The Omega Command Read Online Free Page B

himself to be led backward, “see if you can get a group rate, Tommy my boy. You’re gonna need plenty of them before this day is done.”
    The police forced Blaine from the room and closed the door behind them. Agitated, Marchaut stepped nervously to the window, looking out over the captured 767.
    “You must learn to keep your subordinates on a tighter leash, mon ami ,” he said to Daniels.
    “McCracken’s not just an underling,” the American replied. “He’s a damn pariah, the scourge of American intelligence.”
    “Knowing your country’s methods, I am surprised this man has remained on the active list so long.”
    Daniels simply shrugged. The elimination of McCracken had been discussed many times. But how could he explain to the Frenchman that no intelligence overlord wanted to be the one to approve the sanction for fear that failure would cost him his life? McCracken had many enemies, but his capacity for survival and, more, his instinct for revenge, kept them from contemplating true action.
    Minutes passed in the operations center. Words were exchanged with nothing said or decided. The decision was thus made. The deadline was now only an hour away, and it would pass with none of the terrorists’ demands met.
    The emergency phone linking Marchaut to various positions around the 767 beeped twice. The Frenchman picked it up.
    “ Oui? ” His mouth dropped, face paling. “Someone’s what ? No, I didn’t order it. No, I don’t want—Hold for a second.”
    Marchaut dropped the receiver and moved to the window with a dozen officials right in his tracks. They all saw a man driving a front-end loader, the kind used to transport meals from airport kitchen to plane galley, behind the 767 toward its loading bay. The driver passed out of sight quickly but not before Daniels glimpsed enough of his face through a pair of binoculars.
    “Oh shit,” he muttered.
    McCracken took a heavy swallow of air as the loader neared the red and white jet. He had come to Orly Airport as soon as word of the seizure had reached his small office cubicle—over AM radio, not cipher. Officials had no reason to involve him in such pursuits any longer. And, in fact, Blaine had driven to Orly determined to remain merely an observer, until examination of the runway area and obvious procrastination on the part of officials involved convinced him that asses were being dragged, as usual, and that other asses were going to become chopped meat as a result.
    Didn’t they understand what they were dealing with? Didn’t they realize you couldn’t keep playing with terrorists and expect to win? Not these anyway, not Bote and whatever stooges he had brought along this time.
    A raid on the plane was the only chance the passengers had to survive. And since the French were too busy picking their nails, McCracken would take it upon himself to do the dirty work. A one-man operation. Much better that way. The terrorists’ request for food had provided his cover.
    He might have been able to walk away from the whole episode if it weren’t so clear history was about to repeat itself and innocent lives were going to be lost again. Five years ago in London, authorities had twiddled their fingers while terrorists squeezed triggers with theirs. McCracken wasn’t about to let that happen again. His mistake in London had been to go after a statue’s balls after it was over. He should have gone after the testicles of the damned officials who couldn’t make up their minds in time. Flesh and blood would have made his point better than ceramics.
    The galley door opened and Blaine backed the loader into position, then climbed on top of the bay next to the steel casing which held 150 microwave-warmed stuffed-chicken dinners. He pressed a button and the lift began to rise, stopping when it was even with the open galley door. He had started to wheel the cart inside when a hand grasped his hair and yanked him viciously backward. Blaine tumbled to the galley floor