Dale Brown - Edge of Battle

Jason got to his feet and said to the deputy, “I need to get out to Amarillo International right away.”

“I can take you. Let’s go.”

As they hurried out of the office, Jason’s attention was drawn to a large wall map of Carson County—and he froze. “Deputy,” he called, “change in plan…”

“One, this is Five. Authenticate Yankee-Papa.”

“One authenticates ‘seven,’” Zakharov replied. He initiated a challenge-and-response code himself, using an improvised code sheet he had made up just for this mission. The reply was correct. “We are ready to load. What is your status?”

“In the green and ready,” the pilot of the Pilatus PC-12 cargo aircraft responded. Minutes later they heard a faint turbine engine sound. They couldn’t see it, and the pilot did not report his position as any pilot flying into an uncontrolled airport would normally do, but moments later he heard the distinctive “squeak squeak” of tires hitting the runway, and the sound of the turbine engine in ground idle got louder and louder. A few minutes later, the big single-engine turboprop cargo plane taxied to a stop about fifty yards away, and the large cargo door on the left side of the fuselage opened up.

“Go!” Zakharov ordered, and the driver pulled onto the ramp from their hiding place. Two commandos with automatic weapons jumped out of the PC-12 to take up security positions, while two more men jumped out, ready to help load the warhead coffins. The van’s driver blinked his headlights in response when one of the security men flashed a signal, then dimmed them as he drove closer to the open…

Suddenly there were two brilliant flashes of light from somewhere across the dark runway, and two streaks of red-orange fire sliced across the still night sky and plowed directly into the right side of the cargo plane, causing it to explode in a massive ball of fire.

“Holy shit! What in hell was that?” the sheriff’s deputy exclaimed. They had just pulled onto the airport property when the cargo plane exploded, less than a half-mile in front of them. He immediately hit the cruiser’s lights and sirens.

“No!” Jason yelled. “Turn them off!” But the deputy wasn’t listening. He got on his car’s radio and called for help. “Don’t go in there! Something’s happening…”

“Just shut up and stay put,” the deputy said. He raced across the empty parking lot up to the airport security fence, pulled out a white plastic passcard, and touched it to a magnetic card reader. Just as the gate started to open, an alarm bell rang in Jason’s brain, and he suddenly bolted out of the squad car. “Hey, where in hell do you think you’re goin’?” Jason didn’t reply—he just ran faster. By then the gate had opened far enough, and the deputy gunned the engine and zoomed inside…

…and no sooner had he advanced a few car lengths when a volley of automatic gunfire erupted, peppering the car and its driver in a deadly barrage of bullets. The smoking, unguided car started moving in a slow left circle, eventually crashing into a parked airplane.

Frozen with confusion and fear, Jason hid behind the terminal building until he was as sure as he could be that he wasn’t being followed, then sneaked through the open gate and up to the shattered squad car. Thankful that no interior lights came on when he opened the passenger side door, he tried unsuccessfully to pull the shotgun out of the dashboard mount, then went around to the driver’s side. The body of the dead deputy slid onto the ground when he opened the door—ironically, that made it easier to pull the Glock semiautomatic pistol from the deputy’s holster on his right hip. He remembered to take the magazine from the officer’s utility belt before sneaking toward the burning cargo plane.

Zakharov was stunned into speechlessness. What in hell happened here? He couldn’t even imagine that his own men could turn against him and try to hijack these stolen nuclear warheads, but that was the only logical explanation.

The driver had immediately raced away from the stricken plane, and now they were in a different hiding spot, between two hangars on the southwest side of the airport grounds. He had his Dragunov sniper rifle at the ready across his chest on its sling; his pistol was in his right hand and the last antitank missile launcher was slung over his shoulder; the commando had an assault rifle ready.

“Who is out there, sir?” the commando asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Zakharov growled.

“Sir! I would never betray you!”

“No one else knew of our plans!”

“I would die before even thinking about turning on you, Colonel!”

He thought about killing the guy just to be certain, but he needed him to help him escape. “All right, Lieutenant, all right. There is only one entrance and exit to this place, and that is bound to be guarded. But there has got to be another emergency exit on the north side of the airport. We will find it and get out that way.”

“Yes, sir.” He put the van in gear, pulled away from the hangars, and drove north between the rows of airplane hangars. When they ran out of paved parking area, they went across the dry grass. Using their parking lights, they found the airport security fence.

“I will drive,” Zakharov said. “Use your flashlight and find the gate.” The commando got out, pistol in one hand, flashlight in the other. The commando wisely covered most of the lens with his hand in order to shed as little light as necessary. Moments later they came across a dirt road, and moments after that they found the gate, with a rusty chain loosely holding it closed. The commando fetched a pair of bolt cutters from the van, placed the jaws on the chain…

…and suddenly flew over sideways violently as a bullet pierced the left side of his skull, killing him instantly. Zakharov took time to let out a weak gasp of shock before reaching for the shifter…

“Freeze, Colonel. Hands where I can see them.” The voice…had a Spanish accent, not a Russian one! He slowly lifted his hands and turned. He couldn’t see the face of the man in the open driver’s side window, but he could smell the cordite coming from the muzzle of the sound-suppressed pistol he aimed at him. “Both hands, out the window. Reach for the handle outside the vehicle and let yourself out.”

Zakharov complied. “Who are you?”

“A loyal employee of a friend of yours, Colonel,” the man said. Zakharov heard the van’s cargo doors open, and excited voices in Spanish reported that there were two warheads inside. “Congratulations, Colonel. There have been many security breaches at the Pantex Plant over the past fifty years, but I believe you are the first to actually steal a weapon from there, let alone two. The Comandante will be very pleased.”

“The Coman—” And then Zakharov understood everything. “You mean, this is…this is the work of Felix Díaz? ”

“He surmised your objective and your plans and set up this ambush for you,” the man said. “Now we will take the warheads. Your body will be found here, along with the body of a local sheriff’s deputy—I would not be surprised if they deduce that it was a collaboration between you and yet another corrupt cop. Meanwhile the warheads will be on their way to Mexico.” Zakharov heard the rustle of leather as the man raised his pistol up to head level. “The legend of Yegor Zakharov will end right…”

Suddenly several shots rang out, and Díaz’s henchman fell over backward. Zakharov dropped to the ground and pulled his pistol. He saw a muzzle flash ahead of him on the other side of the fence, fired at it, then dodged around the front of the van to the passenger side. He opened the door and reached between the front seats, looking for his sniper rifle but only finally finding the last antitank missile launcher. He grabbed it and turned…