The American Agent (An American Agent Novel Book 1)

by Eric Dabbs

  Alex breathed a sigh of relief.

  At 3:31 a.m. Greenland time, the Russian cargo plane ascended higher into the night sky. With Agent Wilson at the helm, the hefty airplane set off on what was likely its first noble mission.

  55

  The cargo plane rumbled at twelve thousand feet. Alex sat in the co-pilot's chair monitoring the tracking computer. Wilson, admittedly rusty at flying such a big bird, did his best to steady the plane while keeping an eye on all the gauges and instruments.

  Major Bentley and Lance Corporal Carson were in the aft section inspecting the winch system. It was old, but seemed to be in good working condition.

  Alex had a bead on the stealth bomber. It had departed almost thirty minutes ahead of them, and according to the computer calculations, it had a hundred and twenty-five mile lead on them when the cargo plane went airborne. The tracking system calculated the current rate of speed of the bomber at a nudge less than five hundred miles per hour. Fortunately, it hadn’t been traveling at that speed the entire time or its lead would have been doubled by now. The plane had been gradually accelerating as it went. According to Sir Helmsley's intelligence, the bomber was not designed to exceed the sound barrier, which was over six hundred and forty miles an hour at the plane's current altitude.

  So, Alex sighed out loud, thinking to himself, they didn't have to worry about the bomber leaving them behind in a wash of afterburners. But what they did have to worry about was the top speed of the cargo plane.

  Based on the tracking computer's readout, Wilson had the old bird smoking at five hundred and seventy-five miles an hour. If the British were tracking them, they'd see them blazing through the sky at over nine hundred and twenty-five kilometers an hour. At their current rate, they would overtake the stealth bomber in under two hours. The only question was, how long until the bomb's timer expired? Alex figured it had been set for at least four hours when Scepter One left, since that was about how long it would take for the plane to reach the east coast of the United States, taking a swinging trajectory out over the Atlantic Ocean, not flying over land to avoid any possibility of being detected. At least that’s what Alex assumed was Flight Lieutenant James Hollingsworth’s intentions. Nova Scotia and Maine were in a direct line from Nanortalik, Greenland. He knew that two hours to catch the plane and two hours for the British to fly it back to the airbase in southern Greenland, meant little time to disarm the weapon. And that wasn't calculating how long it would take to insert the locator card.

  An hour into the flight, Wilson had managed to cut the bomber's lead from one hundred and twenty-five miles all the way down to fifty miles. According to the computer, the stealth's current course placed it on a direct path to New York City.

  Alex let that thought knock the cobwebs off the recesses of his mind. Then he sobered up and grew more determined.

  Now that they were gaining ground every minute, he decided it was time to prepare for his mid-air stunt at ten thousand feet, the precise altitude of the bomber. He made his way back to the rear of the plane and joined Major Bentley and Lance Corporal Carson.

  "We're forty-five minutes from the stealth." Alex raised his voice above the sound of the plane's engines.

  The major checked his watch. "It's approaching oh-five hundred Greenland time. The further we go west, the more time we lose. When we catch up to the bomber, it'll still be dark out."

  Alex rolled his eyes, thinking about how hard this would be, much less doing it in the dark.

  "Think of it this way," Major Bentley grinned, "it'll make us less visible to the stealth pilot. If he gets a whiff of our presence, we'll never be able to pull this off."

  That was good. The major was buying in that this was a team effort. Alex couldn't do it alone, not by a long shot.

  "We were inspecting this old winch." Major Bentley gestured. "It's designed to run out the tail end of the plane...for pulling things toward the front. But..."

  "But what?"

  "Well. If we run it out the tail end, we'll have to be positioned ahead of the bomber." Bentley used his hands to demonstrate the planes in the air. "Hollingsworth might spot us that way."

  "So we need to run it through the forward side door." Alex let his gaze drift up toward the cabin where Wilson sat at the controls. "That should increase our chances of not being detected."

  Lance Corporal Carson had been listening the entire time. "The only problem is, sir, the winch wasn't made to go in that direction. It'll work, but the steel cable will rub against the metal guard."

  Alex blew out a gust of wind. "Friction is not our friend." His head bobbed in thought and his jaw twitched. "It's a chance we have to take."

  "It's your hide, but if it makes you feel any better, sir, I'd do it if you couldn't."

  Alex patted the lance corporal on the shoulder, nodded his appreciation at the comment, and then returned to the cabin to get an update on the stealth's position. Wilson had done his best to monitor the tracking computer while he was gone. In the almost fifteen minutes he was in the rear of the plane, they had cut the bomber's lead to thirty-five miles. They were drawing near.

  Wilson began their descent to ten thousand feet. In thirty minutes, they'd be in range to do the unbelievable.

  56

  Alex dialed up another long distance call on the sat phone.

  "Washington here."

  "You sound like a big ball of stress."

  "Alex, thank God, where have you been?"

  "You might want to try some herbal tea. I hear it works wonders."

  "I'm not in the mood for wise cracks. Tell me something good."

  Alex paused. "The stealth's headed toward the east coast."

  "I know that. And that's not good. Admiral Bryson of the Bataan informed me of the stealth bomber's departure from southern Greenland. And we're aware of the plane's current location from your tracking computer. Tell me something I don't know."

  "We're fifteen miles from the bomber. And if you haven't noticed, it's about two and half hours from New York City."

  “That does seem like the target,” Washington said, “unless it makes a turn south for the capitol. We’ve already evacuated the President. So, how do you plan on stopping it?"

  "The locator card."

  "That's still a viable option?"

  "Define viable."

  "Whatever you do, Alex, stop that plane. The American people are counting on you."

  "I'll do everything I can, Chief. Time is short and I can barely hear you over the noise in the fuselage. I have to go."

  "Don't let me down, Alex. That's an order."

  Washington ended the call by informing him of one more fail safe. Once Alex had activated the tracking computer, the bomber's position had been uploaded to Homeland Security’s computer system in the Strategic Command Center. Acting swiftly, Washington had relayed an order sanctioned by the President to scramble jets from an aircraft carrier in New York harbor.

  Their orders: Blast the stealth from the sky before it caught sight of land.

  But the cargo plane was much closer to stopping the bomber than the pair of F-22's that were inbound on a direct interception course. Alex had a healthy fear that firing on the approaching aircraft might detonate the nuclear weapon—something he wanted to avoid at all costs. An electromagnetic pulse was a ramification to be considered. Of course, blowing it over the Atlantic Ocean seemed like a lot better option than a mushroom cloud erupting over the outstretched hand of the Statue of Liberty.

  Alex laid the sat phone in the empty seat next to Wilson, then headed to the back of the plane.

  "Ten minutes to kickoff," Alex said to Major Bentley.

  "Time to get your harness on then," he replied.

  Alex winced at the thought of anything squeezing his ribs. It still hurt to breathe, but after relaxing himself somewhat earlier, he'd managed to find a happy medium between breathing and moving and the spikes of pain.

  Lance Corporal Carson grabbed a harness from the floor of the plane.
Alex wasn't sure why Bentley got four of them. He supposed it was an extra precaution in the event that one of them broke or failed to latch. There was no room for error on this operation.

  Alex checked and double checked the harness for tears or weaknesses, and when he found none, he eased his arms through the holes with gentle care like he was putting on a vest. Carson snugged the straps to Alex's chest and secured the three buckles one at a time. The first latch didn't bother him. The second one made him wince with a flare of pain. But he yelped out loud when the final latch pulled tight.

  "Can you loosen that one a notch?" Alex said. "I don't need a punctured lung right now."

  "Sorry," Carson replied.

  "Are you sure you can do this?" Bentley's gaze combed over Alex, doubt in his eyes.

  "I can do it." Alex grimaced. "I just need to get my breathing under control with this harness wrapped around me."

  "If you say so."

  "I say so."

  "Fine." Bentley settled back on his heels like he bought Alex's story. "Once we lower you over the bomber, your body weight should put enough tension on the cable to keep you steady, or at least that's the idea. You're still going to feel some pretty intense wind speeds out there. Just pretend you're in a tornado."

  "Thanks for the word picture."

  The major didn't crack a smile. He was serious. "You bet. And don't be surprised if you get pushed toward the rear of the plane."

  "This keeps getting better."

  "Oh, and another thing," Bentley added, "you won't be able to wear a parachute, it'll get in the way."

  Alex's eyes widened as he drew in a deep breath, and then exhaled, evening out the threshold of pain in his ribs. "On that note, I'll head up front and check our progress."

  57

  With his heart thumping against his chest, and a realization of the task at hand burning in his mind, Alex left Bentley and Carson behind in the rear of the plane. He ambled his way through the fuselage and joined Wilson in the cabin.

  "I was about to call you," Wilson said, eyeing Alex. "We're less than five miles and closing. When we get within two miles, I'll decelerate until we get right up on it. When that happens, I'll do my best to equalize speed with the bomber. We'll come in above the plane, high and tight."

  Alex nodded somberly. He paused to gaze out the front windows of the aircraft at the looming darkness. It felt like an intangible force smashing his soul into oblivion. If he failed, he could very well die. End of existence for him.

  Blood pum-pumped in his ears. If he failed, millions could die.

  He tore his gaze away. Glanced at Wilson. Caught his breath. "We should be there in less than five minutes. I'll be in the back."

  "Good luck."

  "I'll need more than that. A lot more."

  After the comment, Alex returned to the rear of the plane and rejoined Bentley and Carson. Once the lance corporal fed the winch hook through three loops on the back of the harness, Carson padded up to the side door on the port side behind the main cabin and cockpit. He hesitated, unsure about depressurizing the plane. At ten thousand feet, they'd be okay. This was a standard skydiving drop zone. Under normal conditions, anything above an altitude of fourteen thousand feet required supplemental oxygen.

  Alex nodded reassurance, and Carson turned the handle. As a precaution, he slinked away from the door and yanked it open. The atmosphere outside the plane thundered like a wind tunnel. They failed to tie down their stash of gear like everything else in the fuselage, including several pallets of food stuff strapped to the floor. Apparently, Coraco had plans to hide out for a while at the airbase.

  Time ticked away in rhythm with Alex's thudding heart. He closed his eyes. Inhaled through his nose. With Bentley in the back feeding the cable forward, he knelt to the floor at the opening and peered into the darkness over the northern Atlantic Ocean. In the pitch blackness, he waited for first sight of the bomber.

  Carson hovered over him ready to provide slack or tension on the steel cable.

  Alex strained to make out shapes in the void, unable to locate the dull charcoal color of the plane.

  "We're inside two miles," Wilson hollered from the cockpit area over the rustling noise of the wind. "I'm cutting back speed." He had the tracking computer propped up against the dash on the center console.

  Alex signaled okay with his hand.

  "This might make it easier to spot." Carson passed him a pair of night vision goggles…the same pair he'd used during the airbase raid earlier.

  "What about my knife?"

  "You mean the one in that terrorist's head?"

  "That's the one."

  "Yeah. It's over there in the stash. I didn't give it to you because I wasn't sure it was yours." Carson frowned. "And it was covered in...well, you know."

  "It's a versatile tool, and it's been through a lot, but I need it."

  "Right away, sir."

  Carson hustled off, bent over the pile of excess gear, found the knife. As he walked back toward Alex, he wiped the blade clean in two swipes on a ruffling tarp secured to the port wall. He shrugged his shoulders and handed over the weapon.

  "Thanks, Corporal." Alex eased the blade into the sheath on his utility belt.

  A quick check revealed everything he needed: The knife, night vision apparatus, and last but not least, the locator card. Alex tucked it into a tight shirt pocket on his black fatigues, zipped it up. It wasn't going anywhere. He donned the night vision goggles, turning his eye sight to a dark shade of green.

  "One mile and closing," Wilson yelled. His frenzied voice carried over the wind whipping into the side door.

  Alex focused on the space below and to the front of the cargo plane. The unforgiving swells of the northern Atlantic waited for him somewhere down there if he failed.

  "Half a mile," Wilson said. "We should be coming into visual range." Seconds later, he added, "Quarter mile. Tell me when you—"

  "Wait a minute," Alex replied. "I think I see it." He made out a rough outline of an object in the air as they drew closer.

  "Eighth of a mile. Gaining position."

  "There it is! I have a definite visual." Alex was aware that Wilson had slowed the plane. He sensed the final distance evaporating, the speeds of the two aircrafts evening out. "We're coming up on it," he glanced up toward the cockpit, "a good thirty feet above. Nice and tight."

  In night vision, the dark shape of the wide-winged stealth slid underneath the front end of the cargo plane, decelerating more to compensate for the bomber's speed.

  "A few more feet," Alex advised Wilson. "That's good. Hold her right there."

  "Easier said than done."

  Alex said to the corporal, "Start the winch."

  Carson gave Major Bentley an okay signal. As soon as Bentley hit the release button, Alex felt the tension give. Without hesitation, he leaned into the blasting night air and shoved away from the plane.

  Pain flashed through his ribs. Alex grunted and calmed himself as he began his descent to the bomber below. Mind over matter. More importantly, mind over pain. He had to switch it off in his brain.

  With a pair of gloves, Carson tugged on the line to help control his descent. Gale force gusts blew Alex backwards, behind and beneath the side door. He assumed the free fall position as best he could, legs spread out, one arm out ahead of him, the other pinned against his side, wind pelting him head on in the face, distorting his cheeks.

  Come to think of it, this mid-air stunt was exactly like being in a tornado.

  His body jostled side to side as the top of the bomber inched closer. He winced and groaned, and soon realized the wind had forced him back toward the rear of the cargo plane, as Major Bentley had warned. Even before it happened, Alex expected Wilson to increase their speed to adjust his position above the stealth. The hawk like wings glided beneath him, his body creeping forward with the cockpit glass of the bomber in sight.

  The cable released Alex with a jerk. He cried out as the mishap jarred his broken ribs
. For a few terrifying seconds, he thought he'd crash on top of the stealth bird. But the line snapped him tight again. The pain flushed tears from his eyes, the salty streams trailing across his temples and drying up as quickly as they started.

  He peered up and saw Carson shaking his head as he looked on with an additional pair of night vision goggles.

  The lance corporal gave him another okay hand signal.

  In all his years of service to his country, and all the hair raising circumstances he'd encountered as a Navy SEAL during special operations in the dead of night, zeroing in on the enemy and the enemy zeroing in on him, if there ever was a situation that could be considered okay, this was not one of them.

  58

  Alex hovered five feet above the stealth bomber, the fierce wind jerking his body side to side. Lower, lower, the fuselage of the stealth came up to meet him. The winch slowed his descent...a foot away. He tried to snag his fingers on a narrow ridge behind the plane's cockpit. His first attempt missed. He reached for it again. Missed. Tried once more and this time his fingertips found purchase.

  His next challenge was to find the control panel. He knew it lay somewhere under him, but the only thing he saw in night vision were the dark contours of the stealth and all he felt was a narrow indentation.

  With one hand, Alex withdrew the Ka-Bar knife while holding on to the plane with his other hand. He clutched the handle with a death grip, bringing it to bear on the thin crevice which ran around the outer surface in a square outline.

  If he let go of the knife it'd become a speeding projectile, slashing along his torso at five hundred miles an hour.

  With the tip of the blade, Alex pried at the thin crack and managed to raise the one-foot square compartment lid an inch or two. With grit and determination, he forced the cover open against the wind blasting over the aerodynamic body of the bomber. He realized in no time that he'd need both hands to complete the mission. In truth, he needed to rip the cover off of the control panel, but he didn't have the tools nor the leverage to accomplish such a task.