“How can we take him down safely?”
“Get him out to sea and shoot him down. There is no other guarantee. It’s possible that the warhead is set to explode if the airplane is destroyed, or if it drops below a certain altitude. There is just no way of knowing.”
The fighter jet passed so close to the Airbus’s windscreen that Kerman thought the glass would implode from the jet’s thrust. But he held his control steady. He was going to win. All he had to do was stay in the air a few more minutes and he would be over Las Vegas.
This one’s going to hit us, he thought as another fighter pushed in.
The Airbus shuddered as the F-15 swept over the fuselage. Kerman felt the plane slipping from his grip, responding to the violent air currents rather than his controls. He jabbed the pedals, desperate to keep it on its course. The Airbus dropped straight down about 2,000 feet, then abruptly jerked back, level, to just below its original altitude.
The two fighters had moved off. Before Kerman could exhale, a small missile whipped in front of the windscreen. The missile twirled and danced before his eyes, rising upward and then curling back, as lithe as an ocean, before plunging a few feet from the Airbus’s nose.
As it turned, he realized it wasn’t a missile, but an aircraft.
A small one, far too small and sleek for a man.
It must be a Flighthawk. The Dreamland people. They knew he was coming for them.
“I will not fail,” Kerman said aloud, hunkering closer to the wheel.
Englehardt had closed the gap between himself and the Airbus; as he descended through 30,000 feet, he saw the airliner a few miles ahead. The F-15s had backed away and the Flighthawk — a small black dart — wheeled over the plane. The Airbus continued on its path.
Englehardt sized up the distance between the
“Dreamland
“Negative, Dreamland,” said the Nellis F-15. “Stand by. We are under orders to take this airplane down.”
“Negative, negative,” said Dog, practically shouting over the radio. “You can’t shoot it down.”
“Those are my orders, Colonel.”
“Sullivan, open the bomb bay doors,” said Englehardt over the interphone circuit.
“What?”
“Just open the damn the bomb bay doors.” Englehardt switched back to the radio. “
The Eagle pilot didn’t acknowledge.
“I’ll take you next if I have to,” snapped Englehardt. “Get the fuck out of my way.”
“Hey, slow down, cowboy,” said
“All right. Everyone, take a deep breath,” said Colonel Bastian. “We’re on the same side here. Remember who the enemy is. They may have the bomb rigged to go off when the aircraft descends. We’re working on a solution. So everyone calm down and let the scientists think.”
“Good outburst, Mike,” Dog told Englehardt over the interphone.
“Colonel, I think I can fly right over him and push him away from the city,” said Englehardt. “If the F-15s stay out of the way, I can herd him out over the desert and have them shoot him down there. We’re never going to get him back out to sea.”
“I have a better idea,” said Starship.
Kerman’s heart felt as if it were being jolted by electric shocks. It was racing, and every so often skipped a beat.
He was here. He was here. The Las Vegas airport directly below him. In little more than half an hour the city would be gone. All that waited was for the timer to run its course.
He checked his altitude. He’d come down to 15,000 feet.
Every nuclear weapon had an optimum detonation altitude, where the effects of the blast were at their highest. Not being privy to the design of the Indian warhead, Kerman simply planned on flying the aircraft at 2,000 feet when the bomb exploded.
Fifteen thousand feet would be fine, though. So would the ground. There’d be plenty of destruction no matter where it exploded.
But he needed more time. His bluff about being hijacked had to work. He had to make it work.
“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201 to tower,” said Kerman. “Requesting emergency clearance to land.”
“Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, you are
“We are having trouble with our radio,” said Kerman. “Is our landing gear down? Can someone confirm that our gear is down?”
There was a clunk from the back of the plane. The Airbus rocked, buffeted by something. Kerman glanced at the panel for the landing gear — he hadn’t put the wheels down, had he?
Of course not.
Then he realized what was going on, and jammed his hand on the thrusters.
Starship cursed as the Airbus lifted away from the Flighthawk.
“Didn’t work,” said the pilot over the interphone.
“Try again,” said Dog. “Get
By the time Starship was ready, the Airbus had begun to circle to the south.
Maybe they’d made a mistake — maybe it actually had been damaged by hijackers, perhaps the men with the bomb. The real crew would take it out to sea, now that they were convinced the Americans were serious.
No such luck — it was turning back now, headed toward Vegas.
“Flighthawk leader, this is
“Keep your shirt on.”
Englehardt found himself about two miles behind the Airbus as the aircraft began banking back to the north, once again moving in the direction of Las Vegas. He had a good view of the Flighthawks as Starship eased them in, one under each wing. The operation was a delicate one; Starship didn’t want to damage the Airbus and make it crash.
The small jets slid in close to the wing roots.
“You’re there,” said Englehardt.
“All right, all right,” said Starship. “We’re going north.”
The Airbus lifted slightly — then dropped abruptly. One of the Flighthawks twisted off to the left, slowly at first, as if it were a leaf being pealed from a tree. A few seconds later smoke began pouring from the robot aircraft.
Pakistan Air Crating Flight 201, meanwhile, banked back toward Las Vegas.
“Dreamland aircraft, back off,” said
