Arctic Fire (5 page)

It was a defining moment for Albert Jenkins as
he watched the drama unfolding before him. It opened up a floodgate
of memories that swirled in his head like a cyclone. Thoughts of
Martha, of Amanda when she was growing up, the fun they had…the
last time he saw her alive. He bit his lip, fighting to contain the
swelling emotions. He hadn’t been there to save his Amanda, but he
was here now and he would not let anything happen to Mary.

He knew it wouldn’t bring his little girl back
or even if it would help to relieve any of the pain. He also knew
that he was projecting all those memories of Amanda onto Mary. The
guilt and anguish came charging back like a wild animal,
threatening to trample his heart again. But it also didn’t change
the fact that it was simply the right thing to do.

“Leave her alone.” Jenkins said in a voice he
couldn’t believe was his own.

The smile faded from Ponytail’s face as he
looked at Jenkins, then stomped over and shoved his gun under his
chin. “What did you say old man?”

“I said, leave her alone.”

The gunman stared long and hard at Jenkins then
burst out laughing. “Look at him boss, the old man has the thousand
yard stare. You tough guy old man? Huh? You some kind of Rambo?” He
laughed. “I think we’re going to take her with us, you know, a
‘sweet’ hostage.” He winked at Jenkins.

“You don’t want to take a hostage.” Jenkins
said, amazed at himself for sounding so calm and cool. “She’ll only
slow you down and get in the way. Bank robbery is one thing but if
you take a hostage the police are going to take it real personal.
They won’t stop until you’re all caught… or dead”

Ponytail laughed again. “What is she, your
little girlfriend?” Then his face turned cold again and shoved the
gun harder into Jenkins’ chin. “You want to die old man? I said
we’re taking her. Keep it up and I’ll send you straight to
hell.”

“I don’t want to die and I’m not going to hell
when I do die. Can you say the same? And you’re still not taking
her.” Before Ponytail could reply, Jenkins turned to the man
holding the shotgun. “Hey boss man! Does this guy speak for
everybody? Is he calling the shots here? Think about it, do you
really want to make it personal and have the cops hound you to the
ends of the earth over a girl?”

The gunman hit Jenkins across the face with the
gun. “Oh don’t you worry old man, I intend to make it
real
personal.” Jenkins staggered back with his lip bleeding but managed
to stay on his feet.

“Enough talking now.” Ponytail said, looking at
Mary. “Get your sweet little butt over here and let’s go. Do it
quick and I might let your boyfriend here live.”

“Leave her.” Neo said.

“What?” No way!”

“I said leave her!” Neo shouted back. “The old
man is right; we don’t need her to slow us down. Besides, with as
much money as we have, you can buy any woman you want.”

“No! I want Rambo’s girlfriend here and I’m
taking her with us.”

“Leave her or I’ll leave you.” Neo pumped the
shotgun and fired a round into the side of the counter right next
to his friend. “Your choice, man.”

Ponytail man stood there and shook with rage. He
looked at Boss man, then the hole in the wall, then back to
Jenkins. Unable to contain his building rage any longer, he
exploded like a volcano, letting out a huge, prolonged yell, then
turned to Jenkins and shot him in the chest.

“Let’s go.” Ponytail said as he grabbed the
pillowcases full of money and headed for the door. Steve Hertz was
standing at the other end of the counter and as Ponytail walked by,
he shot him in the leg without even slowing down.

“Crazy idiot.” Boss man said shaking his head.
He whistled to the other two men and they all left.

Mary came running from behind the counter and
knelt beside Jenkins and cradled his head in her arms, tears
flowing.

“I’m one for two now.” He coughed, seeing she
was safe. “Tell my wife I’m going to be late for dinner.”

Chapter
Five

Pike throttled back and a brought the
Yankee
Clipper
down to 8,000 feet and set the auto-pilot. He reached
under his seat and grabbed a sandwich. His stomach was still a
little queasy from the dogfight but he was hungry none the less.
The roast beef was a little dry so he reached back under and
grabbed a fruit drink pouch. He would have preferred a cold bottle
of water or tall glass of milk, or better yet, a frosty mug of root
beer, but none of those traveled well in his cramped cockpit.

With steely-eyed determination he took off the
little straw and prepared to
try
and poke it through the
tiny serving hole. He could pilot a fighter jet, decipher
blueprints that would drive DaVinci mad and balance his checkbook
at the end of the month, yet there were two things in life he
couldn’t do: figure out what made women tick, and how to put the
straw in a juice pouch without spilling it all over himself. After
four failed attempts, which were two more than he usually tried, he
reached into the shoulder pocket of his flight suit and pulled out
a small Swiss Army Knife.

This was one of the more unusual of the Swiss
knives; this one didn’t have all the gizmos and gadgets: it
actually had a blade that he could use. He’d learned from years of
experience and dozens of dry cleaning bills just how to open one of
these things without getting juice all over himself. He flipped out
the blade, then carefully grabbed the top of the pouch with his
left hand. With the skill of a surgeon, he inserted the blade into
the pouch and began cutting.

The tab was removed and surgery was almost
complete; all he had to do now was insert the straw, and enjoy.
Just as he was putting in the straw, the
Clipper
hit a
pocket of rough air and bounced up and down harder than a Model T
Ford on a washboard road. As he bounced, he accidentally squeezed
the pouch, sending the straw shooting out like a missile and juice
gushing out like a geyser. Some of the juice hit the top of the
canopy then started “raining” down in tiny droplets while more
splattered on his flight suit, but the majority of it landed in his
lap. Pike looked down and shook his head, hoping it would dry
before he had to land and refuel. No amount of explaining would
curb the snickers and laughs he would get as he climbed out of the
cockpit if his suit were still wet. He ate his sandwich and downed
what was left of the juice.

There were advantages to having your own private
jet to fly in, but there were also disadvantages too, one being
boredom. He hadn’t quite figured out how to get a stewardess on
board yet. He began tuning the radio to see if he could find
anything interesting to listen to and help pass the time. He passed
over two country western stations, one song was about getting out
of prison and the other was about a dog and an old pickup truck.
Next, he scanned across a soft rock station that almost put him to
sleep on the spot.

Suddenly something up ahead caught his eye, so
he decided to drop down and take a look. He leveled off at 5000
feet and tipped his wing down as he did a fly over. There were two
high school busses parked on the side of the road with four cars
pulled in behind them. Several men were standing around the front
of the lead bus while the drivers were working on changing a flat
tire. Cheerleaders, football players and students were milling
around the busses, cell phones in hand, no doubt relaying their
harrowing plight to friends and families.

Pike brought the
Clipper
around for
another pass, only this time he came in low and fast. He skimmed
over the desert floor at about 500 feet and pushed the airspeed up
to 400 knots. Every eye on the ground was watching as he roared by.
Pike smiled to himself; this was one of those times when it was
good to have your own jet. A couple of the football players raised
their helmets and cheered as he went by while several of the
cheerleaders shook their pompoms and did a quick cheer. As he
streaked by the two drivers gave him a wave and he returned it with
a quick salute and waggle of his wings. He smiled as he did a quick
snap roll and then pulled up and out. Tom Cruise, eat your heart
out.

The small adrenaline rush soon faded and he was
back to channel surfing again. He found two rock stations, one
classical, a talk show talking about the economy, what else? With
nothing he really wanted to listen to, he was about to turn the
radio off when the last station caught his ear.

“Breaking news. Police have just reported that
the US Bank in Logandale has been robbed at gunpoint. One bank
guard has been killed and another teller has also been shot and is
in critical condition. Nevada Highway Patrol reports that the
suspects are driving a dark green, late model Dodge Charger, and
they are in a high-speed pursuit heading north on Highway 93.
Suspects are armed and considered extremely dangerous. Anyone
traveling north or south bound on Highway 93 between Ash Springs
and Las Vegas should use extreme caution.”

Pike frowned as an uneasy feeling crept into the
cockpit with him. He had all the latest GPS navigational equipment
but sometimes plain, good old-fashioned paper maps worked best. He
unfolded one and quickly checked his location against his GPS, then
turned the
Clipper
south and followed the road, hoping all
the while that he was wrong. A few minutes later his worst fears
were confirmed. In the distance he saw a trail of flashing lights
following about a mile behind a dark sedan moving faster than a bat
out of hell. They were on a collision course, heading straight for
the stranded school busses. These criminals were desperate men who
had already killed, Pike shuddered to think what would happen if
they got their hands on a bus full of hostages.

There were only a few minutes before they would
reach the kids; he had to do something, but what? If he were in his
car, he would have hit the steering wheel out of frustration, since
there was no wheel; he did the next best thing and slammed his fist
against the side of his canopy. He pulled back up to 5000 feet and
swung back to the north, towards the buses. Time was running out,
and he still didn’t have any ideas of what he was going to do and
he could only hit his canopy so many times. What could he do? It’s
not like he could dive down and strafe the bad guys…or could
he?

Suddenly, the seed of a wild thought was sown.
He knew he should have stopped and torn it out by the roots, but
instead, he watered it with desperation and a plan soon began to
flourish. Quickly he found the busses and surveyed the surrounding
area. The vehicles were behind a small outcropping at the top of a
slight rise. Pike banked hard around and saw the suspects coming up
over a small hill. Soon they would drop down into a large, shallow
draw. It was perfect.

He would probably lose his pilot’s license for
this but he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He pushed the
throttle forward nearly to the stops and brought the
Yankee
Clipper
out wide and flew down the middle of the draw, heading
straight for the bandits’ car. He concentrated as he flew down the
draw, keeping a careful eye on the altimeter and air speed
indicator as he put the plane in a shallow dive. For a moment he
had visions of himself as William Holden in the movie
Bridges at
Toko-Ri
or as the young Luke Skywalker as he focused on lining
up on the car. He swore that if he heard the words… “Use the Force
Luke,” he was bailing out. The
Clipper
quickly gained speed
and reached 600 mph in a matter of seconds. He was down to 2500
feet and still descending, still picking up speed.

The bank robbers had widened the distance
between themselves and their pursuers to nearly a mile and a half
now; timing would be everything. Pike continued to dive and was at
1500 feet and pushing 725 mph, just a little lower, just a little
faster. At a half-mile out, he pushed the throttle to the stops and
nudged the stick forward.

His hands were sweating and he could feel his
heart racing, pounding out a beat that any punk-rock band would
have trouble keeping up with. His mouth was dryer than the sands of
the Nevada desert below and forget about even trying to describe
how his stomach felt. Was this what it was like to go into real
combat? Playing tag with the F-15s earlier had been fun and
exciting, but nothing was really at stake, no lives to be saved or
lost, only pride and egos, but this was different. Here, now, there
was a very real threat, with the very real possibility of lives
being lost, not only to the kids if they were taken hostage by the
murderers, but to himself. One wrong move, one mistake at this
speed and altitude and he wouldn’t even have time to say “Oh crap”
before he would plow into the desert floor.

Just before he reached the car, Pike took one
last deep breath and leveled out at 500 feet and watched as his air
speed reached 767 mph. That’s when it happened.

Slumbering dust and dirt particles now bolted up
and swirled and mingled with leaves ripped from the desert plants.
They formed a storm cloud that swarmed and engulfed the car in a
chaotic mass. The windows on the bandits’ car were shattered and
the car jostled violently as if shaken by a giant, unseen hand. It
swerved off the road and the right front tire dug into the soft
sand, flipping the car twice before it came to rest on its side.
The sonic boom had lacerated the valley floor and the car as the
silver F-86 Sabre streaked overhead, breaking the sound
barrier.

Blowing out several deep breaths to calm
himself, Pike gently pulled back on the stick with a shaky hand and
circled the area. He felt such a rush that he felt like he didn’t
need the
Clipper
to fly right now. He felt like he had
thrown the winning touchdown pass at the Super Bowl or hit a grand
slam in the bottom of the 9
^th
to win the game. Four
Highway Patrol cruisers quickly surrounded the wrecked car and the
troopers jumped out guns drawn and ready. The lead cruiser’s
windshield was shattered but was still intact; fortunately it had
been far enough away from the sonic boom just to have it fractured
and not blown it out completely. As he swung over the buses, Pike
could see that some of the kids appeared scared but none seemed to
be hurt. The slight roll of the draw and outcropping help shield
the kids from the effects of the sound blast.