The Riddle (A James Acton Thriller, Book #11) (17 page)

Laura’s
hand suddenly broke free.

“James!”
she cried as he spun around, catching a glimpse of her as she was carried with
the flow, several men pushing her along, one grabbing her from behind, almost
bear hugging her.

Acton
rose to his full height, shoving against the crowd, tossing them aside without
warning as he fought toward his wife. Suddenly he saw her left elbow lash out,
catching one of the men on the chin. He dropped. The man almost carrying Laura
slowed to look down at his friend as she threw her entire bodyweight forward,
picking the man up off the ground, his body draped over her back. The third man
swung his fist, punching Laura in the stomach just as Acton arrived. He thrust
the web of his hand hard against the man’s throat, partially collapsing his
windpipe. As the man dropped to a knee, gasping for breath, Laura flipped her
assailant over her back and onto the pavement, dropping a well planted heel on
his groin causing him to cry out in agony.

Acton
grabbed her wrist again and pushed to the side of the crowd and into another
alleyway, the Embassy tantalizingly close, the Marine guards visible behind the
wall of Vietnamese police.

Suddenly
it was another world, dark and closed in, the crowd almost muffled as they
moved deeper into the alleyway, the protest becoming more distant.

Acton
stopped, turning toward Laura. “Are you okay?”

She
nodded, rubbing her stomach. “He hits like a girl, I’ll be fine.” She looked
back at the crowd at the other end of the alley then continued moving forward
as she pulled out her cellphone. Her thumb flew over the touch screen and she
held up her phone, surprised. “The British Embassy is only about half a
kilometer from here.”

Acton
felt a surge of hope as they cleared the alleyway and hurried along another a
side street heading south. And as they neared a pit began to form in his
stomach as chanting in the distance, rather than continuing to fade, became
louder.

“It’s
just up here on this next street,” said Laura, pointing ahead. They turned the
corner and froze in their tracks.

The
British Embassy was surrounded as well.

Acton
pulled Laura back and out of sight of the smaller but still significant crowd.

“They
obviously don’t want us going to either of our embassies,” said Acton, frowning
as he tried to figure out what to do next. They couldn’t get the help of their
governments since both sources of assistance were behind police cordons, they
couldn’t go back to their hotel since they were now wanted criminals, and they
had no way of reaching Dawson.

“Could
we call Dylan?”

Acton
shrugged. “It’s worth a try, but his kind of help is probably at least hours
away. We need to get off the streets now. You and I stick out like sore
thumbs.”

Acton
was painfully aware of the stares they were both getting and decided that
walking with a purpose looked less suspicious. He reached into his pocket and
pulled out Stewart’s business card. “Let’s call Charles and see if he has any
ideas.” He dialed the number and it rang several times before the reporter
finally answered.

“Stewart.”

“It’s
Jim. Are you guys safe?”

“Yeah,
we managed to get inside the embassy. What about you two?”

“The
British Embassy is surrounded as well. And I doubt we can go back to our
hotel.”

“Definitely
not! I just spoke to one of the guys here and they said you two have been named
co-conspirators in the assassination. Every cop in the country is looking for
you.”

“Shit!”
exclaimed Acton, lowering the mouthpiece, turning to Laura, her inquisitive
look demanding an explanation. “We’ve been named co-conspirators.”

“Bloody
hell!”

“You two
need to get off the streets and hole up somewhere,” said Stewart. “I’m going to
see if we can work out something here and I’ll get back to you.”

“Okay,
thanks Charles.”

Acton
ended the call as Laura snapped her fingers.

“I know
who we can call.”

Over the Arctic Ocean
184 nautical miles from Alaskan coast

Major Terry “Sandman” Johnson pushed the engines of his F-22 Raptor
hard, his entire body pressed into his seat, the feeling of the g-forces
pressing against him familiar and comforting. He had always wanted to be a
pilot from the time he got his first toy airplane, and with his father in the
Air Force having flown dozens of missions in Gulf War One and his grandfather
over Vietnam, he was now carrying on the family tradition. After meeting his
wife and the birth of his two daughters, earning his wings was probably the
greatest thing that ever happened to him. He loved his job, loved his life and
wouldn’t change a thing.

Except
perhaps the mindset of these asshole Russians.

He and
his wingman Captain Larry “Hagman” Ewing were racing to intercept eight Russian
long range bombers, Tu-95 Bears, approaching American airspace. These
challenges to American and Canadian Arctic sovereignty had been frequent during
the Cold War, stopping almost completely after the collapse of the Soviet
Union. But a newly resurgent Russia had begun sending bombers toward the
borders again, turning back at the last minute after being intercepted by
American or Canadian fighters coordinated by NORAD.

And the
dance long thought over with had resumed.

It made
no sense.

He
simply couldn’t understand the arrogance of the Russians and why they had to
bring back a state of the world that had almost led to nuclear war on at least
one occasion the public knew about, and several others they didn’t. It
frustrated him and his fellow pilots why anyone would want to try and trigger
an incident like this. They were flying at high speeds at high altitude in the
middle of nowhere. If something went wrong, which it easily could, people would
die and who knew what kind of international incident that might trigger.

He never
worried about what his fellow pilots were doing. They trained together, flew
together and knew each other’s moves like they were their own.

It was
the Russians that worried him.

He had
no idea what they would do. The last time they had intercepted two bombers he
had pulled up beside the cockpit on the starboard side and looked at the pilot
who promptly banked directly into him. If he had been checking his own
starboard side he might have missed the maneuver and been taken out by the
massive airframe.

And it
wasn’t the first time the Russians had tried to hit one of them.

But this
was the first time he had ever seen eight bombers and he had to admit he had
some butterflies. He had heard about the assassination earlier in the day in
Vietnam and their briefing had told them to expect trouble over the coming days
and possibly weeks until things simmered down, but as soon as the reports broke
that an American was suspected of committing the murder, NORAD had reported the
launch of bombers from across Russia. Challenges were already happening in
Europe and Guam and several carrier groups had been buzzed.

If
everyone isn’t careful, this could turn into a shooting war very quickly.

He
buzzed the lead bomber with full afterburners, giving their fuselage a shake as
he banked around to take up position on their wing, showing the proverbial
flag. He and Hagman were on the starboard side of the bombers, two others from
his command on the port. As he examined the nearest Bear, his cameras taking
plenty of photos, he couldn’t help but wonder if their payload truly was
nuclear, or if they were carrying dummies just for training.

Knowing
these assholes, it’s probably the real thing.

The squadron
leader made no attempt to make radio contact with the Russians as was protocol.
International airspace was quickly running out and the bombers would soon be
turning back at the last second.

Assuming
they stayed true to form.

Sandman
kept a cautious eye on the nearest bomber, his shoulder and instrument checks
brief glances, not willing to risk a near-miss like last time.

He
looked at his coordinates and his HUD display showing the rapidly approaching
border.

They’re
not turning!

The
lumbering beasts the Russians were flying couldn’t turn on a dime. They weren’t
meant to. They needed a lot of distance to do a 180, and if they didn’t turn
now, they’d actually stray into American airspace.

His HUD
indicated four more aircraft arriving, friendlies from Canadian airspace. Now
they were about to be eight, a show of force that hadn’t been needed in a long time,
but with tensions so high, the message being sent by NORAD was any incursion
wouldn’t be tolerated, no matter how justified Russia might feel with their
moment of sympathy on the international stage.

He
listened as the squadron leader broke radio silence, another new experience for
him.

Today’s
just full of firsts.

“—turn
now or you will be violating United States airspace, acknowledge, over!”

The
Russians ignored the hails and continued forward, the border now only seconds
away at these speeds.

Shit!
What the hell are we going to do?

They
trained for this, but never expected it to actually happen, the Russians
always
turning back just short of violating the sovereignty of whoever they were
challenging. He had to assume they were merely “pushing the boundaries”, hoping
to provoke some reaction that they could then play to the folks back home,
claiming they had been in international airspace.

“Antler,
this is Sable Leader. Russian bombers have violated the twelve-mile limit and
show no sign of turning back. Request permission for weapons lock, over?”

“Sable
Leader, this is Antler. Permission granted, over.”

“Acknowledged,
Antler. Maple Leader, Sable Leader. Proceed with weapons lock, over.”

The
Canadian squadron leader acknowledged the order, both squadrons coordinated
through NORAD and listening in on the same frequency, their tactical computers
able to recognize each other. Sandman watched on his display as the Canadians
repositioned slightly then his HUD indicated that weapons locks had been
attained. He watched the Russian cockpit of the nearest bomber and saw some
excited pointing, but they continued forward, now well into US territory, the
first time he could recall this ever actually happening.

His
adrenaline was flowing freely and he steadied his breathing, remembering his
training. What happened in the next few minutes could be the end of a long,
hard, cold peace.

“Antler,
Sable Leader, weapons locks attained, no effect. Request permission to fire
warning shots, over.”

“Sable
Leader, Antler. Permission granted, over.”

Shit!
This is really happening!

Sandman
leaned forward and watched as his squadron leader broke off and out of sight. His
instruments showed the experienced pilot put some distance between himself and
the bombers then suddenly bank back toward the large group of planes. Tracer
fire was clearly visible as the M61A2 Vulcan 20 mm cannon opened up, the
bullets whipping harmlessly past the lead aircraft with plenty of room to
spare, the intention not to scare the Russians but to show the determination of
their escorts to turn them back.

Again
nothing.

Sable
Squadron Leader opened up with another volley, this one closer, and again
nothing.

These
guys are determined to get shot down.

As the
harsh Alaskan terrain rushed past almost forty thousand feet below them, he
felt sweat trickle down his spine as another volley, not thirty yards ahead of
the lead Russian bomber flashed past.

And
still nothing.

His
squadron leader reported back to NORAD, requesting permission to engage.

And
permission was granted.

Jesus
Christ!

He
looked over at the cockpit of the plane he was shadowing and the Russians still
seemed oblivious to the fate about to befall them. Orders had been granted to
splash the lead bomber. As he began to pull up to reposition himself to open
fire from the rear his threat alarm suddenly sounded as chaff erupted from all
eight bombers, flooding his display and canopy. Momentarily blinded, he held up
his hand to block the intense light when he saw a massive shadow coming toward
him.

Collision
alarms sounded and he pushed hard left and down as the bomber banked into him.
He felt his plane jerk as if a mighty force had grabbed his portside wing and
yanked it up like he was the log in a caber toss. He struggled to regain
control as his entire cockpit began to protest, alarms and lights demanding
attention.

Suddenly
a sound he had only heard described before and never dreamed he’d hear himself
filled the cockpit, the entire aircraft shaking and groaning. He looked over
his shoulder and felt his heart drop into his stomach as his wing separated
from the fuselage. His ejection alarm sounded and he heard shouting in his comm
to bail. He reached for the ejection control between his legs and gripped the
handle as his aircraft began to spin out of control. He could feel himself
about to blackout, and in a final moment of lucidity yanked on the handle. His
canopy tore away, the whipping of the ice cold wind bringing him back to
reality just as the seat was catapulted out of the plane.