Chapter 29 - CONSPIRACY AT THE HIGH SEAS
At thirty-five thousand feet, the storm clouds fell away like a carpet of dark gray wool, replaced by the crystal-clear, star-filled velvet of the upper stratosphere. The full moon cast a brilliant silver light across the wings of the matte-black C-2.
"Booster ignition in three, two, one... punch it," Cross called out.
The solid-fuel rocket pods ignited with a deafening roar that vibrated through the cockpit frame. The transport surged forward, its airspeed indicator jumping from three hundred knots to Mach 0.92. Avery felt the cold pressure of her helmet pressing against her cheeks as the aircraft climbed vertically through forty thousand feet.
"Target visual," Avery said, pointing through the upper windshield.
There it was.
The Boeing E-4B—a massive, gleaming white four-engine aircraft with a distinct dorsal hump housing its advanced satellite communications array. It looked majestic, serene, completely oblivious to the black predator rising from the clouds beneath its tail.
"Matching airspeed," Cross said, his hands moving with surgical precision across the throttles. "Distance two hundred yards... one hundred yards... closing to the upper escape trunk."
Avery unbuckled her harness and stood up in the zero-gravity environment of the steep climb. She moved to the rear cabin, where the pneumatic docking collar was primed.
"Docking seal active," she radioed to Cross. "Bring her down on the centerline. Two feet to contact."
The black C-2 slid into position directly above the fuselage of the giant airliner. With a dull, magnetic shudder, the reinforced rubber collar sealed against the skin of the E-4B directly around the dorsal maintenance hatch.
*SEAL INTEGRITY: 100%. ATMOSPHERIC PRESSURE: EQUALIZED.*
Avery pulled her suppressed carbine and attached a micro-plasma torch to the locking rim of the outer hatch.
"Breaching now," she said into her comms.
The blue plasma jet sliced through the specialized aluminum alloy in less than fifteen seconds. The outer emergency hatch blew outward with a sharp hiss of compressed air.
Avery dropped through the opening into the dimly lit, narrow upper avionics bay of the E-4B.
The interior of the plane was quiet, filled with the steady hum of cooling banks and electronic processors. Below her, through the open access grate, she could see the main conference deck—a luxurious, carpeted compartment equipped with secure video displays, classified teletype terminals, and leather armchairs.
Sitting at the head of the conference table was Admiral Arthur Sterling.
He was wearing his pristine service dress blues, his four silver stars gleaming under the soft ceiling lighting. Across from him sat three civilian executives from major defense contracting firms, reviewing printed transcripts with cold, transactional indifference.
"Yokosuka will confirm the strike within ten minutes," Sterling was saying, his voice rich and authoritative, the very model of an American military statesman. "The President will address the nation at dawn. The emergency appropriations bill will pass the Senate before noon."
"And Hayes?" one of the executives asked, looking up from his tablet. "Did Vance’s detachment neutralize her on the carrier?"
Sterling smiled faintly, taking a sip from a crystal glass of bourbon. "Avery Hayes was a brilliant operative, gentlemen. But she was always just a tool. When an instrument becomes too sharp, it must be broken."
"You should have checked the sharpness of the blade, Admiral," a cold, familiar voice echoed from the darkness of the ladderwell behind him.
Sterling froze, his glass hovering inches from his lips.
May you like
The three defense contractors looked up in shock as Avery Hayes stepped off the ladder onto the carpeted deck, her weapon resting at the low-ready, her black pressure suit covered in frost, her eyes burning like twin stars of cold, unyielding judgment.
***
