Cloudburst

Twenty Two EXECUTION

The Egyptians had tried something similar during their attempt to rescue hostages from an EgyptAir flight on the ground in Malta, though the type and amount of explosives used were totally inappropriate. The charges were so overpowered that when one of the Unit 777 commandos detonated them, in much the same way Delta was going to, an entire row of seats above was blown into the roof and six passengers were instantly killed. It was a lesson of the past. One well learned.

Over six hundred tiny-shaped charges on each of the frames detonated simultaneously upon receipt of the electrical firing command. Each one sent a tiny jet of white-hot explosive gas upward into the aluminum. The result was quite similar to an instantaneous rupture of the cabin floor in perfect squared sections, as if a blowtorch had cut symmetrically identical openings to the hold below. A millisecond after the first detonation a second row of charges, aligned inward of the cutting charges, fired. These were pure blast, and they worked perfectly. Each panel of ruptured aluminum, along with the insulation and carpeting, was blown upward. A slight increase on the blast charges at the center of the frames tilted the panels as they were blown clear, sending them to one side in addition to upward.

The door was now open.

Hendrickson’s hand was already moving upward to the overhead panel when the shudder hit the cockpit. There was an accompanying pop, like distant firecrackers, and the lights on the flight deck dimmed for just a second. His finger found the safety latch and the switch in one quick flick.

“Wha—” Hadad’s hasty word was cut off.

The claxonlike buzzer was very loud, and red and amber lights started flashing all over the panel in front of and over the pilots.

“Blowout! We have emergency depressurization!” Buzz feigned worry, grabbing onto a harmless small lever overhead and working it back and forth furiously.

“On oxygen!” The captain took his mask from the lower left panel and slid it over his face. “What’s wrong? What did we lose?”

“I don’t know!”

Hadad stood. He pointed the Uzi at the pilots and screamed at them for an answer. The noise was too much, he thought. They couldn’t hear him. Or were they ignoring him. He caught the co-pilot as a glance came his way. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t right!

Buzz knew he had been seen. A worried pilot wouldn’t care about some raghead pirate if the plane was going down. The jig was up.

A second later it mattered not at all.

The charges had worked perfectly. Two openings led upward, into the smoky light of the cabin.

Antonelli was through first, just a second ahead of Quimpo. Four troopers below boosted the pair and held them. Once the upper halves of their bodies were through, each leaned toward their respective aisle — Quimpo left and Antonelli right.

It was a straight, unobstructed shot down each aisle. The plan was to fire two flash-bang grenades into the forward cabin, where the stairs led to the upper deck. These would disable any bad guys there and, unfortunately, any hostages. They had fired several inert practice rounds in the 747 back at Pope, trying mainly to get the trajectory right. Grenade launchers were ballistic weapons, much like mortars. The projectiles—40mm grenades in this case — when fired arched through the air to their target. This necessitated a certain amount of vertical space to allow for the distance to the nose of the aircraft. It was close, as they had found in practice.

The initial pop! of the firing was followed by a whoosh as the bullet-shaped projectiles shot toward the front. Seven meters from the muzzle the false nose cones of each broke away, leaving a barrel-like object not much bigger than a plastic film can. They began to tumble just past apogee, three inches from the interior ceiling.

Both of the grenades hit and detonated within a split second of each other. The forward section first filled with a blinding light that seemed strangely long in duration to those who could see. Abu and Abdul were not among them.

The initial flash blinded both of the terrorists. Four other multiple flashes, each thousands of times more powerful than the brightest camera strobe, followed within a hundredth of a second. None were seen by those they were intended for, though two passengers on the left side also felt the effect.

Abu was closest to one of the explosives. After the magnesium flashes had finished, eight small military firecrackers burst outward from the casing. Three went straight up and fired four feet off the floor, just a foot from Abu’s left ear. The immediate effect was a thunderous cracking in the range of 180 decibels. As the sound reached his eardrums they ruptured fully, unable to absorb the audible punishment. He recoiled against the bulkhead, his hands pressing hard against his ears, elbows out, and the Uzi lying uselessly at his feet. Miraculously he hadn’t fallen, and just rolled back and forth against the partition.

Abdul was luckier in that none of the noisemakers had fired so close to his ears. He was, however, thrown to the floor, partly by reflex and partly from exaggerated force of the blasts.

The flash-bangs had done their job.

The explosions in rapid succession almost beneath him sent Hadad’s eyes wide.

Both pilots went silent as their heads swung instantly back to the hijacker. He appeared to be confused. His eyes darted back and forth in his downcast face. Then, with a jerk, his head came up and his eyes locked on the captain’s. Hendrickson thought he saw a slight shake of the terrorist’s head, but maybe not. Was he truly surprised?

“No.” It was said firmly, yet without much emotion. Hadad brought the gun up, training back and forth between the pilots. His free hand felt for the door behind as his feet inched backward. “I will still win.”

McAffee and Graber were through the left-side hole before the last pop of the flash-bangs. Buxton and Jones were the first through the right side. Both pairs ran forward at a dead run.

There was little residual smoke from the blasts. Graber was in the lead, his SIG held two-handed and pointed forward. His eyes were already searching for targets past the tritium post sights as they entered the forward cabin. There was no hesitation.

McAffee heard the shots first, to his right. Buxton and Jones were firing. Both were. The four shots were in too rapid a succession to be from a single weapon. Graber was three feet ahead and turning to the right. The major turned, too. There was a bad guy down in front of Buxton, and…

Graber fired almost straight back at the major, but to his right. Three quick shots, and the gun came at McAffee, following the body down to the floor. The head brushed Blackjack’s leg as it hit.

Shit. McAffee only had time for a split-second look, but it said all that was needed to the captain. Thanks for my ass.

There were two down. The other two had to be upstairs, and there was no room for hesitation. McAffee and Graber moved toward the straight stairs that went aft and up, unlike the spiral staircase on older 747s. They got within two feet when several bullets stitched down the risers from above. The major fell left out of the way. Then there was the scream in combination with the bullets. It was actually more of a wail, and it got louder. Then everything came toward them.

Neither had to say anything. Both of the senior Delta troopers leaned into the staircase — into the path of the bullets — and fired at the massive hulk of olive drab coming down at them. Two rounds connected, both in the head. The huge terrorist went instantly limp to his knees, and then hard down on his face. He was dead.

Let’s go! The words were internal. McAffee led off up the stairs. He stepped right on the body without a second thought.

Buzz knew he was just seconds away from death, but then he was a Marine, and that thought had never brought him fear. His legs moved automatically, and his left hand pushed off the armrest as he catapulted his body up and back. Two feet away was death. The murderer. Buzz’s right hand was outstretched, reaching for the Uzi as it came closer by inches and rotated toward him a bit faster.

Hadad pulled the trigger in three rapid taps. The co-pilot’s body went down, his legs stuck awkwardly between the seat and armrest. Six of the nine bullets connected, all in the dead man’s face, which no longer resembled anything human and, fortunately, lay against the dark carpet and out of view.

For a second Hadad froze. Then he felt the stare of another. The captain. His eyes were full of fire. Hadad could feel the hate, but there was no time to respond. He had to get to the vest. Of course, he could kill the pilot here and they would all die, but the devices would never be used. He might not get his chance to irradiate the American capital, but he could contaminate a hundred square miles of ocean.

Hendrickson had to fly. His anger, seething and ready to drive him to kill, would have to be checked. His friend was dead, though the body continued to spasm and gurgle about the head. He swallowed hard as the terrorist left the flight deck, then he turned back to the controls.

Jesus Christ…

McAffee, with Graber on his rear, reached the top as Hadad turned back from the cockpit door. There was no hesitation on the Delta major’s part, but he had to swing his body and weapon a hundred and eighty degrees as he cleared the railing. Hadad’s Uzi was already pointing in the right direction, but his reactions were slowed by fatigue and confusion. He moved to his left and brought the submachine gun up at the crouching and spinning black figure twenty feet away. The vest was eight feet from him, and he continued to move at it. His finger came down on the trigger at the same time McAffee’s did.

Blackjack was moving right, almost falling. Two rounds caught him square in the chest, and another two farther to the left, in the upper arm. The firestorm of pain was instant and intense, but he kept the SIG trained on his target with his right hand.

Hadad saw only a brilliant white-and-yellow flame, like a candle growing in intensity uncontrollably. There was also a sound of sorts, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Then he felt cold, and his body seemed to tumble in the air. Was he floating? He didn’t know. Everything was strange, and quiet, and then, very suddenly, the last of his consciousness faded away.

Graber, too, had fired. Twice to the major’s four. Two of McAffee’s shots had missed and were embedded in the seats to the right. He didn’t miss like—

“Medic!” Graber yelled at the top of his lungs, then reflex overcame emotion and he checked the rest of the lounge. Buxton and Antonelli were behind him and they went straight for the cockpit. Everything was clear in the lounge.

“Downstairs is secure, Cap.” Buxton said, coming out of the cockpit. “There’s one down in—” He saw the major. He thought Sean had wanted a medic for the co-pilot. “Shit…”

“Get Goldfarb up here,” Sean ordered. “And keep guns on everybody until you’re sure all the bad guys are down.”

Buxton headed down.

The major was half-conscious. His vest had taken two of the slugs, but two others had nailed him between the shoulder and the bicep. Graber tore away at the wet black material. The wound was bleeding like an open valve.

“Oh Christ… Get back, Cap.” Goldfarb put a firm hand on Graber’s shoulder and pushed him aside.

“It looks like two, Jeff.” Sean steadied the major’s head between his hands.

“It’s a bleeder. There’s no way I can pack this this close to the joint. I’m gonna have to tie it off. Shit!” The Delta medic pulled a piece of surgical tubing from his bag and looped it under the major’s shattered arm, above the wound and almost in his armpit. He pulled it tight with both hands, then tied a single knot. The blood flow slowed instantly and stopped almost completely a second later.

Graber was now in command. The signal! “Jeff, take care of him.” Only McAffee and Sean were privy to knowledge of the fighter tailing them.

“Gotcha.”

Graber bolted up and into the cockpit. Antonelli was there, moving a body with only a pinkish mass for a face out of the way. He arm-dragged it into the lounge area.

“Captain Hendrickson.”

“Yeah. Yeah. That’s me.”

“We…” Graber stopped. Something was wrong. “What happened?”

Hendrickson pointed to the center of the dark console, just above the throttle levers. “The bastard was a lousy shot,” he said with as much agonized humor as he could muster.

Sean already had his light on. He trained it on the console. Three holes, spaced close to each other, ran diagonally up the instruments. At least one of them had hit something vital, as there wasn’t an instrument lit in the entire cockpit.

Hendrickson leaned in and stuck the tip of his forefinger into the middle hole. “Right back in here is an electrical trunk line. It’s a one-inch insulated cable that goes right into two separate transformers. I’ll bet if you pulled the panel cover off the cable would be sliced in two. That’s the only way all this would have gone out.”

“What about the radio?” Graber asked.

“No good. Out.”

Wonderful… “What about a backup radio?”

“Look, I’m just glad that she’s even responding. She’ll fly — landing’s another story. And you want a radio? No. There’s no backup. We don’t plan on bullets getting loose in here. The transformers for all our radios — HF and VHF— get their power from these cables the bullet cut. The only other transmitters are in the survival rafts, and those won’t do a damn bit of good in here.”

Graber eased himself into the dead pilot’s seat. His light swept across the wet red liquid on the center console. “Well we’re in trouble, then.”

“Why?”

Sean checked his watch. “In about a minute a fighter a couple of miles back is gonna splash us.”

“Shoot us down? For God’s sake, why?”

It hadn’t occurred to the Delta captain that the crew was in the dark. Then he decided that it had probably been for the best… at the time. That time was past. “You’ve got some kind of nuclear shit in the cargo hold. There’s a guy from DOE down there working on it.”

“A bomb?”

“No. Not exactly.” Sean knew there wasn’t time to explain. “Look if we don’t get the right signal to that fighter we’re going swimming.” Dammit, Blackjack, what would you do?

Hendrickson fought the feelings that could very well have overwhelmed him. Buzz was gone. Gone. Murdered.

He had to think. The soldier was looking to him for some kind of answer. No radio, and they had to let the fighter know that shooting them down wasn’t necessary. The thoughts of what had to be done — or attempted — lost out to emotions for a second, and the old Air Force pilot found himself blinking away the tears that welled up. Wait… The idea came instantly. “What’s the signal?”

“Why?” Graber asked.

“Never mind. You want to live? Then tell me.”

His thumb was rigid. A quarter of an inch of downward force would push the firing button far enough to make contact and complete the firing circuit. Flying straight and level, as the F-l06 was, the G compensator wouldn’t even add any reverse pressure on the button. It would be easy. Hardly a physical act at all.

There was more to the act than the twitch of a muscle, though. A man with a mind and a conscience was in the cockpit.

Cooper checked the fighter’s old timepiece. Everything should have happened by now, he thought. He had a three-minute window of opportunity. During that time, which began at the moment of the scheduled assault, he could fire or wait. After 180 seconds, however, the decision was taken away. He had to fire. That decision was not his, but he would carry it out.

The Genie’s 1.5-kiloton warhead was armed, and the bay doors were open. Power was already flowing to the weapon’s firing circuits, and was allowed through to the two-phase detonator. The loop would be complete after the missile was fired, when, two miles from the fighter, the stored energy would be released from the shaving-cream-can-size capacitor. The high explosives would fire, triggering the nuclear explosion.

From Major Cooper’s vantage the 747 was cast in an eerie pulsing glow. The huge jet looked small from three miles away, and the moist air enveloped it, diffusing the external lights into a sphere brighter than the surrounding night.

He again checked the frequency setting. This was the third time in two minutes. It was right. “Come on. Come on,” he coaxed the silent radio.

The M.D. from Louisiana waited until only ten seconds were left. Twenty years before he would have removed his bulky glove, but flight garments had come as far as his usual ride. His fingers moved easily, finding the fire button, mounted at a slight upward angle on the stick. He breathed heavily, hearing it through the mask-mounted microphone that carried sound like an intercom.

What… At first he thought an unseen wave of heavy air had swept in from the side, blocking the 747 from view. But then it was back, but without its anti-collision lights. A stream of moonlight penetrating the cloud cover above glinted off the white body of the aircraft. Cooper stretched his thumb upward. It was time. His neck craned upward slightly to sight in on the target. The magnification made the jet fill the reticle.

“Sweet Jesus…forgive me—”

His eye caught it through the sight first, then he backed his face away. It was visible to the naked eye.

The bright landing lights on the 747 came on, then went off. On again, and off. One more time the sequence repeated. Cooper’s thumb hovered over the fire button. After a brief pause the lights came back on, shining distinct cones of light from the xenon lamps into the clouds ahead. They went off quickly and back on for a longer period. It was Morse!

“You lucky bastard,” Cooper said. His thumb went back to the side of the stick. “We’ve got an S and an A, fellas. C’mon with the rest.”

The F and the E followed, but Snoopy wasn’t going to shoot down anybody for a misblink if there had been one. He allowed himself a breath before closing the bay doors and safing the Genie.

“Springer Seven-Eight, we have a Sierra — Alpha — Foxtrot — Echo. Copy?”

“That’s a big a-affirmative Romeo. We didn’t catch it on our radio. What gives?”

“Something’s wrong with the aircraft’s radio.” It was no longer a target. “I can’t figure it, though. I’m gonna move up and check it out. My Morse ain’t too awful bad.”

Graber watched the seconds tick past the time limit until a full minute was gone. “I wish you guys had a rearview in these big birds. I’d give my right nut to see what that fighter’s doing right now.”

Buxton came in. “Cap.”

Hendrickson and the Delta captain both looked back. The pilot turned back to his work upon realizing his reflex reaction. The kid sounded like Buzz.

“Yeah.”

“Four bad guys down — all dead. One”—he thought of the right word to use—“American dead. There’s a couple of wounded passengers, all from the flash-bangs. Lewis is with them. They’ll be okay. Goldfarb says Blackjack’s pretty bad. He can’t tie the wound off all the way. Well, you saw the blood.”

“Right.” Graber thought about where he was sitting. “Hey, Captain Hendrickson, do you need someone to sit here and help with anything?”

“You a pilot?”

“Nah, but maybe there’s someone on board who is.” To the lieutenant: “Bux, check it out below. See if there are any pilots on board. Small plane, commercial, hell, even any helo jocks would do.” Nam had bred a whole generation of whirlybird fliers.

“We’ll get you someone,” Sean said, turning back to the captain. His face, he saw, was flat and passionless. The guy must have been a good friend. He stared down at the blood. McAffee suddenly filled his every thought. No matter how much training there was, it never prepared a man to lose a friend in combat. This was combat, after all. Blackjack wasn’t dead, Sean reminded himself, erasing the morbid yet from the sentence in his mind.

“You wanted to see the fighter?”

The words startled Graber. “What?”

Hendrickson tossed his head to the left. Sean bent forward and looked past the pilot out the side window. The fighter was there, off the left front. It was lit by its own lights. “What the hell’s that?”

Hendrickson looked. “A relic, son.”

“What do you fly?” The black-clad soldier seemed to tower over him.

“Helicopters,” Michael Alton answered. “Crop dusting, mostly. We spray pesticides in the San Joaquin Valley.”

“Where?” Buxton asked.

Michael shifted. “California. Ever hear of the Medfly?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Okay, where’d you learn to fly? Army?” The question was natural.

“Air Force,” Michael replied, feeling that slight rise in interagency rivalry and pride. The old military BS did stick.

“C’mon, we need your help.”

Michael turned to his wife. She looked scared, still, but in a different way. “I’ll be back, okay? I’m just gonna help out.”

Joe had the location of the U235 pegged in each chute. It was near the top of each, yet still left enough room for whatever release mechanism was there. It was a timer, he was convinced, which gave him some time to work.

A thud came from forward. Quimpo dropped through the right-side entry hole. “Anderson, you need some help?”

“Stick close: I might.”

“Captain said to tell you that everything topside is under control. All the bad guys are dead.” The Filipino soldier flashed a ‘we told you so’ smile.

Joe turned back to the reactor. “See those boxes? Tear the wood off and shove it back there.”

“Yes, sir.”

The logical thing to do came next. He had to secure each of the U235 plugs in their respective chutes, blocking them from falling into the core. But how? There were some options that were risky, and he discarded those without second thoughts. The best way, he decided, was to simply put something in the way of the plugs.

He took the neutron analyzer again and checked the position in the chutes another time. When the lowest point of the U235’s location was found, he removed a drill and long bit from his equipment bag. His plan was to drill into each chute below the mark and insert a rod through the hole on both sides to act as a “stop” for the plugs. It should work.

The bit slid into the holder and he set to work, boring into the soft lead housing.

“It’s not good,” Goldfarb said. “The bleeding stopped, then started up again. It’s deep in his arm, Cap. I can’t do much about it.”

“Sergeant, you’re a combat medic! For Christ’s sake, what would you do in combat?” Sean yelled.

“I’d take the arm off and tie the arteries,” Goldfarb answered. It wasn’t the response he wanted to give.

Graber didn’t hesitate. “Then do it. Save his life.”

The Delta captain walked over to the seat where the bomb lay. Just two feet from it was a bloodstain, marking the spot where the head terrorist had fallen. The body was gone, moved to one side of the downstairs lounge with the other three corpses, but the image was fresh in Sean’s mind. There was the body, facedown, lying on the Uzi, and one hand outstretched toward the…

Wait. That didn’t make sense. If the terrorist had wanted to knock the aircraft out of the sky, all he would have needed to do was shoot up the cockpit. He killed one pilot, so why not finish it? That would be a sure kill. Trying to get to the bomb to blow up the jet might be a notion of grandeur, but quite unnecessary, and equally likely to fail. And it did.

Sean knelt down by the vest. “Antonelli!”

The big trooper trotted over from his spot by the cockpit door. “Yeah?”

“Give me a hand.” Graber lifted the vest and laid it out on the carpet, the inside of it down, exposing all the pockets. “It’s safed, don’t worry.”

“Yeah, sure,” Antonelli answered warily.

“I’ve got a bad feeling. Let’s check the pockets.” The captain’s body lay flat next to the thing. “You got your mini-light? Good. I’m going to lift each flap to get a look inside the pockets. You give me the light.”

“Cap, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“Listen, this guy went for this thing instead of just smoking the pilots to make us crash. Now, maybe he was into big bangs, or maybe this thing has a connection to that shit in the hold. Capishe?”

“Si.”

Sean began working his way through the pockets. The intelligence from the British described what he was seeing, three-by-one-by-four blocks of wrapped whatever, probably explosives. He moved his body around the vest, leaving it still. The pocket with the safe mechanism showed up. “More light.” There were the four rocker switches, set in a sequence that must interrupt the firing circuit from the thumb switch. “Okay, next one—” Just a minute.

The lieutenant saw his captain recoil an inch or so. “What is it?”

“The Brits said there were three rocker switches on the safety — this has four.” Sean maneuvered his head up, down, and side to side, examining the box closer. “Holy shit…”

“What?” Antonelli asked, his tone pushing for an answer.

Graber snapped up to a crouch. “He wasn’t going for this thing to blow it; he was going to set those things in the hold off. This thing has an extra switch!”

“That’s a guess, Cap.”

Sean stood, his breaths now coming heavy. “You’re right, and I might be, too.” He spun and ran to the stairs, disappearing to the main level.

Michael gave the soldier running past him a long look before continuing up, following Lieutenant Buxton to the cockpit.

“Captain, we’ve got someone for you.”

Hendrickson noticed the panicked look on the man’s face. It was visible even in the flashlight-lit cockpit. “Sit there,” he directed. Michael took the right seat, and the Delta trooper left them.

“The name’s Michael.” He looked around, not even bothering to belt himself in. The captain wasn’t either, he noticed. “What can I do?”

“I’m Bart. What have you flown?”

“Helicopter. UH-60s and Kiowas mostly.”

Hendrickson knew it wasn’t ideal, but the guy was someone with experience. “Okay, this is what we’ve got: The number three engine, over there, is out; no flaps, so we’re pretty nonresponsive when landing and taking off; no brakes; our trim is lousy because of the stuff they loaded on our hold; and, as you can see, no power on the flight deck. She does respond, though.”

The civilian in Michael tried to fall back on his long-ago military training, but all he could do was stare at the blackness of the cockpit. “No instruments or radio?”

“None. Are you ready?”

Michael’s head snapped to the left. “Ready for what?”

“Your first flying lesson in a 747.” The captain leaned just slightly over the center console. “I’m retiring after this flight, so I plan to make it down. It’s going to take two of us, so I need you to help me make it to retirement. Now, take the stick. We’re going to give you a feel for the Maiden.”

His hands wrapped around the column handles. “The who?”

Hendrickson’s full smile was apparent, and would have been without any illumination.

“Anderson!”

Both Joe and Sergeant Quimpo were startled by the yell. Graber dropped through the hole a second later.

“What?” Joe sensed the urgency. He lowered the drill, removing the bit as the captain approached.

“I think these things might be triggered by a signal from that vest the head guy was wearing,” Sean said. He was crouched over, panting, his hands resting on one knee.

Joe didn’t see the need to question the captain’s word. “If that’s true, and my theory is true, then there are two ways to set these off; timer and signal.”

Sean nodded. “That would make sense. The guy was going for the thing, and there was an extra switch on the safety. It has to be it.”

There wasn’t time to be too delicate. “Sergeant, get those wire rods from the tray supports.” To Graber: “Your man here thinks quick.”

“How so?”

“I drilled holes completely through each of these chutes.” Joe pointed to the three-sixteenths hole. “We need to stop any of the fuel plugs from dropping into the core. Sergeant Quimpo thought the wire supports on the fold-down trays upstairs would work to fit through. Quick thinking.”

There was a change in Anderson’s attitude, Sean noticed. Subtle, but still there. “So does this affect anything?”

“It could. If the plugs just drop in, the wires should hold. But if there’s a charge of sorts to release them, then the force could push them right through the wires.”

“Which would screw us all,” Sean observed.

“Precisely. As it is now, with these little holes here, there’s an increase in radiation down here.” Joe saw the captain’s head straighten up. “Don’t worry. It’s not enough to do any harm.”

Quimpo came back down with two handfuls of the chromed wires. “I got twenty.” He handed them to Joe.

“Tie off one end in a big knot so it can’t slip through the hole, then insert them all the way through.” Joe motioned to the devices. Sean was observing. “Take your time. I’ll do some, and you do the others.”

The sergeant nodded. They went about the task. Five minutes later they had the wires through both sides of each chute. Then came the tricky part: tying off the loose ends. There wasn’t much room at the free ends, and the stiff wire didn’t lend itself to effective knotting. But there was little else to do. Joe and the sergeant went to each together, checking each as best they could.

“Cap, you wanna take a look?” Quimpo asked.

Graber shook off the question. “Nah. I’ll keep my gonads away from that shit.”

Cooper had his landing lights on, and was a quarter mile ahead and to the left of the 747. The pilot seemed to be following his lead, which was the first hurdle. With no instruments the big jet would be entirely dependent on him for guidance.

“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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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.

“Lewis. Makowski.” Sean looked to them both. “You go out first, one on each side, and direct everybody forward. Anderson says not to let anybody near the rear of the aircraft.” The two sergeants slid out before the rows of passengers lined up to follow, directed by the flight attendants.

Sean ran aft one final time, rubbing the deathwatch under his cuff. “Anderson. Anderson!” It was quiet finally.

“Who the hell landed this thing?” Joe cringed. His fingers were cramping badly. “Get somebody in a nuke suit to bring me locking pliers. Hurry.”

“You got it.” The Delta captain went forward, just as the last of the passengers were evacuated.

“Cap.” It was Antonelli.

“Where’s Bux?”

“Upstairs with…”

Sean nodded. He knew what was meant. “The crew off?”

“Everybody,” Antonelli replied. A crash truck pulled up, its red and yellow lights sweeping across the field outside.

“Tell Bux and Goldfarb to take Blackjack off. Then you, Jones, and Quimpo get the other bodies down — the co-pilot first.” There was a hierarchy even in death.

“Got it.”

Sean leaned out the open portside door. A lift-equipped fire truck pulled up. Two crewmen were in its basket, but they weren’t wearing the standard crash suits. Of course. A minute later they stepped off the lift and into the cabin.

“There’s a guy back in the hold. He needs some help.”

The bubble-helmeted crewman nodded, then pulled a heavy visor over the face mask, leaving only a slit for viewing. His partner signaled for Graber to get off the aircraft immediately.

“Cap,” Antonelli called from the starboard door. “You and me are the last.”

Sean looked aft, wondering if he would ever see Anderson again. It was a question that would have to wait to be answered. He walked to the starboard door and followed Antonelli down the inflatable slide.

Bud set the phone down. “They’re down. The passengers are safe.”

“Whew!” the president said, slapping one knee.

Herb Landau smiled and looked to the floor. “They did it.”

The president left little time for glee. “We can celebrate more later, gentlemen. There’s a funeral in a few hours.”

“I think some sleep is in order,” Gonzales suggested, directing it specifically at his boss.

“Yes. Everybody.” The president gave a mock ‘out’ signal with his thumb. “Bud, I want to speak to you for a moment.”

The door closed last behind the chief of staff.

There were no words for a few seconds. “We stopped them, Bud. Probably for the first time we fought them on their own ground and won.”

Bud agreed, nodding. “Yes. We did that.”

The president, in addition to being a bold young man, was keenly observant. “How many, Bud?”

‘Two. The commander of the assault force, and the copilot of the 747.”

What words there were would not be sufficient, the president knew. “Two more funerals, then.”

“The last from this affair, God willing,” Bud said. It might be a hope, but…

“Maybe, though, we can prevent some,” the president said.

“If your policy idea goes through, we might just be able to deal some preemptive justice.”

“We can do that, but it’s going to have the same tainted feel to it.” Bud knew that killing, by any standards, was what its name said it was.

The president thought about that for a moment. “That may be so, but I’ll suffer with that if it saves some innocents.”