Schiller nudged Steve Austin. “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, someone out there is showing he knows what to do with that bird.” Schiller stared past Steve at the MiG riding its invisible rail in the sky with them. “Russian fighter, isn’t it?”
“MiG-21,” confirmed Steve. “But it’s got no markings. Looks like we’ve got a private party. Now look at the Phantom on your side, Marty. Israeli markings, but you can bet that’s no Israeli fighter.”
“Who?”
Steve shrugged. “All we know for sure is we’ve drawn more than flies. That’s a Russian fighter on the left and an American fighter on the right, and they’re obviously working together. They could scissors us without even breathing hard. And take another look. Each airplane has missiles and cannon. They—”
He cut off his own words as the Phantom slid in closer, handled beautifully, until its wing well overlapped the 707. Steve and Marty Schiller studied the front man in the cockpit as he signalled with his hand. He held up one finger, then two, then one, and finally both hands, one with all fingers and the thumb and the other with four fingers.
“I hope,” Schiller said, “he flies as well with his feet as he did with his hands.”
“They want to talk,” Steve said. “That’s the frequency signal he just gave us. One two one niner on VHF.” Steve dialed the radio to the specified numbers and pressed his transmit button.
“Phantom, the Boeing here. Over.”
Franks’ voice came clearly into the earplug. “Roger that, Seattle. What’s your fuel status?”
The words . . . no, the manner of speaking hit Steve. Whoever was in the Phantom, he was an American. The inflections of speech, the use of “Seattle” as a call sign . . . Seattle was where they built the 707 liners. An American . . . and a Russian fighter off to their left?
“Seattle, did you read Phantom?”
“Got you five by,” Steve said. “Two hours at least. What’s this all about?”
“Can’t blame you, Seattle. I’ll bet you and Schiller are just full of questions.”
Steve and Schiller stared at each other. Questions were being answered before they were asked.
When the Phantom pilot called in again it was by name. “Austin, you can start your letdown now. Set up a thousand feet per. Hold your needle pegged at mach seven two. Got that?”
“Got it.”
“Run it back, Seattle.”
The other guy wasn’t taking any chances. Steve eased off slightly on the power and fed in nosedown trim. “A grand a minute down at seven two, Phantom.”
“Roger. We’ll let you know any changes ahead of time. And, Seattle, no deviations from present course or those numbers without checking first.”
Steel fist in the velvet glove. “What’s home plate?” Steve said.
“Right where you were headed all the time. The strip due north of Goddua. Where you did your gunnery and bomb proficiency work when you were flying the Lead Sled. You’ll be landing to the east. You’ve got twelve grand. Just like the old days.”
Steve shook his head. “We know each other?”
“A long time ago we had the blue team in common . . . never mind, Austin. It can hold for later.”
“They know where we were going to land,” Steve said. “Which tells us they’ve had an advance look at our scenario or—hopefully—it’s just that our boy out there is an American or someone who’s spent so much time with our people that—no, he’s got to be an American and I’d bet once wore the blue suit—and that he once flew from Goddua like I did. He’s heard about our exploits, put himself right into this seat with me and added it up. I also get the feeling this guy and I somewhere, sometime, crossed paths.”
“Sounds like it, Steve. But what the hell is he doing in a Phantom with Israeli markings, which you say isn’t an Israeli plane, and what is that MiG doing out there?”
“I’d say we may have a couple of big fish who’ve begun to take the bait. In case you’ve forgotten, that’s us. I just hope we don’t get swallowed whole—”
“Austin, we’ll penetrate the cloud deck in a minute or so,” came the voice from the Phantom. “The base is three grand above Goddua so hold your course until you break out. You’ll find the strip dead ahead. Make a standard left pattern and go on in. The MiG will stay topside until we break through. I’ll go back and well to your rear during penetration. Don’t disappoint me, Austin.”
“Wouldn’t think of it,” Steve said.
Mist whipped about the 707 as they slipped into the solid cloud deck. Steve let the autopilot take her down, choosing to sit back and monitor the ship. During the long descent through the grayness they heard nothing from the Phantom fighter, but Steve knew he sat well back of them, the radar specialist in the rear seat of the big F-4 holding them neatly on his scope. There wasn’t anything they could do the Phantom couldn’t do better. Besides, Goddua was their original destination anyway, and they were running low on fuel.
It looked like McKay would have good reason to be pleased with his scenario—however far-fetched it had once seemed. The people in the fighters had to be part of a pretty impressive operation. Just to get your hands on a MiG-21 or a Phantom you would need plenty of professional maintenance and a steady river of supply; you would need power systems and armament and skilled mechanics. And such an organization must have some ambitious operations. You could play all the games you wanted to with a small standard airplane whose parts and maintenance didn’t mean much, but not with the highly intricate systems that went into fighters that cost three to four million dollars a crack.
They broke through the clouds three thousand feet above the ground. Far ahead of them, barely visible against the bleak sky and sand, bright orange smoke drifted before the wind. “I see them,” Steve told Schiller as the latter pointed. The smoke gave him his wind direction and he set up the Boeing for the pattern and letdown. He waited until the last moment to drop the garbage. When the gear, flaps, leading-edge flaps and spoilers all banged and rumbled into the airstream, the 707 was coming around tight, a huge fighter in the pattern, and Steve held her just right in a high-nosed flare, kicked thrust through the engines as he came over the threshold and put her down just as she stalled. The nosewheel slammed onto concrete and Steve was on the brakes, his hand hauling back the throttles to full reverse thrust. Light in weight, facing a brisk wind, the huge jetliner screamed to a stop within three thousand feet of touching down.
Thunder cracked overhead and Steve glanced up, hoping he’d be vindicated by what he expected to see. He was. The Phantom, standing on its wing, pitched out with razor precision.
“That was pretty, Austin,” came the pilot’s voice. “Take her straight ahead. A vehicle will lead you to the parking stand. Shut her down and wait for me there.”
Steve went forward on the power as a truck with flashing lights pulled up before them, following the vehicle off the runway. A swarm of trucks assembled as he brought the jetliner to a stop and began shutting down all systems. Behind him Marty Schiller opened the main passenger door and a blast of hot air rushed into the cockpit. Steve glanced up from his check list and saw the Phantom turning off the runway. Overhead the MiG-21 was in the pattern with the gear down. Busy place, Steve thought.
He waited with Marty at the door, staring at a crowd of onlookers staring back at them. Beyond the still-growing crowd a truck raced toward them from the Phantom, now parked with the canopies open. The truck squealed to a halt, and Steve kept his eyes on the one man who held all his interest. The Phantom pilot left the truck, pushing his way through the crowd, and Steve had enough time to see the man as powerful, confident, probably long accustomed to command—the way he walked, the men making way for him . . .
Several men wheeled a stairway to the 707 and the pilot took the steps two at a time. He stood on the top platform, beefy fists on his hips, already staining his flight suit with perspiration. He nodded to Steve.
“You’re Austin.” A powerful hand shot out and Steve cl
asped it with his own. “Mine’s Sam.” He examined Steve for a moment. “No two ways about it, we’ve met before. Your face was prettier then but what the hell”—he laughed—“so was mine at the time.” He turned to Schiller. “And you’re Marty Schiller. You’re a big one, for sure. I saw the TV films, by the way. You two pretty much took over the communications satellites last night. Quite a party you had on that TV show. Okay, I know you’re full of questions. Hang on to them for now and come with me.”
The rapid-fire, one-sided dialogue left no chance for interruption. There was even less cause for argument. In Franks’ eyes Steve and Schiller had fled their own land, in the process stealing ten million dollars worth of airplane, violating more rules and laws than they could count. They would know they could be shot on sight, beaten with impunity by the mob outside the airplane, or simply thrown into confinement. They would also know they were fair game to be held captive for any ransom offered by Pan American Airways or the American government or both. Perfectly natural, then, in fact inevitable, that they should go along with this man Sam whoever he was—especially since he at least appeared friendly. They had no options.
They climbed aboard the truck that had brought Sam to their airplane. For a moment they paused, watching the MiG-21 easing off the runway, trailing its drag chute. Crewmen ran to the Russian fighter. Steve was impressed. Whatever was going on at the old military strip where he had been based for thirty days at a time for gunnery and bombing training, it had snap to it. These people had the professional touch.
The truck took a long curving road along the base of a wide hill, and Steve was impressed by what he saw beyond the slope. There were at least a hundred planes in sight. Planes of all types and descriptions, everything from small twins to huge four-engine transports. He recognized cargo loaders, pipeline waiting to be loaded, stacked boxes of supplies and hangers sealed off for air-conditioning. Nothing so unusual at first glance. Goddua was a large desert base for supporting pipeline and other operations. But that was at first glance. Steve also took in the unusually extensive electronics facilities. This place had every kind of radio antenna as well as elaborate radar facilities. And they were here with a Phantom and MiG-21. That added to unusual. The truck stopped beneath the wing of an ancient DC-4, a four-engined relic dating back to World War II but still used in boondocks country as an aged but reliable bird for almost any kind of odd-job flying. Their host climbed from the truck and motioned them aboard the old plane.
“Take those two seats there,” he said. “We’ve got an hour’s flight. Soon as we’re off the ground, one of my men will bring you some dates and cold wine. Hold your questions until we’re on the ground again. I’ll have to ask you both to stay in your seats until we land.”
They spoke only briefly during the flight of just under an hour. Steve and Schiller were busy trying to absorb what was happening to them. They were bone-tired—no sleep for over twenty-four hours that had involved the strenuous show in the television studio and the long flight across the Atlantic. Steve ate and drank hungrily, then, as he long ago had trained himself to do when he was tired and free of any immediate responsibility, he fell fast asleep.
He awoke as the DC-4 skimmed the end of a desert airstrip and settled gently to the ground. He and Schiller followed Sam’s gestures, leaving the plane and walking through tortured air to a row of large tents. Steve needed only a moment to recognize that the tents were a sham, a façade for prefab structures inside. In the third tent down the row he found a large two-story structure, the bottom half forming a basement in the sand. The prefab structure trembled from powerful generators nearby. The rooms were air-conditioned and surrounding them were rows of extensive communications equipment. Steve’s expression went blank when he recognized a communications computer. Almost at the same moment their host reappeared from another room.
“You recognize the gear,” he said to Steve. His words were a statement more than a question.
“Direct comsat link here. The computer”—he gestured—“you’re running auto-transmit through the communications satellites.” And to himself he thought that if this weren’t McKay’s jackpot target, it was a prime candidate. He only hoped he and Schiller wouldn’t blow the hand.
“Good,” Sam said. “Anything else?”
“You’re apparently set up here as some kind of oil-drilling facility, or a pipeline company. That would explain the runway and tents, the antenna system too. To the outside world, anyway. And you’re remote enough here so that no one from your other base, Goddua, can stumble inside and rattle your cage.” He looked around him. “I might even wager you’ve got sweep radar in the end tent, which you don’t need for pipeline or oil drilling. I’m not even sure you don’t have your own comsat in orbit.”
“You’re a suspicious fellow, Austin. But you talk your mind. I tend to like that.”
A jet cut low overhead, its sudden roar crashing through the building. “I think I know that sound,” Steve said.
“Give it a shot.”
“Well, the engines are used in a whole range of aircraft but only one of them sounds like—Gulfstream II.”
A meaty hand banged his shoulder. “Hundred percent. Now let’s move it.”
They went outside and watched the big Grumman executive jet taxiing up to them. The crew kept the two engines screeching as they climbed into the airplane. They had only a moment to take in the luxurious interior before Sam motioned them to their seats. They sank into rich upholstery and fastened their belts as the Grumman turned at the end of the strip and went to full power.
They were passing through ten thousand feet before Sam threw off his belt and went forward. Steve exchanged glances with Schiller, who shrugged. Steve agreed with the unspoken message. Don’t rock the boat.
Sam emerged from the front office with a smile on his face. He went past them with a trailing gesture for the two “guests” to move farther back into the cabin. Two flight attendants, both large and stocky men, and a single girl, unfolded a large table. Within moments the table was covered with a heavy cloth and the two men and the girl brought food to them.
Marty Schiller stared at a plate heaped with roast lamb, vegetables, and a silver goblet frosty with chilled wine. “Mister, I don’t know who you are,” he said to Sam, “and when I find out, if I find out, I’d like to thank you for all this. Because if you got nothing else you got style!”
Sam looked at him carefully.
They cruised at about 34,000 feet, Steve judged after an appraisal through the window. The air was satiny and there was hardly a tremble from the sleek Grumman.
During the next several hours as the Grumman flew north—a course Steve determined from the suns position and glimpses of the African coast before darkness set across the earth far below—Steve went through a gentle sparring session with their apparent benefactor. Sam spoke only a few words during his meal. He ate stolidly, downing his food with long pulls at his wine. Finally he was finished, and three cigars appeared from his flight suit. Steve declined, but Marty accepted and soon wreathed himself in smoke. Sam’s cigar pointed its glowing end at Steve.
“The Boeing. Why?”
Steve welcomed the chance, hoped he wouldn’t sound too pat, or too offhand. He had to avoid over-explaining, rather let the other man fill in as many of the blanks as possible for himself—more plausible that way, less opportunity for Steve to louse himself up. “You mean stealing it?”
No answer. Steve shrugged and went on. “We’d gotten in way over our heads. Flying is something I know how to do. It looked like a fast way to split.”
“It was that. Also a little sudden, wasn’t it?”
“I don’t know, it’s strange, but in a way the whole thing seemed natural, like déjà vu, like it had already happened before. I guess I’d been building to this a long time without realizing it. That damn movie soldier and his big mouth just touched it off.”
“What were your plans?”
“Not too many places to go with a
hundred tons of airplane. Goddua seemed best. We thought it might be empty, and we were hoping the old field could still be used. Besides, those people aren’t too fond of the people running our government, so it looked like our best bet. We figured whoever got our plane in their hands could collect from Pan Am to get it back and might just be happy enough with the whole deal to send us on our way.” He looked around the executive cabin. “But we sure didn’t count on anything like this. Time for your explanations yet?”
Apparently not, because in answer Sam turned to Schiller. “What about you?”
“I go with him.”
“So I notice. What else?”
“I teach famous cripples how to walk.”
“You teach pretty good. You’re also a big one,” Sam said. “Hold up your hands, please.” Marty brought his arms up, stretching. “Turn them,” Sam added, then gestured for Schiller to lower his arms. The big man looked at Sam, waiting.
“And before you turned teacher?”
“Professional killer,” Marty said.
“Special forces?”
“Twelve years as topkick. How’d you know?”
“Your wrists. Blue coloration. Comes from karate work, mainly. I’ve got three black belts. How good are you?”
“Very good.”
Sam nodded to the two stocky men in the cabin with them. “Can you take them?”
“I’ll give it a try.”
Sam snapped orders in Arabic. In almost that same instant the guard closest to Schiller launched himself, hands extended. Marty came out of his chair with the fluid movement of a big cat. He did something with his arm and in an instant a knife gleamed in his hand. The guard twisted to avoid the blade as Schiller shouted. In that split second of attention to the knife, Schiller went forward with his head. The top of his skull smashed into the forehead of the guard, knocking him unconscious before he collapsed to the floor of the plane. By then the second man was on his way, stopping only at Sam’s hasty command. In almost the same moment Schiller was back in his seat. The knife was gone.
Cyborg 02 - Operation Nuke Page 8