One of the massive propellers on the right wing wasn’t spinning. The four-blade prop stood frozen in contrast to the blur of the other three. Beneath the bomber, three full sets of landing gear appeared to be down, although she couldn’t tell if it had locked properly into position.
They’ve got a chance, at least.
The nose of the bomber flared, and the main landing gear slammed down hard enough that the B-29’s wings appeared to shudder and flex. The pilot, who Teresa assumed was Paulson himself, did a masterful job of keeping the Super Fortress headed straight down the runway. When the bomber braked to an abrupt stop, Chilean emergency vehicles quickly surrounded the B-29. But instead of shutting down the engines, the crew inside the Las Tortugas waved wildly.
Their message was clear: “Get the hell out of our way.”
Teresa felt a tear running down one cheek. Goddamn if they didn’t pull it off, against all odds. They were bringing the grand lady home and bringing her home the right way. Alan J. Paulson was going to drive that battlewagon right up to the hangar with engines roaring hot, just like the old days. There was going to be no embarrassing runway shutdown followed by an anticlimactic tow to some secluded spot.
The emergency vehicles cleared away, and the bomber’s three functioning engines increased in RPM while following a trio of military trucks toward a shutdown area near the Gulfstream. The aluminum skin on the Las Tortugas appeared smooth, but repaired sections gave the bomber a quilted look. Several of the rivet lines ran contrary to the rest of the airplane, where aluminum skin had been cut free and replaced with a temporary patch.
Black was the other defining feature — heavy black lines where oil and smoke flowed freely from the engines and had painted the wings and fuselage in wicked black stripes.
The Las Tortugas pulled up within fifty meters of Paulson’s Gulfstream, and the engines shut down one by one. Teresa pulled out her digital camera and snapped photographs of the magnificent aircraft.
Military vehicles surrounded the bomber and heavily armed soldiers dressed in green fatigues fanned out around the Las Tortugas. Another trio of vehicles pulled up, this time black SUVs that Teresa recognized as armored transport vehicles built for VIPs. She’d ridden in the same type around Washington on many occasions. A soldier sprinted toward the middle Suburban and opened the rear door.
A short, but stout middle-aged soldier dressed in an impeccable and high-ranking uniform stepped out and adjusted his cap. He walked over to the ragged crew exiting the Super Fortress.
When everyone seemed to have disembarked onto the tarmac, Teresa realized that Leah Andrews wasn’t among them. She dashed toward the B-29 until one of the Chilean guards cut her off some fifty feet away. She thought she recognized the face of Jack Hobson but couldn’t be sure. The person staring at her wore a week’s worth of beard, and his face had been badly sunburned to the point of blistering. Two oval-shaped white circles highlighted his eyes where glacier-style sunglasses had protected him from the dangerous ultraviolet rays of the Antarctic sun.
She struggled against the soldier, her digital camera swinging by its wrist cord, banging against her face and shoulder. “I’m looking for Dr. Leah Andrews,” she called out.
“I’m Teresa Simpson, Director of the Bureau of Land Management.”
Jack nodded but didn’t reach out to shake her hand. “I recognize you, Ms. Simpson.”
“Dr. Andrews worked for my department.” She glanced toward the B-29. “Where is she?”
Jack blinked and waited a beat. “I’m exhausted and probably not thinking clearly. But if you don’t know where Leah’s been taken, what are you doing here?”
“I’m here because Dr. Andrews was a damned good archeologist and I let the Secretary of the Interior screw her over. I didn’t have the balls to protect her then — but I’m not going to make that mistake twice. Now, did you just say she was ‘taken?’”
Paulson limped over and stood beside Jack. “Who’s this?”
Jack nodded toward Teresa. “This is Teresa Simpson, Director of the Bureau of Land Management.”
His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here, if I might ask?”
“Looking for Leah, she says,” Jack said. “She makes it sound like Ms. Simpson says she doesn’t know where Leah’s being held. But I find that hard to believe at face value.”
Paulson nodded in agreement.
“Look,” Teresa said, “the last I heard, SEALs were removing you from Antarctica. When I asked for an update, the President and his staff had fled Washington. Whatever happened down there seems to have created a geopolitical crisis. Why don’t you fill me in on what you know — and what happened to Leah Andrews.”
Despite his obvious fatigue, Jack Hobson smiled broadly. “You remind me of Leah. Impulsive, determined, and stubborn as hell. Why else would you jump on a plane and fly to southern Chile?”
Teresa simply stared at him, refusing to answer the rhetorical question.
“What do you think?” Jack said, glancing at Paulson.
Paulson glanced over at Teresa and studied her face for a moment. “She’ll do.”
Jack turned back to Teresa. “You wouldn’t happen to have some clear tape? I’ve got to reassemble a few torn pieces of paper.”
CHAPTER 110
Teresa Simpson stared in shock at Jack and Paulson. “I knew Fischer was a prick,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “And the President’s an arrogant ass. But I can’t believe he sanctioned this.”
“Believe it,” replied Jack coldly. “Now I’m prepared to do anything necessary to obtain the release of Leah Andrews.”
Teresa shook her head again. “Look, if I speak with the President, I’m sure he’ll—”
They stood inside the hangar facing the Las Tortugas. Jack closed the space between them, keeping his voice low but steely. “No. This is what you’re going to do. You will transmit this message to the President of the United States.” He handed her a sheet of yellow note paper.
Teresa Simpson eyes grew wide. She looked up at Jack. “You have possession of this?”
“Right behind you.” Jack nodded at an oversized, red climbing-gear bag. “I want you to remember every detail of what you’re about to examine.” He unzipped the bag until the top of a metallic canister peeked out.
“Commander Beckam told me it is called a Hafnium-Iso warhead. Just mentioning the name will get the President’s attention.” He nodded toward Paulson. “We’ve seen what they can do. We were fortunate to be out of range, but we still caught a glimpse. Now imagine it detonating in a populated area.” He watched her blink several times. “Are you with me, Ms. Simpson?”
She nodded but didn’t reply.
“Feel free to take photos with your phone.” Jack pointed toward the bag. “Inside, how many devices do you count?”
“One.”
“Very good,” Jack said. He pointed toward the top of the casing. “Please note the panel.” He reached down and pushed on the two buttons, causing the metal top to spring up. Jack’s expression hardened. “This is very important, Ms. Simpson. I have all the codes necessary to set this device back on timer, detonating at my convenience.”
“What are your terms?” she asked.
“I’ll be flying back to the United States with the Hafnium warhead tucked right between my legs.”
“In the Gulfstream?”
“Negative. The Chilean military has agreed to provide us transportation over South America and ultimately into the United States. Flying the Gulfstream, the minute we got into international airspace, we’d be tracked, targeted and shot down.”