Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

“Yes,” Zhang said. “Yours and yours alone.”

Again the President’s chief of staff cut in. “Please!” he urged. “None of that matters at this point. We’re all damned lucky that the containment units didn’t explode in Peru. And we’re fortunate, General Zhang, that your aircraft is still out over the Pacific and not coming in for a landing. That gives us time. We can argue over who the mixed-state matter belongs to later. But first the bomb must be disarmed without damaging the fuel cell.”

“How is that to be done?”

“It’s a fairly simple process. We’re prepared to transmit the schematics of the fuel cell, along with everything we know about the detonator, the power demands of the cryogenic unit and the design of the Penning traps. All we ask in return is that your aircraft change course to a more northerly route.”

“Why?”

“Should your agent fail, it’s important that the detonation take place as far from civilization as possible.”

“Perhaps I’ll order the pilot to turn for California or Hawaii,” Zhang replied testily.

“I promise you,” Colonel Hansen said, jumping in. “If that aircraft deviates toward any landmass, American or otherwise, it will be shot down.”

Zhang shook his head. “You are too easily baited, Colonel. Of course I have no intention of doing any such thing. Transmit the information. I have no wish to argue about this again.”

“Turn the aircraft first,” the chief of staff said.

A brief stare-down ensued.

“Very well.”

With that, Zhang’s screen went dark. And the four remaining links in the network lapsed into silence.

It fell to Emma to break it. “What about the Russians?” she asked from the screen. “What about Kurt and Joe? Have we heard from them?”

“All we know is that the Blackjack and the Nighthawk are airborne,” Colonel Hansen said. “A satellite pass forty minutes ago showed the rural airfield to be empty. We’ve launched AWACS from Pensacola and Corpus Christi to look for the bomber’s radar signature. Several squadrons of F-22s are being readied to intercept.”

“Intercept?” Emma asked. “Why would we need to intercept it?”

“To protect ourselves,” Hansen said. “If the Russian government doesn’t believe our claim and they or the pilot act rashly—the way Zhang threatened to a minute ago . . . well, we’re dealing with a hypersonic aircraft, covered in stealth materials, that could make it from the coast of South America to Atlanta in twenty minutes. We can’t allow that. So we have to find it first and be ready to act when we talk to Moscow.”

“But why would they act rashly?” she asked.

Rudi knew why. Everyone in the room and at the White House and out at Vandenberg knew why. He suspected Emma would have easily guessed the reason if she weren’t exhausted.

He jumped in and explained. “Because they’ve almost certainly exceeded the speed and altitude thresholds that will prime the detonators. And unlike the Chinese plane, there is no physical way for the occupants of the bomber to get at the Nighthawk and disarm them.”

Understanding washed over Emma’s face in high-definition. Understanding and grief. “There’s no way to stop it,” she whispered to herself. “The pilots are dead men. And if Kurt and Joe are on board, they’re dead men, too.”

63

The HL-190 transport represented the state of the art of Chinese aerospace industry. Intended first as an aircraft to fly dignitaries around the world, its interior was trimmed in high style. Active noise cancellation created a superquiet cabin. The air kept at a perfect seventy-two degrees and fifty-one percent humidity by a high-tech system that had twenty sensors spaced throughout the plane. The soft leather seating and lushly carpeted floor were designed specifically to caress the bodies and feet of those used to sitting down and giving orders.

Daiyu had no use for any of it. If not for the remarkable speed with which the aircraft flew, she’d have rather flown back to Shanghai in a sparse military transport.

To her surprise, the burly man who’d accompanied her from the lake seemed to be of a similar mood. Urco had called the man Vargas. He was as rough-spun as any of the group. If he’d been Chinese, he would have lived in a rural village, pushed a plow and carried heavy loads to and from ox-drawn carts, tossing them in and out as if they weighed nothing.

He’d remained awake for the entire flight, and she wondered if this was the first time he’d ever flown. His eyes appeared to be pricked open and slightly bloodshot as if he’d taken a powerful stimulant. After five hours in the air, he’d said no more than a dozen words.

Only when the plane banked to the right did he speak up. “Why are we changing course?”

“Probably to avoid some weather,” she said. It wasn’t likely. At fifty-one thousand feet, the HL-190 flew above almost all the world’s weather. “Would you like a drink?” she asked. “It might help you to relax.”

She stood up and walked to the bar. “Rice wine? Or maybe you’d prefer gouqi jiu; it’s made from wolfberries.”

He shook his head. “Water.”