Radio, he remembered. It was just about time. He dialed in 243.0 on his radio, the military emergency frequency. The procedures for contact had been established hastily, leaving the weekend warrior wondering if the Cubans would be listening. And if they were, would they understand English?
“Romeo Flight to Springer Seven-Eight.” With only minutes to go, Cooper wanted to make damn sure no one else was near, especially in his blind spot.
“Romeo, go ahead.”
“Request traffic check.”
“Romeo, you’re clear out to two hundred miles. Just your two friends close in on you.”
The AWACS wouldn’t even have a defined radar picture of the MiGs. They were too close. It was their lack of proper Interrogator, Friend or Foe response that gave them away. When search radar emissions from the AWACS painted the three fighters, small transponders in each, if turned on, would add a ‘biography’ to the energy reflected back to the sending unit. If the unit was friendly, a coded response would identify it as such on the display. If not, it would be tagged a hostile. The MiGs were as concerned as the F-106 about being mistaken by their own radar, and, wisely, had their own IFFs turned on.
“Roger, Springer.” Now it was time to contact the Cubans. “United States aircraft, Romeo, to Revolution Flight.” They were obviously prone to ideological theatrics, even in their coding.
“Romeo, Romeo, go ahead.” The reply was in an amazingly accent-free English. Cooper had heard about something like this in recent years. The Cubans were using pilots well-versed in the language of the norte-americanos. Their linguistic skill had come from actually working and going to school in the States, a feat made possible by the much lamented DGI, the Cuban intelligence service. It had been one of their few successes in recent years, until the CIA had turned an overseas DGI agent, who had gladly told all. Operation Hermano Grande, as it was known in ironically Orwellian Spanish, soon came to a halt, though not until two dozen or more Cuban agents had been cycled through training north of the Rio Grande. Mexico, Guatemala, and Honduras, all friendly nations to the United States, were unwittingly used as back doors into the country for the agents, who then were free to roam, with their forged visas, and become proficient in the language.
“Revolution Flight, I am climbing to angels”—he had to correct himself—“to twenty thousand.” The Cubans might know English, but he hoped they were still ignorant of military terms. God...what if one of them’s in the Air Force right now?
“Understood. We will follow and break away at—” the Cuban pilot watched as the Delta Dart nosed up and went to afterburner. Obviously the yanqui wasn’t going to wait. But, their orders were specific: escort and protect. That made the pilots, both alumni of Hermano Grande, want to spit. The Alamo missiles under each wing were meant to be targeted at Americans, not...
Cooper felt the familiar old kick in the butt as the J75 engine’s afterburner lit up, adding a crude form of rocket propulsion to the jet’s normal thrust. The F-106 pulled away from the Russian-built fighters, though there was no question that they could, if desired, fly circles around it That was the blessing of modem aircraft.
There was one thing the old bird could do that its younger bastard cousins couldn’t, and that knowledge scared the hell out of Snoopy. The Cubans couldn’t see his helmet shake slightly as he pondered just what he was supposed to do.
Flight 422
The three men in the cockpit lost sight of the squat-looking tug as it went beneath the nose of the Maiden. A minute later the big jet bucked backward a bit.
“She’s hooked.” Buzz noted the positive lock light go on, and also moved his gaze to the left a few inches. Another light would be going on soon, and with it a subtle buzzer.
Hendrickson sensed that the terrorist had again sat down. Did that mean he was relaxing? The whole crazy plan hinged on that. He had to make sure the killer felt safe.
“That’s it, Buzz. We’re rolling, and next stop is New York.” Nice try, the captain thought, knowing that he was neither a hypnotist nor a psychologist. He decided that he’d better just let things be, and hope for the best.
They were moving forward, Hadad felt. Very slowly. He let his eyes close for a moment, and his head tilt back. It was a moment of relaxation, his whole body feeling the release, with the notable exception of his thumb.
When his eyes again opened Hadad could see motion through the windshield. Faint lights moved from left to right as the aircraft swung slowly to the left.
As the Maiden finished her turn off of the curving crossway she had stopped on, and her rear aligned itself with the long taxiway along the runway, a set of double sliding doors came open in the darkness three hundred yards behind.
The Humvees sped across the narrow grass median between the hangar and the crossway in ten seconds, and powered up to 40 mph on the taxiway in eight seconds. They were blacked out, their drivers relying on the sidelights along the pavement and the glow of the 747’s underside strobe. Their target was on the right rear, aft of the pulsing light and in the cockpit’s blind spot.
Graber rose from his sitting position on the platform at the lead vehicle’s rear. There was an identical one on the following Humvee. Eight feet off the ground and moving at speed the captain knelt upright. McAffee had his left ankle from below. The wind was cold, and Sean figured it would even feel that way without the speed-induced gusts.
The Maiden was coming up quickly, and the drivers adjusted speed, expertly slowing without using the brakes. It was one time a sensitive accelerator and the governor worked well in an Army vehicle, requiring only a lifting of the foot off the pedal to slow the green-and-black vehicles.
Graber was astride his target now: the starboard rear cargo door. He rose up on his feet, holding on to the crude rail they had installed. Still, he was only at eye level with the metallic circle on the rectangular door’s lower side. He removed the four-inch key from around his neck, keeping it on the long lanyard that would catch it if a slip happened.
They all saw the captain’s foot stomp the metal grate platform. It was time for the light. Quimpo held up the Streamlight, aiming at the point that Graber’s outstretched arm was reaching for. The driver slid closer to the slow- moving jet, just...close...enough...
There it was. A one-inch vertical slit, dead center in the circle. It came closer, or the Humvee slid left—Sean couldn’t tell. But it was close enough. The tool-like key was gripped solidly in his right hand, and he moved it toward the slit, aiming and hitting the solid door the first time, and connecting perfectly on the second try.
* * *
“What is it?” Hadad stood at the buzzing sound.
Show time. “Son of a bitch!” Hendrickson reached across the console. He and Buzz were tapping and playing with the same switch. A light was flashing near it.
“What?” Hadad’s tone was calmer. He had almost become accustomed to setbacks, and for a second he wondered if Abu had been right. Maybe they should have waited for... No! The timing would be completely off. The purpose would not be achieved, and his brothers would have died in vain.
“Don’t worry, don’t worry.” Buzz turned his head as the captain continued to fiddle with the control. “Just our ram air turbine. It gives us power if the engines cut out on us.” He turned away then quickly back. “It ain’t surprising, considering what she’s been through.”
“Will it fly?”
It was Hendrickson’s turn. “She’ll fly, but if we need the RAT we’re going to be out of luck, unless it resets.”
Hadad sat back. Allah. Allah. Not now, when I am so close.
* * *
Graber waited until two of his teammates clambered up onto the platform before pulling on the key. Once turned it functioned as a handle, allowing the cargo door to be hefted upward. This was the manual method, of course, the usual way being to use the built-in hydraulic lifters. The necessary equipment to do that was a luxury in this case, requiring brute force to be used.
“Ready?” Grab
er shouted above the engine noise, getting nods from Antonelli and Quimpo.
He made sure the handle was turned fully, then pulled. The door cracked, then came outward and up giving an eighteen-inch clearance for entry. Sean maneuvered his head under the big door and felt for a handhold on the floor of the cargo deck. The perforated floor provided many, and he hefted himself up through the opening, which Antonelli had made even larger.
He was in. The viewpoint looking down was impressive. The driver of the Humvee looked straight ahead, gauging his speed perfectly against that of the aircraft. “Let’s go! Move! Move!”
Quimpo came next, and by the time he was fully in, McAffee and Anderson were atop the platform.
“Don’t drop that thing,” the major joked to Antonelli as Joe was pulled into the hold. McAffee followed the civilian in immediately. Two of the team then held the door from the inside as the biggest Delta trooper slid through the opening.
Joe slid back, away from the door to give the soldiers room, and came up against something solid with his back. His quarry.
The first vehicle pulled away and the second spurted forward into the precise spot. It took under two minutes to get the remaining Delta men aboard, then the Humvee slowed, turned abruptly, and joined its partner in a dash to the darkness of the taxiway behind.
Graber, Antonelli, and Quimpo found handholds on the door and pulled it down to the closed position. “There’s supposed to be an inner handle here,” Sean yelled above the rumbling.
“There.” Quimpo had the light on the black twist handle.
“Got it.” Antonelli gripped it and turned it back to vertical. That would release the outer key they had used. It would be lying on the pavement now.
“We’re in.” McAffee said, then gave the order to get ready.
* * *
The Maiden had to travel a near complete squared oval, much like the Indianapolis speedway, before she would be back in position to take off. First she crossed the runway on which she had landed, and then a parallel runway before coming left on the far taxiway. Then another left brought her back to her takeoff point, a spot she had traversed in the opposite direction a while before. The tug swung left one final time and positioned the 747 at her start point.
“This is it,” Buzz commented. The tug pulled away forward and turned off the runway at the first crossway.
“Fire-wall it and forget, I guess,” Hendrickson suggested. There was no procedure for anything like this. Taking off with three engines, overloaded, and with no flaps; they’d either write the aviation history books or fire-ball into a cane field.
“One, two, and four all show nominal.” Buzz looked at the overhead console. “Safety systems are ready.”
The captain looked up, too. Right above was the switch that, when thrown, would require the greatest acting job by any pilot since Jimmy Stewart.
And the tires. Hendrickson remembered about those. The four blown right mains would mean even more difficulty. “We’re going to need to compensate for the tires.”
“Rudder and nose wheel, as long as she holds.” Buzz didn’t know if it would. The flat tires would add friction on the right side, making the aircraft want to steer in that direction. Rudder to the left and manual steering would have to work, otherwise they would find mud and grass less than halfway down the runway.
“You know, Buzz, in my craziest dreams I could have never thought this up. Never.”
The old Marine smiled. “Something to tell the grandkids about.”
The captain looked around the cockpit, for no real reason he realized. It just seemed the thing to do. “As ready as we’ll ever be.” Ever? Now or never.
Once again the throttle hand of each pilot held the lever, Buzz backing up the captain. In one quick motion they pressed the handles forward against the built-in resistance. It was a quicker acceleration than normal, which bounced the 747’s nose up and then down as she gained speed.
“Fifty.”
Hendrickson had only one plan to get his baby airborne: pull the stick into his crotch at the end of the runway. It would be close. Without the flaps they would need to be going in the neighborhood of 200 knots to get up with just the elevators to point the nose skyward. With a 25-knot head wind—if it was still blowing—they could do it with 180 knots, their normal takeoff speed with systems functioning fully.
Buzz tweaked his column left with taps to keep the Maiden straight. It was working, even without using the nose wheel.
“One-twenty.” They were passing the halfway point, gaining speed. The faster they went, the more lift the wings generated. As that happened there was less pressure on the main gear, which allowed the blown tires to actually rise up off the pavement and spin somewhat freely. That reduced the friction and allowed for more speed and less worry about keeping on the centerline.
“One-fifty. She’s doing it! She’s doing it!”
Hadad heard the number two’s excitement, but he already knew they would make it. It had been difficult. More difficult than he had imagined, but he had been successful. He laid the Uzi on his lap and reached into the left breast pocket. The click came first, and then he let his thumb rise for the last time. He massaged it on his forefinger, and set about clearing his mind for the journey that would begin at the end of this one.
The three-quarter mark shot by as Buzz called out 170 knots. The captain brought the stick fully back into his gut as fast as the built-in resistors would allow. The nose came up around them.
“One-ninety!”
If he had calculated correctly the end would be right...
Now! The feeling of air enveloping a plane was unmistakable. It was like suddenly being suspended in smoothness, with the vibrations of the earth lying far behind.
“Shit.” Buzz kept his hands ready to back up on the stick and the throttles. “She’s up! We’re up!”
They were at one hundred, then two, then three, and slowly gaining altitude and speed as the captain brought the nose down a bit. He looked across the console to his first officer.
“You’re sweatin’, Bart.” Buzz smiled like a kid in a go-cart.
“Slow climb. Real gentle.” Hendrickson would keep the Maiden right where the powers that be wanted her. The rest was up to them. Almost.
Twenty One
IN THE BELLY OF THE BEAST
Flight 422
“Hold tight ‘til he levels it out,” McAffee said. Once off the ground the noise abated. The team had placed and activated several small magnetic lights, each one spreading a wide beam of high-intensity light. Some of the men were squeezed in the spaces between the four big boxes, their arms pressing to the sides to steady them.
Joe, however, was already prying at one of the wood coverings. It was all cosmetic, he was sure. Whatever was in there was heavy, and, with the amount of shielding necessary to make the crude reactors feasible, the wood wouldn’t support any of it.
“Shouldn’t you wait, Anderson?”
Joe ignored the major and kept working at the box. By the time the aircraft leveled somewhat he had one side almost off.
Delta had its own job to do.
“Lewis.” Graber led the sergeant forward. He shone his flashlight on the curved right side as they walked. Red numbers stenciled on white backgrounds proceeded in ascending order as they moved. Each one was a location number, identifying the support section at that point. The 747, like other large aircraft, was made up of many parallel circular frames which were held together by long metallic stringers that ran the length of the fuselage. Around the skeletal cylinder a thin skin of aluminum was stretched, giving the aircraft structure and most of its load-bearing capability. Graber was looking for a specific section—or ring—that would put them below their desired entry point.
But first things first. Before going in they had to see what was there. Debriefing of released hostages had told them that the passengers were all forward now. That would lead one to believe that the terrorists were also. But they had to know for sure. If th
ey went in aft, and there was a bad guy standing over them, it would be beneficial to know that first so he could be taken out.
Sixteen C. Sixteen C. “Where are—here.” Graber stopped and cocked his head to the right to get a look at the ceiling. They were all walking hunched over in the five-foot-five- inch cargo hold. He ran his hand from right to left on the smooth aluminum panel. Above that would be a flame- resistant plastic floor liner that acted as a sound and climate insulator, and above that an eighth of an inch of padding, and then the carpeting. The center floor stringer was his guidepost. Six inches to the right was the spot. He looked forward at the solid metal bulkhead three feet away, then behind three feet at the forward most crate. The rest of the team was readying the charges near the door.
“Do it, Lewis.”
The sergeant was the team’s tech specialist, which meant that he handled the high-tech—expensive—gear. In this case an ultra-high-speed lithium-powered drill and the fiber-optic viewing device that would be inserted through a hole into the cabin above.
Lewis scratched the spot with an etching pen, just to give the carborundum bit a starting point. There was only one speed on the specially built instrument: fast, or fucking fast as its users said. The sergeant held the pen-like tip and tucked the flexible drive cable under his arm. It led to the actual motor unit, hooked to his belt.
It whirred first, then went almost silent. He touched it to the aluminum. Only a slight hum was heard. That was the beauty of the instrument. Unless you were drilling through granite or marble, the high rotational speed of the bit simply pulverized its target, allowing no room for resistance. The high heat tolerance of the carborundum bit aided in the silencing of the work. Friction caused great deals of heat, which expanded traditional bits of steel or light alloys. As it expanded it would contact the sides of the hole it was boring, causing sound. A foot away the captain could barely hear it.
Lewis sensed the breakthrough and continued with little pressure on the instrument, cutting right through the plastic and padding. Dyed guide marks on the bit told him the penetration and when to stop. “Through.” He switched it off and let it dangle to the floor. Next he undid the instrument and set it down.
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