Don Pendleton - Neutron Force

But the coastline was clear, and soon the frantic dockyard faded into the rain. Slowly building speed, the trawler chugged into the raging storm, heading across the channel toward England. Muttering curses, the big man at the controls tried to coax more speed from the old diesel engines. There was an important rendezvous to keep, and nothing could get in the way.

Logan International Airport, Boston

The huge C-130 Hercules transport lightly touched down on the asphalt, the tires squealing at the contact. It rose slightly, only to touch down again, skipping along the runway until finally rolling along the pavement. Reaching a cross strip, the huge military aircraft paused, the propellers spinning with a subdued roar, then it turned and moved along the ground, heading for an isolated hangar at the extreme edge of the airport.

“Another one,” Matthew Liptrot rumbled, lowering his binoculars. The Transportation Administration Security guard was frowning deeply. “I don’t like unscheduled arrivals. They make my ass itch.”

“Then get some salve, buddy,” Jason Kushner replied gruffly, his voice rising in volume as a 757 thunderously took off into the sky. The two members of the TSA waited a few moments until the wash of the colossal jet dissipated. Dimly, in the parking lot, car alarms were starting to bleep and keen, their owners having set the sensitivity of the sensors way too high, in spite of the clearly marked posted warnings at the entrance kiosk.

“Every one of them is probably a BMW.” Liptrot sneered in disdain, hitching back the cap of his blue uniform.

“Or a Lexus,” Kushner agreed with a wan smile. “Chevy and Toyota owners know better.”

“I hear that.” The TSA guard turned to watch the Hercules disappear past the wind flags fluttering in the breeze. “Now, I know we were told to not bother the passengers on this flight, some sort of dignitary from D.C., but still…”

“Don’t,” Kushner warned forcibly. “The last person who violated an order like that is working at an airport concession stand in Alaska selling postcards to polar bears.”

“Okay, okay, the Do Not Disturb order stands.” Liptrot reluctantly relented. “But just the same, I’m gonna keep a sharp watch on the thing. Those 9/11 fuckers left from right here.” He stomped on the pavement. “Our Logan International, and I’m not ever going to let that happen again.”

“I hear that,” Kushner agreed, raising his binoculars to study the massive Hercules. “Nothing wrong with staying alert.”

Pulling out his 9 mm Glock pistol, Liptrot checked the loaded of armor-piercing rounds, designed to go through body armor as if it were soap suds. “Nope, nothing wrong with that,” the man muttered, holstering the weapon. “Nothing wrong with that, at all.”

THE C-130 HERCULES TRANSPORT rolled to a stop in front of the hangar. Jack Grimaldi set the brakes and killed the massive engines.

“All ashore that’s going ashore,” the Stony Man pilot announced over the PA system.

Down in the cargo hold, the men of Able Team unstrapped themselves from the jumpseats lining the curved wall and began to release the holding straps on their custom van.

“I still can’t believe that anybody has a neutron cannon,” Rosario “Politician” Blancanales said, freeing the buckles on the canvas straps wrapped around the rear axle. “How is that possible?”

“Something called induced magnetics,” Hermann “Gadgets” Schwarz replied, doing the same to the front. “But exactly what that means I have no idea. The math is way beyond me.”

Releasing the last of the locking clamps on the wheels, Carl “Ironman” Lyons grunted at the frank admittance. Schwarz was one of the leading experts in electronic warfare. Under a variety of pseudonyms, he wrote articles for every major scientific magazine and newspaper in the world. If Schwarz was unable to follow the mathematics, then few people could. Himar had to be a genius. And those were often disquietingly close to madness, Lyons thought.

Stowing the restraining straps, Able Team climbed into the equipment van and started the engine.

Watching from the open door to the flight deck, Grimaldi flipped a switch and the rear section of the military transport broke apart and cycled down to the ground with a hydraulic hiss.

“Stay in contact,” the pilot said over their earplugs. “After I refuel, I’ll keep the engines turning over, just in case you boys need some close-order air support.” The civilian version of the Hercules was unarmed, but the one Grimaldi piloted was heavily armed with 40 mm Bofors cannons.

“Or a hasty retreat,” Blancanales replied, touching his throat mike. “Stay frosty, Flyboy.”

“You, too. Stand where they ain’t shooting.”

“Do our best,” Lyons added, setting the van into gear. Carefully he drove the vehicle down the inclined ramp and out onto the paved landing strip.

Logan International Airport dominated their northern horizon, airplanes seeming to take off and land at the same time, passing within only a couple of hundred feet of each other.

A ballet of steel, Blancanales noted. If the neutron cannon attacked at just the right moment, a wall of dead jumbo jets would fly straight into the skyscrapers of downtown Boston. The death toll would be…unimaginable.

“Where did he live?” Schwarz asked, settling into his chair at the small workshop in the rear of the vehicle.

“An apartment building,” Lyons stated, maneuvering onto a private access road. “Himar lived with his family on the top floor, the rest of the place was filled with relatives, cousins and such.”

The scientist owned an apartment complex? Schwarz blinked. “Just how rich was this guy?”

“Not very. He used the money from the Nobel Prize to put a down payment on the place, and the relatives pay rent.” Lyons frowned. “Or so the IRS and Massachusetts Housing Authority claim.”

Blancanales frowned. “So this could be a hardsite.”

“Exactly.” Lyons growled, slowing in front of a wire fence, the top a curly profusion of concertina wire. The sensors in the gate read the electronic signature of the miniature transceiver in the Stony Man vehicle and the gate unlocked automatically, sliding aside.

“We don’t know that for sure,” Blancanales warned, opening a compartment in the dashboard. Nestled inside were rows of fake identification papers, permits and passports. “What do you want to be, FBI again or CIA?”

“NSA,” Lyons suggested, driving through. “That will give us a free hand. Few people have any idea what the NSA does.”

“Including the NSA,” Schwarz quipped, opening a weapons trunk and extracting an M-16 assault rifle.

Behind them, the gate closed with a loud clang and locked.

“DID YA SEE THAT GATE?” Liptrot asked angrily, adjusting the focus on his binoculars.

“Well, I would expect the folks on that transport to have the exit codes,” Kushner muttered unhappily, rubbing his chin. Sure, that was only reasonable. But the man still didn’t like strangers moving so freely around Logan.

“How about we go have a chat with the pilot,” Liptrot said with a hard grin, setting his cap straight.

“Whoa there, brother,” Kushner cautioned, raising a restraining palm. “We were specifically told not to bother the passengers.”

“Ah, but the passengers are gone,” Liptrot replied, glancing at the retreating van. “Go check the regs, if you want. But pilots aren’t considered passengers. They’re crew. And nobody said anything about him.”

“Well, maybe he left in the van.”

“True. But perhaps we smell a fuel leak.”

From this far away? Kushner thought, then smiled. “Son of a gun, I think I do smell a fuel leak. That could endanger the whole airport. We better investigate.” Liptrot headed for their unmarked Jeep in the security parking lot.