V Plague (Book 11): Merciless (2 page)

“System calculates eleven minutes, twenty-three seconds to impact,” she reported.

“Release authorized,” Packard said.

Jessica sent the command, a few moments later confirming that the weapon was on its way to the target.

“Any other indications of preparations to launch?”  Packard asked the room in general.

Several different operators answered that they weren’t seeing any attempts by the Russians to retaliate for the previous Thor strikes.  He shook his head, not understanding why only one missile was being prepared.

On his order, the view of the Russian soldiers scrambling to launch their weapon was transferred to one of the larger screens.  Everyone watched as the truck-mounted launcher slowly raised the nose of the missile. 

“Can you guess at a target?”  He asked.

“I’ll try, sir,” Jessica answered.

She opened a fresh window and began running calculations.  As she worked, the crew began inputting targeting coordinates into the missile’s launcher.  The Admiral checked the countdown clock, wishing the Thor rod would fall faster.  Seven minutes remaining.

“This is just a best guess, sir,” Jessica said, sitting back and looking up at Packard.  “But based on the initial trajectory, it appears they’re targeting us.”

“Only one?  That doesn’t make sense,” Packard said in surprise.

“Maybe, sir.  I’m sorry but it’s very difficult to calculate with the missile still on the launcher.  All I can do is extrapolate from the initial direction it is pointing and the angle of the launcher.  I’m not familiar with the weapon and do not know its range or capability for in-flight trajectory adjustments.”

“Actually, sir,” the Commander interjected.  “It does make sense if they aren’t aware we’ve identified this launch site.  With our degraded surveillance capabilities, if it wasn’t being watched, that missile could be in the air and nearly on top of us before we detected it.”

The Admiral fell silent at that point.  Rooted in place, he intently watched as the Russians completed readying the missile.  A check of the clock showed less than two minutes remaining to impact.

One of the technicians completed his work, closing the access panel that protected the launcher’s computer interface with the missile.  He turned and sprinted away with two other soldiers, disappearing down the ramp beneath the ground.  A single man remained, and he reached out with a large key. 

Inserting it into a lock on the trailer, he turned it 180 degrees.  Several sets of restraining arms folded away from the body of the weapon.  He had just completed the final step in preparation for launch.  Turning away, he began running for the tunnel, stopping and looking directly up before he reached the shelter.  To the people in Pearl Harbor it seemed as if he was looking directly into the satellite camera.

“What’s he doing?”  Someone asked quietly.

“The Thor rods are hypersonic,” the Commander explained without taking his eyes off the screen.  “It’s much closer than the shockwaves it’s creating, but he still hears it coming.  It probably sounds like the atmosphere is being ripped apart.”

The man suddenly looked over his shoulder, then sprinted for the underground shelter.  Vapor and smoke began to appear, obscuring the launcher from view.  An instant later, as the Russian reached the safety of the tunnel, a brilliant bloom of fire appeared and the missile streaked off the rails of the launcher.

A second later, the Thor rod arrived.  There was a brief, intense flash of light as it struck the ground and penetrated the surface.  Traveling at greater than six kilometers per second, the 18,000-pound tungsten rod released all of its kinetic energy into a single, massive explosion.

Jessica widened the view as dust and debris filled the air at the target location.  A scale embedded in the display indicated they were viewing a two hundred kilometer area of the Russian steppes.  The concussion from the detonation raced out from the point of impact, picking up more dirt and blasting it into the atmosphere.  A secondary explosion was briefly visible, then all that remained to be seen was the top of a dirty brown, mushroom cloud as it boiled skyward.

“Confirm the missile was destroyed by the shockwave, sir,” a console operator reported to the Admiral.

“Seaman, you have authorization to release on any location where it appears the Russians are attempting to launch.  We may not get lucky a second time and be able to deliver a rod on target before they get a missile in the air.”

“Yes, sir,” Jessica acknowledged, fully understanding the level of trust Packard was placing in her by pre-authorizing the utilization of the weapon at her discretion.

2

The Russians started going ape shit several hours into the flight.  I had no idea how long we’d been airborne.  I’d been picked up by a Russian helicopter and flown to an airfield where I’d been transferred to a hulking Antonov jet.  Once aboard and in flight, the exhaustion from the past few days caught up with me.  Between the warm air from the cabin heater and the lulling monotone of the engines, I’d fallen asleep. 

I had been awakened when there was a loud announcement over a speaker bolted to the ceiling of the plane.  I didn’t stand a chance in hell of understanding the rapid fire, emotionally laced Russian voice.  Looking around at the four Spetsnaz soldiers guarding me, I could tell from their expressions that something significant had just happened.  But good or bad?

Good, for the US, I surmised a moment later when one of them leaned out and slammed the stock of his rifle into the side of my head.  The high-impact plastic opened another cut on my already savaged skull and blood began running down my neck and underneath my collar.

“What’s the matter, Ivan?  Bad news from home?” I grinned, earning a big right fist to the face. 

More blood.  In and on my mouth.  You’d think by the time I’d gotten to be as old as I am, I’d have learned not to poke the bear.  Well, sometimes that smart-ass teenager that’s buried deep inside just has to come out.

The only officer present, other than the flight crew, barked at the soldiers.  They had been getting to their feet, probably intent on beating me even more senseless than I already am.  But the Major’s tone of voice didn’t leave any room for questions and they resumed their seats and settled for shooting me dirty looks. 

Not the kind of dirty looks you might get from the bully in the locker room or on the playground.  No, these were full grown, very dangerous men.  They didn’t have anything to prove.  When they stared at someone like this, it only meant one thing. 
I am going to fuck you up so bad your own mother won’t recognize you
. 

I probably should have looked away and not antagonized them further.  That would have been the adult thing to do.  The smart thing to do.  But I was on my way to a kangaroo court in Moscow, after which my very public and painful execution would follow.  I wasn’t feeling very grown up or intellectual at the moment.

Leaning forward to the limit of the shackles that held me to a seat, I spat a mouthful of blood on the deck of the aircraft.  I’d hoped to get lucky and splash some of it onto one of them, but today wasn’t my day for luck.  I settled for grinning a smile, flashing my blood stained teeth.

I had no idea what the announcement had been.  Maybe two of the words had made sense to me, and one of those was
American
.  But they were riled up.  Pissed.  The Spetsnaz officer had pulled on a headset and was shouting into it over the roar of the engines.  I assumed he was on the intercom, speaking to the pilots.

The four guards had quit giving me the evil eye and were attentively watching their commander.  They leaned in his direction to hear one side of the conversation.  And it was spirited.  For an instant, I wished Irina was with me to translate.  Then I came to my senses and was thankful she wasn’t.  If she had been on this plane, she’d be on the way to the same fate awaiting me.

The Major shouted some more, then suddenly spun and ducked his head to see through a window on the starboard side of the big Russian plane.  I turned my head to see what he was looking at as the four Spetsnaz leapt from their seats and rushed to the right side of the aircraft.

I had no idea what altitude we were at, but expected it was somewhere close to forty thousand feet.  Well above the clouds.  The moon was nearly full and beneath us I could see an alien landscape of white cotton candy.

Closer, much closer, an American F-18 was flying in formation with us.  Its navigation lights flashed brightly, and it was clearly visible.  Battleship grey paint with muted, black lettering.  Navy.  What the hell was going on?  Not that I wasn’t happy to see them, but what exactly did they think they could accomplish?

The Spetsnaz Major pushed away from the window and approached me, drawing a Makarov pistol.  Uh oh.  Aw, fuck it.  Better to die this way than on the gallows in Moscow.

“Hi, Ivan,” I said, earning another blow to the head from a Russian made weapon.

“You shall be quiet!”  He roared in English.

He still wore the headset, the coiled cord stretching across the cabin to a jack mounted on the bulkhead that formed the flight deck.  For almost a minute, he shouted into it in Russian.  Then silence.  I thought about saying something else, but honestly was a little woozy from three blows to the head.

“American Navy Pilot,” he finally said.

I looked up, thinking he was trying to talk to me but couldn’t form a proper sentence in English.  His eyes were locked on the F-18 and he held a small flashlight in his free hand.  He was rapidly pressing the button on its butt end, the lens aimed at the window to my right.  He was trying to get the fighter jock’s attention.

“Can you see me now?”  He asked several moments later, moving the Makarov until the muzzle was pressed against the top of my skull.  “Then you will go away or I will shoot this man.  This is the soldier you want and I will kill him if you do not comply.  Do you understand me?”

I didn’t think it was a good idea to move my head, so I cut my eyes hard to the side.  The jet was still there, the pilot having repositioned so he could see through the window.  I wished I could hear his side of the conversation with the pissed off Russian.

“Now!  Or I will shoot him in the…”

There was a sudden roar from the front of the Russian plane and the deck violently tilted to the side.  The pistol stopped pressing against my head as the Major and four soldiers were thrown across the cabin.  Then the amusement park ride started in earnest.

The Russian pilot pushed the nose over at a steep angle and from the sounds of the engines he’d shoved the throttles to the firewall.  He began turning, corkscrewing as we raced for the clouds beneath us.  The whole plane was vibrating and everything that wasn’t securely strapped down was being tossed about like a small boat in a typhoon.

Bodies crashed to the right side of the cabin, then a particularly wild maneuver sent them flying straight up to slam into the ceiling.  They were instantly dropped back to the deck, none of the five men continuing to move on their own. 

I fared better, but only because I was chained to a seat that was bolted to the deck.  It was still a hell of a ride, my stomach somewhere up above as the plane continued to descend.  We were enveloped in clouds now. 

For the first few seconds, I could see nothing other than white cotton pressed against the window, but the moonlight didn’t penetrate far.  Quickly, there was only darkness at the window.  Now that we were in the visual cover of the clouds, the pilot stopped trying to audition for a job as an aerial stuntman.

The roar from the flight deck was growing louder by the second.  I didn’t know what was happening, and was startled when the cockpit door slammed open and one of the pilots came running into the cabin.  He stopped short when he saw the bodies on the deck, his eyes passing over me as he surveyed the carnage.

He only hesitated for an instant before diving for a locker.  Tearing the door open, he pulled out two bulky packs which I recognized as parachutes.  Oh shit!  We were going down and the two pilots were getting ready to bail out! 

“Hey!  Unlock me!”  I shouted, moving my arms to bang the chains securing me.  “Take these off!”

He didn’t even pause.  Didn’t so much as give me a look.  Rushing back into the cockpit, he slammed the door behind him.  Panic set in now and I looked around the cabin.  I didn’t know what I was hoping to see.  I just wanted to find someway to get loose before several tons of Russian steel crashed into the ground.  Or the sea.  I had no idea where we were.

Ten feet away, one of the Spetsnaz soldiers lay dead or unconscious.  He was a Senior Sergeant and the squad leader.  He was also the one who’d used a key to unlock my shackles and reattach them to the seat when I’d been transferred from the helicopter to the jet.  And I’d watched him slip that key into the breast pocket of his uniform.

He might as well have been ten miles, or a hundred, away.  I was thoroughly and professionally restrained.  Each ankle was held by chains looped around the braces that attached the seat to the deck.  My arms were locked to a chain that encircled my waist and went around the back of the seat.  I had about three inches of play.  And that was it.  I couldn’t stand, and it wasn’t even possible to reach the locks.  Even if I had the key.

There was a loud bang from the flight deck that caused the entire aircraft to shudder.  My ears popped.  The pilots had just blown the door so they could jump and the plane had instantly depressurized.  The temperature quickly began dropping despite there being an interior door between the cabin and the open door.

I had no idea how long I had.  At the moment, the plane was probably on auto-pilot so the men could jump.  But jumping from in front of the wing of an aircraft is a really bad idea.  Generally, one of two things will happen. 

You enter the slipstream when you jump and are slammed into the leading edge of the wing.  About half the bones in your body are broken, if you’re lucky.  The wind rips you away from the point of impact and you tumble to your death, physically unable to deploy your parachute.  Or, you get sucked into an engine.