Explosion…
Fireball…
He certainly had enough ingredients on board to create plenty of very big explosions and fireballs. “Take the aircraft,” he told the Stork as he unfastened his lap and shoulder belts. “Do whatever they say, follow any vectors they give you, until I give the word.”
“We are landing?” the Stork asked incredulously. “We will land?”
“Not unless they shoot out the engines, Stork, and then they will still have a fight on their hands. Mr. Krull, give your night-vision goggles to Stork and follow me.” He stepped out of his seat and hurried aft.
There was not much room, and the two men had difficulty squeezing themselves between the cargo on the pallets and the cold aluminum aircraft fuselage. Krull thought he couldn’t make the tight squeeze, but as if by magic he sucked it all in when it came time to squeeze around the forward pallet — he didn’t want one unnecessary bit of clothing or skin to touch the crates of high explosives stacked atop that pallet. Krull didn’t have any fear of those explosives when they were on the ground or being loaded, but now up there in the air, being swayed and bounced around, it seemed as if they were tiny thin eggshells waiting to…
“Grab two cases of grenades from that pallet and bring them to me, Mr. Krull,” Cazaux shouted over the roar of the engines.
Krull’s eyes widened in absolute horror. “Say what… ?”
“Damn it, stop stalling! Loosen those straps and bring two crates of grenades back here on the double.”
Loosening the cargo netting and withdrawing those two cases was one of the most terrifying things Krull had ever done — all he could see was the Styrofoam-shrouded canister of PETN in the center of the pallet. Every inch he moved the two grenade cases meant loosening the white foam blocks, and in his mind’s eye he could visualize the explosive crystals sloshing around, the molecular heat building, the blinding flash of light as the unstable chemicals exploded, detonating the rest of the explosives they carried, then destroying the aircraft in a big jet fuel fireball. His own strength amazed him — he held one thirty-pound case of grenades securely in one hand while maneuvering other crates and bags around to fill the gap and secure the PETN canister, while keeping his balance against the occasional turbulence and swaying. Cazaux offered him no help except to take the first crate of grenades and begin working.
When Krull brought the second case of grenades back to Cazaux, he couldn’t believe what the terrorist was doing— he had released all of the cargo straps on the entire pallet of Stinger missiles and was placing the grenades in between the missile coffins, with the safety pins removed and the arming handles held in place — barely — by the loosened crates! “What the fuck are you doin,’ man?” Krull shouted.
“Doing a little creative mine-laying, Mr. Krull,” Cazaux said, wearing a twisted smile. “I am going to attack the law enforcement officers on the airport below us.”
“You gonna what?” *
“The Stinger missile motors will explode, but they need a booster,” Cazaux said calmly. “The grenades will do, but I don’t have time to rig up a contact fuse. But if we push this pallet outside while we’re above one hundred and twenty-eight feet aboveground, the grenades will explode before the pallet hits the ground. The results should be most rewarding.”
“You’re really fuckin’ crazy, man.”
But Cazaux ignored him. He put on a headset and clicked open the intercom button: “Stork, I want you to make a normal approach to the runway they designate. Let me know when we’re one mile from the runway. Just before touchdown I want you to maneuver over the vehicles that will undoubtedly be parked on the side of the runway. Then I want you to go to full throttle and climb over them. When we pass two hundred feet, signal me. Do you understand?” Cazaux didn’t wait for a response — they would have only one shot at this, so either Korhonen would do it or he wouldn’t. “After that maneuver, I want you to fly as low as you can go westbound. Stay over the interstate and keep the power up. Low altitude and speed is the only protection we’ll have when they come after us.”
Linda McKenzie had never felt such an overwhelming sense of accomplishment as she did that night as they approached Mather Jetport. They had just assisted in the capture of one of the world’s most wanted terrorists — and she led the intercept! Her minor switch slipup at the beginning of the intercept would certainly be forgotten. In fact, this seemed to be having a better result than a covert Special-9 intercept would have had.
The feds and the cops were certainly out in force to put the suspect on ice. Both sides of Mather’s two-mile-long runway were choked with flashing lights, and more were pouring onto the former military base — the entire parking ramp in front of the old base-operations building was bumper-to-bumper emergency vehicles. Streets were being cordoned off all around the facility. The five-mile exclusion zone around Mather had been breached years ago, but residential sprawl had not yet totally closed in on the base, so the area around the airport was only sparsely dotted with residences.
“You’re cleared to land on two-two left, Cazaux,” McKenzie radioed to the L-600. “Stop straight ahead on the runway and don’t try to turn off.”
“I understand,” a strange voice replied. It wasn’t Cazaux — probably the copilot. Could Cazaux have escaped? Once they went to radar tracking instead of visual tracking, someone could have parachuted from the aircraft without their noticing. Capturing the plane and the weapons on board was good, but Cazaux himself was the big prize.
“Henri Cazaux, this is Special Agent Fortuna of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, U.S. Treasury Department,” a voice cut in on the channel. “I’m the on-scene, commander. We are tracking you with Stinger missiles and helicopter gunships. If you try to evade capture, we are authorized to open fire on your aircraft. Do you understand, Cazaux?”
“Russ? Is that you? Ca va bien, mon ami?” a thick, French- accented voice came on over the channel. “How is America’s famous Nazi storm trooper doing?” It was Henri Cazaux’s voice — he was still on the plane. This was going to be one sweet evening, McKenzie thought.
“You wouldn’t be so cheerful if you knew how many guns and missiles we got on you right now, Henri,” Fortuna radioed back. “Make a nice pretty landing. You’re on the news from coast to coast.”
“I would not want any of your gunners’ fingers to twitch on the triggers, Russell,” Cazaux said. “Would you please ask them to lower their weapons? I have decided to surrender — I will take my chances with the American justice system.”
“You might as well get used to the sight of guns pointed at you, Cazaux,” Fortuna said, “because that’s what you’re going to see every waking minute of your life from now on. Now get off my radio frequency and do as you’re ordered. We’ve got this entire area closed off, and we’ve got the green light to blow your ass out of the sky. Don’t screw it up.”