Medusa's Child

EIGHTEEN

Jerry Christian had finished his portion of the before-landing check and swiveled his seat to the forward position when Scott leaned toward him suddenly.

"I hate to have you do this, Jerry, but I've gotta know something. Go back and take another look at that thing. See if you can find any way they could penetrate the shell without drilling or using a welding torch. I didn't see any seams or any panels, other than the one we opened."

"Most of it is inside that crate," Jerry replied.

"I know. Hurry. I need your best guess."

"Why, Scott?"

"No time to explain. Just do it, please!"

Jerry tossed his seat belts aside and disappeared through the cockpit door as the three-engine jetliner settled onto a five-mile final approach, the winds and turbulence rocking it slightly as the speed settled down to a relatively sedate one hundred seventy knots.

I just assumed they would have all the answers, Scott chided himself. I just assumed they'd have the experts. I might've just assumed myself into a corner here, and they're about to screw this up!

"Gear down, landing check, flaps twenty-five," Doc intoned. Scott reached over and lowered the landing gear handle before remembering the previous unsafe indication on the gear doors.

"Doc, we forgot the gear indication…" Scott began.

A sudden lurch and muffled crunching sound echoed through the cockpit. Both pilots looked at the gear indicators. The nose and right main were showing a green light apiece, indicating down and locked.

The left main gear was showing red.

"Oh jeez," Doc said. "I forgot about that. We must have really damaged it back there at Pax River."

"Why don't we retract and re-extend it, Doc?"

"Hold it!" Doc said. "That could make things worse. How about those fighters out there? Could they take a look at it?"

Scott nodded. "Good idea. Where are those F-16's?"

"They've broken off to the right."

Scott dialed the air-to-air frequency in the UHF radio once again and keyed the microphone.

"F-16 flight from ScotAir Fifty. You guys still there?"

The voice of the lead pilot came back immediately.

"Roger, ScotAir. Go ahead."

"We've got an unsafe gear indication on our left main. Could you come under and take a look at it? We'll level off here and do a low approach to the runway, straight ahead at a thousand feet."

The F-16 lead pilot agreed and began maneuvering to the left as Doc leveled the Boeing at a thousand feet and Scott informed Seymour tower what they were going to do.

Scott could see the F-16 move in from the right and disappear behind them. Thirty seconds ticked by before the lead fighter pilot's voice came over the radio.

"Okay, ScotAir, your left main gear appears to be undamaged and appears to be in the same position as the right one. Your left landing gear door, the one attached to the left main gear, looks like a big dog's been chewing on it. The bottom edge is broken and ragged, and it's partially hanging from its mounting."

"We've got two larger doors on the belly. Are those both closed?" Scott asked.

"Yes, sir, they appear to be. The one I'm talking about is actually attached to the gear strut."

Jerry had returned to the cockpit in time to hear the exchange. In one fluid motion he put on his seat belt and leaned forward over the center console.

"Scott, first try recycling the gear."

Scott nodded and told the F-16 lead what they were going to do and what to look for.

"Gear up, Doc."

He pulled the gear handle up, and once again the left main showed an unsafe red.

"Gear down."

Doc positioned the handle, and the lurch and muffled noise once again reached their ears.

"You're back in the same position, Captain," the F-16 pilot told him. "It looks to be down and locked in the same position as the right one."

"But"—Doc was pointing to the warning lights—"it's still showing unsafe."

Scott turned to Jerry. "Worst case?"

"It collapses on landing and we have trouble steering. It's probably safe, Scott. I thought I felt it lock, so maybe the microswitch is screwed up."

"Should we give it a try?"

Jerry nodded. "Yeah, just favor the right side and be prepared for a collapse."

"Roger."

"Scott, about the bomb."

"Just a second. Doc, tell the tower we're going to make right closed traffic and stay visual, then just circle us around to the right and realign with the runway."

Doc nodded as he reached for the radio.

"Okay, Jerry. Tell me what you saw."

"Scott, every inch of that damn thing is welded shut, except the hatch where the TV screen and keyboard are located. The only way in is to cut the metal with a cutting torch, or drill in, and it looks like the shell is case-hardened stainless steel. You could burn your way in, all right, but the heat of a cutting torch will be easily detectable, and I'll bet anything the diabolical inventor has it filled with heat sensors. He would have expected exactly that sort of attempt."

Scott nodded. "There's no way one solitary technician's going to penetrate that thing undetected." Scott looked back, searching Jerry's face. "You agree?"

"Yeah. It's also repeating the same warnings about not trying to explode or burn it. I forget the exact words, but something regarding an electronic nuclear trigger."

Scott watched Doc begin the right turn over the airport. He chewed his lower lip for a few seconds before looking back.

"I think we've got to assume it's telling the truth that any attempt to blow it up will be fatal, to us and a million others. That leaves one thing: Dump it at sea."

"That's what Vivian said," Linda interjected.

"And if they won't do it?" Jerry asked.

"Then, old friend, we're all toast."

Tony DiStefano held his hand over the receiver as he looked at Donna and rolled his eyes. His whisper could be heard across the room, but not over the line.

"God help us, we've drawn Attila the Hun as our agent in charge at Seymour-Johnson."

"Who?" Donna asked, looking from Tony to another male agent and back.

"Harold Hanks, special agent extraordinaire," Agent Bill Watson explained to her. "You've never met him?"

Donna shook her head. "Not that I'm aware of."

"You'd remember. Combine the self-importance of a Douglas MacArthur with the paranoia of J. Edgar Hoover and the linguistic arrogance of William F. Buckley, and then issue it a badge."

"Jesus!" Donna mumbled under her breath.

"Oh yes, Him too."

"The perfect senior bureaucrat, in other words."

Bill nodded. "In the field without a clue."

The others could see Tony's jaw muscles working as he straggled for composure, his voice carrying an artificial niceness. "Harold, is that you?"

There was a pause, and another look of disgust crossed Tony's face like a fast-moving cloud.

"Okay, I understand Agent Hanks is busy, but would you tell him that headquarters would like a word with him if it isn't too much trouble? You see, that's why we issue you guys these cellular telephones."

Tony suddenly shook his head in utter disgust. "This is FBI headquarters! Your fripping boss! You see, this could come as a shock, but I believe the ID card in your badge wallet says FBI, not the Harold Hanks Agency, and since we'd sorta like to talk to Agent Hanks for purposes of, oh, I don't know, maybe coordination, it would probably be a good career move for you to HAND THE DAMN PHONE TO HANKS NOW!"

Tony's face was turning a shocking shade of red.

"Jesus H. Christ!" he snarled to the small group gathering around him as he held his hand over the receiver again, then removed it.

"You're damn right I'm being sarcastic!"

Tony pulled up a swivel chair and plunked himself in it as a voice came on the other end.

"Harold? Tony DiStefano in D.C. So sorry to tear you away. I need to make sure we're singing from the same songbook, okay? First, where is the… okay, on final approach. Harold, you're going to have to play this very, very delicately. We do not believe Mrs. Henry is in the cockpit, and… Harold, I know you've been briefed at my direction already, but now I'm briefing you in person, understand? We do believe that you can talk in the clear to the captain, either on the UHF radio or on his Flitephone. No, I said you CAN. Did you get that Flitephone number? Okay, it should work down there if you need it. Here's the thing I'm most concerned about. I'm afraid that crew may be on Mrs. Henry's side. I don't think they realize what a beef she's had with the government, and I get the feeling they think she's incapable of pulling this off herself. That could lead to real problems if she starts calling the shots directly or indirectly, and it could lead to their interference if they thought we were abusing her by making an arrest. Your… yeah, Harold, I'm aware of that. Our job is to assist the Air Force commander in getting his men to the bomb as fast as possible. Do what you have to do, but don't let procedure get in the way of getting them to the bomb."

Tony closed his eyes, propped an elbow on the desk, and began rubbing his head. "Harold, I'm not implying anything. Look, we've had this discussion before. I don't like you a whole helluva lot and you don't like me. That's a given. But professionally, I'm telling you to do whatever's needed, but don't let standard procedure get in the way of getting the Air Force in possession of that weapon. We'll be standing by. Yeah, good luck."

Tony stood up and poised the receiver high over his head with eyes flaring, as if he were about to slam-dunk it onto the desk. He froze in position then and let his eyes shift to the others as they watched and held their breath. Tony let a deliberately maniacal smile spread slowly over his face, then raised both eyebrows.

"Just kidding." He lowered the phone to its cradle, shaking his head. "I remember thinking the character of Major Frank Burns on M*A*S*H was a ridiculous caricature. No one could be that officious, that stupid. But there he is, in the flesh, about to handle the most delicate assignment in recent FBI history."

"What you're saying is…" Donna began.

"We're probably screwed," Tony finished.

Scott flared the 727 and pulled the power off as the plane settled toward the runway. He walked the right main gear and then the nose gear on and gently lowered the left main wheels to the concrete as he pulled out the speed brakes and thrust reversers. When it was apparent the left main was holding, Scott let his eyes take in both sides of the runway—and the apparent preparations being made for them in the distance.

"We'll roll to the end of the runway, Doc."

"Roger."

Angry clouds were whipping by overhead with occasional bursts of rain, but the effects of Hurricane Sigrid were just beginning, and the visibility was still good enough to see clearly from one end of the base to the other. Scott slowed the three-engine jet to a five-mile-per-hour taxi speed as the red lights marking the end of the runway surface came under the nose.

The tower controller verbally pointed out the dark blue pickup truck with the lighted FOLLOW ME sign waiting on the taxiway adjacent to the end of the taxiway as Scott transitioned his left hand to the nosewheel steering tiller and guided the jet off the end of the runway, where he braked smoothly to a stop.

The men in the FOLLOW ME truck began moving out ahead, then braked to a halt, obviously confused. After a few seconds, one of them emerged from his cab to wave at the 727 to continue.

But Scott had no intention of moving just yet.

"Seymour ground, ScotAir Fifty. We're going to remain here for a minute until I get something worked out. Keep all vehicles and personnel clear. Tell your 'Follow Me.' "

"Roger" was the only reply.

Scott reached for the UHF military frequency radio and keyed his microphone on the same command frequency he'd used while inbound.

"Colonel Peters, you still there?"

There was a moment's hesitation.

"Ah, roger. Peters here."

"Colonel, exactly where are you planning to park us?"

"ScotAir, the 'Follow Me' will take you there. We've prepared a spot in kind of a revetment area to the west side of the field. It's the hot area for this base."

Scott could see the area clearly from the cockpit. The site had been selected for one reason, and that was frightening him.

"Colonel, we're trying to defuse a nuke here, right?"

"That's correct, Captain."

"You guaranteed there'd be no attempt to blow up this weapon, right?"

"I said we'd do everything we can to defuse it, Captain."

"The hell you did! You said I had your assurance that there would be, and I quote, 'no attempt to burn or explode this thing,' but now you want me to taxi to an area prepared specifically for the purpose of containing explosives. If the bomb we've got aboard goes nuclear, it doesn't matter where on the base we're parked, the whole place is vaporized. That means there's only one possible reason for trying to send us to the hot cargo area: You've decided to ignore my warnings and blow it up anyway."

There was a hesitation before the answer came.

"Those are standard preparations for hazardous material, Captain. I'm told you're a military man. You ought to understand such things. It should also have occurred to you by now that we need to defuse the damn thing you're carrying because we need to know what's inside."

"You need to know what's inside? I'll tell you what's inside, Colonel. THERE'S A FRIGGIN' THERMONUCLEAR BOMB INSIDE! We clear on that point?"

"We don't have time for this, okay? Just understand that your country needs to know how that weapon works."

"Colonel, you're not going to be able to defuse this thing or study it. We've barely got enough time for you to go dump it at sea!"

"That's not your choice, ScotAir, that's ours. If, for some reason, we can't defuse it, then dumping is an option."

"Colonel, where is the C-141?" Scott shot back. "I know what a C-141 looks like, and I don't see one on this base."

"He's inbound, Captain. He'll be here in a few minutes."

"You told me he was on the ground already and standing by," Scott reminded him.

"Ah, I'm sorry about that, Captain. There's been so much to get done before you got here, I got ahead of myself. Look, time is short. Please follow the truck and get over here so we can get started."

Linda saw Scott shake his head before he remembered to punch the transmit button.

"I want to talk to the man who's going to try to defuse this thing."

There was silence for a few seconds, then a new voice on the radio. The colonel could be heard protesting inches away.

"Captain? This is Special Agent Harold Hanks of the FBI. Your aircraft and all persons in it are under the jurisdiction of the federal government at this point. I have the appropriate warrants. You will follow the colonel's instructions to the letter, and you will do so immediately."

Scott wet his lips and glanced at Doc, who inhaled sharply.

"Now it begins, Scott," Doc said.

"What?"

"We've lost control, and God help us if they haven't been listening."

Scott pressed the mike button again. "Agent Hanks, I want to know precisely what you want us to do when we reach the parking site."

"I understand the woman is not in the cockpit with you," Hanks shot back. "If that's wrong, if she is up front but can't hear me, flash your landing lights and put your flaps to full down."

"Oh my God, I knew it," Linda said from the jumpseat. "They're all wrapped around the axle thinking Vivian's a terrorist."

Scott raised his right hand for silence.

"No, she's not in the cockpit, and she can't hear us, Agent Hanks."

"Okay. Understood," Hanks said. "Don't alert her. If you can open the forward left door as soon as you get parked, our team will come aboard and take her into custody."

"Hanks, this is the captain. Mrs. Henry is not, I repeat, not the instigator of this. She is a victim. There is absolutely no need to arrest her or treat her as an enemy."

Jerry leaned forward suddenly. "Tell him we've got only one hour and twenty-seven minutes left."

"Okay." Scott nodded, keying the microphone again. "Hanks, I want to speak to the man who's here to disarm this thing. We've got less than an hour and twenty-seven minutes to nuclear detonation."

"Captain, this is Colonel Peters. We can let you talk to him when you're in the parking place. We don't have time right now."

Two staff cars could be seen moving along the taxiway toward the waiting 727's position. A third vehicle, a Humvee, was following at a distance.

Scott punched the button again. "No, Colonel, until the doors are open and the engines are shut down, I'm in command of this aircraft, and you will listen to me. We're wasting time. Put on the nuclear technician. Now!"

The voice on the other end was growing exasperated. "Captain, dammit, I'm ordering you to start taxiing and get that crate over here!"

"The technician first, Colonel."

"Or what, Captain? Are you threatening us?"

Scott held the microphone in his hand for what seemed an eternity as Linda and Doc and Jerry watched him and held their breath. Finally he raised it to his mouth again and punched the transmit button.

"I'm sitting here with a live thermonuclear weapon which can create an electromagnetic wave devastating enough to shut down the nation for months, in addition to killing maybe a million people in the local area and making North Carolina the only state that glows in the dark without benefit of electricity. Even the President, I'm told, is aware of this situation, and you fellows want to sit there and play games with me? You're going to put the technician on right now! I hold all the cards until this airplane is parked, understood? This is my airplane. Even the federal air regulations confirm that. You guys are nothing but unidentified voices on the other end of the radio until I determine otherwise. Now, you want to explain to your superiors that you screwed this up because of some macho-man power play over who's in charge? I'll bet you anything there are ears listening to all this at far more distant locations, and they're going to be second-guessing your every decision. So… stop arguing with me and comply. Now!"

There was a hesitation before the radio came to life again. The speaker was obviously fumbling with the radio. The sound of his hand searching for a grip on the handheld transceiver came through loud and clear.

"Uh, this is Technical Sergeant Bill Clevenger, sir. You wanted to talk to me?"

"What training have you had in defusing nonmilitary terrorist nuclear weapons, Sergeant?" Scott asked.

"Ah," the voice began, then stopped. The radio went quiet. Scott could imagine both the colonel and the FBI agent firing instructions on what to say. Finally the transmitter was keyed again.

"Sir, I'm trained to defuse all types of military nuclear weapons. I have had no specific training in nonmilitary, but I know all the basic equipment, and I'm qualified to defuse any incendiary device."

Scott keyed his mike. "Good answer, guys. But here's the problem. This thing is in a stainless steel case that's welded closed with no seams, and I've got every reason to believe it's completely surrounded inside with heat sensors and other intrusion sensors. In other words, there's no way to get in to defuse the mechanism. You can't explode it or burn it because it will trigger a nuclear blast, and that leaves only one thing: Get it off this bird and on a C-141 and dump it at sea. That's what I was trying to tell you a while ago. Only problem, you lied about the 141, and we don't have time to manufacture one."

"Well, I'll tell you what, Captain." The Colonel's voice sounded helpful and thoughtful and cooperative. "We've got KC-10's evacuating from this base and we'll just hold one on the ground here and use it."

Doc and Scott both snorted simultaneously as Linda looked on in puzzlement.

Scott jabbed the transmit button. "Colonel, we're not fools. You can't dump something out of a KC-10 in flight any more than I can dump it out of this airplane. If you haven't noticed, the cargo door is on the side, not in the back."

"Sorry, you're right. I was just trying to find a solution. At least the 141 is inbound, Captain. I give you my word."

"Your word is awfully suspect at this point, Colonel. By the way, stop those vehicles from coming any closer to me. NOW!"

There was silence for a few seconds, but the two staff cars and the Humvee suddenly stopped a few thousand feet ahead.

Doc Hazzard looked over at Scott, his voice strained and short. "What're you thinking, Scott?"

Scott was breathing hard. Perspiration beaded on his forehead.

"I… don't know, Doc. But I do know what's about to happen. I know damn well they're not going to listen to us. They'll promise me anything, but when they get us out of here, they'll put Vivian in chains, poke around for a while looking for a hatch in the bomb casing, then blow up the airplane and trigger the bomb and the Medusa Wave. At the very least, they'll blow themselves, and us, and Goldsboro off the map."

Jerry leaned forward at the same moment. "Whatever you decide, Scott, I'm with you."

"Me too," Doc said.

Scott licked his lips again and glanced at all of them, then looked around at Linda.

"Okay. This is what we're going to do. Linda?"

"Yes?"

"We're going to drop the rear stairway. I want you and Jerry to get out of here. Doc, you too."

"No fucking way. Excuse the language," Doc shot back.

"Same for me," Jerry said.

Scott was shaking his head side to side, his eyes almost closed. "Listen, dammit! I don't see any other way out of this…"

The voice of the FBI agent interrupted.

"Captain, we're wasting time, and if you fail to comply with appropriate dispatch, we're going to ultimately indict all of you on charges of felony obstruction of justice, harboring a felon, terrorism, air piracy, jaywalking, and everything else we can possibly put in an indictment. I suggest you move immediately or you'll end up a permanent resident of Leavenworth."

Scott inclined his head toward the distant ramp and snorted. "Has a real persuasive way with words, doesn't he?"

"Arrogant bastard!" Doc interjected. "Air piracy? How can we hijack ourselves?"

Jerry bobbed his head in agreement.

"What are you planning, Scott?" Linda asked, her voice low and steady, an island of calm in a storm, the feminine serenity helping him to focus as he turned to her with the sound of the FBI agent in his ears again.

"Captain, you either respond now, or we'll physically interdict your aircraft!"

Scott waved his hand at the windscreen. "I'm not interested in suicide, but somehow we're going to have to do this ourselves. I can't let them set off a nuclear blast because of their stupidity. Maybe we can negotiate with them if we're back in the air."

"ScotAir Fifty, this is Agent Hanks. What, precisely, do you want? If you're issuing demands, kindly state them."

Scott jabbed the transmit button down. "You're damn right I'm issuing demands, Hanks. I want the full assurance of the FBI, the Air Force, the President, and the United States government that no attempt will be made to blow up this device. You understand me? You've got to dump it at sea, or you're going to create a historic disaster! Do you clowns understand what I'm saying? If you try to explode this weapon, it will cause a full nuclear detonation and a Medusa Wave!"

The agent's voice came back almost instantly in what seemed a snarl. "You're attempting to second-guess experts, Captain. I believe we know what such a weapon will and will not do."

"Experts? We're talking one well-meaning sergeant who'll need six months just to analyze the casing around this thing. I'm second-guessing second-guessers!"

"I'm not going to give you any assurances, Captain, other than the fact that our man knows what he's doing, and we'll take care of it. It's not your responsibility anymore."

"That," Scott said with a verbal snarl, "is where you are sorely mistaken."

"Stop being a cowboy, Captain. You're getting in the way, and you're going to be responsible if we can't get it disposed of…"

The voice ceased in midsentence, and Doc and Jerry realized that Scott had turned off the radio.

Linda knew Vivian's position was impossible. She knew the mentality of the men on the other end of the radios, and she knew deep down that Scott was right about any attempt to disarm Rogers Henry's Medusa weapon.

Quite simply, there was only one choice.

She leaned forward, gripping the back of the seat, and put her lips next to Scott's ear. "Forget the rear stairs. Let's get the hell out of here!"

Scott swiveled his head toward Jerry. "Fuel?"

"Enough," Jerry answered, quickly checking his gauges.

Scott half-turned toward Linda. "I can't take you with us! I…"

With a fluid sweep of her right hand, Linda reached out and gathered the throttles and shoved them forward about halfway.

"You can and you will."

Scott jerked his head around to look at her in amazement.

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Linda, I don't know that we're going to get out of this. You had no responsibility for bringing that thing along. You…"

"Stop talking and GO!"

He hesitated for a moment as their eyes met, then nodded. "Okay. We're outta here."

The Humvee had started moving again, passing the two staff cars. It was highly likely they had a machine gun on board and orders to shoot the tires.

Scott's left hand jammed the steering tiller to the left as the engines began winding up. The nose began moving left, back toward the runway, which was clear ahead. His right hand was on the throttles now, waiting for the aircraft to align with the runway.

"Tell them we'll taxi down the runway and exit at mid-field."

"What?" Doc said, startled.

"We're buying time," Scott shot back.

Doc grinned. "Right." He punched the transmit button for the ground control frequency, trying to sound resigned and suppress the excitement and fright that was gripping all of them.

"Okay, Seymour tower, ScotAir Fifty's going to taxi back down the runway here to go to the parking site. Tell the 'Follow Me' we'll pick him up at the midfield turnoff."

"We'd prefer you use the taxiway, ScotAir," the controller replied.

"It's better if we use the runway, tower."

"Okay, approved as requested."

On the taxiway the Humvee suddenly braked to a halt once again. There would be confusion, Scott knew, as messages were passed back and forth and the FBI agent and Air Force colonel tried to convince themselves they had won the battle.

"Set max power. Just estimate the EPR," Scott said.

"Two-point-one-three!" Jerry called out, having already computed the values for setting the power.

The big Boeing began rolling forward. Scott knew the men on the ground would be caught by surprise. By the time they passed fifty knots, the colonel would figure out they were doing something more than just taxiing.

"Eighty knots!" Doc called out.

Simultaneously, the radio came alive.

"ScotAir Fifty, you are not cleared for takeoff! Abort your takeoff! Men and equipment on runway!"

"Yeah, sure," Scott muttered.

"Vee One… Vee R," Doc called as Scott pulled the yoke back and flew the 727 off the runway. There would be a frantic attempt to unsheathe guns, and maybe even some ill-advised small arms fire, but they had the advantage of surprise.

"Positive rate, gear up."

"Gear up," Doc echoed as his big hand pulled the gear handle to the up position.

"I'm going to pop into the clouds off the south end, Doc, then come left to almost due east and drop down a little to stay out of radar. Make sure the transponder is off."

The almost frantic voice of the tower controller was in their ears.

"ScotAir, you've made an illegal takeoff! Return your aircraft to this airfield immediately! Acknowledge!"

"Change the damn frequency, Doc," Scott ordered.

"With pleasure."

"Time on the bomb is one hour, twenty minutes, Scott!" Jerry said. "And we've got twenty-six thousand pounds of fuel left, enough for about two hours of cruise flight with some low altitude."

"Just a quick question, Scott," Doc said.

"What?"

"Where, exactly, are we going?"

Scott looked over at Doc and shook his head.

"Toward the Atlantic. As far away from people as we can get."