by Larry Bond
Thorn lifted the shotgun again.
“They are not numbers. They are code names,” the other man said, stumbling over the words in his haste to get them out. “But I do not know these names!”
Code names? Thorn glanced at Helen. “Do you still have that list we took off Wolf?”
“Yes.” She fished it out of one of her pockets and handed it over.
He scanned down the list until he found the five animal code names listed under Godfrey: Lion, Tiger, Leopard, Jaguar, and Cheetah, all in German. He looked up at Helen. “What do you think?”
“Try Lion,” she said flatly. “It’s the first on the list and the king of the beasts.”
Thorn nodded. That Was logical. Except for Ibrahim and a few others, most of those involved in this conspiracy were German.
Putting their primary target at the top of a list and attaching the name of the top of the animal kingdom to it would appeal to them.
He sat down at the keyboard and typed in L,O,W,E.
A new line appeared on the display: ID INCORRECT; AIRCRAFT ID?: Damn it.
Helen leaned over his shoulder. “Peter, there’s no umlaut symbol on this keyboard!”
Of course. Thorn tried again, typing in L, O, E, W, E, this time.
New data appeared below the digitized map on the computer display — showing information on airspeed, altitude, the plane’s attitude, heading, and degree of bank, throttle settings, and fuel remaining. At the same time, the video monitor just to the left of the computer screen flickered to life — showing a black-and white image of lighted suburban streets passing slowly astern.
Thorn scanned the numbers quickly, trying to make sense of them. From what he could tell, the strike aircraft was currently flying southeast at two hundred thirty knots — at an altitude of two thousand feet.
Two sets of coordinates — latitude and longitude — stayed constant.
A third decreased constantly. As he watched, it flickered from 25.4 to 25.3. He turned toward Engel and stabbed a finger at the screen. “Are these what I think they are?”
The German computer tech nodded nervously. “That is the detonation point. And the range to the target.”
Something about those coordinates looked familiar to Thorn.
Then it clicked. This aircraft was headed straight for the Pentagon which would put most of Washington inside the bomb’s blast and shock radius. He glared hard at Engel. “All right, how do I give this plane a new set of coordinates?”
“You cannot.”
This time Helen ground her weapon into the technician’s cheek. “Try again!”
“Please. It is true.” Sweat rolled down the German’s face. “You cannot change the aim point once the aircraft is aloft. Herr Reichardt insisted on that as a security precaution!”
Reichardt? Who the hell was he? Thorn filed the name away for future reference. He focused on the task at hand. “Are you telling me that goddamned plane is totally locked on autopilot?”
“No, no!” Engel insisted. “You can control the aircraft manually.”’ “How?”
The technician plucked a joystick off the top of the console and held it up. “Using this. and the keyboard.”
“Set it up. Now!” Thorn growled. Ibrahim’s bomb-laden plane would be over the Pentagon in roughly four minutes.
Engel leaned over his shoulder, hastily plugged the joystick into a port near the display, and began entering commands on the keyboard.
“Peter?” Helen said quietly.
He looked at her. “Yeah?”
“Can you fly that plane from here?”
Thorn shrugged. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
They were out of other options. Rounding up one of Ibrahim’s surviving pilots and getting him to cooperate would take too long. For a brief instant, he wished he’d spent more time playing around with the computer flight simulators that were so popular nowadays. For now, the computer tech would have to do.
“The system is ready,” Engel announced, taking his hands off the keyboard. He quickly pointed out the keys that would activate various aircraft controls. “Those are your throttle settings, your rudder controls, and …”
Thorn listened intently, forcing himself to memorize each key.
He could feel his heart rate accelerating. When the German finished, he nodded abruptly. The aircraft indicator was now over Reston — and the distance to target changed to 16.1. “Is there anything else I should know?” he asked.
The computer tech nodded. “You must keep the aircraft at least two nautical miles away from the detonation point. Once it flies inside that circle, the bomb is armed — and it will detonate if the range begins to open again. Also, you must not let the aircraft drop below three hundred meters — a thousand of your feet — or climb above five thousand meters. Once it reaches either altitude, a barometric fuse will detonate the weapon. Herr Reichardt’s and Prince Ibrahim’s instructions were very explicit.”
“How truly wonderful,” Helen commented acidly.
Thorn thought a moment. “If we can’t dive, we’ll have to get this sucker to climb. Even fifteen thousand feet above the ground is better than nothing.”
Helen frowned. “With a 150-kiloton bomb on board, Peter?
That’s still not high enough.”
“It’s a start,” he replied.
“Yeah.”
“This will relay any air traffic control communication you receive,” the German computer tech said, offering a radio headset plugged into a control panel next to the keyboard.
Thorn yanked the earphones he was wearing off, and slipped the new headset on. Then he tapped the keys controlling the throttle settings for both engines — pushing them to one hundred percent power. Then he took a deep breath. “Here we go.”
He tugged the joystick to the right.
Strike Aircraft Lion, Over Virginia
Two thousand feet above the densely populated suburban landscape, the twin-engine Jetstream 31 turboprop abruptly rolled to the right — almost standing on its wingtip. It lost altitude rapidly.
Inside, a tiny instrument linked to a constant barometric pressure reading prepared itself for the last act of its short life.
Strike Control Center Helen Gray saw the video picture suddenly shift as the aircraft practically turned onto its side. The altitude reading spun down falling from two thousand to seventeen hundred and then sixteen hundred feet in seconds. She held her breath.
Peter quickly pulled the joystick back to the left. Slowly, the image showed the aircraft rolling back to level flight. Its altitude stabilized around fourteen hundred feet.
The computer technician’s face turned a ghastly shade of white.
“Careful! The controls are sensitive. And they are not integrated. To turn safely, you must use the rudder control key and the joystick!”
Helen could see the sweat on Peter’s forehead now. He stared intently at the screen. She kept quiet.
His hand holding the joystick slowly relaxed, while the other hovered over the computer keyboard. The range to target now read 10.9.
Farrell’s laconic voice broke over their headsets. “Delta One and Two, this is Three. I’ve got my weapon on ten-plus bad guys out here. Some of them are pretty badly shot up. And a Fairfax County police unit just pulled up outside the main gate. Any suggestions on what I should tell them?”
“Try to stall them,” Helen said tersely. “We’re a little busy in here, Sam.”
“So I’ve heard,” Farrell replied. “You let me know when to duck and cover, okay?”
Helen suddenly realized the retired general must have heard almost everything going on inside the control center over the voice-activated radio circuit. She swallowed. “I’ll let you know, Sam. Scout’s honor.”
“Okay,” Farrell said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Peter glanced over his shoulder and flashed her a quick, worried grin.
“Second time lucky, right?”
Helen nodded seriously. They weren’t going to g
et a third chance.
“Right.”
His hands started moving, this time gently tugging the joystick right while simultaneously tapping the key controlling the aircraft’s rudder.
Strike Aircraft Lion, Over Arlington, Virginia The twin-engine plane banked slowly, gradually changing its heading from southeast to almost due south. Once on that new course, it rolled back to level flight, pitched up slightly, and began climbing.
Control Center Thorn felt his pulse slow a bit as the strike aircraft’s altitude started increasing — rising steadily from fourteen hundred feet.
He glanced at the range to target. It read 6.8. The number changed — to 6.9.
He breathed out.
An irritated voice suddenly squawked through his radio head set.
“Unknown aircraft climbing through two thousand on heading one seven seven, this is Washington Center ARTCC. Who are you? And what the hell do you think you’re doing? Be advised you are straying close to restricted air space.”
Thorn hit the mike switch. “Washington ARTCC, this is Colonel Peter Thorn, United States Army. The twin engine plane you’re monitoring is a remotely piloted aircraft carrying an armed 150-kiloton nuclear warhead. I repeat, this nuclear warhead is armed.”
“What?” the air traffic controller said sharply. “Jesus Christ, if this is some kind of joke—”
Thorn cut him off. “This is no joke. I repeat, that plane is carrying a live nuclear weapon. I’ve got control over it for now but I suggest you give me a safe heading that will take this thing away from the District and any other inhabited area.”
The radio went dead.
He watched the altitude number creeping up through three thousand feet and then glanced up at the digital map. The robot plane was now over Alexandria. The TV monitor showed an array of brighter city lights and the winding, black trace he knew must be the Potomac River.
The Washington Center air traffic controller came back on line. “Okay, Colonel. We’re going to assume you’re telling the truth …”
“Good move,” Thorn said sharply, still watching the screen.
“We’re clearing a corridor that should take your plane out to sea a safe distance. What’s your fuel status?”
Thorn checked the numbers and read them off.
“Okay. You should have plenty of range left. Here’s what I want you to do. Maintaining your air speed and your current rate of climb, come left to new heading one two zero. That’ll take you out over southeastern Maryland to Chesapeake Bay. I’ll relay further instructions as needed.”
“Understood.” Thorn complied, carefully moving both the joystick and the rudder control. “I also suggest you alert both the FBI and the D.O.D about this situation.”
“Don’t you worry about that, Colonel,” the traffic controller said. “The shit’s already hitting the fan all over Washington. For your sake, I really hope this isn’t some cock-and-bull story to get attention.”
“Considering that I’m not a trained pilot, and that there is a real nuke aboard that plane, you’d be a lot better off hoping I’m full of crap,” Thorn snapped back. He adjusted the controls again. “Coming left to one two zero. Let’s get this crate out over the Atlantic as fast as possible.”
Strike Aircraft Lion, Over Maryland
New bits of data flowed through the onboard computer inside the Jetstream 31. Range to target: Increasing. Heading: Steady. Time elapsed since original projected detonation: three hundred seconds.
The data triggered a new subroutine-one added by Dr. Saleh, Ibrahim’s computer expert, after Reichardt’s German specialists finished the basic programming.
A readout attached to the TN-1000 suddenly blinked to life.
It read 00:15:00.
Control Center
Thorn saw a new set of numbers flicker into existence in the lower right-hand corner of his monitor:
00:14:59.
00:14:58.
00:14:57.
His heart seemed to stop. “Oh, hell.”
Helen leaned closer, her own face pale. “What is it, Peter?”
“The bastards must have put in another backup arming trigger,” Thorn said quietly. “I think that bomb is going to detonate in less than fifteen minutes. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
Engel, the German technician, stared at the damning numbers on the screen in shock. “It is impossible. I did not write such a subroutine.”
The other man was probably telling the truth, Thorn decided.
From what they’d seen so far, Ibrahim and Wolf had both liked to exercise complete control. He’d bet that few, if any, of their subordinates had ever known all the pieces of the puzzle. Not that it made much difference now, he realized coldly.
The hard truth was that fourteen-plus minutes didn’t leave him enough time to get the plane safely out over the ocean. He ran the numbers hastily through his mind. He could fly that aircraft roughly fifty or sixty nautical miles further down-range before the nuke went off. On its present course, that would put the new detonation point somewhere over thinly populated Dorchester County, Maryland. That was better than having the bomb explode right over Washington but there were still half a dozen or more small towns inside the probable blast radius. And that meant civilian casualties could number in the thousands.
Thorn keyed the radio mike. “Washington ARTCC. We have a new problem here.”
“Go ahead, Colonel.”
Thorn quickly laid out the situation they were facing.
There was a moment’s silence before a stunned voice came back over the circuit. “Oh, God.”
Thorn saw the detonation countdown on his screen blink through 00:13:00. His hand tightened on the joystick. “Look, I need some help here. Right now!”
“I’m patching you through to the Pentagon Crisis Operations Center,” the anxious air controller said hurriedly. “Wait one.”
Thirty seconds passed before another voice, this one older and calmer, sounded in his headset. “Colonel Thorn? This is Brigadier General Dodson. Let me make sure I’ve got this straight: We’re looking at the detonation of a 150-kiloton Soviet-era warhead in roughly twelve minutes, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Thorn could see streetlights glowing against the dark earth below. The aircraft was over Washington’s fastgrowing southeastern Maryland suburbs now.
“Then here are the parameters we’re facing,” Dodson continued.
“Assuming optimum burst height, we can expect the following …”
Thorn listened to the general’s grim statistics in silence. They paralleled his own rough mental calculations. Lethal radiation exposure up to one and a half miles from the detonation point.
A shock wave strong enough to tear most houses apart out to four and a half miles, and to shatter glass nine miles away. And a thermal pulse hot enough to cause second-and thirddegree burns to anyone caught outdoors over an area eleven miles in diameter.
He grimaced. The optimum burst height for a warhead of this size was around two thousand feet. Pushing the aircraft up to nearly fifteen thousand would help reduce the damage when the bomb went off — but it was still going to be ugly. Very ugly.
Thorn waited until the general finished giving him the bad news. “So, then what do you suggest, sir?”
“We can’t have this damned thing going off over land,” the other man stated firmly.
“agreed.”
“Then we’re down to just one option, Colonel,” Dodson said.
“You’ll have to fly it south over Chesapeake Bay.”
Thorn nodded to himself. Then he stopped suddenly, remembering the maps he’d studied of the Washington area. “Sir, that means the bomb’s going to detonate—”
“Six miles away from the Par River Naval Air Warfare Center,” the general finished. “I know, Colonel. But we’re getting a warning through to them right now. We couldn’t possibly alert any civilians anywhere else in time. So we’re just going to have to ride this one out.”
“J
esus,” Thorn said softly.
“I don’t like it either, Colonel,” Dodson agreed. “But it’s the best we can do. So you just concentrate on keeping that plane in the air long enough to give us a chance to put the alert out to everyone we can.”
“Yes, sir.” Thorn refocused his attention on the controls in front of him. The detonation countdown flickered through 00:09:00.
Crisis Operations Center, Pentagon
Brigadier General Andrew Jackson Dodson, U.S. Air Force, tore his gaze away from the clock. They had a little less than six minutes left. He swung around toward the short, balding Navy captain at his right.
“What’s the word from Par River, Frank?”
“The sirens just went off, sir. I’ve got the duty officer on the phone now. He understands the situation. Everybody’s heading for the shelters.”
“What about their equipment?” Dodson asked. Par River was the U.S. Navy’s premier test center for new aircraft.
“We’re going to lose some planes, sir,” the Navy captain admitted.
“It’s not a combat base. The hangars aren’t hardened.”
“Understood.” Dodson nodded. That was going to hurt. But it was still better to lose hardware — even expensive hardware — than lives.
The Air Force general turned toward one-of his other officers, a Marine lieutenant colonel. “What about civilian air traffic, Jim? Anything inbound?”
“No, sir,” the Marine answered. “Washington ARTCC is rerouting everything well north or south. Not that there’s much in the air right now.”
“What about shipping traffic?” the general asked. The Chesapeake Bay intercoastal waterway was one of the busiest shipping lanes in the U.S. “I’ve checked with both Baltimore and Norfolk. There’s nothing in the danger zone.”
Dodson nodded again. Thank God for small favors, he thought. This early in the morning there wasn’t much stirring along the eastern seaboard.
“General,” another aide said suddenly, motioning to the secure phone in his hand. “The White House is on the line. They ant to know if they should evacuate the President.”
“Negative. There’s no time.” Dodson frowned. Somebody over at the White House wasn’t thinking straight. He checked the clock again.
