by Dale Brown
…and a thousand pounds of high explosives detonated, completely demolishing the fence and destroying the pass and ID guard shack inside.
At that moment, the Cybernetic Infantry Device emerged from the second van, rushed at the breach in the outer gate, and cleared away the flaming, twisted debris enough for four commandos to get inside. Two commandos rushed inside the TA-1 security building, blasting the doors open and throwing flash-bang grenades inside to disable any security personnel inside without damaging or destroying any records. They then retracted the steel vehicle barrier, opened the gates, brought the second van inside the compound, and then closed and secured the entryway. The CID unit picked up two commandos and their equipment and rushed inside the weapons storage area.
When the assault on the front gate commenced, the two commandos in the northwest corner of the facility prepared for their attack. A single shot from a Dragunov sniper rifle dispatched the security guard that had come out of the tower to take up his sniper position, and moments later a TOW antitank missile round destroyed the tower. Two satchel charges destroyed the fence at the top of the berm, and several more shots took out the few remaining security patrols inside the compound.
“Two, report,” Yegor Zakharov ordered on his portable transceiver.
“Moving inside,” the leader of the commando team that had performed the frontal assault radioed back. “No resistance.”
“I will need the igloo number immediately, Three.”
“Three copies.” The two commandos inside the TA-1 building were hurriedly looking through the office, searching charts and records on the contents of the dozens of igloos inside the weapons storage area. Finally they found what they were looking for in the fire marshal’s office: a wall chart with symbology written in grease pencil over each igloo in the compound. “One, this is Three,” the leader radioed, “according to the fire hazard chart I found, Igloos Alpha Four-Four and Four-Five contain weapons that each have thirty-seven kilos of insensitive high explosives.”
“Keep looking for more specific records, Three,” Zakharov responded. “Two, meet me at those igloos.”
“Two.”
While two commandos took up security positions at the entrance to the weapons storage area, the CID unit carrying several satchels and backpacks ran through TZ-Delta directly to the igloos where the warheads awaiting disassembly were stored. He set the equipment down…and as he did, the head of the commando traveling with Zakharov exploded. The CID unit immediately turned to the east. “Sniper on the northeast tower!” he radioed.
“Shield me,” Zakharov said. As heavy-caliber bullets pinged off the CID’s composite armor behind him, the Russian picked up a backpack and began placing shaped explosive charges on the steel doors to the first igloo. The entire front of each igloo was a thick steel plate wall, with a single man-sized steel entry door secured with a heavy steel bar with two palm-sized padlocks locking it in place. It was easy to blow the locks apart with plastic explosives and enter the igloo.
Zakharov found what he was looking for within moments. He recognized them immediately—because he had once commanded Russian Red Army units that employed similar weapons. These were 15A18A warheads from active R-36M2 intercontinental ballistic missiles. The R-36M2, appropriately called “Satan” by the West, was Russia’s biggest, longest-range, and most accurate ballistic missile, capable of raining 10 independently targeted warheads on targets more than eleven thousand kilometers away with unprecedented accuracy. The missile was so accurate that the warheads could be made smaller, so the R-36M2 carried 10 of these warheads, each with a yield of over seven hundred and fifty thousand tons of TNT.
The igloo contained an entire ballistic missile squadron’s worth of warheads—one hundred and twenty warheads, packed in aluminum and carbon fiber coffins for shipment. After ensuring that there were indeed warheads in the coffins, and they were the real thing and mostly intact, the CID unit dragged two coffins out of the igloo.
A commando had driven the second van over to the igloo. The sniper apparently realized he wasn’t going to kill the robot and wasn’t going to get a clear shot at Zakharov, so he started targeting the van—luckily they got the vehicle behind an igloo before the sniper could shoot out the tires or put a hole in the radiator or engine block. “Time to take care of that sniper,” Zakharov told the commando piloting the CID unit.
With the sniper’s location pinpointed on his electronic display—every time he fired, he drew a line right back to his own position, thanks to the robot’s on-board millimeter-wave targeting radar—the CID unit grabbed an antitank missile and sped off. He located the sniper easily, still atop the northeast guard tower; with the CID unit’s radar helping him to aim, he could not miss. He then hurried back and loaded the warhead coffins on the van and, with the robot carrying an antitank missile and running in front of the van, they headed for the exit.
Two security vehicles were just pulling up to the entrance to the weapons storage area—both were put out of commission when the CID unit simply lifted them up and flipped them over, with the officers still inside.
The van and its two-legged escort traveled east on FM 245, north on North Fifteenth Street, east again on County Highway 11, north on County Road L, and then east on FM 293 until reaching the outskirts of the town of Panhandle. “Slow your driving, damn you, and do it now,” he spat at the commando driving the vehicle. “We did not make it all this way to be pulled over by a country bumpkin policeman.” On his walkie-talkie, he said, “Proceed as directed.”
“Da, polkovnik,” the commando piloting the CID unit responded, and dashed off back to the west along FM 293. Being ultracareful to obey all stop signs and traffic signs, the van made its way through the quiet tree-lined streets of Panhandle, finally reaching Sixth Street, which took them right to Carson County Airport. Thankfully, the airport looked completely quiet. He did notice a Civil Air Patrol unit building and a Cessna 182 parked outside, but it too appeared closed.
Zakharov pulled out his transceiver and keyed the mike button: “Five, report.” No response. He tried a few more times—still no response.
“Sir, what do we do?” the commando driving the van asked worriedly.
“Relax, Lieutenant,” Zakharov said, trying to sound upbeat. “We are early, and our plane may be running late. We will try to make contact with one another on the planned schedule.”
“Should we recall the robot?”
“Negative,” Zakharov snapped. “The farther it gets from this place, and the sooner it is spotted somewhere else, the better off we will be.”
The CID unit ran at full speed directly west on FM 293. At the intersection of FM 293 and FM 2373, just northeast of the weapons storage facility, the pilot had to jump over a single security vehicle that had just set up a roadblock, and he sped off before the startled officer could fire a shot.
Resistance was stiffer the farther west he went. The entire intersection of FM 293 and Highway 136 was blocked off in all directions, and he decided to use his last antitank missile to destroy the biggest security vehicle before speeding south on Highway 136. He hopped onto North Lakeside Drive and continued south. Soon there was a police helicopter trying to follow him. Although he made a show of dodging here and there as if he was trying to evade the chopper, he was careful not to let the helicopter lose him. He got off Lakeside Drive at Triangle Drive and soon found himself at his destination: Amarillo International Airport.
He hopped a security fence on the northwest corner of the airport not far from the control tower, then sprinted across a field in front of the tower and across the northeast end of the main runway. He used the radio frequency scanner in the CID unit to check for any indication that he’d been spotted. It didn’t take long: on a UHF frequency he heard: “Attention all aircraft, this is Amarillo Ground, hold short of all runways and hold your positions, unidentified person on Taxiway Kilo near Foxtrot. Break. Airport security, we see him, he’s heading southeast on Kilo about halfway between Foxt
rot and Lima, and he’s haulin’ ass.” At the same time, on a different frequency: “Attention all aircraft inbound to Amarillo International, be advised, the airport is closed due to police action. Repeat, Amarillo Airport is closed due to police action. Stand by for divert instructions.”
“Jason! Thank God you’re alive!” Ariadna cried over the phone. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Panhandle, Texas,” Jason replied. The farmer had just dropped him and the children off at the Carson County Sheriff’s office. “You’ve got to get TALON out here right away. I think Zakharov is going after…”
“Pantex,” Ari interjected. “Watts guessed that too when the CID unit was activated out there. We’re already airborne with two CID units. We should be arriving in less than two minutes. We…stand by, Jason…J, we’ve just been told that Amarillo Airport is closed due to ‘police action.’ We’re trying to contact airport security.”
Jason turned to the deputy beside him, who was scrolling through lines of text appearing on a computer terminal. “Deputy, can you tell me what’s going on at Amarillo International?”
“Some guy on the runways,” the deputy replied, reading through the messages in growing disbelief. “We think he’s on a motorcycle or somethin’, because he’s goin’ pretty damned fast. They closed down the airport ’til they can catch ’im.”
“Deputy, listen to me,” Jason said. “That’s a hijacked Cybernetic Infantry Device on that airport—a manned robot.” The deputy looked at Richter as if he had grown another head. “Task Force TALON is coming in to capture him. I need you to get permission for their plane to land, right now.”
“That’s Potter County—I don’t got no jurisdiction out there…”
“Call someone and tell them to let that plane land!” Jason shouted. He gave the deputy the plane’s tail number and call sign, then turned to the phone again: “Ari, I’m trying down here to get you permission to land, but if you don’t get a call from the tower in about sixty seconds, land anyway.”
“Got it, J,” Ariadna said. “Are you all right?”
“Zakharov kidnapped me and a bunch of kids and forced me to activate the CID unit…”
“Mister, did you just say Zakharov?” the astonished deputy asked, his mouth dropping open in shock. “You mean, the guy that blew up Houston? He’s out there?” He turned to the phone and yelled, “Dammit, Dispatch, screw the airport police and put me through to the control tower at Amarillo. Yegor Zakharov the Russian terrorist is on the airport, and those Talon guys want to land so they can go get him. Do it, now!” The seconds ticked by mercilessly. Finally TALON was on the ground, and the CID units were being dispatched.
It did not take long: “J, we found CID One,” Ari radioed a couple minutes later. “It was abandoned. The guy piloting it is gone.”
“You’ve got to find him,” Jason said. “The sheriff’s department says some weapons are missing out of Pantex. They won’t say how many, but they did say ‘weapons,’ plural.”
“We’ll get him, J, don’t worry,” Ariadna said. “Watts is scouring every inch of the airport. Nothing is going in or out of that place until we’re done.”
Jason got to his feet and said to the deputy, “I need to get out to Amarillo International right away.”
“I can take you. Let’s go.”
As they hurried out of the office, Jason’s attention was drawn to a large wall map of Carson County—and he froze. “Deputy,” he called, “change in plan…”
“One, this is Five. Authenticate Yankee-Papa.”
“One authenticates ‘seven,’” Zakharov replied. He initiated a challenge-and-response code himself, using an improvised code sheet he had made up just for this mission. The reply was correct. “We are ready to load. What is your status?”
“In the green and ready,” the pilot of the Pilatus PC-12 cargo aircraft responded. Minutes later they heard a faint turbine engine sound. They couldn’t see it, and the pilot did not report his position as any pilot flying into an uncontrolled airport would normally do, but moments later he heard the distinctive “squeak squeak” of tires hitting the runway, and the sound of the turbine engine in ground idle got louder and louder. A few minutes later, the big single-engine turboprop cargo plane taxied to a stop about fifty yards away, and the large cargo door on the left side of the fuselage opened up.
“Go!” Zakharov ordered, and the driver pulled onto the ramp from their hiding place. Two commandos with automatic weapons jumped out of the PC-12 to take up security positions, while two more men jumped out, ready to help load the warhead coffins. The van’s driver blinked his headlights in response when one of the security men flashed a signal, then dimmed them as he drove closer to the open…
Suddenly there were two brilliant flashes of light from somewhere across the dark runway, and two streaks of red-orange fire sliced across the still night sky and plowed directly into the right side of the cargo plane, causing it to explode in a massive ball of fire.
“Holy shit! What in hell was that?” the sheriff’s deputy exclaimed. They had just pulled onto the airport property when the cargo plane exploded, less than a half-mile in front of them. He immediately hit the cruiser’s lights and sirens.
“No!” Jason yelled. “Turn them off!” But the deputy wasn’t listening. He got on his car’s radio and called for help. “Don’t go in there! Something’s happening…”
“Just shut up and stay put,” the deputy said. He raced across the empty parking lot up to the airport security fence, pulled out a white plastic passcard, and touched it to a magnetic card reader. Just as the gate started to open, an alarm bell rang in Jason’s brain, and he suddenly bolted out of the squad car. “Hey, where in hell do you think you’re goin’?” Jason didn’t reply—he just ran faster. By then the gate had opened far enough, and the deputy gunned the engine and zoomed inside…
…and no sooner had he advanced a few car lengths when a volley of automatic gunfire erupted, peppering the car and its driver in a deadly barrage of bullets. The smoking, unguided car started moving in a slow left circle, eventually crashing into a parked airplane.
Frozen with confusion and fear, Jason hid behind the terminal building until he was as sure as he could be that he wasn’t being followed, then sneaked through the open gate and up to the shattered squad car. Thankful that no interior lights came on when he opened the passenger side door, he tried unsuccessfully to pull the shotgun out of the dashboard mount, then went around to the driver’s side. The body of the dead deputy slid onto the ground when he opened the door—ironically, that made it easier to pull the Glock semiautomatic pistol from the deputy’s holster on his right hip. He remembered to take the magazine from the officer’s utility belt before sneaking toward the burning cargo plane.
Zakharov was stunned into speechlessness. What in hell happened here? He couldn’t even imagine that his own men could turn against him and try to hijack these stolen nuclear warheads, but that was the only logical explanation.
The driver had immediately raced away from the stricken plane, and now they were in a different hiding spot, between two hangars on the southwest side of the airport grounds. He had his Dragunov sniper rifle at the ready across his chest on its sling; his pistol was in his right hand and the last antitank missile launcher was slung over his shoulder; the commando had an assault rifle ready.
“Who is out there, sir?” the commando asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Zakharov growled.
“Sir! I would never betray you!”
“No one else knew of our plans!”
“I would die before even thinking about turning on you, Colonel!”
He thought about killing the guy just to be certain, but he needed him to help him escape. “All right, Lieutenant, all right. There is only one entrance and exit to this place, and that is bound to be guarded. But there has got to be another emergency exit on the north side of the airport. We will find it and get out that way.”
�
��Yes, sir.” He put the van in gear, pulled away from the hangars, and drove north between the rows of airplane hangars. When they ran out of paved parking area, they went across the dry grass. Using their parking lights, they found the airport security fence.
“I will drive,” Zakharov said. “Use your flashlight and find the gate.” The commando got out, pistol in one hand, flashlight in the other. The commando wisely covered most of the lens with his hand in order to shed as little light as necessary. Moments later they came across a dirt road, and moments after that they found the gate, with a rusty chain loosely holding it closed. The commando fetched a pair of bolt cutters from the van, placed the jaws on the chain…
…and suddenly flew over sideways violently as a bullet pierced the left side of his skull, killing him instantly. Zakharov took time to let out a weak gasp of shock before reaching for the shifter…
“Freeze, Colonel. Hands where I can see them.” The voice…had a Spanish accent, not a Russian one! He slowly lifted his hands and turned. He couldn’t see the face of the man in the open driver’s side window, but he could smell the cordite coming from the muzzle of the sound-suppressed pistol he aimed at him. “Both hands, out the window. Reach for the handle outside the vehicle and let yourself out.”
Zakharov complied. “Who are you?”
“A loyal employee of a friend of yours, Colonel,” the man said. Zakharov heard the van’s cargo doors open, and excited voices in Spanish reported that there were two warheads inside. “Congratulations, Colonel. There have been many security breaches at the Pantex Plant over the past fifty years, but I believe you are the first to actually steal a weapon from there, let alone two. The Comandante will be very pleased.”
