Edge of Tomorrow (34 page)

She laughed when she said it.

“It wasn’t an easy decision, but …”

“Of course it was! You made the right
decision! I’m just teasing you. The highjacking won’t wait, but I
will,” she said.

“I’m glad to hear that! When we get back,
we’ll spend all day together,” he said, running his hand inside her
bra.

“I was also thinking, Hatch, that maybe you
would feel better if Shirley was on the Weapons console. She is
much more experienced. I could go into the airliner with Bruno.
You’ll have to agree I’m trained for that!”

“Not on your life! I don’t even want you
taking this risk at all! I should refuse to let you go!”

She removed his hand from her bra and turned
around to face him.

“You know you don’t have a choice. You’re
short-handed even with me going. I did my job last time, and I’ll
do it this time, too!” she exclaimed, putting her arms around his
neck.

“I know that! That’s not my concern. I just
keep exposing you to danger!”

“It’s my choice, but I do wish Sara could be
there. It’s her procedure. Now, shut up and kiss me! It’s time to
get dressed,” she ordered.

He pulled her to him and, while their tongues
dueled, he ran his hand down over her flat stomach and into the top
of her bikini panties, over her pubic hair and into her crotch. Her
tongue became more frantic in its search for his. She did not make
him remove his hand.

She broke the kiss, and gasping for breath,
panted, “You are making this harder than it needs to be. We really
have to get dressed!”

He removed his hand and gave her a peck on
the forehead.

“You’re right. I apologize. I couldn’t help
myself. Let’s go save that airliner so we can get to more important
things! First, I have to call the President and tell him to hold
off on any action for now. I don’t need a U.S. skirmish with Cuba
getting in our way.”

Shadow-5, Over Cuba

Saturday, August 11, 2001

12:55 A.M.

With the invisible Shadow-5 hovering at 5,000
feet, its crew had watched the highjacked airliner land at Jose
Marti International Airport in Havana. The 757 had taxied back to
the take-off position at the end of the runway before shutting down
the engines. The Shadow-5 crew had been monitoring the tower’s
voice channels and could hear clearly the chatter between the pilot
and the person with authority in the tower. The pilot had said that
the highjackers demanded to be refueled, and wanted an Auxiliary
Power Unit hooked to the aircraft so they could use the A/C,
radios, and lights without running down the batteries. They also
ordered food and drinks to be delivered to the aircraft. The
discourse was in English.

By 12:55 A.M., the food had been delivered,
and the fuel truck was pulling away. Shadow-5 was still hovering at
5,000 feet over the highjacked 757. All console screens had been
switched to night-vision mode and the scene below them had an
eerie, green cast.

About 300 yards to the left of the 757, some
100 Cuban soldiers stood at ease in four ranks. Several military
trucks carrying search lights were positioned around the area,
lighting up the aircraft and the surrounding tarmac. Several
hundred civilians and media people jostled each other restlessly,
waiting for something to happen. A television camera van had its
camera panning the aircraft and the crowd, no doubt giving the
world a live account of the situation.

“I wonder where they’re goin’ next,” drawled
Smitty.

“No where, if we do our thing right,”
answered Hatch. “I wish those lights weren’t so bright.”

Syd had the left screen of her tri-screen
console displaying various Defensive System parameters. The
parameters she glanced at the most often were the skin status and
the radar sweeps from external sources. She still remembered the
tension they all experienced when they lost invisibility over Iran.
It would be nearly fatal if it happened during their hover over the
757.

Her middle screen displayed local weather
parameters from the Triple Eye Communications weather satellite
system, and the rightmost screen displayed the green world below
Shadow-5. As expected, the Cuban authorities were being quite
cooperative with the highjackers, since they wanted nothing to do
with this international incident.

From his copilot’s seat, Hatch surveyed the
scene below on his console. There was a high layer of clouds, so
there was no moon, which pleased him. He switched his audio channel
to one that was set up to communicate with Sara, who was standing
by in the library war room at Klaus Haus.

“Sara! We’re over the target,” he said.
“Search lights illuminate the target. Essentially no wind. Cloud
cover at 20,000 feet, no moon.”

“It would be better if you had some wind and
noise to cover your approach,” she answered. “You said earlier that
they were at the end of the runway. That means you could kick up
some dust devils. Any indication that they are leaving?”

“Not yet. I hope not. This is our only shot
at them,” he answered. “We’re not fast enough to follow them
anywhere if they takeoff.”

“The only thing in your favor is darkness.
Even with those search lights, you should have a dark background.
Do they have any news choppers in the air? That would be perfect
cover for you—noise and wind created by another chopper,” Sara
advised.

“No, just a news van. Hang on, Sara.”

He switched to intercom and said, “Syd, do
you have any aircraft, especially choppers, anywhere in the
area?”

“Hold a sec,” she said.

She switched her center screen to search
radar and checked all targets that she was picking up. She had a
bogie at 45,000 feet, 500 miles per hour—probably an airliner
inbound to Miami. A stationary target was 15 miles away, out over
the water at 2,000 feet.

That could be a chopper. If it is, I wonder
what it’s doing out there.

She switched her audio channel to the
civilian channel and heard chatter in Spanish. She had not spoken
Spanish in quite awhile, and they were talking too fast for her to
pick up much.

“Carlos, this is Syd. Could you switch to
channel 47 and tell me what they’re saying? They’re speaking too
fast for me.”

“Sure, Syd. Hang on.”

Syd told Hatch she was checking on a bogie
and to standby.

Carlos listened for a couple of minutes, then
said, “That’s a conversation between a news chopper from
Miami—Channel 7—trying to get permission to come into Cuban
airspace and film the highjacking. The Cubans are saying no
dice.”

“Thanks, Carlos. Did you hear that, Hatch? I
have a target about 15 miles off the coast. That could be the
Channel 7 chopper.”

“Thanks, Syd. How’s the skin holding up?”
replied Hatch.

“Still in the green, thank God!” exclaimed
Syd.

Hatch went back to Sara and explained the
situation.

“That chopper would give you the environment
you need. Too bad the fucking Cubans won’t cooperate!” spouted
Sara.

“I have an idea! Maybe some arms can be
twisted,” replied Hatch. “I’ll call you back.”

He took his Blue Phone out of the pocket on
his left thigh and hit the speed dial number for the President of
the United States. When the phone was answered immediately, Hatch
said, “This is Bob, Mr. President.”

“Hello, Bob. The highjackers are on the
ground in Cuba,” said the President.

“I know, sir. There is a possibility of
recovering the aircraft without casualties if I could get your
help. There is a Channel 7 news chopper out of Miami off the coast
of Cuba right now trying to get permission to come into Cuban
airspace and cover the highjacking, but the Cubans won’t allow it.
I was wondering if you could twist their arms—in the interest of
the ongoing normalization talks—and get them to allow it,” said
Hatch.

“Where do you get your information? I know
nothing of this news chopper. But assuming you’re right, how can
this help the situation, for God’s sake? It sounds to me as if it
might complicate things,” blurted the President with irritation in
his voice.

“You must trust me, Mr. President!” said
Hatch. “Do you want this problem solved? Or do you want the problem
back in your lap?”

“No! No! I’m just so tense over this, and I
really don’t know who I’m trusting to handle the situation.
However, you seem to have good information—and I have no good
options. How can I help? Tell me what I can do.”

“Call—or have the appropriate people call—and
convince the Cuban government to let that news chopper go hover
over the area and take pictures, report the event. This must be
done quickly, or the highjackers may takeoff for parts unknown. My
only chance to help you in this situation is right now!”

“Very well. I may have to give them something
in exchange,” grumbled the President.

“If you want to save that plane-load of
people, and your
document
,
make it work, sir!” snapped Hatch with sarcasm.

Hatch disconnected, not a happy man. He hated
politicians who were afraid to make a decision!

“Carlos, keep listening to that channel with
the chopper. Keep me informed if anything changes,” said Hatch.

“Wilco, Hatch.”

Syd monitored the position of the chopper on
her search radar screen. It had moved a few miles closer, and then
had become stationary again. All of a sudden, it started moving
toward their position at a speed of 250 miles per hour.

“Hatch,” announced Carlos, “you’re not going
to believe this, but the Cubans are letting that news chopper come
in and cover this fiasco.”

“They’re heading this way, Hatch,” confirmed
Syd. “They’ll be here any minute. Also, my infrared sweep shows
heat on the runway. They’re starting the engines on the 757!”

Syd looked up from her screen and swiveled
her chair so she could see Bruno and Shirley buckled into the
chairs at the rear of the aircraft. They were dressed in light
gray, specially-designed HASMAT suits. They had silenced pistols on
their right hips. Their helmets sat at their feet next to the
backpacks that contained the oxygen they would breathe once they
were in the highjacked aircraft.

Hatch’s voice came over the intercom, “Suit
up, people, it’s a go! We’re going down to take a look. With that
chopper hovering over the Cuban soldiers, and the 757's engines
running, we’ll never get a better shot. We have to get them before
them takeoff!”

Syd unbuckled and stood up, as did Shirley
and Bruno. Syd helped them put on their backpacks. Then she fitted
their helmets on, connected the hoses to the backpacks, and checked
the seals. They tested their communication systems and declared
themselves ready. They sat back down, as did Syd.

“Five hundred feet,” announced Smitty.
“Nobody is pointing guns at us, so get the hatch open, Carlos.”

Hatch and Carlos had a schematic of the 757
on their screens with the appropriate spots marked. Hatch guided
Smitty to the first location, the drill point, and Smitty slowly
settled Shadow-5 over the airliner. Carlos stood next to the trap
door he had opened and could see the 757 slowly approaching. His
laser equipment was strapped to the floor next to the opening in
the floor. He found the spot where he was supposed to drill the
hole for the television snake.

“This is Carlos. Hold it right here! Take her
down five more feet. There! Hold it!”

“Make it short and sweet, Carlos! Someone
might see a flash of light when you turn on the laser,” warned
Hatch.

“No problem. I’ll drop the soft collar—block
the light,” replied Carlos.

He unfolded the soft, black cloth collar that
was attached around the perimeter of the hatch. This shield was
designed to block the light of the laser in situations like this.
Carlos then took his pistol-gripped laser and burned a hole 7/16
inches in diameter in the skin of the 757, then a second hole in
the ceiling of the passenger cabin. He quickly ran a flexible
tubular device into the holes and into the cabin. The interior of
the plane appeared on Hatch’s and Carlos’ screens, and on Syd’s
rightmost screen. As Carlos carefully positioned the camera on the
end of the snake and slowly rotated it 360 degrees, they could see
that the curtain was open between tourist and first class. It was
possible to see one of the highjackers near the front of the plane,
and another in the middle of the tourist class cabin. Both held
machine pistols, but no explosives or hand grenades were visible.
Neither seemed to be holding a deadman’s switch.

“There’s probably at least one more in the
cockpit with the pilots,” said Hatch.

Bruno and Shirley were behind Syd watching
the slowly panning image.

“I say go for it, Hatch,” opined Bruno.

“I agree. Gas ’em, Carlos,” agreed Hatch.

Carlos removed his TV snake and ran a
flexible tube into the hole. The tube was connected to a pump that
was attached to a canister of CX3 gas. He turned on the pump and
started counting backwards from twenty. Smitty held the chopper
steady, breathing shallowly. When Carlos finished his count, he
turned off the pump and withdrew the tube. He reinserted the TV
snake for a quick look. Everyone whom they could see seemed to be
unconscious. Syd discovered that she had been holding her breath
and had to gulp for air.

“OK, seal the hole, Carlos!” said Hatch.

Carlos withdrew the snake, pushed a wad of
putty-like material into the hole and zapped it with his laser
welder.

“Done! We have 10 to 15 minutes max,” said
Carlos.

“OK, we’re moving back to the entry point.
Stand by,” said Hatch.

Smitty moved Shadow-5 slowly back down the
fuselage of the 757 until he reached the designated area. At that
moment, Shadow-5 lurched upward about five feet.