Page 80 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest
Linda approached Juan by the window. “Those men were coordinated, well-armed, and knew exactly when to strike.”
MacD crossed his arms. “They never tried to kill the president.”
“Or his daughters,” Juan said. “They were all sitting ducks.”
“Kidnap?” Linda asked.
“Feels like it.”
“Are they going to come after us again?” Yesenia asked.
Linda turned to the girls. “We’re going to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Olmedo reappeared and checked his watch. “I’ve alerted San Salvador. Two platoons of our rapid-reaction force have been dispatched. They’ll be here within twenty minutes.”
Juan and MacD exchanged a look. Twenty minutes was a lifetime. The president’s security team had been wiped out in just under ten.
“We’ll sit tight until then, and stay vigilant,” Juan said. “Best if you and your girls went to one of the bedrooms.” He nodded at Linda. She reached out her hands to the twins and guided them to the back of the house.
“Once again, I owe all of you a great debt,” Olmedo said before he turned to leave. “You saved my family.”
“We’re not out of the woods yet,” Juan said. “Whoever orchestrated this attack is still out there.”
“Not all of ’em,” MacD said. “We dropped six.”
Juan pulled a magazine from the SIG carbine and checked the bullet count. Seven shots left, one still in the chamber. He slammed the magazine back home.
“Whoever shows up, we’ll be ready.”
43
Colombia
Amador Fierro spiraled full throttle out of the clouds, his hands gripping the yoke of his ScaleWings Mustang, the SW-51.
Flying was his passion. Nearly all of his former women, from Brazilian bathing suit models to gold medal Olympic gymnasts, agreed he’d rather be in the clouds than with them.
And they were right. Up here, he was a god.
Fierro’s eyes locked on the target drone inside the “donut of death” reticle on his heads-up display. The drone’s evasive maneuvering program thrashed it around in the air, but Fierro’s stick and rudder control was impervious to its defense.
Still at full throttle, he closed the distance quickly, waiting for the drone to fill his reticle before mashing the trigger. His carbon-fiber plane shuddered as the .50-caliber machine gun spat out shells, disintegrating the drone in seconds. But his high rate of speed was now a fatal problem as he rocketed toward the dangerous debris littering the flight path directly in front of his fragile aircraft.
Fierro snapped into a sudden roll, slipping his wings to near vertical as he yanked back on the stick, throwing the SW-51 into a gut-crushing turn, narrowly missing the spiraling metal shards slicing through the air. In seconds, he was clear of danger.
Fierro’s heart raced with joy, not fear. He wasn’t afraid of death so much as failing to live. A close call like that only affirmed his love oflife. And shooting down drones was a great distraction from the problems at hand, including Narcisco Tamacas, who was still a threat.
What kept Fierro up nights, however, was Project Q’s ticking clock. For years, it had been an exciting possibility, a grand vision to be realized. The thrill of the chase energized him. But now that he was so close to achieving it, anxiety gripped his heart like a vise. He agonized at the thought of failing so close to the finish line. On the ground, Fierro’s sanity was hanging by the thinnest of threads, but up here he could breathe.
Just as he was about to order the launch of another target drone, a call patched through to his comms digital readout. Only three people had this number. Fierro yanked the yoke hard, punching the SW-51 through the clouds and into a bright azure sky.
“Dr.Bose, I trust you’re calling with good news about Project Q,” Fierro said as he leveled off.
“Actually, sir, I have a bit of good news and bad. There’s a problem.”
“And what might that be?”
“Our main computer has been breached.”
