God! This is not my husband! You are not my husband, do you hear me, whoever you are? God damn all of you! Is this some kind of sick joke?”
Hawke heard a sharp clack over the radio as the receiver in a small town in Wales was slammed down.
“God damn it!” the president screamed at his staff. “You all hear that? Jesus Christ!”
Somebody, somewhere, then said, “Go ahead, Mr. President. The Navy link is back up. Top Hat fighter squadron can hear you loud and clear now.” The president got back on the radio.
“Top Hat Squadron leader, Top Hat Squadron leader. This is your commander-in-chief speaking. Do you copy?”
“Yes, sir, I read you loud and clear, sir. I am required to ask for your mission code, sir.”
“That’s correct. This is Warhorse, son. Whisky Alpha Romeo. I repeat, this is Warhorse, Whisky Alpha Romeo.”
“Uh, roger, Warhorse, this is Gunfighter, over. Sir.”
“I want your squadron to arm your weapons, Gunfighter.”
“Armed, sir. That’s affirmative.”
“I want you boys to escort that British Air flight to the ground. I want him to land now. L.A. Tower is halting all traffic within a radius of twenty miles and clearing all runways. Put him on the ground, son. Do it right—”
Hawke heard this exchange and immediately thumbed his mike, interrupting the president.
“Warhorse, Warhorse, break. This is Hawkeye, over.”
“Yeah, go ahead, Hawkeye.”
“Sir, I strongly reco taking this bird out in the desert. Edwards Air Force Base is the closest. Over.”
“Copy. Hell, he’s right, Gunfighter,” the president said. “You fellas copy that? Take him to Edwards. I’ll get the reception party organized, over.”
“Roger, Warhorse, we copy that. Top Hat will force a landing at Edwards. Uh, sir, we may encounter resistance—he, uh, is not responding at this time, sir. How far may we go, sir, over.”
There was a long pause, and then the president spoke, all weariness gone from his voice.
“What’s your name, Gunfighter?”
“My name is Captain Wiley Reynolds Jr., Mr. President.”
“Captain Reynolds, I authorize you to do absolutely whatever it takes to protect your country. Gunfighter. Acknowledge.”
“Whatever it takes, sir. Over.”
Chapter Sixty
Flight 00
ADARE WATCHED IN STUNNED DISBELIEF AS FOUR AMERICAN Navy F/A-18E Super Hornets positioned themselves directly fore and aft of his airplane. And, there were two more right on his bloody wingtips, maybe a foot of separation to port and starboard. He could fucking well read the serial numbers on the bright yellow-tipped air-to-air missiles tucked up under their wings.
Five hundred feet above him was another squadron of fighters, Hornets from down at Miramar. His repeated calls to the tower in the last three or four minutes had gone unanswered. How the living hell, he wondered then, did he get himself into this bloody mess? Oh, yeah. The doctor and his money. Soong was begging him to just put the plane down. The Navy fighters scared the bejesus out of the little guy. Not Johnny Adare, however. He still felt safe.
“You think I’m putting this thing down at an Air Force base? That’s suicide! We’re out of here. No bloody way in hell they will shoot down an unarmed civilian carrier! We’ll go to Mexico, I don’t know, Alaska—”
“Johnny, calm down. Not to worry, okay? I can talk us out of this. It’s the only way out, now. Give me the radio.”
“Talk us out of it? You are wholly insane, man. I thought this whole thing was going to be a walk in the park! We land, let all the zombies disembark. They go blow up a few nuclear reactors or what have you while we walk away rich. Now—”
“Listen. They will shoot, Johnny. That 9/11 plane that went down in Pennsylvania? If it had not crashed, the president had ordered them to shoot it down before it took out the White House. I know this.”
“Jesus Christ,” Adare said, and then he heard a squawk in his headphones.
“Speedbird, I am the Navy F-18 Hornet riding on your starboard wingtip. Captain Wiley Reynolds, Top Hat Squadron leader, U.S. Navy. I say again, you are ordered to initate descent and land your aircraft immediately at Edwards Air Force Base. If you maintain current altitude and continue to disregard this order, I am authorized to take offensive measures against you. I repeat, descend and land your aircraft on Edwards runway two-niner at once. Over.”
“He means it!” Soong shouted. “He’ll shoot! Oh, my God!” Khalid was shouting at him too, pounding on the cockpit door again. Johnny couldn’t hear what he was saying out there, but he had a pretty good idea.
“Fuck you, Navy,” Johnny Adare said.
“Hey, Gunfighter, am I hearing things?” another Top Hat pilot said. “I think the man just said something impolite. Over.”
“British Airways, I say again, this is the U.S. Navy Super Hornet on your starboard wing. I am rapidly running out of patience with you. You familiar with the AIM-9 Sidewinder missiles you see under my wings, sir? If you do not want to see one or two headed up your tailpipe, I strongly advise you to begin your descent immediately. Follow us down.”
Johnny looked again at his fuel indicators and felt his whole life running out of gas. There was no way he’d make it even to Mexico, much less that old WWII airstrip up in the Aleutians he’d been thinking about. Christ. Only half an hour ago, he’d been dreaming about that first dry martini tonight in the Polo Lounge. Fuck.
He now had the hollow feeling of someone whose worst nightmare had come true. All of his plans and dreams of the future, his role as the dashing pilot who retired to his little pub in his little corner of Ireland—it was rumored about town that he was very rich—all of this was finished. His future now was, what, years of imprisonment? Maybe even execution. Yeah, they shot guys for this shit now. His daughter, Caitlin, had MS. He’d never see her again.
“We’ll follow them down,” Johnny told Soong finally. “But I don’t want to hear another fucking word out of you, understand?”
“Johnny—”
“And don’t call me Johnny!”
There was a beeping noise as he reached over and disengaged the autopilot. Then he raised the speed brake and eased the controls forward to initiate his descent. A fiery orange haze hung over the Mojave Desert and the Sierra Madre mountain range beyond. Like flying into Hell, he thought, but maybe he could still find a way out. Put down on one of those desert highways or even—
“Speedbird 77 heavy, L.A. Approach, contact arrivals one-three-three point eight. You are cleared to land on runway two-five left, over.”
“British 77 heavy, yeah, thanks L.A. I don’t think we’ll be needing that runway after all. Seems we’ve been diverted to Edwards Air Force Base.”
“Uh, roger, 77, this is L.A. Approach. Have a good afternoon, sir.”
“You bet, L.A. Good day.”
“Good job, Speedbird, this is Gunfighter. About time you came to your senses. We’ll peel off and give you a little flying room, sir.”
The Navy jets did just that. About thirty fucking feet of flying room on all four sides. And more bleeding squadrons upstairs. The Yanks were acting like he was trying to blow up their whole bloody country. But then, maybe he was. He didn’t really know everything Poison Ivy and the Pasha had planned really, now did he?
Johnny called the hostesses and got Fiona on the intercom. She was slightly hysterical, more than slightly, but he didn’t really have the time to calm her down. He told her to get everybody strapped in, they’d be landing somewhere in a few minutes. He didn’t tell her he didn’t have a clue exactly what was waiting for them down
