Terror Bounty (22 page)

The weather system which had dropped
heavy rain on Ohio was making its way east to Maryland. The air was getting dense
with fog over the Chesapeake Bay. This wasn’t a problem for Strike Fighter
Squadron 105 though. They had gone up the coast and now they were sweeping back
down.

Five F/A-18E Super Hornets were flying in
formation at relatively slow speeds. There were in fact 12 aircraft in VFA-105
but three were down for maintenance and the rest hadn’t been scrambled. It wasn’t
worth the cost.

Jackman was still nervous but he kept his
mind on the mission. Most of all, he kept his mind on the money. Two and half
million dollars had already been wired to him and he could expect the same
amount once he completed his task.

Chucks – it was his call sign and it was
painted on his blue helmet. He’d gotten this nickname because he once showed up
late to an exercise while wearing Converse Chuck Taylors instead of the
prescribed Navy footwear. He had never lived it down.

It had been the same for his entire
career. He was always the last man to be asked for a drink, the butt of jokes,
the stupid scapegoat. His career was going nowhere.

And now the US military was transitioning
to drones at a scary pace. That wasn’t what a pilot was meant to fight with. A
pilot belonged in the air, not in a cargo container outside of Las Vegas.

Jackman didn’t agree with a lot of
Greenwood’s bullshit but he was right that America was selling out. So if he
was going to be out of a job anyway, he was going to get paid first.

They would call him a traitor, probably a
terrorist. He didn’t care, within a few hours he would be long gone. And rich.

He glanced at his clock: it read 4:25pm.
It was time.

He pulled on his stick and banked the
plane to the left.

~  ~  ~  ~

The lights were dimmed inside FACSFAC
VACAPES – the Fleet Area Control and Surveillance Facility of Virginia Capes.
The air traffic facility was bathed in a reddish glow as the controllers
monitored numerous screens to keep an eye on all activities along the area off
the Virginia and North Carolina coasts.

A radarman hunched over his screen detected
an anomaly. The lieutenant supervising the room noticed as well and came over,
plugging in his headset.

“Canyon Two, this is FACSFAC. What is
going on? Provide sitrep, over.”

Captain Pizzi was in the back of the room
and heard the exchange. He came over.

“Chucks, what’s wrong? Why did you leave
your position? Acknowledge, Chucks.”

“What’s going on?” the CAG asked the
lieutenant.

“Sir, we’ve lost contact with Lieutenant
Jackman. He’s broken formation and is keeping radio silence.”

Pizzi patted his pockets for his trusted
cigar. “This can mean several things: onboard computer malfunction, human
error, pilot illness, or…”

“Or what, sir?”

“Or much worse. Keep trying to contact
Jackman. And get me the Pentagon on the line.”

This couldn’t be a coincidence, not today
with everything that was going on.

~  ~  ~  ~

The mood was somber on the Gulfstream.
Rick was perfectly aware that he was the cause of this. Then again, he hadn’t
been the one to drop the bombshell about this uncle betraying him. He brooded,
not knowing what else to do. Peter for his part kept his distance.

“Oh shit.”

He looked up. Westerbeck was seated at
the table further back. He pulled his phone from his ear.

“We have a situation.”

“What?” Vanstedum said as he got closer.

Peter and Olivia did the same and finally
Rick couldn’t stay away either.

“Some naval aviator named Jackman was on
patrol because of the situation in Baltimore. Apparently, he broke formation.
He may be going rogue.”

“Good God!”

Peter was the fastest to get the laptop
and access whatever information the FBI had on him. Everybody peeked over his
shoulder to read the file. Analysts at the Hoover building would be doing the
same.

Westerbeck announced, “We have the
Pentagon on the line as well as an Air Force AWACS, the SIOC’s patching them
through.”

He put the phone on speaker and the
filtered voice coming from the electronic combat officer came on.

“We’re currently tracking the bogey along
the coast of Delaware. Its heading is one-eight-niner.”

“Assistant Director Vanstedum, I
understand you’re on the line now? This is General Pretlow from the NMCC.”

He meant the National Military Command
Center, the Pentagon’s crisis room.

“Yes, General. I’m on a flight myself,
with my team.”

“What’s your info on this Jackman fella?”

“Not much, General. His record is
spotless but uneventful. He’s a middle-of-the-crowd kind of guy. Our profilers
are working on the case as we speak.”

“Can you confirm the targeting of
Baltimore Convention Center by the pilot?”

Vanstedum nodded to no one. “Everyone at
the Strategic Information Operations Center is working on that. We’re checking
bank records, phone logs, turning every stone we can spot. I’m sure within half
an hour–”

“Half an hour?” the general interrupted. “This
Hornet can travel at a thousand miles per hour and is armed with two AMG-65
Maverick missiles. This madman’ll be within firing range within ten minutes.
Can you confirm target or not?”

Rick hit the Mute button.

“What the hell are you doing?” Vanstedum
asked, mad at his meddling.

“Greenwood said he wanted to make a
splash as his last hit,” Rick began. “There’s an economic meeting in Baltimore
with lots of VIPs. You have an F-18 breaking formation and heading to
Baltimore. What the fuck more do you want, a written invitation? This has to be
it. Has to be.”

The General cleared his throat with
impatience. “I have the President on the phone here ready to give the attack
order. I need an answer, Vanstedum.”

Vanstedum stared at Rick for an instant,
hesitating, weighing the options. At last, he disabled the Mute button.

“I confirm, General. The target is the
Baltimore Convention Center.”

“Roger that, Assistant Director.”

Vanstedum turned to Rick, his eyes black.

“Pray you’re right, Travis. If you’re
not, you just murdered a man.”

In the FACSFAC air traffic control room,
the Carrier Air Wing THREE commander had just heard the last words anyone ever
wanted to hear. It meant he had to issue the order no CO ever wanted to utter.

“Yes, General,” he said into the phone,
his voice threatening to fail. “Yes sir, I understand.”

“Everything okay, CAG?” the lieutenant
asked.

“Give me your headset.”

Without a word, the supervisor did as he
was told.

“Gunslingers, this is Captain Pizzi
speaking. Chucks has jumped the fence and he’s going to bomb a meeting in
Baltimore. I just had confirmation from National Command Authority.”

“Oh shit,” the lieutenant whispered next
to him.

The other radar operators and air traffic
controllers also looked up at the senior officer in complete disbelief.

Pizzi ignored them. This was the worst
moment of his career and he didn’t want to show how much he would leave this
situation a broken man.

“You have to intercept Jackman and
destroy him. This order comes directly from the President. I know it’s hard but
Chucks has gone rogue. Good luck men. Tonight we ride!”

Tonight we ride
was the squadron’s motto. Pizzi knew that tonight, whether or not if
he still had a job in the Navy, all he would be doing is getting drunk.

~  ~  ~  ~

Four F/A-18E gathered into an attack
formation over southwestern Delaware, the fifth member being conspicuously
missing.

“Hit and run, boys,” the squadron leader
said. “We can’t allow his plane to crash on the city. We have to strike before
this sumbitch gets to Baltimore.”

The other pilots acknowledged the order
but for a while no one said anything. Everybody was wrestling with their
thoughts. No one ever wanted to kill somebody who was on their side. Naval
aviators were part of a family.

Then Canyon Three came to the realization
that they were a
dysfunctional
family. Even George had had to shoot
Lennie when all he wanted was to tend to the rabbits.

“I never liked that bastard anyway. Let’s
get him!”

~  ~  ~  ~

Jackman heard the entire exchange over
his radio. He was a bit moved by the reluctance in Captain Pizzi’s voice but
was more annoyed by his fellow pilots’ eagerness to shoot him down.

Ungrateful fuckers
.

His attention was drawn to a red light
flashing. It was labeled
Locked On
.

Shit
. He
yanked on the stick and broke away.

He pulled to the left just in time and a
missile whooshed by, missing him completely.

He circled the area, gained altitude, and
pulled up behind one of the other Hornets.

Without hesitation, Jackman fired his
gun. He sent a dozen 20 millimeter rounds streaking through the gray sky. He
knew how the Navy trained its men, he knew every trick in the book.

This, with the element of surprise, gave
him the perfect advantage.

The rounds caught the fighter and almost
instantly the two General Electric F414-GE-400 turbofans began smoking.

“I’m hit, I’m hit!”

“Eject, Canyon Three.”

Jackman couldn’t celebrate and watch that
shitheel bail out of his aircraft because the red
Locked On
started to
blink again. Another missile was coming his way.

Unfazed, he pushed the throttle and bugged
out. He had a plan.

Jackman’s Hornet raced toward one of the
remaining three Gunslingers, all the while having missiles on his trail.

The squadron leader’s voice came over the
radio, filled with fear.

“Don’t do that, Jackman!”

The squadron leader fired two missiles
but Jackman swiftly dodged them by banking out of the way.

But as he did so, the missiles which were
already following him found a target in his plane. This time the pilot – his
commander – didn’t have time to eject. The fighter plane exploded over the
Delaware shore.

But it wasn’t over. Jackman looked at his
instruments, always on the move. The two missiles the squadron leader had
fired, although they missed Jackman, couldn’t avoid Canyon Four’s plane.

Two for the price of one
.

The explosion was off in the distance,
fire flickering behind the clouds. The two aircrafts had killed each other in
the crossfire.

There was only one enemy left.

The members of VFA-105 had never expected
to dogfight with one of their own today. There was panic, confusion. It was
precisely what Jackman had counted on.

He checked his radar, his HUD, and went
in with all he had.

He maneuvered right behind the plane
which today was designated as Canyon Five – he didn’t want to think of him as a
person. He stabilized until his targeting system flashed green.

Jackman pulled the trigger.

He fired 500 20 millimeter rounds at the
F/A-18E Super Hornet.

“No!” the pilot screamed with terror.

The aircraft was shredded before the ordnance
and fuel tanks burst into flames. Suddenly Jackman didn’t find the Super Hornet
so super anymore.

His job wasn’t over yet. The most
important part of the plan was yet to come.

~  ~  ~  ~

Westerbeck’s eyes were filled with unshed
tears. He had explained a few minutes ago that his brother was a fighter pilot
in the Marine Corps. This was hitting close to home.

The others had listened to everything
that had happened through the phone. Peter had his eyes closed, Rick and Olivia
sat still, Vanstedum was staring blankly at the phone.

Rick may have been right about Jackman’s treachery
and the need to put him down. Technically he wasn’t about to be accused for his
murder as Vanstedum had suggested. On the other hand, four pilots had just been
shot down. If anything, he felt even worse.

“Status report,” General Pretlow ordered
from the Pentagon. “They’re gone?”

“That’s affirmative, sir,” came the reply
from the Air Force AWACS. “They’ve all been shot down.”

“God…” There was an ominous pause. “Expect
another squadron shortly. F-16s lifted off Andrews a minute ago and other
Hornets are scrambling from Oceana.”

They would be too late, even Rick
understood this.

He gazed out a porthole and he could see
Baltimore down below.

They would all be too late.