Don Pendleton - Civil War II (16 page)

At 11:55 PM (Pacific Standard Time) on March 9 (West Meridian Date) an APR (Automatic Position Reporter) signal recorded the flight's approach to Vancouver, B.C.,

in a planned penetration of North America continental airspace. This flight had received prior approval from the l).S. Government to make a port of entry landing at the chicago airdrome, and there is no reason to believe that this was not the intent. At 12:03 AM, however, tracking tapes show that Flight 140 suddenly veered south from a position near Spokane, Washington, and appeared to be ( limbing from a programmed altitude of 52,000 feet. An electronic tracker (robot station) near Pocatello, Idaho recorded at 12:09 AM that the flight was at an altitude of 63,000 feet and on a heading of 185° magnetic. No other tracking reports concerning this flight have been found. According to the official record, an eyewitness report filed at Tahoe, California on the morning of March 10, 1999, a TomFan-80 type aircraft, later positively identified as Oceana Flight 140, moving at a speed estimated as supersonic, with navigation and visual display lighting fully operative, appeared suddenly from an alto-cumulus cloudbank and proceeded in a straight vertical dive into the waters of Lake Tahoe, in the Sierra Nevada range, impacting at approximately 12:35 AM. Where the craft had been, and what it had been doing during the intervening twenty-six minutes of supersonic flight since the last APR report, remains a mystery. This flight carried a passenger list of 478 and a crew of 24. There were no survivors.

At the moment when Oceana 140 first exhibited erratic characteristics, it was nearly three o'clock on the U.S. East Coast. At 3:03 a chartered ferry operated by Eastern Consolidated Airways, on the return leg of an excursion from New York to Miami and carrying eight hundred and seventy young women of the Metropolitan Secretarial Society, was executing a routine automated instrument approach to Continental Airdrome on Long Island. This ferry suddenly veered off the base ALS leg, dislocating its course by seventeen degrees southward and climbing nearly three thousand feet in a matter of seconds, colliding in mid-air with a shuttle which was inbound to the Trenton (N.J.) Municipal Airdocks. At best count, 240 lives were lost in this disaster.

Three-seventeen A.M. saw a spectacular four-way 127

collision in the air over Chillicothe, Ohio, involving a zot-car, two heli-buses, and a small air shuttle. Only eight lives were lost as a direct result of this collision, but a large food processing plant and numerous residences along the Chillicothe Strip were destroyed by flaming debris raining down from the disaster in the air.

A few moments later, or at a recorded time of three-eighteen point seven, a landing strato-cruiser sheared off the local-control tower at Boston National and plowed into three smaller passenger craft then loading for various destinations. Death toll: 982.

At 2:48, Central Time Zone, a collision in the approach lanes to O'Hare Serviceport near the old shell city of Chicago accounted for two strato cruisers of the U.S. Twenty-First Century configuration (full atomic) and a death toll estimated at 1,450.

Meanwhile the disasters continued, in a random, non-pattern sequence. At four-thirty, Washington time, a White House aide declared that the President had been apprised of developments and was "watching the situation."

At four-forty A.M., the White House ordered a cancellation of all penetration clearances by foreign flag air-carriers, and at 4:43 a spectacular mid-air collision occured in the air over Washington, the wreckage falling within sight of the White House.

At best count, the two hours and some odd minutes following the first disaster of record saw the destruction of 17 astro-cruisers, 36 air busses and shuttles, 4 large ferries, an indeterminate number of private craft (though estimated in the several of thousands), and something beyond 14,000 human lives.

A news story filed near Kansas City just before dawn in that area noted that "Dr. George Reamer, genius of the electronic age and CATCO at Kansas City"—had committed suicide in the central computer room at that facility, "perhaps mistakenly blaming himself for the chaos in airspace. A KCATO technician, Archibald Gillingham, demonstrated to this reporter the perfect functioning of the automated equipment which controls all air movements in the continental airspace (above 1,000 feet). Gillingham praised his late Chief, saying, 'Dr. Reamer taught me everything I know about this facility. I don't know what we'll do without him. I'm just a technician myself.' "

The news story concluded, "KCATO is
all systems go.
This reporter saw it for himself. So—what is happening in our airspace?"

What was happening in the airspace, it can now be told, was a result of "random transients" deliberately induced in the master brain computer at the Kansas City ATCO— "establishing an electronic parallel in the airpsace's time-space continuum." Whatever that means.

CHAPTER 10

Howard Silverman, White House correspondent extraordinary and national television commentor, peered glumly at his watch, then shook it at Phil Angelo, the wire services man. "What the hell is wrong with old Arlie this morning," he grumbled. "He's been up, I know, since the sky started falling."

Angelo grinned and commented, "You bitch when he's early, you bitch when he's late, and you bitch when he's on time."

"You'd think a man his age would have enough sense to sleep more," Silverman growled. "Now what the hell can
he
do about falling airplanes? You have any idea how many times I've had to stagger around in the early dawn to cover his breathless announcements?"

Angelo's youthful face drew into a thoughtful frown. "You have to admit, Howie, something damned funny is going on."

"Always has been," Silverman said, sighing. "Ever since Arlie moved into the White House, something damned funny is always going on."

"I don't know why you're complaining," the wire reporter commented. "Since Arlie's been in office you've developed the most distinguished name in television."

"Oh hell, I know that. But as for the most distinguished name on teevee, that's a small honor. I'm afraid there's nothing especially distinguishing about television today. And you can thank the old mountain goat for that, too."

"Well now I wouldn't say that." The telephone rang and Angelo scooped it up. He listened for a moment, grunted something unintelligible into the transmitter, and hung up. " Now, as I was—"

"Who was that?"

"Janie," Angelo replied, rolling his eyes and stroking his leg suggestively. "Arlie's on his way down. He's catching some air on the way, walking around by the terrace. We got a couple minutes. You're all set, aren't you?"

Silverman glanced again at his watch. "Ten 'til eight," lie grunted. "She give any clue as to why the twenty minute delay?"

"Yeah. He was waiting for Phillips and Lilienthal. Neither one showed and Arlie has the storm flags flying. So don't cross him."

Silverman's bushy brows came closer together. "The ISC and the African Secretary," he murmured. "He hasn't had (hose two birds together since, let's see . . . hell I can't remember when. You know what, Angelo? Something big is brewing, and it's not just another dry run either. I feel it in my bones. I saw Fairchild here last night, with Mike Winston. Now Fairchild is dead and Winston is canned. I wonder what . . ." His voice trailed away and he lost himself in thought.

"Aw hell, if you're thinking of foreign intrigue, how the hell could they sabotage all our planes like that?"

Silverman stared at his companion for a moment, then replied, "I'm not saying that anything has been sabotaged. But . . . well, hell. No, I don't believe Africa is involved, I'm not saying that. They're too busy fighting one another. No. No, it's something else. Something's brewing. I feel it in my newsman's bones."

Angelo shivered. "Well, don't look so damned smug about it."

"You're a newsman, aren't you?" Silverman replied, smiling faintly.

"Yeah, but I'm a newsman of the Arlington generation," Angelo said, laughing nervously.

"The curiosity of the press is dead, suh," Silverman intoned sarcastically. "Buried beneath the patronage of Ol' Daddy and his Mississippi mud-stompcrs. Listen, Angelo, there was a time when—"

"Hell don't start that again!" Angelo yelped. He moved restiessly out of his chair and fidgeted about from one foot to the other. "Hang yourself if you want to, but don't ask for a swinging partner. Uh, let's intercept Arlie. We can walk back with
him
and maybe get some idea of what the address is about Okay?"

"Okay," Silverman said, sighing. "But he's going to say that little chocolate men are invading us from Alpha Centauri or some place. Wait'n see."

The two men stepped into the hallway and headed towards the door to the terrace, a few hundred feet distant. Before they managed the first ten of those feet, the outside door was flung open and a platoon of Secret Service men came pounding through and down the passageway on a dead run. The leading bodyguard shoved the newsmen back along the hall and into the press room, slamming the heavy glass door on them, then he stood there with arms crossed, his back against the glass. The others ran on past checking doors along the corridor. Seconds later a thick knot of men walked swiftly past, the President in the center of them.

Arlington was looking a lot older than Silverman remembered ever seeing him; the normally granite jaw had gone slack and was almost trembling. The guard at their door showed the newsmen a grim smile, then fell in behind the entourage.

"What in the political hell?" Silverman exploded.

Angelo carefully opened the door a crack and stuck his head through in a quiet survey of the situation. Jane Bryn, a sleek thirtyish woman and the Presidential Girl Friday, walked slowly up the hall, tears streaming from her eyes. Angelo took her by the arm and yanked her into the press arm, eased her into a chair, and went quickly to the water cooler. He brought the water to her and watched

solicitously as she sipped at it.

"What's happened to the President?" Silverman growled.

Jane Byrn slowly shook her head, half-strangling on the water. "I kept trying to get Secretary Lilienthal and Phillips on the telephone after the President left his office. Th-then when I f-found out, I r-ran to catch the President and t-tell him. It's horrible, h
-horrible."

"Well dammit,
what?'

"Th-they were both f-found in b-bed, their ... their ..."

"Dammit, Janie!"

She cried shrilly, "Their throats had been slashed!"

"Holy Joe!" Angelo exclaimed. He snatched at the desk phone, then changed his mind and scrambled for the turret.

Silverman draped a comforting arm about the woman's shoulders, his own face going ashen. Quietly he commented, "Three men, each close to the President, dead in less than twelve hours. I wonder . . . Janie? ... do you feel like walking now? Can we go up and try to contact the other cabinet officers?"

She smiled weakly and gripped his hand tightly. They moved out the door and along the hall in an ever-quickening pace. Somehow, though, Silverman knew that he was on a fool's errand. Somehow he knew that the rest of the cabinet was beyond contact. His newsman's bones felt the poultice of ashes clinging to the skeleton of the body politic. Pre-empted air cubes and open jugular veins, on the surface of things, seemed rather remote one from another. But at least one member of the press in whom curiosity survived found a suddenly-twitching nose and an itch for the truth.

Inanely, it seemed, the words to a childish game floated up out of his memory and he recited them under his breath as he hurried toward the Executive Offices with Jane Byrn.

"Ring around the rosies,

Pocket full of posies,

Ashes, ashes,

All fall down!"

CHAPTER 11

The police crusier careened wildly between two monster tanks, flashed across Leavenworth, and screeched to a halt in the Federal Center parking area. Two uniformed policemen jumped from the car and marched aggressively toward a cluster of soldiers, crews from the tanks which were lined up at twenty foot intervals facing the building.

"You guys nuts or something?" one of the cops said fiercely. "You got the whole goddam town tied up in knots! What the hell you think you're doing? You get those goddam overgrown tin cans to hell out of here!"

Lieutenant James Woodrow, U.S. Army Regulars, stepped from the cluster. "Haven't you heard, officer?" he replied, big teeth flashing against their dark background. "We're taking over this wonderful city."

The cop thrust his jaw forward, trying to get a better look at the big black in the crash helmet. "Sez who?" he snarled.

"Sez us."

Then the cop noticed the American flag decal on the tank commander's helmet. In place of the field of stars was a clenched black fist. His gaze darted to an ensign waving over the rear of the nearest tank; same thing, a clenched black fist. The cop's jaw dropped and he instinctively went
for his gun. The tank commander immediately back-stpped. An automatic weapon chattered briefly from behind him. The two San Francisco cops sprawled to the ground.

"Leave 'em there!" Woodrow commanded gruffly. "Man your vehicles and batten down!" He ran around the line of tanks and climbed aboard a military scout car, an mmored vehicle with a fifty-calibre machine-gun mount. Ouickly donning a headset, he began hurling last-minute instructions to his crews. "It is now H minus twenty seconds," he announced tersely. "You'll hear the bridge go and that's when
we
go. I want concentrated fire on the Federal Center, then take the auditorium and the opera house. Don't one unit leave the station until the whole thing is rubble. You know where to go then, but one last caution. Do not proceed beyond Taylor Street or you'll be rolling into the fire from Telegraph Hill. You won't want to see that mess down there in the hotel district anyway. I'm going up to scout Van Ness and find out why so many cars are getting through. Big Deal One, you're commanding until I get back. Tally-ho boys, and don't start feeling soft about this old city. It's just her face you're lifting, not her soul."