CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
DONOVAN SAT IN the captain’s seat of the Gulfstream, switched on the battery, and waited for tubes and lights to come to life, but they didn’t. In the growing light of the dawn, he noticed all the things that were wrong. There had been an engine fire. Blood stains on the copilot’s seat. Holes in the overhead panel along with a myriad of popped circuit breakers. He looked at the hangar to his left. There were, no doubt, perfectly good airplanes stored inside. He started doing the math on how long it would take to open the doors, find one, and escape.
“Donovan, what are we doing?” Shannon called out as she pounded up the stairs. “The wind is getting stronger.”
This time when Donovan glanced across the ramp, he saw flames licking out from around the hangar door. The office attached to the side of the larger hangar collapsed in on itself and was instantly consumed by flames. He was out of options. His hands flew to the battery switch and moments later hit the switch that would start the auxiliary power unit. The APU was critical in getting the engines started, and when the small turbine engine in the tail of the Gulfstream lit and began its familiar whine, he let out a small sigh of relief. Seconds later, the APU stabilized. He switched on the generator, but instead of a great many systems springing to life, the instrument panel remained mostly dark. A quick scan of the circuit breaker panel told him a partial story. There had been a major short somewhere, and he wasn’t going to get the power to any of the normal systems. Undaunted, Donovan moved as fast as he could, down the stairs, across the ramp toward William.
“Donovan, the back of this plane is scorched. There’s been a fire,” Shannon cried out as she came up from behind him.
“I know,” Donovan said. “Grab his legs when I lift. William, I need to get you up the stairs into the Gulfstream. I know the drugs haven’t fully kicked in yet, but we have to go.”
William nodded a vague understanding, his eyes distant and unfocused.
Donovan leaned in, cradled William in his arms, and began limping toward the Gulfstream. With each step, nearly unbearable pain threatened to buckle his knee. The roar of the fire consuming the nearby hangar complex propelled him on.
“Donovan, behind us!” Shannon screamed. “We need to move faster!”
A quick look. Behind them in the distance, a rotating, churning wall of flame reached up into the sky. Near enough for him to hear detonations and see debris circling the funnel. With a single-minded effort, Donovan balanced the weight of William in his arms and limped heavily up the first step. He used the stainless-steel railing of the Gulfstream’s airstair for support and took the steps one at a time. Ten steps later, with his brow dripping sweat and the pain in his leg radiating through his entire body, Donovan managed to place William on the carpeted floor of the Gulfstream’s aisle. He rolled to the side and pulled himself up while trying to catch his breath.
“What can I do?” Shannon asked as she raced to the top of the stairs.
“In the lavatory area there should be blankets in a closet. Find them and try to secure William. I want to keep him near the door.” Donovan hurried toward the cockpit. He turned, pushed a button, and the main door began to pull itself into the fuselage. When it came to a stop, Donovan locked and sealed the hatch.
“William’s secured. The drugs are working. He’s out.” Shannon looked expectantly at Donovan. “Where do you want me?”
“In the cockpit. Get in the right seat.”
When Donovan moved aside, she slid past, and he climbed into the pilot’s seat. With a practiced eye, he began to reset everything he could, beginning with the firewall shutoff that Michael had closed fighting the earlier fire. A barrage that sounded like hail rose as the skin of the airplane was pelted by burning debris. “Strap yourself in as tight as you can. The landing gear handle is here, and the flap switch is here. They’re both marked. When I call for one or the other, don’t hesitate, just do what I say.”
Shannon nodded wordlessly.
From memory, reinforced by having done it thousands of times, Donovan pushed the start button for the right engine. He offered a small thank-you up to the heavens as he was rewarded by the low howl that turned into a muffled roar as the big tail-mounted Rolls Royce engine rotated to life. Donovan had no engine instruments, no flight instruments, just blank tubes. There were the three standby primary instruments, but he held little faith that they would function. He tested his injured leg on the rudder pedal and discovered the intense pain he’d feared. Using sounds to guide him, he released the brake, added power, and the Gulfstream began to roll toward the runway on a single engine.
Shannon flinched and let out an involuntary scream as a loud boom seemed to fill the entire atmosphere and rattle everything around them. The first explosion was trailed by three more, and then a different rumble seemed to shake the ground and vibrate the airframe. Donovan felt the concussive wave and searched the sky for the source.
“What’s happening?” Shannon cried out in panic.
Donovan leaned forward and caught a quick glimpse of a gray jet, vapor billowing off swept-back wings as it raced past just above the smoke. “Those were sonic booms; an F-18 just passed overhead.”
“Why? What are they doing?” Shannon said, trying to locate the fighter in the smoke-filled sky.
“I don’t know.” Donovan eyed the wind, calculating how the shifting directions and velocities might affect the takeoff roll. “The only time I’ve ever heard of fighters going supersonic over populated areas is when there’s a threat to national security.”
“They won’t think we’re a threat, will they?” Shannon asked, her eyes darting between the panel, the sky above them, and Donovan.
“Shannon, set the flaps at twenty degrees.” Donovan listened intently as the flaps made their normal sound and then stopped. He hoped they were where he wanted them. Donovan taxied fast. They reached the end of the taxiway, and he swung the Gulfstream ninety degrees and stopped short of the runway. More of the earlier rumbling shook the airplane, and again Donovan caught sight of the fighters, locked in tight turns as they screamed low overhead.
“Hurry,” Shannon said, looking back the way they’d come.
Donovan glanced out the side window. The rotating blaze was nearly to the airport boundary. The intense heat was igniting trees, grass, and the nearest perimeter fence began to soften and sag. He reached up for the button that would start the second engine. Straight off the end of the runway, the raging inferno leapt and danced high into the sky where the flames licked and touched before twisting even higher into the sky. Donovan pushed the button.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“THE HANGAR IS gone.” Michael slumped and ran his hands through his hair in disbelief.
Lauren’s legs were shaking as she and Michael watched the only remaining hangar at the Monterey airport burn. According to Michael, Donovan had no other options, and after the excruciating, time-consuming effort of carrying William up the stairs, she watched as her husband taxied the questionable jet out to the end of the runway for departure and vanish into the thick, billowing smoke.
She repeatedly tried to reach Ernie at Cal Fire, but her calls went to voice mail.
“Here come the fighters,” Michael announced as they all heard the sharp thump from the sonic booms roll across the open water and reach the Buckley.
Lauren held her breath and felt like she was dying a little each time as the fast-moving F-18s rolled in on the target area and released a sequence of bombs. She’d given operational support to hundreds of military operations in her years with the Defense Intelligence Agency, and watched hours of after-action video. The difference today was she could see the dirty orange blossom of napalm and hear the roar of the fighters herself, and people she loved were in the line of fire. The napalm exploded into a rolling ball of fire that instantly spread, igniting everything it touched. Lauren knew the realities. The latest incarnation of napalm could burn at five thousand degrees for up to ten minutes, and was next to imposs
ible to extinguish. Upon detonation, the fire was so voracious that the air surrounding the blast would race in at speeds of seventy miles per hour. Destruction was almost always total.
Lauren checked her phone, then put it to her ear. “Sebastian, are you still there? Can you give us an infrared image of the Gulfstream?”
“Hang on, I’m a little busy. We’ve got thirty-six more fighters inbound, and I need to sequence them in over the target area. There, I just switched over. The right engine is running, but he hasn’t started the left one yet. You’ll be able to see that there are two people in the cockpit, one in the cabin. That’s all three of them, right?”
Lauren studied the screen, confirming everything Sebastian was telling her, and she relayed it to the others.
“Come on, Donovan, get it started and go!” Michael whispered with a sense of urgency.
“Michael, why is he waiting?” Lauren felt all of her muscles tighten as she sat powerless.
“He’s probably waiting until he gets to the very end of the runway. He knows that engine was on fire. No reason to start the engine until you need it for takeoff.”
“Sebastian,” Lauren said into the phone. “Other people can see what’s happening at the airport, right? Can you see any assets en route to the Monterey airport?”
“Negative, I have no unauthorized traffic inside a hundred-mile radius.”
Lauren watched as the Gulfstream reached the end of the taxi-way and stopped. The image pulled back until they could all see the length of the runway.
“The fire is almost there,” Lauren said, her hand covering her mouth.
“The flaps are down.” Michael tapped the table with a clenched fist. “Come on, Donovan, get out of there!”
Lauren saw a bright flash expand out from what was left of the hangar complex. The explosion glowed white and then dimmed as it receded. Afraid to even blink, she studied the infrared depiction and watched what looked like a burning liquid being flung from the epicenter of the blast. Her first thought was an errant bomb filled with napalm had detonated at the airport, and she felt lost.
“Lauren,” Sebastian said over the phone. “The explosion you just saw was an underground fuel tank, most likely kerosene.”
“A fuel bunker exploded,” Lauren said as she looked anxiously at the others.
Michael flung his clenched fists skyward. “Look! The flash of the ignition. He started the left engine! It’s turning.”
Lauren watched as a growing white glow emanated from the engine nacelle. The Gulfstream began to roll forward and then the feed was lost.
“No!” Michael yelled. “What happened?”
“Sebastian!” Lauren snapped as her eyes swept the computer monitor for answers. The Global Hawk feed was lost, leaving Lauren shocked and bewildered.
Michael dug his fingers against his temples.
“Sebastian!” Lauren cried out again as she checked her phone and saw that the call had ended. She got up and ran for the door. The morning air smelled burnt and stale. In the distance, the shore of Monterey looked like one solid fire topped by a huge column of towering smoke. The explosions from the faraway airstrikes reached her ears, though muted. They sounded like one steady clap of thunder as the dull roar echoed off the surrounding hills.
A new sound filled the air, familiar, yet distinctly out of place. Lauren hurried along the railing until she could see the bow. The whine was one of the helicopter’s engines spooling up. The damaged rotor was spinning. She turned and Michael was already sprinting off the bridge. As the second engine started, Lauren spotted Ethan and Montero, each with a grip on a black duffel bag, running across the deck for the helicopter.
Michael burst into view, ran to the helicopter, leaned in, and spoke to Montero. Ethan pushed the duffel bag into the open door and climbed in behind it. Montero nodded, stepped away, and Michael climbed in with Ethan.
The wind whipped Lauren’s hair as she watched Janie add power, and a deafening whistle filled the air. Montero, her hands pressed against her ears, turned away.
The helicopter shook and the blades seemed to wobble. Lauren stepped away in fear of flying parts. The shriek grew—the sound coming from the damaged rotor blades as they spun through the air. She watched as the weight on the skids decreased, and in one smooth motion, Janie pulled the helicopter into the air, where it faltered, the blades buffeted with a sickening staccato sound Lauren had never heard before. Janie pivoted the nose, allowing the helicopter to fully clear the deck and the bow of the Buckley, and banked toward shore. The helicopter descended dangerously close to the waves, and the horrendous sound of the blades flailing at the air grew as Janie accelerated.
Lauren pulled her eyes away from the helicopter and fixed her gaze on the distant column of smoke. She prayed that somehow a Gulfstream jet would materialize from inside the inferno.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
DONOVAN LISTENED INTENTLY as the second engine began to rotate. He added fuel when he felt the time was right and heard the whump that told him he had ignition. He heard the engine begin to spool up. There wasn’t even a working radio aboard the Gulfstream. He was completely on his own.
A flash off to his left startled him. He snapped his head around to see the ground near the burning hangar lift itself up in huge burning chunks, followed by a geyser of liquid fire. He felt the shock wave reverberate through the plane, just as the force lifted the Ford F-250 into the air. Consumed by flames, the truck disintegrated. At the departure end of the runway, the fire and heat had reached the asphalt taxiways, and they were starting to burn.
“Oh Jesus,” Shannon said. “Donovan, the runway is burning.”
Donovan saw the fragments from the underground explosion scattered over the ramp, burning furiously. They could wait no longer. He had no way to know for sure, but the left engine should have stabilized by now. The flames were closing fast, and not far behind, a fiery cyclone writhed and twisted and vanished upward into the smoke.
“Here we go.” Donovan gripped the throttles and pushed them up to guide the Gulfstream out onto the runway. He glanced back at William, still unconscious. If they crashed, William wouldn’t feel a thing. Shannon looked terrified but determined. Donovan double-checked the flaps and trims, and then pushed up both throttles.
He felt the familiar forces as he was pressed into his seat by the twin Rolls Royce engines. He held on to the controls, ignoring the pain in his leg as he pushed on the rudders to keep the Gulfstream pointed down the runway. He heard and felt the landing gear throw chunks of debris into the belly. The needle on the emergency airspeed indicator sat lifeless, leaving Donovan with no choice but to estimate when the airplane would fly. There was no stopping—he was committed to getting the crippled Gulfstream into the air. As they raced toward burning asphalt, he pulled the nose up, the wings flexed, and pulled the Gulfstream off the ground and ripped through the flames. Donovan instantly cranked the Gulfstream into a steep bank, the right wingtip only feet above the ground. The air rushing toward the vortex slammed into the Gulfstream and bounced them hard. The turbulence grew worse, and Donovan shot a quick glance out at the left wingtip, and watched it flex wildly as they continued to take a beating from the unseen forces. He was fighting the controls just to keep the airplane right side up when the fire bell erupted. Donovan’s eyes darted to a red light on the panel and confirmed the left engine was burning.
“What’s happening?” Shannon’s voice was shrill.
“The engine is on fire.”
He called for Shannon to raise the gear. When she did, he heard the reassuring thump as the struts came up, and all three landing gears tucked themselves into their wheel wells. The twisting column of fire undulated off to their left as the flaps came up. The Gulfstream surged forward and Donovan let the engine burn. It might be on fire, but it was producing thrust.
But when Donovan pulled back on the throttles, he recognized a fresh problem. One that startled him. For the airplane to accelerate as it did meant they were ligh
t, which meant the wings held very little fuel. And then another problem: As he banked hard to the left, two F-18s flashed past overhead, pylons under their wings fully loaded with bombs. They were so close he could hear the roar of their engines.
With no instruments to feed him flight information, Donovan stayed low enough to see the ground. He leveled the speeding jet a hundred feet off the ground. Through the smoke, he spotted downtown Monterey. As before, half of the buildings were on fire. The Marriott was starting to collapse, and the Portola Hotel was fully consumed by flames. Ahead, he glimpsed the waters of the Pacific, the clear air over the ocean beckoned, and he pushed up the throttles. He had to squint as sheets of flame seemed to reach up and try to snatch them from the sky. Dangerous winds whipped between the buildings, the turbulent air laden with embers. Donovan held on as the violent currents slammed one wing and then the other as the onslaught continued.
He leveled the aircraft as they flashed across the shore and glanced down at what was left of the marina they’d once considered a refuge. The damage looked worse from above, and he knew they would have had no chance down there. In a hole through the last of the smoke, he caught sight of the commercial wharf—the basic structure that served Monterey’s working fishing fleet. Instead of gray concrete, Donovan saw a distinctive mosaic of color that could only be a crowd of people. As the Gulfstream raced overhead, scores of faces looked upward, some waved desperately. An instant later the Gulfstream was out over the waves.
“Shannon. There’s a crowd of people on the commercial pier with nowhere to go.”
“The marina was destroyed. How can anyone be there?”
“There’s another pier that reaches out into the bay. We never would have seen them from where we were.” Clear of the shore, Donovan pulled the left throttle back to see if the fire warning would go out as he reduced the fuel.
“The red light means we’re still on fire, right?” Shannon asked
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