Twin explosions rocked the plane from behind. They pitched forward.
“Engine two is hit,” Matherson said as he shut the engine down. “Losing speed. Altitude.”
“Hold us,” Wallman said.
Matherson fought to retain their altitude.
Wallman scanned a line of warning lights. “We lost three of four ALEs.”
“Shit,” Matherson whispered.
“Just keep us steady,” Wallman said. “Wait for it.”
Miller realized that this was a pivotal moment in the battle. The Raptor held just one more missile. If it could be avoided without losing another engine, they might limp their way all the way to Warsaw. If not …
“Missile launch!”
“Take us down!” Wallman shouted. “Go, go, go!”
The plane’s nose dipped toward the earth as Matherson pushed the control column forward. The whiny pitch of the engines increased as, thanks to gravity, they gained speed. Behind them, the ALE-50 followed the plane’s arc, descending behind and above the plane.
A jolt shook the plane as the last of the six missiles struck the countermeasure. But there was no secondary impact. The missile had been traveling horizontally, and most of the shrapnel continued harmlessly in that direction.
Miller felt a rush of relief. “Now I know why you guys fly for the pres—”
A roar filled the cabin as the F-22 rocketed past beneath them.
Matherson leveled out the 747 at thirty thousand feet. They watched in silence as the fighter jet became a speck in the distance.
“Eagle One. Eagle One,” said the KC-10 pilot. “You guys okay?”
Miller looked out the window and saw the big KC-10 about a half mile ahead and just above them.
“We’re down two engines,” Wallman replied. “But we’re still—Holy shit!” He grabbed the controls and rolled the plane to the right.
Miller saw a flash of tracer fire zing past, followed by the roaring Raptor. The thing still had a M61A2 Vulcan 20mm rotary cannon hidden within its stealth body. The cannon was drastically harder to aim than a guided missile, but the 747 was a big target, and they couldn’t afford to lose another engine.
“I’m starting to think a missile or two might not be a bad idea,” Wallman said, his lips twisted in a deep frown.
The 747 couldn’t be maneuvered like a fighter jet. Avoiding a constant stream of fire from the Raptor would be impossible. Miller pictured the jet looping around for another run, this time from behind. Unseen. They didn’t stand a chance.
Or did they?
Miller unbuckled and stood between the two pilots, gripping their headrests to stay balanced. “Keep us steady,” he said.
Matherson started to protest, but Miller spoke over him. “Is there a way to contact the KC-10 without the Raptor hearing us?”
“KC-10,” Wallman said. “Initiate communication protocol Whisper Seven.” He changed the channel and waited. “It’s a predetermined emergency channel for all aircraft that come in contact with Air Force One. He’ll have to look up the right frequency.”
“Won’t the Raptor know it, too?”
“Escorts have a separate emergency channel,” Wallman said. “And it’s a single-pilot plane. He wouldn’t be able to look it up even if he had the option.”
The radio crackled. “We’re here,” the KC-10 pilot said.
Miller took the transmitter and spoke to the pilot of the KC-10. “KC-10, are you able to purge the fuel you’re carrying?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Position yourself just in front of and below us. When I tell you to, purge all the fuel.”
“What!” The KC-10 pilot sounded like he’d just been told he had a second head growing out of his ass. “Who is this?”
“Just do it! We don’t have much time.”
Miller could see Wallman nodding slightly as he understood the plan. The man lifted the protective plastic cover from a button labeled FLARES.
Wallman took the transmitter. “This is Colonel Keith Wallman. Do what he said.”
The KC-10 dropped down and flew in front of them for a moment. The 747 shook in the wake of the giant fuel plane. Then the KC-10 was below them.
“Get us closer,” Miller said.
Matherson throttled forward until they were just fifty feet back from and above the other plane. If they flew through a batch of rough turbulence, which could drop a plane one hundred feet in just seconds, a collision might be hard to avoid.
Miller’s gut told him the Raptor would be behind them now. Approaching fast. “Keep us steady … steady…” He took the transmitter. “Start dumping the fuel.”
A billowing cloud of fuel shot from the back of the KC-10. Thousands of gallons of highly combustible fuel.
A loud metallic ticking came from the back of the 747. They were taking fire.
The Raptor was right behind them.
“Now!” Miller shouted at Wallman, and then in the transmitter, “Stop the purge!”
Wallman pressed the flare button, unleashing twin cascades of super-hot flares designed to defend against heat-seeking missiles. Instead, they became a fuse.
The air behind the two planes exploded like napalm, enveloping the F-22 and its pilot.
Matherson veered the 747 away from the KC-10 as the shock wave hit both planes and shook them violently. A second explosion marked the destruction of the Raptor.
The 747 leveled out. The KC-10 flew ahead and to the right. Both planes had survived the explosion. All three men relaxed. Miller gave both pilots pats on their shoulders. “How’s that for a countermeasure?”
“We’ll call it the BAE,” Matherson said. Sweat covered his forehead, but he was all smiles.
Miller figured out the acronym—big ass explosion—and laughed. “Good flying, gentlemen,” he said before leaving the cockpit to check on Adler and Brodeur. He felt the same elation as the two pilots—they’d survived an impossible situation—but he doubted the two men would be smiling if they knew he was the one and only countermeasure standing in the way of the Fourth Reich.
His smile faded as soon as he left the cockpit.
37
The ground crew at Strachowice Airport had been nervous about receiving Air Force One. The small regional airport featured just one terminal and had little in terms of security. They were ill-prepared to handle the sudden arrival of the U.S. president, and voiced their concerns several times over the radio when Wallman requested permission to land. When he explained that they’d been attacked and had two engines out, leaving out the fact that the president wasn’t actually on board, permission came quickly. The runway was short for a 747, but Wallman and Matherson handled it with ease. Even with two engines out, they managed to land the plane more smoothly than the three passengers had experienced on a plane.
The forty-minute drive from the airport to Ludwikowice Kłodzkie felt like a roller-coaster ride in comparison. Miller, Brodeur, and Adler had squeezed into a small red Opel Corsa—a two-door hatchback with a whopping ninety horses under the hood. But the small size was only half the problem. Adler, feeling at home on the curvy European country roads, pushed the vehicle to ninety miles per hour every chance she got.
“Just happy to be alive,” she said.
“Well, let’s try to stay alive for a bit longer,” Miller replied, but she had got them to the small village quickly. The terra-cotta-colored roofs and stark white walls of Ludwikowice Kłodzkie’s homes and buildings, glowing in the late-morning sun, came into view after only thirty-five minutes.
Adler slowed as they entered the town on Route 381. The majority of the village was situated around the road, which cut through the center of a valley. Green slopes and patches of forest completed the image of a picturesque European village that most would see as a perfect getaway, but Miller knew it hid dark secrets of the not-too-distant past. Still, the cool breeze and pleasing scent of fresh-cut hay did a lot to ease his nerves.
They pulled into a small roadside shop. Adler put
the car in park, took a deep breath, and let it out with a smile. “I love this area,” she said.
Miller and Brodeur looked far less thrilled.
“Just get me out of this rodeo car and let me stretch,” Brodeur said.
Miller opened his door and tilted the front seat forward so Brodeur could get out.
Adler rounded the car and headed for the shop. “I’ll see if I can get directions to the henge.”
Brodeur climbed out of the car, removed his suit jacket, and stretched with a grunt, first touching his toes and then leaning side to side. An old woman with wrinkled jowls and cold blue eyes rode past on a bicycle. A basket on the front held several jars of pickles. Brodeur gave a wave and said, “Howdy,” but the woman just kept on riding.
“Well, she’s a grumpy old gal,” Brodeur said.
“You look like a Mormon warming up for a round of door-to-door evangelizing,” Miller said. “She was probably worried about you taking her bike.”
Before Brodeur could come up with a comeback, Adler exited the shop. “We just missed it.”
Miller stood by the tilted seat and swept his hands toward the backseat, motioning for Brodeur to enter. “Your chariot awaits.”
“I’m starting to hate you,” Brodeur said, but quickly entered.
Adler spun the tires as she turned the car around and went back the way they came. After just three hundred feet, she made a hard left turn and sped up a small, roughly paved road. The street, lined with a mix of oak and pine trees, reminded Miller of their brief visit to the New Hampshire lake house. His discussion with Huber already felt like a lifetime ago.
They passed beneath a tall railroad bridge and watched as another mile of unremarkable terrain went by, along with a few nondescript, but large buildings. Then, the road on the right cleared and the ruins of a massive building came into view. The building was long and tall, and clearly not that old, but looked as worn as the Roman Colosseum. The only sign of recent use was phallic graffiti covering several of the walls. The images were impossible to miss, but no one remarked on them. They were close and eager to find the henge, and hopefully Milos Vesely along with it.
Miller racked the slide of each handgun, chambering rounds in both. Adler holstered hers at the hip. Brodeur threw his jacket on, despite the heat, to hide the two MP5s strapped beneath his arms.
Gravel crunched beneath Miller’s feet as he exited the car. The air here felt warmer, and smelled of dust.
“Around the back,” Adler said.
The threesome walked slowly and quietly around the building. Bees buzzed in the overgrowth rising up through the cracks of what was once a large area of concrete. When they reached the back of the building and saw more of the same, Miller said, “This doesn’t look anything like the picture in the book.”
“Through the trees,” Adler said, pointing to a stand of leafy trees that swayed in the breeze. The swishing leaves transported Miller back to Key Largo again, where the dry palms scratched against each other. He looked up at the sky, confirmed it was still blue, and struck out for the trees.
The temperature dropped in the shadow of the woods, and Miller drew his weapon.
“Hear something?” Brodeur asked, his hand inside his jacket, ready to draw an MP5.
Miller shook his head. “Just tired of being caught with my pants down.”
Brodeur pulled out one of the MP5s and gave a nod.
The trees began to thin and Miller saw the unnatural straight lines of human construction in a clearing ahead. He motioned for Adler and Brodeur to wait and moved ahead alone.
The concrete henge stood half in the forest and half in the clearing. Trees had grown up around it in the past years and a few small saplings rose from its center. Eleven interconnected concrete columns formed the modern monolith. Within the ring, the ground dipped down, revealing where a basin had once been before the forest reclaimed the site. The place felt otherworldly, as though torn from the pages of a fantasy novel. Miller entered the clearing of tall grass, scanning back and forth, looking over his gunsight. Other than the henge, he saw nothing important.
No hostiles.
No Vesely.
“Survivor?”
The voice startled him and spun him around. It sounded like Vesely, but he wouldn’t let his guard down until he erased all doubt. He saw no one and realized that he must have walked right past Vesely. Where the hell is he?
“Is that you, Survivor?”
The repeated use of Vesely’s code name for Miller made him realize it was an identity test. Only he and Vesely knew of the names the man had given them both. “It’s me, Cowboy,” he said, and lowered his weapon.
The ground in front of him came to life. Leaf litter fell away from the lanky man’s body. He wore blue jeans, a plaid flannel shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a pair of leather boots, and a cowboy hat. Vesely slapped the dirt and leaves off of his hat and placed it back on his head. He flashed Miller a smile, strode right up to him, and shook his hand.
“I am happy to see you,” Vesely said.
“I’m happy you’re alive,” Miller replied. “Things didn’t sound too good before we were disconnected.”
“Meh,” Vesely said, giving a dismissive wave. “They sent only two men.” He looked down at his belt where two .38 Supers were strapped to his hips. The .38 Super held six rounds, each easily powerful enough to make a one-shot kill, even if the head or chest weren’t struck—people missing limbs tended to bleed out fairly fast. “I had enough for twelve.”
Miller smiled. The man’s thick accent, eccentric dress, and cocky attitude amused him. But he knew Vesely had been attacked, and had somehow survived, so despite his comical appearance, he might actually know how to use the handguns.
“Just so you know, I’m not here alone,” Miller warned.
“This is good. A battle of this size should not be fought by just two men. How many do you have?”
Miller called out, “Come on out,” into the woods. He knew Vesely would be disappointed when he saw the army of two come out of the woods, but hey, now there were four of them. Arwen would be proud. His very own fellowship. Now they just needed a few elves and hobbits and they’d be all set.
Adler came out of the woods first, putting her handgun away.
“Gut, Sie kennenzulernen,” she said. Good to meet you.
Vesely’s head cocked to the side. “You are German?”
“Ja. I’m an Interpol liaison to the U.S.”
He squinted at her. “Have we met?”
Adler fought a smile. “I think I would remember if we had.”
“It’s your eyes,” Vesely said, then shrugged. “I must be mistaken. What is your name?”
Adler held out her hand. “Elizabeth Adler, nice to finally meet—”
Faster than Miller had ever seen, Vesely drew his .38 and leveled it at Adler’s forehead. Not only did the man know how to use his weapons, Miller had no doubt his quick draw could match Billy the Kid.
“You colored your hair,” Vesely said, “but you cannot hide your grandmother’s eyes.”
38
“Do you know who this woman is?” Vesely said to Miller, his voice filled with suspicion.
“Her grandmother worked for the Nazis, yes,” Miller said, and then pointed to the .38. “Mind putting that down?”
Vesely kept the gun raised. “They couldn’t have done it without her. She brought the red sky on all of us.”
“I am not my grandmother,” Adler said, her hands raised.
“And we wouldn’t be here without her,” Miller said. “She kept a journal detailing her calculations and everyone involved. It’s how we found Huber.”
Vesely looked Miller in the eyes. “You have this journal?”
“It is in the car,” Adler said, thankful that she’d managed to hang on to her bag through all of their journeys and chases.
“You trust her?” he asked Miller.
“With my life.”
Before Vesely could lower his we
apon, a gun pressed between his shoulder blades. “Put it down, cowboy.”
The Southern drawl of Brodeur’s voice put a smile on Vesely’s face. “You are from Texas, no?”
“You got it.”
“Where in Texas?”
“Amarillo,” Brodeur said. “Born and raised in the panhandle.”
“Then you are for-real cowboy?” Vesely asked, excitement creeping into his voice.
“I’m for-real FBI, and if you don’t lower your weapon, I’m going to put a for-real hole in your for-real back. You following me?”
Vesely holstered the weapon and turned around to look at Brodeur. He looked him up and down, scrunching his face like he’d just smelled something foul. “FBI, yes. Cowboy, no. From Texas and not even boots.” He shook his head.
“I drive a car, too,” Brodeur said. “Hard to catch bad guys on horseback these days.”
Vesely let out a hearty laugh and all four relaxed. “I will call you Tex.” He looked at Adler, suspicion creeping back into his eyes. “And you … you will be Chameleon because I suspect you have yet to reveal your true colors.”
Adler shook her head with a roll of her eyes. “Genug! We just flew halfway around the world to meet with you.”
“Of course,” Vesely said. “What would you like to know first?”
“We know what was in your book,” Miller said.
“You have my book?” Vesely looked pleased.
“It’s on Google.”
After muttering a string of Czech curses, Vesely said, “Then you know its general construction, who was involved—” He gave Adler a sideways glance. “—and the effects it had on anyone unfortunate enough to stand too close to it.” He looked at the concrete henge. “Were we standing this close during a test, we would be dead in seconds, the fluids and materials that make up our bodies separated. Is like melting.”
Miller remembered the description from Vesely’s book. “The problem is, people aren’t being melted. They’re being suffocated in the open air. So far, nothing we know about the Bell explains how iron clouds from the solar system’s heliopause are being oxidized in our atmosphere.”
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