The digital countdown on Marcus Cooper’s tactical wrist console flared in bright, unblinking crimson: 23:44:14 CST.
Fifteen minutes and forty-six seconds remaining until midnight!
Admiral David Mercer looked at Captain Garrett Stone and me:
“Lead Bird Nine-Seven-Two has the drop coordinates, Adrian!” Uncle David barked:
“Arthur Vance’s core drills have penetrated seventy feet of limestone beneath the Calumet slips! We have nine minutes of flight time before his linear charges reach the cryogenic cooling manifold!”
TACK.
TACK.
TACK.
Our hand-welted leather field boots struck the gantry stairs with that unhurried, rhythmic, concussive cadence that had commanded four generations of naval sovereignty!
We bolted through the freezing Chicago blizzard directly into the troop cabin of Lead Bird Nine-Seven-Two!
Behind us, Barnaby vaulted through the open doors, his amber eyes reflecting the status screens, his low, guttural growl vibrating in his chest as the twin General Electric turboshaft engines shrieked into full military war-emergency thrust!
