Fuck yourself, thought Jennifer. She began paging through data.
“Major Catsman?” said Dog.
“Um, just a second, Colonel. Jennifer’s working on something here.”
Zen had the plane fat in his target screen; two bursts from his cannon and it would go down. All he needed was an okay from Colonel Bastian.
A Chinese Chengdu J-7 was on a rough intercept from the northwest, its intentions unclear. It wouldn’t be a factor for another two or three minutes, however; by then this should be over.
As he waited, Zen checked
C3 acknowledged his command, whipping the tiny plane forward. When he’d first learned to handle the Flighthawks, Zen would have insisted on taking the plane himself. But he’d grown to trust the computer, and knew he could concentrate on
“Hawk leader to Raven. Colonel, what’s the story?”
“Dream Command is checking on something.”
“That J-7 is going to afterburners,” said Delaney.
“Coming for us?” asked Zen.
“We’ll know in a minute,” said Delaney.
Jennifer saw it on the screen as Dog nagged them again for an update. She pointed to the break in the transmission so Major Catsman could see as well.
“This back here is them saying they have radio trouble,” said Jennifer. She paged back to the translation screen, trying to get the right place.
She couldn’t find it, and for a moment she doubted herself, thought that her anger at him had made her unconscious mind invent it. She stabbed at the cursors.
Where is it? Where is it?
“Wait,” said Catsman, grabbing her hand. “Calm down. Go back. Just relax. We have time.”
Two backspaces.
“Colonel, it looks like the aircraft you’re querying was having intermittent radio trouble shortly after takeoff. They may not be able to hear your hails. I’m not sure why they didn’t turn back,” said Catsman. “But maybe you can get their attention visually.”
Jennifer pushed back from the screen. Tears were falling down her cheeks.
She hadn’t invented it.
“Are you all right?” asked Catsman.
Slowly, she nodded.
The major put her hand on Jennifer’s shoulder. “We won’t shoot down the wrong plane. We won’t.”
Zen accelerated over the right wing of the 767, pushing past the cockpit. The pilot in the big jet did what any self-respecting pilot would do when a UFO blasted across his bow — he ducked.
And took the aircraft with him. Fortunately, the big jet was athletic enough to handle the violent jerk on her controls fairly calmly — if rolling through an invert can be considered calm.
“Getting some radio flickers but nothing intelligible,” said Wes upstairs. “I think Jennifer’s right — I think he’s having radio problems and didn’t realize it.”
“Wouldn’t he have checked in with civilian controllers?” Zen asked.
“Well, given the situation between the two Chinas, I wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t talk to them at all, and vice versa. His flight plan has him heading for South Korea.”
Whatever the situation, the 767’s pilot appeared to realize he was in fact in trouble. Rather than coming back to his original course, he turned southward, as if he were heading back to Taiwan.
“Taiwan Mirages have him on their radar,” said Dog. “They’re going to hook up and escort him home.”
“Roger that,” said Zen. “But if he’s not our guy, who is?”
The Marine captain wanted to blow the bunker entrance with C-4, but Danny wouldn’t let him.
“That’ll kill them for sure,” said Danny. “Best bet’s to keep digging.”
“Sooner or later they’re going to run out of air,” said the Marine. “We can’t get those big blocks out of the way.”
“Maybe we can get some earthmovers from the city,” suggested Danny.
“God knows how long it’ll take to get them here.”
Danny stood back. Blowing the hole open looked like the only option — but it risked killing his men to save them. Even if they moved far from the entrance, the shock of the explosion might weaken the already damaged bunker.
The rest of the facility had now been searched; it seemed a good bet that the nuke was down there.
If they blew the concrete to bits, would they blow up the bomb as well?
No — because if it weren’t safed against accidental explosions, it would have gone off already.
Assuming it was there.
Go with a minimum charge.
“Set up the explosives,” Danny told the Marines reluctantly. “One of my men will help. Make sure the people inside know what we’re doing. Yo, Boston. Get over here and put some of your demo training to work.”
Stoner pushed through the dust, the dim beam from the flashlight dancing against the walls. The path had taken two turns and gone down two flights of stairs, widening somewhat as it went.
The bunker had definitely been intended as more than a place to hide a nuke or two. As he walked, Stoner worried that he would run into guards. He’d retrieved his hideaway Glock from his leg — the Beretta had been lost in the blast — holding the gun in his hand. The flashlight was strapped to his wrist, casting the shadow of the gun ahead as he walked.
He walked slowly, stopping every second or third step, waiting, listening.
What was this place? he wondered. A cement hole in the ground, a hiding place?
He turned the corner and something flashed in his face. He fired his gun and felt incredibly cold.
Cement and the tang of gunpowder stung his eyes. No one was there — he’d tripped another EMP-shielded motion detector. He was at the entrance to a paneled room.
He took a step, then froze, belatedly thinking of booby traps.
Fortunately, there weren’t any.
“My lucky fuckin’ day,” he said aloud.
The room itself was empty, except for a small couch. A Taiwanese flag hung on the wall. On the wall opposite it were some framed papers and scrolls. Most were in Chinese, but one was in Latin with a name written in Roman letters:
A diploma or certificate of some sort. He was in the professor’s lair.
A door on his right was ajar, revealing a bathroom.
To the left, a set of steps led downward. Stoner walked to them. Another light came on, but this time he was prepared.
The steps led to a small office dominated by a wooden desk with a glass top. Beneath the glass was a map of Mainland China. He reached for the top drawer, opening it gently. It was empty, except for an envelope with
