Kill Zone

1

Though the airport wasn’t the nearest one to the target, it was close to New York City. And more importantly, it had a privately owned Daher TBM 930 aircraft available, no questions asked.

He’d paid two thousand dollars cash to rent the fast plane dry — unfueled — which allowed him to load the minimum amount of gas. That way he could take off with three-quarters of a ton of payload. He wouldn’t have to fly far, only thirty miles, and he’d chosen the single-engine Daher for its speed, up to 380 miles an hour.

By his calculations, he should be able to achieve more than 500 mph when he came straight in at a dive. At that speed, carrying 7,400 pounds max weight, he’d easily punch through the containment building’s roof.

And that was before his payload of ANFO exploded.

The entire Sanergy activist group would be proud that he’d made such a clear, indisputable statement. They would wish they had listened to his urgings, because now the nuclear power industry would grind to a halt thanks to his bold statement this morning. His only regret was that he wouldn’t live to see it and bask in the praise of like-minded people. But he saw no more effective way to stop the madness, put a halt to the never-ending, poisonous buildup that continued to grow out of control.

Though dawn’s glow lit the eastern horizon, the sun hadn’t risen yet. The TBM 930 was parked behind the general aviation terminal, and he drove his windowless van up to the large passenger door, where he could transfer the plastic bags of ammonium nitrate fuel oil explosive without being seen. He took his time, careful not to rip the sides of the packaging. He couldn’t afford to be caught, not after all the planning, the endless flight lessons, and even assembling the ANFO.

It had been easy buying fertilizer at a dozen different landscaping stores, rather than making the ammonium nitrate himself, and he’d discovered that #2 simple-distillate home heating oil worked better than diesel for the fuel oil part of the explosive mixture. He’d tested a small batch of his concoction in a remote field, a hundred miles from where he lived, and the one-pound explosion worked like a charm.

Working swiftly and efficiently, trying not to think beyond the task at hand, he finished loading the Daher without raising suspicions. After driving the van to a nearby parking area, he jogged back to the plane in the dawn silence and started the preflight checklist. He only bothered with the takeoff part of the flight. No need to worry about the return or the landing.

He dispensed with everything except the correct protocols to take off and fly thirty miles, gaining altitude all the way so his dive would attain the max velocity possible before impact.

As the new day brightened, he saw hints of an early morning storm coming in, a nor’easter with strong winds. A silver lining, he thought. The storm would help disperse the radioactive cloud over New York City in the aftermath of the crash.

The time for endless talking was over. Time to kick the tires and light the fires. He had a date with destiny.