Teresa Simpson had also followed him. “I’m coming with you. I’m responsible for this mess.”
Jack thought for a moment. “You’re right, you are responsible. Get aboard and stay out of my way.”
Paulson stood by as the Chilean Air Force crew spooled up the four turboprop engines and taxied the transport aircraft out to the edge of the runway. When the tower offered clearance, the pilots throttled up the C-130 Hercules, and its four turboprops bit the air with 13,000 combined horsepower.
Half a minute later, Paulson watched the C-130 disappear into the low-lying cloud cover. “What do you think, Mac?”
“I think his chances of reaching American airspace are about the same as you passing through the Pearly Gates.”
Paulson nodded grimly and glanced over at the two aircraft still on the tarmac. “Come on. We’ve got work to do.”
CHAPTER 112
The two Chilean pilots spoke perfect English. They updated Jack as to their slow but steady progress up the coast of South America. They stopped twice for refueling, once in Lima, Peru, and the second time in San Jose, Costa Rica.
During the long flight north, Teresa Simpson had tried to engage Jack in conversation, but he’d avoided her with a steely expression that invited no discussion.
She ended up spending much of the flight walking around the cold, cavernous interior of the Hercules, adjusting her earplugs, eating prepackaged foods, and drinking instant coffee.
For his part, Jack spent most of his time on the flight deck, looking out through the windscreens. He had no doubt they were being tracked up the South American continent, probably by Air Force and/or Navy AWACS planes, and by satellite as well.
The red bag containing the warheads had been strapped to the side of the fuselage, well away from the cockpit. There was no way he’d be able to make good on his threat to detonate the devices if they were fired upon.
Thirty hours into their journey, as they flew off the coast of southern Mexico, Teresa slid cautiously into the oversized cockpit. She nodded to the command pilot, who nodded in return as he pulled a pair of shaded aviator glasses out of his flight suit, flipped them open, and fed them between the headphones and his close-cropped black hair.
Jack glanced in her direction, and a rare smile flashed across his weathered face.
Probably something about the dawn of a new day, she thought. It always seemed to put things in perspective, make them feel more manageable.
“Maybe you were right,” Jack shouted over the roar of the engines. “Maybe the President will keep his word.”
She was about to respond when the needle-nose and glass-bubble cockpit of a jet fighter filled the windscreen in what Teresa could only assume was going to be a head-on collision.
CHAPTER 113
The Chilean flight crew instinctively ducked when the carrier-based Navy FA-18 Hornet fighter jet screamed over the top of the much slower and less maneuverable C-130 Hercules.
The pilot in command swore loudly in Spanish while at the same time disengaging the autopilot. Both pilots craned their necks, scanning the sky, searching for the jet fighter. Seconds later, a second Hornet over flew the Hercules, this one making his approach from the six o’clock position, high and from behind. When the Hornet was directly over the top of the Hercules, the pilot pulled the fighter vertically and kicked in the afterburner. The resulting concussion shook the C-130 right down to its wing roots, tossing the crew around the cockpit like so much paper confetti.
“What the hell is he doing?” Teresa asked.
The pilot turned around and shouted, and Jack nodded in understanding.
“It’s called thumping,” Jack said. Clearly the President intended to call his bluff after all. “They’re forcing us down to a lower altitude.”
A third Hornet swooped in underneath the Hercules, pulling up directly in the cargo carrier’s flight path and lighting off the burners as it passed not more than fifty meters in front of the nose.
“Hang on!” shouted Jack as the cargo plane pitched and rolled violently through the turbulence. Jack grabbed Teresa, keeping her from banging into the side of the cockpit.
“Get down on the deck and head toward the coast,” Jack shouted to the pilots.
The pilot swore again, clearly questioning whether a couple of Americans were worth their lives.
The pilot pushed down on the yoke with such force that Jack felt his stomach rising right into his throat. He watched in amazement as a collection of debris, including pens and pencils, floated up from the floor of the cockpit and bounced off the ceiling. The dark blue of the Pacific Ocean filled the windscreen as the Chilean pilot held the nose of the Hercules in a steep dive.
He held tight to Teresa Simpson, who’d covered her face with her hands in a futile attempt to prevent the white capped waves below from breaking through the windscreen.
Jack closed his eyes in anticipation of the impact but instead felt intense positive G-forces as the pilots struggled to pull the reluctant C-130 out of its terminal dive.
His body crushed the thin padding of the jump seat as the G-forces made his 180 pounds feel more like five hundred.
Jack opened his eyes to find the C-130 flying mere meters above the water. The whitecaps rushed underneath the cargo plane in a blur of white and blue that changed direction each time the pilot jerked the yoke in a well-intentioned but ineffective attempt to keep the fighters off his tail.
“There’s the beach,” he shouted. He pointed to the white sands and green mountainous jungle of the Mexican coast.
“Are they going to follow us into Mexico?” Teresa asked.
“I’m counting on it,” Jack said.
Jack leaned forward and engaged the command pilot in an animated conversation as one of the Hornets flashed overhead and then turned sharply in an attempt to gain a firing position from behind the Hercules.
“What’s happening?”
“The bastards are trying to run us out of fuel,” Jack said. “The Hercules burns a ton of fuel flying at low altitude. The Navy pilots radioed ours and said they’d be forced to shoot us down if we climb above 3,000 feet.”
Teresa leaned over and grabbed his hand, glancing at the red bags containing the Hafnium warheads. “He knows you can’t do it, even for Leah.”
Jack Hobson stared at the BLM chief for a moment and then grinned. “I’ve told the pilots I have something in the red bags that our fighter-jet friends want badly. I’m sure, if we give it to them, they’ll be forced to stop the attack.”
Teresa leaned back slightly, assessing the expression on Jack’s face. “What on earth are you planning?”
CHAPTER 114
Paulson sat in the command seat of the Gulfstream, Garrett to his right, and Mac Ridley crouched behind the two of them, looking anxiously through the windscreen. Marko and the mechanics were sleeping in the rich leather seats in the rear of the aircraft, dead to the world.
Paulson had the Gulfstream holding short of the active runway and had just finished speaking with the control tower.
“Okay,” he said. “We’re out of here.”
“About time too,” said Ridley.
Before Paulson let off the brakes and allowed the Gulfstream to roll out onto the runway, he looked through the side window and stared long and hard at the shiny aluminum skin of the old B-29.
“You think we’re gonna see her again, Mac?”
“After what we’ve been through, you still want that damned bomber?”
Paulson shrugged. “It’s one beautiful airplane.”
“I’m sure whatever federal prison were doing time at will give you all the illustrations of B-29s you want — and crayons to color them with too.”