Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

“The red line is the Russian bomber,” Hiram said. “The green line is the Nighthawk.”

The two lines soon merged, with the Russian bomber slightly ahead of the unmanned spacecraft.

“Course matched,” the flight engineer’s voice called out. “Distance two miles and closing.”

Another voice sounded on the cockpit recorder. “Signal jamming complete. Vandenberg has been blocked. Nighthawk is all yours.”

“Roger that, Blackjack 2.”

“A second bomber?” Joe asked.

Hiram nodded. “Approximately a mile ahead of the first.”

On the infrared video, the Nighthawk continued to grow larger and move closer. A distance indicator and a series of vertical and horizontal bars appeared on the video feed.

“Range one thousand feet and closing,” the copilot called out.

The Nighthawk approached steadily, looming ever larger in the video. The camera tracked it moving past the bomber’s tail and into a position directly above the Russian aircraft. At thirty-nine hundred miles an hour and ninety-one thousand feet, the two aircraft were now traveling in perfect formation.

The copilot’s voice was calm. “Speed matched. Course steady. We’re in position for the capture.”

“Deploying windbreak,” the pilot said.

A series of small spikes emerged from the back of the Russian bomber. They created a vortex and a low-pressure area across the bomber’s spine that drew the Nighthawk downward. It dropped slowly, kissing the Russian plane gently. It was immediately trapped by a series of clamps t

hat sprung up from the bomber’s fuselage. They grabbed the Nighthawk’s wings and locked it in place.

“Contact made. Snares in place,” the copilot said.

“Deploying secondary windbreak,” the pilot announced.

A triangular wedge of metal rose up in front of the captured spacecraft. It deflected the wind around and away from it. A vapor trail streamed from the top of the windbreak, traveling up and over the nose of the delta-wing craft and back. The ride was smooth.

“They grabbed it,” Emma whispered. “They snatched it right out of the sky.”

“I can’t believe there’s no turbulence,” Kurt said.

“The atmosphere is so thin at that altitude, there isn’t any turbulence,” Emma said.

“But they’re traveling at four thousand miles an hour,” Rudi pointed out.

“Not in relation to each other,” Emma replied. “We dock spacecraft in orbit all the time. On TV, it looks like they’re barely moving, but in reality they’re whipping around the Earth at 17K. In the sixties and seventies, the Apollo and Gemini pilots eyeballed it. I’m sure these guys have the most advanced computers in the Russian catalog at their disposal.”

“Docking complete,” the pilot reported. “Tell Moscow we have the Nighthawk.”

The sounds of a celebration could be heard on the tape, and the next few minutes were routine. A call went out to the second bomber. Tests were done, systems were checked and rechecked. All this time, the Blackjack 1 continued on the same course, traveling at the same incredible speed.

“Reducing power,” the pilot said finally. “Inform Caracas we’ll need refueling.”

“We’re not sure if he means Caracas, Venezuela,” Hiram said, “or if that’s a code name for a refueling aircraft.”

“I’ll bet on the former,” Rudi said. “The Russians have plenty of friends where Hugo Chávez used to rule.”

As the aircraft slowed, there was a noticeable drop in the background noise. The speed fell below Mach 4 and then below Mach 3. At Mach 2.5, the bomber began a shallow turn to the north and, for the moment at least, it seemed as if the Russians had pulled off the world’s greatest hijacking.

A flicker ran through the video, followed by a garbled communication.

A rhythmic vibration grew up and the aircraft began to shudder. Before long, the cameras were trembling.