Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

Davidov followed, grabbing a flashlight of his own.

The aircraft was huge, larger than the American B-1, which it was based on. It had a cavernous bomb bay and other empty crawl spaces.

He watched as the flight engineer checked one inspection panel after another and then lingered near a small crane that was used to hoist material up through the bomb bay doors. “Anything?”

The engineer was a long way back. He turned around and shook his head.

The banging was closer now, Davidov could feel it through his feet. “What about the landing gear?”

He turned, looking for an inspection port, and heard another bang, far louder than the rest. He swung back around to see the egress hatch in the floor burst open.

He pointed his flashlight toward it and saw a man with silver hair pop up through the open hatchway. He had a large pistol in his hand. An American HK45.

“In the name of Saint Peter!” Davidov exclaimed.

“Actually, my name is Austin,” the man said, climbing out onto the deck. Another man popped up after him. “And this is Zavala.”

Davidov was familiar with the names. “NUMA.”

Austin nodded and stood while Zavala tossed out a metal bar he’d used to bash open the sealed hatch and then climbed free.

“You guys really should have a handle on the inside,” Austin said in a droll American attempt at humor. “Or at least a doorbell.”

“What are you doing on my plane?” Davidov blurted.

“We’re here to prevent you from making a very big mistake,” Austin said.

Davidov felt a wave of anger growing in him, but he realized the opportunity at hand. The Americans had been focused on him this entire time. They hadn’t seen the flight engineer sneaking up on them from the other direction.

“The mistake is yours,” Davidov shouted.

The flight engineer lunged at them, swinging the flashlight. Zavala saw him at the last moment and dodged the blow. He threw a quick counterpunch and knocked the weary engineer to the ground.

The distraction lasted just long enough. Davidov sprinted forward, rushed into the cockpit and then turned and slammed the door shut. It pressure-sealed tightly.

“What happened?” Timonovski shouted.

Davidov pressed against the door, looking through the small round peephole in the center. “We have boarders,” he said.

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Kurt ran forward and banged against the bomber’s cockpit door while Joe prevented the flight engineer from interfering. “Listen to me,” he shouted. “We’re not here to fight you. We’re all

in danger.”

From its thickness and the small size of its circular peephole in the middle, Kurt could tell he was leaning against a pressure door. He hoped the men on the other side could hear him through it and over the sound of the engines.

“You are most certainly in danger,” a voice shouted back.

“I know what you think. You’ve won,” Kurt said. “You’ve got the Nighthawk and the mixed-state matter, but trust me, you’re getting more than you bargained for. It’s a sucker’s prize. A Trojan horse. The Falconer lied to you. He lied to all of us.”

The next words came over an intercom. “What do you know about the Falconer?”

Kurt turned, located the intercom and pressed the white button next to it. “That he’s a liar and a master manipulator. That he played you, us and the Chinese against one another.”

“Of course he is,” the voice replied nonchalantly. “That’s the business. In the end, he gave us what we wanted.”

“No, he gave you what he wanted,” Kurt replied. “Enough rope to hang yourself and a billion others. The Nighthawk is nothing more than a giant bomb now. A mixed-state matter bomb powerful enough to obliterate half of Europe and set the rest of it back to the Stone Age. It’s rigged to blow once you exceed a certain altitude and then descend back below it.”