Morton delivered.
Yamagata watched as 1st JSCS groundcrew unloaded two lead-lined cases from the back of a moving truck with fake CEMCOR logos on the doors. They opened the cases, revealing two slender, bullet-shaped B61 nuclear bombs. Weight, 700 pounds. Yield, variable. The bomb could be set as low as 0.3 kilotons, enough to wipe out a few city blocks, or as high as 340 kilotons, enough to wipe out the entire city of Pierre, South Dakota.
"How did you get these bombs?" Ashby stared at the cases in amazement.
"It's better if you don't know," replied Morton. "That way if you're captured, you can't tell CEMCOR."
Yamagata nodded. That made sense. Besides, how Morton got the bombs didn't matter. All that mattered was he got them, period.
He turned to Ashby. "So what do you think? How much yield do we need?" Ashby had flown F-22s before transferring to the 1st Joint Special Combat Squadron. Those fighters had been designed to drop B61s, and Ashby received extensive training on the weapon.
The Air Force lieutenant rubbed his chin as he gazed at the bombs. "From all the photos we have of Godzilla's burial site, I think about two hundred kilotons each should do the trick."
"Okay. Set the yield. Pryor." Yamagata turned to the crew chief for his Excalibur. "As soon as Lieutenant Ashby has those bombs ready, get them loaded on our planes. We've got about four hours before it gets dark. I want us in the air the moment the sun goes down."
"We'll have you ready long before then, Major."
"It's going to be a long flight," said Morton. "How are you set for fuel?"
"There are some small airfields throughout Canada we can steal avgas from."
"What about the airport staff?"
"Small enough we can handle them ourselves," Yamagata told him. "Our big challenge is going to be flying across Canada without being detected."
Morton's face scrunched in puzzlement. "I thought the Excaliburs were stealth."
"They are." It was Ashby who answered. "But our internal weapons bays house the rotary launcher for our plasma-yield missiles. We don't have room to put the nukes in there. We have to hang them from the underbelly. That's going to compromise our stealth profile."
"It's also going to piss off the Canadians if they pick you up in their airspace," said Morton.
"Then I'll apologize profusely," Yamagata responded. "But north through Canada is the quickest way to get to the Arctic."
"And if the Canadian air force intercepts you?"
"We run and evade. We've got enough problems in this country with a civil war going on. We don't need to add to them by firing on aircraft from another country, especially an ally."
That seemed to satisfy Morton.
Yamagata left Ashby and the groundcrew to their work. He headed to the terminal, a large, modern building with lots of curves and overhangs to protect passengers from snow and rain. It looked somewhat out of place at the Pierre Regional Airport in the middle of South Dakota. The city it was named after maybe had 14,000 people. Most of the planes here were single-engine propeller, with a few small two-prop passenger planes. It was also the squadron's twelfth different base in as many days. Yamagata was determined to keep them moving about the relatively secure northwestern states so CEMCOR couldn't pin down their position. So far it worked. Zamora's gray-clad goosesteppers hadn't launched any attacks against them. But Yamagata felt his luck wouldn't hold forever. The regime wanted him and the rest of the squadron. They also wanted the MF-3 Excaliburs. Sooner or later, The President would send CEMCOR here to get them.
Or he'll just send Gigan to take us out.
Zamora had already used his pet alien to level Sioux Falls, South Dakota, Bismarck, North Dakota, Helena and Butte in Montana, and Cheyenne, Wyoming to punish those states in rebellion. It had been the hardest thing in Yamagata's life to sit on his ass while the monster wrecked those cities and killed untold thousands. Fighting monsters was his duty, and he had been derelict in that duty.
He tried to convince himself it was for the greater good. He couldn't risk exposing the squadron before their mission to free Godzilla, a mission that could be a game changer in this civil war.
That's little comfort to the survivors in those cities, and the families of the dead.
Yamagata closed his eyes, trying to force the thoughts from his mind. He didn't have time for guilt and regret. All his focus had to be on the mission.
First thing he did was check the weather. Everything looked clear until Hudson Bay. A storm front was moving down from the north, dumping snow throughout the provinces of Nunavut, the Northwest Territories, Manitoba and Saskatchewan.
"That's gonna be fun," Yamagata muttered under his breath. But that's why they pay me the big bucks.
Scratch that. He was a fugitive from the federal government. They weren't paying him dick any more.
Next he went to his Excalibur and performed the pre-flight checklist with McGovern and Caputo. By the time they were done, Ashby had the bombs set to the appropriate yield. The groundcrew loaded them onto Yamagata's and Ashby's Excaliburs. Sharpe's aircraft would act as their one-plane escort in case they ran into trouble. With nothing else to do but wait until sunset, the squadron members headed to the airport cafeteria. Many of them ate in silence, Yamagata included. He tried to concentrate on the mission, but his thoughts strayed to Nicole. She, Hernandez and the Security Forces troopers had set out for Nevada seven days ago. He hadn't heard from them since. He didn't expect to. They were to maintain communications silence until they located Darrell Howell. Yamagata had no idea if they were okay, if they had been captured by CEMCOR, if . . .
All he could do was pray for Nicole, and for the others, and hoped they found Howell.
The air crews made one final trip to the bathroom before heading to their planes. They were strapped in, engines whining, just as the last rays of the sun vanished.
The Excaliburs roared into the night. They kept low to the ground, hoping to get lost in the ground clutter. Yamagata's flight plan took them over the least populated areas of the Dakotas and Canada on their way to the Arctic. He hoped it would be enough to avoid detection.
"So . . ." McGovern looked to Yamagata, then Caputo. "How about a round of Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall?"
"Sir, it's over three thousand miles to the Artic," said Caputo.
"Okay. How about a round of Ninety-nine Thousand Bottles of Beer on the Wall?"
Despite all his stress and worry, Yamagata wound up laughing.
XXXXX
Tim Gooden, Professor of Political Science at the University of North Dakota, and CEMCOR volunteer, stood on the side of US 85 taking a piss. It had been a long drive already, and he still had twenty more miles to go to their target.
Watford City. He tried not to sneer at his assignment. It proved hard to do. Watford City, located on the edge of the Badlands, was a nothing town with just over 1,800 people. CEMCOR had assigned him and three other volunteers the task of spying on the town for a future assault.
A town like that isn't worth our time. Gooden wanted to be in on a bigger assignment. He wanted to be with the groups that rounded up gun owners, so-called patriot organizations and the oil workers and executives that raped North Dakota's pristine land. He had preached about the evils of capitalism and individual liberty, aka selfishness, to his students for years. Some had listened, some just went along with it to get a good grade and move on to another class, a few mouth-breathers actually challenged his views. When he tried to browbeat them, they talked about The Constitution and freedom of speech. As if a document written by white bible-thumping slave owners had any relevance in today's society. When browbeating didn't shut them up, failing grades did. A handful continued to resist him, to shun the idea of the collective. All people working for the common goal of equality, justice and the health of the planet. There was no room for any who strayed from that path.
Gooden smiled. He had a list of those slobbering, meat-eating racists who'd dared stand up to him in class. They would pay. Oh yes, they would pay.
He zipped up and headed back to his pickup truck. The other members of his team climbed into the bed. He tried not to be upset at his mission. CEMCOR obviously thought it was important, which meant President Zamora thought it was important. Who was he to question such a great, enlightened man?
Gooden reached out for the door handle when he heard a rumble to the east. He paused, staring into the night sky.
"Is that thunder?" asked one of the men in the bed.
"I don't know." It didn't sound like thunder. Thunder only lasted a few seconds. This rumble continued. In fact, it got louder and louder, to the point Gooden grimaced and covered his ears.
Three objects screamed overhead. Gooden let out a cry and fell on his back. He glimpsed one of the objects. He was by no means an expert on military aircraft. Why would he be interested in instruments of death and oppression and the Cro-Magnons that used them?
Still, he recognized these planes. Probably everyone on the planet could recognize these planes.
Once Gooden got to his feet, and his ears stopped ringing, he got out his cell phone and called the office of the CEMCOR state director in Fargo.
"This is Professor Gooden. I'm a few miles south of Watford City. The Excaliburs just flew over me."
XXXXX
WARNING: YOU ARE APPROACHING CANADIAN AIRSPACE.
The bright red words flashed through Yamagata's helmet mounted display. He disregarded the message from the flight computer, instead scanning the skies through his helmet's night vision mode. All clear. They hadn't run into any other aircraft during the first 400-plus miles of their journey. Yamagata hoped it would remain that way for the remaining 2,600-plus miles.
He checked the GPS. The Canadian border was less than two minutes away. Again he scanned the sky. He did that often. Along with radio silence, the flight also observed radar silence. Radar signals could be picked up by CEMCOR or the Canadians. All they had to detect any threats were their radar warning receivers and their Mark One Eyeballs. Not the most efficient of ways to give one advanced warning, but they needed to do everything possible to stay hidden.
WARNING: YOU HAVE CROSSED INTO CANADIAN AIRSPACE WITHOUT AUTHORIZATION. TURN BACK IMMEDIATELY.
Again, Yamagata disregarded the message. He kept the nose of his Excalibur pointed north, flying over the desolate prairies of southern Saskatchewan. He could feel the tension running up and down his muscles. Yamagata kept watching the skies, half-expecting to see the entire Royal Canadian Air Force descend upon him.
He saw no planes as the flight continued deeper into Canada.
A series of beeps came from Caputo's console.
"I'm picking up a search radar. X-band." Caputo paused for several seconds. "Signal identified. AN/APG-70 pulse-Doppler radar. Looks like we've got two F-15s in the vicinity . . . scratch that. Four, repeat, for F-15s."
"Holy crap," blurted McGovern. "Are they going to violate Canadian airspace to get us?"
"Looks that way."
Yamagata resisted the urge to contact the other Excaliburs. They'd already talked about what to do if confronted by American jets under Zamora's control. Sharpe would fight them off while he and Ashby continued north. He didn't like leaving Sharpe alone in a fight, but delivering these bombs to the Arctic was their number one priority.
"Any sign the Eagles detected us?" asked McGovern.
Caputo shook his head. "I can't say for certain. I think they're just doing random radar sweeps. But if they have LANTIRN pods, the might pick us up on their infrared scanners."
"Great," Yamagata grumbled. They were barely fifty miles inside Canada and things were going to crap.
"Beastmasters. Beastmasters. This is Redhawk," one of the F-15 pilots radioed. "We know you are out there. You are wanted by the United States Government on a host of charges, and you have violated the airspace of a sovereign nation. I am giving you one minute to reveal your positions and return with us to American airspace, otherwise, you will be fired upon. Respond. Over."
"Like hell." The last thing Yamagata was going to do was turn on his radio and give away his position.
Instead he dropped lower to the ground. He checked the rear camera. Sharpe and Ashby did the same, though any minute he expected Sharpe to break off and engage the F-15s.
"Beastmasters, this is Redhawk. Your minute is up. Prepare to be fired upon."
"Prepare to kiss my ass," Yamagata said to himself.
Streaks of yellow flew past him. Tracers from 20mm rounds.
"Caputo," he turned to the sensor specialist. "I think they picked us up on IR."
"Um, I think you're right, Sir."
Yamagata continued flying north. So did Ashby. Sharpe's Excalibur turned as more tracers zipped past them.
"I've got a new set of radar signals," Caputo reported. "Identified as AN/APG-73. They have to be Canadian CF-18s."
"Aw, great," McGovern grumbled. "Everyone wants a piece of us."
Yamagata kept flying, not even trying to jink. That was much too dangerous at this low altitude. Besides, unless the F-15s got a Golden BB – aka a lucky hit on a vital part of the aircraft - their 20mm rounds could do nothing to the Excalibur's hull.
He prayed hard for no Golden BBs.
More tracers zipped past them. Yamagata no longer saw Sharpe's Excalibur in the rear camera. He was probably off to deal with the F-15s.
A new voice came over the radio.
"Attention American F-15s. This is Nighthawk, flight of two CF-18s, Royal Canadian Air Force."
Yamagata noted how the pilot specifically mentioned F-15s. He guessed the Canadians hadn't picked them up on radar.
Nighthawk continued. "You have violated Canadian airspace. Return to your side of the border now."
"Nighthawk, this is Redhawk. We are in pursuit of criminal elements of the United States military who have hijacked advanced aircraft. We have been ordered to pursue, and either capture them or shoot them down."
"Then do it over your country, not ours. Return to US airspace or risk being fired upon."
Yamagata increased his air speed. The longer the two squadrons continued their pissing contest, the more distance he could put between them.
"Nighthawk, we have our orders."
"And we have ours. Turn around and return to America. This is your final warning."
Yamagata held his breath, waiting for the response. Would the F-15s actually fire on the Canadian fighters? Would Zamora risk a potential conflict with Canada just to get their Excaliburs?
He controls Gigan. Why should he be worried about Canada, or any other country?
"Redhawk Three to all aircraft," said the F-15 flight leader. "Disengage. I say again, disengage and return to American airspace."
Yamagata let out a sigh of relief.
"A wise choice, Redhawk," said Nighthawk. "Have a nice day, and don't come back."
Yamagata and Ashby maintained their course north. Sharpe fell back into formation a couple of minutes later. The CF-18s did several radar sweeps, but there was nothing to indicate they spotted the Excaliburs.
"Three cheers for our neighbors to the north." McGovern pumped his fist.
"Don't be too enthusiastic," said Yamagata. "If the Canadians do spot us, I don't think they'll be very understanding."
"Well here's hoping they don't spot us."
"Yeah, here's hoping."
TO BE CONTINUED