Ahern, Jerry - Total War

A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She would have never thought of what she was going to do if they hadn't threatened-twice now-to burn down the barn. She was going to burn down the house-blow it up, with the men inside.

She pointed the rifle's muzzle toward the small, unbroken window of the cellar, lined up the sights, and squeezed the trigger. The window smashed. Nothing happened. She fired again, then fell back on her haunches. There was a loud roar, then fire belched, first from the small window, then from the first floor of the house. Then a fireball engulfed the house for an instant. Flames leapt skyward. She could hear screams from the house, one of the men yelling, "Gas-I'm on fire"'

One of the men-she thought it was the one the dead woman had called Pete-ran from the front door, his clothes burning. She fired, and he fell over. "I'm a killer," she whispered.

Chapter Twenty-five

"Mr. President," Thurston Potter said. "Mr. President?"

The president of the United States rolled over and opened his eyes. "Thurston?"

"Yes, sir. You fell asleep on the couch."

"Oh-yes. I guess I did. And it isn't a dream, then, is it?"

"No, sir. I wish-"

"Whan's the current situation?"

"We've just received word, Mr. President. The Russians are broadcasting on a low-frequency FM band that's getting past all the static. We must formally surrender or they'll destroy the few remaining cities. I don't know what to-"

"Well, what is it, Thurston?" The president swung his feet off the couch.

"I don't know, sir."

"If I surrender, then most of the resistance to them will stop-it won't even begin when they land here."

"Yes, Mr. President."

"If I just let them take us, then they can put any words in my mouth that they want, can't they?"

"Well, I suppose so, sir."

"The vice-president, the speaker of the house, all of my cabinet-dead. Dead?"

Thurston Potter squirmed on his heels. "Yes. Yes, sir."

"If I were dead, there would be no United States government to surrender. No one who had the power to surrender. Correct?"

"Well, sir, there were a few members of Congress who were out of Washington. A few may have survived."

"But it would take the Russians forever to find them-if they were still alive. Right?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Do we have a way of getting news out?" Potter thought for a moment. "We could send out some of the intelligence people to spread the word, I suppose. It would be slow, but once it got started, if the news were important enough, the people would hear it."

"That's what I thought. Get me Paul Dorian. Then, after he leaves, I want to see my wife and the children. After that, the chief of the Secret Service detail here. Hurry. You come back with Paul." The president leaned over the coffee table and took up one of his cigarettes. He was smiling as he lit it.

***

"All right, Mrs. Richards. I've decided to try to bring this thing down just south of Albuquerque. There's a lot of flatland south of there, and a drop in the desert looks like the best chance we have. I'm betting the Albuquerque airport is finished."

"You can't be sure," the woman said.

"I can overfly it," Rourke said. "You're right." Looking away from the instruments a moment, Rourke said, "Mrs. Richards, take the controls. Don't move anything." He consulted the plastic-covered maps and checked them against his approximate position. "Albuquerque should be ten minutes ahead." Already, as Rourke looked through the windshield and down toward the ground, the sun was starting to rise. The ground had a gray cast to it. The mountains off to his right were still partially steeped in heavy shadow.

He'd driven into Albuquerque many times, through the mountain passes and down-the view had been breathtaking. It still was he thought, but as he followed about a mile from the closest high ridge, flying low, he could see that the view had changed.

He had no idea if Albuquerque had been hit directly, but there had been a firestorm. Perhaps from natural gas? He could see that there were few houses standing; the ground was burned black. Some emergency vehicles were moving on the ground below him. But there was no sign, no huge crater, to indicate that a direct hit had been made on the city.

He found the markers for the airport-a few were still standing. He started to follow them in. "This is Canamerican 747 Flight 601," Rourke droned into the radio. "Calling Albuquerque tower. Do you read me? Over."

He had set the radio to the right frequency for hailing the facility, but there was nothing to answer him but static. Both fists locked on the controls, Rourke whispered, "All right, Mrs. Richards, I'm going to overfly the airport, and we'll see how it looks. After that, I'll have just enough fuel left to set this thing down there or on the desert. So lets make it a good look."

Rourke throttled back on the monster-sized jet engines. The noise roared in his ears as he squinted against the brightness of the sun and scanned the ground. He hauled up on the flaps, and the airport loomed up ahead.

The field-from one end to the other-was a mass of debris. What looked like dozens of planes had been burned on the ground.

"What happened?" Mrs. Richards asked. "A missile?"

"No, I don't think so. I think some kind of accident. Probably somebody like us tried to come in and misjudged the runway. Yeah, see over there?" Rourke pointed far on the starboard side of the plane. "Looks like something rammed a fuel truck and they didn't get the fire in time. Firestorm of some kind is what it looks like all over the city. So the city shouldn't be hot with radioactivity."

There was the recognizable framework of a huge tank truck, black and gutted, amid the wreckage of a large commercial jet.

"We're not going to land here," Rourke said. He throttled forward and got the nose up, banking as gently as he could to get south of what had been the city. The ruins vanished from beneath them; the ground turned into scrub brush and sand. Rourke throttled down again and slowly played the instruments to get the plane's altitude down. "I don't know exactly how low or how slow I can get this thing and still be able to keep air speed. And if I lose engine power, this thing will fall like a rock. Hit that seatbelt light and get on the PA. Tell the stewardess to get everyone into a crash position."

Rourke scanned the ground. Silently, he prayed that he could have some idea what he was doing. As far as landing went, there was no similarity between the 747 and military fighter aircraft he had flown before. Bringing this down was like playing Russian roulette with all chambers full.

He squinted against the morning sunlight, watching the altimeter, the fuel gauge and the other instruments. He heard Mrs. Richards alert the passengers for a possible crash.

By the time Mrs. Richards had finished the announcement, Rourke was banking the plane gently, having climbed in order to accomplish the maneuver. "I picked out our landing field, Mrs. Richards," he commented. "Nice, flat stretch about five miles long with no trees to speak of, back about twenty-five miles. I'm going around for a try. We can only do it once. I'm letting us run out of fuel to minimize the risk of fire. One other thing I want you to do. Alert the stewardesses that as soon as we get down on the ground, I want everyone out of here as quickly as possible and as far away from the plane as they can. And I want you in a crash position right by the escape chute in the main cabin. You've done great."

"Won't you need me to help?"

"Well," Rourke began, "I don't believe two of us can land this thing any better than one. And you've got a cool head. That's going to be needed if anyone's going to survive after we land. Chances are good the cockpit will get the heaviest impact."