Predators

"Your airplane," he said to Sandy, then he motored back in his seat while he undid his harness. "Come with me," he said to Rutherford, and he took her by the hand, led her aft to the toilets by the forward galley. He pushed her inside, felt her flaccid response, then turned her face to his --

And he slapped her, hard.

He saw the sudden fury in her eyes, the trembling lips of uncertainty, then he bent to her and kissed her with all the passion he could muster. She responded instantly, and as passionately, digging her fingernails into his back.

"You know me so well," she whispered in his ear. "It's like we were born to love one another. I feel it in my bones."

He held her close, then felt her fumbling with his belt, pushing his trousers down. He knew where this was going, felt himself falling over the edge of the abyss, then he was entering her, helping her legs encircle his waist. Her mouth open beside his, he heard her breath mingle with his own, felt all his fear turn to inverted lust, then he put his mouth on hers, driving into her, fear to lust, lust to need, then an infinite release.

"I need you," he heard himself say, a coarse whisper at first, and he felt her shuddering orgasm as he added "I want you."

"I am yours, forever," she sighed, her legs pushing him deeper as they came down.

"And I need your strength, so don't leave me again," he said as he kissed her a few minutes later.

"You need to call Genie," she said. "Warn her, get her headed south," then she went to her knees and began cleaning him with her mouth, taking him in, swirling his need with hers, and a minute later his knees began to buckle, his back arched -- and he felt himself coming undone in her mouth, and he held her head while she cleaned him again, then his hands went out to the walls, holding himself up against all the contradictions he felt flowing through his veins on the way -- into her.

Chapter 23

It doesn't take a brain surgeon to figure out some things, and when I looked at that Acheson kid I could see it all over his face. Mid-30s, in command of an airliner, re-captured by the very same women we thought we'd captured just a few hours before. That Russian girl up there? How did they do it? I told Tate as soon as I got back to my seat, then Liz and Persephone were leaning close, listening to every word that came out of my mouth -- like it was the last thing they were ever going to hear.

Then Acheson comes out of the cockpit with that Rutherford woman, his face set in stone, like anger, only worse, then that bitch. Like she's in heat. Lips puffed up, breathing deep, then he's in that bathroom and the walls start shaking. Like the fucking starting gate at the Kentucky Derby. Then he walks out of there a minute later and the front of his slacks look like Monica Lewinsky's little blue dress. Then she crawls out of there, cum running down her legs and looking like she'd gone ten rounds with Ali. I swear, I'd do anything to be thirty years old again.

Then Tate's looking at me -- like 'what the fuck?' -- as in: what's going on up there?

Then Liz leans over, tells us to be cool, some kind of dominance game was going down, that Acheson was taking control of Rutherford, and it hit me then. We're like dogs and cats, the birds and the bees. We're nothing but hormonal drives and dominance dances, not a helluva lot different than Frigate Birds on Midway Island, or gorillas in an African mist.

Anyway, Liz starts looking at me all goo-goo eyed and hands me a Viagra, and I'm like, 'Really? World War Three is breaking out, and you want to get laid?'

Then I'm thinking about it. Yeah, you know, if the human race wants to go out with a bang, well then, what the fuck. Why not get a woody and duck into the head, join the Mile High Club? Then Sephie is looking at me, her lips all puffed up and I'm wondering, like, if there's room for three in there...and will my heart be able to take it?

But really? Why the fuck not?

Know what I mean, Jelly-Bean?

+++++

Acheson climbed back in his seat, noticed the SELCAL light chirping away and slipped on his harness, then put on his headset. He scanned the panel, then he flipped the circuit and listened to the message -- through the headset this time. Headquarters had activated Case Epsilon. War, probably nuclear war, was considered imminent, and all pilots were now ordered to land at the nearest open airport. He listened to The Lord's Prayer coming over the circuit, then shut it down and took off his headset.

"What was it?" Rutherford asked.

Acheson shook his head, bent over the keypad on the Flight Management Computer and entered 'LPLA' -- then watched data stream onto his PFD, the Primary Flight Display. A prompt came up: "Execute?"

He sighed, hit the button on the keypad, and the aircraft banked hard to the left, then settled onto the new course.

"Lajes?" Beach asked. "Why?"

"We're two thousand miles from Bermuda, six hundred from the Azores. We'll lose GPS signal any time now, they'll be encrypted. There's a storm off the east coast, it'll sock-in Bermuda by the time we get there, and without GPS I'm not sure we can shoot an approach there."

"Why will we lose GPS?" one of the ninja said.

"It's SOP when launch of ICBMs is considered imminent."

"Oh sweet Jesus," he heard the girl whisper.

"Yeah, if you're the praying sort, now's the time to get on your knees and pull out your rosary. Sandy, write down our coordinates, the coordinates for Lajes and start a DR plot, the faster the better."

"Okay," she said, her hands shaking now.

He scanned the horizon, saw something far off to the left. "You see that?"

"What?" Sandy said.

"Ten o'clock, a little high."

She peered around the center-post, squinting just a little and he smiled, then turned back to the panel.

"You know, I see three aircraft, maybe four..."

An alarm sounded, then another.

"Alert! Collision imminent, turn right!"

Acheson toggled the autopilot and pushed the yoke down and to the right.

"Something's not right," he said as he re-engaged the autopilot, then the alarm sounded again.

"Alert! Collision imminent, turn right!"

He looked out the windshield again, looked aft as far as he could, then he smiled, relaxed -- as four F/A-18F Super Hornets pulled up alongside the port side of the 777. He signaled 121.5 to the lead pilot and switched COMM 1 to the emergency frequency.

"American 3-8 Heavy to Diamondback Lead."

"Lead here. What's with all the evasive maneuvers, Captain?"

"Collision alert sounded. Sorry about that."

"You headed to Terciera?"

"Yeah. How many of you are there out here?"

"Whatever's left of the air wing from the Papa Bush. We had about half my squad up when she was hit. Low yield nuc, torpedo we think. Subs in the Atlantic were ordered to MFD about twenty minutes ago."

"What's MFD?" Rutherford asked.

"Missile Firing Depth."

Another alarm hooted, and Acheson looked as the GPS SIGNAL LOSS banner flagged on his PFD. "Fuck," he whispered, then he toggled his mic, "Okay, D-Back lead, we just lost GPS. You have encrypted sets in those birds?"

"Yup. I suppose you want to follow us?"

"You got enough gas?"

"Yeah, we just tanked. Another section is tanking east of here. You military?"

"Air Force, reserves now. C-17s."

"Rank?"

"Major."

"Well hell, look who just assumed tactical command?"

"Swell. Okay lead, why don't you scoot up ahead, leave a couple back here with me."

"Alright, 3-8 Heavy. Out."

He turned to the ninja, looked them over and shook his head. "You know, where we're going, if you get off this airplane dressed like that you're likely to be run out to the nearest wall and shot."

The girls looked at each other and nodded, then peeled off their suits.

"What about me?" Rutherford said."

"What do you mean?"

"What are you going to do about me?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. What do you think I should do with you?"

She frowned. "I think you should try to get in touch with Miss Delaney."

And he smiled...which, he could tell, seemed to shock her.

Chapter 24

Genie Delaney left the University of Texas Southwestern Medical School campus, driving on Harry Hines towards downtown, then north on Oak Lawn, and then down Maple to Turtle Creek. She drove along the creek, looking at the dry winter grass along the waterway, the bare oak and pecan trees, their bare limbs hanging over the street, and she decided to drive up to Preston, to look at the big pecan tree -- still strung with Christmas lights -- and she saw they were on now, and smiled.

Her phone chimed as she stopped at the light, and she saw a new email from Ben in her in-box, but it was a huge file so she decided to wait until she got home to open it. The light turned and she passed mansions on her right, then the country club, and she turned there, on Mockingbird Lane, and drove down to the SMU campus and turned left on Hillcrest. A few minutes later she turned on Milton and, a block later, into the driveway at Ben's old bungalow.

She looked at the file and decided to open it on the desktop machine in his study, so gathered her book bags and lab coat and walked to the front door, fumbling with her keys as she walked across the crunchy grass. She went through the house to his bedroom, hung her lab coat in the closet, then went to the study, fired up his Mac Pro and sat, waiting for it to load and open. She went to Mail and opened her account, then opened the email.

It was a huge video file, and she double clicked it, waited for it to open.

She saw a darkened hotel room, with Ben sitting in a chair -- and she leaned forward, looking closely at the image -- then she saw a woman walk out of the bathroom, dressed provocatively in garters and stockings and heels -- and little else.

She paused the file, saw this was a fifteen minute long recording and could guess what was on the rest, so the closed the video file then put the email in trash -- and deleted it.

They'd been expecting this, at least she had -- and for months. They had to compromise him, like they thought they had The Duke, and despite both their misgivings, she had counseled him to let them do it. It would be safer, she reasoned, if they thought they had something on him -- especially something as innocuous as this was. She looked at the time -- yes, guaranteed to make her call him late at night -- over there -- the better to get him off-balance, and keep him that way.

She picked up her phone and opened the Cryptor app, dialed Ben's line and waited for him to pick up.

"Hello."

"It's me. I got an interesting email, on your account."

"The video?"

"Yup. Was she good, at least?"

"Not bad, but not good, either. Generic."

She laughed. "God, how many women have you laid?"

"Laid? I don't know. I've only loved a couple, though."

"What about Rutherford? She's dropped off the radar here, reports say she may be in Brussels."

"That figures. The President spoke at NATO headquarters today, and he's going to Iceland tomorrow. Something feels weird to me, Genie. Like there's some kind of storm brewing. A big one. Different, too."

"Like we haven't been down this road before. Yeah. I've been picking up on that all day long."

"Remember, it's a game, a chess game, Genie. We have to try to guess their next three moves."

"Then she's going to try and get to you."

"And she has to know we're thinking that, too. So she's already thinking of counter-moves."

"Doesn't matter, Ben. Just the fact she's so compromised by her desire is enough. It's her Achilles heel."

"Yeah."

"Ben? Just don't let it be yours."

"I hear you."

"So, if things head south, you still want me to go...?"

"To Alpine, yes."

"Okay. Be careful, Ben. I love you."

"I love you, too. More than you'll ever know."

+++++

Acheson thought about that call, then looked at the elapsed time on the FMC, at their current fuel state. They'd land at Lajes with less than half their load used, so close to the aircraft's maximum allowable landing weight. He ran his rough mental computations through the computer once again and nodded his head, then looked at the F/A-18s off his wingtip. The pilots out there seemed focused, and he wondered what was going on "out there" -- in the real world beyond this floating cocoon.

Then the closest pilot held up his hand and signaled -- 1-2-1.5.

"3-8, go."

"Back-4 here. About 250 N-M-I. When do want to start your descent?"

"'Bout now would be good. Keep it about .83 Mach down to flight level 1-8-0, then 270 knots to 12,000. Once we have the field in sight..."

"Diamondback Lead to 3-8 Heavy."

"Lead, 3-8, go."

"Lajes reporting Cat 2 ops at this time in heavy thunderstorms, visibility down to a quarter mile, wind out of the east at forty knots. You got the freqs?"

"As long as they haven't changed them in the past month."

"Roger. Be advised we intercepted four CONDORs east of the islands, there are some Russians trying out for an Olympic swim team down there now, but my guess is there will be more, and soon. We have AWACs coverage now, and they're picking up FULLBACKs over the Portuguese coast at this time. Westbound at 900."

"Okay, so call it an hour."

"Yeah. The Stennis and Teddy Roosevelt are now on station with a CAP over the island, so two battle groups are now mid-Atlantic. They won't take Lajes without going nuclear."

Acheson sighed, considered their options, then decided. "Okay, if you can stay with us to the localizer, stick around in case Ivan shows up, we'd appreciate it."

"Back-4, out."

Acheson flipped the radar to maximum range, saw a line of thunderstorms ahead and to the east, then he set up the descent in the computer. "Localizer set to 109.9," he said, then he called on the radio: "Lajes approach, American 3-8 Heavy, 150 out, request permission to land, I-L-S runway 15."

"3-8 Heavy, clear runway 15, ceiling 800, visibility 1 mile, wind 1-4-0 degrees at 38, altimeter 28.90. Be advised we are under an air raid warning at this time. Seventy, repeat 7-0 Sukhoi 34 inbound, potentially 20, 2-0 heavy transports behind this wave."

"3-8 Heavy, got it."

"Localizer to 109.9," Beach confirmed.

"Beacon to 341."

"341."

"TAC-DME to 109X."

"109X, got it."

"Enter 12.5 DME and 3-5-hundred, 6.5 DME and 2000."

"Okay, 12.5 DME to 3500, and 6.5 DME to 2000."

"D-Back four, 3-8 Heavy, cutting power now," he told the lead Hornet, and he eased off power, popped the speed brakes as he looked at the VOR/TAC needle and DME readout go active. "Okay, starting a gradual turn -- now," he told the Hornet as the needle started to center in the HSI. He cut power to 80 percent EGP and watched speed bleed as he increased spoilers. "Flaps 7, now," he said as he cut power a little more.

"Flaps 7."

He switched to NAV2 and watched the LOC flag pop in the Flight Director, then GS ARM popped in the window and he turned the Glide Slope button on the AP panel to ACTIVE and watched as the autopilot locked onto the airport's ILS. He cut power again, dropped flaps to 15 degrees, then engaged auto-throttle. He looked up then, saw the wall of cloud ahead, then back down at the instruments.

"3-8 Heavy, if lead elements of Russian strike force break through, they'll be here in 2-9 minutes. You are clear to land, and you'll need to clear the runway as quickly as possible."

"Any place in particular?"

"Air Force facilities are still at the northwest part of the field. You might want to keep as far away from there as you can."

"Any other commercial aircraft at the terminal?"

"One KLM, one Air France. We have a BA Speedbird en route, about two hours out. There is no room at the ramp, but we'll have stairs and buses meet you on shut down."

"3-8 Heavy, 12.5 out."

"3-8, gusts to 4-3 knots now."

"Say heading?"

"Sorry, still 1-4-0 degrees."

"Okay." He turned to Sandy. "Flaps 25, arm spoilers."

"Got it."

"3-8 Heavy, 6.5 out."

"3-8, clear to land."

"Okay. D-Back four, thanks for sticking around."

"Got it. Seeya."

"Flaps 33, gears down."

"Thirty three, three down and green."

"Okay, I got the lights." He saw the strobes leading to the threshold and put his hands on the wheel and throttles, his feet on the pedals. "Wipers to MAX."

"MAX."

He followed the autopilot's movements with his hands and feet, and as soon as the mains hit he switched off the AP, then went to reverse thrust and started to brake. He saw all the buildings were dark, the KLM A340 and an Air France A330 were as well.

"I don't like this," he whispered. He switched COMM 1 to 121.9, to ground control, and he called. "Ah, Lajes Ground, can you get fuel trucks and a cart out to me? I'm going to shut down by the fire department buildings. I'd like to gas up and get the hell out of here, if you don't mind."

Beach and Rutherford looked at one another, then at Acheson.

"Where are you thinking of going?" Rutherford asked, her hands shaking nervously.

"Ah, 3-8 Heavy, negative, base commander advises you get your passengers to shelters. Buses should be there momentarily. There are two more waves of Russian strike fighters inbound, up to 120 new aircraft."

"Yeah, tower, that's why we want to get out of here!"

"Sorry, 3-8, commander advises we don't have the fuel to spare right now, not for civilian OPS."

Acheson shook his head, muttered under his breath: "Goddamn two hundred million dollar airplane is gonna get shredded, you dickwick..." then he turned to Beach. "Let's shut her down, get everyone on the buses."

He flipped on the intercom, switched to CABIN and spoke: "Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Acheson here. We're going to get you off this airplane now, into buses, and these will take you to air raid shelters. There is a massive Russian strike force headed this way, fighter aircraft and troop transports, and the facilities here are low on fuel. So are we, for that matter, so this is the end of the line -- for now. Effective a few hours ago, civil aviation in the United States was grounded, and this aircraft was ordered by headquarters to divert to the nearest open facility and land until hostilities are over, or until it's safe to resume our flight. What we do know right now is that Russian forces are in the process of moving into Europe, but that's all we know. Assuming this aircraft survives, and that fuel is allocated, we'll try to get you on to your destination when that becomes possible. There are four buses pulling up on the left side of the aircraft right now, and you need to get in them as quickly as possible. Again, there are Russian attack aircraft inbound, so let's move quickly and in an orderly manner, and we may just get out of this alive."

"Shut-down checklist complete," Sandy said.

"Okay, get the door, then get down there and help get people moving to the buses."

"I'm staying with you," Rutherford said quietly, then she turned to her two guards. "You go, just blend in as best you can. If we survive the night, then you..." But Rutherford broke down then, her dreams at an end, and she sat in the jump-seat and waved them on. "Go now, and be careful," she whispered.

Her two ninja left, followed Sandy Beach out the cockpit door, and Woodward came in, with Tate and the two girls standing just outside the door, looking in.

"Ben?" the old cop said, his voice full of concern.

"Yeah?"

++++++

But I could see it in the kid's eyes. He was lost now, full of concern for his aircraft, for his passengers, and even for that Rutherford dame. She was stuck on him too, like white on rice. And the thing is, I could tell he was into her, too. Kind of odd, you know, now that I think about it, but that's the thing with human beings. You just never can tell.

He was a good looking kid, too. Kind of like Clark Kent, if you know what I mean. A real straight arrow. Think Jimmy Stewart and you're on the right track, but with a touch of Tyrone Power. Tall, skinny, kind of a self-deprecating guy. Quiet, radiating strength sitting up there in the cockpit, a man fully the sum of his parts. Cop and pilot, you know what I mean? And women? Maybe that was his kryptonite.