Security: "Sir, we are secure to 400 meters beyond critical perimeter."
The Plant Manager was starting to get a grip.
Plant Manager: "Good.… Good Chief. Ah… maintain that perimeter and do whatever you need to keep intruders out."
Security: "Yessir!"
Plant Manager: "And Chief…"
Security: "Yessir."
Plant Manager: "Patch the air control officer’s audio into our com link up here in the control room. And for God’s sake, keep your eye on that damn plane."
He looked warily at NRC. The Manager knew he sounded more, ah… collected than he had moments ago. Could he hold it together through this thing?
Then he spoke to NRC.
Plant Manager: "Don’t worry. We’ve got everything covered."
NRC looked at the Plant Manager with a mixture of pity and contempt.
NRC: "Covered? You’ve got shit covered!"
The Plant Manager staggered in shock.
NRC: "Your primary cooling water supply from the river is in serious jeopardy. Your backup system is non-functioning and we don’t yet know how long it will take to get it fixed. Security patrols are creeping all over the grounds ready to shoot anything that moves. Your fuel pool will overheat and melt down if the river level drops further. And a goddamn unknown aircraft is in the air within a few miles of where we are sitting — its intentions unknown, but assumed to be bad!
"Exactly what have you got covered?"
The Plant Manager’s head sank until his flabby chin rested on his chest.
Air Controclass="underline" "This is air control. The unknown aircraft is at an altitude of 1400 feet, bearing one-seven-eight degrees. Heading toward Wisconsin. At this height, he might not clear the bluffs."
FBI was on the phone.
NRC: "Patch him into the com link with all of us, security, operations, air control… everybody that matters. We don’t need anyone dropping the ball because of a communications failure."
FBI: "What the hell’s going on down there? The Corps says the dam at Lock Number 3 is probably out and they expect River Pool 3 to drop to near zero — even in the barge channel. Have you got the plant safely secured?"
NRC: "Not by a damn shot." He repeated the situation to FBI.
Air Controclass="underline" "The unknown aircraft has cleared the Wisconsin bluffs and is now on heading zero-niner-zero degrees at an altitude of 2900 feet. Approximate airspeed is 220 knots."
FBI: "Have we been trying to identify this craft or raise it on the radio?"
Air Controclass="underline" "Yessir. Continuous automated requests for communication and warnings to stay more than two miles from the plant. The aircraft transponder is inactive."
FBI: "Does that mean that this aircraft, whose identity and intentions are totally unknown to us, is headed along the Wisconsin border, roughly parallel with the river, at a ground speed of over 200 miles per hour, and is closing on the plant?"
Air Patroclass="underline" "Yessir, it does."
FBI: "What is the distance from the aircraft to the plant?"
Air Controclass="underline" "Most direct vector… approximately six miles, sir."
FBI: "Security. Make damn sure your air gunners are ready! I think you’re gonna need ‘em."
Security: "Yessir!
NRC and the Plant Manager stood and looked at one another in disbelief. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening.
Air Controclass="underline" "The unknown aircraft has altered course. Its heading is now zero-two-zero degrees at an altitude of 2700 feet and descending. Approximate airspeed is 230 knots. It’s headed right toward the plant. Current distance… five miles. At present speed, aircraft will be on site in approximately 50 seconds."
NRC and FBI together: "Shit!"
CHAPTER 61
The plane had leveled off. But just as I was regaining my footing, we again banked into a left hand turn. Once more, I was flattened against the right, cage-like side of the crawlway. I guessed we were now heading upstream along the Wisconsin border, somewhere above the bluffs.
I had to work fast.
The B24 leveled again. I forced myself back into the one knee, one foot position, and with some effort, stood the two spilled containers upright.
Reaching one hand into each pocket, I produced the 24-ounce bottles of Diet Dew. After the burning mineral spirits had dehydrated the air, I needed to make sure there would still be water available to ignite the potassium. Diet Mountain Dew wasn’t water. But it would work fine.
I laid one bottle of Dew on its side in each open steel can, directly on top of the oily potassium ingots.
Now, for the moment of truth.
With my left hand, I pulled the two road torches from my pocket. I was pretty sure the mineral oil fumes wouldn’t explode. And I knew the flames wouldn’t spread nearly as quickly as they would with gasoline. But there was a lot of spilled oil between me and my exit strategy — the rear hatchway. And my parachute might also be soaked with oil. These torches burned really hot — around 1400 degrees Celsius. So I hoped this would work, and that I would still escape, quite literally, with my skin.
Whether I would survive or not, at this point I was committed. I had no other options. Countless lives depended on me bringing this bomber down before it could reach the nuclear plant.
I removed the safety caps from both flares, exposing their ignitors. I struck the first flare on the rough base of the second. It sparked to life, sputtering and spewing drops of burning hot phosphorus all over the place. I didn’t have time to check the status of the fire that I knew was growing around me.
Acting as quickly as I could, I lit the second road flare from the flame of the first. Then I dropped one flare into each open canister and dove out the rear of the crawlway. There were streams and puddles of burning oil all around me. My left shorts’ leg had caught fire. But it hadn’t yet had the chance to spread. I snuffed the pant fire with my hands.
I searched for my parachute in the now well-lit cabin. As luck would have it, one of the plane’s lurches had flopped the parachute off the wall and onto a bench seat. As far as I could see, the chute remained oil-free.
The fire was spreading everywhere.
Just as I tried to slip my arms into the parachute, the plane banked left once more. The turn launched me into the starboard wall — but I stayed on my feet, and was able to keep the parachute dry.
We must be close to the plant by now. Probably near or over the river valley.
The plane leveled again briefly, then nosed gently downward. We were starting to descend. The pilot must have seen the fire by now. But he had no real options either. He would try to complete his mission before the plane blew up.
I stumbled to the rear hatch and found the release. Rotating the handle counterclockwise, I swung the hatch up and into the plane. At least with the plane in a descent, the burning oil tended to run toward the front of the fuselage, instead of toward my exit.
Knowing that the Diet Dew bombs could detonate at any moment, I put one hand on each side of the hatch and flung myself out of the plane, headfirst into the blackness.
When John saw the flames, he knew he had a serious problem. He just couldn’t figure out what had happened, or anything to do about it.
Had the mixture become unstable and spontaneously combusted? Had someone sabotaged the plane? Had a bullet hit the potassium? It didn’t matter. His only option was to strike the plant before the plane exploded.
He executed his final turn and made a beeline for the plant. If it was God’s will, he would make it there before the plane blew up. What else could he do? He concentrated on the job at hand.