“Slovakia Control,” Michael transmitted on cue. “Skybridge 770. Mayday, I repeat, Mayday! We’re descending from flight level three-zero-zero.”
Donovan pulled off some power, leveled the wings, and dropped the nose. The Boeing gained speed, and Donovan used the throttles to maintain their maximum forward velocity. He knew that each deviation in altitude showed up on the controller’s radar screen.
“Skybridge 770, this is Bratislava Control, you are cleared to descend to ten thousand feet, maneuver as needed. Please say the nature of your emergency and your intentions.”
Michael turned to Donovan as he slid the microphone into its holder. “I’m going to let him sweat for a little bit. What altitude are you going to level off?”
“Eventually I’ll make it twenty-eight thousand feet.” Donovan made a hard turn to the right, followed by another steep bank to the left, and then he allowed the 727 to plummet quickly from thirty thousand feet to twenty-six thousand feet before pushing the throttles up and raising the nose in a climb that pinned them all in their seats.
Donovan leveled the Boeing at twenty-eight thousand feet and watched as Michael adjusted the weather radar. Red dominated the entire structure of the angry squall line. The gradients between the yellow and green were sharp and defined. High above him, out the left window, the anvil tops soared above forty-thousand feet. Their new course put them on the flight path from the jump drive, and parallel with the line of advancing storms. They didn’t have to worry about the Phoenix going any further north. Only someone with a death wish would penetrate that weather.
“Skybridge 770, Bratislava Control, come in, please. Say the nature of your emergency and your intentions.”
“I’m going to tell him we’re having control problems,” Michael said as he reached for the microphone.
“Yeah, and then add that we have smoke in the cockpit,” Donovan said as he made another turn, not as abrupt as before, but it would still show up on radar and look like an airplane with problems. “Once they realize how severe our emergency is—make us dark.”
“Bratislava, this is Skybridge 770, we’re having control problems. We also have smoke in the cockpit. We’re going to—” Michael stowed the microphone and nodded his satisfaction with the deception. To make them dark, he quickly shut off the transponder and then switched off all the outside lights. To the controller it would look like a transponder failure, or a complete loss of electrical power. Skybridge 770 was now only a faint blip on his screen.
Donovan offered Michael the controls, and without losing a single knot of airspeed, Michael continued the erratic turns. Without the transponder, Air Traffic Control had no idea what their altitude was, so they could sit steady at twenty-eight thousand. Donovan held his hand out behind him without looking, like a surgeon requesting an instrument, and Montero slapped the phone in his palm. “Merlin, you still there?”
“Affirmative, Skybridge, nice work. Bratislava seems to have bought your deception; he’s going nuts trying to raise you on the radio. I show you on course.”
Donovan studied the weather ahead, both on the radar and visually. “I’m thinking we need to offset six miles to the south. This guy might fly his course, but he isn’t going to fly any closer to this weather than we are right now. With all of this lightning, I’m thinking if we’re sitting to the south, we might actually have a chance to catch sight of his silhouette.”
“I copy, good idea. Do you want vectors or can you provide your own offset?”
“Vectors.”
“Roger, turn five degrees to the right, we’ll call your turn back to the left.”
“Michael,” Donovan said. “Five right.”
Michael nodded and made the turn.
“Calvin, what’s the math looking like?” Donovan asked, knowing that the DIA was still on the line.
“We’ve estimated his speed and time of takeoff against yours. You’ll reach the border before he does—which means you’ll pass him at some point. There’s a window. It’s not very big, but you’ll have one.”
“Merlin, do you show anything on your radar?”
“Negative, Skybridge. As far as our radar is concerned, he’s undetectable.”
“How long until it’s possible that we’ve passed this guy?” Donovan asked, not caring which of the two brain trusts might venture a guess.
“Somewhere between eight and thirteen minutes,” Calvin said.
“I understand.” Donovan turned and handed the phone back to Montero. “Eight minutes until we might be in a position to spot the Phoenix. Everyone stay sharp.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“I TRUST EVERYONE is ready?” Trevor asked the two women to his right.
Lauren had the pistol tucked into her back pocket. Marta had given her the twelve-gauge shotgun. Sitting nearest the door, Marta held the assault rifle as if it were a natural part of her daily routine. They had no idea what to expect, but Trevor had suggested that during a helicopter assault, it’s the helicopter itself that usually gets the enemy all riled up. His suggestion was to drop the two women on the roof since it looked flat in the satellite image, and then keep going as if he were going to land elsewhere. He promised the tactic would draw out the bad guys. If it was too hot, he’d swing around and pick them up for a calculated retreat.
“I see the hangar,” Marta said as she unlatched the door.
Lauren’s practiced eye took in the structure. The building perfectly matched the image Calvin had sent. Each window was completely dark, as were the surrounding buildings.
Trevor used distant lights as a reference to clear the trees and then pulled into a hover only inches above the roof. Lauren followed Marta and they jumped to the metal surface and ducked as Trevor roared overhead and swung around as if he were about to land. Marta reached the edge first, the rifle at her shoulder. When Lauren joined her, Marta gave her the thumbs-up signal and then went over the side.
Lauren waited until Marta had made her way down a drainpipe onto the lower roof of what they guessed was an attached shop area. Lauren slung the strap of the shotgun over her head and slid down the edge of the roof on her stomach until she had a firm grip on the drain. She reached the next roof and hurried to the edge and repeated the process. A hundred yards away, Trevor was hovering scant feet above the ground ready to draw fire and climb away.
Marta motioned Lauren to follow her to an exterior door. The door was locked and Marta pointed at the lock, then Lauren’s gun, and stood back. Lauren took two steps back, leveled the twelve-gauge and pulled the trigger. The gun bucked in her hands and she blinked against the jet of fire that shot from the barrel. There was a round hole where the lock once was.
Marta, without hesitation, kicked the door inward, and they both rushed inside to find themselves in a dark hangar. Marta swept the interior with a flashlight. When the beam touched the twin tails of a black aircraft in the rear of the hangar, she froze and played the light on a partially constructed stealth aircraft.
“We’re in the right place,” Lauren whispered. “Come on, we need to check out the rest of the hangar.”
There were three other rooms, two were machine shops filled with equipment, the third was a small windowless apartment that held a tiny kitchen, bathroom, and twin bed. Lauren guessed she was looking at Daniel’s prison cell.
“All clear.” Marta found a light switch and a single row of lights above them illuminated, casting a dim glow. “You start looking around. I’m thinking we don’t have much time. I’m going to go stand guard by the door. If anyone shows up, I’ll start shooting and draw them away from here toward the west. If that happens, you make your way to the roof where Trevor can find you. Then come find me.”
Lauren already had her phone out and began taking pictures of the partially complete aircraft. She ran her finger along the black radar-absorbing coating and found it was slightly rough to the touch. Each imperfection would not only absorb radar impulses, but reflect the energy in a different direction, diss
ipating the signal. Lauren swung the strap of the shotgun free from her neck and then set the weapon aside so she could hoist herself up to get a look into the cockpit. She was shocked to find an ejection seat. She shot more pictures and then backed away to examine the tail. The engine was installed but exposed. The twin tails reached well above her head. She took a burst of photos and then went around to the back of the plane. She raised the camera and then stopped and cocked her head. Something seemed different. Perhaps it was all the open access panels, but this airplane looked different from Daniel’s designs all those years ago at MIT.
Lauren ducked and turned at the bark of gunfire. It sounded close. She snatched the shotgun, raced to the wall, and flipped the switch to plunge the hangar into darkness. Crouching, she waited as her eyes adjusted. She pocketed her phone and swung her weapon into position and listened. Outside, she heard the helicopter lift off and fly away, her signal to try to make it back to the roof. Lauren was contemplating her next move when a door on the other side of the hangar opened, and the hangar lights snapped back on. Before she could hide, someone spotted her and yelled.
Lauren ran. She sprinted deeper into the work area, past the second airplane, and slid to a stop behind a large steel toolbox on wheels. She leaned against the metal and flinched as shots were fired, echoing loudly. She felt slugs impact the toolbox and went down on her stomach. When she looked around the edge, she saw a man approaching cautiously. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but his movements seemed professional and practiced. She brought her shotgun around to fire, but the man darted to the side just as Lauren pulled the trigger. From behind a crate he popped up and fired three times, the bullets ripping into the containers that sat on top of the toolbox. When they fell on Lauren, her shotgun clattered to the floor, and several cans scattered and rolled away.
Lauren’s calf felt wet and sticky. A thick reddish liquid saturated her leg as it spread out in a pool on the concrete floor. For an instant she thought she’d been shot, then three feet away, she saw a can of hydraulic fluid roll to a stop, a bullet hole in its side. Lauren left the shotgun lying on the floor and reached into her pocket. She stayed low and let out a groan to mask the sound of the hammer click from the pistol Marta had provided. Lauren held her breath, as footfalls told her the man was rushing toward her. The instant he stepped around the toolbox, she fired until he dropped to the floor. The astonished expression was still etched on his face as he collapsed.
Lauren jumped up, grabbed her shotgun, and sprinted across the hangar to a metal ladder bolted to the cinder-block wall. It led to a hatch on the roof. In one smooth motion she aimed the shotgun at the light switch and blew it apart, plunging the hangar into darkness. With yellow-orange spots still dancing in her eyes, she felt the coolness of the metal ladder and started climbing. The ceiling was easily twenty feet high and the hydraulic fluid smeared on her feet made the rungs slippery. Her hand finally touched the ceiling and when she felt for the latch on the door, she also found a small padlock she hadn’t noticed from below. She yanked on it twice, hoping for a fail, but it held tight.
Below her, the door swung open, and from the faint light outside, Lauren could make out two men, both carrying weapons. When they couldn’t find the light switch, they called out several times for someone named Tomas. Lauren assumed it was the name of the man she’d shot, and in the darkened hangar they received no response. After several long moments, the two men closed the door and left.
Lauren stood on the ladder and considered her dwindling options. If she made too much noise, the men would return, if she went back down to the hangar floor she could no doubt find something to pry apart the lock, but then she’d have to make the climb back to the roof. She heard the sound of the helicopter getting closer and stopped to listen. Lauren made up her mind. She looped her left arm through a rung in the ladder and aimed the shotgun up into the darkness and fired.
The flash of light from the muzzle blast told her she’d missed. She jacked in another shell and the spent casing fell away. Outside, she could tell that the helicopter was coming in fast. Keeping the location of the lock fixed in her mind, Lauren used the side rail of the ladder to align her next shot. She squeezed the trigger, trying not to jerk; the gun fired and the lock fragmented and rained down on her. She climbed as fast as she could and slammed the heel of her hand into the metal hatch. It was heavy and the rusty hinges screeched as they moved. Lauren climbed up one more rung and pushed, leaned into the hatch, and pressed with her shoulder. She inched it to vertical. The helicopter now sounded as if it were almost on top of her. With one more lunge the hatch swung all the way open and crashed to the roof.
A spark erupted from the ladder and fragments stung her hand. Lauren realized that someone had shot at her from below. She tumbled out the hatch, spun around, pumped a new shell into the chamber, and using just her arms, aimed the shotgun down the ladder and fired.
Muzzle flashes from the ground caused Lauren to duck and sprint to the center of the roof. The noise from the helicopter faded as Trevor was forced to come around for another pass. Lauren searched the dark sky and couldn’t spot the helicopter even though the shock waves from the rotor blades reverberated in her chest. Sound of more gunfire rose above the noise of the rotor. Lauren knew she didn’t have much time. She reached for her phone and quickly found one of the pictures she’d just taken as an instant of clarity struck her, a detail from a time long ago. Daniel’s dying words echoed in her memory. He told her he’d changed—different from before, but he wasn’t talking about himself. Daniel had changed the Phoenix. She pushed several buttons and half a world away, Calvin Reynolds had an email. She called his number, and he answered before the second ring.
“Lauren, where are you?” Calvin asked.
“I’m at the hangar. Calvin, there’s another Phoenix in the hangar, about ninety percent complete. I sent you a photograph and I found something. A flaw!” Lauren heard Trevor growing closer and she felt a downpour of rotor wash. She crouched and lowered her head to try to insulate the phone from the roaring sounds coming down around her. “Daniel changed it! The jet exhaust is close to the tail. From above and behind there’s a heat signature— there has to be!”
Muzzle flashes from the ground drove Lauren to lie flat on the roof. Trevor never wavered. He came in low, and Lauren understood he wasn’t stopping.
“What’s happening?” Calvin shouted.
Lauren yelled into the phone, “Did you hear what I said about the infrared? Use it!”
“Lauren!” Calvin shouted into the phone as Lauren jammed it in her pocket.
Lauren brought herself up into a crouch. The left skid of the helicopter was almost within reach. As the helicopter roared overhead, she jumped and clutched the skid with both hands. She was about to pull herself up so she could swing her leg around the cold metal when she was hit from underneath, lost her grip, and fell back to the roof of the hangar, hitting hard on her left side. All the air rushed from her lungs. She gasped for breath, struggling to get to her feet. More shots were fired from behind her, and Lauren turned. In the dim light she saw a soldier standing over her, holding a pistol, aiming it up at Trevor and Marta. Lauren drove her heel in the soldier’s kneecap, toppling him off balance as the bullets from his weapon flew wide.
Crouching in the open door of the helicopter, Marta let loose a burst from her machine gun and the soldier went down, collapsing face first to the roof.
Lauren tried to push herself up using her left arm and found it couldn’t support her weight. Pain ripped in waves from her wrist, up her arm, into her shoulder. Another more focused throbbing seemed to radiate from her left thigh. Trevor began to ease lower to the roof, as if he were going to land so Marta could get out and help her into the chopper.
A withering burst of automatic weapons fire raked the cockpit, bullet holes puncturing the metal, forcing Marta to dive away from the open door. Lauren watched with growing disappointment as Trevor, with no other choice, climbed and peeled away in self
-defense. The sound of the rotor blades quickly retreated in the night sky. Lauren needed to get up and start moving, find a way to escape.
She made it onto her knees, protecting what felt like a broken left arm.
Turning to get her bearings, she heard the footsteps behind her. Before she could react, she was kicked back to the ground and then rolled over on her back. When she saw the face with the white bandage, her hopes dissolved into the night.
Aleksander roughly frisked her, finding her weapons as well as her phone. He studied the phone and understood that there was a call in progress. He brought it to his ear. “Who is this?”
Lauren couldn’t hear what was being said and had no way to know if Calvin was still there. Her last hope was that he was listening.
“Well, Calvin,” Aleksander said, the triumph in his voice evident. “Understand that Lauren McKenna’s death is on you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“MERLIN SAYS RUSSIAN fighters just lifted off from Baranovichi Air Force base in Belarus,” Montero said as she leaned forward from the flight engineer’s panel. “ETA is twelve minutes.”
Lightning exploded from below them and hundreds of tendrils climbed up into the thunderstorm before winking out, followed by more multiple bursts. Donovan never looked away, squinting from the brightness and scanning the sky for the Phoenix. With each new burst, he strained to spot the small jet. “Ask them how much longer we have before we reach the border?”
“Six minutes,” Montero relayed.
“We’re running out of time,” Michael said.
“Is there any chance we passed him already?” Donovan asked, knowing the answer was yes. “When we get to the border, I want to circle and wait . . . just in case.”
“What!” Montero said into the phone then leaned forward. “Merlin says we have traffic at eleven o’clock, six miles. It’s the Phoenix, he’s level at fifteen thousand feet.”
Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers) Page 21
