“’Lo,” he said.
“Where have you been all day?”
“Busy. We’re working on this end, Susie.”
“I’ll bet you are. You made the papers here.”
“Ah, damn. What’d they say about us.”
“That the airplanes are grounded, pending a review of the airworthiness certificates.”
“Not good publicity, huh?”
“Damn it, Kim! You didn’t call me yesterday, and I’ve tried a dozen times today.”
“We really have been working. Sam Eddy and I have been to the Embassy three times. We’ve been hitting every Thai government office we can think of.”
“At least,” she said, “you can’t … do the other.”
“Don’t worry about it, Susie.”
“But I do.”
“The guys are all fine.”
“I worry about you.”
Women! No. Susan. Kimball had an instantaneous image of her. He could smell the fine aroma of her dark red hair, see those big green eyes locked on his own. He remembered her tears when they left Phoenix.
As a test, he compared the image with that of Cathy Colby, but Cathy’s features were blurred.
“You are a puzzle, Susie,” he said.
“We’ll have a long talk when you come home,” she said. “Why don’t you come home now?”
“It won’t be long.”
McEntire motioned for the phone.
“Sam Eddy wants to talk to you. I’ll call tomorrow or the next day.”
“No, I don’t …”
He passed the phone to McEntire.
“Susie, you still have the key to my apartment, right?”
Pause.
“Do me a big favor, will you? My plants are going to die if they don’t get water. Yeah, thanks, hon.”
McEntire hung up and went back to his hamburger. His mood had changed, and he didn’t seem inclined to talk.
Kimball finished his Coke and got up from his chair.
“It’s about that time, Sam Eddy.”
“I know. I’m a clock-watcher from way back. You sure you want to do it this way, Kim?”
“No, I don’t. But I got out-voted, remember?”
They had put the plan to all of the Kimball Aero Tech employees in mid-morning. Kimball had offered an alternative that primarily affected himself alone, but that had been turned down when Soames and McEntire lobbied the voters.
Sam Eddy pulled himself out of his chair, and the two of them went through the room, stuffing paper and documents in their pockets. They were leaving their duffle bags.
They left the hotel together, certain that the desk clerk saw them, wandering slowly down the street. From time to time, they saw some of the others, out shopping for trinkets and souvenirs, ready for a good time.
The shadows got longer as the sun settled in the west.
To kill time, they stopped in a jewelry store and examined almost everything behind the glass counters.
McEntire asked to see an emerald ring. He held it up to the light, then handed it to Kimball.
“Look like the real thing to you, Kim?”
Kimball peered at it in the light. The deep yellowish-green appeared clear and cold.
“Looks good to me, Sam Eddy, but you’re more of an expert than I am.”
“I’ve bought a few, I guess. For too many women.”
McEntire engaged the proprietor in a long barrage of offers and counteroffers, switching back and forth between Thai baht and American dollars. He finally forked over nine hundred dollars American.
“Stateside,” he said, “it’ll be worth twice that.”
They kept meandering around the streets, trying out the shops, buying a couple T-shirts, always moving toward the airport, and at nine o’clock, they entered the domestic terminal.
Airline traffic seemed normal, and the terminal was crowded with a couple dozen different nationalities, all of them going somewhere important.
Moving easily through the crowd, Kimball found the airport offices, and after showing their passports, they were allowed to pass through the employee-only corridors and go out on the tarmac. All of the KAT people were entering the airport grounds through different gates and doors.
Ahead of them, they saw the shadowy outlines of the Alpha Kats and Kappa Kat backed up by the soaring tails of the Starlifters.
There were no lights in the section, but the yellow tape surrounding the aircraft was clearly visible.
Approaching one of the Thai guards, Kimball said, “We’re going to do some work, all right?” He pointed to the transports. “Over there?”
The guard nodded his acceptance.
Kimball saw Tex Brabham talking to the other guard.
And Kimball punched this one in the stomach.
The air went out of him, and his head whipped down. McEntire clipped him smartly behind the ear with the edge of his hand.
“Ow!” McEntire yelped. “That’s not supposed to hurt me. James Bond doesn’t get hurt.”
Kimball caught the collapsing Thai, spun his body around, and got his hands under his arms.
“Bond has a stand-in,” he said.
“Damn it. I knew there was a trick to it,” McEntire said as he lifted the guard’s feet.
They hauled him across the tarmac to the darkest spot against the chainlink fence, meeting Brabham and Dent with the other guard.
Dent whipped nylon line out of his pocket and went to work tying them up.
Kimball and McEntire trotted to the first C-141, opened the hatch, and climbed into the crew compartment. Walt Hammond was seated on the raised flight deck, looking down on Crider, who was spread-eagled on the lower bunk, his wrists and ankles tied to the four corners. His mouth was stuffed with an oily rag, held in place by someone’s tie wrapped around his head.
His eyes followed Kimball as he peeled off his shirt and slacks, shoving them into a locker. McEntire changed out of his civvies also, and a few minutes later, they were both in their flight suits and pressure suits.
“He been a good boy?” Kimball asked Hammond.
“The best. Any time he looks happy, I tell him about the joys of free-flying from ten thousand feet. Without a chute, of course.”
“Of course,” Kimball said, handing his helmet and mask to Hammond. “Don’t let me forget these, Walt.”
He slipped into the cargo bay and found most of the pilots and mechanics waiting for him.
“Anyone have a problem getting into the airport?”
No one had.
McEntire came through the doorway and joined them.
“Anyone have any questions about the sequence? Do we have it down pat?”
“Down pat,” Soames said.
“We can always draw names again,” Kimball said. “I don’t want to force anybody into this.”
Gander, Halek, and Vrdlicka, who had drawn the positive numbers for the Alpha Kats, shook their heads violently.
Howard Cadwell, bare-backed and trussed in clean white bandages, said, “I think I got fucked over. Jimmy wouldn’t let me draw.”
“Next time, Howie.”
Brabham and Dent pulled open the passage door and joined them in the hot cargo bay.
“How about the Kappa people?”
Soames, Hamilton, Mabry, and Keeper had drawn the seats on the Kappa Kat.
Soames said, “Kim, let’s just get on with it.”
“Roger, A.J.”
He looked around the bay. Cardboard, slats, and chunks of crating were shoved against the far wall. Missiles were loaded on the dollies, ready to roll as soon as the ramp was dropped. More missiles were unpacked, resting on canvas beds, ready to be lifted onto the empty dollies as they came back. He was certain the floor of the other transport was similarly cluttered.
“Carl?” he asked.
“We figure we’ve got the time down to twenty minutes, Kim.”
“Without lights?”
“We know our babies.”
“Setup?”<
br />
“A Sidewinder and an AMRAAM each on the two outboard pylons. Four Hellfires on the inboard pylons. On the centerline, we’re slinging a gun pod.”
“Good. Jay, did you find the Lear?”
Among the personal effects they had lifted from the Hispanic pilot at the Oriental had been the lease papers and keys for a Lear business jet.
“It’s about a quarter-mile north of us, Kim.”
“Good. Give me the keys.”
Halek tossed him the key ring. Kimball caught it, then checked his watch.
“The planes all check out, Tex?”
“They’re clean, Kim. And we went over our entire inventory. I can’t see where the asshole,” he pointed a stubby forefinger toward the crew compartment, “got hold of anything.”
“Okay. 9:35 P.M. all right with you, Tex?”
“Any time’s all right with me, chief.”
“I’ll go at 9:35 P.M.”
“We’ll be waiting.” Brabham gave him two coils of quarter-inch nylon rope.
McEntire punched him lightly on the shoulder as he left the bay. Kimball gave him a wink.
He stayed close to the fence, walking behind parked aircraft. There were several Thai International planes, a Boeing 737 from India Air, a large number of private light twins and business jets.
He found the Lear by its tail number, checked the immediate vicinity, and finding no one interested in him, walked up to the Lear and unlocked the door.
He let the door down and climbed inside. It took him five minutes to rig the ropes, one to the brake release, and one looped around the throttle handles. The line to the throttles was hooked around the console so that tugging it from the rear pulled the handles forward. He trailed both ropes along the floor and tossed their ends out the door.
He leaned down and looked through the windscreen at the runways that passed in front of the plane. He counted the planes taking off and compared them to the second hand on his watch. The interval was almost six minutes.
Then he sat in the pilot’s seat, powered up the instruments, and went through the checklist as best he remembered it. He hadn’t flown a Lear in years.
He waited, checking his watch occasionally.
At 9:33 P.M., he fired the port jet, then the starboard. They both spooled up quickly, but he didn’t worry about temperatures and pressures.
He levered himself out of the seat, backed through the curtain into the cabin, then descended the steps.
Watched the runway and waited.
Waited.
A silvery DC-9 flashed past, its engines at full throttle. He waited until he saw it start to rotate, then backed away from the fuselage and pulled his throttle rope hard.
The twin engines immediately started to scream.
The plane bucked against the rope.
Kimball backed away a little farther, keeping a firm grip on the other rope.
When he was clear of the stabilizer and the engines were crying a moan that hurt his ears, he jerked the rope.
Then he started running.
Twenty-two
A.J. Soames was in the Hawkeye Three position, Alex Hamilton backing him up in the air controller’s seat on his right. Warren Mabry was the aircraft commander, and Tom Keeper was in the right seat.
Soames was proud of the whole damned bunch of them. Pilots and techs working side-by-side in nearly pitch darkness, they had missiled-up in less than eighteen minutes. The start carts were positioned between aircraft, and all of the pilots were in their assigned seats, except for Kimball.
Kimball absolutely would not let anyone else take the risks with the Lear.
Kimball was very protective of his charges. From the information provided by the CIA man, Kimball, McEntire, Billingsly, and Soames knew the names and background of some of the pilots they might face: Loh, Switzer, Chung, Burov. Kimball had decided to not pass that data on to the other pilots. He thought it was much better if they confronted nameless adversaries, and Soames agreed with him.
He could see Tex Brabham’s hat moving between the planes, as he checked on his mechanics and the start carts.
Mabry whistled through his teeth. The Colonel Bogie March.
Soames craned his neck to look north.
The Lear emerged from the line of parked aircraft, appeared to hesitate, then rapidly picked up speed. The unmanned business jet zipped toward a ninety-degree intersection with the main runways.
With some trepidation, Soames quickly scanned the end of the runways. A civilian airliner was just turning onto it from the taxiway.
Hold on, mother.
The Lear bounced over a section of grass, then crossed a taxi way, still gathering speed. It lumbered through the depression of the median between the taxiway and the first runway. He figured it was doing at least fifty by the time it hit the first runway.
Tex Brabham shouted, “Light ’em up! Come on, fuckers! Move!”
The Kappa Kat’s left turbofan started to spin.
The Lear bounced as it hit the next runway.
The jet engine ignited behind him with its pleasant whine, and Mabry started turning the right turbine.
The business jet struck a runway light standard and leaped a trifle as it went off the side of the second runway, attempting to launch itself, but the control surfaces were following their own whims. Soames could see the silver airplane clearly in the runway lights now. It was wavering wildly, shifting from side to side.
The left wing came up, and the nose went down. The jet began rolling in a careening, caterwauling fashion. It flipped and flopped, tearing itself apart, for nearly a quarter-mile before it exploded into flames.
The second turbojet fired, and Mabry released the brakes and began to roll even as he warmed the engines.
The Alpha Kats were firing up all around them. Soames saw Walt Hammond sitting in zero-eight, starting the engine for Kimball.
Mabry turned out behind the Starlifters, now designated Atlas One and Two, and headed for the taxi way. Both C-141s had their portside engines running.
“Leave the goddamned start carts!” Brabham yelled at someone. “Mount up! Come on!”
Soames closed the rear canopy so he could use the rearview mirror. When it sealed itself into place, he saw that two Alpha Kats had pulled in behind them.
Glancing at Alex Hamilton, he saw narrowed, squinting eyes that betrayed jangled nerves. Soames gave him a wide grin, and Hamilton smiled back, gave him a thumb’s up, then snapped his oxygen mask in position.
Soames saw Kimball running back, circling around the first transport.
On the intercom, Mabry said, “Miner, you monitoring the tower?”
“Roger, Dingbat,” Keeper told him.
The emergency trucks had started rolling. Blue pulsing strobes lit up the far end of the field and started down the far right runway. Sirens began to keen.
Keeper told them that, on Tac One, Bangkok Air Control was suspending all takeoffs and landings, citing an emergency on the field.
Switching to Tac Two, Soames said, “Bengals, let me hear from you.”
“Three’s right on your ass.”
“Two in line.”
“Five here.”
“Four.”
As Mabry turned right onto the taxiway, Soames peered across Hamilton to check the lineup. The first C-141 had drawn up behind Bengal Four. The second transport was just easing out of the parking line, Walt Hammond running alongside it, then being dragged inside.
Kimball was in zero-eight, just closing the cockpit.
“One, you clear?”
“Got me, Hawkeye. I’ll be the last one out.”
That hadn’t been part of the plan, but Soames said, “Roger, One. Remember, guys, no lights, no IFF. Hawkeye Four, go to Tac Four and remind Atlas.”
“Gone Four, Papa,” Hamilton said.
The transports didn’t have the ability to scramble communications on the frequencies used by the KAT planes, and Tac Four had been set up as the common, unscrambled frequenc
y for inter-craft dialogue with the Starlifters.
With their fuel and ordnance loads, and especially with the Starlifters, they needed most of the runway, so Mabry was leading them to the far end where the airliner sat in suspense. Her running lights, anti-collision strobe, and landing lights appeared bright.
Keeper, monitoring the air control frequency, reported, “The tower hasn’t seen us yet.”
“They’re busy,” Mabry said.
They were taxiing fast, almost thirty miles an hour, and they weren’t showing any lights. At the tail end, Kimball reported that he had reached the taxiway.
On the intercom, Mabry said, “That 727’s in our way, Papa. We’re going to have to turn short and cross the median. It may be a little rough.”
Soames passed the message to the Alphas, and Hamilton notified the Starlifters.
As Mabry braked and turned off the taxiway, dipping through the slight depression of the median, Keeper said, “They’ve seen us. I’m getting lots of babble. Who are we? Stop. Stop. Emergency on the field.”
“No shit?” Mabry said.
“I only go by what I’m told, Dingbat. You want me to respond?”
“No response,” Soames said.
As the Kappa Kat lurched back onto concrete, Mabry didn’t hesitate for a second. He turned onto the runway ahead of the airliner, almost lined up with the center stripe, and slammed the twin throttles forward.
On the right, halfway down the strip, the blue emergency lights were gathering in the field around the wrecked Lear. Flames from its burning fuel climbed high into the sky and black smoke was beginning to drift over the runways.
Soames heard the fighter pilots making cryptic calls as they lined up in pairs and poured on the power.
The Kappa Kat accelerated smoothly, the main landing gear rumbling beneath them.
The runway lights flickered and went out.
The sudden loss of the guiding lights was almost blinding.
“Goddamn!” Mabry said. “Is it dark in here, or is it just me?”
“Our hosts don’t want us to leave,” Soames said.
“We’ve got one-ninety,” Keeper said.
Mabry rotated, the wheels quit rumbling, and they were airborne.
“Flaps and gear, Miner.”
“Coming up. Greens.”
“Bengals, Hawkeye. I’ll want to know.”
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