“Doctor Mercer… please…” Melissa whispered, her voice trembling with an ancient, terrifying realization:
“My father… my father will kill everyone in that chamber if he thinks he is cornered. He spent forty years calculating this seventy billion dollars. He has eighty pounds of linear breaching charges wired to the bedrock.”
I looked down at the woman who had spent two hours telling me to “deal with it.”
“He won’t blow the bedrock, Melissa,” I spoke softly:
“Because tonight… the auditor has arrived.“
At 11:28 p.m. Central Standard Time, the twelve massive main landing gear tires of Flight 882 slammed into Runway 10-Center at Chicago O’Hare International Airport!
SCREEECH-ROAR.
Reverse thrusters deployed in an explosive roar of snow, pulverized ice, and freezing vapor, slowing the fifty-million-dollar airliner from one hundred and fifty knots to a rapid taxiing crawl!
The aircraft did not steer toward the international terminal gates.
It pivoted ninety degrees south, following a high-speed taxiway toward the remote, secure perimeter of the military air logistics apron!
