Cloudburst

by Pearson, Ryne Douglas

A second later it mattered not at all.

  * * *

  The charges had worked perfectly. Two openings led upward, into the smoky light of the cabin.

  Antonelli was through first, just a second ahead of Quimpo. Four troopers below boosted the pair and held them. Once the upper halves of their bodies were through, each leaned toward their respective aisle—Quimpo left and Antonelli right.

  It was a straight, unobstructed shot down each aisle. The plan was to fire two flash-bang grenades into the forward cabin, where the stairs led to the upper deck. These would disable any bad guys there and, unfortunately, any hostages. They had fired several inert practice rounds in the 747 back at Pope, trying mainly to get the trajectory right. Grenade launchers were ballistic weapons, much like mortars. The projectiles—40mm grenades in this case—when fired arched through the air to their target. This necessitated a certain amount of vertical space to allow for the distance to the nose of the aircraft. It was close, as they had found in practice.

  The initial pop! of the firing was followed by a whoosh as the bullet-shaped projectiles shot toward the front. Seven meters from the muzzle the false nose cones of each broke away, leaving a barrel-like object not much bigger than a plastic film can. They began to tumble just past apogee, three inches from the interior ceiling.

  Both of the grenades hit and detonated within a split second of each other. The forward section first filled with a blinding light that seemed strangely long in duration to those who could see. Abu and Abdul were not among them.

  The initial flash blinded both of the terrorists. Four other multiple flashes, each thousands of times more powerful than the brightest camera strobe, followed within a hundredth of a second. None were seen by those they were intended for, though two passengers on the left side also felt the effect.

  Abu was closest to one of the explosives. After the magnesium flashes had finished, eight small military firecrackers burst outward from the casing. Three went straight up and fired four feet off the floor, just a foot from Abu’s left ear. The immediate effect was a thunderous cracking in the range of 180 decibels. As the sound reached his eardrums they ruptured fully, unable to absorb the audible punishment. He recoiled against the bulkhead, his hands pressing hard against his ears, elbows out, and the Uzi lying uselessly at his feet. Miraculously he hadn’t fallen, and just rolled back and forth against the partition.

  Abdul was luckier in that none of the noisemakers had fired so close to his ears. He was, however, thrown to the floor, partly by reflex and partly from exaggerated force of the blasts.

  The flash-bangs had done their job.

  * * *

  The explosions in rapid succession almost beneath him sent Hadad’s eyes wide.

  Both pilots went silent as their heads swung instantly back to the hijacker. He appeared to be confused. His eyes darted back and forth in his downcast face. Then, with a jerk, his head came up and his eyes locked on the captain’s. Hendrickson thought he saw a slight shake of the terrorist’s head, but maybe not. Was he truly surprised?

  “No.” It was said firmly, yet without much emotion. Hadad brought the gun up, training back and forth between the pilots. His free hand felt for the door behind as his feet inched backward. “I will still win.”

  * * *

  McAffee and Graber were through the left-side hole before the last pop of the flash-bangs. Buxton and Jones were the first through the right side. Both pairs ran forward at a dead run.

  There was little residual smoke from the blasts. Graber was in the lead, his SIG held two-handed and pointed forward. His eyes were already searching for targets past the tritium post sights as they entered the forward cabin. There was no hesitation.

  McAffee heard the shots first, to his right. Buxton and Jones were firing. Both were. The four shots were in too rapid a succession to be from a single weapon. Graber was three feet ahead and turning to the right. The major turned, too. There was a bad guy down in front of Buxton, and ...

  Graber fired almost straight back at the major, but to his right. Three quick shots, and the gun came at McAffee, following the body down to the floor. The head brushed Blackjack’s leg as it hit.

  Shit. McAffee only had time for a split-second look, but it said all that was needed to the captain. Thanks for my ass.

  There were two down. The other two had to be upstairs, and there was no room for hesitation. McAffee and Graber moved toward the straight stairs that went aft and up, unlike the spiral staircase on older 747s. They got within two feet when several bullets stitched down the risers from above. The major fell left out of the way. Then there was the scream in combination with the bullets. It was actually more of a wail, and it got louder. Then everything came toward them.

  Neither had to say anything. Both of the senior Delta troopers leaned into the staircase—into the path of the bullets—and fired at the massive hulk of olive drab coming down at them. Two rounds connected, both in the head. The huge terrorist went instantly limp to his knees, and then hard down on his face. He was dead.

  Let’s go! The words were internal. McAffee led off up the stairs. He stepped right on the body without a second thought.

  * * *

  Buzz knew he was just seconds away from death, but then he was a Marine, and that thought had never brought him fear. His legs moved automatically, and his left hand pushed off the armrest as he catapulted his body up and back. Two feet away was death. The murderer. Buzz’s right hand was outstretched, reaching for the Uzi as it came closer by inches and rotated toward him a bit faster.

  Hadad pulled the trigger in three rapid taps. The co-pilot’s body went down, his legs stuck awkwardly between the seat and armrest. Six of the nine bullets connected, all in the dead man’s face, which no longer resembled anything human and, fortunately, lay against the dark carpet and out of view.

  For a second Hadad froze. Then he felt the stare of another. The captain. His eyes were full of fire. Hadad could feel the hate, but there was no time to respond. He had to get to the vest. Of course, he could kill the pilot here and they would all die, but the devices would never be used. He might not get his chance to irradiate the American capital, but he could contaminate a hundred square miles of ocean.

  Hendrickson had to fly. His anger, seething and ready to drive him to kill, would have to be checked. His friend was dead, though the body continued to spasm and gurgle about the head. He swallowed hard as the terrorist left the flight deck, then he turned back to the controls.

  Jesus Christ...

  * * *

  McAffee, with Graber on his rear, reached the top as Hadad turned back from the cockpit door. There was no hesitation on the Delta major’s part, but he had to swing his body and weapon a hundred and eighty degrees as he cleared the railing. Hadad’s Uzi was already pointing in the right direction, but his reactions were slowed by fatigue and confusion. He moved to his left and brought the submachine gun up at the crouching and spinning black figure twenty feet away. The vest was eight feet from him, and he continued to move at it. His finger came down on the trigger at the same time McAffee’s did.

  Blackjack was moving right, almost falling. Two rounds caught him square in the chest, and another two farther to the left, in the upper arm. The firestorm of pain was instant and intense, but he kept the SIG trained on his target with his right hand.

  Hadad saw only a brilliant white-and-yellow flame, like a candle growing in intensity uncontrollably. There was also a sound of sorts, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Then he felt cold, and his body seemed to tumble in the air. Was he floating? He didn’t know. Everything was strange, and quiet, and then, very suddenly, the last of his consciousness faded away.

  Graber, too, had fired. Twice to the major’s four. Two of McAffee’s shots had missed and were embedded in the seats to the right. He didn’t miss like—

  “Medic!” Graber yelled at the top of his lungs, then reflex overcame emotion and he checked the rest of the lounge. Buxton and Antonelli were behind him and
they went straight for the cockpit. Everything was clear in the lounge.

  “Downstairs is secure, Cap.” Buxton said, coming out of the cockpit. “There’s one down in—” He saw the major. He thought Sean had wanted a medic for the co-pilot. “Shit...”

  “Get Goldfarb up here,” Sean ordered. “And keep guns on everybody until you’re sure all the bad guys are down.”

  Buxton headed down.

  The major was half-conscious. His vest had taken two of the slugs, but two others had nailed him between the shoulder and the bicep. Graber tore away at the wet black material. The wound was bleeding like an open valve.

  “Oh Christ... Get back, Cap.” Goldfarb put a firm hand on Graber’s shoulder and pushed him aside.

  “It looks like two, Jeff.” Sean steadied the major’s head between his hands.

  “It’s a bleeder. There’s no way I can pack this this close to the joint. I’m gonna have to tie it off. Shit!” The Delta medic pulled a piece of surgical tubing from his bag and looped it under the major’s shattered arm, above the wound and almost in his armpit. He pulled it tight with both hands, then tied a single knot. The blood flow slowed instantly and stopped almost completely a second later.

  Graber was now in command. The signal! “Jeff, take care of him.” Only McAffee and Sean were privy to knowledge of the fighter tailing them.

  “Gotcha.”

  Graber bolted up and into the cockpit. Antonelli was there, moving a body with only a pinkish mass for a face out of the way. He arm-dragged it into the lounge area.

  “Captain Hendrickson.”

  “Yeah. Yeah. That’s me.”

  “We...” Graber stopped. Something was wrong. “What happened?”

  Hendrickson pointed to the center of the dark console, just above the throttle levers. “The bastard was a lousy shot,” he said with as much agonized humor as he could muster.

  Sean already had his light on. He trained it on the console. Three holes, spaced close to each other, ran diagonally up the instruments. At least one of them had hit something vital, as there wasn’t an instrument lit in the entire cockpit.

  Hendrickson leaned in and stuck the tip of his forefinger into the middle hole. “Right back in here is an electrical trunk line. It’s a one-inch insulated cable that goes right into two separate transformers. I’ll bet if you pulled the panel cover off the cable would be sliced in two. That’s the only way all this would have gone out.”

  “What about the radio?” Graber asked.

  “No good. Out.”

  Wonderful... “What about a backup radio?”

  “Look, I’m just glad that she’s even responding. She’ll fly—landing’s another story. And you want a radio? No. There’s no backup. We don’t plan on bullets getting loose in here. The transformers for all our radios—HF and VHF— get their power from these cables the bullet cut. The only other transmitters are in the survival rafts, and those won’t do a damn bit of good in here.”

  Graber eased himself into the dead pilot’s seat. His light swept across the wet red liquid on the center console. “Well we’re in trouble, then.”

  “Why?”

  Sean checked his watch. “In about a minute a fighter a couple of miles back is gonna splash us.”

  “Shoot us down? For God’s sake, why?”

  It hadn’t occurred to the Delta captain that the crew was in the dark. Then he decided that it had probably been for the best... at the time. That time was past. “You’ve got some kind of nuclear shit in the cargo hold. There’s a guy from DOE down there working on it.”

  “A bomb?”

  “No. Not exactly.” Sean knew there wasn’t time to explain. “Look if we don’t get the right signal to that fighter we’re going swimming.” Dammit, Blackjack, what would you do?

  Hendrickson fought the feelings that could very well have overwhelmed him. Buzz was gone. Gone. Murdered.

  He had to think. The soldier was looking to him for some kind of answer. No radio, and they had to let the fighter know that shooting them down wasn’t necessary. The thoughts of what had to be done—or attempted—lost out to emotions for a second, and the old Air Force pilot found himself blinking away the tears that welled up. Wait... The idea came instantly. “What’s the signal?”

  “Why?” Graber asked.

  “Never mind. You want to live? Then tell me.”

  Romeo Flight

  His thumb was rigid. A quarter of an inch of downward force would push the firing button far enough to make contact and complete the firing circuit. Flying straight and level, as the F-l06 was, the G compensator wouldn’t even add any reverse pressure on the button. It would be easy. Hardly a physical act at all.

  There was more to the act than the twitch of a muscle, though. A man with a mind and a conscience was in the cockpit.

  Cooper checked the fighter’s old timepiece. Everything should have happened by now, he thought. He had a three-minute window of opportunity. During that time, which began at the moment of the scheduled assault, he could fire or wait. After 180 seconds, however, the decision was taken away. He had to fire. That decision was not his, but he would carry it out.

  The Genie’s 1.5-kiloton warhead was armed, and the bay doors were open. Power was already flowing to the weapon’s firing circuits, and was allowed through to the two-phase detonator. The loop would be complete after the missile was fired, when, two miles from the fighter, the stored energy would be released from the shaving-cream-can-size capacitor. The high explosives would fire, triggering the nuclear explosion.

  From Major Cooper’s vantage the 747 was cast in an eerie pulsing glow. The huge jet looked small from three miles away, and the moist air enveloped it, diffusing the external lights into a sphere brighter than the surrounding night.

  He again checked the frequency setting. This was the third time in two minutes. It was right. “Come on. Come on,” he coaxed the silent radio.

  The M.D. from Louisiana waited until only ten seconds were left. Twenty years before he would have removed his bulky glove, but flight garments had come as far as his usual ride. His fingers moved easily, finding the fire button, mounted at a slight upward angle on the stick. He breathed heavily, hearing it through the mask-mounted microphone that carried sound like an intercom.

  What... At first he thought an unseen wave of heavy air had swept in from the side, blocking the 747 from view. But then it was back, but without its anti-collision lights. A stream of moonlight penetrating the cloud cover above glinted off the white body of the aircraft. Cooper stretched his thumb upward. It was time. His neck craned upward slightly to sight in on the target. The magnification made the jet fill the reticle.

  “Sweet Jesus...forgive me—”

  His eye caught it through the sight first, then he backed his face away. It was visible to the naked eye.

  The bright landing lights on the 747 came on, then went off. On again, and off. One more time the sequence repeated. Cooper’s thumb hovered over the fire button. After a brief pause the lights came back on, shining distinct cones of light from the xenon lamps into the clouds ahead. They went off quickly and back on for a longer period. It was Morse!

  “You lucky bastard,” Cooper said. His thumb went back to the side of the stick. “We’ve got an S and an A, fellas. C’mon with the rest.”

  The F and the E followed, but Snoopy wasn’t going to shoot down anybody for a misblink if there had been one. He allowed himself a breath before closing the bay doors and safing the Genie.

  “Springer Seven-Eight, we have a Sierra—Alpha—Foxtrot—Echo. Copy?”

  “That’s a big a-affirmative Romeo. We didn’t catch it on our radio. What gives?”

  “Something’s wrong with the aircraft’s radio.” It was no longer a target. “I can’t figure it, though. I’m gonna move up and check it out. My Morse ain’t too awful bad.”

  Flight 422

  Graber watched the seconds tick past the time limit until a full minute was gone. “I wish you guys had a r
earview in these big birds. I’d give my right nut to see what that fighter’s doing right now.”

  Buxton came in. “Cap.”

  Hendrickson and the Delta captain both looked back. The pilot turned back to his work upon realizing his reflex reaction. The kid sounded like Buzz.

  “Yeah.”

  “Four bad guys down—all dead. One”—he thought of the right word to use—“American dead. There’s a couple of wounded passengers, all from the flash-bangs. Lewis is with them. They’ll be okay. Goldfarb says Blackjack’s pretty bad. He can’t tie the wound off all the way. Well, you saw the blood.”

  “Right.” Graber thought about where he was sitting. “Hey, Captain Hendrickson, do you need someone to sit here and help with anything?”

  “You a pilot?”

  “Nah, but maybe there’s someone on board who is.” To the lieutenant: “Bux, check it out below. See if there are any pilots on board. Small plane, commercial, hell, even any helo jocks would do.” Nam had bred a whole generation of whirlybird fliers.

  “We’ll get you someone,” Sean said, turning back to the captain. His face, he saw, was flat and passionless. The guy must have been a good friend. He stared down at the blood. McAffee suddenly filled his every thought. No matter how much training there was, it never prepared a man to lose a friend in combat. This was combat, after all. Blackjack wasn’t dead, Sean reminded himself, erasing the morbid yet from the sentence in his mind.

  “You wanted to see the fighter?”

  The words startled Graber. “What?”

  Hendrickson tossed his head to the left. Sean bent forward and looked past the pilot out the side window. The fighter was there, off the left front. It was lit by its own lights. “What the hell’s that?”

  Hendrickson looked. “A relic, son.”

  * * *

  “What do you fly?” The black-clad soldier seemed to tower over him.

  “Helicopters,” Michael Alton answered. “Crop dusting, mostly. We spray pesticides in the San Joaquin Valley.”

  “Where?” Buxton asked.

  Michael shifted. “California. Ever hear of the Medfly?”