Day of Wrath

They were out of other options. Rounding up one of Ibrahim’s surviving pilots and getting him to cooperate would take too long. For a brief instant, he wished he’d spent more time playing around with the computer flight simulators that were so popular nowadays. For now, the computer tech would have to do.

“The system is ready,” Engel announced, taking his hands off the keyboard. He quickly pointed out the keys that would activate various aircraft controls. “Those are your throttle settings, your rudder controls, and …”

Thorn listened intently, forcing himself to memorize each key.

He could feel his heart rate accelerating. When the German finished, he nodded abruptly. The aircraft indicator was now over Reston — and the distance to target changed to 16.1. “Is there anything else I should know?” he asked.

The computer tech nodded. “You must keep the aircraft at least two nautical miles away from the detonation point. Once it flies inside that circle, the bomb is armed — and it will detonate if the range begins to open again. Also, you must not let the aircraft drop below three hundred meters — a thousand of your feet — or climb above five thousand meters. Once it reaches either altitude, a barometric fuse will detonate the weapon. Herr Reichardt’s and Prince Ibrahim’s instructions were very explicit.”

“How truly wonderful,” Helen commented acidly.

Thorn thought a moment. “If we can’t dive, we’ll have to get this sucker to climb. Even fifteen thousand feet above the ground is better than nothing.”

Helen frowned. “With a 150-kiloton bomb on board, Peter?

That’s still not high enough.”

“It’s a start,” he replied.

“Yeah.”

“This will relay any air traffic control communication you receive,” the German computer tech said, offering a radio headset plugged into a control panel next to the keyboard.

Thorn yanked the earphones he was wearing off, and slipped the new headset on. Then he tapped the keys controlling the throttle settings for both engines — pushing them to one hundred percent power. Then he took a deep breath. “Here we go.”

He tugged the joystick to the right.

Strike Aircraft Lion, Over Virginia Two thousand feet above the densely populated suburban landscape, the twin-engine Jetstream 31 turboprop abruptly rolled to the right — almost standing on its wingtip. It lost altitude rapidly.

Inside, a tiny instrument linked to a constant barometric pressure reading prepared itself for the last act of its short life.

Strike Control Center Helen Gray saw the video picture suddenly shift as the aircraft practically turned onto its side. The altitude reading spun down falling from two thousand to seventeen hundred and then sixteen hundred feet in seconds. She held her breath.

Peter quickly pulled the joystick back to the left. Slowly, the image showed the aircraft rolling back to level flight. Its altitude stabilized around fourteen hundred feet.

The computer technician’s face turned a ghastly shade of white.

“Careful! The controls are sensitive. And they are not integrated.

To turn safely, you must use the rudder control key and the joystick!”

Helen could see the sweat on Peter’s forehead now. He stared intently at the screen. She kept quiet.

His hand holding the joystick slowly relaxed, while the other hovered over the computer keyboard. The range to target now read 10.9.

Farrell’s laconic voice broke over their headsets. “Delta One and Two, this is Three. I’ve got my weapon on ten-plus bad guys out here. Some of them are pretty badly shot up. And a Fairfax County police unit just pulled up outside the main gate. Any suggestions on what I should tell them?”

“Try to stall them,” Helen said tersely. “We’re a little busy in here, Sam.”

“So I’ve heard,” Farrell replied. “You let me know when to duck and cover, okay?”

Helen suddenly realized the retired general must have heard almost everything going on inside the control center over the voice-activated radio circuit. She swallowed. “I’ll let you know, Sam. Scout’s honor.”

“Okay,” Farrell said. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Peter glanced over his shoulder and flashed her a quick, worried grin.

“Second time lucky, right?”

Helen nodded seriously. They weren’t going to get a third chance.

“Right.”

His hands started moving, this time gently tugging the joystick right while simultaneously tapping the key controlling the aircraft’s rudder.

Strike Aircraft Lion, Over Arlington, Virginia The twin-engine plane banked slowly, gradually changing its heading from southeast to almost due south. Once on that new course, it rolled back to level flight, pitched up slightly, and began climbing.

Control Center Thorn felt his pulse slow a bit as the strike aircraft’s altitude started increasing — rising steadily from fourteen hundred feet.

He glanced at the range to target. It read 6.8. The number changed — to 6.9.

He breathed out.

An irritated voice suddenly squawked through his radio head set.