Sean lowered his head into the hold. “I hear you.”
“Tell that pilot to get this thing down, fast. I can’t hold this forever.”
“We’ll help.”
“No!” Joe said, adamantly. “No one else needs to be contaminated. Just get this plane on the ground! And,” Joe continued, “find out what happened.”
Antonelli caught Sean on his way up the aisle and explained what had occurred. Graber heard, but ignored it. There was something more important to do.
The captain’s head sank, then bobbed up. “What is it?”
“The things in the hold, one of them started to go off, or whatever they do. Our DOE guy says to set this aircraft down fast.”
Hendrickson found the landing light switch and began flashing out the newest problem.
Jesus Christ.
“Seven-Eight, Seven-Eight. I need an immediate vector, now! Four-Two-Two is declaring an in-flight emergency. They have a problem with something in the hold.” Cooper purposely didn’t mention the reactor comment in the Morse message, for both security reasons and because he technically wasn’t supposed to know the particulars.
“Romeo, turn left to heading two-seven-five. We’re going to set you down on a long one. Copy?”
“Roger.” Cooper signaled the 747, then banked gently to the left, side slipping at the same time to keep position with his follower. The Clipper Atlantic Maiden turned with him, but took a longer time to settle into the new course.
The shuttle Endeavour was bathed in the white lights on her launchpad five miles from the Launch Control Center. She was ready for a launch in forty-eight hours.
The morning senior watch officer yawned at the phone before picking it up. “LCC.”
His tired face became instantly awake as the voice on the other end gave the orders and offered only a brief explanation.
“Right.” He straightened up in his chair, pushing the center wide alarm next. The intercom switch was flipped to open. “Attention. Attention. Emergency alert, condition orange. This is not a drill. Clear the shuttle-landing runway of all nonemergency personnel. Crash crews set up at the far end. All other personnel immediately go to your assigned shelters.”
He turned to see his three fellow watch officers stand, unsure of what to do. His expression convinced them, and they left for their bunker-like shelter, leaving the senior watch officer to direct the coming unorthodox happening. It wasn’t surprising. An orange alert was intended to be used only in the event of a problem with the shuttle while it had a nuclear payload onboard, such as a reactor-powered satellite.
Whatever was coming in would be met by crews trained to deal with a radioactive situation, though not in a manner they were accustomed to.
Joe shifted one hand off of the pliers. His position allowed no room to maneuver into a place for shelter from the deadly radiation bombarding his body. Most of the damage was being done in his hands as the rays penetrated and did their work on his blood cells.
The results would be obvious, he knew. There was nothing left to do but hold on. He could, after all, save some lives.
“Sorry.”
Sean saw the true regret in the lieutenant’s eyes. “Hey. I should have moved it.” The Delta captain blamed himself as much.
“Cap,” Goldfarb said. Something was wrong.
Graber took two steps over. The carpeted area was awash with blood, the sound coming up from the soaked material in wet squishes. The medic was on his knees, but not hovering over Blackjack as before.
“I lost him,” Sergeant Goldfarb said. “I just couldn’t stop it.”
The scene should have been revolting, with the major’s amputated left arm lying a foot from his head, but it wasn’t. Sean only saw Blackjack’s face. It was tilted back, its eyes open with only the whites showing.
“Hey, I…”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Sergeant,” Sean suggested. Men die in a war. And this was a war, he believed.
The captain walked to the stairs, paused, then descended. Perfection, so he was learning, came rarely in any action.
Hendrickson followed the fighter directly on now. They were lining up on the long shuttle runway at Cape Canaveral. Fifteen thousand feet-plus of beautiful concrete was awaiting them.
“How much visual referencing have you done on landings?” The captain asked his assistant.
“Plenty,” Michael answered automatically.
“Then that’s your job. That runway has the standard red- green split circulars at the threshold. I’ll fly her in, but you’ve got to call me out as high or low. Just remember, you’re sitting four stories off the ground.”
Michael flexed his hands on the column. “Okay. What about the stick?”
“I’ll give you the word when it’s time to shove it forward, all the way.” Hendrickson adjusted the Maiden’s position behind the glowing blob ahead. “It worked once before; it might again. Maybe we’ll be able to stop this girl one more time.” He quieted for a second. “Ain’t that right, girl. You’re going to do it once more. Just once more for this old fart.”
“Did you get all that?” Joe asked, yelling.
“I got it,” Sean replied. When the aircraft stopped — if it stopped — he had clear instructions from someone who should know.
“Cap,” Quimpo began, “that crap’s gonna kill him, ain’t it?”
Sean didn’t answer. There were already two good guys dead. That was too many. But Anderson…he had no control over it.
Major Cooper flashed off a final ‘good luck’ to the Clipper Atlantic Maiden before peeling off to the left, clearing the way for the 747 to come right in on the row of lights dead ahead. He wanted to stay overhead, acting as a chase plane of sorts, but knew better. His cargo was as dangerous as that on the big jet, and they would be anxious to get it into safe storage once again.
He threw a salute as the jet passed him on the right. “God speed, folks.” A minute later he was heading south at speed, careful to stay over water all the way back to Louisiana.
“Everyone’s belted in,” Antonelli told the pilot.
“You do the same,” Hendrickson instructed.
Michael craned his neck, trying to compensate for the thinning clouds. “I see the lights. We’re low, just a little.”
“Good. I want to bring her up right at the end. We’ve only got elevators.” Hendrickson put his right hand on the throttle levers.
The pattern changed from red on the bottom to green. “On slope. It’s steady.”
The captain cut the number two engine completely. The Maiden responded with a noticeable slowing and a falling sensation. He pulled back on the stick and throttled numbers one and four up. The speed stayed lower, but the falling sensation ceased, replaced by the familiar gentle gliding.
Michael practically had to stand in his seat to see over the abnormally high nose. “Still good. On slope. We’re close.”
The triple rows of referencing lights came at them fast, and the 747 came down toward them equally as fast.
“On slope!” Michael’s voice rose with the excitement. He was operating now as a pilot, forgetting completely the fear. “Slope! Slope! Threshold!”
The lights disappeared beneath the Maiden. She was now over concrete.
Hendrickson kept his eyes forward. He pulled back on the throttles, reducing engine power. His aircraft responded accordingly, her body dropping hard onto the runway below. When the mains contacted, the remaining right-side tires and two left-side blew out with a forceful bang!