by Doug Beason
Soon the red dot grew bigger. It moved down the runway, going even faster. The runway clearer was deaf to the plane’s roar.
The runway clearer detected a volley of fire directed at the dot. True to its orders, the runway clearer snuffed out the projectiles in flight, vaporizing the metal slugs with its free electron laser. One missile after another was destroyed along its way.
A score of bullets were shot at the moving dot.
The runway clearer immediately turned to the bullets’ source.
The shooting stopped as well.
As the red dot lurched from the runway the runway clearer reviewed its instructions: the self-destruct code was given in myriad different ways so that misinterpretation was impossible.
A signal was sent. Electrons trickled down to the runway clearer’s nuclear-driven core. The pile was shut down, disassembled, so that the atomic plant could never be used. Then two hundred pounds of explosives reacted with laser chemicals, blowing a crater fifty feet across.
Do’brai’s runway was destroyed by the runway clearer’s death.
Bethesda Naval Hospital, Washington, D.C.
“Young man, I don’t care who the hell you are. If you don’t get my Secret Service escort in here, I’ll kick your butt all the way to Hawaii. Now move!”
The nurse scurried out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The room, although tastefully decorated, still had that drab, military-hospital look about it. The windows were secured, and the outside doors were probably locked as tight as the inside.
Montoya’s legs were wrapped from the thigh down. He tried to move his feet, but he couldn’t feel anything. Seconds passed, and a man entered the room.
“Mr. President—”
“Get me the White House on the phone.”
“It will take a few minutes to get the secure link through, Mr. President.”
“I don’t care if you get them over a pay phone. I said now.”
“Yes, sir.” The agent backed out of the room.
The door didn’t completely close, so Montoya could overhear frantic whispering. Almost immediately a phone with a long extension cord was rolled into the room. “It’s an open line, Mr. President, but at least it’s a landline. We’ve got the connection. Please remember not to discuss any classified information—”
Montoya grabbed the instrument. “Hello, Colonel Mathin? Put Woodstone on the line. He’s not there? Then put on General Peters.” After a few seconds he continued. “Tell me what has happened, Batman.”
After Peters’ assessment, Montoya nodded. “I see. Well, launch whatever fighters you’ve got in the area. Try to clear them through each country’s airspace, of course, but I don’t care where they have to go, as long as they can escort that 787 back. Yes, go ahead and send up any AWACS, tankers, and whatever else you need. The safety of that jet is your first priority. I’m in charge now, so if Woodie shows up and gives you any crap, tell him to talk with me.
“Is Baca there? Well, see if you can round him up, too. I want the State Department to start working with Defense and the director of national intelligence to build a case against Do’brai and President Ash’ath. We’ll take this to the UN and expose everything those SOBs have done. And keep me on top of things. Bye.”
Montoya slammed the phone back on the receiver. A Secret Service man rolled in another phone. “The secure STE link is here, Mr. President.”
Montoya shot a glance at the apparatus, then relaxed back in his bed. “Thank you, Paul. See if you can scare up the Vice President and have him meet me here as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President. Anything else?”
“No, that’s all. Wait—bring me a Tecate with salt and a lime. Make that two of them.”
“Uh, I’m not sure that’s a good idea with all the medication you’re on, Mr. President.”
Montoya glared at him.
The Secret Service agent backed out of the room. “Yes, sir. I’ll see what I can do.”
As the agent left, Montoya raced through the events as General Peters had related them. If the marines did indeed have that Do’brainese general on board, and if the general was who Montoya thought he was, then Montoya was really perplexed.
He didn’t know who he was going to kill first: Woodie or General Kamil.
38,000 Feet over Do’brai’s Northern Border
Gould eased up on the throttles, allowing them to cut back once they reached cruising altitude. The sky above was a deep, dark blue. He felt he could keep going up, all the way to space. It wasn’t as breathtaking as being in the TAV, but right at this moment it felt a lot better.
He’d overcompensated at first, rising from the runway with a jerk. But once he was over his nervousness the flight had gone smoothly. A piece of cake, he thought. He might even enjoy flying a trash-hauler like this. But then again, he was a test pilot, so this should be a piece of cake. It’s one thing to be cocky if you never have to test yourself; it’s another thing entirely when other people depend on you during that test.
He sat mesmerized for uncounted minutes, his eyes fixed to infinity, until Havisad grabbed his elbow and pointed. “Look, Major.”
Gould squinted.
Below him and to his right came three four-ship formations of F-35 fighters from his six. One approached until it was less than twenty yards away and rocked his wings. The pilot saluted through his cockpit.
Holding his hand up longer than usual, Gould returned the salute as the fighter moved out to pace him. The other eleven planes surrounded the 787, keeping the composite jumbo jet tucked safely away.
Exhausted, Gould relaxed back in his seat, comfortable at last.
Now he could grieve for Delores.
About the Author
Colonel Doug Beason, USAF (ret), is the author of 14 books, eight with collaborator Kevin J. Anderson, including Ignition (bought by Universal studios), Nebula nominee Assemblers of Infinity, and Ill Wind (optioned by Fox Studios). His solo novels are Return to Honor, Assault on Alpha Base, and Strike Eagle. His latest nonfiction book is The E-Bomb: How America’s New Directed Energy Weapons Will Change the Way Wars Will Be Fought. Colonel Beason’s short fiction has appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies as diverse as Analog and Amazing Stories, to Physical Review Letters and The Wall Street Journal. A Fellow of the American Physical Society and Ph.D. physicist, Doug has worked on the White House staff for the President’s Science Advisor, was the Associate Laboratory Director at the Los Alamos National Laboratory, where he was responsible for reducing the global threat of weapons of mass destruction, and was recently Chief Scientist for Air Force Space Command. On active duty for 24 years, Colonel Beason’s last assignment was as the Commander of the Phillips Research Site, where he was responsible for the facilities and personnel conducting research on directed-energy weapons and space vehicles in three theaters world-wide. He is currently Senior Vice President for Special Programs at Universities Space Research Association and is at work on several novels. DougBeason.com
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