Assassin ah-2

by Ted Bell

  “Is the new plane carrying bombs? How many?”

  Hawke’s hands were relaxed upon the wheel, his eyes were calm and focused. But his heart was thudding in his chest.

  “Some of the bombs in the mountain were going to America. But, now—”

  “What, Ichi-san? You must tell me. There’s no time! Millions will die.”

  “There was a problem with the fissile material. An accident. Many technicians died. Dr. Soong, who made the bombs, is aboard the plane for America now. He has infected those aboard with—”

  “The bombs, Ichi, does he have bombs on the plane?”

  “I believe that he does. But he is taking no chances now. Because of the problem, he has also infected everyone aboard with a virus. Something he created. Like God.”

  “How many on the plane? Innocent people? What virus?”

  “Four hundred trained terrorists, I think. No innocents. Smallpox.”

  “Jesus, that’s the scourge,” Hawke said, pushing the accelerator to the floorboard. The Hagglund crested the top of the incline. To Hawke’s enormous relief, the three Black Widows were waiting just as he’d left them.

  “I was worried they might have destroyed our planes,” he said to Ichi as he raced across the snow towards them. The sumo looked at him and smiled.

  “You are not supposed to be alive.”

  “I suppose not,” Hawke said, braking the ATV to a stop. He wished Ichi good luck and leapt out, running for his glider, organizing their escape as he ran. It had taken four minutes to reach the snowfield. Quick leapt off the roof of the cab and landed in the soft snow.

  “Tommy, let’s roll. We’ve got less than eight minutes till bombs away. You guys know the drill. Mario and Ferg rig the poles for the snatch. You and Gidwitz keep the ambassador as comfortable as you can until we’re ready to get him into my plane. Gidwitz goes with you. My new friend Ichi-san will ride in Widowmaker. You guys’ll have to remove the middle seat to make room. Ditto my plane for Kelly. Move it!”

  Hawke slid the canopy back and climbed into his pilot’s seat. There was a thin coating of frost on his instrument panel. He was thankful no snowfall had accumulated on his long slender wings. He lit up Hawkeye’s radio and thumbed the mike. His first order of business was getting his men the hell off this mountain. Behind him, the middle seat was being removed. The mission read-out on the panel ticked down to four minutes.

  “Gabriel, Gabriel, this is Hawkeye,” he radioed the surveillance plane circling above him. “Come back.”

  “Roger, Hawkeye, this is Gabriel. Shaving it a little close today, aren’t you, Captain?”

  “We have the hostage, Gabriel. Alive, barely. Have emergency medical and trauma standing by to receive us. I am rigging the snatch poles for our extraction now,” Hawke said, “Poles and snatch wires will be up in under two minutes, so I want three Navy STOLs lined up with their hooks down and ready to grab us, over.”

  “Uh, roger that, Hawkeye, if you look to your right, you’ll see them coming up the valley now.” Three of the four prop-driven planes that had delivered the gliders would now retrieve the survivors. A tailhook on each Navy STOL would snag a wire strung between two telescoping fiberglass poles mounted in the snow ahead of each plane. That wire was connected to an eyebolt at the nose of each glider. This glider snatch had been perfected by Navy pilots in the Pacific in 1944. It usually worked.

  The last set of poles went up and he saw Ferg race for his plane.

  Two minutes. Quick raced by, giving him a thumbs-up. The poles were all rigged and the crews were loading up. The Blue Mountain Boys were almost ready for extraction.

  “Appreciate that, Gabriel, I need an immediate scrambled patch to the White House now. I repeat, this is Code Red FLASH-traffic emergency, over.”

  “Uh, roger, we’ll put you through, Hawkeye,” the E2-C pilot said, all the banter gone now. “Stand by, over.”

  Fifteen seconds later, after Brick Kelly had been carefully lowered and strapped on his back inside the newly created cockpit space, Hawke was talking to the president of the United States. He thumbed a switch to the right of his altimeter and the canopy cover closed silently over his head. Another toggle switch turned on the heat.

  “Good work, Hawkeye,” Jack McAtee said, “I’m monitoring your traffic with the boys upstairs. You need to get those damn planes out of there now.”

  “Working on it, Mr. President. We got Brick. I also have vital information—”

  “You got to bin Wazir?” Hawke could hear the desperate edge of hope in the president’s voice. “What did you get?”

  “Sir, bin Wazir blew a British Airways 747 out of the sky about twenty minutes ago. I saw it happen. Don’t know point of origin, but she was out over the Pacific, inbound to Los Angeles—”

  The president cut him off, and Hawke could hear him barking orders to his staff. One minute. Christ!

  The first Navy STOL roared ten feet over his head, snagged his wire, and the Black Widow glider lifted off, accelerating from zero to one hundred and twenty miles an hour in one second. Hawkeye and her tug flew straight up the crevasse and out into clear air. He looked back and down. FlyBaby and Widowmaker were airborne too, their tow planes climbing out fast.

  Seconds later, his glider was rocked by the shock waves of massive explosions below. The B-52s, mere glints of silver above, had opened their bomb bays. American Tomahawk missiles, having flown all the way from the Nimitz Battle Group, were slamming into the mountain fortress, pulverizing it. The mountain peaks, where he’d been moments earlier, now disappeared in a massive cloud of ice, rock and debris climbing into the sky. It looked like a volcano blowing its top. But his little flock, now down to three, had made it out just in time.

  “Go ahead, Hawkeye,” the president said. “I’ve got you on speaker. We’re all here in the Situation Room. What we know is, there was an explosion aboard a British Air carrier, but the plane is still apparently inbound.”

  “Yes, sir, there may be another inbound aircraft carrying four hundred tangos infected with—”

  “Another plane?”

  “Affirmative, sir. You have an airplane inbound to Los Angeles that is not what it appears to be.”

  “What about the goddamn Pigskins, Alex? Where are they?”

  “I asked bin Wazir if the bombs were already inside the U.S. His reply, holy warriors now carry death to America. A scourge far more lethal than the atom. Quote, ‘Ten million Americans will die today—an angel of death will descend.’ ”

  “Carrying how, Alex? How the hell were the warriors carrying the cargo? Angel of death? What in God’s name—”

  “I know this sounds crazy, sir, but I saw it. When the British flight blew—”

  “You saw the British plane go down?”

  “Affirmative. Live feed on a monitor.”

  “You assume it was a live feed.”

  “Affirmative, sir, an assumption. When it blew, bin Wazir said, quote, ‘Another plane, identical, now takes its place.’ I have that confirmed through one source. That’s all I’ve got, sir.”

  “An identical plane? To the British flight?”

  “That’s what he said, sir, confirmed by my source. Bin Wazir told me that in one hour, America as we know it will cease to exist.”

  “Jesus Christ—hold on, Alex—get Davis at NAS Miramar to scramble every goddamn F-117A Stealth fighter he’s got, now! Alex, repeat, he said one hour?”

  “Yes, sir. That was 1400 hours. Exactly twenty-eight minutes ago.”

  “Thirty-two minutes left.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Hawke could hear a good deal of heated discussion at the other end. When the president returned, his voice was calm but edged with steel.

  “This second inbound 747 you spoke of, Hawkeye. Would you characterize that as hard information, over?”

  There was a long pause before Alex Hawke replied.

  “Negative, sir, I could not go that far. Strike that, would not go that far.”

&n
bsp; “God help us.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Flight 00

  NATURALLY, HE WAS A LITTLE NERVOUS, JOHNNY ADARE reassured himself, wiping the sweat from his palms on his trousers. Hell, you got a suitcase bulging with a couple of million pounds cash in the back of the bus. Your passenger manifest includes four hundred zoned-out zombies, and you’ve got one royally pissed-off pilot back there somewhere, too. You got LSD or Ecstasy or God knows what in your oxygen system, and, plus, you got a lunatic Indian snake charmer sitting in the left-hand seat shooting a goddamn movie.

  And that was all before the really bad part started.

  “British 77 heavy,” a voice suddenly crackled over his headphones. “This is L.A. Center, good afternoon.”

  He looked over at the doctor and tried to pull himself together. He’d been dreading this part. How to pull it off, meaning land this plane at LAX without a hitch and walk away a millionaire. The main thing was to stay cool and act normally.

  The doc nodded “okay,” go ahead. Adare thumbed the mike.

  “L.A. Center, British 77 heavy at three-five-oh, good afternoon,” Adare said, and thank God he now actually remembered what real pilots sounded like.

  “Speedbird 77 heavy…hold on, sir…uh, roger…turn right to a heading of one-four-oh and…uh…stand by.”

  “Speedbird 77, roger!”

  “Excellent, Johnny!” Soong said, all excited. “Perfect! Just like that. Keep it up and we are good!” It was a few minutes before the tower came back.

  “Uh, Speedbird 77 heavy, sorry about that. I have you, radar contact, one-sixteen northwest of Los Angeles. Descend now and maintain flight level one-niner-zero…L.A. Center.”

  “Descend and maintain one-niner-zero, Speedbird 77 heavy.”

  Another long silence. Johnny watched Soong with his camera. Soon, he’d be getting a good shot of the hazy California coastline in the far distance. Malibu down there somewhere. Man, the stories old Johnny could tell about Malibu nights—

  “Uh…Speedbird 77 heavy, give me your fuel remaining and souls on board.”

  “Stand by, L.A….” he said, looking at Soong.

  “Tell him…okay…tell him 367 passengers,” the doctor said, running his finger down the last passenger manifest he’d downloaded from British Air. He had all the documents spread out on his lap. Crew names and everything. He was prepared for this, had to give the little bugger credit.

  “77 heavy, this is Center. I need the number of souls on board and fuel remaining…”

  “Los Angeles, we have 367 souls on board, and 20,000 pounds remaining.”

  “Stand by, 77…”

  “Some kind of a problem, Center?”

  “Speedbird 77, confirm you are squawking two-five-zero-six…”

  “Squawking two-five-zero-six, L.A. Center.”

  “Captain, could I have your name?”

  “Center, certainly…may we ask why…what the hell?”

  Dr. Soong looked over at him, exasperated. “Just tell him! Simon Breckenridge. Jesus Christ, Johnny. Don’t lose it now.”

  “Los Angeles Center, British 77 heavy, this is Captain Simon Breckenridge. Some kind of a problem, L.A. Center?”

  Another long silence.

  “Speedbird 77 heavy, this is L.A. Center…uh, affirmative. Affirmative, some kind of a problem, sir. I will need your personal company I.D. number, over.”

  “Stand by, L.A….”

  He looked at Soong who was feverishly going through the reams of paperwork.

  “Damn! This ain’t working, Doc! They smell something.”

  Soong put a hand on his shoulder, trying to reassure him.

  “Don’t do this, Johnny! We’re so close! I feed you everything you need to land this plane! No question we can’t answer. Walk away. Rich, rich, rich! All we need is you to stay calm. Okay? You see? Deep breath, that’s it. Here’s your ID number! Now. Read it to him but ask him why first. This is most unusual, you’re resenting this question, okay?”

  “L.A., Speedbird 77 heavy…right, this is Captain Simon Breckenridge, company ident alpha–four–four–x-ray–seven, over.”

  “Roger, 77 heavy…that’s company ident alpha–four–four–x-ray–seven, sir.”

  “That’s affirmative, L.A. Can I ask why you…uh—”

  “Uh, okay, thank you, Captain. Sorry. Please come to heading zero-three-zero, contact SoCal Approach on one-two-five point two and have a good afternoon, Speedbird 77 heavy.”

  “One-two-five point two, Speedbird, good day!”

  Johnny sat back in seat and rubbed his face with both hands. Then he looked over at the little doctor and both of them laughed out loud. They’d done it!

  The president shook his head and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. His family was safe deep inside a mountain somewhere in West Virginia. He wished he could say the same for the other couple of hundred million souls he’d sworn to protect. Could the Constitution survive this attack? Could democracy? Jesus. He hadn’t slept much in a week and he was not one of those guys, and there were some in Washington, who could get away with it.

  There was one thing that terrified the president of the United States right now, and it scared him more than anything else. Bad advice.

  “What do you think, Warren?” he asked his vice president, Warren Baker.

  “I think Hawke’s got bad information, sir. Period. You heard that pilot. Why he—”

  “Steve?”

  Steve Thompson, his national security advisor, looked at him for a long beat, then nodded his head. “I agree with Warren, Mr. President, look, you’ve got a foreign carrier properly transponding his assigned squawk, correctly identifying himself absolutely as the assigned company pilot to that squawk, and now we got an outbound American Airlines captain in visual contact saying it’s got the same damn tail number as the British Air plane that left Singapore roughly twelve hours ago.”

  “That British Air pilot. He sound to you like he had a gun to his head?”

  “He absolutely did not, Mr. President,” Thompson said. “Rock solid.”

  “No,” Baker agreed. “No coercion in that voice.”

  “Holy Mother of God,” the president said. “Get the British prime minister on the line. And patch me through to Hawkeye.” A Marine bird colonel waved at him and he picked up the blinking phone.

  “Hawkeye, we got a little problem here,” the president said.

  “Yes, sir,” Alex Hawke replied.

  “Airplane now approaching LAX is a Boeing 747-400ER, tail number matches the one BA confirms as having departed Singapore at 0700 hours this morning. Passenger count is identical. Squawk code identical. Pilot identifies himself as Captain Simon Breckenridge, exactly the man who should be sitting in the left-hand seat according to the BA spokesman in London and has correctly given his company identification number. Any ideas?”

  “Yes, sir. Shoot him down.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  The White House

  “SHOOT DOWN A CIVLIAN AIRLINER WITH A FEW HUNDRED people aboard. Based on your best guess as to what the hell is actually going on here.”

  “It’s not a guess, sir.”

  “I’ve known you a long time, Alex.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re not on speaker. Just you and me. Haven’t got a lot of time here. You told me yourself that what you had, you would not, or could not, characterize as hard information, correct?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “You saw an aircraft explode, but it was on a monitor.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Could have been a tape. Could have been digitally altered in some way.”

  “Could have been, yes, sir.”

  “This information about an alleged second 747 carrying terrorists you received directly from bin Wazir himself.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Confirmed by a secondary source.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Reliable? Wh
o the hell is it?”

  “He’s a sumo wrestler, sir.”

  “Alex, listen. Unless you’ve got something, anything you’re not telling me, and I mean right this second, I’m going to authorize the FAA to let that airplane land in Los Angeles, you got me?”

  “Mr. President, the man flying that plane is not who he says he is. Nor is that airplane what it appears, no doubt unquestionably in many people’s eyes, to be.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “My gut.”

  “Your gut. Well, that’s hardly enough to go on now, is it? Shoot down a planeload of people. Alex, you know I’m sorry as hell about Tex Patterson. Goddamn it. Tex was one of my closest friends. But you did a fine job of getting Brick Kelly out of that goddamn place alive, helluva job, and I want to personally—”

  “His mother, sir.”

  “His mother?”

  “His mother. Or, his wife or his girlfriend. Doesn’t matter, as long as they’re close. We could patch them through right to the pilot. Have them ask him a few intimate—”

  “Goddamn right we could! Good thinking! Jesus Christ! Stay with me—I want you to hear the whole thing—hey, Karen, you still got British Airways on the line? Tell ’em you want personnel, now! Call the FAA and tell them to buy time. Put that plane in a traffic hold—Alex, you still there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, we’ve got BA chief of personnel on, go ahead Alex, this is your baby.”

  “Hello?” Hawke said.

  “This is Patrick O’Dea speaking, sir, how may we be of service?”

  “Mr. O’Dea, Alex Hawke speaking, there’s a problem with one of your pilots. Simon Breckenridge. I’d like to speak immediately to his wife. Or closest relative. And I need you to ring straight through—”

  “It’s the middle of the night here, sir! We—”

  “The president of the United States is also on the line, Mr. O’Dea. This is a crisis situation—”

  “Yeah, this is President McAtee in Washington, Mr. O’Dea. I’d appreciate it if you’d just put us through to Captain Breckenridge’s closest relative.”