Part 19 (1/2)

Jim Beason, Ma.s.sachusetts, and Mike Sperry, Texas, were the Air Force's creme de la creme-fighter jocks. Fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave, too.

Even so, they visibly paled as Jesse Vega's nationally recognizable voice came over the loudspeaker in the base operations room to which they had been summoned at a run. It couldn't be said that they liked that voice...but they had to respect the power behind it.

”We've got a situation here,” said Vega. ”An Army National Guard helicopter has been stolen. We have reason to believe...good reason, gentlemen, that that helicopter is carrying a weapon of ma.s.s destruction-biological, we believe. We know it left Santa Fe, New Mexico, less than twenty minutes ago, heading toward Amarillo, Texas.

”You are to force it to land as soon as you intercept it. If-it-will-not-land...shoot it down before it reaches a city. FBI, EPA and the Centers for Disease Control will be following by helicopter to take charge of the weapon as soon as you force it down.”

Air Force eyes widened in faces gone paler still. This sort of thing had happened in the past, though it was rarely discussed and never in a public way. ”Yes, ma'am!” they shouted as they bolted toward their waiting aircraft. Already they were calculating heights and speeds and routes to come up with a likely intercept point. ”Don't worry. We'll take it down. G.o.dd.a.m.ned RIF.”

Unseen across the airways, Vega smiled happily. She had not herself mentioned anything like Radical Islamic Fundamentalists, though she had expected that the pilots would leap to that a.s.sumption. She had, of course, said ”weapon of ma.s.s destruction”...but then was not Governor Seguin a weapon that promised ma.s.s destruction to Vega's party? Was she not biological?

Southeast of Santa Fe, New Mexico

Johnston Akers' creased ancient face relaxed visibly when he caught the first view of two F-16s screaming in from the direction of Albuquerque.

That relaxation disappeared with the first stream of tracers that pa.s.sed just off the port side.

Juanita-startled from a doze-screamed once, crossed herself and began to pray, her lips moving fervently. Akers absurdly, and with utter futility, drew his pistol. The pilot cursed, veered sharply right and began punching b.u.t.tons on his radio to come up on the general aviation frequency.

”...dentified helicopter; unidentified helicopter: this is Goshawk seven. Land. Land now, you f.u.c.king wogs. Land now or you will be shot down.”

One jet streaked by as the other lined up for a shot. The turbulence caused the helicopter to buck like some unbroken mustang.

”Goshawk are you out of your f.u.c.king minds?” called the frantic chopper pilot. ”This is Lone Star six carrying VIPs from New Mexico to Texas. You've got no call to shoot us down. You've got no call to even stop us.” Of course, the pilot knew the fighters had a very good reason to shoot the helicopter down. But maybe, just maybe, they didn't know that reason.

There was silence in reply. The helicopter pilot imagined a brief conversation on the pilots' own push. Then came the hoped for, ”Maintain course, speed and alt.i.tude. One of us will approach.”

Sperry glanced long and hard to the left as he pa.s.sed the helicopter on its starboard side. Christ, they don't look much like terrorists to me. Christ, they don't look much like terrorists to me.

”Jim...Jim, I think we've got us the wrong bird.”

Beason radioed back to base ops for instructions and was somewhat surprised to hear Vega's voice come over the net.

”That is your target, Captain, that Texas National Guard helicopter. It is stolen United States' property and it is carrying a WMD. Force it to land or shoot it down.”

”Ma'am, I can see see into the helicopter when I pa.s.s it. There's nothing but some people aboard. No pods, no boxes; nothing but some people. It looks to be a legitimate Guard chopper.” into the helicopter when I pa.s.s it. There's nothing but some people aboard. No pods, no boxes; nothing but some people. It looks to be a legitimate Guard chopper.”

”Those people are are the weapon, Captain. Contaminated, every one of them. Now are you going to shoot it down or are you going to spend the next fifty years at Fort Leavenworth contemplating the tens of thousands of people you let die of a plague you could have prevented?” the weapon, Captain. Contaminated, every one of them. Now are you going to shoot it down or are you going to spend the next fifty years at Fort Leavenworth contemplating the tens of thousands of people you let die of a plague you could have prevented?”

Sperry was not fooled. He had seen the face of one of the occupants. It was a face more or less well known in some circles. Somehow, he thought that face had been praying.

He had a sudden thought...What the h.e.l.l, it might be worth a try. Maybe Vega is ignorant.

”Jim, this is Mike, where the h.e.l.l did the target go? I lost it in the weeds.”

Beason, no fool, answered, ”Damfino. I can't see it either.”

Vega, not not fooled, answered, ”Listen carefully you morons. There's nothing below you but sand and rock and dust and a cactus every few miles. You haven't lost anything. Now get that helicopter,” she nearly shrieked. fooled, answered, ”Listen carefully you morons. There's nothing below you but sand and rock and dust and a cactus every few miles. You haven't lost anything. Now get that helicopter,” she nearly shrieked.

A voice previously unheard answered, ”Before y'all do that you might maybe want to consult with us.” This, too, was punctuated by a tracer stream, unaimed but plainly visible to Beason and Sperry. They automatically backtracked the flight of the tracers in their minds. Oh s.h.i.+t, another fighter. Oh s.h.i.+t, another fighter.

”Ummm...and you would be?” asked Beason, wrenching around to eyeball another F-16 flying unerringly on his ”six.” Double s.h.i.+t; there's two of them. Double s.h.i.+t; there's two of them.

Beason felt the inane urge to giggle over the old joke: ”Sir, it's a trap. There's ”Sir, it's a trap. There's two two of them.” of them.”

”This is Lieutenant Colonel Paul Grayson-my friends call me 'Pablo,' 182 Fighter Squadron out o' Lackland. And-unless either or both you gentlemen want a Sidewinder up yo' a.s.s-then, you suhs, are mah prisoners.”

Beason and Sperry did some quick calculation, oh, very quick. They were fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave, too. The 182, however, was not only composed of instructor pilots-but its pilots were equally fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave...and experienced. experienced.

”Ah, what the h.e.l.l, Mike,” said Beason. ”I'm a Yankee boy who's been claiming Texas as his state of residence for about eight years now. I think we have just been captured.”

To Grayson he said, ”And, Colonel, I appreciate your restraint.”

Another previously unheard voice, this one from the helicopter, quite warmly female if a bit strained and shaky, said, ”Welcome home, boys.”

Denton, Texas

”What I want from you, Colonel, is a restrained response.”

”Restrained, sir? We're a heavy battalion. That's not very 'restrained,' just in the nature of things.”

”Nonetheless, that's what I want. At the first sign of a federal move near or behind you, drop the bridges and run back to the next set. Fight only as a last resort...though you can-and I want you to-make them think you are going to fight if you can figure out how to do that.”

”Warning shots?”

”Maybe...with care...if they push too hard. But if you must fire, fire to frighten, not to kill or wound.”