Wild Storm

by Richard Castle

  Storm looked down at his phone and tugged the flight stick until he was heading in the proper direction.

  Rodriguez continued: “You’re heading near a little town on the Eastern Shore called Crisfield. I hear they got great crab cakes there. Pick some up for me and Bryan when you’re done, huh?”

  “Will do. In the meantime, can you do something about those F-16s?”

  “Other than hope that you made me a beneficiary in your will? Not really. Jones is on the line with the air force right now, but so far they’re not interested in anything we have to say on the subject. You seem to have crossed into a serious no-fly zone. They don’t want to hear about anything in the air that doesn’t have their stripes on it. Especially not stolen helicopters.”

  “Borrowed. It’s borrowed,” Storm said, aware that a pair of fighter jets was closing in fast above him. “Anyhow, looks like my friends are here. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “I seriously hope so, bro,” Rodriguez said.

  Storm ended the call and took stock of his situation. A Fennec could be armed, but this one wasn’t. And his 150 miles an hour, which had felt so fast moments earlier, suddenly seemed pokey. The two F-16 Fighting Falcons coming to join him could hit supersonic speeds without straining themselves. And he could see the full complement of sidewinder missiles on their wings.

  The helmet was still sitting in the seat next to him. He could hear a voice chattering through the earpiece inside. He got the helmet on in time to make out the voice of what he presumed was one of the F-16 pilots.

  “November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, identify yourself or you will be treated as hostile.”

  “Hostile!” Storm said. “You guys are the ones with the missiles under your wings and I’m the one who’s hostile?”

  “November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, identify yourself or you will be treated as hostile.”

  Storm realized the microphone in the helmet was switched off. He corrected the problem, then said: “I’m actually quite friendly once you get to know me.”

  The F-16 pilot did not seem convinced. “November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, be advised you are flying into restricted airspace. Identify yourself immediately.”

  “I’m just the orphaned nephew of a poor moisture farmer from the planet Tatooine. Tell Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru I’m not coming home for supper.”

  Storm was now bracketed by the F-16s. He could see inside their bubble canopies and look at their pilots, each shielded by the mirrored visors of their flight helmets. They were not looking back at him. They were also not impressed with his knowledge of Luke Skywalker’s backstory.

  “November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango—”

  “Look, fellas, I’m on your team, okay? I’m trying to find a terrorist who shoots down airliners for fun. Cut me some slack here.”

  “November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, be advised our orders are to get you out of this airspace by any means necessary, including force. Change heading immediately to signify your intent to comply.”

  Storm had no such intent. He looked down. He could again see land, both an island off to his left and the more substantial stretch of land that was Maryland’s Eastern Shore. The bay was dotted with pleasure boats and commercial watermen.

  He put the helicopter into as steep a dive as he dared. He watched his airspeed indicator climb as his altimeter dropped. He still did not have the advantage of speed over these fighter jets. But by skimming the wave tops he could at least make himself a more difficult target. The F-16s wouldn’t dare go much lower than they already were.

  “The change in altitude isn’t what we had in mind November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango. Adjust to heading two-eight-niner immediately.”

  Storm leveled out at roughly twenty feet above the water. He had to adjust course a few times to make sure he missed the masts of some of the sailboats.

  “Sorry, fellas,” Storm said. “I’ve got a terrorist to stop. You can either join me or not. I could use your help.”

  “November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, be advised we have been given the order to fire. Change course immediately or we’ll have no choice.”

  Storm banked hard toward land, now just a few hundred yards off his starboard side. The F-16s mirrored his move, but well above him. If anything, Storm thought they had increased altitude. It’s not like they needed to be terribly close to him to shoot him down. Their missiles probably had a range of tens—if not hundreds—of miles, not to mention guidance systems that could deliver their warheads between the “N” and the “3” on his tail numbers, if they chose to.

  He was over land now, flying just above the rooftops of the houses that dotted the shoreline. He hated using them for cover. But he also knew that, for whatever the pilots were saying to him, there was likely an air force commander somewhere telling them not to take a shot unless they were sure the falling helicopter wouldn’t crash into a civilian’s house.

  “November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, we have achieved target lock. Change course now.”

  Storm saw the town of Crisfield in the distance. But he was now over what looked like wetlands or some kind of wildlife preserve. There were no houses. No cover.

  “November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, this is your last warn—”

  And then nothing. The line in Storm’s helmet went dead.

  Expecting a missile was now on its way, Storm veered toward a stretch of forest, desperately hoping he could get the warhead to detonate on a tree instead of his fuselage. He was nearing a stand of pine trees when he heard it.

  It came from not far behind him.

  A tremendous explosion.

  Then another.

  It sounded like planes crashing.

  Storm craned his neck left, then right, trying to get a glimpse of whatever happened, but he couldn’t see anything. Unlike fighter jets, which gave pilots a near-360-degree view of their surroundings, a chopper only let its flier see ahead and a limited amount to the side. He brought the helicopter up to a hundred feet, then set it into a hover. He slowly rotated its nose in a circle so he could survey everything around him.

  Sure enough, there were two smoldering wrecks of airplanes, separated by no more than a few hundred feet.

  Something had shot down the F-16s.

  And in one sickening second, Storm knew exactly what had done it.

  STORM RIPPED OFF HIS HELMET, reached into his pocket, hit the number for the cubby.

  “I got Derrick,” Storm heard Rodriguez yelling, before he returned to a more normal tone to say, “Hang on, bro.”

  Storm consciously brought his breathing back under control, knowing it would help steady his heart rate. He was figuring it out fast: the lunatic manning the laser had seen the F-16s coming and decided they were either a threat or they made for good target practice.

  And, thinking like a terrorist, there was no reason not to shoot them down. One of the advantages of a laser over, say, a missile was that the laser had essentially unlimited ammunition. As long as its power source was good, it could keep firing as often as it acquired a new target.

  The only thing that had likely saved Storm was that he was flying low enough that the laser couldn’t target him.

  Which meant it had to be close by.

  “Storm,” the husky voice of Jedediah Jones filled his ear. “Do you see a water tower with a large red crab painted on it to your right?”

  Storm’s eyes went to a gray tower that loomed above the low-slung buildings of the town around it. To the right there was a cove filled with boats, their naked masts reaching upward like a series of white sticks that had been jammed into the water. “Yeah, I see it.”

  “Head straight for it. But stay low. Repeat: you must stay as low as possible.”

  “I copy.”

  “You’ll be looking for a white truck that is currently located in a mar
ina parking lot just short of the water tower as you approach it. Our techs have been studying satellite images of it. It is designed as a surface-to-air weapon, and based on their early estimates, its lowest angle of fire is thirty-five degrees. It effectively creates a blind spot that lowers the closer you get to it. Even staying as low as a hundred feet in the air, you can’t get any closer than one hundred and sixty-three feet or you will be within the weapon’s range.”

  “I don’t exactly have a tape measure up here with me. I’d appreciate some help on ideas where to land this thing. I see some streets but they look too narrow. I’m not real keen to mess with those power lines alongside them, either,” Storm said. He pushed the stick gingerly forward, not wanting to tempt the 163-foot circle of death.

  Jones’s voice again came into his ear. “Do you see a ferry dock? Should be dead ahead of you.”

  Storm’s eyes focused on a slab of concrete jutting out into the water just to the left of the harbor inlet. “Yeah, I got it.”

  “Put her down there. Mockingbird is coming into the laser’s range any moment. The terrorists will probably take their shot and make a run for it. But if you can get the chopper down and get on foot, you might be able to catch them.”

  “Will do,” Storm said. He pushed the helicopter ahead. He was again over water. The down draft from the chopper’s whirring rotors flattened the water as he passed over it, confusing the wave patterns.

  He reached the ferry loading dock—empty, thankfully—and hovered over it for a moment, until he was sure his skids were parallel with the ground. Then he went hard for the concrete surface, not caring that his landing would have failed to impress an experienced pilot. At this point, he was all about speed, not style.

  Storm cut the power to the rotors but did not wait for them to stop spinning. He unbuckled himself and spun toward the cargo door, throwing it open and hopping out. He began sprinting in the direction of the water tower, down the middle of Crisfield’s main drag, a wide, four-lane road with a divider down the middle.

  “Is the weapon still there?” Storm asked into his cell phone.

  “Yes,” Jones said.

  “Guide me to it.”

  “You are currently on Main Street. Did you see Eleventh Street? You just passed a sign for it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Go to Ninth Street, then take a right.”

  Storm did not bother to take stock of the houses and buildings that blurred in his peripheral vision as he ran. His eyes focused on the street signs: Tenth Street, Spruce Street, then Ninth. He rounded the corner at full speed, his arms and legs pumping.

  “Slow down, slow down,” Jones said. “As soon as you reach the end of that building on your left, the parking lot should be in view. The truck is on the far side of it. We have not seen any combatants yet so we assume they’re inside. We also assume they’re armed. Approach with caution.”

  Storm slowed as the parking lot came into view. It had space for well more than a hundred cars, although only a smattering of the spots were being used. At the far end, without any other cars around it, Storm spied his target.

  It was not just any truck. It was an ice cream truck, painted stark white, complete with decals of various tasty treats on the side. Storm could see a Nutty Buddy, a Strawberry Shortcake, a Chipwich. It could have fooled anyone. The only thing marring its authenticity was a retractable turret that had emerged from a split in the roof. On top of it, there was a metal cylinder with a glass-enclosed end pointed toward the sky. It looked a lot like one of the high-powered spotlights used to strafe the sky at a Hollywood movie premiere.

  “I see it,” Storm said, softly. Then he looked up and saw the contrail of an airliner, high overhead. It was the fake Air Force One. The Mockingbird, as the FBI was calling it.

  “Good work. Now, listen to me, Storm: the laser is your objective. We’re assuming the human operators are low-level foot soldiers. They are not of consequence. We’ll either capture them or not. The laser is what we’re after.”

  “But if all we capture is the laser, how will—”

  Storm stopped himself. In that moment, he saw Jones’s play. Jones was more interested in acquiring the United States government another weapon of mass destruction than he was in catching terrorists. The long-ago words that Lieutenant Marlowe had spoken to his father echoed in his head. There ought to be limits. Then he heard his father’s words. We can’t be trusted, either.

  “Never mind,” Storm corrected himself, then lied, “I’ll do everything I can to secure the weapon.”

  “Excellent,” Jones said.

  Storm did a low run from the corner of the building toward one of the parked cars, keeping his eyes on the truck and, more to the point, any humans or gun muzzles that might be emerging from it. But there was no sign of movement coming from it, nor was there any indication they had noticed Storm’s surge.

  He hid behind the first car he reached. Picking his way from one vehicle to the next, he could slowly narrow the gap between himself and the truck. But that trick would only last so long. The ice cream truck had roughly 150 feet of open pavement surrounding it.

  He began weaving from car to car, never letting his vision drop from the truck.

  Which is why he saw the narrow beam of blue light coming from the turret.

  It was both strikingly blue and blindingly bright. As a reflex, Storm turned away. He could feel the burn to his retinas from the few nanoseconds he had been focused on it. He blinked several times rapidly. There was a line in his vision, almost like he stared at the sun too long.

  “Mockingbird has been hit,” Jones said. “The wing is off. It’s going down.”

  Storm blinked again. The line was fading. He looked up in the sky to see the smoking plane entering a death spiral. He dashed toward the parked vehicle closest to the truck and un-holstered his Dirty Harry gun.

  “Okay,” he said. “That means these guys have hit their target and are going to close up shop any second. I’m moving in.”

  “Don’t harm the weap—”

  Storm ended the call before Jones could complete his instruction. He had heard just about enough of that.

  STORM CROUCHED BEHIND the closest vehicle to the ice cream truck, which he studied carefully. He was near enough now that he could see inside the cab. It was empty.

  The terrorists had to be in back, which was a good development for Storm. There was only so much room in there, especially considering the laser itself had to take most of the space. That meant there were no more than three of them. Perhaps only one.

  There were no signs of antipersonnel armaments on the truck, nothing more threatening than the aforementioned Nutty Buddy decal. Still, he did not feel he could approach any nearer. One hundred and fifty feet of open parking lot was too great a distance. He could cover the distance in less than six seconds, yes. But that was still six seconds when he would be totally exposed.

  He had to know what—and whom—he was facing. Time to attack. He aimed Dirty Harry at the front-passenger tire and squeezed the trigger. The tire exploded. The truck, now partly disabled, lurched toward its front right.

  Storm waited.

  No response.

  Maybe the people inside were so focused on the laser they didn’t feel it. It’s possible they also might not have heard it, too. The inner compartment could be soundproof to a certain extent.

  Storm aimed at the rear-passenger tire; shot it out, too. The truck was now leaning to its right at fifteen degrees. There was no way anyone inside could be unaware of the sudden incline.

  They would be coming out any second to inspect what was happening. There was no door on the back. There was an opening on the right side—an awning that could be brought up, allowing ice cream to be sold from underneath. But that was bolted down. Storm was reasonably sure it was just for show.

  No, the only way out of the inte
rior would be through the cab. Storm trained his vision on that part of the truck. He counted to ten. There was no sign of movement. He counted to thirty. Still nothing.

  He put three quick shots into the passenger-side door, in case anyone was crouching behind it. Storm was using hollow-tipped rounds, which were not ideal for penetrating thick armor. But the ice cream truck’s side was only marginally thicker than a tin can. It was no match for the force of a .44 Magnum.

  Storm counted to thirty again. The truck just sat there, forlornly, tilted to one side on its rims. It wasn’t going anywhere; that was for sure. And the cautious thing for Storm to do would be to wait until he had backup. Jones was surely sending reinforcements.

  But then the laser would be in Jones’s hands by the end of the day. That outcome was unacceptable to Storm. He couldn’t lose control of this situation. He had to handle this himself.

  With Dirty Harry still drawn and ready to fire, Storm approached the truck in a low crouch. The wind stirred. The smell of brackish water filled his nose. From somewhere nearby, he heard the shrill cry of an osprey.

  There was a stillness about the truck that was simply eerie. It was like the thing was being operated by ghosts. He was next to it now, his back flat against its side. He risked a quick glance in the cab.

  Empty. For sure. He yanked the handle. The door opened. He climbed in.

  The inside was remarkable only inasmuch as it kept faithfully to its pretense of being an ice cream truck. There was even a button to ring a bell that would alert children to the presence of frozen-dairy deliciousness coming near.

  There was an opening between the two seats with a small door that a man would have to crouch to go through. This was the entrance to the laser area. Storm aimed at the top of it. If someone was crouched on the other side, lying in wait for him, that’s where his head would be. Storm fired.

  The noise of Dirty Harry discharging in such a close space was deafening. Storm couldn’t suppress his flinch reflex. When he looked, he saw that the bullet had not penetrated the door. It had bounced off and buried itself in the dashboard on the other side.