by Bob Mauldin
The pilot managed to stabilize his craft about two thousand feet lower than it had started out. The complaints were just starting to come in from the rear of the plane, as well as frantic inquiries from St. Louis ground control.
Shutting off the distractions of ground control was but the flick of a switch. Silencing the distractions from the rear took little more. “Quiet down! Strap in and shut up!” Shutting off the intercom, he turned to the ashen-faced agent. “You fill me in on what I’m facing up here, and you’ll do it now, Wilson! I swear, I’ll put this bird on the ground so fast it’ll make your head spin. Literally!”
“That’s ‘Agent’ Wilson to you, and everything is on a need-to-know basis.”
“Look,” the pilot said in exasperation, “I’ve got a pretty good idea that thing was one of those Mambas.” At the agent’s expression, the pilot laughed. “Don’t even go there! I watch television, Wilson, and this plane is headed down. Now. No way I can out-fly one of those. Son of a bitch!”
Although just as abrupt, this dive was more or less controlled from the start and smoothed out quicker than the last. “Well, now we know they can hover at ten thousand feet! Or should I just forget that?”
“We’ve known since Camp David that they can hover,” Wilson said sheepishly. “We just didn’t extrapolate it to this altitude.”
Marsha ordered Recon One to take position behind their target and assigned three of Cheetah Flight to take position to either side and above the eastbound jet so they could be seen by the occupants. “Agent Wilson, this is Captain Kane of the Terran Alliance. You are ordered to land your craft immediately. There has been a seven-mile section of Interstate 70 interdicted for this purpose just east of Kingdom City, Missouri. The only way to make the landing is to begin immediately. If you do not reduce speed and begin your descent voluntarily, we will force you down. Safer all the way around if you just follow instruction.”
The remaining two ships of Cheetah Flight ranged ahead of the jet, positioned to block any anticipated move to escape. Hovering in the jet’s path had worked twice so far, and Marsha decided to keep with the moves that worked. When her comm tech reported that Agent Wilson was trying to radio for help, she smiled. “Agent Wilson, you are not able to transmit more than five feet beyond the outer skin of your craft, except to me, so save your breath and put that plane on the deck. Now!”
The pilot of the portside Mamba reported that he’d made eye contact with the pilot and seen several faces staring out the windows in the passenger compartment. The pilot on the starboard side reported much the same.
“Agent Wilson, we have you surrounded.” Oh, God, how trite can I be? Marsha thought. “Last chance to comply willingly.”
She released the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding when the plane abruptly slowed. “Uh, Captain Kane, this is the pilot requesting more specific instructions for landing.”
“You’ve been flying east following Interstate 70 for some time now. There has been a seven-mile stretch of highway cleared for your landing. All air and ground traffic will be interdicted. I have two flights of Mambas with me, plus the full resources of a command shuttle. It may not mean much to you, but Agent Wilson can tell you that there was only one flight at Camp David, and look how one-sided that turned out to be. If you don’t begin your descent now, you will find yourself faced with more obstacles. Do I make myself clear?”
“Clear as a bell, Captain. Beginning descent now.”
“Agent Wilson, I know you’re still listening. No tricks and you and your people will all walk away from this. All we want are our people—Simon Hawke and Agent Roland Daniels.”
“Agent Daniels belongs to us,” Wilson said, “and he goes back with us. There is no debate on the subject.”
“You’re right about that, Agent Wilson, there will be no debate,” Marsha returned, guessing at the owner of the new voice. “We are responsible for Agent Daniels’ safety since he was assigned to us as special liaison by the president, who, I might add, is your superior. We will see to his safety and his return to the FBI. I suggest that since you’re outgunned and outmaneuvered, you should back off.”
Marsha watched as the jet began a steep descent, veering slightly to line up with the ribbon of asphalt that was Interstate 70. “Tiger Flight, heads up. Target has just gone below radar screen. Expect company,” she said, switching tactical frequencies. “Pilot, you’ll see a line of vehicles stopped on the Interstate by one of my Mambas. Touch down just past that point.”
“Roger, Captain.”
“Mission Leader, this is Cheetah Three. There seems to be a serious disagreement going on in the cockpit.”
“Put the gun away, Wilson,” Agent Davis said wearily. “You know as well as I do that I’m the only pilot aboard. Shooting me will deny them their people, true, but it’ll kill you, too. Kinda like cutting off your nose to spite your face, don’t you think?”
Agent Wilson reluctantly put his weapon away and keyed the microphone in his headset. “Okay, Kane, you get what you want. We’re landing. I need assurances that my people won’t be hurt.” Marsha heard the fury in Agent Wilson’s voice as the plane floated over the Mamba that was blocking the eastbound lanes and watched in satisfaction as the landing gear locked into place.
“You have the assurance of an officer in the Terran Alliance. What more do you need?”
“This craft is on U.S. Government business, Kane. You realize that you can and will be charged with air piracy? You’re in violation of dozens of FAA rules and regulations. You’re in violation of United States laws governing overflights by non-American craft, and you’re dangerously close to being charged with terrorism. Desist immediately and I’ll forget any of this happened.”
Marsha considered for a moment, then answered, “As far as rules and regulations of the Federal Aviation Administration are concerned... I really don’t care. As far as United States laws concerning overflights... I don’t care. And I don’t for one minute believe that you’ll forget any of this for any reason, Agent Wilson. But you do have a point about piracy and terrorism, which may not be all that valid when all we’re doing is retrieving our... property. Maybe we should discuss the laws concerning the illegal detention of citizens of the United States and their lack of legal representation. Then again, maybe not. I’m a lot more direct than that, Agent Wilson. I leave those things to the people trained to handle them. Of course, doing so would bring your operation to light, and you don’t want that, do you?” Marsha asked without inflection. She continued more briskly, “Enough talk. I’ve already demonstrated that I can force you down. Give up, Agent Wilson. You’re faced with superior firepower and superior numbers. No one will fault you for saving your people, if not your mission.”
The jet’s wheels touched the pavement, and the vehicle slowed to a halt in the middle of the flat Missouri plains where no aircraft had a right to be. The three Mambas hovered at cockpit level while the shuttle landed on the highway facing the nose of the plane.
Marsha began juggling various radio calls as the confrontation progressed. As she was about to ask for a report from Tiger Flight, she heard, “Mission Leader, this is Tiger One. On station blocking eastbound traffic. Tiger Two reports on station blocking westbound traffic. I’m facing some very amazed and upset individuals here. Three, Four and Five report on station as aerial cover. No inbound traffic on radar.”
“Affirmative, Tiger One. Hold position until further notice. Mission Leader out.” Switching frequencies again, she called, “Cheetah One and Two, you are released from blocker duty. Assist Tiger Flight in air and ground interdiction. Mission Leader out.”
Switching frequencies yet again, she called the downed jet. “Agent Wilson.”
“What?” came the surly response.
“Don’t take it so hard, Agent Wilson. You did your job quite well considering your circumstances and opposition. Now break loose with my people.”
While waiting for a response from
the jet, Marsha smiled at the situation. There sat a sleek, gleaming jet that relied on its streamlining as much as its engines to get speed but was relegated to operations within the atmosphere, and it faced a squat, ugly shuttle that relied solely on the force of its power-plant for speed and was more at home outside the atmosphere than inside.
After several minutes had passed with no visible response from the jet, Marsha said, “We’ve got the firepower, but time is actually on their side. It’s time to push some buttons.”
She put on a headset and tied herself into the comm net through the console she’d been monitoring and told the navigator to keep her informed if he picked anything up on the radar. “It won’t be long, guaranteed, before we have company. When that beauty went off the radar screens, you can bet that alarms went off all over the place.”
Marsha strode to the back of the cargo compartment, marveling at the versatility of the vessels. The first ones had been a cockpit and engine room and a whole lot of empty in between. This one had been specially modified with the primary mission of carrying passengers from ground to orbit and back. It was more like a troop shuttle at the moment, she thought as she looked at the armed men grouped near the hatches, waiting for orders.
When news of the impending rescue mission had become public knowledge among Alliance personnel, the number of volunteers had been staggering, coming as it did from four active warships and the Galileo. Marsha had expected to see a trickle of people show up, but so many had that she’d had her pick of seasoned, combat-capable personnel, and she’d used some of them to turn the extras away. And since it had been determined that there’d be a ground force of only ten men, there was a lot of excess.
One of the things that had struck Marsha as curious was the large number of second- and third-generation volunteers there were. After just over four years, the Galileo’s first crew, some nine hundred plus, were scattered among four vessels and three space docks, with the remainder being new members. The disparity in numbers shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it did anyway.
After as short a time as four years, patterns had begun to emerge—habits, customs. Finding things to call “traditions” became a way to tie everyone together, and Marsha was not unaware of the fact that the newer volunteers looked upon anyone from the “First Crew” with something akin to hero worship. Older crew spoke to newer about Firsters almost with awe, and it eventually got back to those being gossiped about, which fact Marsha wasn’t above using at a time like this. Uncomfortable as it made her, she’d used her status as a Firster to call in volunteers for this mission.
She stood amongst the results of her choosing, all seconds and thirds, and cringed inside as thoughts of pep rallies not so far past filled her head. “Okay, people, this is above and beyond. I want you all to know I appreciate it,” she said. “You all have your instructions. Following orders is what this is all about at the moment, but I trust each of you to use your own discretion as the situation warrants, or you wouldn’t be here. Just be ready to back up your decision if you have to!”
Chief among those she’d chosen for this mission was one who caused her great concern—Bobby Lee Remmick. A onetime boyfriend and lover of Marsha’s, and a three-year veteran of the Atlanta Police Department, Bobby had been recruited in the second wave. Marsha had returned to her hometown at her uncle’s insistence to reassure her mother that she was all right and to explain the situation in person. “You owe your mama that much,” her uncle had said.
How he’d out she was home, Bobby Lee never said, but he arrived on her front porch in time to hear most of her explanation to her mom through an open window before he pounded on the door.
“Remember Collin Harper,” he said after the shock of seeing him had worn off.
“None of these people are crazy, Bobby Lee. None of ‘em are obsessed with me, and where would they kidnap me to, out there?” she retorted, her mind ranging back seven years to her senior year in high school when she was kidnapped by a deranged classmate on the night of her prom. Bobby Lee had been instrumental in the search that finally freed her from the nightmare. “But if you want to sign on, I won’t tell you not to,” she said, placing a hand on his chest.
Those three years in the Atlanta PD had earned Bobby Lee his position as head of the ground forces that would be deployed against the jet after it landed.
“But I was just a beat cop!” he’d protested.
“Which is more than any other volunteer we have at the moment,” Marsha had said with finality. “Besides, I’d like someone I know and trust working with me on this.”
Shaking herself free of her reverie, she said formally, “Deploy your forces, Commander Remmick,” as she opened the hatches and watched them form the now-familiar ramps on each side of the shuttle. “Last time was a place of their choosing. This time it’s ours. Then, they were in a superior position, they thought, and had surprise on their side. This time, they have no backup and we hold the high ground, so to speak. I’m not saying this will go like clockwork, but what plan ever does? Truth is, we don’t know what’s inside that plane, and it’s time we found out.”
Lt. Commander Bobby Lee Remmick saluted and said, “Deploy troops, aye, ma’am,” the smile on his face not detracting from the seriousness of his voice. “A team out the port side, B team out the starboard side. If it moves, just pin it down unless it starts shooting. Don’t forget, you have three Mambas for aerial support. Teamwork, people, teamwork. Keep to your assigned frequencies and no idle chatter! Move out.”
Once both teams had reported back that all was secure, Bobby Lee led Marsha out onto the highway where she could see the jet’s cockpit. Marsha thought it the height of overkill to have ten Mambas and twelve laser-armed people on hand to accomplish this mission, but it had been mandated by the captain.
Going with the orders she’d been given as Mission Leader, she used what she had. “Five minutes on the ground, people,” she said on her all-frequency band. “Look around you, Agent Wilson,” she said, switching back to the jet’s frequency and overhearing the end of a transmission.
“…ayday, Mayday. This is U.S. Government flight seven-one-seven out of Denver International Airport. We have been forced down on Interstate 70 just west of St. Louis by an overwhelming force of Terran Alliance craft. Immediate assistance required.”
Smiling, Marsha said, “Remember, Agent Wilson, I’m the only one who can hear you. Now. We have things to discuss. Are you going to come out and play?”
“I’m not saying I have what you want, but if I did and gave it to you, what assurances do I have that nothing happens to my people?”
“As I said before, the assurances of an officer of the Terran Alliance, assuming that none of your people try anything stupid. Beyond that, you have no assurances at all, Agent Wilson,” Marsha said sweetly. “No more assurances than we had at Camp David. Trust has to begin somewhere. We gave ours at Camp David, and I think it’s your turn. Now, here’s the best deal you’re going to get all day—you turn Captain Hawke and Special Liaison Daniels over to us, and you and your people will walk away from here with all the information you’ve already acquired. Don’t do as I ask, and I’ll be forced to start carving parts off that government property parked in front of my shuttle.” Marsha heard a beep in her headset calling for her attention. “You’ve got three minutes to think it over, Agent.”
Glancing down at the comm panel strapped to her waist, Marsha pressed a button. We’re going to have to do something to make this more convenient. Maybe something with the circuitry built into the shirt, comm panel on the sleeve?
“Mission Leader,” she said.
“Ma’am this is Blocker West. I have a Highway Patrol officer here, lights flashing He has a bullhorn, and he’s ordering me to leave.”
“Just don’t let him past your position, Blocker West. Take out the car if you have to, but do not under any circumstances cause harm to anyone. We’ll have this wrapped up soon. Mission Leader, out.
”
Turning back to the jet, Marsha said, “Agent Wilson, this is Captain Kane. You know, a girl’s reputation rests on how well she keeps her word. Please don’t make me start slicing parts off your pretty little airplane.”
Marsha’s innate sense of politeness made her wait a whole ten seconds before she began to carry out her threat. She drew the pistol strapped to her thigh, and said, “The first thing I’m going to do is destroy your cockpit’s airtight integrity. I suggest that you clear your people out of there.”
Having great power thrust upon one can be a heady thing, even when they’re expecting it to happen. Even though Marsha had commanded a starship for over two years, the experience of having control over the lives of people who had not freely given themselves into Alliance service was new to her. The fact that she perceived this particular bunch to be adversaries made the feeling all the sweeter since she knew the capabilities of her team to be vastly superior to those ranged against her at the moment.
Commanding weapons that had only been dreamed of in science-fiction and ships that until then would have been reported as UFOs, Marsha laughed at the absurdity of it all, breaking the spell that had been stealing over her. She lowered her weapon back to her side. “I’ll tell ya what, Agent Wilson,” she said playfully. “You’re getting one final chance before I start taking your plane apart around you. I swear, I’ll peel it like a banana.”
As she raised her arm again, a face appeared at the pilot’s windshield. “Hold on! Hold on! One of your people is in need of medical attention not caused by us. We have an emergency escape chute at the back of the plane. With him injured, that’s the safest way off at the moment. Is that agreeable?”
