Threat Level Black - Страница 61

“My safety isn’t the question,” said the President. “The question is, who’s going to win this stinking basketball game? Syracuse or Kentucky? I have Syracuse. My national security advisor takes Kentucky. Now, let’s get our act together so we don’t hold up too much traffic, all right?”

Chapter 10

Three people tried to speak over the same radio frequency at once. Howe sifted through the cacophony, eyes glued on the new triangle on the right side of the display.

How the hell had the system missed the contact earlier?

Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe this was just an anomaly, a screwup.

Or maybe it had been lost in the clutter until now.

Howe yanked at his stick, snapping back in the direction of the UAV. The Iron Hawk pulled nearly 9 g’s, testing the limits of his flight suit and its wing structure as it jerked onto the new course. A pair of fists smashed against Howe’s temples, gravity angry that he had dared to fight it. Momentum slammed against his chest, drove down against his groin; Howe fought through it, his brain swimming hard to keep up with the superbly engineered plane as she shrugged off the awesome forces trying to pull her back.

The aircraft won. Iron Hawk began accelerating.

Howe blinked his eyes and saw his target on the screen seven miles away, flying to his right now as he leaned on the throttle and strained against the stick.

Lady Liberty stood proud in the harbor, her arm holding a beacon to the oppressed of the world.

“Splash Target One!” reported the F-16 pilot. “Splash that motherfucker!”

“I have a new target,” reported Howe, belatedly realizing he had forgotten to alert the others. “Tracking.

The UAV dipped right. There was a Navy destroyer ahead, near the mouth of the harbor.

Someone was hailing him.

The Navy people couldn’t see the target, but they could see him: The targeting radars on their ship-to-air missiles were locking on him, ready to fire.

“Iron Hawk acknowledges,” said Howe, slapping at his Talk button. “I am in pursuit of an unidentified aircraft, probably one of our targets.”

The black shadow flew toward the center of the statue ahead.

Those bastards are going to blow up the Statue of Liberty, Howe thought to himself. And there isn’t anything I can do about it.

Chapter 11

The corridor was a utility passage that connected to another set of tracks and opened directly across from a passage way below the Garden. The only way across was through a set of girders and then over the tracks; unlike the other tunnel, there was no walkway on the side.

According to the plans, the access had been closed off. Pretty much a dead giveaway, as far as Fisher was concerned.

He climbed down between the girders, trying to judge whether the rumble he felt was coming in his direction or not. Finally he decided to take his chances; with all these tracks down here, the odds were that it wasn’t.

But it was. Fisher was just reaching the metal plate that covered the opening when the yellowish-white light crept across the wall.

He pulled down against the plate, trying to get it to open. It didn’t budge.

Fisher took a step back. Ordinarily he would have reached for a cigarette so that he could fully contemplate the implications of the panel being secured in place. But the approaching train made such contemplation a difficult venture. The FBI agent kicked at the bottom of the metal with his foot.

It still didn’t move. The tunnel now practically quaked with the thunder of the approaching subway cars, the rattle moving the ground in a motion not unlike the steady, comforting perk-perk-perk of an old-fashioned coffeemaker.

The light filled the space, casting him in shadow. Fisher glanced to the left, admiring his growing length…

And finally spotting a second panel, six feet away.

He stepped over to it and saw that it was propped up at the side of the opening. The FBI agent slid in feetfirst, and found himself in a dank, water-filled hole.

Chapter 12

Howe watched the UAV pass under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge like a rifle bullet moving at just over 275 knots. It nudged right slightly, its faceted beak aimed directly for the Statue of Liberty. Howe was flying more than a hundred miles an hour faster than the UAV, but even with that advantage he couldn’t close the distance between him and the UAV before it slammed into the statue.

And even if he did, he had no weapons aboard.

But he couldn’t simply pull off. He stayed on his course.

And then the UAV made a course correct, turning not right, which would have taken it over Manhattan, but left, flying toward northern New Jersey.

Howe didn’t understand for a moment. It seemed to him that the enemy plane — an unthinking missile — had had a change of heart, warned off by the glare of the statue herself.

Then he realized that it had never been programmed to strike the statue.

An E-bomb would be targeted for a power yard or a transformer station to have maximum effect on the power grid. It was possible to shield some devices against the weapon itself, but a close-range hit on a weak link could not be defended against. Even if the weapon proved not as powerful as its designers intended, a jolt directly over a concentration of power lines would fry the Northeast grid for months.

There were plenty of choices in northeastern New Jersey. Hit the right one and the power grid would come down. You didn’t have to hit Manhattan at all.

“Iron Hawk, this is Viper One. I need vectors to the target. Iron Hawk? Iron Hawk?”

Howe responded with the course and location, even though he knew the F-16 was too far off. It would take it at least three minutes to close the gap. By then the UAV would be over its target.

The UAV began to rise. That must mean it was getting ready to ignite its bomb.

He had it in his screen now, less than two miles ahead. If he had a cannon, he could easily shoot it down.

He could run the damn thing down, collide with it.

I don’t want to die.

The idea shot into his head, the errant firing of a cramping muscle.

It was just ahead of his left wing now, eight hundred meters, seven hundred. The AMV showed it clearly in the display — the bomb was lashed to the body — but he wasn’t watching the screen; he was looking at it in his windscreen.

He’d have only one chance. Howe eased his grip on the stick, trying to avoid the tendency to overcorrect.

As Howe came up, something about the night reminded him of the dim computer screen he’d fiddled with in the Smithsonian, the simulation of the Hurricanes taking on the V-1s in the air over the Channel.

He could do that now.

Tip the wing right, get the UAV to tumble into the water.

Was he chickening out?

There was no more time to think. Howe pushed the stick, threw his body with it, came back.

A long tunnel opened behind him, the rushing howl of the engine rising two octaves into a shrill hiss. He felt his right arm cramp into a rock.

The Iron Hawk stumbled but held solid, following its pilot’s command.

The wings of the two aircraft smacked against each other. The UAV tumbled, its gull wings spinning. The craft’s tail turned over once, twice, three times. The plane’s internal guidance system started to correct but it was too late: It was far too low to recover from the spin. Gravity had too firm a grip for the craft to shake off; it spun once more, then hit the water about ten yards from shore, disappearing in a volcanic burst of steam.

Iron Hawk rolled awkwardly but recovered, the modifications designed to ensure her survivability in combat proving her salvation now. Howe steadied the craft, eyes on the AMV screen, hardly breathing. He was lost, unsure where he was in the sky — unsure even if he hadn’t blown himself up.

He blinked, and he had it all back.

He was rising over the Hudson River, turning eastward now, New York City a bright mélange of lights. The UAV hit the water below.

He’d saved the damn place, he and the F-16 pilots, and Fisher, and a million other people, doing their jobs and putting their necks on the line.

He’d saved the whole damn place. Manhattan sparkled like a fistful of diamonds, her bright lights blazing in the dark night. New York, New York, brighter than ever.

And then every light in the city flashed out.

Chapter 13

Now. It was time. Faud pulled on the goggles and fumbled with the pack, removing the coat.

Was this what God wanted?

To even ask the question was blasphemy.

Faud felt his body tremble as he hoisted the oxygen pack to his back. His hands were so slippery that the pistol fell to the cement, clattering on the floor. As he stooped down to grab at the gun, the blood rushed to his head. Faud felt himself loosing his balance. He tightened his hand around the weapon and straightened slowly.

He must not fail, he told himself.

Chapter 14

Fisher waded through the water, reaching a set of concrete steps as the lights snapped off.

Damn it, he thought to himself, I’m always running late in this stinking city.

He stepped up to the top of the stairs. A long stretch of pipes ran to the right, splitting the passage in two. He heard something move ahead.

“Yo. Give it up,” yelled Fisher.

There was no answer.