Terror Descending. Don Pendleton

bastards can’t catch us, we’re mobile,” Oughton stated defiantly.

      “But we are not,” Rexton countered. “Millions of dollars, and years of hard work, would end in total failure, which in turn would spell disaster for the rest of humanity.” Leaning forward, the man sat upright in his chair. “Okay, give me options.”

      Neither Oughton nor Dean spoke for a minute, then they shook their heads.

      “Anybody?” Rexton asked the room in general.

      There came a negative chorus from the staff.

      “I see,” Rexton growled. “Then we have no choice. Alyssa, have the Detroit head out to sea. We’ll need to hide the wreckage. Do they have a raft onboard?”

      “Parachutes, but no rafts,” Dean replied grimly. “And any water landing would be immediately investigated by the Coast Guard.”

      “We all knew how the mission could end, sir,” Oughton said, his face a grim mask.

      Sir? Hearing the honorific, Rexton understood. “Then so be it, we at least spare them the horror of being interrogated by the madmen of the CIA,” he said, taking a chain from around his neck. There was a small key attached, and he slipped it into a slot on the console, first twisting to the left, then sharply to the right. Off by itself, a red light began to glow.

      “Goodbye, old friends.” Rexton sighed, placing a finger on the button.

      “No, wait!” a woman shouted from the door.

      Lifting his hand, Rexton turned to scowl at the rapidly approaching woman. Tall, with a cascade of ebony hair that reached past her trim waist, Dr. Carolina Barry was wearing a white medical jacket over a winter-camouflage ghillie suit. A stun gun was holstered at her side, a medical bag slung over a shoulder in case of an emergency.

      “What is it, Carolina?” Rexton demanded.

      “Marshall,” the physician replied. “Land them in Marshall, to refuel on the ground.”

      “Is the airstrip long enough?”

      “For a landing, certainly. But they’ll need some JATO units to take off again.”

      “They have those on board,” Dean said, a note of hope back in her voice.

      “But what about the fuel?” Rexton asked suspiciously.

      “Marshall is near a major airport,” Barry countered. “It shouldn’t be very hard for them to buy, or steal, enough fuel to allow them to reach Tornado Base for a proper refueling.”

      “That just might work,” Dean muttered, bending to work out some figures on her keyboard calculator. “Yes, they can do it!”

      “But if they’re caught…” Oughton began.

      Crossing her arms, Barry scoffed. “At an abandoned airstrip, in the middle of a cornfield?”

      “It’s worth a try,” Rexton said, turning off the remote destruction button. Slowly, the red light died away. “However, I want them to get some protection. Send along some mercs to guard the crew until they’re safely back in the air.”

      “Not a problem, we have lots of friends in that area,” Dean replied. “However, once the mercs hear about what happened at Brussels, they’ll know who we are and try to blackmail us for more money.”

      “Or sell us outright to the Pentagon,” Oughton snapped over the video screen.

      “Then have Whitehorn blow the airfield off the map once he’s flying again,” Rexton stated coldly.

      “Not a problem,” Dean said, swinging back to her console, her fingers dancing across the keyboard. “But once the word of our betrayal spreads, we’ll never be able to trust any mercs again.”

      “After tomorrow, there will be no need,” Rexton replied, going back to studying the map of the world on the main screen.