A state of disobedience

Southeast of Santa Fe, New Mexico

Johnston Akers' creased ancient face relaxed visibly when he caught the first view of two F-16s screaming in from the direction of Albuquerque.

That relaxation disappeared with the first stream of tracers that passed just off the port side.

Juanita—startled from a doze—screamed once, crossed herself and began to pray, her lips moving fervently. Akers absurdly, and with utter futility, drew his pistol. The pilot cursed, veered sharply right and began punching buttons on his radio to come up on the general aviation frequency.

" . . . dentified helicopter; unidentified helicopter: this is Goshawk seven. Land. Land now, you fucking wogs. Land now or you will be shot down."

One jet streaked by as the other lined up for a shot. The turbulence caused the helicopter to buck like some unbroken mustang.

"Goshawk are you out of your fucking minds?" called the frantic chopper pilot. "This is Lone Star six carrying VIPs from New Mexico to Texas. You've got no call to shoot us down. You've got no call to even stop us." Of course, the pilot knew the fighters had a very good reason to shoot the helicopter down. But maybe, just maybe, they didn't know that reason.

There was silence in reply. The helicopter pilot imagined a brief conversation on the pilots' own push. Then came the hoped for, "Maintain course, speed and altitude. One of us will approach."

* * *

Sperry glanced long and hard to the left as he passed the helicopter on its starboard side. Christ, they don't look much like terrorists to me.

"Jim . . . Jim, I think we've got us the wrong bird."

Beason radioed back to base ops for instructions and was somewhat surprised to hear Vega's voice come over the net.

"That is your target, Captain, that Texas National Guard helicopter. It is stolen United States' property and it is carrying a WMD. Force it to land or shoot it down."

"Ma'am, I can see into the helicopter when I pass it. There's nothing but some people aboard. No pods, no boxes; nothing but some people. It looks to be a legitimate Guard chopper."

"Those people are the weapon, Captain. Contaminated, every one of them. Now are you going to shoot it down or are you going to spend the next fifty years at Fort Leavenworth contemplating the tens of thousands of people you let die of a plague you could have prevented?"

Sperry was not fooled. He had seen the face of one of the occupants. It was a face more or less well known in some circles. Somehow, he thought that face had been praying.

He had a sudden thought . . . What the hell, it might be worth a try. Maybe Vega is ignorant.

"Jim, this is Mike, where the hell did the target go? I lost it in the weeds."

Beason, no fool, answered, "Damfino. I can't see it either."

Vega, not fooled, answered, "Listen carefully you morons. There's nothing below you but sand and rock and dust and a cactus every few miles. You haven't lost anything. Now get that helicopter," she nearly shrieked.

A voice previously unheard answered, "Before y'all do that you might maybe want to consult with us." This, too, was punctuated by a tracer stream, unaimed but plainly visible to Beason and Sperry. They automatically backtracked the flight of the tracers in their minds. Oh shit, another fighter.

"Ummm . . . and you would be?" asked Beason, wrenching around to eyeball another F-16 flying unerringly on his "six." Double shit; there's two of them.

Beason felt the inane urge to giggle over the old joke: "Sir, it's a trap. There's two of them."

"This is Lieutenant Colonel Paul Grayson—my friends call me 'Pablo,' 182 Fighter Squadron out o' Lackland. And—unless either or both you gentlemen want a Sidewinder up yo' ass—then, you suhs, are mah prisoners."

Beason and Sperry did some quick calculation, oh, very quick. They were fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave, too. The 182, however, was not only composed of instructor pilots—but its pilots were equally fast, tough, hard, wiry, smart and not a little brave . . . and experienced.

"Ah, what the hell, Mike," said Beason. "I'm a Yankee boy who's been claiming Texas as his state of residence for about eight years now. I think we have just been captured."

To Grayson he said, "And, Colonel, I appreciate your restraint."

Another previously unheard voice, this one from the helicopter, quite warmly female if a bit strained and shaky, said, "Welcome home, boys."

* * *