Part 1 (1/2)
Dark Ops.
Hotshot.
Catherine Mann.
Much love to my children Brice, Haley, Robbie, and Maggie. You have blessed my life with your gap-toothed smiles and boundless love.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.
Parenthood brings untold joys-and fears. It seems every generation vows times are tougher for youths. Without question, I believe teens today face greater challenges, temptations, and dangers than I could have ever imagined during my high school tenure. Now as a mother of four, I spend my fair share of hours worrying, the worst nightmare scenarios expanding in my overactive writer's imagination. Granted, my kids haven't given me much grief so far. (Not that we parents need an excuse to worry!) However, in the darkest moments of concern I feel a kindred motherhood connection to those struggling to keep their children safe. From that, this book was born, along with the hope that the next generation will find the world a safer place for their kids.
Many thanks to all who helped me in the telling of this story: my genius editor, Wendy McCurdy; my savvy agent, Barbara Collins Rosenberg; critique mavens, Joanne Rock and Stephanie Newton; medical fact-checker extraordinaire, Karen Tucker, R.N.; my law-enforcement honorary son, Jasen Wells; motorcycle experts, Dianna Love and her husband, Karl Snell; and as always, a special thanks to my own flyboy hero and the love of my life, Rob.
ONE.
HONDURAS: PRESENT DAY.
Major Vince ”Vapor” Deluca didn't need to ask if there were Harleys in heaven. For him, hogs and planes both transported him from this world to brush the edge of paradise.
Not to mention both had saved his h.e.l.l-bound a.s.s on more than one occasion. And right now, he needed some of that heavenly salvation-on wings rather than wheels-in a serious way if he expected to pull off this potentially explosive mission.
Flying his AC-130 guns.h.i.+p at twenty-five thousand feet, Vince peered into a monitor, watching the increasingly restless crowd below in the rural Honduran town. With the help of his twelve crew members, he monitored citizens pouring out of the hills to cast their votes in the special election, an election that could turn volatile in a heartbeat, the politics of this country precarious with warlords determined to stop the process. Local government officials had requested U.S. help with crowd control, using any means possible to keep the peace.
Vince cranked the yoke into a tight turn, flying over the voting place, a white wooden church. The sensors bristled along the side of the aircraft to scan the snaking crowd lining up. His sensors were so good the guys in back were able to study faces, gestures, and even guns worn like fas.h.i.+on accessories.
He knew too well how mob mentality could unleash an atomic Lord of the Flies destructive force.
His fists clenched around the yoke. ”Okay, crew, eyeb.a.l.l.s out. Let's score one for democracy.”
”Vapor,” the fire control officer, David ”Ice” Berg, droned from the back, as cool and calm as his last name implied, ”take a look at this dude in the camera. I think he's the ringleader.”
Vince checked the screen, and yeah, that guy had whacko written all over him. ”He seems like a hard-core cheerleader yelling and flapping his arms around.”
Copilot Jimmy Gage thumbed his interphone. ”Those gymnastics of his are working.” Jimmy's fists clenched and unclenched as if ready to break up the brawl mano a mano. He'd earned his call sign Hotwire honestly. Vince's best bud, they'd often been dubbed in bars the Hotwire and the Hotshot. ”The crowd's getting riled up down there. Hey, Berg, do things look any better from your bird's-eye view?”
”Give me a C for chaos,” Berg answered, dry as ever.
Vince worked his combat boots over the rudders while keeping his eyes locked on the screen scrolling an up-close look at the ground. ”Roger that. All Cheerleader Barbie needs is a ponytail and a pair of pom-poms instead of that big-a.s.s gun slung over his shoulder.” A riot seemed increasingly inevitable, which was not surprising, since human intel had already uncovered countless attempts to terrorize voters into staying home. ”Barbie definitely bears watching, especially with those ankle biters around.”
He monitored the group of children playing on swings nearby while adults waited to vote. Conventional crowd-control techniques could sometimes escalate the frenzy. This mission called for something different, something new. Something right up his alley as a member of the air force's elite dark ops testing unit. In emergency situations they were called upon to pull a trick or two from their developmental a.r.s.enal and pray it worked as advertised, since failure could spark an international incident or, worse yet, harm a kid.
Today, he and his dark ops crew were flying the latest brainchild of the nonlethal weapons crowd. A flat microwave antenna protruded from the side of the lumbering aircraft. The ADS-Active Denial System-had the power to scorch people without leaving marks. Testing showed that as it heated up the insides, people scattered like ants from a hill after a swift kick.
Uncomfortable, but preferable to a lethal bullet.
Jimmy made a notation in his flight log. ”Careful with your bank there, Vapor. Getting a little shallow.” Once his pencil slowed, he glanced over at Vince. ”Barbie might be providing a distraction for someone else to make a move.”
Valid point. He increased the bank and smoothed the action with a touch of rudder. ”Good thing there are thirteen of us to scan the mob, because we're going to need all eyes out.”
A string of acknowledgments echoed over Vince's headset just as Barbie grabbed the b.u.t.t of his rifle and-slam-the past merged with the present.
A group of misfit teens festering with discontent. Four hands hauling him from his Kawasaki rat bike. Screaming. Gunshots.
A girl in the way.
Sweat stinging his eyes now as well as then, Vince reached up to adjust his air vents for like the nine hundredth time since takeoff. How could they make this airplane so high-tech and not get the d.a.m.n air-conditioning to work?
”Time's run out for Barbie.” The rattling plane vibrated through his boots all the way up to his teeth. ”Crank it, Berg.”
”Concur,” the fire control officer drawled from the back. ”Let's light him up.”
”I'm in parameters, aircraft stable, cleared to engage.” Vince monitored as a crosshair tuned in on the infrared screen in front of him and centered on the troublemaker. He hoped this would work, prayed this guy was a low level troublemaker and not one of the area's ruthless mercenaries. He didn't relish the thought of the situation escalating into a need for the more conventional guns aft of the nonlethal ADS.
That wouldn't go well for the ”get out the vote” effort.
”Ready,” Berg called.
”Cleared to fire,” answered Vapor.
”Firing . . .”
No special sounds or even so much as a vibration went through the craft. The only way to measure success was to watch and wait and . . .
Bingo.
Barbie started hopping around like he'd been stung by a swarm of bees. His AK-47 dropped from his hand onto the dusty ground. The crowd stilled at the dude's strange behavior, all heads turning toward him as if looking for an explanation.
Jimmy twitched in his seat. ”I halfway wanna laugh at the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, except I know how bad the ADS stings.”