The Red Pearl Effect (Sam Quick Adventure Book 1)

by Scott Corlett

  Then the engines roared.

  In the airport tower, the solitary controller looked up from a laptop screen filled by writhing bodies to see the night predator shoot back into the sky. The Spanish controller shrugged, guzzled the remainder of her diet soda, and returned to watching the drunken American college boys on spring break.

  ∞

  “OK, ladies and gentlemen, please ensure that your tray-table is stowed, that your carryon luggage is pushed fully beneath the seat in front of you, and that your seatback is in the upright, locked position. It’s been our pleasure to serve you on this hop from Madrid to La Palma. We’ll be on the ground shortly.”

  Quick looked out the window, at the emerging dark hulk of the island volcano chain. Just hold on a little longer, Kalia, she thought, picturing a scan of the mountain and Slater hidden in its throat.

  A slight vibration and groan marked the wheels’ descent.

  She turned from her window and looked across the aisle. The portals on the plane’s east-facing side were glowing sapphire blue, with dawn’s earliest light mixing with the dark sky.

  The engines relaxed, and the whoosh of the ventilation system dominated as the Gulfstream glided into its final approach.

  Hunt pocketed his smartphone and looked at Quick. “I’ll be glad when we’re back on terra firma—”

  Suddenly the Gulfstream 550 twisted and screamed. Quick and Hunt hurtled violently sideways, as the plane banked impossibly hard toward the mountain, pushing the Gulfstream’s avionics to their limits.

  From the open cockpit, an electronic voice barked, “Pull up! Pull up! Pull Up!”

  The control panel flashed red. A purple shark fin of hair surfaced above the captain’s chair, as the little pilot pulled back on the stick with the force of his entire body, rising up from his seat.

  The Gulfstream climbed so steeply that the plane threatened to roll over backwards. Hunt crushed his armrests, while Quick planted her feet and tightened her grip as if riding one of the stallions of her childhood ranch.

  Just as the Gulfstream neared impact with the mountain face, the plane’s wheels returned to their wells, and the craft’s belly skimmed the rock wall.

  Then the windows flashed orange; the sonic wave hit the tail of the Gulfstream and washed along the jet as if a giant were shaking out his laundry.

  “What the hell was that?” Hunt shouted over the turbines’ screeching.

  In the tower, the air traffic controller ran to the window. Such a large explosion on the mountain could mean only one thing, she thought—a fatal car accident on a twisty road. She crossed herself and hoped that none of her grandchildren had gone for one of their late-night joyrides.

  In the Gulfstream’s cockpit, the electronic voice went quiet, and the purple Mohawk submerged below the seatback. After the near-vertical climb, now level at 6500 feet, the plane banked again, this time hard to right, putting the jet on its side again.

  Photons of light, which had left Arcturus only hours after those that had beamed hope down the airshaft to Slater and Amanda, pierced Hunt’s window. From her side, facing groundward, Quick watched a red line of runway lights wink as if taunting them.

  The Gulfstream pulled out of the turn. No longer bothering with the PA, Zero shouted, “Reports of turbulence ahead, so I’m gonna turn on the ‘Fasten Seatbelt’ sign.”

  The Gulfstream banked again and came around hard. “If you’re outgunned, there’s only one way to fight an enemy aircraft.”

  The throttle met its stop, as the pilot relaxed into his chair and completed the thought at the maximum volume that his child-sized lungs allowed, “That’s head-on!”

  – 62 –

  Monday, 16 July

  Island of La Palma

  “What does he mean head-on?” Eric Hunt shouted.

  The click of Sam Quick’s seatbelt was the only response. The scientist jumped up, scrambled into the cockpit, and climbed onto the empty seat. “I thought you might enjoy some company.”

  “I never turn away a pretty copilot.” Zero nodded at the small jet turning in their direction, framed against the predawn stars. “Friend of yours?”

  “Nah, we never really hit it off, but she just can’t take a hint,” Quick said, buckling herself in.

  “Yeah, I’ve dated a few women like that. Though none have ever hunted me with air-to-air missiles.”

  Zero pointed to a lever on the center console. “You’re in charge of the throttle. Just follow my instructions”—the volume of his voice rose to a shout for Hunt’s benefit—“and everything will be just fine.”

  “Yeah, right,” Hunt muttered, pressing himself deeper into his seat.

  Quick palmed the throttle lever, while the Gulfstream jagged toward the reds and greens of the mountains. Then Zero cranked the omega-shaped control wheel; the plane went on its side, with its wings nearly perpendicular to a banana plantation below.

  In the Legacy 600, the two Azerbaijani pilots gave each other the thumbs up. For twenty years, their killing skills—honed in the tight gorges of Afghanistan’s Sanglakh Mountains, in service of the Soviet military—had lain dormant. And although the Legacy 600 was a little more than a model aircraft compared to the Soviet MiG-29s that the men had flown on attack sorties in Afghanistan, the remaining Vympel R-73 short-range missile affixed under the wing was every bit as deadly as the precision bombs that had obliterated countless Afghani fighters. Known to NATO forces as the Archer, the R-73 was a killer of both slight build—less than 10 feet long and 7 inches in diameter—and great range, effective from 1000 feet to nearly 20 miles.

  Despite Nin’s command—“Get it done. Now!”—echoing in the men’s headphones, the pilots waited for the surest line of attack, calmly tracking their prey, now streaking on its side toward the mountain ridge in a hyperbolic arc.

  In the Gulfstream, Zero said, “Ease it back a bit,” as the plane’s belly skimmed the mountain’s bumpy face, and Quick pulled the throttle.

  “OK, perfect.” Zero locked his eyes on the Legacy. “Now, on my command, throttle to full.” He yanked the control stalk; the plane shot away from the mountain and swept directly at the Legacy 600.

  “Hit it.”

  Quick jammed the throttle forward. Jet fuel flooded the engines; the turbines screamed; the resultant thrust slammed all three passengers deep into their seats.

  Profanities filled the Legacy’s cockpit. In both aircraft and in the control tower, flashing lights and braying computers announced the imminent collision. With the planes flying head-on at maximal speeds, the gap between the jets was closing so rapidly that launching the heat-seeking Archer could only assure mutual destruction.

  Quick stared glacially ahead at her onrushing opponents. While, the Azerbaijani pilots, cursing, jammed their sticks to the forward limits. The Legacy plunged; the Zanin sisters levitated, tethered only by their seatbelts, as their luxurious perches fell from beneath them. In the flight tower, the controller ran back to the window.

  The leaves of the banana trees twisted and whipped as if subjected to hurricane-force winds. Overhead, at an altitude of 150 feet, the Legacy wrestled out of the dive, its avionic cables and hydraulic lines straining at their failure points. As the plane righted, red nails began clicking against burled walnut in the cabin, while the Azerbaijani pilots practically salivated up front.

  The Gulfstream completed a hairpin maneuver and steeply descended. “Time to land before they have a clear shot,” Zero said, snapping switches and cranking knobs with one hand, while his other managed the stalk. “Thankfully, we’ve got a good stretch of tar, because at this airspeed, we’ll need every inch.”

  The 550 shuddered hard, as the landing gear made an encore appearance at airspeed far higher than the equipment’s engineered tolerance. The computer called the altitude in halting clips: “1200 feet … 900 feet … 700 feet …”

  To the north, the Legacy 600 regained altitude and banked hard, arcing out over the Atlantic, and then again to the south, toward the
airport.

  “300 feet … 100 feet … 50 feet … 25 feet …”

  Both Quick and Zero saw the bright flash marking the Legacy’s location.

  The Archer wobbled for a millisecond. Then its cryogenically cooled, heat-seeking tip locked on the thermal emissions of the gliding Gulfstream, whose wheels neared touch down. The Archer raced for its target at more than twice the speed of sound.

  “Plan B—brace!”

  The purple-haired pilot cranked the control stalk; the Gulfstream’s right wingtip dug into the runway. For an instant, the rivets and welds held, with the plane pinwheeling around an axis through the intersection of the wingtip and concrete. And had the fasteners remained true, after arcing less than 180 degrees, the plane would have smashed nose-first into pavement still warm after the tropical night. But torque forces ripped off the metal slab like a child pulling the wing off a dragonfly.

  The wing, the attached engine, and its internal fuel tanks shot off in one direction. The remainder of the Gulfstream arced into the air, catapulted onward.

  The discarded wing slid along the runway with a shower of sparks and burst into flame; the contents of its fuel tanks instantly oxidized into a massive thermal target. The Archer’s tracking algorithms immediately redirected the missile toward the higher-intensity heat source.

  The projectile slammed into the burning debris; strings of molten aluminum and superheated chunks of concrete rose to look the air traffic controller straight in the eye—a sight far wilder than any displayed on the Spaniard’s laptop screen that night.

  The remainder of the Gulfstream—the fuselage, tail, and left wing—after traveling another 200 feet, crashed onto its wingless side and skidded off the runway.

  The Legacy banked. Nin and Solta looked down from their windows. In the predawn blue-gray, two twisted piles burned on the airfield below, neither far from the tiny terminal building and its steeple filled with radar screens.

  Nin Zanin looked at her sister. “We must make other arrangements for our journey’s final leg—this airport is closed.”

  – 63 –

  Monday, 16 July

  The Mid Atlantic

  Air Force One was nearly halfway across the Atlantic. And the president’s private conference room was dead silent save for the roar of the four engines relentlessly speeding the leader of the free world to his seat of power—Washington D.C.

  The president looked at his top aides, each of whom were staring at him. Never before had he seen them all speechless. He was shocked himself. But nothing stopped Jasper James for long.

  “Goddamn it,” he thundered, slamming his hand down on the table. “What do you mean we have no military assets close enough to this island to go in and clean this up?”

  “As I said, sir, the Canary Islands are not on our threat list. Our nearest strike force is already en route, but their eta is one hour, forty-five,” the secretary of defense answered, his voice issuing from the surrounding speakers, and his lips moving on the high-definition video screen affixed to the wall.

  “Well, can’t we just nuke the hell out of the island, vaporize the damn thing?” James pressed.

  Howls rose from around the table, with the secretary of state appearing ready to leap up onto the conference table. “But, Mr. President, do you realize what you are suggesting? Nothing short of the vaporization of an entire island and its population, an island territory of a sovereign power and ally, no less—”

  James held up a hand. “I’d like to hear the response, if you don’t mind.”

  “Mr. President,” the secretary of defense said, “our analysts have looked very closely at exactly that option—a coordinated thermonuclear bombardment on La Palma to preempt any landslide.”

  James rolled his hand impatiently. “Get to the ‘but,’ man.”

  “But our best estimates for the payload required to turn the island into ash and dust range from 20,000 to 30,000 times the firepower used on Hiroshima. Obviously, we have the assets to delivery such force,” the secretary continued. “But even assuming such massive bombardment, our analysts can give only a sixty percent confidence level for mission success. A significant risk would remain of residual debris generating a landslide and tsunami that would catastrophically affect the United States and her Atlantic allies, not to mention the massive release of radiation from the bombardment—the cure may kill the patient. I’m afraid our nuclear arsenal is useless in the face of this threat.”

  “So you’re telling me that until our strike force arrives, our best hope is Sam Quick,” James said. “We may have no choice but to accept that. But you are wrong about one thing: the nuclear arsenal of the United States of America is anything but useless.” James looked around the conference table. “Because if so much as a ripple caused by this Sokolóv character lands on American shores, then we hit Russia.”

  James looked at his chief of staff. “Now get me the Russian president on the phone.”

  ∞

  1000 miles away, the Legacy 600 looped around La Palma’s southern tip. Above the black sands of Fuencaliente, the plane leveled at 11,000 feet and tacked northward. Nin and Solta Zanin faced each other, standing. They pulled at each other’s waist straps like mothers adjusting cummerbunds before a first prom.

  Both satisfied, they nodded. Nin rotated a handle. Cold air rushed the Legacy’s cabin, whisking the women’s silken hair from their faces. The still-shadowed western face of the volcano gazed up at them, while thinly scattered lights twinkled on the apron of ground separating the mountains and the sea, and, sparser still, afloat the navy expanse surrounding the island.

  Beneath the plane, near the sea’s edge, the lights gathered to mark Tazacorte. Nin blew a kiss at her sister. Then Solta locked her thumbs beneath the nylon straps and leapt through the open doorway.

  While she silently counted to twenty, Nin surveyed the lavish cabin a last time. Then she followed her sister into the darkness, spreading her arms and legs, with the rushing air growing ever warmer as she plummeted. She could see Solta’s red chute flower beneath her and, below that, the beacon’s rhythmic red wink at La Garganta del Diablo’s entrance as if a firefly were dancing on the tip of the devil’s tongue.

  Nin’s chute opened. The ram-air’s fabric cells filled, jerking her to her feet. The fall became a gentle drift. Nin worked her lines, tracking her sister with a paratrooper’s precision. The blurred mountainside resolved into rock shards grouted with green and brown foliage. The rusted buildings marking the mine’s entrance came into view. Moments later, beside Solta’s collapsed chute, Nin’s feet hit the gravel, her legs absorbing the landing’s shock.

  The sisters shed their harnesses. The men, their shoulders slung with Micro UZIs, ran from the work yard’s edge and gathered the discarded chutes. Far below them, at the mountain’s base, now bathed in light the gray of dirty dishwater, lay the populated plain and its handful of villages, where the locals were preparing for work, and the tourists still had hours to slumber. Both women checked that their Bobcats still clung to their inner thighs.

  On the Legacy 600, the external door had been resealed after the sisters’ departure. Near Nin’s seat, the satellite phone blinked and rang with a La Palma telephone number flashing on its display. But in the cockpit, the two pilots failed to hear the phone. In turns, the men were recounting the Gulfstream attack. With each change of narrator, the volume of the voice rose, the distance of the missile strike lengthened, and the credit for the targeting changed.

  As the senior pilot claimed that his hand had guided the Archer into the intake of the Gulfstream’s engine with the same finesse that he used to maneuver himself into his young mistress, a timer in the passenger cabin went off.

  A millisecond later at the mine yard, a flash raised the heads of the sisters and the surrounding men. A sonic blast, no louder than a feeble thunderclap, arrived a fraction of a second after, as the Legacy’s flaming wreckage plummeted seaward.

  Nin smiled as her sister and said in English
, “The aviation day on La Palma has not enjoyed a particularly auspicious start.” Solta returned Nin’s look, while the men furrowed their brows, unable to understand the foreign tongue. Then Nin pointed at the path leading to the mine entrance.

  As they passed into the Devil’s Throat, Nin handed a slip of paper to Solta and said, still in English, “Here are the arming instructions.” Her head tilted toward the men. “After you’ve finished with your suitcase, you know what to do.”

  Solta nodded.

  Then each sister with two men in tow started down into the mine. At the first junction, one sister and her escorts turned to the right, following the lights hung by Quick’s expedition, while the other twin and her men marched off to the left.

  ∞

  The sweaty bond between Inspector and señora Reyes broke with the sound of separating Velcro. The inspector sat up and pushed off the blanket. Sitting on the bed’s edge, with his feet on the cool morning tile, Reyes sighed and shook his head. Dr. Quick, he thought, won’t rest—and consequently, nor will I—until Kalia Slater is found one way or another. A particularly loud snort from his wife finally prodded him up from the mattress.

  He went first into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, and then to the kitchen. He stared out at the dim garden. As he reached for the wall phone, it rang. He grabbed the handset.

  “¿Sí?”

  He sat listening for several seconds. Then a glowing iron spike rammed into his skull, and he cut the sign of a cross in front of himself.

  “Was anyone killed? … I understand … A woman fled the scene?” His brow writhed. “Did this woman perhaps have dark, shoulder-length hair and a beautiful if stubborn face?”

  Despite the spike poking out from his temple, Reyes smiled. “Yes, perhaps I know who she is … No, I cannot come. I must attend to another matter … Sí, sí, something more important than a plane crash. The constables from the Santa Cruz station will suffice until the Policía Nacional arrive from Gran Canaria. Adios.”