Medusa's Child

SIXTEEN

Scott McKay flew through the cockpit door with Linda McCoy inches behind and slid rapidly into the left seat, hitting his shin on the center console as the 727 plowed through more rough air above the advancing hurricane.

"Where are we, guys?"

Doc held out the Flitephone handset. "Picking our way through thunderstorms about fifty-six miles north of Goldsboro, North Carolina, at flight level two-eight-zero. Agent DiStefano wants to talk to you."

Scott snapped his seat belt in place and took the phone, the image of Linda sliding into the observer's seat visible in his peripheral vision.

"Tony, you there?" the captain asked.

"Yes, Scott."

He felt out of breath, his heart pounding. "We need to talk, Tony."

"That's why I called. Where's Mrs. Henry?"

"In the back, still, within a few feet of the bomb. She tried to get away from it a while ago… tried to walk to the back of the aircraft… but it wasn't bluffing about knowing where she was." He described the heart-stopping countdown and their conclusions about Rogers Henry's determination to torture her.

"For a second back there, Tony, I thought it was all over, but I keep wondering now whether this whole thing could be a dud, you know? I mean, I know she says her husband could have obtained plutonium to make a bomb, but could he really? I thought that stuff was far too controlled."

"Scott…" Tony began.

"I'm convinced the bastard has constructed something he wants us to think is real. He's a genius at covering all the bases and knowing exactly what we'd think of next. He knew how to scare us, but I wish I had a Geiger counter up here. I'll bet the needle would stay on zero."

"Scott, listen carefully to me. We searched the Henrys' home in Miami. We found the garage lab where the device was built. We also found plutonium there. The readings were irrefutable. It was a residual amount, stored in a small lead-lined vault in the floor. There was adequate shielding, remote-controlled loading devices, spare nuclear triggers, the whole works."

"You mean, there wasn't enough left to make a bomb?"

"No, Scott, originally he did have enough to do the job, and he did have conventional nuclear triggers. What I'm saying is, the bomb in your cargo bay is not just a threat— it's real."

The concept of blood running cold had never made sense to Scott before, but Tony DiStefano's words felt like liquid nitrogen coursing through his veins. Scott found himself unable to look at Doc, who was watching him closely. He was embarrassed and shocked to realize how much he'd wanted to believe it was a hoax.

"Ah, Tony, jeez, I sure didn't want to hear this," he stammered.

"I know you didn't, Scott. I didn't want to either. But we've got a good plan. Seymour-Johnson is open and the winds aren't very high yet, the personnel are being evacuated, and if we can't defuse the thing, we'll have to dispose of it."

Scott fell silent as several very long seconds ticked by. Doc watched his features with growing concern, wondering why all the blood in his face had suddenly rushed south. Jerry, too, was watching, aware of the fact that Linda McCoy's left hand was massaging Scott's right shoulder as she strained to keep her ear close enough to the receiver to hear the conversation.

"You mean," Scott began again with a sigh, "you mean blow it up, Tony?"

There was a pause on the other end and a chuckle. "I have your bio here, Scott. I knew you were Navy, so I should have known you'd understand the procedure. Of course, you might lose your aircraft."

"Let me get this straight, Tony, because this is what I thought, too, a while ago. I mean, I thought we might have to blow it up," Scott said, his left hand holding his temple while the other held the handset loosely to his right ear so Linda could hear. "So what you're saying, Tony, is that if the guys from Pax River can't turn it off, the military will bring in high explosives to pack around the bomb, in order to blow it up before the nuclear triggers can activate. Correct?"

"Scott, I kind of hate to say all this on an open line, you know? We think the media frenzy out there, which is growing every minute, probably originated with someone overhearing us talking on this Flitephone. But, yes, that's the plan. Standard procedure for emergency nuke disposal."

"For military nuke disposal, Tony."

"Okay. Meaning what?"

"Meaning we've got a big, big problem, Tony. This isn't a military nuke."

"Oh, that's okay. They're all roughly the same…"

"Listen to me, Tony. Please! Listen."

"I'm listening, Scott."

"The bomb gave us another message. It played back there before the episode with Vivian I told you about."

"Okay."

"The message warned that this thing is specially built to be different from a standard military nuke."

"Okay. So…?"

"The screen said if anyone tries to burn or explode it with high explosives—exactly what we'd normally do, and Rogers Henry knew that—his special trigger would set off the nuclear reaction before it could be destroyed. We'd better come up with another option, in other words. If the team can't turn it off, they'll have no other ground-based options. They can't blow it up. They'd better prepare a fast airplane to dump it offshore."

"Now, Scott, look…"

"Tony, I'm telling you what it said, okay? I believe the bastard! When we get out of this, I'm gonna find the sonofabitch's grave and dig his rotten carcass up and stomp it to dust, but right here, right now, I believe what the device said is true. We can't burn it or explode it without triggering a thermonuclear blast and a Medusa Wave!"

"Okay, Scott. I'll relay that information to the commander at Seymour-Johnson."

Scott focused all his instincts on the FBI agent's tone of voice. Something wasn't right. He dropped his left hand from his forehead and gazed out the windscreen as he tried to dissect precisely what Tony DiStefano meant.

"Tony? Tony, you can control them, can't you?"

"What do you mean, 'control them,' Scott?"

"You're still in control of this thing, aren't you?"

"We're coordinating, Scott. There are a lot of governmental agencies involved, as you can imagine. Even the President's involved from Air Force One. We're just the coordinator until we get you on the ground."

"Okay… okay, who's in control up ahead?"

"At Seymour?"

"Yes. That's Air Force. Is there a military commander?"

Scott heard voices consulting at the FBI headquarters, then Tony's voice again.

"Well, I can't give you the rank for certain, but I believe there's a two or three-star general who will be in charge, and he's taking orders directly from the Pentagon brass."

"I'll need his promise personally that no one will try to destroy this device by explosives. I don't give a damn about my plane. It's leased, it's insured, and I'm out of business next week anyway. But they can't try to detonate this thing."

"Scott…"

Scott heard the volume of his voice increase through gritted teeth. "I'm telling you, we can't blow this thing up without a nuclear disaster! You said yourself it's real."

"It is, Scott. We're sure of that because of the plutonium traces in the lab. But we have only this dead scientist's word that we can't dispose of it with high explosives, right?"

"I want a promise, Tony. I'm still a naval officer and my responsibility is to make sure this isn't screwed up. And I do know the military mind."

"Scott, what would you have your bomb say if you were going to program one?"

"I don't own one."

"No, but if you did, you wouldn't want anyone thinking they could defuse or destroy your bomb by burning or exploding, now would you? I know you're all scared up there, but keep focused. You're letting yourself believe Rogers Henry's B.S. And that's all it is."

"You don't know that. You're gambling."

"Scott, so are you, dammit!" Tony shot back. "We've got to use our heads."

Scott sighed and rubbed his eyes as he spoke again. "Rogers Henry would have programmed it to make the very same threat, whether he had a special trigger in there or not. Therefore, the presence of that threat proves nothing. He might be lying, he might be telling the truth. It's a gamble either way, so we've got to choose the most conservative bet, which is that he's telling the truth."

"I'll relay your demands, Scott. That's all I can do."

"I want that commander's personal assurance, his word, or I'm not landing this plane at Seymour-Johnson. Okay?"

"Okay, Scott. I'll see what I can do."

"Has the team left Pax River yet?" Scott asked.

Tony DiStefano had warned himself that he could neither hesitate nor sound in the least bit different unless he wanted Scott McKay to think something had happened to the nuclear terrorism team from Pax River. He carefully avoided taking a deep breath before answering.

"Yep, they've left Pax River, and another team's coming in from somewhere else at Seymour. You'll be well taken care of."

"Stand by a second," Scott replied. He turned back to the flight engineer.

"Jerry, check me on this." He relayed his theory on why Rogers Henry's device hadn't been able to tell when they'd left the Pentagon's coordinates nearly an hour before.

Jerry nodded enthusiastically. "I was thinking the same thing. He had a digital latitude and longitude input rigged to his central processor, but he probably never considered the bomb wouldn't land in Washington, therefore he used the wrong software instruction, which made the program stop accepting position data after the Pentagon numbers appeared. I'd bet anything that detector's in there right now, still running perfectly, chattering meaningless ones and zeros about our position and speed to a computer processor that simply isn't interested. All it wanted to know, electronically, was that it has reached the Pentagon, and that's where it thinks it is. We could take it to the moon and it wouldn't know the difference."

Scott relayed the analysis in less technical terms. "So, Tony, the point is, I think we'll be able to safely move it out of this aircraft, if necessary."

"Okay," Tony replied. "I'm told they've got the cargo equipment and forklifts ready to go."

"Tony, another thing. The first two pallets are important scientific gear being shipped by Dr. McCoy, who's with us. The team can work on defusing while the front two pallets are removed. They're blocking the device. Will you have them ready to do that?"

"You bet."

"And I want Dr. McCoy, my copilot, and my flight engineer to be taken immediately many miles away to a safe area. I'll stay here until we get Mrs. Henry safely removed from the weapon."

Another long pause from Washington.

"You copy that, Tony?" Scott tried again.

"Yes, Scott. By the way, you say Mrs. Henry's still in the back?"

"Yes, she is."

"Is… is she dictating any of this? Is she making suggestions to you, or anything like that?"

Scott looked around at the others in the cockpit. "He wants to know if Vivian has been telling us what to do."

The expression on Doc's face was pure alarm. Linda. had heard the question through the handset and seemed equally concerned.

"What the hell is that about?" she asked.

Scott put the receiver back to his mouth. "Of course not, Tony. What are you getting at?"

"Just precautions, Scott. I also need to ask you whether she has any weapons."

"Weapons?" His tone was perplexed. "Weapons? You mean, other than a small garden-variety thermonuclear bomb? Like what, Tony, a penknife, or maybe a can of Mace? What's going on here? Has the frigging FAA been asking whether I frisked my passengers?"

"Calm down, Scott. I've got certain questions I have to ask in a terrorist situation."

"Okay, but the terrorist has been dead for two years now. We're dealing with the bastard's mechanical son."

"Did she tell you about her battle over her pension?" Tony asked suddenly.

Scott glanced around at Linda, who had sat back in her seat, her eyebrows arched, Scott slowly returned the phone to his mouth.

"Yes, Tony, she did mention it, but what possible bearing does that have on the current situation?"

"She say anything about getting even?"

"Not a thing. What are you getting at?"

Jerry's voice cut through the cockpit suddenly. "Fighters! About ten o'clock, Scott. Two F-16's."

Doc jumped as Scott looked swiftly to the left.

The two gray Air Force F-16 fighters were belly-up in a left turn, coming up on the left side of the 727 in a well-executed join-up maneuver. As the crew watched, they slid into position in formation just off to the left and slightly ahead of the Boeing. Scott had asked Tony DiStefano to stand by. Now he pushed the handset closer to his mouth.

"Tony, you guys send an escort?"

The answer was no. Scott explained who had shown up.

"I'll find out, Scott, and… wait… I do have a note about that. They've been scrambled out of Shaw Air Force Base to escort you and assist. Ah, they're monitoring 338.2, if that's a radio frequency you can use."

"It is. So happens I installed a UHF. We'll give them a call. Wish someone had let me know they were inbound."

"Sorry about that. I hadn't seen the note."

"Tony, what were the questions regarding Vivian Henry about?"

"Routine, Scott. I'm essentially working from a checklist."

Sure you are, Scott told himself. You've just proven yourself a liar.

Within five minutes of ending the call with Scott McKay, Tony DiStefano was handed another handset, this time with an Air Force colonel at the Pentagon command post oh the other end. "There are three males and one female visible in the cockpit. No second female was seen. Our guys were also startled when the captain came up on their UHF frequency. Civilian birds don't usually carry UHF. They'll maintain contact with him."

Scott McKay replaced the microphone and let his eyes play over the fuselage of the lead F-16. The sound of the pilot's voice had been reassuring. Probably younger than he, Scott concluded, but he recognized the same air of clipped self-assurance and mastery of the machine he'd felt as a Navy pilot.

Tony's questions about Vivian kept gnawing at him, initially distracting him from thinking about the F-16's, but his attention soon snapped back to their presence as he tried to figure out precisely what mission they had been sent to accomplish.

The two fighters would undoubtedly stay with the Boeing until landing, though he expected them to stay a bit farther to one side during the approach. It was too bad you couldn't just point the old Boeing toward the Atlantic and transfer everyone to the sleek fighters, he thought. Such powerful aircraft, so close and so… lethal.

Scott moved his face within a few millimeters of the left captain's window as he examined the appendages of the lead F-16. He had jokingly asked the lead if he was armed and dangerous and received a chuckling "Negative."

But two air-to-air Sidewinder missiles were strapped to the leader's right wing, two more on his left. Scott knew what inert practice missiles looked like, and he wasn't looking at practice missiles.

These were the real thing.

Once again the liquid nitrogen began flowing through his veins.

Pete Cooke pressed his cellular phone to his ear as the taxi driver, heedless of the heavy rain, raced down the George Washington Parkway toward the FAA's Air Traffic System Command Center in Roslyn, Virginia. With ScotAir 50 now out of range, the handheld scanner was off and in his briefcase.

His research team back in New York had been monitoring massive business and industrial shutdowns all over the East Coast as Scott McKay was ordered to head for McGuire Air Force Base in New Jersey, a destination which was itself being battered by Hurricane Sigrid.

"Pete, nothing's happening at McGuire, except the winds," Ira said.

"I know it. I lost their telephone transmissions as they were changing destinations. It was McGuire Air Force Base, but I didn't hear the new location. I don't know where they're headed now. You've been monitoring radio, TV, and the wires, haven't you?"

"The story's rapidly taken over, Pete. ABC broke it, and now they're on live. NBC and CBS have followed, and CNN too. Everyone's having trouble finding good pictures, but the story is moving fast."

"What's the focus?"

"Three things. Whose neighborhood this airplane is threatening, what happens to that area if the bomb goes off, and then, what happens if it creates a Medusa Wave. They're pulling experts out from under every rock. It's astounding how many scientists are out there and how graphic they can be about the hopeless match between the human body and a nuclear blast. Every foot of film ever shot around Hiroshima is being shown, as well as some pretty disgusting pictures of horribly burned people staggering away in the minutes after the blast. The possibility of the Medusa Wave sending us back a few centuries is also being fully aired, though there's a lot of false information."

"Wait… wait a second, Ira," Pete interrupted as he leaned forward toward the front seat. "Back to the left! Not straight! We need to go left here!"

The cabbie looked startled and immediately threw the cab into a screeching left turn across four lanes of rainsoaked traffic to the proper exit, just as a large plastic trash can came rolling by them in the teeth of the wind. The cabbie swerved again and barely missed the can. Pete could imagine cops all over the city shaking their heads and throwing their squad cars in gear to give chase.

"Jeez!"

"You alive?" Ira asked.

"Barely. You were saying?"

"I was saying it's amazing how many scientists knew of the Medusa Wave theory, but they all apparently assumed it was impossible. Well, they sure believe it now, and they're scrambling around trying to protect themselves from what they think is coming."

"They're shutting things down, you mean?"

"Did you hear the President's announcement?"

"No. When?"

"Five minutes ago or so, from Air Force One. He practically guaranteed the military would get the bomb defused with no problem, but it's what he didn't say that's significant."

"Which is?"

"He didn't say the Medusa theory is wrong, he didn't say people shouldn't shut down computer systems and industrial systems and factories, and he didn't deny what you're looking into, the grounding of all air traffic around the country. By the way, Pete, had you heard about the grounding, or are you just assuming it?"

"I'm a pilot, Ira, remember? It makes sense, but I'm not sure the FAA is going to let me in. The system command center has to be virtually hysterical by now if this is true."

"Pete, trains are being halted as well. I talked to a buddy with Metro North here in New York. All service is being shut down. Grand Central's turning ugly, and Amtrak isn't answering. We're getting reports of ships being told to shut down and drop anchor as well, but that could be the hurricane, too."

"I doubt it."

"So do I. The New York Stock Exchange and the American Stock Exchange were already closed, but we're hearing that clearings are being delayed, and even the monitors are being turned off."

"We're pulling up to the building, Ira. I'd better go."

"You know, Pete, we depend on satellite transmission, too, these days, for our nationwide editions. This thing happens in two hours, we're not going to have a paper tomorrow morning. We're not going to have our laptops, either."

"I still own notebooks, Ira. I suggest you sharpen some pencils."

"Pencils? What're pencils?"

The battle to penetrate the paranoid layers of the Federal Aviation Administration took less time than expected. Balanced reporting and years of cultivating friends within the agency—plus a list of private numbers into the heart of the FAA and the public affairs office—did the trick. If it was Pete Cooke, it was okay. Within fifteen minutes he was shown into the central control room, where one of the more harried coordinators met him at the door.

"You're putting only the computer-equipped airplanes on the ground?" Pete asked.

"We're putting the whole system on the ground. The order just came through from the Transportation Department. There're too many computers out there to differentiate. Even business jets, private airplanes, helicopters, and older passenger jets have computers scattered all over the cockpit. Of course, the hurricane had already forced some groundings for closed airports."

"This is nationwide?"

He nodded. "Canada's participating, too. Don't know about Mexico yet. We've got transatlantics and transpacifies to worry about as well. We're bringing them down all over the place. Gander, Newfoundland, Anchorage, even Iceland."

"How soon will it be complete?"

The man put his hands on his hips and surveyed the room. His collar was open, his tie askew.

"Maybe another hour. We'll meet the deadline, but getting the system reestablished later is going to be an even greater battle."

"How about…"

"You're welcome to watch, Mr. Cooke. I know you're a pilot. But I've got to dive back into this. Ah, off the record?'"

"You know it."

"Off the record, I sure as hell hope the President knows what he's doing. There're going to be about a billion furious passengers and crew members out there for the next week at least, as we try to unsnarl this mess. But, of course, I didn't say that."

"And I heard nothing. Thanks. I'll just watch."

The controller moved off immediately and picked up a telephone, leaving Pete to meld into a corner, where he pulled out his cellular phone once again and dialed the Journal's 800 number in New York.

The wing commander of Seymour-Johnson Air Force Base had been trying his best to adopt a stoic expression ever since the FBI agents and nuclear experts had begun descending on his base twenty minutes before. In his mind, he was in control of the operation, but to his female aide, Major Dillingham, Brigadier General Wally Walch had a deer-in-the-headlights look about him as he watched the frantic preparations for ScotAir 50, his thinning hair whipping in the twenty-knot advance winds of Hurricane Sigrid.

Walch could see his Air Force staff car at the far end of the main ramp. The Air Force officer placed in charge of the operation, a Colonel Peters, had commandeered it ten minutes ago on arrival from Shaw Air Force Base to the south. Colonel Peters, still wearing a green flight suit, had streaked in at supersonic speeds in the backseat of a two-seat version of the F-15. Another two-seat supersonic fighter was on short final approach, ferrying a nuclear technician in from Wright-Patterson in Ohio.

General Walch gestured toward Colonel Peters. "He needs to brief me on the plan. We don't really have any details beyond the basics."

Major Dillingham nodded, her short blonde hair now standing out almost parallel to the ground in the steady wind. Raindrops splattered occasionally around them, but most of the ramp remained dry, even with the angry clouds racing overhead and gathering in the distance.

"I'll ask him to come over here." Dillingham began striding away toward a small group of FBI agents and Air Force personnel. General Walch watched some animated gestures before she and the colonel walked briskly back to his location.

"General, sorry, there's been little time. I apologize for taking over your base. The FBI agent in charge will be with us in a second. The aircraft is around fifty miles out. He'll be on approach in ten minutes. We don't want to put him into holding if we can avoid it. The other guy"— Colonel Peters turned and glanced in the direction of the F-15 which had raced in from Ohio—"should be here in a second. He's the only nuclear expert we have left who can get here in time."

The wing commander nodded. "Colonel, I was told we had a C-141 inbound from Charleston Air Force Base to wait at your disposal."

The colonel nodded. "Yes, sir." He looked around at the FBI team still conferring in the distance. Satisfied no one else was listening, he turned back to the wing commander. "I've been ordered to bring the 141 here and technically keep him standing by, General. That's in case we decide to dump the bomb instead of defusing it. Theoretically, we could load the bomb on the 141 and have the crew go drop it at sea. For some strange reason, however, he's just going to remain in holding near Charleston." He winked at the general, who did not respond. "I can tell you, sir, that bomb isn't leaving this base. We'll take care of the weapon here, one way or another."

General Walch looked taken aback. "I thought dumping it at sea was a presidentially mandated option if you couldn't get it defused."

"I was briefed by the Pentagon, sir, right after the Air Force Chief of Staff returned from a teleconference with the President. There was discussion that the President suggested we consider dumping if we decide defusing it in time is not safely possible. But my orders are to preserve the bomb at all costs, which means we'll use every available second to get it defused. By the time our man gets through trying, if for some reason he doesn't succeed, there won't be enough time left to fly it anywhere. In that case, we're ready to just blow it up here."

"How comforting, Colonel," General Walch said sarcastically. "I, too, spoke to the Pentagon, and my understanding was that the C-141 was to be here and standing by. You realize, of course, that the interpretation you just gave me could be considered a violation of the President's orders?"

Colonel Peters scowled at the senior officer. "General, this is U.S. Air Force Top Secret clearance stuff, okay? We're on the same team here. We're both senior Air Force officers, and like you, I take orders from our commanders at the Pentagon. I'm responsible for defusing and preserving this bomb. I'm not responsible for mind-reading the current political hack in the White House to try to figure out what he might think he wants. And, forgive me, sir, but for this mission, my direct commander is General Billings on the Air Staff."

The wing commander looked at Colonel Peters in silence for a few moments. "Anything I can do for you, then, Colonel Peters?"

He shrugged. "Not much at this point, except clear your base and keep an aircraft standing by to get you and your people out of here if we're within twenty minutes of detonation and we haven't turned it off."

"We've got that KC-10 ready over there," General Walch said, gesturing to the military tanker version of the civilian DC-10 sitting in front of the control tower. In the background, three more KC-10's were waiting, the last wave of the mass evacuation taking place on the base.

The colonel began to turn and walk off, then thought better of it and turned back to the general.

"By the way, sir, here's all I know at present. The terrorist is an American female. The FBI feels they can arrest her without incident, and that's the first task. Deadly force against her has been authorized, but we can't separate her from the bomb until we've analyzed and duplicated the radio signals being broadcast by her pacemaker. Once she's under control and we're sure she doesn't have a remote detonator, we'll start work on the bomb. While we're trying to defuse it, another team will be wiring it with high explosives. If we can't get it out of the 727, and for some reason can't deactivate it, then, as a last resort, we'll blow it up, along with the 727."

"What if the woman resists, Colonel?"

"That's why I need your security police, sir. The feds will do everything they can to talk her off, because the last thing we want is her holding the plane hostage with the bomb aboard. We also don't know for sure if any of the crew is working with her, so we're going to have to gain their trust until we've got firm control. But the bottom line is, get them all in custody and disarm the damn thing."

"And if it goes off prematurely with a nuclear detonation?"

Colonel Peters looked at General Walch, then at Major Dillingham, then back again.

"Well," he began, "to tell the truth, if it goes off without warning, we'll never know it in this life, unless you'd already put at least thirty miles or so between yourself and this location."

The major inhaled sharply, but quickly recovered her composure. The general's eyes widened slightly, but otherwise his features remained impassive. He said to the colonel, "I know you need to get back to the FBI group," as he gestured to the contingent of three dark-suited men standing several yards distant.

"I do, sir, yes. Wish us luck and say a few prayers." The colonel looked at his feet and took a deep breath, as if deciding whether to say anything more. Suddenly he looked up, catching Major Dillingham's eyes. "I'm told this thing will shut down the entire country, in addition to vaporizing Goldsboro, if we let it go off. I can assure you I won't let that happen."

His eyes shifted to the general, who smiled a strained smile and gestured toward his shoulders. "Probably a star in it for you, eh, Colonel?"

"Sir?"

"Amazing what it takes to make general these days. Good luck, Colonel Peters." General Walch gripped the major's arm and turned them both toward base operations across the ramp. Colonel Peters knew he'd just been insulted, but there was nothing he could think to say in response as they turned away.