is aloft. Herr Reichardt insisted on that as a security precaution!”
Reichardt? Who the hell was he? Thorn filed the name away for future reference. He focused on the task at hand. “Are you telling me that goddamned plane is totally locked on autopilot?”
“No, no!” Engel insisted. “You can control the aircraft manually.”’ “How?”
The technician plucked a joystick off the top of the console and held it up. “Using this. and the keyboard.”
“Set it up. Now!” Thorn growled. Ibrahim’s bomb-laden plane would be over the Pentagon in roughly four minutes.
Engel leaned over his shoulder, hastily plugged the joystick into a port near the display, and began entering commands on the keyboard.
“Peter?” Helen said quietly.
He looked at her. “Yeah?”
“Can you fly that plane from here?”
Thorn shrugged. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”
They were out of other options. Rounding up one of Ibrahim’s surviving pilots and getting him to cooperate would take too long. For a brief instant, he wished he’d spent more time playing around with the computer flight simulators that were so popular nowadays. For now, the computer tech would have to do.
“The system is ready,” Engel announced, taking his hands off the keyboard. He quickly pointed out the keys that would activate various aircraft controls. “Those are your throttle settings, your rudder controls, and …”
Thorn listened intently, forcing himself to memorize each key.
He could feel his heart rate accelerating. When the German finished, he nodded abruptly. The aircraft indicator was now over Reston — and the distance to target changed to 16.1. “Is there anything else I should know?” he asked.
The computer tech nodded. “You must keep the aircraft at least two nautical miles away from the detonation point. Once it flies inside that circle, the bomb is armed — and it will detonate if the range begins to open again. Also, you must not let the aircraft drop below three hundred meters — a thousand of your feet — or climb above five thousand meters. Once it reaches either altitude, a barometric fuse will detonate the weapon. Herr Reichardt’s and Prince Ibrahim’s instructions were very explicit.”
“How truly wonderful,” Helen commented acidly.
Thorn thought a moment. “If we can’t dive, we’ll have to get this sucker to climb. Even fifteen thousand feet above the ground is better than nothing.”
Helen frowned. “With a 150-kiloton bomb on board, Peter?
That’s still not high enough.”
“It’s a start,” he replied.
“Yeah.”
“This will relay any air traffic control communication you receive,” the German computer tech said, offering a radio headset plugged into a control panel next to the keyboard.
Thorn yanked the earphones he was wearing off, and slipped the new headset on. Then he tapped the keys controlling the throttle settings for both engines — pushing them to one hundred percent power. Then he took a deep breath. “Here we go.”
He tugged the joystick to the right.
Two thousand feet above the densely populated suburban landscape, the twin-engine Jetstream 31 turboprop abruptly rolled to the right — almost standing on its wingtip. It lost altitude rapidly.
Inside, a tiny instrument linked to a constant barometric pressure reading prepared itself for the last act of its short life.
Strike Control Center Helen Gray saw the video picture suddenly shift as the aircraft practically turned onto its side. The altitude reading spun down falling from two thousand to seventeen hundred and then sixteen hundred feet in seconds. She held her breath.
Peter quickly pulled the joystick back to the left. Slowly, the image showed the aircraft rolling back to level flight. Its altitude stabilized around fourteen hundred feet.
The computer technician’s face turned a ghastly shade of white.
“Careful! The controls are sensitive. And they are not integrated. To turn safely, you must use the rudder control key and the joystick!”
Helen could see the sweat on Peter’s forehead now. He stared intently at the screen. She kept quiet.
His hand holding the joystick slowly relaxed, while the other hovered over the computer keyboard. The range to target now read 10.9.
Farrell’s laconic voice broke over their headsets. “Delta One and Two, this is Three. I’ve got my weapon on ten-plus bad guys out here. Some of them are pretty badly shot up. And a Fairfax County police unit just pulled up outside the main gate. Any suggestions on what I should tell them?”
“Try to stall them,” Helen said tersely. “We’re a little busy in here, Sam.”
“So I’ve heard,” Farrell replied. “You let me know when to duck and cover, okay?”
Helen suddenly realized the retired general must have heard almost everything going on inside the control center over the voice-activated radio circuit. She swallowed. “I’ll let you know, Sam. Scout’s honor.”
“Okay,” Farrell said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
Peter glanced over his shoulder and flashed her a quick, worried grin.
“Second time lucky, right?”
Helen nodded seriously. They weren’t going to get a third chance.
“Right.”
His hands started moving, this time gently tugging the joystick right while simultaneously tapping the key controlling the aircraft’s rudder.
Strike Aircraft Lion, Over Arlington, Virginia The twin-engine plane banked slowly, gradually changing its heading from southeast to almost due south. Once on that new course, it rolled back to level flight, pitched up slightly, and began climbing.
Control Center Thorn felt his pulse slow a bit as the strike aircraft’s altitude started increasing — rising steadily from fourteen hundred feet.
He glanced at the range to target. It read 6.8. The number changed — to 6.9.
He breathed out.
An irritated voice suddenly squawked through his radio head set.
“Unknown aircraft climbing through two thousand on heading one seven seven, this is Washington Center ARTCC. Who are you? And what the hell do you think you’re doing? Be advised you are straying close to restricted air space.”
Thorn hit the mike switch. “Washington ARTCC, this is Colonel Peter Thorn, United States Army. The twin engine plane you’re monitoring is a remotely piloted aircraft carrying an armed 150-kiloton nuclear warhead. I repeat, this nuclear warhead is armed.”
“What?” the air traffic controller said sharply. “Jesus Christ, if this is some kind of joke—”
Thorn cut him off. “This is no joke. I repeat, that plane is carrying a live nuclear weapon. I’ve got control over it for now but I suggest you give me a safe heading that will take this thing away from the District and any other inhabited area.”
The radio went dead.
He watched the altitude number creeping up through three thousand feet and then glanced up at the digital map. The robot plane was now over Alexandria. The TV monitor showed an array of brighter city lights and the winding, black trace he knew must be the Potomac River.
The Washington Center air traffic controller came back on line. “Okay, Colonel. We’re going to assume you’re telling the truth …”
“Good move,” Thorn said sharply, still watching the screen.
“We’re clearing a corridor that should take your plane out to sea a safe distance. What’s your fuel status?”
Thorn checked the numbers and read them off.
