Biowar

90

Malachi checked the course indicator on the lead bird, then rolled through the instrument screens, making sure the aircraft was in good shape. Train had split the team in half, giving Malachi and Whacker the two F-47s inbound for Moscow while he and Riddler mopped up over Syria and took the flight home. The commander and the other weapons officer would join them just before they were ready to hit the target area; in the meantime, this was a piece of cake. Malachi had his aircraft at 72,000 feet; their stealthy profiles were invisible to Russian radar, which was surprisingly sparse once you got beyond the border areas.

“Civilian aircraft coming out of the west toward us,” said Whacker. He ran down the particulars; the airplane, a Boeing 767, was flying around thirty-two thousand feet and would come within three miles of them if they didn’t change course. Technically, that was probably far enough away for them to be missed, but given the fact that they were over Russia, Malachi brought his throttles up to full, accelerating briefly to get past the passenger jet.

“Looking good,” said Riddler. “Getting tired?”

“Hey, no way,” said Malachi. “You want some strawberry drink?”

“What’s it spiked with? Caffeine or amphetamines?”

“Just sugar. Can’t beat a glucose high.”

“You been listening to thrash rock too long.”

“Alternative music.”

“I listen to alternative music. You listen to trash crap.”

“Thrash. And Barry Manilow is alternative?”

“That was Frank Sinatra I was listening to the other day. A world of difference.”

Malachi was about to argue the relative merits of crooners he knew nothing about when Telach interrupted from the Art Room.

“Malachi, we have a change in plans. How quickly can you be on target?”

“How quickly?”

“Balls-out.”

“Uh.” His fingers slammed on his auxiliary keyboard, the computer doing the number crunching.

“I can get you there in forty-nine minutes, but we’ll have to self-destruct right after we shoot.”

“Set it up. We’re just decrypting an intercept that they’re moving the shipment up.” She paused, doing her own calculations. “You’ll have only ten minutes to spare.”

“Okay. Listen, we’re going to need a precise target,” he told her, bringing up the greater Moscow area on the GPSASSISTED map screen. “I may be able to shave a minute off, depending on where we’re going.”

“Botkin Hospital. I’ll have a precise map for you in a few moments, with index numbers for your target.”

“Hospital?” said Malachi.

“The order is nine-thirteen-oh-three. I need you to acknowledge it and add your personal voice code.”