The two planes soared through the bright morning sky.
The Antonov was cruising at about 11,000 feet—three kilometres above the Earth-coasting along at an easy cruising speed of 200 knots as it rose steadily into the sky.
Although the Antonov didn't know it, rising through the air behind it, closing in quickly on its tail section, was a much smaller plane—the Goose.
The little seaplane's panels shuddered violently as it hit its maximum speed of 220 knots. Doogie gripped his steering vane as hard as he could, trying to keep her steady.
This was bad. The Goose's operational ceiling was 21,300 feet. If the Antonov kept rising, it would soon be physically out of the Goose's reach.
The little seaplane gradually closed in on the massive cargo-lifter, the two aircraft acting out a bizarre kind of aerial ballet—the sparrow chasing the albatross. Slowly—very slowly—the Goose moved up behind the Antonov and edged its nose right in behind the bigger plane's hindquarters.
Then suddenly, without any warning, the hatch on the nose of the Goose popped open and the tiny figure of a man appeared out of it from the waist up.
The blast of wind that assaulted Race's face as he stuck his head out through the Goose's forward hatch was absolutely colossal.
It slammed into his body, pounded against him. If he hadn't been wearing his kevlar breastplate it almost certainly would have knocked the wind out of him.
He saw the Antonov's sloping hindquarters looming large in front of him, about fifteen feet away.
Christ, it was enormous…
It was like looking at the rear-end of the biggest bird in the world.
And then Race caught sight of the earth below him.
Ooooh…luck!
The world was a long way down—a long way down.
Immediately beneath him, he saw a rolling patchwork quilt of hills and fields and, away to the east—ahead of the two planes—the neverending sea of rainforest.
Don't think about the fall! a voice inside him screamed.
Keep your mind on the job!
Right.
Okay. He had to do this quickly, before he ran out air, and before the two planes rose to a height where the combination of thin air and wind-chill would freeze him to death.
He waved at Doogie through the Goose's windshield, instructing him to bring the little seaplane closer to the Antonov.
The Goose edged further forward.
Eight feet away.
Earl Bittiker and Troy Copeland sat in the cockpit of the Antonov, oblivious to what was going on in the air behind their plane.
Abruptly, the wall-mounted phone next to Bittiker buzzed.
'Yes,' Bittiker said.
'Sir,' it was the tech in charge of arming the Supernova.
'We've placed the thyrium in the device. It's ready.'
'All right, I'm coming down,' Bittiker said.
The Goose was three feet away from the Antonov—and 15,000 feet above the world and still rising.
Race was standing with his entire upper body protruding from the Goose's nose hatch. He saw the Antonov's loading ramp in front of him. The ramp was still firmly shut, its existence betrayed only by a set of thin grooved lines that ran in a square around the rear of the massive plane.
Then Race saw a small panel to the left of the ramp lying flush against the exterior wall of the plane.
He waved for Doogie to bring the Goose closer still.
Bittiker emerged from the upper deck of the Antonov and looked down upon the cargo bay from a thin metal catwalk.
He saw the gargantuan tank beneath him, saw the barrel of its mighty cannon pointing directly up at him.
He looked at his watch.
It was 11:48. The V-CD would have gone out a good half-hour ago. The world would be in a panic. Judgement Day had arrived.
Bittiker slid down a rung-ladder and then stepped up onto the turret of the tank, climbed down into it.
He arrived in the belly of the Abrams and saw the Super- nova—saw the two thermonuclear warheads suspended in their hourglass formation, saw the cylindrical section of thyrium lying horizontally in the vacuum- sealed chamber in between them.
