Brown, Dale - Independent 04

by Storming Heaven (v1. 1)

  “He could be going for the right,” the tower supervisor said. Gayze got on the radio and announced that 107 was not cleared to land on runway three-six right. The eastern parallel runway’s approach end was a quarter mile farther north than three-six left, but the Universal pilot was still going to have to do some aerobatics to make it on that runway too. He looked as if he was going to overfly the main commercial terminal building—if he wasn’t careful, he could hit some of the tall antennas on top of the building. From the tower, he looked as if he was going nearly three hundred knots—there was no way he’d make it to the runway now. His altitude was not much higher than the control tower. .

  Suddenly, Gayze saw—well, he wasn’t sure what it was ... “Trouble with Universal-107,” he said aloud. “I see debris, something falling out of the plane ... I think it’s his landing gear ... no, I see ... a parachute! Damn it, someone’s parachuting out of the plane!”

  “Here he comes,” someone in the tower cab shouted, pointing to the east. “Looks like he’s going to land on two- seven. I see a landing gear—no, it’s not a landing gear. Jesus, he’s screaming in! Is he going around? What in hell is he doing?”

  Gayze turned. The westbound airliner was descending rapidly, aiming for the end of the runway. He was still off a bit to the right of centerline on radar, but his wheels were down and he looked like he was on a fast but good approach. It definitely appeared as if a low-time pilot or perhaps a stricken pilot was flying the westbound flight.

  The tower supervisor punched the crash button: “Memphis crash network, this is Memphis Tower, one Universal Express 727 aircraft landing hot on runway two-seven. His gear is down. Be advised, the northbound aircraft is—”

  He was going to miss the runway. At less than a halfmile to touchdown, the 727 would not be able to turn fast enough at his present speed to make the runway unless he landed well past midfield. “Crash, be advised, the 727 landing on two-seven is well north of centerline and fast. He may be going into the Air National Guard parking ramp. If he tries to turn back to the runway, he’ll mush in with his left wing . . . oh, shit . . . climb, damn you, climb ... climb ...”

  And then the 727 hit the Universal Express package shipping center.

  The entire northern part of the airfield illuminated brighter than daylight. The western half of the sprawling cargo complex disappeared in an enormous lake of fire. The fireball that was a 220,000-pound airliner plunged through the western half of the thirty-acre cargo complex, disappeared for a few seconds, bounced on the ground, blew out the northwest side of the building, and cartwheeled several times across the ground, shredding the western half of the building—Universal Express’s executive offices, communications center, and computer complex—as it tumbled. The heat of the explosion, nearly a half-mile away, could be felt right through the slanted tower windows, and Gayze was thrown to the floor when the shock wave hit and shattered those windows, the blastfurnace heat rolling across the tower like a fiery tidal wave...

  But it was not the north windows that blew out—it was the southern windows, behind Gayze. He leaped to his feet as soon as he could shake the shock and noise from his head. A few controllers were rushing for the exit door, but Gayze just stood there, bathing himself in the heat and the noise and the light coming from an explosion—not on the Universal Express cargo facility, but on the main terminal.

  Gayze was reaching for the crash phone button again, but the tower supervisor pulled his hand away—the tower was dead. “Get out of here, Bill.”

  “What the hell happened? Did 107 hit the terminal?”

  ‘The tower’s been damaged, Bill. Get going.”

  But Gayze couldn’t make his feet move. As horrible as the spectacular crash on the Universal Express facility was, what had happened behind him on the main terminal was even more shocking. The main terminal building, right at the intersection between the east and west concourses, was on fire, severed and flattened in a fiery crater. Two airliners were on fire, and two more were spun sideways from the force of the blast. Gayze could see inside one L-1011 airliner, and the flickering lights in its windows told him that passengers were rushing toward the exits inside. The fire was still several yards away when Gayze saw doors pop open and emergency escape slides deploy on the side of the plane opposite the fire. A few doors opened on the side of the fire, but no passengers used that exit, thank God. The evacuation seemed rapid and orderly ...

  . . . but it wasn’t fast enough, because suddenly the L-101 l’s left wing caught fire, then exploded, ripping the fuselage of the big airliner in half. Passengers and baggage spilled from the ruptured halves of the airliner onto the fiery tarmac. Gayze ducked when the force of the explosion hit him up in the open tower cab.

  “Bill!” someone shouted. “Get out! Let’s go!”

  But Gayze looked through the clouds of smoke and fire at the terminal. It was not just the main terminal that had been hit—now he could see huge fires breaking out on the north side of the terminal, the northwest corner of the parking garage, and the south side of the Sheraton Hotel, just a few hundred yards west of the control tower. He could hear the roar of the fire, smell the burning kerosene—it was like looking at a firestorm.

  “Bill! Damn it, let’s go!”

  Smoke was rapidly filling the control tower, and Gayze was forced to drop on his knees and crawl to the stairs toward the exit. His eyes were filled with tears, and not all of it was from the smoke.

  “Oh ... my ... God ...” Roberts muttered in stunned disbelief as the series of explosions and fires rippled across Memphis International Airport below him. But the sight of the burning terminal and hotel was nothing compared to the horrifying sight of the sea of fire that was once the Universal Express super hub. It looked like a nuclear bomb had simply flattened and vaporized the entire northern half of the airport. The flames still shooting from the impact site seemed to tower far above the Shorts’ altitude, and the ripples of fire made it seem like the bottom of a volcano’s lava pit.

  “I said, close the cargo doors, Roberts,” Cazaux ordered over the intercom. Roberts still was too stunned to make his feet or hands move. All that death, all that destruction—and he had witnessed it all, been in on the planning of all of it. It was a terrorist attack on his own people, his own countrymen. It was an attack incomprehensible to the young American, more devastating than anything he had ever heard of since the World Trade Center bombing. They were turning westbound, so he could no longer see the fires at the Sheraton or the main terminal—those attacks were by his own hand ...

  “I know it is painful, Kenneth,” a voice said. It was Henri Cazaux, standing beside him—obviously the plane was on autopilot. “The destruction, it is horrible, no?”

  “God, yes,” Roberts said in a low voice. “All those people down there, all that death.”

  “It is time you joined them,” Cazaux said quietly, just before he grasped Roberts by the forehead from behind, drove his infantry knife up through the base of Roberts’ skull into his brain, and wiggled the knife point around inside his skull several times to scramble his brain matter. There was virtually no blood—Roberts’ heart had stopped beating instantly, as if shut off with a switch. Cazaux merely picked him up by the blade of his knife, still embedded deep in his skull, took him to the edge of the open cargo ramp, and dropped him over the side.

  The autopilot was weaving the Shorts around the sky unsteadily, and there was a little turbulence from the heat radiating off the hills of western Tennessee and northern Mississippi, but Cazaux did not seem to notice it. He stood on the edge of the Shorts’ cargo ramp, the toes of one foot actually over the edge itself, with no safety line or parachute, looking at the incredibly bright glow of Memphis International Airport on fire.

  He dared God, dared the Devil, dared any man or being to take him. It was easy—just a slight buffet, a sudden ripple of air, a short interruption of thousands of circuits running through the Shorts’ autopilot system—and he would be thrown into space,
just as dead as Ken Roberts.

  No, it was not his time to die, not yet. Jo Ann Vega was right: the dark master had given him the gift of invincibility.

  He wanted the death to continue ...

  Beale Air Force Base, Yuba City, California Several Minutes Later

  Despite being a retired two-star Coast Guard admiral, Ian Hardcastle preferred the Non-Commissioned Officers lounge on Beale Air Force Base; he and his small staff had virtually taken over the billiard room again with an impromptu drinks-and-dinner meeting.

  Colonel Al Vincenti, who, with the help and support of Hardcastle, Martindale, and the Senate subcommittee, had been cleared of all charges (but had not yet been returned to flight status), was haphazardly banging billiard balls around on the well-worn felt with Hardcastle.

  Hardcastle’s chief of staff, retired Air Force colonel, military analyst, and political consultant Marc Sheehan, his fourth cup of coffee of the night in one hand, was reading from a sheaf of notes: “Admiral, I think we’re ready to make this presentation to the Project 2000 Task Force executive committee,” he said. “I think this is a masterful piece of work.” “I’d rather take a bit of time to get more data,” Hardcastle said, missing a complicated two-rail bank shot. Vincenti cast a questioning eye at Hardcastle’s showy but hopeless shot and easily sunk his own. “There’s a lot of stuff this report is missing. And I wish I had more time with Martindale. He’s spent more time at fund-raisers and tours than on the business at hand here.”

  “Can I speak frankly, sir?” Sheehan asked.

  “That’s why I hired you, Marc. Out with it.”

  “Sir, in my opinion, you suffer from the H. Ross Perot syndrome,” Sheehan said. “Everybody loves Perot. He’s a straight shooter, he’s knowledgeable—or at least he’s got a great staff—he’s articulate and polished, and he’s not afraid to take on the big boys on their own turf. He also gets no respect, for those very same reasons. He hits people between the eyes with clear-minded logic built on years of experience—”

  “And people don’t like it.”

  “And people don’t like it,” Sheehan echoed. “And government doesn’t like it either. Folks tend to shut you off simply because you come on strong—they think you have a hidden agenda, a secret plan. Right or wrong doesn’t matter.”

  “Marc, I can’t accept that,” Hardcastle said, lining up another shot after Vincenti intentionally missed an easy shot just so he wouldn’t clear the table on Hardcastle again. It seemed Vincenti was scowling at everyone—at Hardcastle, at Sheehan, at the world. He had not said ten words all evening unless asked a specific question, and nothing that anyone had said all evening seemed to please him. “What I’m writing about here is not fiction—it’s real,” Hardcastle went on. “My goals and methods are real and workable.”

  “Sir, what you’re describing is America under siege, America on the defensive,” Sheehan said. “Nobody likes to hear that we’re so vulnerable. They would rather believe that you’re a flake rather than we’re facing a major terrorist crisis in this country.”

  Hardcastle flubbed another shot by trying a long, difficult shot, scratching in the process. Vincenti put Hardcastle out of his billiards misery by clearing the table again. Hardcastle didn’t seem to notice, but asked Vincenti, “Set ’em up again, Al, double or nothing.”

  “I can swim in the beer you owe me already, Admiral,” Vincenti pointed out.

  “You don’t drink, remember? You thought betting dou- ble-or-nothing beers with you was a sucker bet? I’ll never pay off. Set ’em up,” Hardcastle repeated with a smile. “Marc, I’m ready to go to the Task Force in the morning.”

  “The press conference is set for next week,” Sheehan reminded him. “Why not wait a few days, get some more feedback from the congressional leadership? Our little clambake in Virginia Beach is set for this weekend, and so far attendance looks good.”

  “Clambake?” Vincenti asked as he retrieved the billiard balls.

  “Good way to feel out the heavy hitters in Congress,” Hardcastle explained. “Project 2000 is throwing a party out on Virginia Beach for the leadership and their families— private transportation, plenty of chow and booze, private beach, even parasailing and Jet Skis. We gotta lure the big cheeses to at least listen to what we have to say. Even thirty minutes with them, talking about our programs, would be worth the money.”

  “Yeah. Right. Makes sense,” Vincenti muttered. He finished racking the balls, then put his cue stick on the table. “Sir, excuse me, but I’ve got to get going,” Vincenti said.

  Hardcastle looked up at him, a hint of a smile on his face. “If you don’t need me anymore, I’ll be hitting the road.”

  “You got something to say, Al, say it,” Hardcastle said. “Spill it.”

  “Sir?”

  “You’ve been scowling and shaking your head at me and Marc all night, Vincenti, but you haven’t said a word,” Hardcastle said. “You got some baggage to unload, so do it.”

  “I don’t have anything to contribute here.”

  “Bullshit. I’ve got you here for a reason,” Hardcastle said. “You read the report.”

  “I gave you my comments, sir.”

  “Nice, polite, Air Command and Staff College point paper,” Hardcastle said. “Standard responses. Pretty disappointing.”

  “I guess I’m just not politically savvy, Admiral.”

  “I don’t need your political savvy, Al,” Hardcastle said. “Task Force 2000 and Colonel Sheehan handle that for me.”

  “So what do you need, sir?”

  “I need you to tell me if I’m right, if I’m close, or if I’m full of shit, Al.”

  “I’ve already commented on your plan.”

  “So I’m right, then,” Hardcastle said. Vincenti was about to speak, but remained silent. “So I’m not right,” Hardcastle concluded. “So which is it, Al? Am I close or full of shit?” Vincenti stared at Hardcastle, obviously trying to decide what the politically correct answer to that question was. “Goddammit, Vincenti, I was told you weren’t one for holding back, that you spoke your mind. So let’s have it.” “Sir, I’m not really qualified to tell you how to run this.” “It’s about Linda, isn’t it, Al?”

  Vincenti’s frown deepened, and darkened. “What are you talking about, Admiral?”

  “Linda McKenzie. She’s dead, and you think it’s your fault.”

  The rest of Hardcastle’s staff had stopped talking and had turned to watch this exchange. “Sir, ” Vincenti said, looking Hardcastle right in the eyes. “With all due respect, you don’t know shit. ”

  “Linda was your wingman.”

  “Stop calling her by her first name like yo'u knew her, Admiral. She’s Major McKenzie to you.”

  “Whose fault was it that you launched with defective nightvision goggles?” Hardcastle asked. “Whose fault was it that Linda was allowed to close in on Cazaux without her checklist completed? Whose fault was it that she was allowed to approach too close to an armed and dangerous suspect?”

  “I don’t have to explain anything to you, Hardcastle.”

  “I don’t think she should have even been on alert with you, Al,” Hardcastle went on, taking a step towards Vincenti, who was now, Sheehan noticed with some alarm, within arm’s reach. “I think you’re a piss-poor flight leader, Al. How in hell could you let Linda fly with you after you’d been screwing her?”

  A half-dozen bodies moved in unison at that last comment, like runners leaping off the starting block. Vincenti lunged for Hardcastle, Sheehan lunged for Vincenti, and the other staff members dropped notebooks and laptop computers and leaped to their feet in surprise. Vincenti got his hands on Hardcastle’s shirt, but Sheehan looped his arms over Vincenti’s from behind, and the two Air Force officers were evenly matched. Hardcastle simply smiled, allowing Vincenti to shake him and rage: “You pompous arrogant asshole. ” Sheehan dragged Vincenti away from Hardcastle and steered him against the pool table. He was angry at Vincenti for daring to raise a hand towa
rd Hardcastle, but he was even more surprised and angry at Hardcastle for speaking that way to the Air Force pilot. “Knock it off!” Sheehan shouted. His anger turned on Hardcastle, as it should be: “Admiral, you were out of line.”

  “Yes, I was, and I apologize,” Hardcastle said calmly to

  Vincenti. “But I’m also correct, aren’t I, Al?” No response, only a glare. “Talk to me, Al. You’re the key to everything I’m trying to do here. Talk to me, damn it.”

  “Why the hell should I trust you, Hardcastle?” Vincenti shouted. “What are you trying to do here? What’s your game? Who gave you the right to poke your nose in any of this?”

  “I’m here because I’ve got a big mouth, Al,” Hardcastle said evenly. “I’ve got a colorful past, and people listen to me because I entertain them with my attitude and my showmanship. But I’m really here because I care.”

  “Bullshit, ” Vincenti said. “You’re here because you can get some press for yourself and this Project 2000 crap.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got some ideas that I want everybody to hear,” Hardcastle admitted. “I get shut off and shut down because no one wants to hear my side—they’d rather hear the watered- down, everything-is-beautiful rap coming from the White House. Yeah, I want press for the Project 2000 Task Force because they believe in what I believe in and they have the financial resources I don’t. But I’ve got an agenda, Vincenti, and that is a strong national defense, pure and simple. I’m here because this incident is just another example of government inaction, another consequence of a weakened military.”

  “I’ve heard your big plans already—on TV, in the papers, on the radio, at the speeches,” Vincenti said. “But frankly it’s all garbage, because you don’t know what you’re talking about. You made the same damned mistake with the Hammerheads, Hardcastle. But you were too wrapped up in how important you were, with deploying these big-assed air ops platforms, with putting up all these radar balloons, to understand the basic concepts. You had the authority to launch air defense units for your missions, Hardcastle, but did you ever ask an air defense puke how to set up a proper air sovereignty order of battle? You had your Coast Guard guys and your Customs Service guys out there, but did you ever bring an air defense guy on board as part of your staff? Hell no.”