Dog clicked into the Dreamland Command channel.
“Doc, what’s up?”
“We tracked the discrepancy in the flight plans and control system to Thailand. That seems to be where he took on a new identity. There were a number of flight plans filed that we’re not finished tracking, but there’s an aircraft passing through Mexican control over the Pacific that seems to have the wrong ID. It’s definitely an Airbus, and it’s on a course that will get it to Las Vegas.”
Rubeo began running down some of the information they had obtained. As he did, Dog saw Rager wave at him out of the corner of his eye.
“Stand by, Ray.”
“I have an Airbus 310, just now coming up to the California coast,” said Rager.
“That’s our priority. Tell Starship,” said Dog. “Get
Kerman tightened his grip on the airliner’s control wheel. He was thirty minutes away from Las Vegas. The bomb would explode in a little more than fifty.
So close, and yet an eternity away. He throttled back, starting to slow.
Something was going on with the air controllers. They were asking aircraft to identify themselves and sending them into holding patterns back over the sea.
Kerman ignored the request when it was his turn.
A minute passed. Another. And then another. The controller asked him to acknowledge. The man’s nervousness made his voice harsh and his words difficult to understand, though Kerman knew what he was saying.
He listened as flight control became increasingly exasperated with their failure to respond. There was a short respite, followed by a new controller calling, asking for the flight to contact him and take an immediate new course.
A few seconds later an American with a slow drawl identified himself as an interceptor pilot and told him that he was to check in with flight control and follow their guidance immediately.
Kerman realized that if the Americans were on alert, he’d never make it.
He glanced at the radar, but couldn’t see them. They must still be relatively far away.
He blew a slow breath from his lungs, trying to relax and think of what to do.
“This looks like the real thing,” said Rager. “The plane isn’t answering the ground controllers or the F- 15s.”
Dog studied the display, getting his bearings. The Airbus — officially identified as Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201—had just crossed the California coast. The two Air Force F-15s were only a few minutes away;
Dog switched into the Dreamland channel. “Colonel Bastian to Dreamland Command. I need to speak to Ray Rubeo.”
“Ray’s down in the computer center, Colonel,” said Major Catsman. “I’ll switch you.”
“Wait. What I want are the warhead experts,” Dog told her. “What happens if we shoot this thing down? Is it going to explode?”
“They’re already trying to work up a simulation based on the other warhead,” said Catsman.
“We don’t need a simulation, we need an answer right now. Get everyone on the line, wherever they are. We need to know.”
“Yes, Colonel.”
Dog switched over to the regular frequencies and contacted
“What exactly are your orders?” Dog asked.
“At the moment, find and identify the plane.”
“I don’t know how much of this they’ve told you, Captain, but here’s the deal: That plane is carrying a nuclear warhead, and it may be rigged to explode in any number of ways.”
“Do you copy,
“Copy. We copy you, Colonel. What the hell are we going to do?”
Kerman waited until the F-15s were visible over his left wing before responding.
“This is Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, to any control unit. Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, to any control unit. There has been a hijacking situation. We are now back in full control of the flight.”
“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, this is
“We have overcome the hijackers,” said Kerman. He was so nervous he was almost out of breath as he spoke. But that would play in his favor. “Some injuries to crew. We have control. Two men are dead. Both are the hijackers. My navigator is critical. He may already be dead.”
“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, I want you to execute an immediate turn.”
The pilot repeated the instructions the controllers had given him earlier, telling him to go out to sea.
“I have damage to my instrument panel. I have two holes in the fuselage and am losing pressurization,” said Kerman. “I need immediate clearance for an emergency landing. Repeat, I have a flight emergency landing. Repeat, I have a flight emergency and require assistance.”
He throttled back and dipped his wing slightly. There was a fine balance — he couldn’t overact, but he had to seem as if he was truly in distress.
“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201. I need you to execute that turn.”
“Repeat directions.”
The American pilot once again gave him a heading that would have him turn south and then head out to sea.
“I am going to try,” said Kerman. “Stand by. My navigator is critical. We require ambulances on the runway. My own wounds are not serious.”
He glanced at his watch. He still had nearly forty-five minutes before the weapon would explode.
But there was a bright glow in the distance, an arc of light brighter than anything he’d seen for hours and hours.
Las Vegas.
Starship slid Hawk One in behind the F-15 eagles, lining the small robot up to get a good visual of the aircraft.
“They’re claiming they have wounded crewmen and damage to the plane,” radioed one of the F-15 pilots. “Asking for an immediate clearance to land.”
“Negative,” said Colonel Bastian over the circuit. “That plane does not land. Stand by while the Flighthawk gets a good look at the plane. Flighthawk leader?”
“Yeah, roger that, Colonel,” said Starship. “I’m on it now.”
“Could be as simple as touching two wires together, Colonel,” said Rubeo, whose voice sounded distant. “But as I told you earlier, we’re not convinced the warhead will explode. The odds are at least fifty-fifty that the pertinent circuitry was fried by the T-Rays.”
“Ray, I doubt they would have come all this way if they didn’t think it would explode,” said Dog.
“Just because
