Rogue Threat

by AJ Tata

  “Sir, did you hear that?” Jeremiah’s voice slowly brought Hellerman back to reality.

  “Yes, Zeke, I heard. Matt Garrett is on board. That’s . . . that’s great news.”

  “If it’s true,” Jeremiah said with raised eyebrows.

  Hellerman paused, then said, “Yes, if it’s true. What authentication did Oceana get?”

  “None that I’m aware of, sir.”

  “Alternate command, this is Eagle six. Over.”

  “Eagle six, this is alternate command,” Jeremiah replied.

  “Roger. We’ve got this Sherpa on our radar, and it has banked hard to the west, following along just south of Interstate 66.”

  “Roger. This is the vice president. Your orders are to destroy the Sherpa once it gets west of Warrenton.”

  “Sir, this is Eagle six. Pardon me for asking, but why do you want me to destroy this aircraft with possible friendlies on it?”

  Hellerman recoiled at the insubordination. “Eagle six, you are now relieved of command. Your orders are to return to base. Eagle five, you are now in command, do you understand?”

  The pilot for Eagle five replied weakly, “Roger . . . roger, sir.”

  “Eagle five, this is the vice president. If Eagle six is not out of your airspace in one minute, your instructions are to engage and destroy him.”

  “Roger.”

  “This is Eagle six. Roger. I monitored, have copied this conversation on cockpit recorder, and am breaking station. Eagle six out.”

  “Eagle five, this is the vice president. Did you copy my last order to Eagle six regarding destroying the Sherpa once it has crossed west of Warrenton?”

  “This is Eagle five. Roger.”

  Hellerman dropped his hand to his side, still holding the handset, and realized for the first time that the entire command center was listening to his conversation and had heard his orders.

  “Okay, team, listen up,” he said, authoritatively. “We don’t know if Ballantine has a gun to Garrett’s head and made him make the call or what is going on in the cockpit of that airplane. We do know that it has a nuclear device on board and that we need to destroy it in the next fifteen minutes or it could wind up anywhere. It’s a loose cannon right now, and we can’t have that. I have tough decisions to make, and if anyone here doesn’t agree, well, this is not the time to question orders but to follow them.”

  He looked around the room, many eyes locked onto his.

  “Matt Garrett has done a great job, and he will die a hero the same way we would have shot down any of those civilian airliners on September 11 if the Air Force had been able to get in the air soon enough.”

  He heard a few grunts of agreement and saw the general mood of the crowd shift. They needed leadership. They were confused and scared sheep.

  “Zeke, track this thing. I need a moment.”

  Hellerman took a step back and looked at the map, ever the wolf.

  If it was Matt Garrett in the airplane, who was flying? He knew that Garrett couldn’t fly and didn’t believe that Zachary Garrett could fly. Maybe it was Ballantine who had the gun to his head.

  Why would Matt be taking the plane to the northeast? To go to their farm? No, they were too far away. The plane was flying a parallel path to the Chesapeake. He pondered the situation, and then it occurred to him. Matt Garrett was a good man, who would not want that nuke anywhere near large population centers. Their change in course meant a couple of things to Hellerman. First, they had only recently discovered the bomb. Second, they were having problems disarming it.

  Francis Hellerman suddenly felt better about everything.

  Chapter 64

  Near Warrenton, Virginia

  “Pay attention, Matt,” Zachary said with a heavy tongue. “I watched them install this thing. I know you think you know your bombs, but let me walk you through this.”

  Matt was sitting next to the nuclear device, studying the timer and its four wires. He looked at his brother, whose heavy eyelids belied the fact that he was about to instruct him on how to disarm a nuclear bomb.

  “Hey, guys, we’ve got a low fuel gauge coming on here,” Peyton warned, looking at Matt. “It’s been draining pretty fast. We must have taken a hit to the fuel tank.”

  “It’s got a reserve somewhere. I think it’s a fifteen-minute job. Just play with some knobs up there,” Matt replied over his shoulder.

  “Try this, Matt,” Zachary said. “Take the knife and unscrew the timer from the face plate of the bomb casing.”

  Matt dug at each screw, the knife slipping and cutting his fingers twice, until the last screw fell to the floor.

  “Now pull that bad boy forward.” Zachary’s eyes slipped shut for a second.

  “Okay, I’ve got it Zach.” Matt lightly shook his brother, trying to wake him.

  “Right, right, now you should see the same four wires. Two should be leading to the timer. What color are they?”

  “They’re all the same damn color, Zachary.”

  “Oh. Okay. Then you’ll see copper leads. Those indicate the end of the cables. Separate the ones that have the copper leads next to the bomb from the two that have leads next to the timer.”

  Matt looked at Zachary. His brother’s voice was getting weak, the drugs obviously ebbing and flowing in his system.

  “Okay. There are two that lead directly from inside the bomb into the timer and two that lead directly from the top of the timer to each end of the bomb.”

  “Right, that’s the circuit. Each wire coming into the timer closes the circuit. When the timer hits zero . . . uh, where is it now, the timer?”

  “It’s . . . it’s saying seven minutes, man. Come on, quit screwing around, Zachary. You used to pull this crap when we were kids.”

  “Hey, man, I’m drugged. Get off my case.”

  The engine began to sputter, and Matt could see Peyton frantically searching around the cockpit for knobs. Any knobs.

  “Will you two quit fighting and deal with the problem, please!” she shouted.

  “Oh, yeah, the reserve tank is between the seats. That little knob, just push it back,” Zachary said. “Saw Ballantine do that on our way down here. Same thing happened.”

  Peyton found the knob and pushed it back, the engine sputtering and coughing, then regaining its steady hum.

  “Am I good or what?” Zachary smiled weakly.

  Matt looked at his brother. The man had not changed, even in death.

  “Matt, you fixed that bomb yet?” Zachary asked.

  “Yeah, okay. I’ve got the wires that run into the bomb.”

  “Right, they’re the ones that close the loop. The timer, when it hits zero in about five minutes, will send an electronic pulse through the top wires into the bomb. The bomb will recognize that it is time to blow up and will check just to make sure with the wires coming into the timer. Those wires will complete the loop and confirm that it’s time to blow up.”

  Matt looked at his brother. “And?”

  “And, isn’t it obvious which wires you’re supposed to cut?” Zachary said.

  Peyton looked back and said, “We’ve got a big town off to our south. We’re passing it now.”

  “Must be Warrenton,” Matt said.

  “No, actually it’s Fredricksburg. I cut up the Potomac since you seemed to be making progress. We’re still over water and I’m going low. So get ready.”

  Her solemn tone served to cut through the brotherly jousting.

  They flew in silence for about one minute, and Matt said, “Peyton? Ready?”

  “Cut the loop-closing wires, Matt. Now!” Zachary’s voice was clear.

  Matt looked at his brother, who said it again. “Now, Matt.”

  Having taken orders from his older brother all his life, Matt lifted the knife and cut the two wires that led from the bomb to the timer. His hand shook as the knife sliced through the rubber-coated wires. He held the timer in his hand. It continued its countdown.

  “Now what?” he asked, looki
ng at Zachary.

  Zachary’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily.

  Peyton steered the small airplane so close to the docile Potomac that the exposed wheels created minor rooster tails.

  Chapter 65

  Middleburg, Virginia

  “Eagle five, this is the vice president. Give me the status of the Sherpa,” Hellerman ordered into the UHF handset.

  “Sir, the Sherpa has just banked north of Fredricksburg. I’m giving it some space before I take it down. My plan is to use guns, hoping that might limit the damage and prevent that nuke from going off.”

  “Okay, give it another two minutes, max. It ought to go down somewhere in the old Wilderness battlefield area. While not perfect, it would be acceptable.”

  “Roger. Understood,” Eagle five said.

  Hellerman stared at the map and paced, pinching his lips together, obviously in deep thought. Chess moves, these were all chess moves. This airplane was nothing more than an exposed queen ripe for the taking, a last gambit by a desperate opponent. The plane would be shot down, the nuke recovered, and the entire Chinese operation dismantled. The Garrett brothers would be dead, snuffing out any possible recrimination against him.

  He could keep Rampert in a box, and Ballantine no longer appeared to be a threat.

  Still, nagging at the back of his mind was the thought that no clever player ever offered up his prize without a counterstroke in mind.

  The Ronnie Wood issue was still something he needed to contend with. Could that be it?

  “I’ve got video lock on the Sherpa.” The pilot’s voice broke him from his strategic reverie.

  He suddenly realized that he needed to get to his command bunker in order to survive the blast as well as continue to control the action. If the nuke detonates, everything is incinerated.

  “Your command center there ought to be able to download this from the satellite, sir.”

  “Zeke, hook that up.” Hellerman looked up at the blank screen. Then, after a moment, said, “Roger. Thanks. We’re with you, son.”

  “Sir, we just got word that Tomcat one six shot down that Predator near Dunn, North Carolina. The report is that the bomb exploded and there’s a radiation cloud about two miles in diameter. Small nuke, but what a mess,” Zeke said.

  “Listen up, everybody. Understand what I’m talking about here?” Hellerman shouted. He heard several grunts and “Yes, sirs.” “This ain’t child’s play. This terrorist came to do business, people, and we’ve got to stop him.”

  Hellerman turned and looked at the large screen again. He could see the Sherpa flying level above some dotted lights on the ground. The picture was grainy but good enough to see one head in the pilot’s seat. Just for an instant, he saw long hair hanging off the shoulders of the pilot. The video feed wasn’t clear at all, but his instincts told him that Peyton O’Hara was flying that airplane.

  “Eagle five, this is the vice president. Over.”

  “This is Eagle five. Go ahead.”

  “It’s time. Get in position and knock this thing down. Go for the forward portion of the airplane,” Hellerman commanded.

  “Will comply. This is Eagle five assuming attack position.”

  On the screen, the operations group in the command center saw a quick rushing of land, losing sight of the Sherpa, as Eagle five turned the jet to close in on its tail. But then the Sherpa came back into view. It was closer now. The pilot had pulled up parallel with the airplane and was only a few feet away from the Sherpa’s wingtip. The mesmerized faces of the operations group could plainly see the face of Peyton O’Hara huddled over the cockpit, straining to see beyond the windscreen in the night.

  “I salute you,” the pilot’s voice came over the radio speakers. Then the Sherpa was gone from sight for the moment.

  The pilot’s voice again broke the deathly silence. “Going to guns.”

  Hellerman watched, waiting for the image of the Sherpa to reappear on the screen.

  Chapter 66

  Northern Virginia

  “Now what, Zach?” Matt shook his drugged and exhausted brother, then muttered, “Unbelievable.”

  “Hey, Matt, we’ve got an F-15 out here on our flank,” Peyton said.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Saluting me, I think.”

  “That’s either good news or bad news.”

  Matt looked at the bomb timer. It had thirteen seconds to go . . .

  00:32 . . .

  00:31 . . .

  00:30 . . .

  “Okay, Peyton, I just want to tell you in case this thing doesn’t work out that I’m really very proud of you, and I want to thank you for helping me get my brother back. If we die here in a few seconds, well, we saved him, and now we’re saving others. That’s not a bad way to go.”

  Peyton turned and watched the countdown.

  00:03 . . .

  00:02 . . .

  00:01 . . .

  The digital readout flashed zeroes for a few seconds and then began an upward count:

  00:01 . . .

  00:02 . . .

  00:03 . . .

  Matt and Peyton stared at the nuclear bomb.

  “Now cut the other wires. You have fifteen seconds while the bomb tries to close the loop through the wires you cut, then it will reverse course and confirm the loop through the sending wires. If it can’t confirm the loop, it won’t blow up. I think.”

  Zachary’s head rolled on the back of the Sherpa floor as he spoke.

  “Damn it, why didn’t you tell me that?” Matt flashed with anger.

  “You were too busy sucking face with your girlfriend. Now cut the wires, man.”

  Matt scrambled for the knife, unable to find it, wasting precious time.

  “Come on, Matt, hurry,” Peyton said.

  “Found it.” He fumbled with the knife and grabbed both sets of wires, slicing them and then looking at the black box. The number fourteen frozen on its face.

  The bomb sat idle in the back of the Sherpa. A few seconds went by, and they started to laugh. It was nervous adrenaline. For all Matt knew, Peyton was about to fly the plane into the Blue Ridge Mountains, but at least they had beaten Ballantine.

  Then they heard the loud report of machine-gun fire.

  “He’s shooting at us!” Peyton said, banking the plane hard to the north.

  “Where are we?” Matt asked her.

  “We’re about twenty miles from Hellerman’s dirt strip. We’ll never outlast this guy. He’s in a fighter jet, for crying out loud.”

  “Take it low. Take it as low as you can go. He won’t want to use Mavericks on us because he thinks the nuke is still live. He has a problem flying slow enough, so he’ll have to keep circling and trying to get behind us.”

  Peyton pushed the airplane into a near-vertical dive, tracers ripping past the fuselage. The lower she flew, the less accurate the fire. She tilted the wings and followed the grid coordinate she had punched into the navigation system. It was as simple as lining up two small arrows, unless there was an F-15 fighter jet trying to shoot you down, she mused.

  “Okay, what are you, about fifty feet off the ground?” Matt asked.

  “Forty,” she said.

  “Okay, push it to about twenty,” he said.

  “I’ll hit telephone wires at twenty. No way.”

  Another burst of machine-gun fire shot past the windscreen. Two rounds caught the right wing.

  “Good thing we’re low on gas,” Matt said. “That’s where the main tank is.” He pointed at the two holes in the wing next to his seat.

  “Speaking of gas, I’m getting the low-fuel warning again,” she said. The engine began to sputter, as if cued.

  “How far?” he asked.

  “Five miles, five damn miles! And we would be home free, but this jackass is going to shoot us down—that is, if we don’t fall out of the sky first!” she shouted.

  Matt looked at her for a moment, then said, “Feel better?”

  “Yes, actu
ally,” she said, shaking her hair behind her head and shaking off the fear.

  They saw the F-15 race overhead and then pull upward, spiraling in the sky, and then loop behind them.

  “Okay, here it is. He’s not missing this time,” Matt said. “You’re going to need to zigzag a bit, like a running back, you know?”

  “This airplane! You grab the handles and zigzag this bitch,” Peyton hissed.

  “Okay,” Matt said, grabbing the steering column and yanking hard to the right about the time the F-15 spat a 20mm burst at them.

  “See, it’s not so hard,” he spat through gritted teeth.

  “Damn you!” Peyton shouted, regaining control of the airplane and leveling the wings. She put on the night-vision goggles that Ballantine had stashed on the dashboard.

  “One mile. One mile. Okay, line up the arrows. One mile. There it is. There it is. We’re going to make it,” she said.

  Peyton banked hard once, in the same style Matt had previously, avoiding another wide spray of machine-gun fire. Then the engine began to sputter and cough. They were out of fuel.

  “Six hundred yards. Six damn football fields!” she shouted. “Keep going. Get going, baby. Please keep going!” Peyton pleaded with the faltering machine.

  “He’s lined up on our tail, flat on our tail, Peyton. Do something!” Matt yelled, leaning out of the door and looking back. He could see the F-15 slowing almost to a stall, appearing to hover like an angry hornet. Then he saw a violent burst of machine-gun fire again.

  The Sherpa rocked and swayed hard to the left and then came back to the right, its wings groaning beneath the stress of evasive maneuvers. Then the plane bucked and pitched hard to the right, pieces of sheet metal and hardware ripping off the light frame.

  “We’re hit, we’re hit!” Matt shouted.