Retribution, page 38
part #1 of Dreamland Series
The Airbus shuddered as the F-15 swept over the fuselage. Kerman felt the plane slipping from his grip, responding to the violent air currents rather than his controls. He jabbed the pedals, desperate to keep it on its course. The Airbus dropped straight down about 2,000 feet, then abruptly jerked back, level, to just below its original altitude.
The two fighters had moved off. Before Kerman could exhale, a small missile whipped in front of the windscreen. The missile twirled and danced before his eyes, rising upward and then curling back, as lithe as an ocean, before plunging a few feet from the Airbus’s nose.
As it turned, he realized it wasn’t a missile, but an aircraft.
A small one, far too small and sleek for a man.
It must be a Flighthawk. The Dreamland people. They knew he was coming for them.
“I will not fail,” Kerman said aloud, hunkering closer to the wheel.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett
2139
ENGLEHARDT HAD CLOSED THE GAP BETWEEN HIMSELF AND the Airbus; as he descended through 30,000 feet, he saw the airliner a few miles ahead. The F-15s had backed away and the Flighthawk—a small black dart—wheeled over the plane. The Airbus continued on its path.
Englehardt sized up the distance between the Bennett and the Airbus. He could ride right over it—that would get their attention.
“Dreamland Bennett to Flighthawk leader and Nellis Flight One. Stand back—I’m going to take a pass.”
“Negative, Dreamland,” said the Nellis F-15. “Stand by. We are under orders to take this airplane down.”
“Negative, negative,” said Dog, practically shouting over the radio. “You can’t shoot it down.”
“Those are my orders, Colonel.”
“Sullivan, open the bomb bay doors,” said Englehardt over the interphone circuit.
“What?”
“Just open the damn the bomb bay doors.” Englehardt switched back to the radio. “Nellis One, stand off—this is our shot. We have the Airbus targeted.”
The Eagle pilot didn’t acknowledge.
“I’ll take you next if I have to,” snapped Englehardt. “Get the fuck out of my way.”
“Hey, slow down, cowboy,” said Nellis One.
“All right. Everyone, take a deep breath,” said Colonel Bastian. “We’re on the same side here. Remember who the enemy is. They may have the bomb rigged to go off when the aircraft descends. We’re working on a solution. So everyone calm down and let the scientists think.”
“Nellis,” said the F-15 flight leader, acknowledging though clearly unhappy.
“Good outburst, Mike,” Dog told Englehardt over the interphone.
“Colonel, I think I can fly right over him and push him away from the city,” said Englehardt. “If the F-15s stay out of the way, I can herd him out over the desert and have them shoot him down there. We’re never going to get him back out to sea.”
“I have a better idea,” said Starship.
Over Nevada, approaching Las Vegas
2141
KERMAN’S HEART FELT AS IF IT WERE BEING JOLTED BY ELECTRIC shocks. It was racing, and every so often skipped a beat.
He was here. He was here. The Las Vegas airport directly below him. In little more than half an hour the city would be gone. All that waited was for the timer to run its course.
He checked his altitude. He’d come down to 15,000 feet.
Every nuclear weapon had an optimum detonation altitude, where the effects of the blast were at their highest. Not being privy to the design of the Indian warhead, Kerman simply planned on flying the aircraft at 2,000 feet when the bomb exploded.
Fifteen thousand feet would be fine, though. So would the ground. There’d be plenty of destruction no matter where it exploded.
But he needed more time. His bluff about being hijacked had to work. He had to make it work.
“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201 to tower,” said Kerman. “Requesting emergency clearance to land.”
“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, you are not cleared to land. Follow Air Force instructions.”
“We are having trouble with our radio,” said Kerman. “Is our landing gear down? Can someone confirm that our gear is down?”
There was a clunk from the back of the plane. The Airbus rocked, buffeted by something. Kerman glanced at the panel for the landing gear—he hadn’t put the wheels down, had he?
Of course not.
Then he realized what was going on, and jammed his hand on the thrusters.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett
2143
STARSHIP CURSED AS THE AIRBUS LIFTED AWAY FROM THE Flighthawk.
“Didn’t work,” said the pilot over the interphone.
“Try again,” said Dog. “Get Hawk Two in. Try them together.”
Hawk Two, which Starship had used to continue checking airliners, was just catching up. The pilot told the computer that he wanted to control them in parallel, and had it help him line them up precisely together.
By the time Starship was ready, the Airbus had begun to circle to the south.
Maybe they’d made a mistake—maybe it actually had been damaged by hijackers, perhaps the men with the bomb. The real crew would take it out to sea, now that they were convinced the Americans were serious.
No such luck—it was turning back now, headed toward Vegas.
“Flighthawk leader, this is Nellis One. Take one more shot at it. Then we’re going in.”
“Keep your shirt on.”
ENGLEHARDT FOUND HIMSELF ABOUT TWO MILES BEHIND the Airbus as the aircraft began banking back to the north, once again moving in the direction of Las Vegas. He had a good view of the Flighthawks as Starship eased them in, one under each wing. The operation was a delicate one; Starship didn’t want to damage the Airbus and make it crash.
The small jets slid in close to the wing roots.
“You’re there,” said Englehardt.
“All right, all right,” said Starship. “We’re going north.”
The Airbus lifted slightly—then dropped abruptly. One of the Flighthawks twisted off to the left, slowly at first, as if it were a leaf being pealed from a tree. A few seconds later smoke began pouring from the robot aircraft.
Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, meanwhile, banked back toward Las Vegas.
“Dreamland aircraft, back off,” said Nellis One. “We’re going to fire.”
“I’m taking a shot,” said Englehardt. He reached for the throttle. “Come on, Sullivan. Help me.”
Sullivan was silent for a moment, then sprang to help. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s what we got to do.”
Englehardt had worked with the 757 tanker project, and had a great deal of experience pulling up under two-engined aircraft similar to the Airbus. But he’d never tried to pick one up before.
Screw that. This was happening. He could see it in his head.
The airliner’s shadow grew steadily. The computer’s automatic warning system was screaming alerts.
“Kill the auto system,” said Englehardt, narrowing his focus to the small area in front of him.
“Killed,” said Sullivan.
Slowly, the Megafortress eased forward. Then, just as he was going to nose up, the Airbus lurched to the left.
Englehardt felt a hole open in his stomach. His hands trembled and all of sudden he was sweating again. His entire body turned to water. There was no way he could do this. No damn way.
Tears welled in his eyes. He was scared, too scared—not good enough.
A coward. A failure.
“Hang in there, Mike,” said Colonel Bastian, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You almost had him. Just hang with him and push it in. I know you can do it.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna do it,” said Englehardt. His voice cracked and trembled, but he tightened his grip on the stick. He pushed the Megafortress back toward the Airbus. “I am going to do it.”
Over Las Vegas
2144
SOMETHING CRACKED BELOW HIM. THE AIRBUS FELT AS IF it were being pushed upward, shaking violently with a loud scraping and crackling.
Kerman cursed. He was so close—he needed only a few more minutes. Only a few more. He pounded his hand on the throttle and pulled back on the yoke.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett
2145
ENGLEHARDT FELT LIKE A BULL HAD CLIMBED ON HIS BACK and he was struggling to hold it there.
“Power!” he yelled at Sullivan.
“It’s working!” Sullivan shouted back.
The Bennett shook violently as the Airbus ramped up its engines. The Megafortress shot upward, slapping against the belly of the smaller plane.
“Starship—take out the bastard’s engines!” yelled Englehardt, pushing his nose up to stay on the Airbus.
The two planes were now rocking violently. Englehardt struggled to keep his nose angled up while Sullivan concentrated on the power. The Megafortress drove against the Airbus, pushing and pulling the lighter commercial plane through the air. Three or four people, including Nellis ground control, were trying to talk over the radio, but Englehardt kept them blocked out. He was sweating and his head pounded and his stomach was a knot, but he was doing this, he was definitely doing this, and no one was going to stop him.
HAWK ONE’S CONTROL SURFACES HAD BEEN BADLY DAMAGED by the pressure from the Airbus; worse, her engine had sucked in bits of metal, shredding most of her turbine. Starship tried to get the aircraft to the west of the city, into the open terrain, but he didn’t have enough momentum. The Flighthawk spun toward a tight cluster of homes, their light brown roofs looking like the sides of a zipper. White sand appeared—Starship pulled back on the stick, trying to push the plummeting aircraft into a golf course built in the middle of a condo development. Green grass flashed in the screen, and then everything went blank.
“Connection lost,” said the computer.
There was no time to see whether he had missed the houses. He took over Hawk Two, selecting the cannon.
The computer refused to let him fire. He was too close to the mother ship.
“Override,” he said.
“Forbidden.”
“Override Authorization StarStarTwoTwoTwo.”
“Forbidden,” insisted the computer.
“I can’t get the Flighthawk to fire!” he told Englehardt. “It thinks it’s shooting on us.”
THE MEGAFORTRESS WAS FLYING WITH HER NOSE PRACTICALLY thirty degrees downward, but she was still pushing the Airbus forward. They were past Nellis, into the Dreamland test ranges.
How far did he need to go? Twenty miles, fifty?
He might be able to hold it for another sixty seconds.
“All right—everybody get the hell out!” he said. “Get down to the Flighthawk deck and bail.”
“We’re staying with you, Mike,” said Sullivan.
“Yeah, we’re with you, Englehardt. Right down to the line,” said Daly.
“I ain’t leaving,” said Rager.
“No way,” said Starship.
The long expanse of Dreamland’s main runway passed the left side of the airplane. The Airbus bucked upward, escaped—Englehardt pushed the ganged throttle, his hand on Sullivan’s, ramming into the cargo plane.
No way it was getting away.
Tears streamed from Englehardt’s eyes.
“We’re doing this!” he screamed.
Over Nevada
2147
KERMAN STRUGGLED TO FIND A WAY TO RELEASE THE AIRBUS, but everything he tried seemed to fail. He was being pushed sideways and forward at the same time. The bigger, more powerful aircraft below him had him in its claws, pushing him away from the city, toward the open desert.
He wasn’t going to make it. By the time the bomb exploded he’d be much too far from Las Vegas to do any damage.
He pulled his seat belt off. He’d have to find a way to detonate the bomb immediately.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett
2148
“THIS IS FAR ENOUGH, MIKE!” DOG YELLED AT THE PILOT. “Let it go!”
The Megafortress lurched to the left. Suddenly free of the weight she had been carrying, she shot upward, out of control.
Dog flew backward as the plane lurched. He tumbled against the airborne radar operator’s station, then pulled himself up.
The pilots were wrestling with the controls, trying to keep the plane in the air. Dog fumbled for his headset, resettling it on his head.
“Station Five, operational, authorization Bastian Nine-nine-one,” he told the computer, double tapping the power button to bring the station on line.
“On line.”
“Anaconda weapons section on line. Authorization Bastian Nine-nine-one.”
“Bastian authorized.”
The targeting screen came up.
“Target aircraft identified as PC-1.”
A message flashed on the screen—the aircraft was identified as a civilian by its identifier.
“Override.”
A targeting reticule appeared. The plane had begun to turn back to the south, toward Las Vegas.
Dog was about to tell the computer to fire when the symbol went from red—locked—to yellow. The radar had lost the lock.
“Lock, damn it,” said Dog.
If the computer heard him, it didn’t let on. Dog switched to the manual control, using a small joystick that would let him designate the target the old-fashioned way. He hit the reset, moved to the cursor, and this time got a lock.
“Fire,” he said. “Fire Fox One!”
The missile ripped from the belly of the aircraft.
Over Nevada
2150
KERMAN FINGERED THE WIRES ON THE BOMB’S TIMER AS the aircraft jerked up and down. He hadn’t been with his uncle when the timer was explained, and Sattari hadn’t bothered to show him how it worked. Still, it seemed like a simple device; there had to be a way to set it off immediately.
A set of wires had been soldered to contacts at the top of the switch. Kerman decided he had only to cross the contacts for the weapon to be triggered.
He had nothing to cross them with.
He could do it with a pen.
The plane jerked as he reached to his pocket. He fell backward to the deck.
There was no time. Just strip the wires and touch them together, he told himself. Be done with it. Be done with it.
He clawed his way upright, then hunched over the timer.
As his fingers touched the wires, the plane lurched again. Kerman pushed down on the device with one hand and managed to pull the wires off the contact with his other.
The plane suddenly jerked upward and stopped shaking.
He was free! The American had given up!
He started to rise to run back to the cockpit. Then he stopped, realizing there was no sense doing that now. He reached back to the wires to push them together.
As he did, the front of the aircraft turned silver. It looked like a flash of light, but it was pure silver, a brilliant shade that he had never seen before.
Paradise, he thought.
Then silver turned to red, then black, then nothing.
Aboard Dreamland Bennett
2151
STARSHIP SAW THE ANACONDA MISSILE CLOSE IN ON THE Airbus’s cabin just as he was pressing the trigger on the Flighthawk’s gun. He rolled away, escaping most of the explosion. The Anaconda struck at the front cabin, decapitating the aircraft. The cockpit disintegrated, but the rest of the fuselage continued on, flying toward the highest of the Glass Mountains about sixty miles northwest of Dreamland.
By the time he got the Flighthawk turned back around, the headless Airbus was down to 2,000 feet. Its left wingtip hit the ground first, skittering along for a hundred feet or so before collapsing. The rest of the plane spun in toward the missing wing, tumbling into a rising cloud of smoke and dust.
“It’s down! It’s down!” said Starship.
Then he braced himself.
ENGLEHARDT CLOSED HIS EYES, WAITING FOR THE INEVITABLE flash of light. He pushed himself against the back of his seat, expecting the air burst that would follow a nuclear explosion.
It didn’t come. After a minute he swung the aircraft back toward the site. Nothing.
They were a little more than twenty miles away, climbing back through 25,000 feet. He moved into a figure eight, intending to climb as high as possible.
“Sully, you with me?”
“With you, Mike.”
“No explosion.”
“Yeah, nothing.”
“Maybe coming. We high enough?”
“Yeah, just about.”
“You got the engines.”
“Yeah, I’m on it, bro,” answered Sullivan.
DOG STARED AT THE IMAGE ON THE SCREEN, WAITING FOR the massive white cloud—the famous mushroom cloud—to rise above the desert mountainside.
But it didn’t. Their missile had prevented it.
“Dreamland is sending a response team,” reported Sullivan.
“I have a helicopter en route,” reported Rager at the airborne radar, “and two Ospreys.”
Dog waited, listening. He knew every man aboard those aircraft, had brought most of them to Dreamland, or had at least approved their assignments.
Somehow, the fact that he was no longer their commander didn’t enter into his thoughts.
Minutes passed that seemed like days. He began to feel numb.
“Neutralized,” said Sullivan finally. “The bomb’s trigger section is off. It’s inert.”
“Take us to Dreamland,” Dog told Englehardt. “Take us home.”
About the Authors
DALE BROWN is a former U.S. Air Force captain and the author of numerous previous bestsellers, including Strike Force and Edge of Battle; Brown lives in Nevada, where he can often be found in the skies, piloting his own plane.
Jim DeFelice’s recent thrillers include Leopard’s Kill (2007) and Threat Level Black (2005). Jim has also written more than a dozen works of fiction and nonfiction for young people. He lives with his wife and son in upstate New York and can be contacted by e-mail at JDchester@aol.com.
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