“Yeah. Yeah. Okay, where’d you learn to fly? Army?” The question was natural.
“Air Force,” Michael replied, feeling that slight rise in interagency rivalry and pride. The old military BS did stick.
“C’mon, we need your help.”
Michael turned to his wife. She looked scared, still, but in a different way. “I’ll be back, okay? I’m just gonna help out.”
* * *
Joe had the location of the U235 pegged in each chute. It was near the top of each, yet still left enough room for whatever release mechanism was there. It was a timer, he was convinced, which gave him some time to work.
A thud came from forward. Quimpo dropped through the right-side entry hole. “Anderson, you need some help?”
“Stick close: I might.”
“Captain said to tell you that everything topside is under control. All the bad guys are dead.” The Filipino soldier flashed a ‘we told you so’ smile.
Joe turned back to the reactor. “See those boxes? Tear the wood off and shove it back there.”
“Yes, sir.”
The logical thing to do came next. He had to secure each of the U235 plugs in their respective chutes, blocking them from falling into the core. But how? There were some options that were risky, and he discarded those without second thoughts. The best way, he decided, was to simply put something in the way of the plugs.
He took the neutron analyzer again and checked the position in the chutes another time. When the lowest point of the U235’s location was found, he removed a drill and long bit from his equipment bag. His plan was to drill into each chute below the mark and insert a rod through the hole on both sides to act as a “stop” for the plugs. It should work.
The bit slid into the holder and he set to work, boring into the soft lead housing.
* * *
“It’s not good,” Goldfarb said. “The bleeding stopped, then started up again. It’s deep in his arm, Cap. I can’t do much about it.”
“Sergeant, you’re a combat medic! For Christ’s sake, what would you do in combat?” Sean yelled.
“I’d take the arm off and tie the arteries,” Goldfarb answered. It wasn’t the response he wanted to give.
Graber didn’t hesitate. “Then do it. Save his life.”
The Delta captain walked over to the seat where the bomb lay. Just two feet from it was a bloodstain, marking the spot where the head terrorist had fallen. The body was gone, moved to one side of the downstairs lounge with the other three corpses, but the image was fresh in Sean’s mind. There was the body, facedown, lying on the Uzi, and one hand outstretched toward the...
Wait. That didn’t make sense. If the terrorist had wanted to knock the aircraft out of the sky, all he would have needed to do was shoot up the cockpit. He killed one pilot, so why not finish it? That would be a sure kill. Trying to get to the bomb to blow up the jet might be a notion of grandeur, but quite unnecessary, and equally likely to fail. And it did.
Sean knelt down by the vest. “Antonelli!”
The big trooper trotted over from his spot by the cockpit door. “Yeah?”
“Give me a hand.” Graber lifted the vest and laid it out on the carpet, the inside of it down, exposing all the pockets. “It’s safed, don’t worry.”
“Yeah, sure,” Antonelli answered warily.
“I’ve got a bad feeling. Let’s check the pockets.” The captain’s body lay flat next to the thing. “You got your mini-light? Good. I’m going to lift each flap to get a look inside the pockets. You give me the light.”
“Cap, are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Listen, this guy went for this thing instead of just smoking the pilots to make us crash. Now, maybe he was into big bangs, or maybe this thing has a connection to that shit in the hold. Capishe?”
“Si.”
Sean began working his way through the pockets. The intelligence from the British described what he was seeing, three-by-one-by-four blocks of wrapped whatever, probably explosives. He moved his body around the vest, leaving it still. The pocket with the safe mechanism showed up. “More light.” There were the four rocker switches, set in a sequence that must interrupt the firing circuit from the thumb switch. “Okay, next one—” Just a minute.
The lieutenant saw his captain recoil an inch or so. “What is it?”
“The Brits said there were three rocker switches on the safety—this has four.” Sean maneuvered his head up, down, and side to side, examining the box closer. “Holy shit...”
“What?” Antonelli asked, his tone pushing for an answer.
Graber snapped up to a crouch. “He wasn’t going for this thing to blow it; he was going to set those things in the hold off. This thing has an extra switch!”
“That’s a guess, Cap.”
Sean stood, his breaths now coming heavy. “You’re right, and I might be, too.” He spun and ran to the stairs, disappearing to the main level.
* * *
Michael gave the soldier running past him a long look before continuing up, following Lieutenant Buxton to the cockpit.
“Captain, we’ve got someone for you.”
Hendrickson noticed the panicked look on the man’s face. It was visible even in the flashlight-lit cockpit. “Sit there,” he directed. Michael took the right seat, and the Delta trooper left them.
“The name’s Michael.” He looked around, not even bothering to belt himself in. The captain wasn’t either, he noticed. “What can I do?”
“I’m Bart. What have you flown?”
“Helicopter. UH-60s and Kiowas mostly.”
Hendrickson knew it wasn’t ideal, but the guy was someone with experience. “Okay, this is what we’ve got: The number three engine, over there, is out; no flaps, so we’re pretty nonresponsive when landing and taking off; no brakes; our trim is lousy because of the stuff they loaded on our hold; and, as you can see, no power on the flight deck. She does respond, though.”
The civilian in Michael tried to fall back on his long-ago military training, but all he could do was stare at the blackness of the cockpit. “No instruments or radio?”
“None. Are you ready?”
Michael’s head snapped to the left. “Ready for what?”
“Your first flying lesson in a 747.” The captain leaned just slightly over the center console. “I’m retiring after this flight, so I plan to make it down. It’s going to take two of us, so I need you to help me make it to retirement. Now, take the stick. We’re going to give you a feel for the Maiden.”
His hands wrapped around the column handles. “The who?”
Hendrickson’s full smile was apparent, and would have been without any illumination.
* * *
“Anderson!”
Both Joe and Sergeant Quimpo were startled by the yell. Graber dropped through the hole a second later.
“What?” Joe sensed the urgency. He lowered the drill, removing the bit as the captain approached.
“I think these things might be triggered by a signal from that vest the head guy was wearing,” Sean said. He was crouched over, panting, his hands resting on one knee.
Joe didn’t see the need to question the captain’s word. “If that’s true, and my theory is true, then there are two ways to set these off; timer and signal.”
Sean nodded. “That would make sense. The guy was going for the thing, and there was an extra switch on the safety. It has to be it.”
There wasn’t time to be too delicate. “Sergeant, get those wire rods from the tray supports.” To Graber: “Your man here thinks quick.”
“How so?”
“I drilled holes completely through each of these chutes.” Joe pointed to the three-sixteenths hole. “We need to stop any of the fuel plugs from dropping into the core. Sergeant Quimpo thought the wire supports on the fold-down trays upstairs would work to fit through. Quick thinking.”
There was a change in Anderson’s attitude, Sean noticed. Subtle, but still there. “So does this
affect anything?”
“It could. If the plugs just drop in, the wires should hold. But if there’s a charge of sorts to release them, then the force could push them right through the wires.”
“Which would screw us all,” Sean observed.
“Precisely. As it is now, with these little holes here, there’s an increase in radiation down here.” Joe saw the captain’s head straighten up. “Don’t worry. It’s not enough to do any harm.”
Quimpo came back down with two handfuls of the chromed wires. “I got twenty.” He handed them to Joe.
“Tie off one end in a big knot so it can’t slip through the hole, then insert them all the way through.” Joe motioned to the devices. Sean was observing. “Take your time. I’ll do some, and you do the others.”
The sergeant nodded. They went about the task. Five minutes later they had the wires through both sides of each chute. Then came the tricky part: tying off the loose ends. There wasn’t much room at the free ends, and the stiff wire didn’t lend itself to effective knotting. But there was little else to do. Joe and the sergeant went to each together, checking each as best they could.
“Cap, you wanna take a look?” Quimpo asked.
Graber shook off the question. “Nah. I’ll keep my gonads away from that shit.”
Romeo Flight
Cooper had his landing lights on, and was a quarter mile ahead and to the left of the 747. The pilot seemed to be following his lead, which was the first hurdle. With no instruments the big jet would be entirely dependent on him for guidance.
“Springer Seven-Eight, this is Romeo. Where should I lead this guy ?”
The controller aboard the AWACS signaled him to stand by. Major Cooper flashed out a question to the 747, asking about their ability to keep him in visual contact. An immediate reply told him that the line of sight was good.
“Seven-Eight, let’s give me a vector,” Cooper implored to no one.
Flight 422
“What’s that?” Michael asked as the tremor shook through his hand and wrist.
Hendrickson felt it, too. “Heavy air. We can’t get above this weather, so we’re going to have some turbulence.”
A jolt shook the Maiden, almost on cue, as the captain’s last word was uttered.
* * *
Antonelli was standing from a kneeling position as the reverberation of unstable air shook the aircraft. He was naturally off-balance from the stance, and the movement ensured a fall, wanting to push him forward. But that would have landed him right on the major. To avoid that he tossed his arms back, realizing too late that he was falling right on top of the vest.
The strange buzz came next, but no explosion. He was relieved, but only for a second. “Oh my God...”
* * *
The sound was that of metal sliding against greasy metal, then of wire twanging as the fuel plugs dropped toward the four cores. One sound, though, was different, coming a split second after the others. Joe knew what had happened. The plugs were all loose, and one of the sixteen had made it past its wire restraint and was in the core...in the reactor right next to him.
“You, out!” Joe ordered Sean. To Quimpo: “Check the wires on those three, and then get out, too! Hurry.”
Neither man argued. The Delta captain was through the hole into the cabin within three seconds, while Sergeant Quimpo circled each of the other three reactors, checking the tautness of the restraints.
“Everything’s fine. They’re stretched, but holding.” Then he, too, was gone. Both Quimpo and Graber waited near the hole, looking down into the hold and listening to silence.
Joe slid the neutron analyzer onto the suspect reactor. As it passed the hole in the nearest chute, the readout went into the danger zone. A quick calculation confirmed what Joe had feared: He was getting almost a direct shot of two hundred rems from the near chute, and Lord knew how much background radiation from the others.
He checked the four chutes. One wire hung limp on the inner hole, and was not visible on the outer side. One slug, three quarters of a critical mass, was in the core; another would send it into a critical state. Joe wasn’t going to let that happen.
“Stay out of here!” Joe yelled, just as a reminder. He checked the other three chutes on the reactor. Two were holding good, but the third...
No! Joe took a pair of needle-nose pliers from his belt pack and grabbed the outer wire end as it was about to slip in, releasing the second plug. “Ahhh!” The weight of the plug was more than he’d expected, and it strained on his hand muscles as they squeezed the pliers closed on the wire. He was now holding one end, as the knot had come completely undone.
He was also receiving a consistent, deadly dose of radiation through the seemingly small hole. The pliers were non locking, requiring him to stand in place to hold the wire. “Captain!”
Sean lowered his head into the hold. “I hear you.”
“Tell that pilot to get this thing down, fast. I can’t hold this forever.”
“We’ll help.”
“No!” Joe said, adamantly. “No one else needs to be contaminated. Just get this plane on the ground! And,” Joe continued, “find out what happened.”
* * *
Antonelli caught Sean on his way up the aisle and explained what had occurred. Graber heard, but ignored it. There was something more important to do.
The captain’s head sank, then bobbed up. “What is it?”
“The things in the hold, one of them started to go off, or whatever they do. Our DOE guy says to set this aircraft down fast.”
Hendrickson found the landing light switch and began flashing out the newest problem.
Romeo Flight
Jesus Christ.
“Seven-Eight, Seven-Eight. I need an immediate vector, now! Four-Two-Two is declaring an in-flight emergency. They have a problem with something in the hold.” Cooper purposely didn’t mention the reactor comment in the Morse message, for both security reasons and because he technically wasn’t supposed to know the particulars.
“Romeo, turn left to heading two-seven-five. We’re going to set you down on a long one. Copy?”
“Roger.” Cooper signaled the 747, then banked gently to the left, side slipping at the same time to keep position with his follower. The Clipper Atlantic Maiden turned with him, but took a longer time to settle into the new course.
Cape Canaveral
The shuttle Endeavour was bathed in the white lights on her launchpad five miles from the Launch Control Center. She was ready for a launch in forty-eight hours.
The morning senior watch officer yawned at the phone before picking it up. “LCC.”
His tired face became instantly awake as the voice on the other end gave the orders and offered only a brief explanation.
“Right.” He straightened up in his chair, pushing the center wide alarm next. The intercom switch was flipped to open. “Attention. Attention. Emergency alert, condition orange. This is not a drill. Clear the shuttle-landing runway of all nonemergency personnel. Crash crews set up at the far end. All other personnel immediately go to your assigned shelters.”
He turned to see his three fellow watch officers stand, unsure of what to do. His expression convinced them, and they left for their bunker-like shelter, leaving the senior watch officer to direct the coming unorthodox happening. It wasn’t surprising. An orange alert was intended to be used only in the event of a problem with the shuttle while it had a nuclear payload onboard, such as a reactor-powered satellite.
Whatever was coming in would be met by crews trained to deal with a radioactive situation, though not in a manner they were accustomed to.
Flight 422
Joe shifted one hand off of the pliers. His position allowed no room to maneuver into a place for shelter from the deadly radiation bombarding his body. Most of the damage was being done in his hands as the rays penetrated and did their work on his blood cells.
The results would be obvious, he knew. There was nothing left to do but hold on. He could
, after all, save some lives.
* * *
“Sorry.”
Sean saw the true regret in the lieutenant’s eyes. “Hey. I should have moved it.” The Delta captain blamed himself as much.
“Cap,” Goldfarb said. Something was wrong.
Graber took two steps over. The carpeted area was awash with blood, the sound coming up from the soaked material in wet squishes. The medic was on his knees, but not hovering over Blackjack as before.
“I lost him,” Sergeant Goldfarb said. “I just couldn’t stop it.”
The scene should have been revolting, with the major’s amputated left arm lying a foot from his head, but it wasn’t. Sean only saw Blackjack’s face. It was tilted back, its eyes open with only the whites showing.
“Hey, I...”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Sergeant,” Sean suggested. Men die in a war. And this was a war, he believed.
The captain walked to the stairs, paused, then descended. Perfection, so he was learning, came rarely in any action.
* * *
Hendrickson followed the fighter directly on now. They were lining up on the long shuttle runway at Cape Canaveral. Fifteen thousand feet-plus of beautiful concrete was awaiting them.
“How much visual referencing have you done on landings?” The captain asked his assistant.
“Plenty,” Michael answered automatically.
“Then that’s your job. That runway has the standard red- green split circulars at the threshold. I’ll fly her in, but you’ve got to call me out as high or low. Just remember, you’re sitting four stories off the ground.”
Michael flexed his hands on the column. “Okay. What about the stick?”
“I’ll give you the word when it’s time to shove it forward, all the way.” Hendrickson adjusted the Maiden’s position behind the glowing blob ahead. “It worked once before; it might again. Maybe we’ll be able to stop this girl one more time.” He quieted for a second. “Ain’t that right, girl. You’re going to do it once more. Just once more for this old fart.”
* * *
“Did you get all that?” Joe asked, yelling.
“I got it,” Sean replied. When the aircraft stopped—if it stopped—he had clear instructions from someone who should know.
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