“Bring the laser to ready,” Caldwell ordered.
Ridley moved a trio of switches from standby to active. The system, which had been tested before at lower settings, would be operating at the maximum power level for this final test. The high-pitched whine of rapidly spinning generators could be heard emanating from the aft section of the aircraft.
“Energy storage at full,” another of the techs announced. “All systems green.”
“Targeting solution confirmed,” Ridley reported. “We’re locked on.”
“Activate laser,” Caldwell said calmly.
Ridley reached forward, flipped open a protective plastic cover, and pressed a square, red button. A soft click was heard, but nothing else. There was no pulse, no recoil, no crash of thunder. There was no bright beam of a death ray to be seen, as the laser operated in the X-ray part of the spectrum.
Four hundred miles away, the submarine-launched ballisticmissile was at ten thousand feet and streaking skyward at five thousand miles an hour; three times the speed of a rifle bullet. To the laser, which traveled at the speed of light, it might as well have been standing still.
The laser hit the target squarely, melting through the exterior in a hundredth of a second and detonating the rocket propellant. The explosion in the night sky over the Atlantic was visible for a hundred miles. Confirmation came to the C-17 via radar.
“Target separating,” the radar tech announced as the green dot on the scope spread out and faded. In seconds, the rapidly expanding ball of fire and fragments had diffused past the point of radar detection. The blip vanished from the screen. “Target eliminated.”
A small round of applause and congratulatory shouts erupted. Caldwell cut them short. “We still have work to do, gentlemen.”
He heard the grumbling behind his back, but didn’t turn around lest the team see the broad smile on his face.
As he ran through a systems check, a loud pop sounded behind him. Now he was angry. He spun in his chair, shouting as he turned. “That better not be champagne, Ridley!”
As he spoke the last word, Caldwell’s mouth hung open in shock. Ridley held a gun and was firing it into the backs of the other technicians. Blood was splattering across the computer screens and consoles. They slumped forward or recoiled backward as the bullets hit. One of them managed to undo his seat belt and get up, only to get hit at point-blank range in the chest.
Caldwell freed himself from his harness and launched himself at Ridley, tackling him before he could swing the pistol around. The two men slammed to the floor of the aircraft, with Caldwell trying to drive his shoulder downward into the traitor’s neck.
The gun discharged beneath him. It felt like a small explosion. A burning fire flared in Caldwell’s gut.
Caldwell knew he’d been hit, but sensed it wasn’t a mortal wound. He kept his weight on Ridley, rising up and slugging him in the jaw with a right hook. Ridley’s head snapped to the side and blood splattered from his lips. It was a solid blow, but not a knockout punch. And it left Caldwell off balance. His core muscles, torn by the first shot, were too weak to keep him upright as Ridley bucked him off.
He fell to the side, put his hands on the deck, and spun back toward his opponent.
Ridley fired a second shot. This time the gun was pointed upward not sideways. Caldwell felt as if he’d been kicked in the chest. He reeled from the impact, rocking backward and then toppling over as his vision blurred. He slumped to the deck gasping for air.
Ridley got to one knee, leaning over him, trying to determine if he needed another bullet.
“Why?” Caldwell asked, his voice a raspy whisper.
“Why not,” Ridley replied nastily, as if that explained everything.
Caldwell barely heard the words; he’d lost too much blood. He lay his head on the deck and closed his eyes.
Ridley looked around the compartment. The first part of the job was done. The test crew were dead. The compartment secure. Now for the more difficult disappearing act.
He stood up, put a hand to his bruised mouth, and wiggled a tooth free. He looked at it for a second and then tossed it aside. He’d get implants, and anything else he wanted once he had money to burn.
Ahead of him the cockpit door opened. Ridley raised the gun as the copilot came out. Instead of firing, he lowered the pistol.
The copilot held a bloody knife, which had been used to good effect on the aircraft’s captain. “I assume we’re flying on autopilot,” Ridley said.
“For the moment,” the copilot said. “I came back to see if you needed any help.”
“Good work,” Ridley told him. “Time for the second act. Turn toward Murmansk and shut down all the data relays. It’s time for this plane to disappear.”
“What about the F-35s?”
Ridley tried to smile, but his bruised face wouldn’t allow it. “I’ll take care of them.”
