Predators

"Ben. You're not."

And Acheson nodded his head. "You reap what you sow, darlin." He turned, looked at the loadmaster and the chief: "I'm gonna taxi out to the end of the runway and hang this bird's ass way out over the grass and drop the ramp out there. Make sure all the lights are out back here, and when I make the turn you'll have thirty seconds to get this box out in the grass, arm it and get your swingin' dicks back in here. I'll be doing the run up, so don't forget to push the green button, then the yellow. If someone shows up shootin' then press the red one and start sayin' your prayers."

"Sir?"

"We're counting on you guys."

"Yessir."

"I'll stay with them, Ben."

"No need. Come with me now; they know what to do, and they'll get the job done."

He turned and left for the cockpit, and Rutherford followed him again.

"You're evil, you do know that, don't you?"

"Just following the Golden Rule. Kind of. You know, do unto others before they do it to you first."

"Ah. Still, it's evil."

"Have a seat," he said, pointing at the left jump-seat, then: "Gee, I hope I can remember how to fly one of these things."

"You know, it's the little expressions of competence that really warm the heart," Bond said.

"And who is this?" Rutherford asked.

"Bond, James Bond," both Acheson and Bond said, as if on cue.

"Ah," she said, "dinner and a floor show. How fun."

Acheson saw the ground chief outside making hand signals, and Acheson held up two fingers -- and got a nod.

"Okay, let's start two."

"And you obviously think I know how to do that, don't you?" Bond said, grinning.

Acheson shook his head, reached over and started the engine, then watched pressures and ratios until power stabilized. When the chief signaled three fingers, he started the inboard right engine -- and just then another Tigr jeep drove up, and two soldiers ran up to the open boarding door. A moment later they burst into the cockpit.

"Kepitane Piskov? Where he is!?" One of them shouted.

And Rutherford, in perfect Russian, told them he had gone already, that he had exited through the aft cargo ramp several minutes ago. She went with them and showed them all the patients in their litters and, thoroughly confused, the men left. She came up to the flight deck a few minutes later, completely amused with herself now.

"They say we're to communicate on 121.5. Does that mean anything to you?"

"Yes indeedy." He turned COMM 1 to the frequency and and checked in: "Ground, the is Air Force 60002, how do you read?"

"60002, we read five by five."

"Any information you want to pass along?"

"0-2, such as?"

"Oh, you know, runway, barometric pressure, wind speed and direction. The basics, maybe?"

"The base commander advises you may fuck off."

"60002, I read that as clear to fuck off, barometer is fuck off, and wind speed and direction are fuck off as well? Is that a good read-back, or should I tell you to fuck off too?"

Another voice came on after that. "Sorry about that, Air Force. You are clear to take off on runway 17, barometer is 29.95, wind out of south, speed light and variable, C-A-V-U reported to Lisbon."

"Thanks, tower, and y'all have a good life."

He finished starting one and four, then entered the LAT and LON from the readout on Anne's sat phone into the INS, and then noticed he had a clear GPS signal so reactivated the system; he input Lisbon as the first "waypoint" on his route, then turned to Rutherford.

"Where are we going?"

"Not where you think," she said, handing him coordinates scrawled hastily on a scrap of paper.

"Interesting. Any reason why?"

"Yes."

"And, of course, you're going to tell me, aren't you?"

"No."

"I see. Perhaps I should just leave that bomb onboard."

"Fine. I know what the red button does."

He turned back to the FMC, the flight management computer, and input the coordinates she'd given him, not sure why he was trusting her -- but then he considered: without an alternate? "Oh well, any port in a storm," he sighed.

"0-2, we are ready to taxi."

"0-2, you will be number two, behind Sukhoi 27."

Bond chimed in now. "Why are they sending one of those up now?"

"To shoot you down as soon as we deviate from a course towards Lajes," Rutherford said.

"That would be my guess, too," Acheson added.

"Gee, swell," Bond whispered.

Acheson advanced the throttles and turned for the taxiway, followed the splotchy blue fighter out to the end of the runway, then went on the intercom as he braked. "Everyone prepare for departure, we'll be turning on to the runway after the Russian fighter just ahead takes off. That'll be the loud noise you hear in just a moment. Lights out now, Chief."

The Sukhoi's engines ran up to an incredible roar and held power for several seconds, then it leapt down the runway and vaulted into the sky. He waited several seconds then let off the brakes and the C-17 coasted into a wide turn, Acheson letting the tail, and the cargo ramp, drift out over the grass beyond the runway's threshold. As he turned for the centerline he lowered the ramp, and started a stop watch on the panel, then he began his engine run up. He watched pressures and ratios, and the clock -- forty seconds later he raised the ramp and released the brakes.

The C-17 crawled down the runway, slowly built speed, and at 137 knots he rotated and began a very gentle climb.

"Positive rate," Bond said. "Gear up."

"Okay." Acheson cleaned the wing and turned to the first heading prompt, keeping an eye on the timer now, accelerating through three hundred knots while still only a few hundred feet above the trees.

The threat panel chimed, indicating an airborne radar was painting the aircraft. He turned the ECM panel to AUTO, and two more warnings sounded.

"Here comes Ivan," Acheson whispered.

"I know that sound," Bond added, "and I still don't like it."

Acheson reached to the overhead, flipped off two safeties, then armed 'White Eyes,' and a deep, steady warning alarm sounded.

"What the Hell's that?" Bond cried.

"A two billion candlepower retina scorch. Sorry about this, Ivan, but you asked for it." He activated the system, and seconds later the threat panel erupted. "Heat-seekers!" Acheson whispered as he reefed the -17 into a tight, climbing right, flares and chaff trailing -- then he slammed the pedals into a steep diving left -- and saw two Russian Atoll heat-seeking missiles arc away into the night. Then he saw the Sukhoi wobbling into a shallow dive, and he watched it slam into trees a few miles away, then heard Rutherford behind him whispering "Sweet Jesus..."

"Thirty seconds," he said.

"Til what?" Bond replied.

"Big box go boom."

"What big box?"

"Tell ya what, Slick. Just hang on."

A sudden sun came out, and he looked at the display, saw they were 24 miles from the runway. "Hope this is enough..."

He held onto the stick, but the expected concussion never hit so he banked into a steep left turn and looked back -- and saw a wall of flame at least a mile high roaring through the hills and forests. Turning for Lisbon again, he firewalled the engines and began a max power climb.

"Was that a nuke?" Bond asked.

"I think so, but it's generated a huge firewall, and it's moving fast."

Bond looked down, saw the wall moving below them now, then he looked at their airspeed. "It's got to be moving at close to 500 miles per hour!"

Acheson looked at their altitude -- 22,000 and climbing -- and he saw the fire racing for Lisbon, still 60 miles distant. "What have they gone and done now?"

"Must be super-hot," Bond said, his voice full of wonder. "It seems to be fusing everything in it's path. Probably a cobalt encased warhead."

"Well, it was meant for us, for the new government, supposedly in Kentucky somewhere."

"That figures. A warhead like this would cause fires in those hills that would burn for months, maybe all the way to Kansas."

"You got to hand it to Ivan. He's got a death wish a mile wide." He got on the intercom. "Chief? Can you come up here now?"

He heard the man come in a moment later. "Yessir?"

"Better get our Russian friend out of the ductwork."

"Yessir."

"Intensity dropping off now," Bond said, and Acheson trimmed for level flight. Wonder what they've got going on at the airport?".

"My Guess? Transports and fighters now, no commercial stuff."

"Probably got SAMs."

"Probably. Probably more concerned with that wall of fire..."

Heading almost due south, Acheson trimmed for a fuel conserving climb and engaged the FMC, then went aft to check on his 'passengers.' He ran into Captain Cullwell, the physician, and saw she was shaken.

"What's wrong?" he asked when he saw her ashen expression.

"Radiation alarms started going off in here a few minutes after take-off. What kind of bomb was that?"

"Don't really know. Navy guy up front mentioned a cobalt casing, but I'm not up on all that stuff. How bad was it?"

She shook her head, turned away. "You don't want to know," was all she said.

"Well, it probably doesn't matter a whole lot now anyway, does it? Still think you need to run an IV while I'm up front?"

"Yeah. I've got everything ready."

"Okay, let me check in with folks back here, then I'll meet you up on the flight deck."

She nodded her head while he walked all the way aft and spoke with the airman who'd taken the bomb out to the grass. "You have any trouble getting that thing out of here?"

The boy looked grim, then shook his head.

"Okay, spill it."

"There were houses back there, sir. I mean, families. I saw a kid at a fence with his dog, watching us. Like...up early to watch the airplanes, you know?"

Acheson swallowed hard, took a deep breath through his nose and blinked. "They put that on here so we would carry it to our country..."

"I know, sir, but did we have to? Set it off, I mean. You'd disarmed it. Wasn't that all we needed to do?"

Acheson shook his head. "Maybe..."

"I heard you guys talking, sir. About, well, when will it be enough, sir? They're like crazy with suspicion, and who knows, maybe that started it all, but it's like, well, we just can't let go either."

"I know," Acheson said. "Maybe that's why we're here right now, why we are where we are, spiraling down the drain."

"I was thinkin', sir. We're like two boxers in the ring, with no ref. We keep pounding away on each other, and we're going to keep on 'til there's nothing left. Isn't that about it, sir? Isn't that who we are, I mean really, deep down, all there is to us?"

"I don't know, kid."

"Sir, you look like hell. Maybe you better go sit down."

Acheson nodded, turned to the cockpit -- then felt the world falling away.

+++++

Someone opened his eye, shone a light in -- and he tried to turn away. His hands were tingling, his feet too -- then he knew he was going to vomit and tried to sit up. Someone helped him lean over the stretcher, held a bucket under his face and he let go. When he was finished he noticed the fluid was streaked with long clots of blood, and he tasted the coppery essence of hemoglobin, not the usual bile-soaked barf he remembered from nights after drinking too much.

Acheson looked up, saw Cullwell getting ready to stick him with a hypodermic.

"What's that?" he asked.

"Sedative, and I want to get some whole blood in you. There's a fridge forward with about twenty units of your type. If I can get it in you'll feel a lot better."

"Not a sedative..."

"I've got to get your blood pressure down -- it's 155 over 110. Ben, you're losing a lot of blood -- out your rectum now. You understand?"

But he didn't, not even a little -- yet he did feel like he was falling again.

+++++

He felt a hand on his forehead and opened his eyes, saw Rutherford standing over him, looking into his. She smiled when she saw his eyes and leaned over, kissed his forehead. "About another twenty minutes," she said, "then you can sit up."

"What about...where are we?"

"Hey, turns out that Navy puke knows how to fly after all."

"Pah. Nobody in the Navy knows how to fly."

She grinned. "How do you feel?"

"Better. Not as nauseated."

"That's the promethazine," Cullwell said. "And I can't give you any more 'til we're on the ground -- or you won't even be able to pick your nose without help, let alone pick out a runway."

"Swell. That's one of those drugs we aren't allowed to take before flying..."

"Guess what, Ben. No FAA, so no worries, and besides, you've got three quarts of brand new motor oil flowing through those veins, and you're gonna feel like a new man as soon as you get up." Cullwell disconnected him from the IV pump, then swabbed down the shunt and put a bandage over it. "Just a few more minutes," she said, "and you'll be good to go."

"How far out are we?" he asked Rutherford.

"About 800 miles -- a half hour ago, anyway."

He took a deep breath, then coughed -- and he tasted blood in his mouth again. "Damn."

"I started coughing up blood a few hours ago," she said, wiping spittle from his chin.

"Why do I get the feeling this isn't going to be a whole lot of fun."

Cullwell walked up again, another syringe in hand. "Sleeves up," she said.

"What's this?"

"Just a little vitamin cocktail."

"Right. Sure thing," he said, rolling up his shirt sleeve. She swabbed his arm, then pinched and stuck him -- and he let out a long sigh -- as in his mind's eye he was looking at a kid in Portugal, in his back yard, peeking over a fence at jets taking off just before his day got started, a little pup yapping at his feet.

+++++

"You sure the tower is 119.3?" Bond asked, looking at the runway and tower as it passed below on their 'downwind.'

"That's the latest published info I have. The VOR is still active, so I'd assume either everyone down there is dead, or they're just not talking to us. See any traffic?"

"An old 757 at the terminal, a couple ATRs parked out...wait...looks like three C-17s just off the ramps, covered with netting. Some troops too."

"They'll be mine," Rutherford said.

"What do you mean, 'yours'?" Bond asked, turning to look at her.

"They're part of my group."

"You mean...?" Bond said, looking from Rutherford to Acheson.

"We had just arrested her," Acheson said, dropping the flaps and cutting power, "and were transporting her back to the States when all this happened."

"Oh, that's just great, man. So, we're getting ready to land in a nest of these people?"

"That's one way to look at it. You'll get to spend the last weeks of your life surrounded by women..."

"Feminists, you mean. Not the same thing as women."

Rutherford groaned, looked away. "Just my luck," she sighed.

Acheson made an easy turn onto final, then put the flaps all the way down. "Gears, please."

Bond dropped the lever, and three green lights popped. "Anything else I need to know?" he added.

"We've been moving stuff here for weeks, before all the excitement broke out. Kind of a refuge, I guess, in case things turned sour."

"So, you thought this could happen?"

"It was always a possibility."

"Man, our tax dollars at work."

"You should experience the world, for just one day, from my perspective..."

"No thanks," Bond groaned.

"Could y'all just shut up, please," Acheson growled. "This is my last time in an airplane, and I'd kind of like to enjoy it, ya know?" He was gentle now, gentle on the controls, trying to store all the sensations in memory, smiling as he flared over the threshold, easing her down like he was settling on eggshells, then easy braking and light reverse thrust. He saw the other C-17s and taxied over slowly, and several women -- M4 carbines in hand -- walked towards them.

"I'd better go out and show my face now," Rutherford said, and she disappeared, went down to the forward door. Ben stopped, shut-down 1 and 2, then released the lock. He saw her walk out on the ramp and the guards snapped off salutes, then ran up and hugged her.

Bond looked at Acheson and groaned again. "Figures," he said.

Rutherford looked up at him and made "kill the engines" motions, drawing a finger across her neck, and he started the APU, then shut down the other two engines -- just as the Chief and the loadmaster came into the cockpit.

"What's the plan?" the Chief asked, looking at the women on the ramp.

"Get with them," Ben said, pointing at the women, "see where they want to put us."

"Sir? Word is they started all this, so ain't they the enemy?"

"I don't know, Chief. Are they?"

"I'd say they are," Bond said.

"Well, that's just great. Maybe a few hundred people left here, and we're going to spend our last few weeks trying to kill one another. I wonder who we can get to chisel that on our tombstones. 'Here lies the remains of a race that just could not learn.' Why don't y'all go get some sticks and stones, try and beat some more people to death."

He turned and looked at them, saw Piskov watching with a wry grin on his face. "No, really. That's an order. Sticks and stones, men. Kill anything that moves...right now! Go! Go forth and KILL! Do your species proud --?"

No one moved, no one said a word.

"Well, unless you're going to stay here picking your nose, I suggest you get out there and figure out where all these injured need to go."

"Come on, Chief," loadmaster said. "Let's go figure this out."

"Yeah."

"You okay?" Bond asked, and Piskov slid into the cockpit.

"What do you think?"

"Me? I think if you lose it, a whole lot of people are going to go down with you, so maybe you ought to snap out of it."

"It's true, believe him," Piskov said, and Ben shook his head, couldn't believe how dizzy he suddenly felt, then he looked down, saw his seat was full of fresh red blood, then he saw the chief down on the ground, watched him talking with Rutherford and the other women. At one point he saw the chief point to the flight deck, and then Rutherford looked up at him, nodded and spoke with her guards. He leaned back, shut his eyes then, and felt himself drifting away -- and he tried to speak but found it difficult.

"I think y'all are going to have to get on without me now."

Bond looked at Acheson, tried to keep him from falling out of the seat, but failed.

+++++

Acheson woke in a long night, saw he was in a field hospital of some sort, tried to take stock of where he was, what was happening around him, but there were only a few lights on, and those few were in the distance. A nurse walked by and he spoke out; she stopped and looked into his eyes, listened to his lungs, told him she would bring him something to drink and he leaned back, looked up at the fabric structure of the tent overhead -- then he remembered Portugal. Their flight -- their escape -- and then -- the bomb. It wasn't all a dream, he realized. It had happened, yet now everything felt like a dream. Genie and The Duke, Carol and all the others -- like a jumble of crazy-hazy memory, something that had been, and now -- wasn't. He wanted to crawl inside of himself and disappear after that, but Rutherford came to him, pulled up a chair and sat by him.

Then she handed him a Coke, in a plastic cup -- with ice!

He sat up for that, and drank it slowly, savoring it, chewing the ice with a kid's grin on his face, and at one point he looked at her, really absorbed her simple beauty. The kindest, yet most complex eyes he'd ever seen, and her lips. He looked at them and wanted to kiss them, then he saw Genie in his mind's eye and wondered where she was -- then he was spinning in light-headed fear.

He felt a hand on his forehead and looked up, realized he'd been sleeping again, then he saw Rutherford, still by his side. "I'm sorry," he said. "Sorry we didn't get to have more time together."

She was smiling, but she was crying, too, and he wondered why.