“Springer Seven-Eight, we have a Sierra — Alpha — Foxtrot — Echo. Copy?”
“That’s a big a-affirmative Romeo. We didn’t catch it on our radio. What gives?”
“Something’s wrong with the aircraft’s radio.” It was no longer a target. “I can’t figure it, though. I’m gonna move up and check it out. My Morse ain’t too awful bad.”
Graber watched the seconds tick past the time limit until a full minute was gone. “I wish you guys had a rearview in these big birds. I’d give my right nut to see what that fighter’s doing right now.”
Buxton came in. “Cap.”
Hendrickson and the Delta captain both looked back. The pilot turned back to his work upon realizing his reflex reaction. The kid sounded like Buzz.
“Yeah.”
“Four bad guys down — all dead. One”—he thought of the right word to use—“American dead. There’s a couple of wounded passengers, all from the flash-bangs. Lewis is with them. They’ll be okay. Goldfarb says Blackjack’s pretty bad. He can’t tie the wound off all the way. Well, you saw the blood.”
“Right.” Graber thought about where he was sitting. “Hey, Captain Hendrickson, do you need someone to sit here and help with anything?”
“You a pilot?”
“Nah, but maybe there’s someone on board who is.” To the lieutenant: “Bux, check it out below. See if there are any pilots on board. Small plane, commercial, hell, even any helo jocks would do.” Nam had bred a whole generation of whirlybird fliers.
“We’ll get you someone,” Sean said, turning back to the captain. His face, he saw, was flat and passionless. The guy must have been a good friend. He stared down at the blood. McAffee suddenly filled his every thought. No matter how much training there was, it never prepared a man to lose a friend in combat. This was combat, after all. Blackjack wasn’t dead, Sean reminded himself, erasing the morbid yet from the sentence in his mind.
“You wanted to see the fighter?”
The words startled Graber. “What?”
Hendrickson tossed his head to the left. Sean bent forward and looked past the pilot out the side window. The fighter was there, off the left front. It was lit by its own lights. “What the hell’s that?”
Hendrickson looked. “A relic, son.”
“What do you fly?” The black-clad soldier seemed to tower over him.
“Helicopters,” Michael Alton answered. “Crop dusting, mostly. We spray pesticides in the San Joaquin Valley.”
“Where?” Buxton asked.
Michael shifted. “California. Ever hear of the Medfly?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Okay, where’d you learn to fly? Army?” The question was natural.
“Air Force,” Michael replied, feeling that slight rise in interagency rivalry and pride. The old military BS did stick.
“C’mon, we need your help.”
Michael turned to his wife. She looked scared, still, but in a different way. “I’ll be back, okay? I’m just gonna help out.”
Joe had the location of the U235 pegged in each chute. It was near the top of each, yet still left enough room for whatever release mechanism was there. It was a timer, he was convinced, which gave him some time to work.
A thud came from forward. Quimpo dropped through the right-side entry hole. “Anderson, you need some help?”
“Stick close: I might.”
“Captain said to tell you that everything topside is under control. All the bad guys are dead.” The Filipino soldier flashed a ‘we told you so’ smile.
Joe turned back to the reactor. “See those boxes? Tear the wood off and shove it back there.”
“Yes, sir.”
The logical thing to do came next. He had to secure each of the U235 plugs in their respective chutes, blocking them from falling into the core. But how? There were some options that were risky, and he discarded those without second thoughts. The best way, he decided, was to simply put something in the way of the plugs.
He took the neutron analyzer again and checked the position in the chutes another time. When the lowest point of the U235’s location was found, he removed a drill and long bit from his equipment bag. His plan was to drill into each chute below the mark and insert a rod through the hole on both sides to act as a “stop” for the plugs. It should work.
The bit slid into the holder and he set to work, boring into the soft lead housing.
“It’s not good,” Goldfarb said. “The bleeding stopped, then started up again. It’s deep in his arm, Cap. I can’t do much about it.”
“Sergeant, you’re a combat medic! For Christ’s sake, what would you do in combat?” Sean yelled.
“I’d take the arm off and tie the arteries,” Goldfarb answered. It wasn’t the response he wanted to give.
Graber didn’t hesitate. “Then do it. Save his life.”
The Delta captain walked over to the seat where the bomb lay. Just two feet from it was a bloodstain, marking the spot where the head terrorist had fallen. The body was gone, moved to one side of the downstairs lounge with the other three corpses, but the image was fresh in Sean’s mind. There was the body, facedown, lying on the Uzi, and one hand outstretched toward the…
Wait. That didn’t make sense. If the terrorist had wanted to knock the aircraft out of the sky, all he would have needed to do was shoot up the cockpit. He killed one pilot, so why not finish it? That would be a sure kill. Trying to get to the bomb to blow up the jet might be a notion of grandeur, but quite unnecessary, and equally likely to fail. And it did.
Sean knelt down by the vest. “Antonelli!”
The big trooper trotted over from his spot by the cockpit door. “Yeah?”
“Give me a hand.” Graber lifted the vest and laid it out on the carpet, the inside of it down, exposing all the pockets. “It’s safed, don’t worry.”
“Yeah, sure,” Antonelli answered warily.
“I’ve got a bad feeling. Let’s check the pockets.” The captain’s body lay flat next to the thing. “You got your mini-light? Good. I’m going to lift each flap to get a look inside the pockets. You give me the light.”
“Cap, are you sure this is a good idea?”
“Listen, this guy went for this thing instead of just smoking the pilots to make us crash. Now, maybe he was into big bangs, or maybe this thing has a connection to that shit in the hold. Capishe?”
“Si.”
Sean began working his way through the pockets. The intelligence from the British described what he was seeing, three-by-one-by-four blocks of wrapped whatever, probably explosives. He moved his body around the vest, leaving it still. The pocket with the safe mechanism showed up. “More light.” There were the four rocker switches, set in a sequence that must interrupt the firing circuit from the thumb switch. “Okay, next one—” Just a minute.
The lieutenant saw his captain recoil an inch or so. “What is it?”
“The Brits said there were three rocker switches on the safety — this has four.” Sean maneuvered his head up, down, and side to side, examining the box closer. “Holy shit…”
“What?” Antonelli asked, his tone pushing for an answer.
Graber snapped up to a crouch. “He wasn’t going for this thing to blow it; he was going to set those things in the hold off. This thing has an extra switch!”
“That’s a guess, Cap.”
Sean stood, his breaths now coming heavy. “You’re right, and I might be, too.” He spun and ran to the stairs, disappearing to the main level.