65

THE DOCKS VANISHED BEHIND CONNOR, AND HE WAS FLYING OVER THE black waters of the San Francisco Bay. He pulled back on the stick, climbing and banking to the right.

His mind hummed with adrenaline and his hand shook on the stick. Part of him could not comprehend that he was actually doing this. It looked and felt just like another movie shoot. But those were real bullets in his guns this time, not blanks. Those were real buildings and ships and men down there, and he had just fired hundreds of rounds at them.

He looked back over his right shoulder at the Deep Seven compound. A black and red mushroom cloud rose from the remains of a gas or propane tank. The building closest to it was a collapsed ruin, and another building appeared to have lost a wall and part of its roof. Tiny figures ran aimlessly or pointed after him. None of them appeared to be hurt or dead. Good.

He was trying to disrupt whatever was going on down there and bring in the Port police—or better yet, the military. Shooting people—even bad people—was something he really wanted to keep to a minimum.

Air traffic control had been jabbering on his radio for the past several minutes. Time to bring them into the loop. “Oakland Center, this is November-one-niner-six-six-November. I am observing violent activity on a dock in the Port of Oakland. I am attempting to disrupt it. Please contact Port police, Coast Guard, and all other appropriate authorities immediately.”

“Six-Six-November, turn right toward San Francisco Bay, bearing due west and climb and maintain five thousand feet. You will be intercepted by an Air Force F-16. Acknowledge.”

“Not until I see Port cops on the ground. I have a friend down there, and I’m not leaving her.”

“Six-six-November, there are F-16s inbound. If you do not leave the area immediately, you risk being shot down.”

“Get some cops on that dock and I’ll leave. Six-six-November out.”

Connor clicked off the radio and turned to his Bluetooth headset. “How’s it looking? What’s going on down there?”

“Tough to tell,” Julian’s voice said in his ear. The volume on the earpiece was up as high as it would go, but the cockpit noise still almost drowned him out. “There’s a lot of smoke and one of those buildings just came down.”

“Which one was Allie in?”

Pause. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

A sick feeling welled up in him. “No, you’re not.”

“Don’t think about it. Look, the best thing you can do for her right now is to get the cops in there. Focus, buddy. You need to focus.”

Was Allie okay? The question burned in his mind, but he knew Julian was right. Worrying couldn’t save her, but it could kill him. He said a quick prayer and then did his best to push thoughts of her away.

He leveled out the White Knight and swallowed hard. “Okay, I’m going in for another pass. “What do I hit?”

“There’s a lot of activity around a semi. See it?”

Connor looked down. He saw a large unmarked white semi parked in the shadows between the ship’s gangway and a large warehouse. Men scurried around it even as it began to roll forward.

“I see it. Whatever’s in there must be pretty important for them to try moving it right now.” He nosed the P-51 down into a power dive. The night air roared over the old fighter’s wings and the ground rushed up at him.

Men raced for cover as the plane approached. When he was about three hundred yards out, he noticed strobe-like flashes from the corners of buildings. A chill went through him as he realized they were shooting at him. Bangs and pings rattled through the plane as some of the bullets found their mark. He was very glad that he had left most of the plane’s original battle armor in place—particularly the steel plates and bullet-resistant canopy protecting the pilot.

Connor let loose a burst from the six .50-caliber machine guns in the wings. Dust and debris flew into the air as the massive bullets hit the ground, digging furrows in the asphalt and cement toward the semi’s tractor. Men dove out of the truck, leaving it to roll forward on its own.

The stream of fire chewed into the cab. It didn’t burst into a fireball the way vehicles did when Connor “shot” them on movie sets. Still, he was pretty sure he was hitting it.

Then he was past the truck. The dock flew by in a flash and he was over the water again. He pulled the plane up again, but it was sluggish and shook. He’d probably taken hits to his flight control surfaces. He looked to the right and left out of the Plexiglas bubble canopy, but he couldn’t see his wings clearly in the dark. Hopefully the damage wasn’t too bad.

He made a wide turn to the right, staying well out of range from the dock. “Did I get it?”

Julian whistled. “Oh, yeah. It’s smoking, and it looks like Swiss cheese. They’re not driving that thing anywhere.”

“Any sign of cops yet?”

“Nope, but it’s only been about five minutes.”

“Really?” He let out a shaky laugh. “It feels like I’ve been up here for half an hour.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going in for another pass. No target this time—I’ll just buzz them.”

He dove into the hornets’ nest again, flying low and fast to make himself as hard to hit as possible. The ground fire started well before he was in range and there was more of it this time. The entire dock area sparkled with flashes like a stadium during the opening kickoff for a Super Bowl.

But the White Knight was going over 400 miles an hour— far too fast for an inexperienced marksman to hit from more than point-blank range. Bullets fired at the plane’s nose would pass harmlessly behind its tail. To actually hit it, they would have to aim well in front of the aircraft—a skill few modern soldiers learned. He didn’t hear any bullets hitting his plane.

After the pass, he climbed and banked again. A giddy euphoria swept over him. He grinned, then laughed. “Hey, Julian, I think I’m getting the hang of this!”

“Looking good! There’s chatter up and down my scanner. Sounds like the police will be here in a couple of minutes. I also heard something about fighters from Fresno.”

“Excellent! A couple more passes ought to do it, just to keep our friends on the dock off balance.”

He made a wide turn and circled the dock for a few minutes, testing the ailerons, elevator, and rudder. The flight controls continued to be a problem, but nothing he couldn’t handle. He swooped down again, firing a short burst into the water in front of the dock for effect. Men scattered for cover or fired up at him. But again Connor didn’t notice any hits.

He had just started making yet another pass when his cockpit radio crackled. “November-one-niner-niner-six-November, this is Falcoln 11 of the Air National Guard. Break off immediately or you will be shot down. Acknowledge.”

“Acknowledged. I was wondering when you guys would show up.”

“You will fly due west, climb to five thousand feet and circle over open water until we arrive. Then you will accompany us to Moffett Field. If you do not follow my instructions exactly, you will be shot down. Acknowledge.”

“Acknowledged. You’ll want to take a look at that dock before we leave.”

He pulled up and turned west, waiting for his escort. There was a glint behind him and he saw two fighters streaking toward him. He was going 325 miles an hour, and the F-16s closed on him like he was standing still. One pulled alongside to his right, while the other stayed behind him.

Despite the repeated threats to shoot him down, Connor was deeply relieved to see the fighters. His part in this drama was ending. The military and police would take over now. He noticed that his hands shook on the plane’s controls.

Just as the F-16 pulled up beside him, Julian’s voice shouted in his ear. “There’s something going on!”

“Yeah, I know.” The F-16 to his right turned toward the Deep Seven dock and Connor paralleled his escort. Apparently the pilot was going to take Connor’s advice about seeing for himself. “It’s the military. They just ordered me to stop.”

“No! Not in the air—on the dock!”

“What?” Connor pressed his head against the side of the cockpit, but the plane’s nose blocked his view of the dock.

“Missile! Missile!” Julian shouted.

Connor caught a glimpse of something small flying up toward the two planes. He pushed the throttle all the way open and rolled to the right. The White Knight snapped over and out of the missile’s path.

For a split-second, Connor thought he was safe. Then the lead F-16 exploded yards away. A wave of light, heat, and sound enveloped the P-51.

Connor dragged back on the stick, trying to keep the plane’s nose up as it hurtled over the dock. The altimeter said he was at three hundred feet. He tried to turn left and away from the gunners below, but his rudder seemed to be gone.

Two hundred feet. Rattling, roaring, and garbled shouting filled his ears as he fought to keep the White Knight in the air. Bullets slammed into the canopy, making impact craters that looked like flattened snowballs.

One hundred feet. He was over the water again, so close that he could see small waves in the moonlight. No way he was going to be able to nurse the plane to an airport.

“Mayday! Mayday! Ditching at sea!” he shouted to whomever was listening.

Sixty feet. He slowed as much as he dared to lessen the impact, trying to keep the nose up the whole time.

Fifty feet. Forty. Thirty. He braced himself for the crash. “Dear God, please—”

The water came up and hit him like a wall.