“No need,” Bronson said. “The FAA logged several unauthorized attempts to breach its system coming from Damascus. One of the attempts was successful. The hacker went right for the phony flight plan.”
Bronson bent his head toward his phone again. Storm stared at the top of Bronson’s shaved pate for a moment. “Do you think we’re dealing with idiots?”
“Hmm?”
“Do you really think that people who are smart enough to build a weapon that—”
He stopped himself. Storm figured he was only allotted so many words and so much breath in this lifetime. No sense in wasting either on a man like Bronson.
“Never mind,” Storm said.
If Homeland Security, the TSA, the FAA, the DoD, FEMA, NASA, and untold other federal agencies were all aware of this plan, the terrorists surely were, too. All the people and equipment the FBI had clogging up this little town in Virginia might as well have been actors and stage props. They would not be needed. Not here, anyway.
Storm made a decision and started walking over toward an open field where an FBI helicopter sat idle. The pilot was sitting in the cockpit with the window open, oblivious. He was also paying more attention to his smartphone than anything around him.
Without bothering to speak, Storm reached up into the cockpit. The pilot finally looked at him, more curious than anything. Storm’s hand was traveling for a spot on the side of the pilot’s neck. Storm grabbed, squeezed, held. The pilot made a brief croaking noise, then slumped over.
“Sorry, friend,” Storm said.
Storm quickly boarded the helicopter. He removed the pilot’s helmet and put it in the passenger seat. Storm then unbuckled the pilot’s slumbering body and lowered it to the ground. He closed the helicopter’s cargo door and window, then assumed the pilot’s seat. In front of him was a dashboard crowded with dials, buttons, and switches. He grabbed the flight stick, his thumb naturally finding the trim switch.
An AS550 Fennec helicopter was, fundamentally, similar to an AS350 Ecureuil, which Storm had once flown through a typhoon in the Gulf of Tonkin. He figured flying this one on a balmy day over the Chesapeake Bay would be no problem.
Within two minutes, before anyone from the FBI could figure out why the rotors on the helicopter were whirring, Storm had lifted off and was on his way. The last thing he saw on the ground was a phalanx of stupefied FBI agents running toward him.
He paid them no mind. He had a laser to find.
IT IS A LITTLE-KNOWN FACT that the geographic feature now called the Chesapeake Bay was once a fairly narrow river, back when the world was colder and more of its water was locked in polar ice. And while in this warmer, wetter epoch, the bay is wide enough that a person standing on the shore near Kilmarnock cannot see the other side, it is not so wide that a Fennec Fox can’t get across it rapidly.
Storm tilted the Fennec forward, accelerated to its top speed of 150 miles an hour, and was soon over water. The gas gauge was close to full. The stick felt comfortable in his hands. The chopper responded nicely to his commands.
He increased his altitude to one thousand feet where the flying would be a bit smoother. He figured it would be eight minutes before he was back over land.
He used the time to call someone who might be able to tell him where he was going.
The voice of Javier Rodriguez soon filled Storm’s Bluetooth: “Yo, bro, you don’t happen to know who just stole a helicopter from the FBI, do you?”
“It wasn’t stealing. It was borrowing without express permission,” Storm corrected him. “I’ll give it back when I’m done.”
“From the chatter we’re hearing on the fibbies’ frequencies, you might want to do them a favor and fly it straight to Leavenworth. Because it sounds like that’s where they want to send you right about now.”
“Too bad I’m allergic to Kansas,” Storm said. “They’ll forgive me when I find their laser beam for them and then give them credit. I assume you’re tracking the Mockingbird?”
“It’s on our big screen right now. The only way I could get closer to that plane is if I was on board with a flight attendant serving me pretzels.”
“Good. You got a fix on my location, too?”
“Yeah, I see you. You’re the little funny-looking tweety bird that’s about to get shot down by those F-16s that you should see closing in shortly from your three o’clock.”
“I’ll worry about that in a second. Can you tell me where Mockingbird will be when it’s seventy nau—”
“Check your phone, bro. I already sent you a course correction.”
Storm looked down at his phone and tugged the flight stick until he was heading in the proper direction.
Rodriguez continued: “You’re heading near a little town on the Eastern Shore called Crisfield. I hear they got great crab cakes there. Pick some up for me and Bryan when you’re done, huh?”
“Will do. In the meantime, can you do something about those F-16s?”
“Other than hope that you made me a beneficiary in your will? Not really. Jones is on the line with the air force right now, but so far they’re not interested in anything we have to say on the subject. You seem to have crossed into a serious no-fly zone. They don’t want to hear about anything in the air that doesn’t have their stripes on it. Especially not stolen helicopters.”
“Borrowed. It’s borrowed,” Storm said, aware that a pair of fighter jets was closing in fast above him. “Anyhow, looks like my friends are here. I’ll talk to you later.”
“I seriously hope so, bro,” Rodriguez said.
Storm ended the call and took stock of his situation. A Fennec could be armed, but this one wasn’t. And his 150 miles an hour, which had felt so fast moments earlier, suddenly seemed pokey. The two F-16 Fighting Falcons coming to join him could hit supersonic speeds without straining themselves. And he could see the full complement of sidewinder missiles on their wings.
The helmet was still sitting in the seat next to him. He could hear a voice chattering through the earpiece inside. He got the helmet on in time to make out the voice of what he presumed was one of the F-16 pilots.
“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, identify yourself or you will be treated as hostile.”
“Hostile!” Storm said. “You guys are the ones with the missiles under your wings and I’m the one who’s hostile?”
“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, identify yourself or you will be treated as hostile.”
Storm realized the microphone in the helmet was switched off. He corrected the problem, then said: “I’m actually quite friendly once you get to know me.”
The F-16 pilot did not seem convinced. “November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, be advised you are flying into restricted airspace. Identify yourself immediately.”
“I’m just the orphaned nephew of a poor moisture farmer from the planet Tatooine. Tell Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru I’m not coming home for supper.”
Storm was now bracketed by the F-16s. He could see inside their bubble canopies and look at their pilots, each shielded by the mirrored visors of their flight helmets. They were not looking back at him. They were also not impressed with his knowledge of Luke Skywalker’s backstory.
“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango—”
“Look, fellas, I’m on your team, okay? I’m trying to find a terrorist who shoots down airliners for fun. Cut me some slack here.”
“November-three-niner-zero-alpha-tango, be advised our orders are to get you out of this airspace by any means necessary, including force. Change heading immediately to signify your intent to comply.”
Storm had no such intent. He looked down. He could again see land, both an island off to his left and the more substantial stretch of land that was Maryland’s Eastern Shore. The bay was dotted with pleasure boats and commercial watermen.
He put the helicopter into as steep a dive as he dared. He watched his airspeed indicator climb as his altimeter dropped. He still did not have the advantage of speed over these fighter jets. But by skimming the wave tops he could at least make himself a more difficult target. The F-16s wouldn’t dare go much lower than they already were.