The car was less than fifty meters from the jet, close enough, Kismet knew, to ignite the fuel in its wing tanks if enough explosives had been packed into the station wagon. The vehicle was a fast-moving target, difficult to strike even in the best of circumstances. To make matters worse, he knew that in the unlikely event of a direct hit, the anti-tank missile would trigger the car bomb, accomplishing the very thing he sought to prevent. All of those factors had flashed through his mind in the instant he fixed his sights not on the advancing vehicle but on a stationary spot on the runway directly in its path.
The warhead slammed into the paved surface before Kismet could relax his finger, and gouged a large crater in the soft asphalt a mere whisper ahead of the car’s arrival. What the missile lacked in pyrotechnic splendor, it made up for in raw kinetic energy. The shockwave swept underneath the station wagon, lifting its front end off the runway and tossing the entire vehicle backward like a sheet of paper in a windstorm.
In that instant, the car detonated in a brilliant supernova. The chassis swelled like an overripe fruit then burst apart in a spray of metal fragments, some still recognizable as automobile components. The shockwave from the secondary explosion radiated outward in a near perfect sphere of force to hammer against the defenseless plane. The wings shuddered and the airframe twisted and popped as a wall of air, hard as steel and moving at the speed of sound, slammed into the fuselage. The jet shifted sideways, pushed by the invisible hand of the blast, and its tires left long streaks of rubber on the runway. An instant later a wheel from the car crashed into the stabilizer fin, followed by a spray of shrapnel that tore into the aluminum skin of the aircraft, peeling back the thin sheets. The port wing gave an agonized groan as a long crack began traveling its length. Kismet saw jet fuel weeping from the underside of the damaged wing and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. The explosion that followed however was not what he was expecting.
“Are you insane?”
Despite all the fury of gunshots and explosions, that strident exclamation was the harshest noise he had heard since arriving. He turned slowly to find, not surprisingly, the copper-haired woman who had preceded him into the terminal.
“Did you even think to look behind you?” she continued, her scream of fury like fingernails on a chalkboard. Kismet noted absently that the woman was speaking English, fluently judging by the few words he had heard, but faintly accented.
Yep, French.
He countered her ferocious mien with one of calm dispassion. “I checked. It was clear.”
“You almost incinerated us.”
Kismet understood her distress and tried to be sympathetic. To a non-combatant, the plume of fire erupting from the launch tube must have seemed quite threatening. But he had checked before triggering the device. Moreover, his decision to angle the shot into the tarmac meant that most of the rocket’s exhaust had been directed upward, over the head of anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the backfire zone.
Outside, the last fragments of debris from the suicide bomb vehicle clattered to the ground. The plane now bore significant scars from the encounter, but could conceivably fly again with extensive repair. Aside from the sole occupant of the vehicle, there appeared to be no casualties directly resulting from the terrorist act.
Beyond the battered aircraft, the tide of the ongoing gun battle had shifted once again. The attacking force, anticipating only success, had suffered a morale shattering defeat. Their return fire trickled to nothing as they abandoned their positions and retreated toward the city. As Kismet gazed across the tarmac, he saw a squad of olive drab military vehicles charge across the open expanse in pursuit.
The red-haired woman remained in front of him, seething with misplaced anger, but said nothing more. Kismet blinked at her, then attempted a compromise. “I’m sorry I frightened you, but you weren’t really in any danger. Not from this at least.” He proffered the spent missile tube like an olive branch.
The woman made a guttural noise that might have been a curse then thrust her hands at his face before spinning on her heel and stalking away.
He lowered the missile launcher, shaking his head in disbelief, and pitched his voice so that there would be no mistaking his ire. “You’re welcome.”
Two
As the battle shifted away from the airport, those inside the terminal building began to emerge from their defensive cocoons. Many of the non-combatants, desperately needing something to do in order to restore their dignity following the terrifying incident, raced to assist Kismet in the effort of lifting the fallen section of wall or began administering first aid to the dozen or more victims of shrapnel injuries.
Only moments after the confrontation with the woman whose hair color evidently matched her temperament, Kismet once again found himself under fire for having saved the day.
“Who the hell fired that AT-4?”
The voice belonged to a man, but was no less strident. Kismet straightened from his labors, turning to face a man wearing desert-pattern fatigues with a brown oak leaf sewn into the collar. He checked the nametape over the man’s right breast pocket before answering. “I did, Major Harp.”
The officer gaped at him in disbelief, momentarily losing his voice. It was evident from his manner that the man had expected to find one of the soldiers under his command responsible for what must have seemed like a reckless act. “Who the hell are you?”
“Nick Kismet.” He extended his hand ingenuously.
“A goddamned civilian?”
Kismet lowered his hand with a sigh. “I guess so.”
“I don’t know who you think you are, but this is not some playground where you can come live out your Rambo fantasies.” Kismet got the impression that Harp had used this speech before, practicing and refining his imprecations for maximum effect. The rant continued unchecked. “This is a goddamned war zone, mister. You civilians are to keep your goddamned heads down. I will not have my soldiers put in harm’s way because you people want snapshots for your fucking scrapbooks and war stories to impress women at cocktail parties…”
“Major!”
The torrent of rage and blasphemy instantly evaporated with that single, sharply spoken recognition of rank. Harp stiffened to attention, his eyes no longer fixed on Kismet, as the person who had called out stepped into view. Like the major, this man also wore a khaki camouflage battle dress uniform with an oak leaf on his collar, but his insignia was black: a lieutenant colonel.
The newcomer scrutinized Kismet, then turned to his subordinate. “At ease, major.”
Harp relaxed from the disciplined posture; it was evident that his fire had gone out. The colonel turned back to Kismet. “You’ll have to forgive Major Harp. He doesn’t understand that any man who has earned the Silver Star deserves a little respect even if he no longer wears the uniform.”
Harp’s eyes widened at the revelation and a flush of embarrassment crept over his sand-abraded cheeks, but he kept his silence.
Kismet raised an eyebrow. “Not very many people know about that.”
“Well, I do.” The lieutenant colonel took his hand and began pumping it vigorously. “Jon Buttrick, Mr. Kismet. A pleasure to meet you. And from what I’ve heard, we all owe you a debt of gratitude. If that car had gotten any closer, we’d be cleaning this terminal up with a bulldozer.”
Kismet risked a satisfied grin. “Frankly, colonel—”
”Call me Jon, Nick.”
“Jon. Frankly, I’m glad someone appreciates that I knew what I was doing.”
The officer chuckled. “I’m sure they’ll all figure it out once they hear about it on CNN.” He nodded to a gathering knot of reporters who circled like vultures, waiting for an opportunity to move in and tear him apart with their questions.