The Phoenix Egg

by Richard Bamberg

  “Mon deus! You lying little bitch.”

  She slapped his hand away and moved to close her blouse even as his hand returned to slap against the side of her head.

  Stars swam before her gaze.

  She tried to rise, and his fist slammed into her jaw.

  ***

  John heard the brief exchange as Dewatre discovered the missing eggs, but then the connection was broken, and no amount of shouting over the link brought any response from Caitlin. He was almost to the hangar. Its great doors were already rolling back, exposing a sleek Learjet 45 to the snowy night.

  John took his Colt from its holster and aimed the Jeep at the front of the jet. He waited until the last minute to brake, then cut the wheel sharply to the side putting the Jeep into a sideways slide that narrowly missed the hangar doors before the Jeep bumped up against the jet’s nose gear.

  He threw the transmission into park. A bullet starred the windshield as he opened the door. He dropped to the pavement and hit the concrete with a jarring impact that sent waves of pain through his back. Rolling sideways, he went under the Jeep while looking for the shooter.

  John spotted a man running toward him from the corner of the hangar. It wasn’t Dewatre, but he held a weapon aimed at the Jeep.

  Still rolling, John fired twice and saw the man go down with a splash of red high on his right thigh. John came to a stop against the jet’s nose wheels and then scrambled on his belly toward the right side of the plane.

  A shot pinged off the side of the Jeep and passed close by him. John turned to find the man he’d already shot was sitting up and drawing a bead on him. John fired twice more, and the man stayed down.

  Dewatre’s face appeared in the cockpit window.

  John snapped off a shot at him, and the window starred, but Dewatre had already ducked back out of sight.

  John maneuvered toward the wings, ducked under the fuselage, and used the left main landing gear for cover as he waited for Dewatre to come down the stairs. Dewatre couldn’t wait too long; for once, time was John’s ally. The plane couldn’t be moved until someone moved the Jeep and the gunfire was sure to bring airport security and the local police in a hurry. But then, perhaps Dewatre had a diplomatic passport. If so, he would be immune to prosecution in the US. John didn’t want to have to deal with police. He could probably make bail, but sooner or later Holdren would show up and then there wouldn’t be any hope of bail. No, if Dewatre didn’t come down those stairs soon, then John would have to go in after him.

  He raised his head above the edge of the wing and tried to see in the small ports. He saw no one but saw an emergency exit over the wing.

  Placing his hands on the top of the wing, John lifted himself. His right shoulder burned with pain, but he pressed on until he could swing his legs onto the wing. He rolled over and faced the main door, still no sign of movement. Why in the hell wasn’t Dewatre coming out?

  John got to his knees and peered into the nearest window.

  There was Caitlin, just six feet away. She looked unconscious.

  Dewatre had to be in the cockpit. If John had to shoot out a window, Dewatre would be on him before he could get inside. There was nothing to be done for it. John studied the emergency exit. As he had expected, there was a release from the outside.

  He holstered his gun, then popped the latches, and lifted the hatch upwards and inwards until it cleared the lip of the opening. John pivoted the hatch and pulled it back through the opening.

  He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Dewatre had finally emerged from the plane.

  Spinning, he hurled the hatch toward Dewatre. The hatch struck him just as he fired and his shot went wild. He tumbled down the stairs. John dove into the plane’s cabin and drew his own weapon.

  Another man was coming out of the cockpit, carrying a Beretta. He raised it to fire, but John put three rounds into his chest, driving the man backward out of sight.

  Keeping one eye on the main door, John moved alongside Caitlin and shook her. She didn’t respond.

  On the table in front of her was the open case of the helmet and a syringe. A single drop of blood was visible on the left side of her neck.

  “Damn bastards!”

  John felt for a pulse. It was strong but slow. Whatever Dewatre gave her had put her under, but hadn’t killed her. They still wanted her alive. John thought he saw movement by the door and snapped off two more shots to keep Dewatre from being too daring.

  John gripped Caitlin’s coat in both his hands and lifted, but there was unexpected resistance. He looked closely and for the first time noticed the handcuffs that fastened her left wrist to the arm of the seat.

  From somewhere outside came the sound of sirens.

  “Enough is enough,” John growled to himself.

  He set his weapon on the table and gripped the seat arm with both hands. Bracing his feet, he pulled up and back. The metal resisted for a moment, then with a screech, ripped free from the seat.

  Keeping an eye out for Dewatre, John dragged Caitlin closer to the cabin door. He retrieved his weapon, closed the case on the helmet, and set the case on the floor next to her.

  He peered out the main door but saw no sign of Dewatre. Had he decided to cut his losses when the sirens started or was he hiding somewhere, waiting for another shot at him?

  There was only one way to be sure. John leapt down the stairs onto the pavement. He executed a painful tuck and roll, checked his six, dropped quickly and rolled twice to his right until he was beside the Jeep. With his back against the fender, he rose into a crouch and searched for Dewatre.

  There was no sign of him in the bright hangar.

  The fender moved against his back. Not much, but enough to indicate someone’s weight compressing the Jeep’s springs. John turned, raising his weapon, expecting to see Dewatre aiming at him.

  He saw Dewatre, but not aiming at him. He was in the driver’s seat. John fired at the same time the Jeep lunged forward. Dewatre ducked down. The Jeep cut hard and went straight out of the hangar as John emptied the magazine at the fleeing vehicle.

  John ejected the magazine and loaded a fresh one, but the Jeep had disappeared into the snow.

  Had he hit Dewatre? There wasn’t time to find out. The sirens were louder.

  Running for the jet, John holstered his weapon. He stopped on the top step, pulled Caitlin to him, and lifted her onto his left shoulder. Grabbing the case in his right hand, he turned, took the three steps to the pavement, and turned toward the hangar doors.

  Dewatre walked toward him, not thirty feet away, a Glock 19 raised in his right hand.

  “Surprised to see me?” Dewatre asked and moved closer.

  John backed away, keeping the distance between them. “Somewhat. I thought you’d shown sense by escaping while you could. I guess I was giving you too much credit.”

  Dewatre laughed. “No, I believe you have underestimated me. You see, I have known about you for several years now. Ever since you first interfered with an operation I was shepherding. I made a point of looking up your background. You are quite good at what you do.”

  John ducked under the edge of the wing and continued to back away. “The compliment would mean more if you hadn’t tried to kill me earlier.”

  “Oh, that little thing. It was business, not personal. I admire your capabilities, but studying you convinced me you would never let me walk off with Ms. Maxwell without making an attempt to get her back.”

  “You studied well,” John said and backed out from under the wing.

  The whine of the port engine was loud, and he could feel its intake drawing air across his head.

  Dewatre raised his voice above the roar of the engine. “That’s far enough, John. If you don’t stand still, I’m afraid I’ll just have to shoot you again.”

  “I figured you’re planning to do that anyway.”

  Dewatre shrugged. “Ten minutes ago I would have.”

  “Oh? And what’s changed?”

 
“I saw that you and Ms. Maxwell have used the prototype. You’ve configured the communicators to your brain waves.”

  “So?”

  Dewatre stopped at the wing and rested his gun hand on its surface. “Well, I hate to give anything away, but my information is that each device can only be configured once. Like the old CD-ROMs, they can be written, but not erased and then rewritten. Therefore, if we want to study their operation before we build our own we will have to study you and Ms. Maxwell here.”

  “Really? That’s interesting, and then I suppose I can draw my gun and shoot you instead.”

  Dewatre actually smiled at him. “I hardly think so. In that case, I would have to shoot you. The scientists would just have to wait until they get one built. It shouldn’t take but a year or two.”

  John stared at the dark opening in the Glock’s barrel. At fifteen feet, John had no doubt that Dewatre had the sights centered between his eyes.

  The sirens had drawn close enough for John to be able to hear them above the jet engine that was four feet from his head. “But even if I go with you, how are you going to get away? The police will be here in a moment.”

  “The police aren’t a problem. My diplomatic passport will keep them from interfering with our take off.”

  “Just as long as we’re off the ground before Holdren gets here, eh?”

  “Oui. Holdren can be a problem.”

  John held up the heavy metal case. “All for this. You really want it bad don’t you?”

  “My government does. Me, I just obey orders.”

  “All right then. Take it.”

  John lofted the case upwards, not toward Dewatre, but into the throat of the TFE731-20 turbofan engine.

  “No-o-o!” Dewatre screamed, too late.

  John ducked under the tail of the Learjet as the heavy case slammed into the intake with the slap of metal on metal.

  Then, nothing.

  Dewatre’s response turned from dismay to anger and bullets whizzed by John’s feet, ricocheting off the cement floor and whining away into anything that happened to be in their path.

  John had his own weapon out and was firing back, not taking the time to aim, just trying to keep Dewatre’s head down while he found cover for himself and Caitlin.

  Flashing blue and red lights reflected off the overhead glass panels as the first of the police cars slid to a stop in the open hangar doorway.

  John ducked behind a cabinet-size toolbox as the police loudspeaker blared at them.

  “This is the police. Drop your weapons!”

  Two rounds hit the toolbox as Dewatre made another attempt at finishing what he’d started.

  He peered around the edge of the toolbox and saw that Dewatre was at the foot of the Learjet’s stairs and was going inside. He gauged the opening between the hangar doors. The police car only blocked a small portion of the gap. Dewatre might be able to get away if he hurried.

  John scanned the wall behind him. An emergency exit was just twenty feet away. Staying low he made for the exit, reached it, and pushed through.

  Outside the hangar, the snow still fell, but there was a faint glow to the east.

  He could hear more sirens approaching, but they couldn’t do anything to Dewatre even if they arrived in time. Once he was free, he’d track them down, and it would start again. No, John couldn’t let that happen. It had to end with Dewatre here and now.

  A luggage carrier sat outside the next hangar. He trotted to it as the whine of the Learjet’s engines increased in pitch. Pulling back the canvas side, John laid Caitlin inside and then dropped the cover back into place.

  She’d be as safe there as anywhere.

  He ran full out toward the tarmac and reached the corner of the hangar as the nose of the plane turned toward him. The dual landing lights mounted on its nose gear illuminated the snow with a blinding glare. The police weren’t even firing at him. They were letting him get away.

  John waited until the cockpit was even with him, Dewatre would be in the left seat, facing the other way, and then made his move. He holstered his gun as he ran for the starboard wing. He leaped and gripped the leading edge with both hands, then pulled himself up.

  One of the policemen yelled something, but the roar of the jet’s engines drowned his words. Peering through the portal, he could see Dewatre hadn’t taken the time to reinstall the emergency escape hatch. The plane accelerated down the taxiway. Snow stung his face, and the cold air billowed his jacket. He grabbed one of the small UHF antennas on the top of the cabin and used it to pull himself up.

  On top of the cabin, he rested for a moment. The blood loss was starting to tell. Normally this much activity wouldn’t have bothered him, but now he felt like he’d already completed a marathon. Three police cars were now chasing them down the tarmac. Their lights gave the falling snow an enchanted glow. Ahead, John could see another car trying to beat them to the turn at the end of the taxiway.

  John took another deep breath and let the crisp bite of the dry mountain air chill his lungs. He changed his grip on the antenna and slid down the port side. With his feet on the wing root, he transferred his grip to the open hatch and stepped inside.

  The dark interior of the cabin was no warmer, but at least he was out of the wind. John drew his gun and started forward.

  As he reached the forward wall, the plane leaned sharply to one side. They were turning from the taxiway onto the active runway. John’s foot came down on something soft and yielding, and he put his hand out to steady himself, misjudged, lost his balance, and fell atop the dead pilot.

  A gunshot barked and a bullet split the space he’d just occupied.

  “Well, Mr. Blalock, what a pleasant surprise. I thought you’d be running with Ms. Maxwell before Holdren arrived. I guess it was my turn to underestimate your tenacity.”

  John caught his breath again as waves of pain burned through his head and back.

  The plane accelerated down the active.

  “What’s the matter, John? Are you getting too weak for repartee’? I noticed my earlier shots didn’t entirely miss. Could it be that you’re more seriously wounded than I thought?”

  John wanted to give a snappy comeback, something you’d hear in the movies, but not often in real life. But he just didn’t have it in him. John felt around for the gun the pilot had carried, found it and transferred his own weapon to his left hand.

  He braced against the cabin wall, and then leapt for the opposite side.

  Two shots rang through the cabin. John slammed into the cabin door with a grunt, and half fell into the front seat. He raised the pilot’s gun. He was directly behind the pilot’s seat now. If the pilot’s ammo was the same armor piercing rounds that Dewatre carried this was about to be over.

  He aimed for the center of the wall and squeezed off six quick rounds.

  Suddenly, Dewatre lunged at him from the cockpit door.

  John dropped the pilot’s gun and seized Dewatre’s right wrist, but not before the man’s knife pierced his body armor and plowed a track along his side.

  The low cabin ceiling and crowded floor gave no room for fancy maneuvers and once they joined, the fight became one of brute strength. John should have easily won a wrestling match with the smaller man, but the loss of blood had already weakened him.

  Still, he forced Dewatre’s knife hand back while trying to line up the barrel of his gun with Dewatre’s torso. Runway lights flashed through the portholes lighting the cabin interior like paparazzi strobes. Even in the cold, Dewatre’s face was beaded with sweat.

  John bent his wrist until the slender blade of the knife was pointed at his opponent’s throat.

  “Alas, one dies but once, and it’s for such a long time,” John said.

  Dewatre’s eyes grew wide.

  The plane lurched, throwing both men off their feet. John fell against something hard, and a bolt of agony shot out from his shoulder. Before he could recover, Dewatre had pulled loose and climbed over him, heading toward the rear
of the cabin. The aircraft bounced crazily for another moment while John tried to get to his feet.

  Then as suddenly as it had started, the bouncing stopped.

  John hurried to the emergency exit Dewatre took.

  Dewatre crawled out the wing and was standing, holding on to the winglet. John looked around. They were off the runway and back on one of the taxiways and still doing at least fifty knots.

  But not for long.

  One of the old hangars was dead ahead. Its main doors were open, but the interior was filled with small private planes.

  He looked back at Dewatre as the nose of the Learjet reached the hangar. The French agent had seen what was coming and turned to face it.

  The end of the Learjet’s wing went over the wing of a Piper without touching it. Then it passed between the upper and lower wings of an old biplane.

  The upper wing took Dewatre in the chest, and he disappeared from John’s sight in a spray of blood.

  Resigned to the inevitable, John dropped to the floor and awaited the impact.

  He didn’t have long.

  The Learjet shuddered as its wings tore through two airplanes. A moment later, there was an explosion of avgas and jet fuel. The exterior lit up with the orange glow of a fireball. The plane bucked. Its nose bisected a vintage P-51, transfixed an OV-1, disintegrated a Bell Ranger, and then crashed into the closed rear hangar doors.

  John was hurled forward. He struck the pilot’s body and lodged there for a moment. As the nose gear collapsed, the plane tilted crazily throwing John against the ceiling and then back onto the floor.

  The cabin broke open just ahead of the wings, and the back half of the plane began to flip end over end. Fuel sprayed from ruptured tanks, sending long ribbons of flame in every direction. In seconds, flames englobed the wings and tail section in a great blast of heat and light.