‘The Navy was fucked-up. You’re the best and toughest woman I’ve ever known. And I’m so happy you’re my wife.’
‘And I’m so happy you’re my husband.’
The low fuel warning light had been on now for what seemed like a month. Fuel status was way past critical. Only minutes were left to them…just a grouping of seconds, that was all.
‘Here we go, my love.’
No answer. Just another squeeze of the hand.
Carrie took a breath, thought, forgive me, Susan, and she pushed the yoke forward with a slight roll. The nose of the aircraft dropped like an elevator, and now they were both weightless in their seats as the jet fell from the sky, bits of metal and crumbs and paper scraps flying past her, Sean still holding tight to her hand on the control yoke, the only thing now visible in the windscreen the rapidly approaching waters of the lake.
While the F-16s were ordered to break off, they still kept view of the AirBox aircraft as it approached the lake. In a matter of seconds the lead pilot could not believe what he was seeing as the plane suddenly pitched over and headed down to the lake.
‘Chris…’ said Lance One’s wingman. Lance One said, ‘Yeah, I see it…’
The jet moved quickly, so quickly, and the wingman choked a bit as he realized what the flight crew had done. Whatever anthrax was in that aircraft was designed to be released when the jet went below three thousand feet but at the speed they were traveling it would be just a second or two and—
Something was said over his earphones. Not Chris. Had to be AirBox and—
‘Jesus God,’ he whispered as the plane disintegrated and crashed in a huge geyser of water and metal debris and flying papers and packages –
Oh, Christ.
‘Ah… Center, this is Lance One,’
‘Go ahead, Lance One.’
‘Ah… AirBox one-oh-seven has crashed into a lake at this location… advise you send Public Health officials to the area…’
‘Lance One, we acknowledge…’
Another voice, his wingman again. ‘Chris, did you ever see anything like that…’
‘No, and I never want to, ever again. Hold on, Ed.’
He looked to the lake, at the widening circle of water, debris, wreckage… obliterated. Absolutely and totally obliterated.
‘Center, Lance One.’
‘Lance One, go ahead.’
‘Also advise that we monitored last transmission from AirBox one-oh-seven as it descended.’
Nothing. No answer.
‘You copy, Center?’
An embarrassed voice. ‘Ah, go ahead, Lance One. What was AirBox message, over?’
‘Message follows: “This is Smash, signing off.’”
‘Understood. Smash, signing off.’
The pilot known as Lance One didn’t acknowledge. He just kept on circling the waters of the lake that had become a grave.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Bocks looked at the display board. It was empty. No more AirBox flights were airborne. It was over — at least, this part was over. Ahead there would be hearings and charges and TV documentaries and court battles, and no doubt bankruptcy and some jail time.
But it was over. The country would survive. His duty was done. And so was Carrie’s.
Smash had completed her last mission, successfully.
He sat down, exhausted, put his head in his hands, and wept.
Victor Palmer knew that he should be following up with the crash of the AirBox in Pennsylvania, knew that he should be making recommendations to minimize whatever possible exposure was out there, but he was just too damn tired. He was sure that Doc Savage could put up with almost anything, but he doubted that even the Man of Bronze could have handled this.
Did this make him better than Doc Savage?
A treasonous thought. He lowered his head, closed his eyes, and for the second time that night passed out.
But this time, he was left alone.
Grayson Carter closed his eyes in repose, praying for the souls of Carrie Floyd and Sean Callaghan. There was a touch at his elbow. ‘Yes?’
‘Grayson…’ the woman said. ‘I’m Pam Kasnet, night Operations Manager… I’m sorry, but… well, we have a situation.’
He saw the troubled look on her face, and said, ‘Well, what is it?’
She told him. He nodded. God was putting him to work tonight, and that was fine. It was his calling. He would bear the burden as best he could.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll help you.’
Brian Doyle saw Randy Tuthill being taken to the conference room, Bocks and the minister joining him and the woman Operations Manager. There was a loud, bellowing, ‘No!’ from Randy before the door closed.
Monty came up to him, held out his hand, which Brian shook.
‘What was that about?’ Brian asked.
‘Randy Tuthill. The machinist guy.’
‘Yeah?’
‘His son was the pilot of the KC-135 that collided with the Kentucky AirBox flight.’
Brian nodded. ‘That sucks.’
‘Yeah.’
Brian took in the ordered chaos of the Operations Center, the terminal displays, the phones and the host of people who worked for AirBox, who had done their best to manage a disaster that would have made 9/11 look like a parking-lot fender-bender if it had succeeded, and he just closed his eyes. Couldn’t take it anymore.
‘Good job, Brian. A real good job.’
‘No, not really. It was a fuck-up. A while ago I knew something was hinky with Adrianna. I should have done more, done better, done it sooner. That’s all.’
Monty slapped him on the back of his neck. ‘Brian, you fret too much. You did all right. For a cop.’
Brian said, ‘I’m supposed to take that as a compliment?’
‘Take it any way you like it.’
He rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘Somehow, I don’t think I’m gonna be a cop this time next week.’
Monty said, ‘Don’t worry. Anything happens, I’ll set you up somehow. You’ve got balls and brains — and a couple of gunshot bruises to the chest. A hell of a combination.’
‘Thanks.’
Monty yawned and said, ‘Speaking of Adrianna, I wonder where that little minx is right now.’
‘Out there, I’m sure.’
‘Yeah…man, if she ever gets caught, I just want ten minutes with her. Ten minutes.’
‘What do you mean, if?’
Monty laughed. ‘Man, that was one smart bitch. You telling me she didn’t have a bag of plans, ready to get
