, it flopped onto the pavement and started spinning in a circle, letting out a shrill hiss like a slashed tire. Nick checked the pouch on his harness and found two bullet holes: one entry, one exit. The second soldier had gotten much closer than he thought.

“Forty seconds. I can't see the balloon yet,” said Drake. Nick could see the massive form of the Wraith now, lining up to the west of the runway. He started searching the tarmac for other troops, wondering if it was clear enough to risk having Drake land the bomber on the runway to pick him up. But then his eyes fell on something better. Over by the wreckage of the pavilion, he saw Novak's old harness.

Maybe. Just maybe . . .

Nick sprinted over to the harness. It had the telltale bag hooked to the side. Novak's Skyhook system was much larger than his own, an eighties-era package with a heavy balloon and cable. It was more than twenty-five years old, but with a little luck, it might still work. He quickly pulled off his own harness and strapped on Novak's, tucking two of his stilettos into the webbing just for luck. After a short prayer, he clipped the D-ring to the center of his harness, set the balloon on the wet pavement, and pulled the rip cord. With a loud rush of helium, the miniature blimp expanded to full size and lifted into the air. The cable jerked at his chest as it pulled taut. The old D-ring held.

“I see it. I see your balloon,” said Drake. “Hang on!”

Nick watched with cautious hope as the Wraith approached, praying that the old cable would not snap after capture and send him flying into the factory. The gray mist that masked the opening doors began to form beneath the bomb bay. Then the silhouette of Drake's second thermite bomb appeared.

Just as the forked receiver on the Wraith's nose grabbed the cable, Nick felt an iron grip take hold of his shoulder strap from behind. A thick hand reached across in front of him. He saw the silver sheen of a garrote wire sliding out of a gaudy gold watch.

Nick shoved his right arm up between the wire and his throat as the Wraith jerked him into the air. The attacker let out a surprised cry.

“Get a little more than you bargained for, Defense Minister?” grunted Nick as he struggled to keep the wire away from his arteries. The thin steel started cutting into his forearm.

“Now we will both die,” said Zheng, “and you can join your family in hell.”

Nick could see Drake's bomb trading levels with him, falling below as the Wraith pulled him upward. With his left hand, he let go of the wire and pulled a stiletto from his harness. He plunged it into Zheng's right hand. “My family is alive,” he shouted over the rush of air. “And I'm going home!”

He twisted the knife, severing tendons and forcing Zheng to release the garrote. Instantly the psychopath fell away, entering a macabre free-fall race with Drake's bomb, a race to see who would reach the factory roof first.

The five-thousand-pound thermite weapon won.

Time froze. For a fraction of a second, Nick could see the hole where the weapon sank through the roof. He could see the individual drops of rain, like swollen tears, falling onto the forest canopy. He could see China's newest defense minister on his back, a hundred feet above the factory, his eyes wide with terror. Then, in a blinding ball of white fire, bounded by the glass sphere of the expanding shock wave, all of it was gone.