The runway was too short, the jet’s speed too great, its nose stayed up long after the snow burst from its tires. It plowed the air, struggling to stop before it hit the snow-covered trees.
The nose dropped and Franklin could hear someone standing on the plane’s brakes as the trees came closer. From where his headlights barreled down the runway chasing the plane in his old jeep, it appeared the jet was already in the trees.
At the very last moment, the little plane spun, its stubby right wing clipping branches.
He left the jeep parked on slanted ground in the snowy brush, grabbed two duffels, threw a coil of rope over his right shoulder and rushed to the plane’s opening door.
“Hi, Bro,” came Everon’s worried voice as Franklin climbed inside. “It’s definitely nuclear?” A young woman with long red hair pulled the door shut, then slid into the pilot’s seat next to Everon.
“That’s what the radio said,” Franklin answered as he tossed his gear on the rear seat next to him and buckled in.
“Do they say anything about any more bombs?” Everon called back.
“Just speculation that it won’t be the last.”
“Let’s not think about that. Cynthia and Steve and Melissa are all that matter.”
Step-brothers, Franklin and Everon were related to Cynthia by one parent each. Once nearly inseparable, the brothers had seen each other rarely in the last fourteen years.
Ninety seconds later the Lear’s wheels left the ground. While hundreds of thousands streamed away from New York, trying to escape, Franklin, Everon and Andréa headed east.
Toward it.
Far ahead through the cockpit window, Franklin could see a sickening glow.
“Is this the beginning of the end?” he wondered softly.
The city on fire.
He closed his eyes. Balled up deep, as if his stomach were producing too much acid, he felt a sick knot of indefinable dread.
And there went out a horse that burned red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword to make war.
“There’s no GPS signal at all,” a worried female voice intruded. Andréa.
“Whatever satellites were above the blast zone must have been damaged by the bomb’s electromagnetic pulse,” Everon answered her.
Beyond the fact that the explosion in New York was nuclear, they’d learned little on the jet’s radios.
“Did you hear that?” Andréa asked.
“Can’t make it out. Too weak,” Everon said.
“It’s so dark, I can’t see a damned thing,” she said back. “Highways, that’s about it. Maybe we can get radar vectors.” She keyed her mic: “One-Oscar-Mike to Newark Airport?”
Franklin opened his eyes.
Everon glanced back and flicked a switch on the instrument panel. A voice came from an overhead speaker. “Newark Airport is now controlled by military personnel. All private and commercial aircraft are directed to find alternate landing facilities at this time.”
Everon turned to Andréa. “La Guardia?”
“Awfully close to Manhattan. I’d like to get the hell out of the whole area.”
“Let’s see what they say, huh?” Everon pushed.
Andréa called them.
“Turn off!” La Guardia’s controller answered full of scratch and static. “All our runways are obstructed by debris.”
Franklin wished he could just throw open the jet’s door and rappel right down onto the roof of Cynthia’s building.
Just to know they’re okay.
“Kennedy?” Andréa asked, already changing frequencies, smooth jaw muscles tightening into a small bulge.
But Kennedy was being evacuated, already under a radioactive cloud.
Franklin felt each denial as a physical blow. He leaned forward between the cockpit seats, picked up an aeronautical chart from the floor. Pointed to a spot in New Jersey. “Can we try over here? TEB’s an airport, isn’t it? Looks close to the city. If it’s not too close.”
Everon looked from the map to Andréa. “Teterboro.”
She changed the radio frequency.
But there was no response from that airport either.
“Look!” she said. “That highway.” She glanced down at the chart. “We’re here,” she pointed, suddenly took the yoke and banked the jet on a course thirty degrees south.
“Teterboro area traffic,” Everon called, “Learjet One-Oscar-Mike — anyone know if the runway is useable?”
Nobody answered.
Andréa began an uncomfortable pass along the runway’s right side. “How’s it look?” she asked. “I — I can’t see anything.”
“No active planes on the field,” Everon said. “I don’t see chunks of debris or anything. The lights are pretty dim though. Runway numbers aren’t too clear. A lot of dust, maybe?”
“No beacon on the tower,” Andréa breathed. “No strobes. Runway lights barely visible. I don’t know . . . ”
“They’re probably on emergency power,” Everon said. “It’s the best shot we’ve got. Let’s take it.” He called again: “Teterboro area traffic. Learjet One-Oscar-Mike turning downwind, Runway Two-Four.”
Franklin buckled himself in.
Andréa took a deep breath. Turned forty degrees or so and entered the approach pattern — any moment ready to pull up. Not being able to talk to the tower was unsettling. If there was something on the runway, it could be the last landing she’d ever make.
“Learjet Oscar-Mike, Gulfstream Six-One-Six-One-Sierra-Golf, here. About six miles out. We’ll follow you.”
Another jet? Behind us?
“Okay, Sierra-Golf,” Everon radioed.
“Cross your fingers,” Andréa muttered. She pulled on the throttles to reduce power.
The runway was wet when they touched down, and looked dirty. Andréa taxied them over next to two other small jets parked inside the airport’s chain-link fence.
Everon hadn’t lived in New Jersey for years. But he knew it well. It wouldn’t be the first time the land surrounding Teterboro had been flooded by storm. It was the first time the result could be so deadly.
He had the side door open before they stopped moving.
“Wait here,” he yelled and disappeared.
Through the door Franklin watched a larger jet set down on the runway they’d just vacated. Over the next ten minutes two more landed, parked parallel wing-to-wing with them down the line.
A dark-haired man wearing a black leather jacket, and a rail-thin woman whose straight blonde hair hung over the shoulders of her shiny red coat, leaned their faces into the Learjet’s open door. Both probably in their thirties, tanned as if they’d just spent a week on a Florida beach.
“Anybody know what’s going on?” the woman asked nervously.
“An Ohio radio station claimed the device was nuclear,” Franklin told her.
“We know it’s nuclear,” a male voice rumbled behind her in the dark.
A sudden bright white glow appeared in the distance. BOOM! The sound hit them as it faded back to red.
“What was that! Was that a plane?”
Like a series of bombs going off, half a dozen smaller explosions followed.
Helicopters zoomed overhead, their spotlights sweeping for potential landing areas. People trying to talk all at once. Craziness reigned.
The woman had backed up enough to let Franklin step into the cold air. He edged forward.
It smelled of smoke and dust outside. There were more people behind her.
One man, face pink with cold, in a high voice said, “I got a report on a portable. The station we picked up over West Virginia said the Mayor of New York’s missing.”
“They think he’s dead,” somebody said.
“The deputy’s in charge.”
“Where’s the President?”
Everybody started talking at once.
Everon ran up out of breath. “Let’s go! Got us a small four-place helicopter. The last weather briefing says we’ve only got a few hours to fly in, do our own search — find Cynthia, Steve and Melissa, before the wind changes and blows the fallout back in our direction.”
“Everyone’s supposed to be subject to military law, even the police,” said a dark-skinned man.
“We’ll see,” Everon said, Franklin grabbing his gear.
“Do you want my help?” Andréa said, as Franklin stepped from the jet. Everon didn’t answer.
“You’re going in there?” the thin woman in red called after them, voice jittery and rising.
But Franklin and Everon had already disappeared into the darkness.
Climbing gear bags and rope slung over both shoulders, in the dim airport lights Franklin chased after his older brother, around the rear of Runway 24.
“Any danger of radiation coming this way?” he yelled.
“Wind’s blowing away from us!” Everon shouted back. “Toward Long Island. For now!”
On the other side of the airport a small red helicopter had been rolled from one of the metal hangars.
“It’s a four-place Robinson,” Everon said. “It’ll do to lift us all out.”
Franklin stared at the big black tail number.
666KI. Red and black. The devil’s helicopter.
“If we can find them,” Everon added, climbing into the right seat. He began to flip various switches. “I had to practically buy the thing before they’d rent it to me. Took half my spare cash.”
“Have you flown this type before?” Franklin asked.
“Not so loud,” Everon whispered. “Ten, eleven hours or so.” He hit the starter. With a high-pitched screech, the engine began to turn over. As its two long blades began to rotate overhead, Everon handed Franklin a headset.
“Hear me?” Everon asked.
“I hear you.”
Everon scanned the gauges, adjusted controls. “Alright.” He put his right hand on the yoke, his left between the front seats, lifted the collective arm off the floor, and began to twist a handle on its end like a motorcycle grip. The engine’s sound increased.
From nowhere, a thick blue arm appeared in front of Everon, snaked inside and turned the key. The engine died instantly.
“What the hell are you doing!” Everon screamed.
A bright light shined in their eyes. “All air travel is suspended,” said a clipped nasal voice.
“What!” Everon growled.
The light turned away. Franklin could barely make out the short, dark-haired man, right hand on a big hip gun, standing on Everon’s right. He had a tight, authoritative look on his small mouth. He had tiny eyes. TETERBORO AIRPORT SECURITY across his blue jacket and cap. A silver name tag said VANDERSOMMEN.
“The controller’s radios are out. They’ve got hand-delivered military orders. We’re coming under martial law.” He bounced on the soles of his shiny black shoes. Almost happy about it.
Everon exploded: “SONOFABITCH!”
