Don Pendleton - Full Blast

Manning shook his head.

“I don’t think so. The way he’s wagging his thumb, I’d say he wants us to land.”

“Fat chance,” McCarter muttered. “I’d sooner square up to him.”

“What with?”

“I’ve got an autorifle.”

“He’s got a 23 mm cannon and probably heat-seeker missiles.”

“Did I miss that?”

Encizo raised a warning hand. He began to speak into his handset.

“You have? Good. What about our North Korean escort?”

“That better be the good guys he’s talking to.”

“David, don’t be so pessimistic.”

“The way things have been going recently, can you blame me?”

Encizo leaned across to tap McCarter on the arm.

“U.S. military command. They’ve had contact with Stony Man. Apparently they have been monitoring the airwaves for hours. The guy I’ve been talking to is a Major Yosarian. He’s making contact with a South Korean air patrol. They have a couple of jets close enough to be with us fairly quickly. They’ll have orders to escort us to friendly territory.”

Manning punched McCarter on the shoulder. “Told you.”

“Has anybody told that bloke out there?”

“They’re aware of his position,” Encizo said. “The patrol will warn him off.”

“Why aren’t I happy about that last remark?” McCarter said as he watched the North Korean MiG slide away.

The pilot rolled the jet and made a sweep that would bring him up on the An-26’s tail.

“That bugger isn’t going to wait,” the Briton chided. “A few bursts from his cannon and we’ll end up shredded.”

Manning turned and vanished from sight.

“Where’s he gone?” Encizo asked.

McCarter shrugged. He was too busy flying the plane to worry about Manning.

Curious or not, McCarter was alerted by the crackle of the internal com system. He picked up the handset.

“What?”

“This observation blister is quite handy,” Manning said.

McCarter had forgotten about the Perspex bubble built into the left side of the An-26’s fuselage just behind the cockpit.

“David, he’s coming around now. Lining up to hit our tail.”

McCarter glanced across at Encizo. The Cuban had a wide grin on his face.

“Always said Canadians had more in them than just the ability to chop down trees,” McCarter said.

“I can still hear you.”

“Tell me when that sod is steady. And stop moaning.”

“Wait…wait…now.”

McCarter worked the controls and the An-26 went into a steep dive, dropping away from the MiG a second before the pilot opened fire. McCarter increased power, the turboprop sweeping down in a long curve that ended only yards above the choppy waters. He leveled out and held the aircraft on the same course.

“Pretty good,” Manning said over the speaker. “But what about next time?”

“Bloody hell, you’re never satisfied. Where is he, anyway?”

“Can’t see him at the moment. No, wait a minute. Coming in from your side.”

McCarter turned to look out the cockpit window and spotted the dark shape of the MiG leveling out and coming in for the kill. He thought quickly, well aware that evasive action against the jet was not going to keep them out of trouble much longer.

“Okay, chum, try this,” the Briton muttered as he hauled back on the stick, kicking on the rudder and bringing the plane around in a turn that set it on a direct course for the hurtling jet. He hammered the throttles wide open and trimmed the controls to get the best speed he could.

“Oh, shit,” he heard Manning breathe through the speaker.

The Canadian’s exclamation brought a chuckle to McCarter’s lips.

“Exactly what I thought,” he said.

The seconds flashed by. McCarter held his course, aiming straight for the MiG. He knew that the North Korean pilot might decide to fire anyway. Might even loose off a missile. But at the close range the MiG might easily run into the spinning debris and bring himself down.

“Make your play, sunshine,” McCarter said evenly.

The MiG suddenly broke, flashing off to the side, vanishing from McCarter’s field of vision.

“That,” Manning said, “was daring.”

“Bloody mad.”

“You are loco,” Encizo said.

“That’s what it says in my job description. Right next to where it says I’m a clever bugger and prone to being inspired.”

“Inspire something else then,” Manning suggested.

“How about conjuring up a pair of South Korean F-16s?”

They all watched two F-16s burn the air as they streaked in to confront the MiG, which held out for a time before breaking away and heading back toward North Korean territory. The F-16s fell in alongside the An-26 and one of the pilots broke in on McCarter’s com set.

“Please stay with us, gentlemen, and we will escort you in.”

“Thanks, mate,” McCarter acknowledged. “I was running out of ideas.”

The South Korean pilot laughed.

“From what I saw, you were doing fine. I wasn’t sure whether you really needed us.”

“Oh, we needed you, pal. Your timing was spot-on. And don’t let anyone tell you different.”

Stony Man Farm, Virginia

“BEFORE YOU ASK, we don’t have a damn thing,” Aaron Kurtzman said.

“Phoenix has dropped off the map. If they’re in North Korean territory, we’re going to be hard-put getting any fix on them.”

“I’ll save my breath, then,” Hal Brognola said.

The big Fed crossed the Computer Room to stand in front of the main wall screen as if he were going to receive some kind of cerebral message that would answer his silent questions.

“All this damn technology and we can’t locate our own people.”

“How do you think it makes me feel?” Kurtzman growled.

Brognola turned to look at the man in the wheelchair. He knew Kurtzman had been at his station without a break since the China incident. He had refused to give in, relentlessly working at his keyboard and utilizing every sliver of his computer genius. This time it hadn’t worked. Kurtzman looked tired. It showed in his face, his movements and his responses. The man was only awake through sheer stubbornness.

“Okay, listen up,” Brognola announced to the entire room. “Being the big boss of this facility, as you are always telling me, gives me certain policy-making rights none of you can refuse to accept.” He waited as his words sank in. “At least you don’t disagree. So I’m making an executive decision here and now.

“You,” he said, pointing at Kurtzman, “are relieved of your position and won’t get it back until you’ve had at least twelve hours’ sleep. This is nonnegotiable and you aren’t allowed to protest. If you do, that coffeepot goes out the window and we get a new one.”

“That’s hitting below the belt,” Carmen Delahunt murmured as she glanced across at Barbara Price.

“I can do worse than that,” Brognola said, throwing a withering glance in Price’s direction, daring her to put up any kind of protest.

“Hate to think what that might be,” Akira Tokaido said.

Brognola lowered his eyes to the CD player Tokaido always carried with him.

“I’d keep quiet,” Huntington Wethers suggested.

“You still here?” Brognola snapped at Kurtzman.

Kurtzman held up his hands in surrender. “Just leaving.”

He spun his wheelchair and made for the door. No one spoke until he had gone.

“Okay, you know what to do,” Brognola said. “Do it. If Aaron shows his face before his twelve hours are up, call in Buck Greene and have him taken back to his room.”

“That wasn’t a joke, was it?” Wethers asked.

“No, I mean every word. Look, I understand how you might feel I’ve overreacted. Give me the benefit of the doubt. I’ve been watching Aaron, and the man is exhausted. If he wasn’t sitting in that chair, he’d fall down. If he works himself into the ground, he’s no good to me or the job.”