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Authors: Paul Christopher
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payload of about six tons. If it drops a load of water and muck directly onto us, it’ll crush this old barge to matchsticks.”
“Then we must not allow this to happen, must we,
compadre
?” grunted Eddie, giving his friend a wink. “Which part of this flying duck would you like to eat first, my friend?”
“I’ll take the cockpit. You go for the props. Together maybe we can do some damage.”
“Sounds like a plan, boss.” Eddie grinned.
Holliday shook his head. “Where do you get this stuff?”
“
Americana
TV, boss,” Eddie answered, then turned back to the water bomber.
The cockpit of a Canadair water bomber is comfortably fitted with two ergonomically designed leather seats, easy-to-read digital controls and a throttle console dividing pilot and copilot. There is plenty of visibility from the wraparound windows, and flying her empty is a joy, according to most pilots.
The FN Maximi has a rate of fire of eight hundred NATO 7.62 ammunition per minute, and Holliday kept up a continuous earsplitting barrage into the hull, cutting easily through the thin aluminum skin of the fuselage and filling the cockpit with a white-hot enraged swarm of metal wasps while Eddie’s shells from the automatic rifle tore into the portside Pratt & Whitney turboprop.
The pilot, Andy Benson, his copilot, Randy Menzer, and the navigator, Jimmy Salazar, were turned into human steak tartare, Salazar with just enough time to push the pilot’s remains out of the way and haul up on the yoke as another swarm of the same wasps ripped up through the floor and stole away what little remained of Jimmy’s life.
Guns still blazing, the portside engine and propellers disintegrating in a comet’s tail of white-hot aluminum and flames, the water bomber passed over Holliday and Eddie less than fifteen feet over their heads, barely giving them time to read the large letters spelling out FIREBREAKERS in white lettering on the underside of each wing.
“Firebreakers, my ass,” said Holliday as he and Eddie turned to watch the death of the burning aircraft. The nose seemed to rise slightly as though the plane itself were fighting for its life, but then the portside fuel tank and the engine exploded. A wing blew off and spun into the jungle, and the plane turned on its side just as it smashed into the water and went under almost instantly about a hundred yards astern of the riverboat. There was a brief moment of silence and then a huge gout of oily, smoky flame rose out of the water like hell rising from the underworld.
“Napalm,” said Holliday. The last time he’d seen it used was at Tora Bora in Afghanistan. “That was no water bomber—it was a firebomber. And the question is, how did they know exactly where we were?”
“The people of this Firebreaker company will soon be missing their aircraft,” said Eddie, watching the flames carried downstream like a puddle of churning volcanic lava.
“Yeah, and I’ve got a pretty good idea about who they really are.”
• • •
Captain Ron Taylor stood above the bank of radar screens in the underground control bunker at what had once been Luke Auxiliary Air Force Base Number 11 not far from the town of Buckeye, Arizona, and which was now owned by Aviation Consultation Enterprises, which owned its own air cargo company, Redwood Air, both of which were owned in turn by White Star Protective Solutions, itself a small part of the Pallas Group. The binders needed to trace ownership of Firebreakers to A.C.E., Redwood, White Star and the Pallas Group would have been twice as thick as the Manhattan phone book.
Taylor turned to the young corporal beside him. “Well?”
“The base in Bolívar hasn’t heard from Red Two for an hour, sir.”
“Could she still be in the air?”
“Unlikely.”
“What else do we have down there?”
“Two Super Tucanos in Colombian livery, supposedly being used for aerial reconnaissance but they’re completely weaponized, sir.”
“Send them
“Then we must not allow this to happen, must we,
compadre
?” grunted Eddie, giving his friend a wink. “Which part of this flying duck would you like to eat first, my friend?”
“I’ll take the cockpit. You go for the props. Together maybe we can do some damage.”
“Sounds like a plan, boss.” Eddie grinned.
Holliday shook his head. “Where do you get this stuff?”
“
Americana
TV, boss,” Eddie answered, then turned back to the water bomber.
The cockpit of a Canadair water bomber is comfortably fitted with two ergonomically designed leather seats, easy-to-read digital controls and a throttle console dividing pilot and copilot. There is plenty of visibility from the wraparound windows, and flying her empty is a joy, according to most pilots.
The FN Maximi has a rate of fire of eight hundred NATO 7.62 ammunition per minute, and Holliday kept up a continuous earsplitting barrage into the hull, cutting easily through the thin aluminum skin of the fuselage and filling the cockpit with a white-hot enraged swarm of metal wasps while Eddie’s shells from the automatic rifle tore into the portside Pratt & Whitney turboprop.
The pilot, Andy Benson, his copilot, Randy Menzer, and the navigator, Jimmy Salazar, were turned into human steak tartare, Salazar with just enough time to push the pilot’s remains out of the way and haul up on the yoke as another swarm of the same wasps ripped up through the floor and stole away what little remained of Jimmy’s life.
Guns still blazing, the portside engine and propellers disintegrating in a comet’s tail of white-hot aluminum and flames, the water bomber passed over Holliday and Eddie less than fifteen feet over their heads, barely giving them time to read the large letters spelling out FIREBREAKERS in white lettering on the underside of each wing.
“Firebreakers, my ass,” said Holliday as he and Eddie turned to watch the death of the burning aircraft. The nose seemed to rise slightly as though the plane itself were fighting for its life, but then the portside fuel tank and the engine exploded. A wing blew off and spun into the jungle, and the plane turned on its side just as it smashed into the water and went under almost instantly about a hundred yards astern of the riverboat. There was a brief moment of silence and then a huge gout of oily, smoky flame rose out of the water like hell rising from the underworld.
“Napalm,” said Holliday. The last time he’d seen it used was at Tora Bora in Afghanistan. “That was no water bomber—it was a firebomber. And the question is, how did they know exactly where we were?”
“The people of this Firebreaker company will soon be missing their aircraft,” said Eddie, watching the flames carried downstream like a puddle of churning volcanic lava.
“Yeah, and I’ve got a pretty good idea about who they really are.”
• • •
Captain Ron Taylor stood above the bank of radar screens in the underground control bunker at what had once been Luke Auxiliary Air Force Base Number 11 not far from the town of Buckeye, Arizona, and which was now owned by Aviation Consultation Enterprises, which owned its own air cargo company, Redwood Air, both of which were owned in turn by White Star Protective Solutions, itself a small part of the Pallas Group. The binders needed to trace ownership of Firebreakers to A.C.E., Redwood, White Star and the Pallas Group would have been twice as thick as the Manhattan phone book.
Taylor turned to the young corporal beside him. “Well?”
“The base in Bolívar hasn’t heard from Red Two for an hour, sir.”
“Could she still be in the air?”
“Unlikely.”
“What else do we have down there?”
“Two Super Tucanos in Colombian livery, supposedly being used for aerial reconnaissance but they’re completely weaponized, sir.”
“Send them
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