by E. R. Mason
Chapter 3
"What the hell are you talking about?" exclaimed Travers. He reached back, grabbed the open lid, and tilted the case back. A brownish, clay-like material filled one-third of the silk-lined interior. The space left over was packed with digital electronics. Wires led to detonators embedded in the explosive. The entire inside of the bomb-laden case was covered with a thick, protective layer of clear Plexiglas.
Hartman's cry interrupted Merrill. She looked to Travers with an expression of disbelief, hoping he would reassure her that she had misheard. Travers could only confirm her fears.
"Rese, we've got a damn bomb on board."
Merrill risked taking her attention from the controls as the downpour continued to hammer the windshield. She twisted around to look over her shoulder at Hartman. He turned the case for her to see. Having stolen too many precious seconds away from her flight instruments, she returned to the airplane and made little corrections with the controls to get back on track.
"Can we disarm it?" she asked when her composure had returned.
"I wouldn't try it. The Plexiglas cover is there for only one reason. Remove it and bang!" replied Hartman. "Let's throw it out. Crack your door open Pete."
"Forget it, Don," insisted Merrill. "That's Washington down there. We're not dropping a bomb on innocent civilians."
Merrill keyed her transmit button and looked nervously at the emptiness outside her window. "Nemo approach, eight-five Whiskey."
Static and squeal precluded the controller's reply. An impatient voice acknowledged. "Eight-five Whiskey, go ahead."
"Sir, ah, we'd like to declare an emergency. Request an immediate clearance to the Lanier three-six ILS."
An uncommon pause came over the radio. Even the most impatient pilots in the family of aircraft sharing the frequency became silent and listened.
"Eight-five Whiskey, Nemo approach, please repeat last."
"Nemo approach, sir, we wish to declare an emergency at this time. Request immediate clearance to the Lanier ILS for runway three-six."
"Eight-five Whiskey, what is the nature of your emergency?"
"Sir, ah, we have, ah, a bomb on board!"
Another long second of silence ensued on the suddenly clear radio channel. When the controller's voice returned, there was no longer impatience in it. Genuine concern was clearly apparent. "Eight-five Whiskey, Nemo approach, descend maintain four thousand. Expect clearance in just a minute, ma'am." The controller's transmit key remained depressed. He did not require a reply from Merrill. He would watch her descent on his radar screen as he used the precious time to divert other traffic. The small, single-engine aircraft now took precedence over the commercial heavies that were carrying hundreds of people through the unfriendly night. Merrill pushed the airplane sharply down toward the four-thousand-foot level.
"What can we do? Is there no way at all to deactivate it?" she asked.
Travers continued to lean over the back of his seat, staring into the case with Hartman. "I'm not sure it's been activated," he said. "There's a digital display in it that's dark. The damn thing may not be armed."
"I say we chuck the sucker out the door, right now!" insisted Hartman, wishing dearly that he was anywhere else. He pushed the case off his lap and onto the empty seat beside him.
"I told you Don, forget it. That thing could fall on a busy street or something, just forget it," shouted Merrill.
"Well if the damn thing goes off, we'll be dropping some crap on the city, won't we, this airplane for one thing."
"Let me have a closer look at it," urged Travers. He took the tiny light from Hartman, unstrapped his seat belt, and squirmed back over the seat to get his face as close as possible. With cautious hope, he began to study the design.
"Eight-five Whiskey, Nemo approach. Descend to two thousand, heading zero-four-five degrees, cleared to the localizer for immediate approach to runway three-six. Say souls on board."
"Nemo approach, eight-five Whiskey, understand to two thousand, heading zero-four-five degrees, cleared for the ILS to three-six. There are three souls on board, sir."
"Eight-five Whiskey, be advised authorities have been notified. Support services will be waiting your arrival. This channel has been cleared."
"Approach, eight-five Whiskey."
For the first time, the radio squelched off. Travers's voice broke in over the drone of the aircraft engines. "The Plexiglas comes off easy. It's just four screws. If we could remove it we could pull out the detonators, they've only got two wires. They can't be booby-trapped."
Hartman regained some of his professionalism. "It's no good, Pete. See this back corner? Those micro switches? Remove the left rear screw and it's all over." Hartman's control again began to slip. "Damn it, let's throw the thing out."
The rain began to turn to hail, big marbles smacking against the airplane nearly hard enough to mark its lightweight skin. Merrill could pay little attention to the argument going on around her. Too little time had been allowed for the descent to two thousand feet. She brought power back as far as possible and held in left rudder pedal while keeping the aircraft straight with the control yoke. The approach to the airport needed to be made at a constant speed. There was far too much to do now to worry about such trivial matters as a bomb in the back seat.
The airplane began to buck and roll slightly as it came nearer the uneven warming near the ground. This would be a challenging instrument approach even without other distractions. Merrill wiped the sweat from beneath her nose and forced herself to concentrate. She urged the airplane down, scanning her instruments one by one, over and over. The popping of the ears had started. The dynamics of flight had become serious enough to distract her passengers.
Travers stared nervously. "Anything I can do, Rese?"
"Not at the moment. When we catch the signal from the localizer, you can help me with the timer and airspeed."
Travers stared out the rain-drenched windshield and tried to see. It was hopeless.
"Eight-five Whiskey, we show you one mile from the localizer intercept, at three thousand, one hundred."
Merrill did not acknowledge the advisory, nor did the controller expect her to. She pushed the nose of the airplane down still further and watched the airspeed indicator creep up near the redline. The excess speed would have to be dealt with later.
"Buckle up, Pete," said Merrill without taking her eyes from the instruments. "Pack it in back there, Don. Make sure everything's stowed."
"Eight-five Whiskey, you're coming up on the localizer, heading zero-one-zero degrees, we show you well above the intercept."
Again Merrill did not bother to acknowledge. She swung the diving aircraft gently to the left just as the critical indicator needle came to life. Merrill worked intently at the controls to coax it to center.
They were now aligned with a destination runway that lay somewhere ahead in the uncompromising darkness. But the airplane was still much too high to pick up the next radio signal, the one that would lead them safely down. Merrill knew if she blew this attempt, she would have to come around and try again.
The altimeter continued to spin down. Twenty-eight hundred--twenty-seven hundred--twenty-six hundred. The airspeed hung on the redline.
"Pete, in the compartment by your door, get my other timer out."
Travers returned a nervous look and quickly searched out the small, black stopwatch. He found the best possible position to see it in the dark cabin.
"When I tell you, start the timer and watch the airspeed indicator for me. Call out my speeds every half minute or so or if it changes. Got it?"
"Ready, just say the word--."
The familiar static-filled voice of the controller interrupted, "Eight-five Whiskey, you are one mile from the outer marker, Lanier Control Tower is standing by on this frequency, you are cleared to land on runway three-six."
Don Hartman had become quiet in the back seat. He was unsure whether to worry about the
harsh weather landing or the briefcase bomb on the seat next to him. He fidgeted with the seat belt adjustment and decided not to choose.
Merrill forced the aircraft down. The airspeed now loomed around one hundred and twenty knots, for the moment, that would have to do.
Suddenly a loud beeping broke out in the cabin, and a small blue light began to flash insistently on the instrument panel.
"What's wrong?" asked Travers.
"Start the timer, Pete. It's the outer marker. We're five miles from the end of the runway. At this speed, we should be there in two and a half minutes."
Merrill pinched the transmit button on her control yoke and spoke quickly. "Lanier Tower, eight-five Whiskey, over the outer marker."
The reply was quick and supportive. "Eight-five Whiskey, the runway is clear, standing by."
"The gear Rese, don't you need it down?" asked Travers.
"No gear yet, Pete, we're too fast, got to slow it down."
Somewhere ahead in the rainy blind, lay an empty five thousand foot runway at an airport with every possible exterior light illuminated. Halfway down the hardened strip, the three men in the Lanier control tower waited tensely by the large, green tinted windows on the south side, watching for any sign of approaching lights in the murky night sky.
And lurking in the darkness near the wooded, eastern boundary line of the airport, other eyes watched with morbid interest for the Piper's arrival. Beyond the control tower, parked in a secluded section of forest in a spot where the airport was clearly visible, two individuals sat in a black limousine, waiting impatiently.
"Mr. Inkman, can I push the button this time?" asked the driver. His high-collared driver's jacket was buttoned tightly around his throat and pinched at it as he strained to look to the back of the vehicle's spacious interior.
"Yeah, okay, you can do it, Mick. Just wait for my signal, got it? We may not need that; this weather's so bad they might not make it." The back seat occupant spoke with idle amusement. He wore a black loose-fitting silk shirt and a fat, gold chain around his neck that fell out over the top button. His grooming was careless. He was unshaven and unclean. A hand-held aircraft scanner sat on the seat next to him, broadcasting the plight of eight-five Whiskey.
Merrill gripped the throttle control tightly. With the other hand, she brought the control yoke back further, slowing the still descending airplane.
"Pete--time?"
"Two minutes, twenty seconds, Rese...."
"You see the gear lever?"
"Yes--."
"Pull it out and down, watch for three green panel lights."
"I've got it. I'm on it...."
Travers pulled at the small ring-shaped landing gear lever until it jumped outward. It came free to cock downward and latch there.
"Three green!"
"That's good." Merrill's reply was cut short by a second sudden beeping caused by the airport's middle marker as the aircraft passed over it, a warning that they were now only one-half mile from runway three-six.
From his cramped position in the airplane's right front seat, Travers strained to see through the blurry windshield. The ground was near, but how near? Then, a burst of yellow lights, a stepping arrow pointing to destination's end.
"Runway lights, dead ahead," he shouted.
Merrill jerked the airplane to the left, bringing it more on line to the approaching threshold. The wet, blacktop strip glistened from the soft green lamps that marked its borders. It rushed toward them as though to capture the hurried bird that had found home at last. Merrill pulled back on the throttle and let the sleek craft settle.
In the darkness off the end of the runway, the first glimmer of hope emerged through the curtain of rain, casting eerie strobed images of the airplane's tiny silhouette. Flashes of lightning in the distance added to the threatened image, as though its fate lay in unfriendly hands. Watching intently from the south window of the control tower, the lead controller yelled excitedly, "I see it!"
In the limousine waiting nearby, the morbid excitement grew.
"Now, Boss?" asked Mick of his employer, who eyed the lights of the approaching aircraft with surprise.
"One more second, let them get over the runway. We must make a statement you know. ...Okay, now!"
In the rear of the Piper cabin Don Hartman became distracted from his stare out the windshield by a sudden illumination from within the briefcase. The liquid crystal display had suddenly become lighted. It read 001. For one frozen moment, Hartman's mind raced to construct an acceptable reason for the unexpected life within the detonator's display. In desperation, he opened his mouth to scream, "No...," but only a fraction of the word had time to sound.
One fragmented pulse later, current surged through the detonators and the C4 explosive ignited. Instantly it fractured everything around it, incinerating anything flammable, bending and melting anything that was not. A huge, blossoming fireball erupted thirty feet above the end of the Lanier runway, as the remaining fuel within the Piper's wing tanks burned bright orange. For a brief few seconds the airport lit up as though it were day. The continuing downpour sparkled orange and red from the fiery explosion. Eerie shadows of death were cast by the aircraft parked along the service ramps and loading gates. Artificial thunder rolled unimpeded across the flat landscape and echoed ominously through the night.
The Piper's forward momentum carried the ball of destruction down the slick runway centerline, distributing burning pieces along the way, starting small fires here and there. The spinning tri-blade propeller continued on without its power plant and traveled down the glistening runway, finally embedding its leading blade deep into the side of a storage shed by the airport fence.
The controllers in the tower barely had time to fall to the floor, as the reinforced glass around their structure fractured into thousands of small pieces and rained down on them, leaving them covered by debris and momentarily deafened.
When it was over, a heavy silence followed, leaving only the sound of the steady, dispassionate rain to counterpoint the carnage of broken buildings and scattered fires.
"Wow, that was really something, Boss!"
"Yes, quite spectacular, I agree. I'm quite amazed actually, I never thought they'd make the runway. She was very good."
The dirty, water-streaked limo pulled slowly from its hiding place within the rain-drenched forest and headed away from the chaos. Inside, Mr. Leo Inkman amused himself with the thought that once again no living Federal agent had ever laid hands on, or even seen a Sensesuit up close. The life and death games that went on inside the phantom solid state mind of the Dragon Master central computer would continue.
Chapter 4