Chapter 3 - The Dark End of Runway Nine|
"Someone did what?" I demanded into the telephone.
Lena's breathing came fast through the receiver.
"The emergency generator control cable has been cut."
"Not damaged."
"Cut."
I closed my eyes for half a second.
When I opened them, I was back in a combat operations room, watching a mission deteriorate because somebody had made one decision too many.
"Listen carefully, Lena."
"Don't touch anything else around the cable."
"Photograph it, notify airport operations, and get the fire crews moving."
"What about the runway lights?"
"We improvise with whatever the airport emergency team can safely authorize."
I hung up.
Grant was standing directly behind me.
"Was that Lena?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Why is she involved?"
"Because somebody has sabotaged the emergency lighting system while an Air Force pilot is trying to land."
The word sabotaged landed in the room like a grenade.
Carter stopped rubbing his injured wrist.
One of the club members lowered his bourbon glass.
Grant's face hardened.
"That's a serious accusation."
"Then I suggest you take it seriously."
He stepped closer.
"You don't have the authority to run this airport."
"Neither do you," I snapped.
"Airport operations and the emergency crews do, and right now they're trying to save a man's life."
Grant looked genuinely offended.
I almost laughed.
He could tolerate a possible military aircraft crash.
What he couldn't tolerate was a mechanic contradicting him in front of his friends.
"You're forgetting your place, Jessica."
I turned fully toward him.
"No, Grant."
"For the first time in years, I'm remembering exactly where I belong."
The radio hissed.
"Silverwood ground coordination, this is Ghost Two-Four."
"Any update on the runway?"
I reached for the microphone.
"We've got a lighting failure, Rook."
"Airport operations are setting up emergency visual references, and the controller is working the diversion options."
"How much time do we have?" I asked.
Aaron hesitated.
"Not enough to spend arguing."
There was a thin edge to his voice.
I knew what it meant.
His aircraft was damaged more severely than he wanted to admit.
And he was trying not to frighten the people on the ground.
I rushed toward the lounge doors.
Carter moved in front of me again.
This time, he kept his hands to himself.
"You threw me across a table," he said.
"You'll be hearing from my attorneys."
"Send them to the runway," I replied.
"They can help shovel snow."
I pushed past him.
The cold hit me like a physical blow.
Snow whipped across the aircraft parking apron.
The wind carried loose ice crystals hard enough to sting my cheeks.
Across the field, emergency vehicles were moving through the darkness.
Their flashing lights appeared and disappeared behind curtains of white.
Silverwood Regional had a small but experienced airport rescue crew.
Tonight, they were going to need every ounce of that experience.
Lena met me outside the maintenance building.
She was twenty-eight, sharp-eyed, and the only mechanic at Silverwood who could find a hydraulic leak faster than I could.
She had a flashlight in one hand and her phone in the other.
"Look at this," she said.
She showed me the photograph.
The cable's protective sleeve had been opened cleanly.
Inside, the control wiring had been severed.
It wasn't corrosion.
It wasn't an animal chewing through insulation.
Somebody had deliberately disabled the system.
"Did you call the airport manager?"
"He's on his way."
"Good."
She looked at me carefully.
"Jess, why did that fighter pilot call you Beacon?"
I didn't answer immediately.
The snow reminded me of ash.
The wailing emergency siren reminded me of an aircraft warning tone.
For a moment, I was back in Syria again.
Then Lena touched my sleeve.
"Jess?"
"I used to fly fighters."
She stared at me.
"What?"
"I'll explain later."
We hurried toward the airport emergency operations vehicle, where Chief Daniel Brooks was coordinating fire crews, plows, and the airport manager.
Brooks had been a firefighter for twenty-six years.
He didn't waste time asking why I was there.
"Ward, I heard you know the pilot."
"I do."
"We've got a runway we can clear, but the lights are out."
"What are our options?"
He pointed at the airport diagram.
"Portable emergency lighting, battery-powered markers, and rescue vehicles positioned outside the protected runway area."
"Operations is checking every placement with the controller."
I nodded.
"Don't put anyone in the aircraft's path."
"I'm not losing a ground crew because we're trying to save a pilot."
Brooks gave me a brief, approving look.
"Then we agree."
The airport manager arrived moments later and activated the field's emergency landing plan.
The primary runway was being cleared by two heavy snowplows.
The rescue trucks moved toward predetermined staging points.
Lena took a maintenance pickup to help install portable lights along the approach reference area under the airport crew's direction.
And I returned to the radio position in the emergency vehicle.
Aaron's voice was fading beneath static.
"Beacon, I'm getting intermittent control feedback."
"Copy," I said.
"Keep the controller informed."
A pause followed.
Then he spoke more quietly.
"Jess, I need you to understand something."
"Tell me when you're on the ground."
"If I don't make it, there's something you need to know."
My stomach clenched.
"Rook."
"There's a reason this aircraft failed tonight."
I stared at the damaged cable photograph still displayed on Lena's phone.
"What are you saying?"
"That I was investigating a contractor maintenance discrepancy before this flight."
The wind slammed against the emergency vehicle.
I gripped the microphone harder.
"Which contractor?"
Aaron coughed.
"Whitmore Defense."
My blood turned cold.
Whitmore Defense was the company founded by Grant's father.
It supplied advanced aircraft components to military testing programs.
And for years, one of its senior executives had been a retired Air Force colonel named Victor Kessler.
I knew that name.
I had heard it during my last combat deployment.
I had heard it in a hospital corridor.
And I had heard it whispered outside the closed meeting where my flying career effectively ended.
"Rook, stay focused on the landing," I said.
"We'll talk about Whitmore afterward."
He didn't answer.
Instead, an alarm sounded faintly through the radio.
Then his voice returned.
"Beacon, I've got the runway area ahead, but I can't make out the threshold!"
I looked through the windshield.
The emergency lights were barely visible.
Snow was sweeping across the pavement in long white sheets.
Chief Brooks leaned over the portable radio.
"Operations reports the plows clear of the runway."
"All vehicles are outside the protected area."
"Rescue crews are standing by."
I transmitted the update to Denver Center.
The controller confirmed the approach arrangements and gave Aaron the latest wind and runway information.
Then Aaron said something that made everyone inside the vehicle freeze.
"I'm going to commit to the landing."
I could hear the terrible effort it took him to maintain control.
"Rook, the crews are ready," I answered.
"But listen to the controller and trust what your remaining instruments tell you."
For a few seconds, there was only static.
Then the darkness above the runway changed.
A faint white light appeared inside the storm.
It grew brighter.
Lower.
Closer.
I heard the unmistakable roar of a fighter engine.
And when Ghost Two-Four finally broke through the snow clouds, I saw its nose moving violently against the crosswind.
The aircraft was far too close to the ground.
Its landing gear was down.
But its right wing was dropping.
May you like
Then Aaron screamed into the radio.
"BEACON, I'M LOSING IT!"
