The Ultimate Escape

by Tom Clancy

  Mark shook his head. “It’s a virus that will actually self-destruct in less than twenty-four hours,” he said proudly. “I had my dad check the virus out and he approved it.”

  “Like the twenty-four-hour flu,” Joanna said with a laugh.

  Mark nodded.

  “Then let’s fire away!” she said. Joanna Winthrop caught Mark’s eye. “And don’t try this at home again unless your dad is involved, okay?” she warned him.

  The boy nodded. He remembered all too well the look on his father’s face when he’d discovered Mark’s recent activities.

  She plunged the tip of the needle into the simulation, injecting the virus into the software, exited the program, and began scanning the simulation computer’s directory.

  “What are you doing, Joanna?” Mark asked.

  “Just laying a few small traps. We wouldn’t want them to be able to reload a working copy of this simulation from backup datascripts, would we?” And with a smile on her face, the sort of smile a cat who finds itself in an aviary might wear, she turned back to her work.

  The next morning, as the Net Force Explorers arrived at the International Educational Institute’s seminar room, a grim Dr. Lanier was there to greet them.

  “I truly apologize, Net Force Explorers,” he said with genuine regret. “But we’ve experienced another problem. This time in the Korean War simulator.”

  “Oh, no,” Andy Moore said with amazingly sincere disappointment in his voice. “You mean we can’t use it?”

  Dr. Lanier nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “It has presented us with a real problem, one that we’re working on solving. The manufacturer is going to download a new copy of the software tonight,” the professor continued. “But I think I’ve come up with a solution that will suffice in the meantime.”

  Dr. Lanier pushed a button on the podium and the lights dimmed. A huge, panoramic hologram of a formation of four-engine bombers, with fighter escort in tow, filled the room above them.

  “I think you’ll like our substitute simulation,” Dr. Lanier said hopefully.

  “It’s all about the daring daylight bombing raids over Nazi Germany….”

  Another shot of a B-24 spinning out of control, its cockpit burning, graphically illustrated the dangers to the men who had served in the Army Air Corps—as it was called back before the permanent establishment of a separate branch of the service called the United States Air Force.

  “Losses among the bomber crews were astronomical,” Dr. Lanier said grimly. “For each bomber that went down over enemy territory, ten men were lost or captured.”

  The image shifted to scenes of Allied prisoners of war behind barbed-wire fences, and a tragic shot of a bomber crewman lying on the ground near the shattered remains of his B-17 bomber.

  “Large raids against specific targets—called ‘Big Weeks’ by the Allied military command—could result in the loss of over a hundred planes in a single five-to-seven-day period.” Dr. Lanier paused. “That’s over a thousand men dead or captured,” he said quietly.

  Megan shifted uncomfortably in her seat as she watched the footage and listened to the lecture. While she often dreamed of planning large-scale operations such as this, Megan had seldom computed the human cost of such grandiose missions. But now she was harshly reminded that it was real men and women—not numbers on a mission planning statement—who actually carried out such plans. If she ever achieved her dreams, many of the people she sent into harm’s way would return injured, and some wouldn’t come back at all.

  “Over half a million U.S. aviators served in England during the Second World War,” Lanier informed them. “Many of those men never came home.”

  Matt, Mark, Megan, David, and even Andy Moore were stunned into silence by an image of seemingly endless rows of white crosses—American graves in a French field. More dramatic footage continued to unfold on the flat-screen.

  As he watched, Matt thought about his mother, who had spent much of his childhood away from the family, flying fighter planes off aircraft carrier decks. Matt and his father had both missed her terribly. Yet Marissa Hunter’s was but a small sacrifice compared to the men who had given their all in the middle of the last century to fight tyranny in one of the longest and most costly wars in human history.

  Matt also realized that, like the pilots of the Second World War, his mother lived every day in the certain knowledge that she too could be called to serve—and might not return. That was a scary thought, and Matt immediately turned to face his friend and fellow Net Force Explorer Andy Moore.

  Andy Moore lives with that loss every day. Matt realized, trying to read his friend’s expression as he listened to the lecture.

  In truth, Andy Moore was deeply affected by the dramatic footage, but he made sure it didn’t show on his face. Andy didn’t want the others to think he was weak.

  Up until that moment, the Century of Military Aviation seminar had been a game to him. Andy enjoyed the competition, but the educational aspect of the seminar was of much less interest to him.

  But seeing the harrowing films of aircraft plunging out of the sky, knowing that the men inside them were facing certain death—or what was sometimes worse, life as a prisoner of war—reminded Andy that real men had given up their lives fighting Nazis over eighty years ago.

  And the films also reminded Andy about the very real sacrifice his own father had made for his country. It was something Andy Moore tried not to think about. There wasn’t much to be gained, after all, from wondering about what could have been.

  But sometimes, when he saw Mark with his father, Jay Gridley, or when he watched Matt Hunter interact with his dad, Andy was filled with a terrible sense of loss for the father he’d barely known.

  A father who had given his life for his country.

  It happened during the uneasy cease-fire after the South African War of 2010-2014. A group of U.S. peacekeepers were attacked and cut off by rebels outside Mandelatown. Rescue choppers were sent in, and a young colonel named Robert Moore supervised the evacuation under merciless enemy fire. Colonel Moore then learned that a platoon of U.S. Rangers had been cut off and surrounded, so he led a group of soldiers into the area to get them out.

  In the savage fighting, the platoon was rescued, but resistance was so fierce that someone had to stay behind and cover the platoon’s retreat.

  That someone was Colonel Robert Moore, Andy’s father. He died that day, on that bloody battlefield in Africa.

  The loss of his father had left a void in Andy’s life that nothing could ever fill. Everybody says that my dad cared so much for the lives of others, that he gave up his life to save them, Andy thought sadly. But Dad probably didn’t care about Mom and me. Why else would he die saving a bunch of people he didn’t even know?

  How can a father care more about strangers than he does about his own family? he wondered.

  Suddenly, Andy Moore noticed Matt Hunter studying him. He quickly pushed his thought aside, before the pain and loss could show on his face.

  With an act of will, Andy turned his attention back to Dr. Lanier’s lecture.

  “By 1943, the tide of the war in Europe had shifted, and the Allied bombers no longer flew alone against the enemy fighters,” Dr. Lanier said. “They had their ‘Little Friends’ to help them.”

  On the flat-screen, a single-engine fighter streaked past, guns blazing. The images shifted more rapidly now. Shots of wing-camera footage of German planes being knocked out of the sky, the pilot sometimes spinning away from the cockpit at the last possible second, flashed across the gigantic monitor in dramatic silence.

  “The first fighter aircraft to arrive at the European theater was the P-47 Thunderbolt,” Lanier said as the monitor revealed a stubby, fat-nosed fighter with a four-bladed propeller. “While the Thunderbolt was rugged and effective, its range was limited due to its fuel consumption, and the fighters could not protect the bombers all the way in to the target. Remember,” Dr. Lanier reminded them all, “this was be
fore the days of in-flight refueling.”

  The image shifted again, and Matt, David, and Andy instantly recognized the sleek, trim silver fighter on the screen.

  “The P-51 Mustang changed the course of the war,” Lanier said. “With large wing tanks for fuel, and drop tanks on its belly, the P-51 could fly from Britain to Poland, a range nearly equaling that of the bombers it protected.”

  Again the image shifted, as a variety of aircraft appeared on screen. All of them bore black crosses on their wings and swastikas on their tails.

  “Germany did what they could, against insurmountable odds, to counter the threat of the Allies’ around-the-clock bombing campaign. The British bombed Germany at night; the Americans bombed Germany in the daylight.”

  The image on the screen changed to reveal a sleek German fighter.

  “The coming of the Focke-Wulf FW 190 Wurger in 1941 almost changed the course of the war. This plane was as fast and maneuverable as the Mustang, though it was more lightly armed.

  “When the Focke-Wulf failed to stem the tide of American and British bombers, more radical designs were tried. Most unsuccessfully.”

  A stubby rocket plane appeared on the screen. Its tiny cockpit held a single German pilot, who waved uncomfortably for the cameraman. It was hard to believe that the footage had been taken almost a century before. The pilot had the same nervous expression Matt had seen on his fellow Net Force Explorers before they entered the simulators.

  War has a human face, Matt mused. And it’s the same whether it belongs to your friend or your enemy.

  “The Messerschmitt-163 Komet was the most radical of those designs,” Lanier said. “A rocket plane with limited range and flight time, over seven hundred Komets were built despite the fact that the fuel they carried was so dangerous and corrosive that many of the airplanes exploded on landing, their pilots’ bodies burned away in the massive blast caused by the fuel mixture. Few pilots survived to tell of their experiences aboard a Komet.”

  Then the scene shifted again. When a new aircraft appeared on the monitor, Matt recognized it as one of the most important innovations to come out of the Second World War, an invention that would change the face of war in the air forever.

  “Near the end of the conflict in Europe, the Mustangs had to deal with their most dangerous threat,” Lanier continued.

  “The Messerschmitt Me-262 was a radical innovation. It was the first jet fighter to fly in combat.”

  The image shifted again, to a scene of a 262 streaking past a formation of B-24’s. One of the bombers exploded, its wing folding under the hammering of the German fighter’s six nose guns.

  “Wow,” David Gray said. “What chance did piston-engine propeller planes have against jets?”

  “The Mustang could hold its own,” Dr. Lanier said. “Just barely. But fortunately, by that point in the war the Germans could only manufacture a few jets, which were difficult and time-consuming for ground crews to maintain, and even harder to fly.”

  The image on the screen vanished, and the room lights came back on.

  “And fortunately for you, you’ll only be dealing with Focke-Wulfs today,” Lanier said. “After all, unlike real war, we have to be fair.”

  There were audible sighs of relief all around.

  “But there will be a few surprises, I assure you,” he added ominously.

  1 ‘I want to say right now that this is one of the most grueling and difficult simulations at the Institute,” he said. “The mission takes place in real time—there’s no compression in this simulation.”

  Megan gasped. David Gray rolled his eyes. And Matt recalled Julio’s description of the ordeal. He’d conveniently forgotten about this aspect of the simulation.

  “This simulation can last up to three hours,” Lanier said. “So I suggest you visit the rest rooms before you take off.”

  Everyone chuckled.

  1 ‘You have your panic buttons if things get too intense for you,” Lanier reminded them. “There is no shame if you use them.”

  The Net Force Explorers exchanged meaningful glances. They knew that the panic button was not an option for them this mission. Not if they wanted to find Julio.

  “Now,” the professor concluded. “Off to the simulators, and good luck to you all.”

  On the way to the veeyar chamber, Andy Moore stopped to read the roster. He paled and turned to his Net Force Explorers.

  “Guess what,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me,” David Gray said. “We’re going up against Dieter Rosengarten and the Berliners again.”

  Andy nodded.

  “Well,” Megan said, “what did you expect? They’re pretty well tied to us throughout this first round, either on our side or against us.”

  “I know what I expect,” Andy Moore said. “I expect to kill Dieter. I’m good enough, I’m strong enough. Dieter is meat. Dead meat.”

  Matt turned to Mark, who’d be his wingman for this flight. “Stay close,” he said.

  Then Matt turned to Andy. “Just don’t forget why we’re going in there.”

  Nearly an hour and a half into the veeyar simulation, the Net Force Explorers were suffering from a severe case of boredom. It was an overcast day, though they were flying in the sun above the low-lying clouds. The intermittent cloud cover frequently blocked their view of the landscape below them, so they couldn’t spend their time checking for signs of enemy presence or movement on the Continent. One or two of the Net Force Explorers might have drifted off to sleep, if it hadn’t been for another factor.

  They were also uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. The cockpits of the P-51 Mustangs were cold, despite the pilots’ A-l leather flight jackets, and they were sitting on their parachutes, which was awkward and made for circulation difficulties if they weren’t careful. None of them could sleep, even if they wanted to.

  Even worse, they’d been ordered to limit their radio contact with each other. Too much chatter could alert the “enemy” to their presence and bring about an early attack.

  So there was nothing for the Net Force Explorers to do but fly their planes, keep an eye on their fuel gauges, and search the sky for the enemy. And for Julio.

  Matt Hunter checked his wing. Mark Gridley still hung there, close and tight in the flight pattern, with David Gray and Megan O’Malley high and behind them.

  Andy Moore flew well ahead of the rest. He had the lonely job of flying “point” on this mission.

  Matt looked over his shoulder and spotted David Gray’s distinctive Mustang. David had chosen a Mustang with its tail section painted bright red from the available choices in this simulation. It was the mark of the Tuskeegee Airmen, a group of African-American pilots who flew against the Germans in an all-black squadron.

  Megan flew on his wing. Her tail was also painted red, and she had selected a colorful design for the nose of her fighter too. A grinning, evil-looking clown clutching a machine gun.

  Matt could see the belly drop tanks strapped to the Mustangs. These tanks carried fuel that extended the Mustang’s range. The gas in these tanks was used up first, and the hollow metal cylinders were dropped when empty—or if the planes got into a fight. The exterior fuel tanks were a drag on the airplanes, and dangerously flammable if struck by enemy shells.

  Mart’s and Mark’s Mustangs were less impressive-looking. They’d chosen standard models, with no cosmetic paint. They were here to work, not play. It was their job to survive the sim long enough to find Julio Cortez and talk to him at length, if they could. In the light of their goal, they’d put their energy into practicing, not into modifying their aircrafts’ appearance.

  Below them in the veeyar. a formation of brown B-17 Flying Fortress bombers approached their target, a German factory complex used for building fighter aircraft. The Net Force Explorers’ job was to protect those bombers from Dieter’s fighters. But so far, things had been quiet.

  That changed suddenly.

  Puffs of smoke began exploding all around them, and around
the bombers. The tiny explosions, which looked like cotton balls, were the signs of antiaircraft fire from the ground.

  Once the barrage started, it would probably continue all the way to the target and back again. It was dangerous and random. An antiaircraft shell could strike their planes at any time, bringing them down. In 1944, Matt knew, flak brought down 3,501 American planes—almost six hundred more planes than German fighters had destroyed.

  And they couldn’t fight back.

  It could be worse, however, as Dr. Lanier had warned them. If the antiaircraft shells suddenly stopped, that meant that the German fighters were on their way.

  It was a “lose-lose situation” as far as Matt Hunter could tell.

  Matt checked his fuel gauge again. These missions pushed the Mustangs to the limits of their range, even if things went well. If they got into a full-scale scrap now, none of them would have enough fuel to escort the bombers all the way to their targets and then return with them to their base—which was okay in the simulators, but not so great during a real war.

  When he noticed his drop tank was empty, Matt reached down and pulled the lever that released it. On his wing, Mark Gridley followed suit.

  With their tanks gone, their Mustangs handled a little bit better. Far ahead of them, Matt noticed that Andy Moore had dropped his spare fuel tank as well.

  Good y Matt thought with relief. It looks like Andy is on top of things.

  “Bandits at three o’clock!” David Gray said, startling Matt. But before Matt could even turn his head to the right to scan for the Germans, Megan O’Malley’s voice burst through his headphones.

  “Bandits at nine o’clock!” she said.

  Below them, the formation of bombers was taking hits, too. German Focke-Wulf fighters hiding in the low cloud cover had suddenly erupted from the clouds and were shooting from beneath them, the direction that planes least expected an attack from, using pairs of top-mounted 20-millimeter cannon to fire at them from below. The devastating technique, mostly used for night fighting, was called Schrdge Musik, “slanting music,” the German term at the time for jazz.