The general put the receiver down and turned to the chief master sergeant, who had just received another note.
“Is the President ready in the Starsuite, Chief?”
“He was, sir, but I was just advised he’s on another call.”
“How long?”
The chief shrugged. “Perhaps five minutes, sir. I looked in myself. Air Force One has gone off-line.”
“I don’t have five minutes!”
“You want me to try to get him back, sir?” the chief asked.
The general looked at the senior NCO and shook his head. “No.”
He scratched his chin and stared at his shoes for a few seconds before picking up the receiver again. It was his decision, and he was out of time.
“Colonel, their orders are to proceed. Let’s just hope and pray they can find that Boeing in time.”
ABOARD SCOTAIR 50—7:38 P.M. EDT
There were twenty-three minutes left to detonation as Scott, Linda, and Jerry reentered the cargo cabin while Vivian took up position in the cockpit door.
The noise and wind from the gaping hole where the cargo door had been and the sight of rain showers flashing past along with ragged clouds in the waning light made the former passenger cabin seem foreign and strange, but the malevolent presence of the bomb made it feel surreal and threatening.
The one remaining item in the cabin was the crate containing eight thousand pounds of thermonuclear engineering, a monstrosity concocted in the workshop of Dr. Rogers Henry. It sat where it had been loaded in Miami, in pallet position five, halfway to the rear of the cabin and twenty feet behind the aft edge of the gaping cargo door opening.
Scott turned and pointed to the safety straps they had reattached to themselves.
“MAKE SURE THEY’RE SECURE!” Scott yelled over the noise of the slipstream.
Linda nodded as Jerry flashed a thumbs-up acknowledgment.
Quickly they moved to positions behind the pallet containing the weapon as Jerry unlocked the forward restraints and carefully checked the rollers. They would have to push the pallet and its contents twenty feet forward on the cargo floor rollers to get it in position to shove sideways out the door.
Jerry moved around to the aft end of the Medusa Weapon and took his position alongside Scott and Linda. He could see Vivian around the right side of the pallet.
“READY?” he asked Scott.
Scott nodded yes.
Jerry looked forward at Vivian and gave the prearranged hand signal. Within moments the engines once again wound down toward idle and the nose of the 727 began coming down.
“OKAY,” Jerry prompted, “PUSH!”
Even with the floor canted down toward the front, the bomb was hard to start in motion. They strained and pushed, rewarded by a slow movement that then accelerated steadily. Doc was holding the deck angle at about six degrees nose-down, Scott figured, and that was enough.
Foot by foot the steel box moved forward, gaining a little speed, until a sudden bang vibrated through the aircraft as the pallet hit the forward restraints and came to a halt, perfectly aligned with the cargo door opening on the left side.
Jerry leaned down and quickly installed floor anchors to prevent it from rolling back, then stood and flashed the appropriate sign to Vivian, who once again slipped into the cockpit to relay the word.
The deck angle returned to normal.
“OKAY,” Jerry yelled, “YOU TWO TAKE THE BACK. I’LL TAKE THE FRONT EDGE.” He moved forward and took his position between the bomb and the cockpit door several feet away.
Scott looked at his watch once again and then glanced out the gaping door into the gathering night. The thunderous noise of the slipstream and the sight of the constant rain showers were awesome, and as he watched, the showers became a torrent of water accompanied by sudden intense turbulence.
There were several heavy bounces as the 727 ran through wild vertical air currents, followed by a tremendous updraft which lasted for many seconds as Linda and Scott steadied each other and hung on to the bomb itself for balance.
Jerry was standing on the cockpit side of the bomb pallet with his safety strap lying in some disarray on the floor as the Boeing hit a mighty series of updrafts. The sudden lurches terminated in a gut-wrenching heave of the aircraft upward, followed by an equally violent drop.
With all but the forward restraints removed, the eight-thousand-pound Medusa Weapon had no physical means of remaining attached to the floor as the 727 suddenly dropped at greater than one gravity. Jerry saw the bomb rise from the cargo rails and rollers, float for a moment over the top of the floor restraints, and begin moving in what seemed like slow motion toward the forward bulkhead. His mind raced to compute the most effective means of getting out of its way and he launched himself backward several feet, expecting to fall safely against the bulkhead.
But the safety strap had wrapped itself around one of the floor restraints a minute before. The strap tightened now against the restraint, and like a shortened leash, yanked him in a hopeless downward arc to the metal floor five feet short of the forward bulkhead.
The pallet floated toward him, looming over his feet and legs. The inevitable updraft was waiting on the other side of the downdraft, and it slammed the 727 upward with positive G-forces, leaving the unrestrained bomb free to crash to the floor.
There was nowhere to go, and no time to get free of the safety strap holding him helpless in the shadow of the oncoming pallet. Like a surprised mouse watching the bar of a sprung trap descend with unanticipated speed, Jerry watched the pallet slam to rest on top of his legs.
Linda and Scott had been yanked from the floor by the downdraft and the cargo net they were clinging to.
When they had taken quick inventory and found themselves whole, Scott’s attention shifted to Jerry, just as a strange high-pitched noise started at the forward end of the cabin. At first Scott wondered if the scream could be another warning from the weapon. It echoed from all points in the cabin.
But the realization of what had happened came as a sickening impact. His stomach churned as he realized the lower half of Jerry’s body was trapped underneath the bomb, and the flight engineer was screaming in agony.
Scott saw Linda come around the edge of the pallet and heard her gasp as she saw Jerry.
There was no time to think. The pallet had to be moved. Scott looked up to find Vivian watching in horror from the cockpit door. He raced to the door and flung it open to stick his head inside.
“DOC! JERRY’S BEEN HURT. HE’S UNDER THE FORWARD LIP OF THE BOMB. WE’VE GOT TO MOVE IT!”
Doc whirled his head toward the door with true fear on his face.
“WHAT?”
“PUSH OVER AND ACCELERATE, NOW! GIVE ME ZERO G FOR SEVERAL SECONDS AND ACCELERATE, WE’VE GOT TO PUSH IT BACKWARD.” Scott turned and pushed past Vivian through the door.
Linda had dropped to her knees by Jerry’s head and was trying to comfort the traumatized engineer. She looked up as Scott rushed back toward the forward edge of the pallet.
“GET UP! LINDA, GET UP! GET READY TO PUSH IT BACKWARD!”
She scrambled to her feet as the floor began to drop out from under them and the engines wound up to full power.
The Medusa Weapon was suddenly moving upward, as were they, and Scott saw Linda’s feet float uselessly out from under her. He had managed to wedge a foot under the lip of the side rail. He pushed backward against the heavy pallet with all his might now, his foot straining against the rail.
The pallet moved up and off Jerry, but it still hung over him. Scott had to get it back far enough before Doc reversed and pulled out of the dive. He had no more than a few seconds.
Please, God! Please, God! Scott felt himself straining beyond all normal physical limits as he struggled to move the bomb backward. For an eternity the Medusa pallet refused to budge. Finally, slowly, it rose from the floor and moved backward far enough to clear Jerry’s feet.
In the cockpit—his stomach in a knot, praying
he’d given them enough time at zero gravity—Doc reached the absolute limits of the dive. A few seconds more and he wouldn’t be able to recover. He yanked the speed brakes out and retarded the throttles to idle as he pulled the nose up, aware of another loud THUNK which wafted forward from the cabin as the eight-thousand-pound bomb smashed back down to the floor.
Scott fell forward to his knees and looked at Linda, who was wide-eyed and frightened, but unhurt. Then they both scrambled to the grievously injured flight engineer. The pallet had dropped just inches from his flattened boots.
There was a crimson pool growing slowly beneath Jerry’s left boot, which had been compressed like an accordion. His right boot was twisted and flattened from the side, but there was no blood.
“JERRY, CAN YOU MOVE?”
Jerry was grimacing in pain, his eyes wide with fear, his arms flailing over his head, trying to propel himself backward toward the safety of the cockpit.
“MY … LEGS!” he cried out. “I CAN’T MOVE THEM!”
Scott turned to Linda as Vivian appeared from the cockpit, trying to steady herself against the continuous, but lighter, turbulence.
“LET’S MOVE HIM INTO THE COCKPIT,” Scott yelled.
Vivian and Linda grabbed Jerry beneath his arms and pulled backward as Scott tried to guide his legs and feet. Jerry cried out loudly in pain at the movement, his eyes closed. It was obvious that his knees and legs and pelvis had been badly broken in numerous places. It was equally obvious he would need immediate medical attention if he were to live through this.
Vivian pulled open the cockpit door and they wrestled him inside at an angle, but his long frame grossly exceeded the floor space of the cockpit and his injured legs and feet had to be left protruding into the cabin.
Scott hooked the door open and gestured Vivian toward a compartment in the galley.
“GET OUT THE FIRST-AID KIT. THERE’S A HYPODERMIC OF MORPHINE.”
She nodded as Linda grabbed Scott’s arm.
“WE’RE DOWN TO NINETEEN MINUTES.”
Scott looked back at the Medusa Weapon. It was askew and off to one side now, sitting astride the guide rail and resting against the sidewall. The forward edge, however, was perfectly aligned with the open cargo door. If they could lift it and move it sideways, they could still dump it.
He looked at Jerry, his stomach knotting up at the thought of his employee, not to mention his friend, in such pain. What if they had to ditch? There was no way Jerry could get out without being carried, and even the movement itself could kill him.
Vivian came back with the first-aid kit, quickly found the hypo of morphine, and injected it into Jerry’s upper arm through a ragged tear in his shirt. He grew quiet almost immediately.
Scott closed his eyes and shook his head to clear it. I can’t think about anything but the bomb now. I’ve got to put him out of my mind!
Scott turned back to Linda and pulled her close so he could speak without yelling.
“Doc will have to push the aircraft over again, then slip left.”
“Can we do it?” Linda asked. “There’s only us now.”
“I think so.” Scott turned quickly to the cockpit and stepped over Jerry’s body to brief the copilot. He was back in thirty seconds.
“I’ll take the forward right edge, you take the back right side edge. When Doc floats it, we push it toward the door. When it’s on the rollers, I’ll yell at Doc. When he cants the floor to the left side, we push for all we’re worth.”
“SCOTT!” Doc’s voice boomed over the PA and into the cabin. “GIVE ME A COUPLE OF MINUTES TO GET POSITIONED. WE PULLED OUT AT ONE THOUSAND FEET ON THAT ONE. I’VE GOTTA GET SOME ALTITUDE!”
Scott looked at his watch, then at Linda, who was biting her lip savagely. He leaned over to speak in her ear again.
“If it goes off on impact with the water, we’re screwed. But if somehow it doesn’t … if it doesn’t go off until the timer hits zero … we’ll have time to get away. But we’ve got to get it out fast.”
Linda reached up and tightened Scott’s restraint. He did the same for her. They could feel the aircraft climbing as sheets of water and mist passed the open door, wetting the interior continuously. They were both aware of the slick metal floor.
But they were equally aware that time had almost run out.
TWENTY-NINE
WOLF FLIGHT—7:43 P.M. EDT
The two-ship formation of F-15 Eagles had been gulping fuel at a furious rate for the previous twenty minutes as they streaked across the southern edge of Hurricane Sigrid in pursuit of ScotAir 50. The coordinates of where the 727 had been when the flight of F-16’s had left them were passed by their command post, and by a simple time and distance estimate, the lead F-15 pilot had figured about where the Boeing would be.
The unenhanced radar return of the 727 flared on their tactical screens right on schedule. The two Eagles punched down through the fury of the hurricane and closed on the target using only radar, just as their F-16 counterparts had done. At ten miles behind the 727 they slowed below supersonic speed, and at four miles began looking in earnest through the murky twilight for the cargo airliner ahead.
There were eighteen minutes left to detonation, and both pilots knew they had been assigned what could be a one-way trip. Even if they escaped the blast, they might not be able to reach a tanker in time.
But the lead pilot had also been briefed that their mission was focused on a single, critical objective: Avert a historic national tragedy by getting the crew of ScotAir 50 to insert the single digit “1” in the bomb’s computer before the countdown reached zero.
ABOARD SCOTAIR 50—7:43 P.M. EDT
Scott McKay placed his hands on the side of the Medusa Weapon as if it were a living thing, and waited for Doc’s voice to signal they were ready.
If it went off on impact with the surface of the Atlantic more than a mile below, there would be an incredibly bright light—and then oblivion.
Scott glanced at the beautiful dark-haired woman next to him. She was similarly absorbed in the task they were about to perform, her face a mask of stress as she looked out the open door ten feet away. He assumed she was wondering the same things: How it would feel. How fast it would be over. What lay beyond.
Linda glanced around and caught him looking at her. Her eyes locked onto his and she smiled softly as she reached out to touch his arm, her voice necessarily loud against the ambient noise.
“WE’RE GOING TO MAKE IT, SCOTT.”
He smiled self-consciously, his mind suddenly preoccupied with the thought that he should be reassuring her.
“YOU BET WE ARE,” he replied.
More turbulence bounced the aircraft, sending chills down Scott’s back. What if it happened again, and one or both of them ended up trapped beneath the weapon?
Why, why, why couldn’t we find another solution?
Scott visualized the screen and the keyboard inside the small access hatch. They had taped it closed, but he’d been haunted by the thought that there might be a simple switch inside that would turn off the countdown and stop the bomb from exploding. Perhaps there was a code you could type in, one that Rogers Henry knew that no one would be able to figure out in time.
No, Scott reasoned, if Henry wanted to make absolutely sure no one could turn it off, either through logic or luck, he would have made certain no switch or combination of numbers or letters could stop the countdown.
But why have a keyboard if you’re not going to allow meaningful input?
Still no word from Doc on the PA. The howl of the slipstream seemed to get louder, the sound of hail chattering against the aircraft’s structure once again assaulting his ears.
Scott glanced at his watch. Seventeen minutes left.
His head almost hurt from the high-speed stream of thoughts, but lurking just beyond his conscious grasp was the promise of an answer. It wasn’t logical that there’d be no solution.
Suppose it was something bizarre, like his wife’s name, or a sim
ple sequence of digits, like, say, Douglas Adams’ “42,” Heinz “57,” or Joe Heller’s Catch-“22”? There were thousands of possibilities, but there was virtually no time left.
Maybe I should try anyway, Scott thought.
“OKAY, SCOTT.” Doc’s voice filled the cargo cabin. “WE’RE AT SIX THOUSAND AND STABLE. I’M SLOWING NOW.”
Linda glanced at the ceiling of the 727 at the same time, both of them aware that the whine of the two remaining jet engines was decreasing.
“SCOTT, I’M GOING TO GO NEGATIVE G FOR A COUNT OF FOUR. I’LL HOLD HER STRAIGHT AHEAD SO YOU CAN MOVE IT BACK ON THE ROLLERS.”
Scott looked forward at Vivian, who was standing in the cockpit doorway, straddling Jerry’s prone form. He flashed a thumbs-up sign at her and saw her nod, turn, and yell a confirmation at Doc.
Slowly, steadily, the gravity force diminished as Doc smoothly lowered the nose of the 727. The stainless steel Medusa Weapon on its aluminum pallet shifted slightly, and Scott pushed his shoulder into its side, waiting to feel it move.
Finally it yielded.
“NOW!” he said to Linda.
They pushed hard toward the open door, feeling the edge of the pallet slide off the rail and back in place on the rollers.
Doc began increasing back pressure on the yoke at the same moment, and the weapon settled back down as the 727 pulled into a slight climb, the engines once again winding up.
Scott leaned over to Linda’s ear.
“This is it! The next one is the jettison.”
She nodded, and he could feel her hair brushing his face, a familiar sensation that triggered the urge to kiss her, an incongruous reaction he quickly suppressed, glad she couldn’t know.
“We push together as hard as we can,” he continued, “but do not go beyond the centerline of the cabin. Let go at that point. If it needs more, I’ll do it.”
She nodded again, and Scott pulled away and resumed his position, hands against the side of the Medusa, feet firmly planted against the sidewall of the cabin where it met the floor. He looked down and visually tracked the safety straps. Both lay on the floor, cleanly away from the weapon’s path, still attached to the cleats in the forward floor near the cockpit entrance.
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