by Mich Moore
hundred degrees," he said. "Altitude is six hundred meters and climbing." His mouth drew a straight line. "Looks like we've got a welcoming party."
A small commercial plane, probably a Learjet, popped up about two-hundred-and-fifty meters off their port wing. The Learjet's flying instruments were lighting the inside of its cockpit and Kennedy could make out two pilots. Its exterior lights revealed two Wasp missiles snapped in tight beneath the jet's wings. There would be another two under the other wing. Every few seconds or so the jet would dive in close towards them and then resume its previous position. They were playing chicken. Kennedy grimaced. The idiots. They're going to get us all killed.
A stranger's voice came over their headsets. "This is Captain Garces, Cabo Air Defense. We have you on radar. You're in restricted airspace. Please identify yourself."
The captain placed a hand on the flight officer's arm and shook his head. Airline policy was firm: a pilot was forbidden to verbally communicate with enemy combatants. That domain belonged to the United States air force. However, they were allowed to defend themselves if under a reasonable threat. This Captain Garces and his muscled-up Lear presented themselves as a reasonable threat and therefore worthy of a defensive response. However, no matter how justified he may have felt, the weight of the consequences of his actions had to become a factor. The matter was urgent, and he would at least have to notify the office of their situation. The United States of America may have gone the way of the dinosaur, but the pilot's union and its lawyers were still alive and willing to ding a pilot's paycheck for the most minor of infractions. An on-duty fight with company equipment could result in a stiffer fine, unpaid leave or dismissal.
They would have to briefly break radio silence. He pulled off his headset and whispered, "Bud, encode an alert to HQ that we have a bogey, possibly aggressive. Tell them that we are taking defensive action."
As the flight officer busied himself at the radio, the captain twisted around, reached under his own seat and pulled out a large duffle bag.
"Señores, you have twenty seconds to comply or we force you down. Do you copy?"
The captain looked out his side window and made a thumbs-up gesture. "Okay. We're now in the playbook, Bud. Roadrunner."
"Understood."
"I'm turning the ONS back on. We're going to need a recording in case we lose our black boxes."
Kuhn nodded grimly. The only way an aircraft lost a black box was if a NAV expert disabled it or if the plane crashed. The captain dived into his bag and quickly retrieved several long metal tubes. With practiced movements, he quickly assembled the airline issue marksman sniper rifle.
"ONS on." Kennedy said. The ONS sounded one ding as affirmation. The captain placed the rifle barrel up between his knees. "Bud, on my command brake." Precious seconds ticked by.
"Brake!"
"Brakes on!" Kuhn tilted the craft's nose up into the air. Their airspeed immediately dropped.
Kennedy reached up and pulled down hard on his side window's emergency release handle and shoved the glass backward. Freezing air blew in. The ONS chimed twice. "Cockpit window B is now open. Please close window B immediately!" Kennedy raised his weapon, jammed the gun's butt against his shoulder and took aim against the roaring wind.
"Identify yourself!" Captain Garces commanded. "Ten seconds!"
It took the captain one second to locate the Lear's pilots through his scope. Another two to calculate and adjust for the windage. And one to fire. He watched as the pilot's helmet exploded. He fired another round and watched as the Lear's co-pilot lurched forward.
"BRAKE!"
Once again the flight officer pulled up hard on the 737's nose. The Lear was now ahead of them. Kennedy hugged the rifle close to his body like a lover would and pumped two shots into the plane's stabilizer, destroying it. The Lear promptly rolled belly up and plummeted out of sight.
The captain pulled in his rifle and slammed the window shut. "That was close," was all he said.
"Cabo Air Defense?" the flight officer asked.
The rifle was broken down again and placed inside the duffle bag. The captain shrugged. "Must be some new kid on the block." He pushed the bag beneath his seat with his foot and straightened his tie. "Let's hurry up and land this thing before Captain Garces's buddies show up."
The rest of the flight was uneventful. Within twenty minutes they were on the ground. Their tail hook was manually lowered to snag the runway's five braking cables. Once the aircraft had stopped, an aircraft tug zipped out, clamped on to the 737's tow bar, and began pulling it inside the surface level of the base's multi-level hangar complex.
Inside the aircraft, the flight attendants helped the VIP passengers slip into their wraparound helmets and body armor. The front door of the aircraft was opened, and they lumbered down the flight stairs with their staffs and the press corps scuttling behind them. When they had reached the bottom, the stairs were hurriedly pushed away. The tiny airport was characteristically unlit and quiet. It had to be that way. One out-of-place noise might alert the swarms of criminals lounging just a stone's throw away. Everything was done very quietly, and outdoor conversation was pantomimed or simply not done at all.
Fifty meters away stood a row of dilapidated crab shacks. All of the structures had been bashed in at the knees. The crudest of them held a blue, lopsided door in its broken arms. It opened and three men in crisp Army fatigues strutted out.
Governor Peterson and Senator Dillon quickly walked over to greet them. The two politicians and the Army men raised their hands in a silent greeting. They repeated their gestures for the press photographers crouching nearby. Two more soldiers stepped through the blue door and escorted everyone inside.
2
General Edward R. Dawes looked out his office window and watched the door to the 737 swing open. Out popped Governor Luke Peterson, Senator Dale Dillon, several reporters, and a host of clashing emotions for the general. Dawes despised Peterson, who had proven himself to be an incompetent leader time and time again. Dale Dillon was a known political dilettante who formed his political schemes based upon old American comic book characters. The Advance South press corps represented no more than starved mongrels scratching at the back door for their next meal ...
But he had to be honest. It wasn't just the B-list actors pouring down the jetway causing him grief. To be fair, Peterson and the board of governors had given the country a long-overdue shot in the arm. That it had led to war was regrettable. Dawes believed that if that was what it took to save the country, then so be it. But no one was breaking out the champagne just yet. The new United States was inept. The Advance South merely the muscle for the Whistler crowds. Actually, it was more sinew than muscle. The Advance South had no real taste for battle. His own army had been deliberately infested with overweight American cops not swift or smart enough to have hightailed it for Australia or Canada when the manure had hit the fan. And now, to make matters almost unbearable for a modern warrior, under the newly enacted US-AS environmental laws, it was now against the law to fish or hunt except for one weekend in October on a hunting permit that cost ten thousand British pounds ... . Argh! Thanks to Peterson and his merry band of clueless governors, this once content army man now basically despised the entire world and everyone in it.
His guests crowded into the spacious anteroom of his office, each one slyly jockeying to be noticed first.
Dawes placed his attention upon the press hounds. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could please have you wait out here in reception. I promise that someone will be in to serve you refreshments shortly."
A reporter shot a question at him. "General, John Bingham here. Does the fact that Governor Peterson is traveling to Newark signal the start of negotiations between the governor's council and the warlords here?"
Dawes's jaws tightened. "The governor and Senator Dillon are here at the request of private US-AS citizens. The United States does not and will not ever negotiate with warlords or any other brand of lawbreaker."
"Is the governor here then to help in the search for Kelly Haverson and her daughter?" Bingham asked.
"He's standing right there. Why don't you ask him?"
"Governor?"
Every eye fell upon Governor Peterson. The highest-ranking official in the executive branch of the US-AS government cleared his throat and said, "No."
"May I ask why not?" Bingham asked.
"You may ask, but I am not at liberty to answer. Now, please." He put up his right hand. "Wait for our official statement." He grinned good-naturedly. "We should have some new bones for you boys to chew on by this afternoon. We certainly appreciate your patience."
The press had been invited along to record the revelation and demonstration of the Sierra project in Sierra City later that week. The impromptu meeting in Newark had dragged them along with the governor's party.
An aid to the general came and whisked Dawes, Peterson and Dillon into the general's office proper. It was merely a large storage room with bulky, scarred furniture and faded photographs of vintage artillery tanks on the walls.
The aid left and another one took his place. This one was carrying a clipboard and a pen. He took up a position beside the general.
The general gestured towards Peterson and Dillon. "Please have a seat, gentlemen. I have a few things to attend to before we get started."
The governor made a face that
