“Hey, that door was locked!” the navigator cried out in confusion, spinning from his console. Then he raised an eyebrow at the pregnant woman holding an automatic weapon of some kind. Shit! A hijacking!
“Nobody move,” Harrison ordered.
The copilot fumbled under his seat, while the navigator snatched a small black box from the wall and lunged forward to thrust the Talon stun gun at the intruder, the silvery prongs crackling with electricity. The Chinese man got only halfway before Harrison fired from the hip.
Hardly any flame or smoke erupted from the muzzle, and only a subdued click was heard, as if the weapon had misfired. But the navigator dropped the Talon as he was slammed backward against his console, blood spurting from his throat.
Harrison fired twice more, only clicks sounding. The navigator writhed under the sledgehammer blows, his chest seeming to explode and a radar screen behind the man noisily cracked as a slug drilled through. Exhaling life itself, the shuddering man fell to the cold deck, blood pouring from the gaping holes in his body.
“Alert, Anchorage!” the pilot said quickly into her throat mike. “Code four, repeat, we have a code four in progress!”
But there was no reply from the airport; not even the soft crackle of static came over her earphones. The radio was completely dead.
That was when she noticed that most of the control board was dead, many of the instruments giving wildly impossible readings. Shit and fire, her ship was in some sort of a jamming field! There was no other possible explanation.
Reaching under the chair, she thumbed a hidden button. Then something hit her shoe, and the pilot glanced down to see a misshapen lead slug on the deck. From the pistol? But there had been no noise. What was going on here?
“That emergency signal will never be heard.” Harrison chuckled, enjoying their confusion. On impulse, he reached up and pulled off his annoying wig.
The pilot scowled at the sight of the hijacker’s bald head, the skin stubbled with hair. Not bald, shaved, details she would need to remember to help convict him in court before the Red Army firing squad blew off his face.
“Don’t hurt anybody else,” the copilot said in Chinese, raising both hands. “We will obey. What do you want?”
The hijacker frowned at the copilot, and the pilot realized he didn’t speak Chinese. That could be useful in the future.
“This is foolish,” the pilot began in English. “Once we move off course—”
“Shut up! Do you need the copilot to fly this plane?”
Not really, no, she admitted to herself. Then the end result of such honesty became horrifying obvious.
“Yes!” she lied, darting a glance at her friend. “Of course. This aircraft is huge!”
Harrison smiled. “You lie,” he whispered, and the strange gun clicked twice more. The copilot jerked backward against the hull, then slumped over in his chair, supported only by the safety harness around his chest. Blood began to dribble from his slack mouth, and a second Talon fell to the deck with a clatter.
“Toy, stupid, useless toy,” Harrison growled in annoyance.
Then the Tech-9 swung to point at the captain. To her, the muzzle seemed larger than the Beijing Tunnel, and she felt the world shrink to a view of its black interior. A drop of sweat suddenly trickled down her face, and a thousand images and feelings flashed through her mind in a single heartbeat: childhood, family, friends, becoming captain.
“Obey me, or die,” Harrison said from somewhere in the distance.
Her attention split in two, the yoke of the jumbo jetliner felt hot in her grip, the elaborate control board only inches away. If it was only her life, she would crash the plane rather than submit. But she was responsible for all the other souls in the aircraft. Honor wouldn’t allow her to abandon them. For the moment, there seemed to be no other choice. Yes, she would obey, and hopefully live, and do her best to keep the passengers alive no matter what.
Then a muscular hand gripped the pilot’s shoulder and squeezed hard, the sharp painted nails digging painfully into her flesh.
“Well?” Harrison demanded, pressing the gun barrel to her right eye.
As if her head weighed a thousand tons, the pilot slowly nodded.
“Very good.” He chuckled and slid his hand down the silken material of her white blouse to cup a soft breast and squeeze with brutal force.
She started to cry out from the pain, then bit back the sound and concentrated on flying the plane as the man lewdly fondled her body. Born and raised a Communist, the pilot didn’t believe in any gods, but she still sent a silent prayer into the universe begging for deliverance from the coming hell.
CHAPTER FIVE
Nome, Alaska
The summer wind was warm, gently rustling the bluebell flowers that grew wild in the fields outside the airport.
The unmarked C-130 Hercules transport was parked all by itself on a secluded landing field as far away from the main terminal as possible. All across the Nome International Airport, the staff, crew and TSA guards were staying far away from the military transport. They had been told when it would arrive, and nothing more. But nobody thought twice about the incident. Alaska was so close to Russia, only fifteen miles at the closest point, that the local population was used to covert military landings, odd troops movements and such ever since the cold war. America and Russia were friendly these days, but the military still kept a close watch on its old foe. Just in case.
With a strong whine of hydraulics, the rear of the C-130 Hercules transport disengaged, and cycled down to the ground to form a ramp. Deep inside the mammoth plane, headlights flashed on, and soon a civilian SUV rolled into view and bumped down the ramp to reach the tarmac.
Driving a few yards away from the aircraft, Carl “Ironman” Lyons parked the SUV and waited for the rest of the team to drive out. The vehicle was a dark green in color, so dark it appeared to be black. The windows were tinted, and the license plates carried government numbers.
What couldn’t be seen was the composite armor lining the SUV, and its hidden arsenal of weaponry in the ceiling, walls and seats.
Suddenly the massive engines of the Hercules coughed into life, the four great propellers rotating in spurts and then accelerating into a steady blur. Then the rear hatch began to cycle upward as the airplane prepared for takeoff.
Setting the parking brake, Lyons scowled. What the hell was going on now?
The side door near the tail swung open and a pair of duffel bags was tossed onto the tarmac, closely followed by Blancanales and Schwarz. Even as the two men grabbed their bags, the C-130 released its brakes and started to taxi forward, heading for an empty runway. The two men walked toward the SUV, and by the time they arrived, the Hercules was airborne and disappearing into the clouds.
“Trouble?” Lyons asked from behind the wheel.
Blancanales opened the rear hatch and tossed in his bag. “Yes and no,” he replied. “We caught the squawk from the Farm that a China Air 747 has crashed in the Koryak Mountains of Russia only an hour ago.”
“Sorry to hear it,” Lyons said with a grunt. “What has that got to do with us?”
“Its destination was New Delhi,” Schwarz said, adding his duffel to the pile of equipment and packs in the rear of the SUV. “And it left Ted Stevens Airport in Anchorage two hours after the attack on Quiller Labs, about six hours ago.”
As the men climbed into the vehicle, Lyons did some fast mental math. “So it’s hundreds of miles off course. And how did it penetrate that deep into Russian airspace without being challenged or shot down?”
“Only one way that Barb can guess,” Blancanales said, snapping on his seat belt.
“The Chameleon,” Lyons growled. “Our ape must have hijacked the plane, then killed the crew, jumped out and let it crash to hide that he was ever there.”
“Or it could be a diversion,” Schwarz offered, pulling the 9 mm Beretta from his shoulder holster and dropping the clip to check the load before reinserting the clip. “
But I don’t read our ape that way.”
Adjusting his DOD identification badge on his suit jacket, Blancanales nodded. “Agree. Our boy is fast and furious. Not really into fancy tricks. He’s more the lead-pipe type.”
“Anything from the pilot, or civilian cell phones?” Lyons asked, starting the engine again. The big V8 purred into life, and he slipped the shift to start driving for an access road.
“Not a peep,” Schwarz replied. “And the emergency beacon didn’t activate until the plane was already tumbling out of the sky.”
“You mean once it was out of range of the jamming field of the Chameleon,” Lyons said grimly.
“That’s the idea, yes.”
“Gadgets, could the ape have used the Chameleon to mask itself and smuggle it on board past airport security?” Blancanales asked frowning.
“He could have smuggled an Abrams tank past security with that thing,” he answered. “But it would have to be operating at very low power. Full force it would interfere with the operation of the controls regulating the jet engines, and the plane would—”
“Crash,” Blancanales interrupted. “Goddamn it, maybe the passengers rushed the bastard and that’s exactly what happened!”
Pennsylvania all over again. Conversation stopped as only a few hundred yards away, a 707 roared into the sky. Even as it ascended, a small two-seater Cessna daintily arrived to touch the ground on another landing strip. In spite of the fact that it was so close to the Arctic Circle, the Nome airport was always busy with the combined civilian and military traffic, but its safety record was equaled by few other airports.
“So unless we can find the backup files here, this is going to be a race between McCarter and the Russian air rescue service,” Lyons stated as the SUV bumped over a small crack in the road. There had been an earthquake in November 2002 that rocked all of Alaska, and the damage was still being repaired on a priority basis.
“Which is why they took off with us still on the field,” Blancanales agreed.
“Jack isn’t going to try to fly Phoenix Force there, is he?” Lyons demanded. “He’d never get past the Russian radar.”
“Damn right he couldn’t. Their EM umbrella is tight,” Schwarz stated with conviction. “Without the Chameleon, there’s no way to fly into Russian national airspace without getting a SAM up your ass. Maybe two.
“Unless you do it at a height of six inches,” he added.
Slowing down at a locked gate, Lyons waited for the armed TSA guards to leave the kiosk. He showed the woman his ID. She gave no reaction, but spoke into her radio, and then waved them past.
Taking a turn onto an access road, Lyons raised an eyebrow at that. “They’re going to try a deadman’s run?”
“Only way to get there fast enough,” Blancanales said, pulling an M-16/M-203 combo from his duffel. “Our ape might not have jumped, and the damaged Chameleon could still be on the plane. They have to get there first, at any cost.”
Damn. Then Grimaldi would be taking McCarter to Ketchikan Island. The Coast Guard should have what the team needed. If not…
“Check your equipment,” Lyons directed. “We’ll be going to the testing area first. That’s the last place where anybody would hide their backup files.”
“Then why are we going?” Blancanales asked, puzzled, slapping in a clip. Then his face brightened. “Because it’s the best place for them to ambush us.”
“This crazy son of a bitch is trying to take the pressure off Phoenix Force,” Schwarz snorted, thumbing a fat 40 mm round into the breech of his M-203 grenade launcher. He closed the breech with a solid metallic snap. “Fair enough. Let’s rattle the trees, Carl, we got your six.”
Merging with the outgoing traffic, Lyons said nothing as he checked the .357 Colt Python under his jacket and sent the SUV heading for the coastal highway outside of Nome.
CHAPTER SIX
International Waters, North Pacific Ocean
The white Coast Guard cutter pitched and tossed in the churning ocean, waves crashing over the bow with drumming force. The evening sky was pitch-black, a cold rain pelting sideways through the fog.
Visibility was near zero. Off in the distance, the powerful beam of a Russian lighthouse was only a ghostly glow, and if there was a warning horn, its plaintive cry was swallowed whole by the near deafening crash of the endless waves.
“This weather couldn’t be any better!” David McCarter shouted in frank approval over the wild storm.
“God loves the infantry.” Hawkins chuckled as the cutter dropped five feet into a wave trench. “But I think He hates the Navy tonight. Hold on, here comes another big one!”
The men gripped the chain railing tight, bracing for the crash. For a full second the ship was in free fall, then it hit hard, the jolting impact almost tearing their hands away. Riding the recoil of the watery landing, Phoenix Force watched and listened to the rampaging storm, getting a feel for its tempo and rhythm. The unexpected squall was helping to mask the approach of the USCGC Mellon. That was the good part.
Unfortunately, the Coast Guard cutter was also falling way behind schedule and the team felt the pressure of the lost time bearing down upon them. The numbers were falling and not in their favor. Too many battles to count had been lost because of arriving late. However, they couldn’t afford for this to join those ignoble ranks.
“We’re going to have to leave early,” McCarter stated, wiping the water from his face with a palm. “Got no choice!”
“In for a penny, in for a pounding, eh, David?” Gary Manning joked, bracing himself as a giant wave swept across the lower deck to crash against the hull just below their boots.
“Pity we had to leave Ketchikan Island before seeing the Panama Guns,” Encizo said, casting a glance back toward the coast of North America, only a hundred miles away, but in this storm it might as well have been in other dimension.
“Not much left of those cannons anyway,” James replied loudly, squinting into the maelstrom. “Hey, I think the squall is easing some!”
“Good!” Hawkins yelled. “Still, they would have been nice to see! The Panamas were designed to stop the Russian navy from taking Alaska. Sort of the American version of the Guns of Navarone!”
“How big were they again?” Encizo asked, swaying to the pitch of the rolling deck.
“A whopping 155 mm!” Then he added with a grin, “Just about the size of decent T-bone steak in Texas!”
“You mean a deep-dish pizza in Chicago!” James shot back.
Whipped by the wind and sea, Phoenix Force shared a brief laugh as the men battled the squall and continued their vigil. Time was short, but professional soldiers knew how to wait until just the right moment, and then explode into action. It was all timing.
Inside the wheelhouse of the USCGC Mellon, a young helmsman turned from the joystick-style yoke and gave a scowl at the strangers below on the forward deck. Alaska had been clear sailing, but only fifty miles off the coast they hit this squall. Now cold rain was coming down in sheets, and the triple-blade window wipers fought to keep the bulletproof glass clear. But the raging sea and rain were mightier than the technology of man, and the wipers gave only brief slices of visibility, strobing glimpses of the churning sea and the rocky shore they were heading toward at full speed.
“Look at them out there,” the helmsman muttered in disapproval, involuntarily flinching as a wave slammed against the starboard windows. “Standing on the open deck! Crazy bastards.”
“Peterson, why are you talking to yourself?” Captain Tyson asked, hands clasped behind his back. In spite of the inclement weather, the officer was neatly dressed in a crisp uniform, his shoes shiny with polish and his hair freshly cut.
On the wall behind the officer was a line of yellow rain slicks, Veri pistol flare guns, fire extinguishers, a medical kit and a dozen lifejackets.
“What was that, Skipper?” the helmsman asked, checking the course and heading on the dashboard instruments.
“You know the stan
ding orders,” Tyson stated. “There is nobody on the deck, not a soul in sight but you and me.” The captain paused. “And you sure as hell didn’t just call your CO crazy, now, did you?”
The helmsman swallowed hard and turned his face to the rampaging storm again. “Sir, no, sir!” he chanted, tightening both hands on the joystick.
“Didn’t think so,” Tyson muttered, moving to the motion of his cutter. Sonar showed the sea below was clear of Russian submarines, but the radar screen was filled with the storm, the computer unable to recognize a few small dots moving in from the west. They could just be St. Elmo’s fire; there was a lot of that out here. Or it could be MiG fighters moving just above the storm on a recon run.
“Maintain course and speed,” Captain Tyson said, looking out the windows at the squall.
“Aye, sir.” Concentrating on his job, the helmsman switched hands on the joystick to wipe the first one dry on a pant leg. Equipped with autofeedback, the computerized yoke wasn’t loose under his grip, but pushed back at him this way and another as the currents slapped the rudder about. It was exactly like holding a wheel and steering a windjammer. In spite of the mechanical interfacing, the joystick gave a man the feel of the water, and that was sometimes even more important than maps and sonar readings. Sailing was a science, but one that was ruled by art. The poetry of the wind was more than a clever saying; it was a way of life burned into the bones of every sailor.
Especially on this combination rescue vessel and warship. The USCGC Mellon was the pride of the Coast Guard. A Hamilton-class cutter, the craft was 378 feet long, with a crew of eighteen officers and 143 sailors. She boasted both gasoline and diesel engines, along with a flat bottom for faster speeds and the ability to go into amazingly shallow water without damage. The hull was composite armor over an aluminum frame, making the Mellon strong but lightweight. The windows were shatterproof glass, every door a watertight hatchway, and each deck was railed for safety in even the roughest storms. The Mellon could sail through a hurricane and come out fighting back, its crew and passengers alive and safe.
The Chameleon Factor Page 6