Edge of Battle

to police action. Repeat, Amarillo Airport is closed due to police action. Stand by for divert instructions.”

“Jason! Thank God you’re alive!” Ariadna cried over the phone. “Where are you?”

“I’m in Panhandle, Texas,” Jason replied. The farmer had just dropped him and the children off at the Carson County Sheriff’s office. “You’ve got to get TALON out here right away. I think Zakharov is going after…”

“Pantex,” Ari interjected. “Watts guessed that too when the CID unit was activated out there. We’re already airborne with two CID units. We should be arriving in less than two minutes. We…stand by, Jason…J, we’ve just been told that Amarillo Airport is closed due to ‘police action.’ We’re trying to contact airport security.”

Jason turned to the deputy beside him, who was scrolling through lines of text appearing on a computer terminal. “Deputy, can you tell me what’s going on at Amarillo International?”

“Some guy on the runways,” the deputy replied, reading through the messages in growing disbelief. “We think he’s on a motorcycle or somethin’, because he’s goin’ pretty damned fast. They closed down the airport ’til they can catch ’im.”

“Deputy, listen to me,” Jason said. “That’s a hijacked Cybernetic Infantry Device on that airport—a manned robot.” The deputy looked at Richter as if he had grown another head. “Task Force TALON is coming in to capture him. I need you to get permission for their plane to land, right now.”

“That’s Potter County—I don’t got no jurisdiction out there…”

“Call someone and tell them to let that plane land!” Jason shouted. He gave the deputy the plane’s tail number and call sign, then turned to the phone again: “Ari, I’m trying down here to get you permission to land, but if you don’t get a call from the tower in about sixty seconds, land anyway.”

“Got it, J,” Ariadna said. “Are you all right?”

“Zakharov kidnapped me and a bunch of kids and forced me to activate the CID unit…”

“Mister, did you just say Zakharov?” the astonished deputy asked, his mouth dropping open in shock. “You mean, the guy that blew up Houston? He’s out there?” He turned to the phone and yelled, “Dammit, Dispatch, screw the airport police and put me through to the control tower at Amarillo. Yegor Zakharov the Russian terrorist is on the airport, and those Talon guys want to land so they can go get him. Do it, now!” The seconds ticked by mercilessly. Finally TALON was on the ground, and the CID units were being dispatched.

It did not take long: “J, we found CID One,” Ari radioed a couple minutes later. “It was abandoned. The guy piloting it is gone.”

“You’ve got to find him,” Jason said. “The sheriff’s department says some weapons are missing out of Pantex. They won’t say how many, but they did say ‘weapons,’ plural.”

“We’ll get him, J, don’t worry,” Ariadna said. “Watts is scouring every inch of the airport. Nothing is going in or out of that place until we’re done.”

Jason got to his feet and said to the deputy, “I need to get out to Amarillo International right away.”

“I can take you. Let’s go.”

As they hurried out of the office, Jason’s attention was drawn to a large wall map of Carson County—and he froze. “Deputy,” he called, “change in plan…”

“One, this is Five. Authenticate Yankee-Papa.”

“One authenticates ‘seven,’” Zakharov replied. He initiated a challenge-and-response code himself, using an improvised code sheet he had made up just for this mission. The reply was correct. “We are ready to load. What is your status?”

“In the green and ready,” the pilot of the Pilatus PC-12 cargo aircraft responded. Minutes later they heard a faint turbine engine sound. They couldn’t see it, and the pilot did not report his position as any pilot flying into an uncontrolled airport would normally do, but moments later he heard the distinctive “squeak squeak” of tires hitting the runway, and the sound of the turbine engine in ground idle got louder and louder. A few minutes later, the big single-engine turboprop cargo plane taxied to a stop about fifty yards away, and the large cargo door on the left side of the fuselage opened up.

“Go!” Zakharov ordered, and the driver pulled onto the ramp from their hiding place. Two commandos with automatic weapons jumped out of the PC-12 to take up security positions, while two more men jumped out, ready to help load the warhead coffins. The van’s driver blinked his headlights in response when one of the security men flashed a signal, then dimmed them as he drove closer to the open…

Suddenly there were two brilliant flashes of light from somewhere across the dark runway, and two streaks of red-orange fire sliced across the still night sky and plowed directly into the right side of the cargo plane, causing it to explode in a massive ball of fire.

“Holy shit! What in hell was that?” the sheriff’s deputy exclaimed. They had just pulled onto the airport property when the cargo plane exploded, less than a half-mile in front of them. He immediately hit the cruiser’s lights and sirens.

“No!” Jason yelled. “Turn them off!” But the deputy wasn’t listening. He got on his car’s radio and called for help. “Don’t go in there! Something’s happening…”

“Just shut up and stay put,” the deputy said. He raced across the empty parking lot up to the airport security fence, pulled out a white plastic passcard, and touched it to a magnetic card reader. Just as the gate started to open, an alarm bell rang in Jason’s brain, and he suddenly bolted out of the squad car. “Hey, where in hell do you think you’re goin’?” Jason didn’t reply—he just ran faster. By then the gate had opened far enough, and the deputy gunned the engine and zoomed inside…

…and no sooner had he advanced a few car lengths when a volley of automatic gunfire erupted, peppering the car and its driver in a deadly barrage of bullets. The smoking, unguided car started moving in a slow left circle, eventually crashing into a parked airplane.

Frozen with confusion and fear, Jason hid behind the terminal building until he was as sure as he could be that he wasn’t being followed, then sneaked through the open gate and up to the shattered squad car. Thankful that no interior lights came on when he opened the passenger side door, he tried unsuccessfully to pull the shotgun out of the dashboard mount, then went around to the driver’s side. The body of the dead deputy slid onto the ground when he opened the door—ironically, that made it easier to pull the Glock semiautomatic pistol from the deputy’s holster on his right hip. He remembered to take the magazine from the officer’s utility belt before sneaking toward the burning cargo plane.

Zakharov was stunned into speechlessness. What in hell happened here? He couldn’t even imagine that his own men could turn against him and try to hijack these stolen nuclear warheads, but that was the only logical explanation.

The driver had immediately raced away from the stricken plane, and now they were in a different hiding spot, between two hangars on the southwest side of the airport grounds. He had his Dragunov sniper rifle at the ready across his chest on its sling; his pistol was in his right hand and the last antitank missile launcher was slung over his shoulder; the commando had an assault rifle ready.

“Who is out there, sir?” the commando asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Zakharov growled.

“Sir! I would never betray you!”

“No one else knew of our plans!”

“I would die before even thinking about turning on you, Colonel!”

He thought about killing the guy just to be certain, but he needed him to help him escape. “All right, Lieutenant, all right. There is only one entrance and exit to this place, and that is bound to be guarded. But there has got to be another emergency exit on the north side of the airport. We will find it and get out that way.”

“Yes, sir.” He put the van in gear, pulled away from the hangars, and drove north between the rows of airplane hangars. When they ran out of paved parking area, they went across the dry grass. Using their parking lights, they found the airport security fence.

“I will drive,” Zakharov said. “Use your flashlight and find the gate.” The commando got out, pistol in one hand, flashlight in the other. The commando wisely covered most of the lens with his hand in order to shed as little light as necessary. Moments later they came across a dirt road, and moments after that they found the gate, with a rusty chain loosely holding it closed. The commando fetched a pair of bolt cutters from the van, placed the jaws on the chain…

…and suddenly flew over sideways violently as a bullet pierced the left side of his skull, killing him instantly. Zakharov took time to let out a weak gasp of shock before reaching for the shifter…