Plague Ship - Cussler Clive (полные книги .TXT) 📗

“You ready for the ride of your life?” Taggart asked, leading him to an office in one corner of the hangar.

His voice had a West Texas twang.

Eric grinned. “Yes, sir, I am.”

There were two men in the office. Eric recognized one of them right away by his thick muttonchop sideburns. It was legendary aircraft designer Rick Butterfield. The other was a tall, patrician figure with a shock of white hair. He wore a banker’s three-piece suit, with the chain of a Phi Beta Kappa key arcing across his waistcoat. Eric put his age on the high side of seventy.

“Mr. Stone,” he said, extending a hand. “I so rarely get to meet members of Juan’s team.”

“Are you Langston Overholt?” Eric asked with awe.

“I am, my boy, I am. Although you have never, and most likely will never, meet me. Do you understand?”

Eric nodded.

“I really shouldn’t have come at all. This is a private deal between the Corporation and Mr. Butterfield’s company, after all.”

“That I wouldn’t have agreed to if you hadn’t threatened to gum up my certification applications with the FAA and NASA.” Butterfield had a high-pitched voice.

Overholt turned to him. “Rick, it wasn’t a threat, just a friendly reminder that your aircraft hasn’t yet been certified flightworthy, and that a word from me will cut a lot of red tape.”

“You’d better not be yanking my chain.”

“I think that my getting you a temporary certificate for this flight is proof enough of what I can do for you.”

Butterfield’s expression remained sour, but he seemed mollified. He asked Eric, “What time do we need to do this?”

“Using tracking data from NORAD, I calculate that to make an intercept I have to be in position at exactly eight-fourteen and thirty-one-point-six seconds tomorrow morning.”

“I can’t guarantee you that kind of time accuracy. We’ll need an hour just to get to altitude, and another six minutes for the burn.”

“A minute either way shouldn’t make much of a difference,” Eric said to reassure him. “Mr. Butterfield, I want you to understand the gravity of this situation. There are literally millions of lives counting on us. I know that sounds like a line from a bad spy novel, but it is the truth. If we fail, the people of the world are going to suffer in unspeakable agony.”

He opened his laptop to show the aeronautical engineer some of the footage taken aboard the Golden Dawn. The scenes spoke for themselves, so Eric didn’t bother narrating. When it was over, he said,

“Most of the people killed were the ones responsible for manufacturing the virus. The men behind this murdered their own people just to keep them silent.”

Butterfield looked up from the computer. His face was ashen under his farmer’s tan. “I’m on board, kid.

One hundred percent.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You ever taken any serious g’s, son?” Taggart asked.

“When I was in the Navy, I was launched off a carrier. That was about three, maybe three and a half.”

“You barf easy?”

“It’s why I’m here and another one of my associates isn’t. I’m a member of ACE, American Coaster Enthusiasts. I spend my vacations riding roller coasters. Haven’t been sick once.”

“Good enough for me. Rick?”

“I’m not going to have you sign a bunch of insurance waivers and all that boilerplate. I can vouch for my bird so long as you vouch for your health.”

“My company gives us physicals every six months. There’s nothing wrong with me that these eyeglasses can’t correct.”

“Okay, then. We have a lot of prep work to get done before morning.” Butterfield glanced at the big Rolex he wore on the inside of his wrist. “My team should be here in twenty minutes or so. I need to get you and your gear on a scale to calculate weights and balance, and then I think you should remain on your aircraft until the flight. Your pilots can stay at the hotel in town. I’ll have one of my guys drive them.”

“That works for me. Ah, Mr. Butterfield, I do have one request.”

“Shoot.”

“I’d like to see the plane.”

Butterfield nodded and sauntered from the office, Eric, Taggart, and Overbolt in tow. There was a handheld remote dangling from a long cord next to the shrouded plane. He hit a button, and a winch started to draw the tarp ceilingward.

Painted glossy white with little blue stars, the mother plane, called Kanga, looked unlike any other aircraft in the world. It had gull wings, like the venerable World War II Corsair, but they started high on the fuselage and angled downward, so that the airframe sat on tall landing gear. It had two jet engines above the single-seat cockpit, and twin spars under the wings that tapered back to a pair of delta-shaped tail assemblies.

But what was nestled under the larger plane was what held Stone’s attention. ’ Roo was a rocket-powered glider with a single flat wing that could be hinged upward to impart drag after it had exhausted its load of fuel. Capable of speeds in excess of two thousand miles per hour, ’ Roo was a suborbital-space plane, and, while it wasn’t the first privately funded craft, it already held the record for altitude, at nearly one hundred and twenty kilometers, or almost seventy-five miles, above the earth.

’ Roo was carried to thirty-eight thousand feet by Kanga. The two would separate, and the rocket motor would be engaged so that ’ Roo screamed toward the heavens on a ballistic parabola that would carry it some sixty miles downrange. It would then glide back to its home base for refueling.

The intention of Butterfield and his investors was to take adventure seekers on a suborbital flight so they could feel the freedom of weightlessness at the very edge of space. Eric Stone was about to become their first paying customer, although he wasn’t after thrills. His idea was to time the flight so that at its apogee he would be within range of the Russian weapons platform’s damaged antenna. Using the codes Juan had gotten from Kerikov, Eric would reposition the satellite so it would launch one of its projectiles at Eos Island. The kinetic energy of the eighteen-hundred-pound tungsten rod striking anywhere on the island would obliterate the ELF transmitter.

“She’s something godawful ugly, isn’t she?” Butterfield said with pride. He rubbed a loving hand along the composite fuselage.

“What’s it like flying in her?” Eric asked.

“I wouldn’t know.” Butterfield tapped his chest. “Bum ticker.” The test pilot, Taggart, said, “Son, this thing is going to ruin you for them roller coasters you like so much

’cause this is one ride that’ll top ’em all.”

Overholt cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, it wouldn’t do for me to be here when Mr. Butterfield’s people arrive, so I will bid my farewells.” He shook hands all around, his grip firm despite his age. “Mr. Stone, please walk me back to my plane.”

“Certainly, sir.”

Eric had to stretch his stride to match the elder man’s pace.

“I would like you to convey to the Chairman, the next time you speak to him, that I had a word with our friends at the National Security Agency. They also detected the ELF transmissions, one from your Mr.

Hanley, I believe, and the other one a short while earlier. The very fact that someone has gone to the expense of building such a transmitter caused a bit of a stir, as you can imagine. Coupled with what you and your crewmates have been able to discern, almost all of it unsubstantiated”—Eric opened his mouth to protest—“I know you don’t follow Justice Department rules, but there are legalities that must be followed if we’re to prosecute Severance and his group.

“I helped grease the wheels for your little adventure tomorrow, so you know I am taking this threat seriously, but if we are going to expose the Responsivist movement for the monsters they really are I need facts, not second- and thirdhand accounts. Do you understand?”