Don Pendleton - Terror Descending

Across the room was a curved row of consoles facing a huge plasma-screen monitor. At the moment, it was divided into four sections, with a scroll across the bottom giving constant reports on their stolen satellites. The staff was dressed in heavy jumpsuits as protection from the chill coming off the Lexan wall separating them from the supercomputer.

“What is the current situation?” Rexton asked, easing into a chair. The leather was old and cracked, but it settled around him like an old friend.

In the center of the main screen was a vector graphic of the world, tiny blue triangles showing the locations of the three B-52 bombers, along with a dozen green squares, computer-generated shadows. Professor Oughton was firmly convinced that no hacker in the world could figure out which were the real planes, and which the fake, in time to do anything. So far, he had been proved correct.

“Good and bad,” Oughton replied from a section on the monitor. “ Greenwich ’s captain reports they received some damage from flak during the strike on NATO. But they managed to escape into the civilian traffic over the Channel.”

“Any pursuit?” Rexton asked, tapping a few buttons on the console to briefly review the monitor readout on the progress of the B-52 bombers.

“None worth mentioning,” Oughton replied. “NATO put a dozen planes on the hunt, but each is heading in the wrong direction. They have no idea where the Greenwich went.”

“Excellent,” Rexton said, a hand brushing across his perfect cheek. The physical scars were gone, but the memories of the fiery crash remained inside his mind. The former pilot had never flown again since his last crash, and did not even like to review the paint jobs on the B-52 bombers that made them resemble a Boeing 707. Even if it meant his own life, Rexton would never again set foot inside a plane. End of discussion.

“Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the rest of the fleet,” Alyssa Dean announced tersely, swiveling away from her console. Weighing less than a hundred pounds, the tiny blonde had a slim, almost boyish figure, but she possessed the face of an angel even without any cosmetics. A steaming cup of coffee sat dangerously near the keyboard of her console, and a long-barrel Uzi .22 conversion hung across the back of her chair, a space clip attached to the leather strap.

“Report,” Rexton said in a whipcrack tone.

“Captain Tomashevsky in the Berkeley is en route to Eastern Europe. He stopped at our Tunisia base for refueling, and took on a full load of ordnance, so no problems there,” Dean stated brusquely. “Unfortunately, Captain Whitehorn in the Detroit has reported finding a fuel leak. They’re down to quarter tanks, and will never reach our refueling depot in the Caicos Islands in time.”

“Dizzy, can you send them a tanker?” Rexton asked, looking at the picture of Oughton.

“Not halfway around the world,” the professor said. “Sorry, but there’s nothing we can do to help.”

Sitting back in his chair, Rexton glanced at the clock on the curved wall. This was intolerable! How could they have possibly lost a bomber this early in the fight?

“Captain Whitehorn could risk landing at a commercial airport in South Carolina,” Dean offered hesitantly, making a vague gesture at the main screen. “The professor could fake them an ID easily enough, and I can transfer all the funds needed to a local bank. However—”

“However, if anything goes wrong they could be detained by the local police,” Rexton finished for the woman. “Or worse, captured by American Special Forces who would turn our brothers over to the CIA to be brutally tortured until they revealed the location of our two main bases.”

“The bastards can’t catch us, we’re mobile,” Oughton stated defiantly.

“But we are not,” Rexton countered. “Millions of dollars, and years of hard work, would end in total failure, which in turn would spell disaster for the rest of humanity.” Leaning forward, the man sat upright in his chair. “Okay, give me options.”

Neither Oughton nor Dean spoke for a minute, then they shook their heads.

“Anybody?” Rexton asked the room in general.

There came a negative chorus from the staff.

“I see,” Rexton growled. “Then we have no choice. Alyssa, have the Detroit head out to sea. We’ll need to hide the wreckage. Do they have a raft onboard?”

“Parachutes, but no rafts,” Dean replied grimly. “And any water landing would be immediately investigated by the Coast Guard.”

“We all knew how the mission could end, sir,” Oughton said, his face a grim mask.

Sir? Hearing the honorific, Rexton understood. “Then so be it, we at least spare them the horror of being interrogated by the madmen of the CIA,” he said, taking a chain from around his neck. There was a small key attached, and he slipped it into a slot on the console, first twisting to the left, then sharply to the right. Off by itself, a red light began to glow.

“Goodbye, old friends.” Rexton sighed, placing a finger on the button.

“No, wait!” a woman shouted from the door.

Lifting his hand, Rexton turned to scowl at the rapidly approaching woman. Tall, with a cascade of ebony hair that reached past her trim waist, Dr. Carolina Barry was wearing a white medical jacket over a winter-camouflage ghillie suit. A stun gun was holstered at her side, a medical bag slung over a shoulder in case of an emergency.

“What is it, Carolina?” Rexton demanded.

“Marshall,” the physician replied. “Land them in Marshall, to refuel on the ground.”

“Is the airstrip long enough?”

“For a landing, certainly. But they’ll need some JATO units to take off again.”

“They have those on board,” Dean said, a note of hope back in her voice.

“But what about the fuel?” Rexton asked suspiciously.

“Marshall is near a major airport,” Barry countered. “It shouldn’t be very hard for them to buy, or steal, enough fuel to allow them to reach Tornado Base for a proper refueling.”

“That just might work,” Dean muttered, bending to work out some figures on her keyboard calculator. “Yes, they can do it!”

“But if they’re caught…” Oughton began.

Crossing her arms, Barry scoffed. “At an abandoned airstrip, in the middle of a cornfield?”

“It’s worth a try,” Rexton said, turning off the remote destruction button. Slowly, the red light died away. “However, I want them to get some protection. Send along some mercs to guard the crew until they’re safely back in the air.”

“Not a problem, we have lots of friends in that area,” Dean replied. “However, once the mercs hear about what happened at Brussels, they’ll know who we are and try to blackmail us for more money.”

“Or sell us outright to the Pentagon,” Oughton snapped over the video screen.

“Then have Whitehorn blow the airfield off the map once he’s flying again,” Rexton stated coldly.

“Not a problem,” Dean said, swinging back to her console, her fingers dancing across the keyboard. “But once the word of our betrayal spreads, we’ll never be able to trust any mercs again.”

“After tomorrow, there will be no need,” Rexton replied, going back to studying the map of the world on the main screen.

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