Plant Manager: "If it comes anywhere near this plant, shoot it down! Damn it! Find a way to shoot it down!" The Manager’s voice was cracking as much as his sanity.
CHAPTER 57
Other than keeping his head down, John tried to ignore the firefight outside. Some of the explosions made it difficult. But he needed to keep going. Everything depended on it.
He slid the throttles forward in unison. The engines revved higher. He struggled a bit to keep them in sync, avoiding unnecessary vibration and uneven thrust. Whenever he failed, a throb of harmonics emanated from one side of the plane or the other, and he would make minute adjustments to the throttle levers.
The plane was on track, rolling faster and faster down the middle of the runway. Finally the throttle slides were at full open. John glanced back and forth between the runway and the land speed indicator dial. 80 mph. 90… 100… 110…. The plane was pulling to port now, as the operating manual had predicted. He turned the yoke a bit to starboard to compensate. 115… 120… 125.
He pulled back slightly on the yoke, still turning right just a little. He could feel the front of the plane becoming lighter, the front wheel barely on the concrete. He pulled back harder on the yoke. The front wheel lifted from the runaway. More pull on the yoke. The back wheels left the ground and the vibrations changed instantly from the wheel clatter on the runway to the creaking and popping of the metal plane as it strained against the increasingly strong airflow.
So much for the rescue. We were racing down the runway on takeoff. The best laid schemes….
I was down to my final option. For now, I just needed to be sure I wasn’t seen until after we were airborne. Then it wouldn’t matter.
I crouched inside the dark, rumbling, metal hollow of the ‘flying boxcar’ and waited for my chance.
I steadied my breathing. In and out.
Relaxed my muscles.
Now, focus on what you need to do.
For some reason, as I opened my mind, relaxed my muscles and controlled my breathing, a song seeped into my head: "This train is bound for glory, this train."
I couldn’t remember when I had last heard that song. Why now? There didn’t seem to be any glory in this flying boxcar’s future. And at least one of the people on board was bound for Hell.
Maybe two.
CHAPTER 58
As he strove to come up with a miracle plan, Gunner thought he heard engine sounds coming from the direction of the river. He lay down flat on the concrete behind the hangar. Crawling on his elbows, shotgun in hand, he slithered to an edge of the tin building. Peering around the corner, he could see nothing at first. But the engine sounds were getting louder.
Then he saw them.
What the hell?
Barely distinguishable through the dissipating smoke, and dimly illuminated by the dwindling flares, two silhouettes seemed to rise from the waters of the river itself. Whatever they were, they were large, they were black, and they were headed this way.
As the spectral images approached, Gunner could hear the increasing growl of powerful engines, the whine of high-velocity turbines, and the rhythmic thumping of helicopter rotors. Finally, he could make them out.
They were Apache Attack Helicopters. Their distinctive shape and signature nose-down attitude were unmistakable. But Gunner saw no markings to indicate whether they were friend or foe — only their menacing blackness.
Turning his head over his shoulder, Gunner called to the commander.
"Have you got choppers coming?"
The commander was seated on the concrete, with his back straight against the metal hangar. He was staring out into the darkness.
"No such luck," the commander managed.
"Well… somebody does. And if it’s the bad guys, we’re gonna be dead sooner than we thought."
Trapped behind the last row of hangars, dozens of police officers waited in silence as the Apaches closed in on their position. There was nothing to do but wait. Their fates were now in the hands of others.
By this time, all gunfire had ceased. A deadly calm had fallen over the airport grounds. It seemed as though all combatants knew that the resolution to this battle would come from the air — and probably swiftly.
Moving at a steady clip, the Apache gunships roared past, sweeping directly over the place where the officers were hunkered down. Airborne sand and pebbles stung the faces of deputies and BCA alike as they crouched behind waste barrels and hangar supports. The Apaches couldn’t have been more than a hundred feet up.
After flying over the nearly defenseless police force, the pilots deftly maneuvered the gunships, first directly behind, and then flanking, the law enforcement positions. They were hovering now, gun turrets twitching robotically beneath their cockpits.
Questions raced through Gunner’s mind. Where had the helicopters come from? Whose side were they on? And how had he ended up in the middle of this smoldering slice of Hell?
The Apaches began to nose forward — first toward, and then past, the hangars where law enforcement had made their last stand. The entire corp of police officers, Gunner included, breathed a collective sigh of relief as the aircraft passed them by.
The gunships continued their advance, moving slowly toward the terrorists, held aloft it seemed, by sheer force of will.
It was then that the beleaguered police force first heard the thunder of the Apache’s 30 mm chain guns — a sound that dwarfed the comparatively feeble twitter of the terrorists’ weapons as they returned fire. Enemy bullets sparked off the Apache’s heavy armor plate, ricocheting in all directions.
But these were true war machines — built specifically to repel the kind of attack the terrorists had mounted at the airport.
The gunships remained in formation, continuing inexorably forward, their chin-mounted chain-guns ripping through metal, wood and brick. For a while, return fire from the Kalashnikovs was intense. But the Apaches remained undamaged.
Since the helicopters were drawing all enemy fire. This would have been a perfect time for the police to beat a hasty retreat. But no one could move. They were frozen by the chilling presence of the deadly war machines, and the otherworldly scene unfolding before them.
In a matter of minutes, it was over. All ground fire had ceased.
And the Apaches’ weapons, too, fell silent.
The awestruck police officers continued to watch the hovering gunships — unable to speak, or even to comprehend the spectacle they had just witnessed.
One by one, the officers stood.
At first, there was silence in the group. Then someone started to applaud. Others joined in. Soon hats were flying in the air, while cheers and whistles erupted from the former dead men.
Although the shooting was over. The gunships continued circling the airport for several minutes more, using their onboard technology to confirm complete destruction of the enemy.
"Chief Deputy Gunderson," Gunner’s radio crackled. "This is Blackdog One. Do you read me? Over."
Gunner was still in shock. The entire scenario at the airport had been surreal. With some fumbling, he managed to unclip the radio from his belt.
"You got Gunderson," he replied, trying to sound composed. "Over."
"Chief Deputy, we confirm three hostiles down, but are unsure if any might still be hiding in the buildings. We show nothing obvious on infrared. But you’re going to need to send your team in to flush out any stragglers. Over."
"That would be our pleasure, sir. But may I ask to whom I am speaking? Over."
"Captain Michael Turner, U.S. Army Special Forces. Please proceed with cleanup, sir, while we fly cover. Over and out."