Target America

41

Somewhere in the air over Iowa, Gil and Pope went up the ladder into the cockpit of the C-5 Galaxy to talk with the pilot. The air force major climbed out of his seat and stepped to the back of the flight deck.

“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

Gil showed him a map of Detroit, pointing to Grosse Ile in the middle of the Detroit River. The island was over six miles long and roughly two wide. “When we get to Detroit, Major, I need you to land here at Naval Air Station Grosse Ile.”

The pilot looked at him. “NAS Grosse has been closed for more than forty years.”

“It’s still a municipal airport,” Pope said. “I’ve already gotten us clearance to land.”

“But, Mr. Pope, the runway there isn’t long enough. Selfridge Air Base is only just up the river. I suggest we land there, sir.”

“Selfridge is fifty miles north of the target area. Grosse Ile is less than three.” Pope smiled his boyish smile. “You do the math, Major.”

“But, sir, I’m telling you there isn’t enough runway.”

Pope set down the map on the navigator’s console and produced an iPad from a black satchel hanging over his shoulder. “I have the entire operator’s manual for the C-5 Galaxy right here at my fingertips. We need less than thirty-six hundred feet of runway to land, and the runway at Grosse Ile is more than forty-eight hundred feet long.”

“That’s true, but I need eighty-four hundred feet to take off again.”

“Taking off again isn’t our problem,” Gil said. “We’ve got a loose nuke to find.”

The pilot stood looking at him. “My orders don’t include jeopardizing this aircraft.”

Pope took the sat phone from his back pocket. “Major, I press one button, and we’ll be talking to the president of the United States. I’ve met him personally, and he’s not a very reasonable man when he’s upset. In my youth, I flew C-130s for Air America, so you and I both know that you can safely land this plane on Grosse Ile. Colonel Bradshaw is with the president, and I’m reasonably certain he knows it too.”

The major put his hands on hips. “You do realize I’ll be stranding a two-hundred-million-dollar aircraft on an island not much bigger than a used car lot.”

“For what it’s worth,” Pope said, “I don’t think I landed on a jungle runway of the proper length more than once or twice. If your people strip this plane down and redline the engines, I’m pretty sure she’ll clear the end of the runway.”

“Not with me in the cockpit, she won’t.”

Pope held out the phone. “What’s it going to be, Major?”

The pilot shrugged. “Orders are orders, Mr. Pope. NAS Grosse it is.”