The Omega Device (The Ha-Shan Chronicles Book 1) (35 page)

“The what?” Maggie asked.

Thorne's face questioned Reese's sanity. They both ignored Maggie. “It's
never
been tested, Stephanie. We have
no idea
if it will work, let alone in a live-fire situation.”

“Sounds like the perfect test.”

“You
can't
trust it,” he said seriously.

“What are you talking about?”

“
Try
, Thorne,” she countered.

“It's a waste of fucking time. There's a billion different frequencies—infinite possibilities. You can't possibly expect—”

“I expect you to
try
.”

“What the
fuck
are you talking about?” Maggie shouted with a stomp.

Reese cast her a glance, “Thorne wrote a program that's supposed to wirelessly jam missile-locks.”

“Heavy on
supposed to,
” he replied cynically. “It's like a wireless chaff-grenade. It scrambles targeting parameters and forces the missile to search for a new target. Even then, it's possible for it to re-acquire the original target, but the chaff is constantly pulsing to deter the targeting systems.”

“You can do that?” Russell asked.

He shrugged, “It's been tested in
simulations
,
never
live-fire scenarios.” He looked critically at Reese, “Let alone ones where our asses are on the line.”

The two were in clear agreement that it was a long shot, but neither saw an alternative. Maggie forced speech over a queasy stomach, “What will it take?”

Thorne heaved a breath, “Interfacing with the bird's guidance and navigation computers. Then, creating a patch to boost the output-signal from the comm-systems to scramble the missiles.”

“Can you do it?”

“You know, I'm real tired of this. It's always do this, do that. Never, wow Thorne, great hair, or hey Thorne, that's a sweet rig, mind if I—”

“Raiden!” Maggie snapped. He stopped mid-sentence. “Can you do it?”

“I can try.”

“Thank you. Reese, help him.”

She gave a smarmy smile, “Aye, mum.”

Maggie rolled her eyes, “Russell, is there anything aboard we can use to fight back?”

He grimaced, “If it were a gunship, maybe.”

“It's not?” Russell shook his head. “So what are our options?”

“We could check the cargo bay, try to lighten the load.”

“What will that do?”

“Give us a bit more speed, but an F-16 can do Mach 2. We'll never outrun them. This is a cargo ship. It requires air superiority to operate. Close air-support tears it apart otherwise. Unless Thorne can get the program up, we'll never match their ballistics.”

“What's
your assessment then?”

“We're screwed,” he said cynically. Maggie's eyes narrowed. “Look, Maggie, once those pilots realize their missiles are compromised they're going to unload their M-Gs and rocket-pods on the fuselage. Unless we can find a way to deflect a few million joules of force—”

“There's got to be
something
to help us,” she said, stepping for the cargo-bay staircase.

Russell followed her down. The bay was crammed with boxes and a Humvee beneath a tarp. He estimated they were at least three hours from their destination, placing them somewhere just East of the Nile. If they were lucky, they could jump, make the journey on-foot in a few days if West didn't find them first. However unlikely, it was more plausible than fighting off F-16s with little more than hope.

Maggie tossed aside boxes and crates for anything useful, favored her side with one hand and tore through containers with the other. Russell joined in the ransacking, more distraught with each crate of ammunition and MREs. He leaned back against the Humvee, winded and contemplating their situation.

Maggie continued tearing open boxes, tossing aside gun cases. She growled, shoved over a stack, spilled something past a rise of metal containers. Russell stared mindlessly, almost missing the large yellow stenciling emblazoned with ”CAUTION: EXPLOSIVE.” His face grew a wicked grin as he stepped for the containers, called to Maggie.

“What!” She stepped around debris to his side. He lifted a metal lid. “Are those—”

“Rocket-propelled grenades.”

“That's nice, Russell, but not exactly helpful,”

“You wanted a long-shot? This is the best you're going to get.”

Maggie's hope bordered desperation, “How the hell're we supposed to use them?”

“Reese, what's the ETA on those F-16's?”

There was a moment of silence before Reese responded, “Long range radar's showing them fifteen minutes out, but Thorne says the patch'll take longer.”

“I've found a stack of RPGs. I'll need your help,”

“With what?” Reese asked, as confused as Maggie.

“Thorne?” He grunted in reply. “Have the pilot lower the cargo door. Reese, head down.”

“Russell—”

He silenced Maggie with a raised hand, “Thorne, you alright by yourself?”

“Uh… Yeah,” he replied, tense from his work.

“Good, sit tight. Reese?”

“On my way.” She hurried down the steps, stopped just beyond the debris. “The hell happened?”

“Maggie,” he said across the distance.

Reese approached, “What're you expecting, Russell? They'll just stand still and let us shoot 'em down?”

“They won't have to,” Russell said as the cargo door began to open.

A gust of wind whipped through the cargo bay, yanked the three forward. They gripped what they could, smacked by debris that was sucked out the door. The pressure equalized and Maggie released her grip on a strap bolted to the floor.

“That was
real
smart Russell! Now what?”

He strained himself over the wind. Reese stepped closer to listen. “Get them to form up near the door, and take them out with a couple RPGs. Hopefully, it'll buy Thorne more time.”

“F-16s don't just back down,” Reese argued. “They'll break off and engage. What's plan B?”

“Don't miss.”

Maggie shook her head, “Plan C?”

Russell shot her a look, “If this doesn't work, we have to jump.”

“And? What then?”

He nodded toward the Humvee, “We'll take it with us.”

Maggie considered it, but Reese interjected, “The second we engage the Egyptians will scramble more fighters. We'll be sitting ducks and we
both know
that tactic will only work once.”

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

“That's wishful thinking that requires luck,” she said, glancing out at the sky.

“It's all we've got.”

Reese considered what had been said with a deep contemplation. She clicked her radio, yelled into it. “Thorne, ETA?”

There was a pause before Thorne replied, “Ten minutes, closing fast.”

“How much longer 'til we're live?”

“Fifteen at most.”

“Have the pilot stall them. We need them lined-up on our rear.”

There was a longer pause, “Pilot says it's a no go. He'll never be able to get them in position.”

Reese growled frustration, “Tell them the cargo door's jammed. We took damage mid-flight and need assessment of the fuselage. We'll need a rear escort, and the pilots need to take a look. Make sure he knows to stall, we need
everything
we can get.”

There was another long pause. “No promises.”

“God damn it!” Reese clenched her jaw. “If those jets aren't in position we'll never get out alive. Make sure he knows that.”

Another pause. “He'll do what he can.”

“It'll have to do,” Russell said.

“If one of those jets survives, it'll rip through us.”

“ETA eight minutes,” Thorne radioed. “Still closing fast. Whatever you've got planned, get your asses moving.”

Russell lifted an RPG case, “Come on.”

They carried the cases to the center of the open door, set them on the floor. Maggie fought pain to place a pair of cases beside Russell. He checked the brown and black metal weapon, loaded a rocket in its tube with a twist.

Maggie knelt beside him with a grunt, “Crash course, huh?”

“Watch the back blast,” he instructed, loading the weapon for her.

“This is
completely
mental
!” She said, lifting it to her shoulder.

“Squeeze the rear grip as you pull the trigger.”

Maggie nodded. Russell shouldered an RPG. She raised the cross-hairs to her eye as a sonic boom sounded. Reese posed beside Maggie, Thorne's voice frantic over the radio.

“They've made contact. The pilot's stalling.”

The next minute passed in silence, awaiting Thorne's reply. Ahead a jet shot past to circle like a hunting raptor.

“They're sending one back. Be ready for him.”

An F-16 settled behind the open door. Its thirty-two foot wing-span engulfed their field of vision. It growled along with a low rumble that shook Maggie's chest. Its full-load of missiles and twenty-millimeter neck-cannon stared her down.

“Fire!” Russell yelled.

Three rockets burst from the plane's tail. The pilot attempted to drop back, his break away too slow. Russell's rocket sheered off his right wing, shredded the jet's fuselage. It fell from view. A large blast shook them from below.

Maggie sensed movement beside her, caught Reese running for a side-door. She wrenched it open to a stunning vacuum that jerked Maggie and Russell sideways, flung the door backward into Reese. She gripped a mesh net, winded but uninjured. The pressure equalized as she  knelt in the doorway to aim at the second jet. It circled, threatened them with it's sonic-speed.

She fired. Her rocket spiraled forward, fell back out of sight. A deafening boom emitted from the jet's burners as it evaded Reese's vision.

Thorne piped over the radio, “You guys just kicked the fucking hornet's nest. The radio's lighting up.”

“Just shut up and give me the status—”

“It's done. He's locking on.”

“Will it work?” Maggie asked.

“I already told you there's no way of knowing! I—wait! He's fired.”

They listened, frozen with bated breathe. Seconds lasted an eternity.

“The lock's been scrambled! It's searching for a new target.” Thorne's next words were a welcome reprieve. “It's locked onto him! He's dropping counter-measures.”

Maggie winced. Reese swore. Russell strained his ears.

“It's back on him!” Thorne yelled with a raucous laugh. “He's not deploying counter-measures.”

“He's out,” Reese said.

“Or he knows it won't work,” Russell said.

“Holy shit!” Thorne cried over the radio. “It worked! Haha! There's a second form on the radar. He's ejected. Yes! Take that you stupid bastard!”

Less than a second later the plane lurched from another explosion. Reese leaned back against the mesh netting, hands on her thighs. Maggie's hand shook, rose to meet her forehead as she wiped away sweat and grief. Russell stood to watch bits of jet cascade along smoke-trails out the door. He breathed a sigh.

“Uh…guys. Problems,” Thorne radioed. “The EAF just scrambled a squadron.”

Reese clicked her radio, “How many?”

“Six so far—and I'm reading a SAM launch.”

“A what?” Maggie asked, clueless.

“Surface to Air missile,” Russell frowned.

“ETA?” Reese asked.

“Twelve minutes on the fighters, one-thirty on the SAM.”

“What's the likelihood the jammer'll work?”

“There's no reason it shouldn't. But we'll never take out all those fighters.”

Reese looked to Russell, pushed off the netting, “Time for plan C.”

Maggie lowered her head in defeat. Russell rose, “Then we're getting
everyone
out. Now. Thorne, grab your gear and tell the pilots to engage the ACMs. We're jumping.”

A moment later, a missile rocketed past the cargo bay. It passed like a lost needle autonomously searching for a thread.

Russell watched curiously, fitted himself with a parachute, “Reese. We can't jump with that thing out there. If we drop the Humvee it'll lock-on. We'll be stranded in the middle of the desert.”

She tossed gear and supplies into the Humvee, her parachute's straps dangling at her sides. Thorne emerged carrying their packs and duffel bags.

“Here,” Reese said, throwing him a parachute. The co-pilot and navigator dug theirs from beneath netting on the walls. She called to them, “We need to release the holds and give the missile something to lock on. Where are the overrides?”

“Front'a the hold,” one man said.

“Fit the truck with a chute.”

The man rushed off. Reese sprinted to the hold's front and a line of pull-down releases numbered from one to ten. Hydraulic lines ran from them to palette locks in the floor. She traced them to the truck, numbered on lines nine and ten, and waited. A loud tone sounded through the plane and the heavy thud of something releasing from its belly preceded an angel formation behind them.

“Releasing cargo!”

She threw switches one to eight. Heavy stacks of crates slid out all at once. They formed a tight mass beyond that ruptured into particles and faded into the smoke of the angelic figure. Reese waited, checked the watch at her wrist; nine minutes until the fighters reached them. A massive shock-wave rocked the plane, jolted the last of the freed cargo down the tracks.

“Release!” Russell yelled.

Reese threw the Humvee's switches. It slid from the emptied bay and its parachute blasted open.

She hurried for the group, “
Move!
”

The two crew-men took a running leap. Reese secured her harness, tested it against her body with a flex.

Thorne stepped to the ramp's edge, looked down as the others approached. “I can't do this.”

“Don't be a pussy,” Reese said, shoving him out. He flipped her off, screaming and falling out of focus.

“I'll see you on the ground,” Russell said to Maggie. She nodded. He hurled himself into the air.

“You know I've only done this once, right?” Maggie said, feeling her stomach drop.

“Then you know what to do.”

“I got thrown from a plane and almost broke my ankles. One of the pilots ended up hanging from a tree, dead,” she stalled with fear.

“It's a good thing we're jumping into desert then,” Reese said, with a pat on the back.