Ted Bell - Warlord

Terry knew in that instant exactly what he had to do. He shoved the throttles full astern and she started to back downriver, taking her beneath the Lambeth Bridge.

Ahead in the far distance, still at unbelievably low altitude, he saw the two F3s go to afterburners, flying away from each other in opposite directions, carving incredibly tight turns to return to the river and the target slowly backing down into the shadow of the bridge.

"Get beneath the fucking bridge," Sunni shouted in his ear.

Sunni raced out of the wheelhouse, ran forward, and leaped down into the hold even though smoke was pouring out. Going below to hand-detonate the bombs once they were positioned directly beneath the center of the bridge, Terry thought as he reached for the throttles.

A VOICE CRACKLED in the lead pilot's headphones.

"Viper, this is Coldplay…completely cheesed, sir. No shot. Target appears stationary directly beneath the bridge…anticipate unacceptable collateral damage…"

"Affirmative. Sit tight."

Terrence Spencer put a lock on Pudge's helm, securing the rudders in neutral position, and went to full power dead astern. Pudge's powerful engines didn't disappoint, swiftly backing her down and out from under the bridge, headed downriver backward at about five knots.

"Target moving away from the bridge…Please advise, over."

"Thirty seconds," Viper advised. He wanted to give the target time enough to get well away from the crowded bridge.

"Thirty seconds, that's affirmative."

Coldplay had the target locked up. A beeping warning signal sounded inside his cockpit as he armed his missiles.

"Take it out, Coldplay. All yours."

"Roger that."

The lead fighter pilot's weapons were locked on to the old barge, now engulfed in flames and well beyond any danger to the bridge. He flipped the red safety up, then toggled the button that launched a single Sea Eagle air-to-surface missile from beneath his starboard wing. Almost instantly there was a muffled boom below, and Coldplay flipped his airplane left for a view of the now disintegrated target.

Just moments before the barge had erupted into a flaming ball of utter destruction, both pilots had seen a burning man race from the smoke-filled wheelhouse and leap over the gunwale into the river.

HE WAS BURNED OVER 30 percent of his body and unconscious when they pulled him from the river. The soles of his boots had been burned away, and the flesh on his feet came away in pieces. In the ambulance en route to St. Thomas Hospital, they also discovered seven bullet wounds in his arms, legs, and torso.

When Terrence Spencer awoke in his hospital bed, many hours later, the face of his missus of thirty years swam into view. She was standing over him, one small hand caressing his forehead, the other placed carefully on his bandaged chest.

"How are you feeling this fine morning, Cap'n Spencer?"

"Hello, my darlin'," he croaked, lifting his head from the pillow, his throat raw from all the damned tubes they'd jammed down it. "Unless you're a bloody angel, I'm still alive, I see. Ain't that something?"

"They say you'll be home in a month or so. Full recovery."

"Is that so?"

"They're calling you a hero, y'know. On the telly and in all the papers."

"Me? A hero? Bollocks. For what?"

"For what, he says? You only got the Pudge out from under the bridge before that huge bomb in her hold blew sky-high. That's what."

"Was a missile sunk the old Pudge. I saw it with me own eyes, I did, darlin'."

"That's not what the RAF was saying on BBC World News last evening. They're giving you the credit for saving all those people on the bridge whether you want it or not."

"No."

"Yes."

"Well, I had nothing to do with it, darlin'. It was Pudge that did it. All by herself, too. Nothing surprising about it, is there? Old girl did what she's always done, didn't she? Dunkirk? All these years?"

"And what is that?"

"She did her duty, love, the old Pudge did her sacred duty."

IT WAS THE VERY FIRST DAY of school and nobody in the house was very happy about it but mom. The kids had had a wonderful summer, maybe the best ever. Swimming and rafting on the Delaware River, exploring the woods, building a tree fort that could withstand the fiercest Indian attack, catching fireflies in a jar behind the house, and not doing a single lick of homework for three whole months. They had also read three books, but only because their mother had made attendance mandatory when she read aloud every night before bedtime.

She loved reading aloud, and this summer Trevor, his little sister Margaret, and her baby girl, six-year-old Barclay, had heard her declaim Tom Sawyer, The Yearling, and Wind in the Willows, in that order. Trevor, twelve, on his own, had knocked back All Quiet on the Western Front. The nightly readings would, of course, continue on through the winter and into the spring.

But summer had fled. And now the house, her great big beautiful house on the hill, was hers and hers alone! Her husband, Jay, a professor at the Woodrow Wilson School across the river at Prince ton University, left the house every morning at six. Alice Milne had her house, and thus her life, back. Her plein air painting. Her beloved books. Her hours on the phone with friends and her mother. Her long walks with her German shepherd, Scout, in the woods, just the two of them, watching the leaves turn and fall as October rolled into November. And then the snow, beautiful snow.

"Up and at 'em!" she shouted from the top of the steps at seven fifteen that morning. "Breakfast in ten minutes, be there or be square!"

From down the hall, a chorus of groans and from little Barclay's room a simple exclamation of "No school! No way!"

She peeked into her daughter's room and said, "School. Way. It's first grade. First grade is totally awesome. It is waaaay better than kindergarten, trust me on this one, Barclay. Now get yourself dressed and come down and eat your breakfast, got it?"

"Oh, okay," Barclay said, sliding from the bed and padding into her bathroom in her pink nightie.

One down, Alice said to herself, moving along the hall to eight-year-old Margaret's room. Margaret was up, dressed, and sitting at her dressing table brushing her long blond hair.

"Morning, Margaret. Nice to see you up and dressed so early."

"Mother, do you think I've gotten prettier over the summer or uglier?" She leaned into the mirror and made a face at herself.

"What do you think?"

"Uglier."

"Wrong answer. You're the prettiest little girl in the whole world. And don't ever forget it." She pulled the door closed and went to check on Trevor.

Trevor was also dressed but not combing his hair because he didn't have any. He'd shaved it all off at the beginning of summer vacation. He had watched the war movie Jarhead so many times this summer he knew almost every line of dialogue by heart. He even had the U.S. Marine's distinctive patois down pat. Trevor Milne had literally metamorphosed himself into the Jake Gyllenhaal character, Swofford, and when he saw his mother standing in his doorway, he snapped to attention, saluted, and tooted "Reveille" with his lips just like in the movie.

Finishing the song, he saluted again and remained standing at attention, eyes straight ahead. The top sheet on his bed had military corners stretched so tight you could bounce a quarter off it. This was one of the benefits: a twelve-year-old who not only made his own bed, but also shined his shoes every night and kept his room absolutely immaculate.

"Breakfast in five, Corporal. Be there."

"Breakfast in five, sir!" Trevor said, snapping off a salute. "Hoorah!"

"It's the first day of school, Trevor. Maybe lose the camo pants and combat boots? You know, maybe ease into them during the semester? Good idea?"