She keyed the radio. "Cherry Point tower, Bonanza Seven-Seven Hotel Delta numbers for the break."
"Bonanza Seven-Seven Hotel Delta cleared for the break midfield."
"Seven-Seven Hotel Delta."
Still descending, Jackie crossed the runway numbers at six hundred feet. She waited until midfield and snapped the airplane into knife-edge flight at four hundred feet. After 180 degrees of turn, nailed exactly on four hundred feet, Jackie eased the power back and simultaneously rolled wings level.
"Very nice."
"Thanks."
Slowing, Jackie lowered the flaps and reached for the landing gear handle. She paused and then lowered the wheels. A split second later, a deafening explosion from under the engine cowl horrified them.
"What the hell," Scott exclaimed.
The engine suddenly shook and clattered, threatening to tear itself from the engine mounts.
"Pull the power back!"
"I've got it at idle!" Jackie said, steeply banking the plane toward the runway. "Tower, Seven Hotel Delta has an emergency!"
"Hotel Delta is cleared to land on any runway. You have fire—
there's fire coming from under your engine!"
Scott pulled the mixture knob to idle-cutoff while Jackie turned the fuel and ignition off. The engine shook a couple of times and then quit running, as the propeller froze in place.
"It looks like your nosewheel fell off," the controller said, hitting the alarm to roll the crash trucks.
Jackie kept the turn going while Scott scanned the twisted engine cowling. It was shaking and vibrating from the wind whipping it back and forth.
"Keep the speed up!"
"I'm trying to."
The controller keyed his radio. "You have flames and black smoke pouring out of your lower cowling."
"Copy," Jackie snapped.
"You're lookin' good," Scott said, and glanced at the landing gear handle. There was no indication that the main wheels were down. "Tower, are our mains down?"
"They're down, but I can't tell if they're locked."
"Hotel Delta."
Jackie was desperately trying to stretch the glide, but the parasitic drag caused by the canted engine and mangled cowling was forcing her to keep the nose unusually low.
"It's going to be close," she said. "Real close."
"You're doing great — you're a test pilot now."
"Yeah, what a way to start."
Nursing the Bonanza toward the runway, Jackie was still banking the plane with only a few feet of altitude left.
Scott cinched his seat belt tight. "Hang in there."
"Uh-huh — this is going to be an attention getter."
The left wingtip scraped the runway. She made a play for the centerline. Without warning, the blazing engine ripped loose when the main wheels thudded onto the runway.
Scott braced himself for a sudden stop.
Tumbling under the left wing, the engine tore the left landing gear off. There was a wrenching, agonizing screech of metal as the airplane skidded on the twisted wing.
Jackie tried using right brake and right rudder to keep the Bonanza on the centerline, but the drag of the left wing swung the airplane perpendicular to the runway.
"We made it! You did it!"
"Yeah" — she sighed—"terrific."
Yellow flames licked around the leading edge of the left wing, then erupted in a searing conflagration. The heat was intense. Jackie and Scott clawed at the buckles to free themselves from their restraining harnesses.
"Let's get outta here!" Jackie said.
Scott wrestled the door open and they scrambled out of the wreckage. Seconds later, the first crash truck arrived.
They sprinted to the right side of the runway.
"How're you doing?" Scott asked.
"Okay, all things considered."
They stopped to watch the crash crew extinguish the blazing inferno in a matter of seconds.
"Scott?"
"I know what you're gonna say."
"That was a bomb," she said angrily. "It was rigged to go off when the landing gear was lowered."
Scott stared at the charred, smoking remains of his prized A-36 Bonanza. He swore under his breath and then looked at Jackie. "Hey, partner, at least we're okay."
"Thank God." Her emotions had changed from basic survival mode to open hostility. "Playtime is over for these bastards."
"Yeah, we're going to have to get our environment under control — like today at the latest."
Two firefighters began walking toward them.
"We'll charter one of Greg's Lears," Scott continued, "minus the pilots, and continue to march."
A fellow Marine Harrier pilot and best friend since Desert Shield and Desert Storm, Greg O'Donnell was now a civilian who owned a thriving jet charter company. The growing business featured two pristine Learjet 35As and a single Lear 36A.
"Great idea, one of your best. Just one minor question."
"What would that be?"
"Are you type rated in Lears?"
"Typed and current." Scott glanced at his destroyed plane. "Greg gave me my latest check last month."
"What are we going to do about security?" Jackie asked. "At this rate, our luck is going to run out if we don't get aggressive — like right now."
Before replying, Scott thought about the blanket offer Hartwell Prost had made to them. If the president and his national security adviser want results, we have to use some of Uncle Sam's finest assets.
"We're going to get fangs-out aggressive. I'll call Hartwell and we'll have some SEALs assigned to guard the Lear 'round the clock."
She smiled approvingly. "I'd say that should do it, and you need to tell him what has happened here — don't need the Feds snooping around."
"If you'll entertain our reception committee," Scott said, then activated his satellite phone, "I'll contact Hartwell and Greg."
"Yeah, what a grand entrance."
Scott managed a smile. "Look at it this way — we're legends in our own time, at least at Cherry Point."
"Oh, for sure. This will be a great story for the cocktail circuit."
Chapter 9
After dealing with the postaccident reports, including the unpleasant task of notifying his insurance company, Scott received a return call from Hartwell Prost. Scott had barely finished his conversation when he and Jackie were ushered into Maj. Gen. Byrd Grunewald's office.
Grunewald, an unsmiling man with facial scars and a crew cut, was the commanding general of Marine Corps Air Bases Eastern Area/MCAS Cherry Point. His manner and rugged features belied a dry sense of humor and an absolute devotion to the Marines under his command.
"Come in," Grunewald said, walking around his desk and shaking hands with Scott, then Jackie.
"Have a seat." He motioned toward two chairs in front of his desk. "I have to tell you, that was quite an arrival."
Grunewald returned to his chair and sat down.
"Yes, sir," Scott said in a subdued voice. "Most of our landings aren't quite that spectacular."
The general pointed to a long table behind them. "I believe that piece of airplane belongs to you."
Jackie and Scott turned to see the Bonanza's blackened and mangled nosewheel and strut lying on a blanket on the table.
"My ordnance diposal unit tells me a bomb did that."
"Well, sir," Scott said, "we were as surprised as everyone else — believe me, it wasn't pleasant."
"I have no doubt."
Scott focused on the general's eyes. "I'm just going to have to be a lot more careful during my preflights."
Grunewald shifted his gaze to Jackie, then back to Scott. "I don't know who or what you're involved with and I don't want to know. My orders came straight from SecDef, which, I don't need to tell you, is extremely rare. However, after watching your spectacular arrival, I have to know if I need to increase base security while you're here for training."