Paulson glanced at his watch. “We’re ahead of schedule, for once.”
“You think we’re going to beat Jack home?” Garrett asked.
“We’d better,” Paulson replied, “Or, this crazy plan will never work.”
Ridley swore under his breath and shook his head. “Goddamn. Here we go again.”
CHAPTER 115
The trio of volcanoes reached toward the sky in magnificent contrast to the gentle farmland. Like three giant ice-capped trolls, they dominated the Mexican countryside in every direction.
For high-altitude mountain climbers, the volcanoes ranged in personality from the mild-mannered Iztaccihuatl to the exceedingly dangerous Pico De Orizaba. The Aztecs had named the volcanoes for their magnificence — hundreds of years later, nothing about that had changed.
To Jack Hobson they looked like a trio of old friends welcoming him back after a long absence — and Jack was glad to be home.
Orizaba lay to the south and Iztaccihuatl north of the aircraft. Dead in the middle and directly ahead through the windscreen stood Popocatepetl.
Named ‘The Smoking Gun’ in the native Nahuatl language, Popocatepetl rose nearly 17,800 feet above sea level, a perfectly round cone covered in black from a recent eruption. Out of the cone rose a thin wisp of sulfur gas — just enough to remind anyone climbing her flanks that she wasn’t yet ready to be tamed or controlled.
Jack pointed toward the mountain, indicating they should begin to climb around its base. When the C-130 Hercules flew through 3,000 feet AGL, the Hornets didn’t shoot, but they thumped the Hercules repeatedly, forcing the Chilean pilots to manhandle the controls.
Jack’s head slammed into the jump-seat backrest each time the Tomcats disrupted the Herc’s airflow; it was clear that his pilots were exhausted, while the Hornets’ pilots were only emboldened by the bigger airplane’s struggle to climb higher.
A black oily substance had built up on the windscreen. The exhaust from the Hornets’ twin jet engines, fogging the windshield. Despite the dark haze, Jack noticed during the next attack that the tail markings on the jets had changed.
They’re tag-teaming us, flying in with full fuel tanks after in-flight refueling.
Suddenly the summit of Popocatepetl poked through a break in the clouds, like a closed fist thrust in defiance. The pilots stood the big Hercules on a wingtip while Jack directed them with hand motions.
Jack looked down into the crater and caught a familiar glimpse of the black cauldron along with the lazy strings of sulfur-rich steam lofting up and flowing over the top of the cone in lazy circles.
Suddenly, one of the Tomcats made an especially close and dangerous pass, so near that the C-130 Hercules nearly rolled inverted.
“What are you going to do?” Teresa shouted.
Jack unhooked the harnesses and seat belts securing him into the jump seat. He stood and unclipped an oxygen mask off the rear wall of the cockpit and fitted it over Teresa’s face. The pilots grabbed their own masks and worked them into position over their faces.
Jack patted the copilot on the shoulder and then worked his way out of the cockpit and into the cargo hold. He pulled a harness out of equipment webbing and fastened it around his shoulders and waist, then attached himself by way of a carabiner system to a cable running the length of the cargo area along the fuselage. When Jack stood near the rear of the cargo bay, he spoke to the pilots through an intercom system.
They dropped the Hercules speed to just under 130 knots. Jack pushed a switch that lowered the ramp in mid-flight. Moments later, brilliant white sunlight and thin freezing air flooded the Hercules. Jack reached down and grasped the straps on the red bag. He tugged at it once, then twice before it slid along the floor of the cargo bay. As he approached the open ramp, the roar of the engines and the winds collided in a deafening howl.
The Hornets flew in sloppy formation not more than 100 behind the Hercules, clearly curious as to what Jack was attempting. One flew under and behind the left wing, and the other flew above the right wing. Air-to-air missiles hung menacingly under both their wings and fuselages. The slower speed had dropped the Hornets close to their stall speed. The wings rocked back and forth as the American pilots watched and waited.
Jack stood on the loading ramp, his hair blowing madly in the wind, his legs spread wide for support. He looked over and made eye contact with the Hornet pilot flying at the ten o’clock low position. Jack nodded toward the pilot, who nodded in return, Jack’s intention now apparent. He pulled the bag farther out onto the ramp, then waited until the massive black cauldron of Popo’s crater was clearly visible. Then, with all his strength, he rolled the silver warhead rearward until the air caught the cylinder and sucked it out the back of the aircraft.
The wings on the two Hornets rocked as the pilots decided what they should do. An instant later, they both broke formation to the outside. Jack watched as they circled back toward the volcano’s crater, searching for the warhead falling at near terminal velocity.
Jack worked his way back into the cargo bay and closed the ramp. He spoke with the pilot, who grinned in return.
He sat down and turned to face Teresa. “We’re making a short fuel stop in Mexico City and then we’re headed home.”
“Does it matter now?” she asked angrily. “If you were going to drop the warhead, why put our lives at risk?”
“I needed to know how desperate the President had become.” Jack studied her face. “Desperate people take desperate action.” He smiled sadly. “A Navy SEAL told me that once. I didn’t think it was worth your life, the lives of the pilots, or the innocent people on the ground so I dumped them.”
“You’ll be arrested on terrorism charges, or worse. Won’t you? Wait! What are you going to do now?”
He shrugged. “I’m exhausted, Ms. Simpson. I’m going to get some sleep.”
CHAPTER 116
Jack woke with a start to find the copilot pointing out through the windscreen toward the pitch-black deserts of southern Baja Mexico 25,000 feet below.
Teresa Simpson slept in the jump seat beside him, covered in an army-green blanket. He wiped at his eyes, but that didn’t remove the feeling someone had rubbed sand into his corneas the entire time he’d slept.
“How far to Holloman Air Force Base?”
“Less than one hour,” replied the pilot.
“How is your fuel?”
“We can fly for three hours, no more.”
Cutting it close, Jack thought as he calculated time.
“We’re not headed to Holloman,” he shouted over the engine roar.
The pilot’s expression relayed his alarm.
“Not to worry.” He reached into his blue jeans and pulled out a set of GPS coordinates. “This is an abandoned Army Air field. It has a long paved runway, and it’s not more than 100 miles northwest of Holloman.”
The command pilot fed the coordinates into the onboard navigation system. “Okay,” he said, “but once we land, we cannot continue without fuel.”
“You won’t need to. That’s the end of the road.”
CHAPTER 117
Leah leaned back against the fuselage and let the vibration of the changing pitch of the turboprop engines work into her stiff neck and sore shoulders. She’d been so pumped up during the resuscitation of the Native Americans that she’d forgotten she hadn’t slept in more than two days. Of the 30 souls within the stasis tubes, they had been able to resuscitate 28, including the Navajo girl who’d asked Leah if she were a God.