BRAINRUSH 02 - The Enemy of My Enemy (9 page)

“Bad words!” Josh shouted. “Bad, bad, bad!”

Tony responded immediately, swerving the Highlander back toward the plane. In the rearview mirror, Jake saw Snake’s pickup kicking up dust as it tore across a grassy sleeve between the taxiways, homing in on the lead van.

Becker reached through the console and offered Jake a 9mm semiautomatic.

“Keep it. If I need that, it’ll be too late,” Jake said. His eyes focused on the plane ahead. “Bradley, as soon as we stop, I want you to get the children and Max out of the car and ready to board.”

Becker holstered the pistol and readied his rifle.

Jake spun the Jeep around the front of the plane. The wide-eyed pilot stared open-mouthed from the cockpit. Jake braked hard to stop the Jeep in front of the port jump door, which was open. Becker rushed out and got into a defensive position behind the Jeep, his rifle trained on the approaching vans.

Jake abandoned any concerns for his heart condition. He was out of the Jeep and inside the cabin of the plane so fast that its ten occupants, geared up for a group jump, had barely enough time to register their shock.

Jake shouted over the muted roar of the plane’s props. “Drop your chutes, helmets, and goggles, and get out of the plane immediately.”

The men and women looked at one another with expressions leaving little doubt that they thought Jake was crazy. One of them—apparently the jumpmaster—started to speak. “Listen here—”

“You heard the man!” Tony interrupted, his bulk filling the doorway. His MP5 was pressed into his shoulder; its muzzle tracked the line of skydivers that filled the inward-facing row of seats. “Now!”

The divers jumped to attention. Hands scrambled. Gear spilled to the floor. When the first of them dropped to the tarmac, he beelined toward the terminal, away from the approaching vans. The others rushed after him.

 The pilot watched over his shoulder from the cockpit and spoke rapidly into his boom mike. Jake stepped forward and yanked the headset off him. “You too, pal. Sorry.” As the man hurried to leave, Jake added, “Keep your head down and steer clear of the hangars.” 

Jake slid into the pilot’s seat and fastened the shoulder harness. He scanned the instruments and placed a hand on the throttle. Outside, Snake’s pickup shot directly at the speeding vans. The Mexicans were challenging the terrorists to a deadly game of chicken. Jake knew Snake. He’d die before he budged from his path.

Hoorah
.

At the last possible instant, the vans swerved away in either direction. Snake’s pickup shot between them like a cruise missile. Jake saw flashes from both windows as Snake and Papa let loose with their assault rifles. Jake could imagine their death-defying cries of victory.

One of the vans veered away too sharply. Its top-heavy profile caused it to lift onto its outer wheels. For a fraction of a second it just hung there, speeding at sixty or seventy miles an hour into the turn. But then the startled driver apparently slammed on the brakes—the last thing he should have done. The front wheel locked and the momentum whipped the vehicle onto its side. It left a trail of sparks as it slid across the pavement.

“Go!” shouted Becker as he launched himself into the rear of the plane. He cradled the dog in his arms.

Jake jammed the throttle forward and released the brakes. The plane jerked forward in response. He angled for the runway, accelerating quickly.

Marshall slipped into the copilot’s seat, out of breath. “You ever flown one of these?” he asked.

“Uh-uh,” Jake said. “You better strap in.” He focused on his takeoff roll.

The remaining van hadn’t given up yet. It was approaching fast from the plane’s starboard front quarter, bouncing across the grass that abutted the runway. Jake watched in frustration as he calculated speeds, angles, and distance. There was no way he could reach takeoff speed in time to avoid the suicide collision.

“Crap!” Marshall shouted. “They’re going to ram us!”

“The hell they are,” Jake said. Instead of steering away from the van, he turned the nose directly at them. The plane shuddered as the wheels left the pavement and spun onto the grass.

“Oh, no,” Marshall muttered. He swept the harness over his shoulders and cinched it tight.

 “Hang on tight, everybody!” Jake shouted. He glanced at the instruments.

Fifty feet…

Twenty…

He jerked back on the stick. The plane vaulted over the van. The bottom of the starboard landing gear clipped the van’s windshield. Jake jerked the stick hard to the left, smashing his foot on the rudder to keep the right wingtip from dipping into the ground and cartwheeling the plane.

 The van passed beneath them; the plane dropped back to the ground and accelerated. The parking area was less than a hundred feet ahead, filled with tied-down aircraft. Jake slapped his palm against the throttle, making sure the powerful engine had every ounce of fuel it could handle. Though he’d never piloted a P-750, he knew it was touted for its abilities to perform where other planes cannot.

Sweat dripped down his brow. Rows of aircraft filled the windscreen. The speed indicator inched upward. At the last possible moment, Jake yanked the stick to his chest and the plane leapt into the air, clearing the vertical stabilizers of the parked aircraft with only inches to spare. He banked the plane starboard to avoid the double-tall hangars behind the lot. The stall-warning buzzer filled the cockpit. Jake lightened the load on the stick and the warning lights flickered out. The plane swept abreast of the control tower’s bank of windows. The controller behind the glass was screaming into his microphone as he shook his fist above his head.

It took a moment for Jake to realize that Marshall had wailed through the entire event. He sucked in a long breath and gawked out the side window at the receding van.

“What the hell are we going to do now?” he shouted over the roar of the engine.

Jake worked the controls to keep the plane above stall speed while they climbed.

“Shit!” Marshall gasped, his palm pressed against the Plexiglas window. “Flashes from the van!”

Jake jinked the plane from side to side, thankful for the responsive controls. A staccato of metallic plunks signaled a few lucky strikes from the ground fire.

Francesca screamed.

God, no!

“Sweet Jesus,” Marshall said. He unstrapped and rushed to the back.

Jake dove the plane behind a row of commercial buildings skirting the east end of the airport—beneath the van’s sight line. The aircraft picked up speed as drivers on the street below swerved and braked at the sight of an airplane screaming toward them less than a hundred feet off the ground. In the distance Jake saw a column of police cars and emergency vehicles racing up the boulevard. Their emergency lights flashed as they carved a serpentine line through traffic.

With miles of congested traffic to his left, and the Palos Verdes mountain range to his right, Jake didn’t hesitate. He pulled the P-750 into a turn up a ravine that led into the mountains. He allowed his training to take over as he banked back and forth up a twisting network of forested ravines and high-end horse properties. He turned off the transponder and flew the aircraft as close to the ground as possible. Radar was their enemy. 

Another part of his brain was numb with fear for Francesca. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Marshall and Tony blocked the view. Wind from the open jump door swirled around them as they worked over someone on the portside seats. Jake gritted his teeth and returned his gaze forward.

Everyone would have been better off if he had just died months ago from the brain tumor, he thought. Instead, the goddamn freak accident in the MRI had cured his cancer while giving him mental and physical abilities that were the envy of one of the top terrorists in the world. His life had spiraled out of control—like an F-16 in an unrecoverable flat spin. But there was no ejection seat to save him, to pull him out of the inevitable crash that would obliterate him and everyone he loved. It seemed that no matter how desperately he tried to live a normal life, he was destined to play out a role that put him dead center in the middle of a terrorist confrontation. And if that wasn’t enough, the grim specter of the alien pyramid increased the stakes a billionfold, with nothing less than the survival of the human species at stake. He shook his head in disgust at the irony of it all. If he had simply died, the entire world would be a safer place.

Jake bit off his concern. He needed to fly the aircraft.

The plane crested the peak and Jake pushed the nose downward. Hovering close to the ground, he steered a route that would avoid pockets of hillside homes on the windward side of the mountainous peninsula. The vast expanse of the Pacific stretched out in the distance before him, sparkling under the morning sun.

Jake dove the plane toward the coastline. As the airspeed passed through a hundred thirty knots, he felt a shimmy through the controls. The plane yawed to starboard as if it were out of trim. The sensation worsened as the speed increased.

He eased off the throttle. The shuddering disappeared as soon as the speed dropped back to a hundred twenty knots. The gear had been damaged by the impact with the van and the undercarriage was probably a twisted mess. Under different circumstances, he’d do a fly-by at the tower or request the aid of another aircraft in the area to get a visual confirmation of the extent of the problem. Neither was an option. He’d have to assume the gear was toast.

A flock of geese flew in a V-formation a couple miles off the coastline, heading south. Jake turned to follow them, mentally recalculating their ETA to the safe house in the Mexican desert. He wondered how the hell they were going to land with a busted gear.

Marshall interrupted his thoughts as he reentered the cockpit. He placed a hand on Jake’s shoulder.

Jake held his breath.

“It’s Bradley,” Marshall said. “He took a slug in the arm. Tony said it went clean through flesh. He’s going to be all right.”

The news brought a rush of relief that Jake felt to the bone. He allowed himself a brief smile.

“Thank God,” he said.

“I need your cell phone,” Marshall said. He held out a small plastic grocery bag as if he were trick-or-treating.

Jake glanced in the bag. It held several phones, a couple of digital watches, and an iPod.

“What’s the deal?”

“Dude, isn’t it obvious? Battista and his assholes have been one step ahead of us ever since that creep tried to blow you to kingdom come yesterday. They’re tracking us somehow. If I had my scanning equipment I could tell you exactly how, but in the meantime we need to ditch anything electronic.” He shook the bag for emphasis. “So give it up.”

Jake dropped his phone into the bag.

“Watch, too?” Jake asked, flipping his wrist so the face of his ten-year-old, Air-Force-issued timepiece was visible.

“No,” Marshall said, displaying his own Mickey Mouse watch. “Low tech is fine.”

Tony stepped up behind Marshall. He filled the narrow space between cockpit and cabin.

Marshall knotted the top of the grocery bag. Rather than attempting to maneuver around his big friend, he held up the bag.

“You want to toss these?”

Tony shook his head, his face tight. He turned sideways and Marshall squeezed past him. Tony sank into the copilot’s seat.

“I tried Mel’s cell one last time,” he said softly. “All I got was voice mail.” His voice was strained, and worry lines shadowed his features.

“Reception’s never good at the lake,” Jake said. “You know that.”

“Yeah,” Tony muttered, staring blankly out the front of the cockpit. “I left another message. Told her to sit tight until we pick her up.”

Jake cringed. He knew Tony expected the two of them to make a quick turnaround after they dropped everyone else off at the safe house.

“Listen, pal. Your family’s going to be okay. Papa’s guys will be there soon to keep an eye on them.” He hesitated before continuing. “But we’re going to have a problem getting back there right away.”

Tony’s head snapped toward Jake. Every muscle in his body seemed to tighten at once. “What the hell you talkin’ about?”

Jake told him about the damaged landing gear. Tony pressed his palms against his eyes. His chest heaved from several deep breaths. It took a moment before Tony regained his composure and his military background took over. The two men spoke in hushed voices as they crafted a plan around the only viable option left to them.

Chapter 17

Torrance, California

B
attista considered the ten men before him. They kneeled in a row on the cold concrete warehouse floor, their heads bowed. Twelve additional
jihadists
, including Kadir and the lab techs, were grouped behind the men. They looked on somberly, shifting from side to side.

The kneeling men had failed miserably in their task to capture the American. Their only saving grace lay in the fact that they had escaped the debacle at the airport and made their way back to the warehouse. Lesser men would have stayed to die in a firefight with the local authorities rather than face their leader in shame.