David Golemon - Legend

Jack quickly ran to the case and opened it. The brightly glowing numbers were still locked at thirty minutes. He reached down, pulled his knife from its scabbard, and was about to smash the readout face, stopping the timer forever, when a stray bullet hit the case in the side. A momentary array of sparks shot from the housing of the weapon. Now a second set of numbers appeared to the right of the minutes. The seconds started tumbling down as the minutes digits went to twenty-nine. The countdown had been activated. The designers of the weapon had placed a fail-safe in the warhead that would not allow an enemy to try to destroy it by doing what had just happened. A bullet in the case would start any command previously placed into the central computer.

The major quickly rolled away from the case and gained his feet as the Colombians stopped firing at the animal and turned their weapons on him. Rounds ricocheted off the floor and walls as Jack ran toward the waiting boat. As he did, he gathered up an XM-8 and quickly fired into the stone-faced dam that held the flow of water at bay. The bullets struck, producing nothing but chips at first, then as the magazine of the XM-8 emptied the stone with the large handle in it cracked and disintegrated. Then, in quick succession, the dam split inside the wall and a torrent of water escaped into the canal system.

Farbeaux watched in horror as the first wave of water smashed into the aluminum case before it reached the canal. The weapon was washed away and was carried by the rush of the water into the canal ahead of the Americans as they shoved off in one of the boats.

Jack jumped into the boat with the fourteen people inside, and of course he fell on Jenks, who screamed out in pain.

"I can't take any more of these roller-coaster rides!" Jenks yelled as the students around him yelled in terror. The large treasure boat sped into the main shaft and disappeared into the darkness.

The Brazilian military chief of staff hung up the phone. He stood and paced to the open window of his residence. The man he had just spoken to had called his private line. His soul had been sold to the devil, the American who would soon become the president of the United States. His future was being planned by others outside of his country. But the deal he had made with the foreign devil was struck, and he had to keep his word. Now there was a supplemental order to the one that sent fifty mercenaries into the valley to stop the American rescue effort — he had to kill to protect his assault force.

He walked back to the nightstand, picked up the phone, and called the Forca Aerea Brasileira (FAB), the Brazilian Air Force; he said he wanted fighters scrambled immediately. He gave the duty officer the orders and the coordinates that had been given to him by his American caller. That done, he placed the phone in its cradle and then picked up the presidential line, to inform the president that the airspace above Brazil was being invaded by military forces of the United States and that he was duty bound to shoot them down.

Two Dassault Mirage 200 °C fighters lifted into the sky and headed west. Used to attacking ground targets consisting of production and distribution sites for the cocaine trade, the two pilots were stunned to learn they had been ordered to intercept and down an aircraft that had been identified as a civilian airliner that had invaded Brazilian airspace. It wasn't until ten minutes after they went to afterburner that they were informed by the chief of staff personally that the invader in question was actually a military variant of the American Boeing 747, and that the aircraft's intentions were hostile.

The president had been upstairs with the First Lady, awaiting any word from Nevada, when the national security advisor called. The president went downstairs in his white shirt and went directly to Ambrose's office in the West Wing, but was met by him in the hallway before he could reach the office.

"Mr. President, maybe you'd better inform me what operation is running in Brazil, since it seems to no longer be a secret."

"What do you mean?" he asked as he took a piece of paper from Ambrose.

"The Brazilian Air Force has scrambled two Mirage fighters, and they are heading in a westerly direction. Fort Huachuca in Arizona has picked up radio chatter that says they have orders to shoot down a 747 overflying their airspace with hostile intent."

The president read the handwritten note Ambrose had jotted down while talking with the intelligence-gathering station in Arizona. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Get me the secretary of state."

"He's already on the line, sir."

The president walked past Ambrose and into his office. He picked up the receiver and the secretary was waiting.

"Get to the presidential residence and get him to rescind that order, now!" the president said angrily, not bowing to diplomatic formality. His patience was starting to wear thin after hours of consoling his wife about their daughter.

"Mr. President, Brazil insists it has every right to down that aircraft, and will do so if it doesn't turn away from their airspace."

"To hell with it. Tell him that aircraft is there to suppost a rescue operation and has no intention of harming any Brazilian nationals. They are support only."

"I will try once again to get through," the secretary lied. He knew the president had ordered the fighter groups onboard Nimitz and John C. Stennis to stand down and and that they should in no way come to the aid of Proteus.

The president hung up the phone and addressed Ambrose. "How did the Brazilian Air Force get the information on Proteus?"

"The weapons platform?" Ambrose asked, acting innocent of the knowledge.

"Someone passed them information. Find out who, and do it yesterday! Also, get me a direct line to COMMSURPAC; I can't leave them boys hanging out there with nothing to protect them."

Ambrose had never seen the man lose his temper before. He watched as the president turned and walked quickly to the Oval Office. If he called in protection for Proteus, there would be hell to pay, and their tracks would be covered by an overt act of war.

Ambrose relaxed as he saw the secretary's makeshift plan take shape.

Newly appointed Second Lieutenant Will Mendenhall swallowed when he adjusted the magnification on his night-vision scope. Ten Zodiac-type rubber rafts entered the lagoon on the opposite side of the falls from where he had set up position. He removed his right hand and shook it, trying to get some feeling back into it after the long climb up the side of the falls. He had used the rough-hewn archway that covered the falls most of the way, and then he had to use the natural features of the terrain to ascend the rest. His hands had been severely cut and scraped from the jagged rocks and bushes. But he had finally made it only five minutes before he spied the first boat. He lowered the goggles and looked at his watch; it was 0515 in the morning. He hoped Ryan was in place, or else the team below in the mine was about to have a shitload of company. Neither Night Rider nor the major had answered his first three calls.

Mendenhall quickly removed the radio from his belt and made sure the frequency was set on channel 78, and then he took a deep breath.

"Night Rider, Night Rider, this is Conquistador, do you copy? Over!"

The converted 747–400 was cruising at twenty-eight thousand feet in clear skies. The pilot had been on the radio for the past hour talking with the Brazilian civil authorities and explaining that they had rudder difficulties and were circling while their flight engineer checked out their hydraulic systems. They were screaming bloody murder but what else could they do, allow an air cargo plane for an influential international company like Federal Express to crash because they couldn't allow some extra time over their airspace?