“No, you cannot,” Willison replied.
“But I said ‘please.’ My mommy said I have to be more polite, and when I’m more polite, I get more things.”
“She’s right, but you still can’t see my badge," Willison said sternly.
“But I said ‘please.’ ”
“I said no.”
“Pul-leese?” She stopped asking and was whining now.
“No!” Willison barked. His kids were grown, but when they were even younger than this girl, they learned respect. “Now go sit down over there.”
“You can’t make me. You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not the boss of me!”
Willison turned again to the guard. “Where’s her mother?”
“Somewhere in the facility. She goes with her kid when they’re getting ready to leave, but then she usually gets waylaid and sends the kid on ahead. We usually end up picking her up in the break room and escorting her here.”
“My mom won’t like you telling me what to do,” the girl said.
“I don’t care. Now go sit down.”
“Just let me please see your badge? I promise I won’t hurt it or get it dirty.”
“For the fourth time, I said no.”
Suddenly the girl reached over and actually tried to pull the badge case from his inside jacket pocket. Willison practically leapt backward in surprise. The other agents were suppressing amused snickers at the girl’s persistence and Willison’s mounting aggravation. The girl actually managed to get two little fingers on the badge holder and was pulling it out of his breast pocket. Willison heard a faint ripping and realized she was taking most of his breast pocket with her. “Hey! Watch it!” he shouted, louder than he intended.
He may have pushed her a tiny bit, just because he was surprised at her quick move and to keep his pocket from ripping right off. If he did, he didn’t put any force behind it. But whatever he did, suddenly the little girl yelped in pain and flew backward as if she had been body-slammed by a WWF wrestler. She hit the linoleum floor hard. She lay on the floor, staring straight up; at first, Willison thought—no, prayed—that she wasn’t hurt. But he knew kids better than that. Seconds later, the little girl let out an earsplitting scream so loud that he thought for sure she had cracked open her skull or fallen on an ax or something.
The only reason they stopped being concerned for the child’s welfare was that they were more concerned about their own—because now Sasha the Doberman was all teeth, hair, and eyeballs. None of them had ever seen a more vicious-looking animal in their lives. They instinctively backed away and reached for side arms before realizing they no longer carried them.
“Get that animal away from us!” Willison shouted. The girl screamed even louder. Finally one of the guards behind the counter, a younger one with kids, was able to pick her up, and he carried her to a chair and let her cry on his shoulder for a while until the security guard waved the FBI agents through. The dog watched them, snarling, facing them the entire time. By then, the girl was over her crying, and she watched silently, tearlessly. With one word from the little girl, the Doberman stopped snarling and sat down, impassively watching the door close behind them.
“For Christ sake, Larry,” one of the other agents admonished him, going over to the little girl. “What’d you do?”
“I didn’t do anything!” Willison protested. “She came at me, and I—”
“She ‘came at you’? Who’d you think she was—Freddie Krueger? Hannibal Lecter?”
“Her mom probably makes more dough than all of us combined,” another agent said over the now ear-piercing screams.
“I hear the new office in Greenland needs a janitor,” another joked.
“Har har.” Willison looked mad enough to chew the chain-link fence as he walked through an X-ray machine, then submitted to a pat-down search. “What in hell is a little kid like that hanging around this facility, anyway?” he grumbled. “I’m going to look into that next. This place is not a day-care center. And what the hell is it with that dog? I thought we were goners!”
“Let it go, Larry,” one of the other agents said as they emerged through yet another chain-link entrapment area into the street behind the hangar complexes. They saw the assistant security director, Landow, just emerging from a hangar, coming to meet them. “You just forgot how to handle little kids, that’s all.”
“Hey, we’re here on business, not to entertain some rich bitch’s kid.” He looked around. “Masters is still nowhere to be found. I want some butts here today, gentlemen. Nothing goes by us. I don’t put up with this shit from anyone, especially not from some snot-nosed egghead. I want—” Just then, he heard a high-pitched whine—the unmistakable sound of heavy jet engines spooling up. “What the hell?” He shouted at Landow, pointing in the direction of the noise. “I thought I ordered no engine starts! What in hell is that?”
At that moment, over the growing roar of jet engines not far away, they heard, “Freeze! Hands in the air! No one move! ” In the blink of an eye, heavily armed security officers with M-16 rifles leveled at them surrounded the FBI agents.
Willison casually reached for his ID inside his jacket. “Put your guns down, boys. We’re FB—”
“I said hands in the fucking air!” Before they knew it, the officers pounced, using their rifles as pugil sticks to knock the agents to the asphalt. They spread-eagled the stunned FBI agents and began patting them down. To their immense shock, Sasha the Doberman was back, her jaws just inches away, snarling and growling louder and meaner than ever.
“What in hell are you doing?” Willison shouted. “We’re FBI, dammit! We just got clearance inside!” The dog snapped its jaws, and Willison felt the gush of its breath on the back of his hand—he thought his bladder was going to let go.
“Don’t move!” The guards secured their hands with nylon handcuffs, then continued pat-searching them.
John Landow strolled over to them a few moments later. “Landow! You tell them who we are, right nowl” Willison shouted.
“I suggest you stay quiet and cooperate, whoever you are,” Landow said. “You’re in serious trouble.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Got one,” one of the guards said.
“I got one too,” another said, who had been searching the younger agent who had picked Kelsey off the floor.
Both guards brought small devices, resembling small ballpoint pens with wires attached to them, over to Landow. Landow examined them, then stooped down beside Willison so he could see what he had in his hands. “Where did you get these, Special Agent?” he asked.
“Get what?” He looked at the objects Landow had in his hand. “I never saw those things before in my life.”
“We’d better read you your rights,” Landow said. “I advise you right now not to say another word.”
“What are you talking about? What are they?”
“Then you agree to waive your right to remain silent?”
“Don’t fuck with me, Landow! I’ll close down this facility so fast it’ll make your head spin! Now, cut these cuffs off and tell those pilots to shut down those engines, and that’s an order!”
“I don’t think you’re in a position to be issuing orders right now, guys,” Landow said. “You’ve just entered a secure government research facility operating under ThreatCon Delta with Kryton nuclear trigger devices in your possession.”
“What?”
“Our electronics sensors detected them in your clothing. You’re under arrest for attempting to bring a weapon-of-mass-destruction component inside a secure government facility.”
“That's bullshit!” Willison stared bug-eyed at the objects. “I’ve never seen those things before! I have no idea what they are! This is a frame-up! You planted those things on us ... no, that girl! That girl planted them on us!” He continued his loud protests as the security officers were hauling him and his men away at gunpoint.
Landow met up with Jon Masters a few minutes later. “Good
job, John,” he said. “Those old triggers from the museum sure did come in handy.”
“It’s a ridiculous stunt that won’t hold up for a moment," Landow said.
“But it sets off the security procedures, and once they go into action, it’ll take someone in Washington to stop it." Masters said happily. “This is the first time I’m actually thankful we have such tight security. How long are they going to be out of the picture?”
“We can hold them incommunicado for about six hours,” Landow replied, “unless you intend on just locking them away somewhere.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“Even a terrorist with a gun would get a phone call,” Landow pointed out. “I think you should count on locking them away until just after five p.m., so they’ll have to contact a duty officer instead of their own office for help— that’ll slow things down a little more. But once the call goes in, your time runs out fast. The FBI will probably fly a supervisor or a U.S. attorney out from L.A. shortly after they hear about this, but they won’t have clearance to enter, so that’ll delay things another few hours. But they might fly a Hostage Rescue Team out here to guard the place until the men can be released—that’ll take them no more than one or two hours. After that, the game will be up. I’m sure they’ll shut this place down tight and have all of us in federal prison in a heartbeat.”
“Plenty of time,” Jon said. “We’ll all be long gone by then. We’ll have to hope that Patrick’s benefactor can keep the heat off us so there’s a company to come back to after this is all over.” He held out his arms when Kelsey Duffield approached, then picked her up and gave her a kiss on her cheek. Sasha sat down beside Jon, proudly puffing out her chest. “Good job, Kelsey,” he said. “You too, Sasha. Kelsey, I didn’t know you were a pickpocket too.”
“Thanks, Jon. My dad always told me everyone likes a good pickpocket—but just as a joke. It’s easy. I never picked a pocket to put anything in before, though.”
“The support aircraft will be ready to launch in about four hours, fully loaded with every weapon we can carry,” Jon said. “The bombers should be airborne a few hours after that. They’ll be loaded to the gills too with external weapons, so they won’t be stealthy, but we’ll have to risk it. I hope Patrick and Megafortress Two will be up there clearing a path for us.”
“Is this going to work, Doc?” Landow asked. “We’ve broken just about every federal law in the books already—we’re going to make it a million times worse by flying those planes to Libya. Libya is a prohibited country—technology export and import sanctions, terrorist support sanctions, money sanctions, travel and immigration restrictions, the works. If we don’t get our asses shot down by the Libyans, we could all be in prison for the rest of our lives.”
“Nah. Everything’ll be okay,” Jon Masters said confidently, giving Kelsey a reassuring hug. “You haven’t been with the company too long, John. We do this sort of thing all the time.”
“And you’ve never been caught?”
Jon shrugged, then gave Landow a sheepish grin. “Well... we’ve always gotten away with it before,” Jon admitted. “That’s just as good.” He turned to Kelsey. “Unfortunately, the only plane we won’t have with us is the second Dragon airborne laser aircraft. We can’t fly it in its current state unless we remove all the plasma-pumping equipment you’ve put on it and reassemble the diode pumping system on the laser. You gave it a good try, Kels.”
“Jon, I promise, it will work,” Kelsey said. “Don’t keep on thinking in two-dimensional ways. The plasma generator doesn’t need to be a multimegawatt monster—all we need is a large pulse for a hundredth of a second to excite the neodymium lasing amplifier chips. Let’s reassemble the plasma generators we have, install them, and try it.”
“We’re going to lose our lab in less than eight hours, Kels—”
“Then we better hurry, shouldn’t we?” Kelsey asked. “We have a plasma generator we know will work on Dragon Two right now. Let’s load it up, put the screws back in, and leave before that angry Mr. Willison comes back.” She smiled and touched Jon’s hand. “Jon, we’ll have time to write up the documentation and the engineering later—right now, we have to get Dragon flying, before they come and take her away. You’re worried that you won’t know how it works if it does, and so you won’t be able to start preparing marketing plans and prospectuses for the project. Don’t worry about all that stuff, Jon—let’s see if it flies first, then worry about selling it later.”
Jon Masters looked at Kelsey with a grin. Her enthusiasm was indeed infectious. “Kelsey, you know there’s no way this should work,” Jon said. “It’s too dangerous. We still haven’t gotten the right yield out of the singlegenerator system to be an effective weapon with the proper safety tolerances. We won’t know if it’s ready to let go until just before it blows up. And all these unknowns will be going on with two human beings riding on top of it.”
Kelsey took Jon’s face in her hands, pulled his head down, and kissed his forehead. “You’re silly, you know that?” she said. “I know we don’t know all these things, Jon—doesn’t that want to make you go and try it out?” When he hesitated in replying, Kelsey added, “Jon, wasn’t there once a time when you would have given anything— even your own life—for one chance to try?”
In fact, there was such a time: Jon Masters put himself in the fuselage of an airliner loaded with several hundred pounds of TNT to prove his electronic armor called BERP, or Ballistic Electro-Reactive Process, would protect the aircraft in case of a terrorist bomb going off in the cargo hold. The demonstration had horrified the airline and government representatives to the point that they refused to fund the program, but that didn’t matter—it worked, and Jon risked his own life to prove it. That BERP material eventually became the Tin Man battle armor system, which would one day revolutionize American infantry fighting.
Kelsey paused, still holding Jon’s hand, like a brother and sister taking a stroll. They found themselves standing in front of Dragon One’s open hangar door. There was a flurry of action around it, with dozens of technicians and crew members rushing to get it ready to fly. Right next door was Dragon Two—virtually ignored except for the four security guards stationed around it.
“Doesn’t it look lonely?” Kelsey asked her new big brother. “It needs some love and attention. We can do it, Jon. We put Dragon’s new plasma generators in, give it some gas, and take it on a trip to help the general find his wife.” She saw Jon’s smile vanish and his shoulders slump. “I know Wendy is still okay, Jon. I know she is. But we need to help Patrick so he can go back and find her.”
Jon smiled at his little partner, then nodded. When he looked at Dragon Two, he had to agree—it was a goodlooking bird, and right now it did look pretty lonely.
He pulled out his secure cell phone: “Doug? How’s it going ... ? Excellent. Listen, pull Ken and Duncan’s crews off Dragon One and have them start installing the plasma generators on Dragon Two ... yep, right now. As soon as Joel’s crew signs off their preflight on One, have them jump over to help, and get the rest of the crews on Two as soon as One launches. We’re going to bring Dragon Two with us ... yes, and I want it operational... yes, operational, not just flyable.. .. We’ve done all the lab testing we’re going to do. Dr. Duffield and I are standing out front right now to help. We have about six hours to do it... yes, I said six, and I’ll be surprised if we don’t get a visit from the feds before then. Let’s hustle!”
SKY MASTERS INC. WORLD HEADQUARTERS,
ARKANSAS INTERNATIONAL JETPORT,
RLYTHEVILLE, ARKANSAS
LATER THAT EVENING
The twin-engine Aerostar aircraft taxied quickly off the two-mile-long runway right up to the doors of Sky Masters Inc.’s main hangar. The pilot wheeled the light twin around so it was pointing back down the taxiway toward the runway, then shut down engines.
In less than two minutes, two dark sedans pulled over to the plane, blocking it fore and aft. By the time the pilot
opened the split clamshell doors and stepped out, the plane was surrounded by agents in black fatigues emblazoned with “FBI” and “FEDERAL AGENT” front and back, all carrying M-16 assault rifles at the ready.
“General McLanahan?” one of the agents in a simple dark suit and tie announced.
“That’s me,” Patrick replied.
“Special Agent Norwalk, FBI, Memphis office. I’d like you to come with me. Anyone in the plane with you?” Instead of waiting for a response, another agent pushed past Patrick and shined a flashlight inside, then shook his head, indicating it was empty. Another agent checked the baggage compartment in the back—it, too, was empty. He even checked the wheel wells, but they were too small to hide anything bigger than a small dog.
“Something wrong?” Patrick asked.
“We’ll explain everything inside,” the FBI agent replied. “Your plane will be secured inside the hangar.”
“You guys ever move a plane like this before? The nose gear is sensitive.”
“We’ll be careful,” Norwalk responded, definitely sounding like he wasn’t planning on being careful at all. He spoke into a radio, and before long one of Sky Masters Inc.’s technicians came out riding an aircraft tug, accompanied by another agent. The tech scooped up the Aerostar’s nose wheel with the lifter. Meanwhile, the main hangar door opened. The plane was pushed back into the hangar beside one of the company’s DC-10 mission support/ launch/tanker aircraft.
Patrick was taken to his office in the headquarters facility. Special Agent Norwalk and another officer stayed inside with him. “Now, mind telling me what’s going on?” Patrick asked once they were seated inside.
“First, General, I advise you that you are hereby under arrest,” Norwalk began. “You have the right to remain silent; should you choose to give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and to have the attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at no charge. Do you understand these rights as I’ve explained them?”
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