four sailors manhandled the pod with the money into the nose cone of the Tomahawk cruise missile. As soon as it was in place, a weapons specialist rigged the explosive bolts that would separate the nose cone from the missile and then the pod from the nose cone. As soon as he was done, the missile slid back on its rail into the launcher on the forecastle of the USS Shiloh.
The captain was in the fire control center, supervising as his weapons officer went through pre-fire procedures. They'd programmed the Tomahawk's guidance system using the disk from Kilten's desk at the Pentagon, the information sent by modem. The weapons officer had also programmed the firing of the bolts using the same disk.
"Stand by," the weapons officer announced. "Clear the firing deck."
The report came back. "Firing deck clear."
The weapons officer turned to the captain. "All systems green. Ready to fire, sir."
"Fire," the captain ordered.
The weapons officer flipped up the cover on a switch and threw the lever underneath. On the forecastle, the cover blew open on the Tomahawk's silo and it leapt out. The missile dropped slightly, then the rocket kicked in even stronger and the telephone-pole-sized missile roared away to the southwest.
*****
At Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri, a helicopter landed on the runway, two hundred feet from a waiting B-2 bomber. Armed guards jumped out of the chopper, weapons at the ready. Ordnance personnel from the airbase ran up and pulled a large plastic case out of the chopper.
One of the men helping carry the case to the bomber was new to both his job and the Air Force, having just graduated his basic training a few weeks previously. He glanced over the top of the metal casing at his partner. "Hey, what's the big deal with this? Why all the guards?"
The other airman nodded his head at the case. "See those symbols on the side?"
"Yeah."
"That means there's a 'special' in there."
"A special? What's that."
"A nuclear weapon, you dumb shit."
The navigator-bombardier from the B-2 was waiting underneath the plane. He supervised the uncrating of the bomb and the loading inside the bowels of the bomber. He then hooked up all the required attachments.
"What's the flight time from here to the target?" the pilot asked him.
"If we go straight shot, about twenty-five minutes," the nav-bomb said. "But we're to fly to a hold point and wait for further orders."
The pilot hit a switch that slowly closed the black doors. "Man, I hope this is an exercise."
*****
Drake smiled at the computer screen. He tapped McKenzie and spoke quietly. "I have confirmation of the cruise missile firing."
"Do you have payload control?" McKenzie asked in the same low tone.
"It's on the frequency Kilten specified."
"Very good," McKenzie said. "Time to go pick up our package." He pointed at the laptop. "Let's unhook that, Mister Drake. I'll take care of the destruct hardware."
On the far right console a red light began blinking, unnoticed in the scurry of activity. On the screen that displayed the thermal imaging from the Omega Missile silo, two small, round warm dots were in the vicinity of the gate to the compound. These too went unnoticed.
Thorpe rolled on his back and aimed his pistol. He fired and the lock on the gate to the compound blew apart. Thorpe pushed the gates slightly apart and crawled in, Parker following.
*****
Thorpe quickened his pace, expecting a Humvee to come tearing up at any moment. He reached the concrete lip of the silo. The massive concrete doors were open wide and scorched. Thorpe looked down. The silo was empty, the walls black and sooty.
Thorpe slid over the large concrete block that made up one half of the lid. There was a thin lip surrounding the circular opening, where the massive doors used to rest. Thorpe threw aside the thermal blanket and looked around. Both doors appeared threatening, balanced, as if they might fall and crush him any second.
Parker joined him. "We made it!"
Thorpe looked down at her. "And now?" The only way down was to jump from the concrete ledge, about twelve feet out and five feet down, to a metal ladder. If he missed, he'd fall eighty feet to the bottom of the silo.
"Where's the access panel to this crawlway?" Thorpe asked.
"At the bottom."
"Of course," Thorpe said drily. "You see any way down? Other than falling."
"The maintenance ladder?"
"That's what I was afraid of."
Thorpe let go of the edge and extended one hand. "Ladies first."
"Oh, thanks." Parker didn't say another word, but surprised Thorpe by suddenly jumping. Her hands slammed on the top rung, slipped past, caught the second rung, held for a second then slipped again. She desperately grabbed the third rung and held.
"I was just joking," Thorpe offered as Parker caught her breath, hooking her arms through the ladder.
"Ha, ha," Parker said. "Your turn." Parker climbed down a few more rungs.
Thorpe jumped and caught the top rung. Parker immediately began climbing down.
*****
Eight miles away, six hundred feet in the air, a Cobra gunship banked hard. Below it, a civilian Bell Jet Ranger was flying toward Barksdale Air Force Base.
Newsfour was written on the side in large letters.
The Cobra pilot keyed his radio as he pulled up next to the civilian chopper. "Bell Jet Ranger, this is Cobra One. You are entering restricted airspace. You are to turn back immediately."
"This isn't restricted on any flight chart I've got," the civilian pilot replied.
"You have ten seconds to turn or you will be fired on."
Inside the chopper, the reporter in the right side spoke on the radio through his headset. "We know you people are up to something. You're evacuating everyone from this area. People saw the explosion. Has there been an accident with one of the nuclear weapons stored out here? We have the right—"
A string of tracers came out of the 7.62-mm minigun on the nose of the Cobra and flew across the front of the Bell Jet Ranger.
The Cobra pilot wasn't elegant, but he got his point across. "The next burst will be up your ass." The Cobra turned and was flying sideways, minigun pointed right at the cockpit of the other aircraft.
"They're serious," the news chopper pilot said. "I’m getting the hell out of here!" The Bell Jet Ranger banked hard and headed back the way it had come.
*****
"Thorpe's got to be in on it," Hill insisted. "Why else would Kilten have put him there? He's in the right place at the right time."
Lowcraft had spent the last several minutes looking at Kilten's classified file, ignoring the arguing going on around him. He also had a copy of Parker's file. Finally he looked up. "Thorpe's another piece on the board," he said. "As is Parker."
"What?" Hill was puzzled.
"It's beginning to make sense now. Kilten's a chess master. This is the greatest game of his life and he's arranged the board. Thorpe is a piece. So is Parker. Both were handpicked." Lowcraft was nodding. "And I don't think Thorpe or Parker even know they're pieces. I don't believe either one is in on it, as you put it, but they are a part of it."
"Bullshit," Hill sputtered. "Thorpe and McKenzie were on that mission together. It can't just be coincidence that they're in the same place in Louisiana."
"I just told you," Lowcraft said, "that it's not coincidence. Thorpe is there on purpose; the question is, what is that purpose?" Lowcraft tapped the report. "Kilten is doing this for what he views as a good reason. McKenzie might have different goals, but it is very clear what Kilten's are. Somehow Thorpe fits into this. Kilten wanted Thorpe and his team close by when this went down. Hell, maybe Kilten wants to fail. He gets just as much publicity either way. Parker has a role to play also, I just don't know what it is yet."
Hill didn't have time for psychological delving. "Well, it really doesn't matter much either way at this point. Launch the aircraft."
Lowcraft looked up from the folders to Hill. "If Kilten loaded the board, he also picked the timing of this for a purpose."
"So?" Hill tapped his fingers impatiently on the desktop.
"That means you and I are pieces also," General Lowcraft said.
"Launch the aircraft, General."
*****
At Whiteman, the F-l 17A Stealth fighter led the way down the runway, accelerating rapidly and then darting up into the sky. The B-2 followed, its sleek form slowly separating from the ground. It linked up with the Stealth at five thousand feet and both aircraft then banked and headed south toward Louisiana.
*****
Parker and Thorpe were kneeling next to a panel. Thorpe was using a Leatherman multipurpose tool from his vest to unscrew it. Over half of the bolts were off, and the amount of sweat pouring down his back showed how hard it was to use the pliers on the nuts.
"Do you think Lowcraft will order your team in?" Parker asked.
"He'll send the team."
"Even knowing this place is targeted for a nuclear strike? That's pretty coldhearted."
Thorpe was working as he spoke. "That's his job. Yes, it's coldhearted, but so is your job and, as you pointed out, so is mine. If we don't like it, we shouldn't be wearing the uniforms we're wearing."
He got the last bolt off. The panel slid off and he looked in. A steel tube extended as far as he could see. It was three feet in diameter and dimly lit.
"Shall we?"
*****
A C-130 with its engines running had its back ramp opening even as it turned around and faced back up the runway. Six men wearing free-fall parachutes with weapons and rucksacks strapped to their bodies waddled out toward the plane. In the lead was Master Sergeant Dublowski, a barrel-chested man in his mid-forties.
He hopped up on the ramp, the crew chief lending a hand. As soon as the last man was on, the ramp began closing and the plane began accelerating.
*****
Midway over Georgia, the Tomahawk cruise missile with the money on board was flying comfortably at an altitude of two hundred feet. Designed to be able to hug the ground at less than twenty feet, this flight was no challenge to the on-board computer. The route that had been programmed into it was a winding one that followed the front range of the Appalachian Mountains. The indirect route put it thirty-five minutes out from the vicinity of the Omega Missile LCC.
*****
Drake had unhooked Kilten's laptop and connected one of the leads to a small satellite transmitter. It was a rough-looking setup, but it worked. Drake had a special backpack, which fit the pieces in securely. He walked over to McKenzie, who had just finished battering the Omega Missile emergency destruct mechanism into a nonfunctioning mass of metal with his artificial arm.
He turned to face the guards he had brought down. "We're going to do a security check on the surface. Let no one but me back in. Clear?"
"Clear, sir," the senior Canadian ex-paratrooper said.
McKenzie and Drake moved to the elevator. The door shut and they headed toward the surface.
"You're not going back for them, are you?" Drake said.
"If they can get out, then they get out," McKenzie said. "It's a question of how long it's going to take them to realize that I'm not coming back."
"They have the same planned escape route we do. If they don't make it, then there's a bigger cut for you and me. The bottom line is that right up to the last minute, we have to make the Pentagon believe we're inside the launch facility. Otherwise, we'll never get away."
"Why do the men believe you?" Drake asked.
The doors opened and the vault door slowly swung wide. McKenzie turned to Drake as they waited. "Why does anyone believe anything? Hell, they got paid fifty thousand apiece up front. They think that makes me trustworthy. And they want the five hundred thousand payoff we promised each one."
They stepped into the foyer. McKenzie called in several of the surface guards and ordered them to go down and augment the two men already down in the LCC. The vault door swung closed. There were three Humvees left parked there. Two were manned by two men each. The third was empty and McKenzie led Drake toward it.
"Let's roll."