The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,107
pastures, I spot the two flagpoles I had seen on my first visit here, but they’re no longer empty.
They now have bright-orange windsocks flapping from them, letting pilots see the wind direction.
The slight bumps and ruts spear pain into my chest, again and again.
I grit my teeth, and then scream in pain, over and over.
Up ahead, doors begin sliding open at the two low buildings.
Airplanes appear, engines roaring with devilish power, propellers spinning, and one, two, three, and then four emerge.
Two from each building.
Oh, God, I’m going to fail again.
Chapter 97
THE FOUR single-engine aircraft—Cessna 172s, it looks like—line up one behind another, like some horrible parade, ready to rain down death and destruction once they get airborne.
Each is carrying two metal cylinders—one under each wing—and I’m sure the cockpit and storage area in each plane is packed with explosives, shrapnel, and who knows what kind of chemical weaponry…God, almost everything and anything to tear through the crowds and kill and maim as many as possible.
Words from Cunningham come back to me:
“…the thing is, terrorist bastards are always one step ahead, weaponizing stuff that’s usually innocuous.”
Like private aircraft.
Single-engine Cessnas or Piper Cubs.
Who would ever think?
Would ever consider?
Ever plan?
Billy Needham, that’s who.
I speed along, parallel to the four aircraft, and a hint of hope appears. They’re moving slowly, moving into position, and I’m managing to maintain pace near them.
Up ahead I see the grass is a different color, almost…rectangular in shape, and that’s where they’re headed. That’s the homemade airstrip. That’s what they’re going to use, and in my mind’s eye, it all comes together, one Cessna after another taking off, flying low to avoid detection, heading for the Fair Grounds, each aircraft coming in north, south, east, and west, and—
Dropping into the open, screaming, running crowds.
Sharp metal wings cutting in.
Spinning propellers turning the Fair Grounds into a charnel house.
Explosions ripping through the once-happy and joyous place.
Shrapnel scything through, cutting down the crowds, dismembering, slicing, disemboweling, and then, blasts of flame and smoke…
With the pain, I almost feel like vomiting with certainty of what’s going to happen next.
I feel a difference in the ground, and now I’m on the airfield, and I speed away, going away from the aircraft.
A gamble.
Oh man, a gamble, but that’s what my life and New Orleans is based on.
Gambling that a city can live and grow among the swamps and mangroves, and that the people from all different stations and walks of life can grow and thrive and love there.
Vanessa, I think.
Vanessa.
Finally breaking away from her abusive husband, finding a new life, a new love, finding happiness after such a long time…
And to die within the next few minutes?
No!
I spin the ATV around, facing the aircraft.
One following another following the other…
The lead aircraft increases its speed.
Starts coming in my direction.
I crank the throttle wide, speeding down the grassy strip.
Aiming right at the propeller.
Going faster.
We’re coming at each other.
The propeller a blur. The Cessna bouncing along on its three tires.
Bouncing.
Starting to gain altitude.
Starting to fly off.
With its three accomplices lining up right behind it.
I lean down, hoping with head and torso flat against the ATV that I can reduce the wind drag, gain just a bit more speed, that’s all I need, just a bit more speed.…
I leap off, crying out as I hit the ground, and I force myself to look at what happens next, like a movie slowing down, frame-by-frame, and—
The ATV roars ahead, going straight to the spinning propeller, and it—
—misses.
Slides under the wing without striking a damn thing, and—
“No!” I scream, and the ATV, with no driver and buffeted by the propeller wash, flips over, again and again, smashing into the elevators on the tail of the airplane.
The lead Cessna makes a sharp, digging turn, the propeller striking the grass and pasture, and it tilts and—
The second Cessna crashes into the first.
The third makes a sudden swerve but it doesn’t move in time, and collides with the second aircraft.
The fourth tries to avoid the pileup, the tangle of wings, tires, fuselage, and breaking propellers before it, and it starts to fly up and over the tangled mess, when a roaring, blasting, fiery explosion blows it to pieces.
Chapter 98
I WAIT a couple of minutes before I get up, and then I limp and stumble my way to the burning and scattered piles of wrecked aircraft. As I get closer, the stench of petroleum assaults me, and I know I guessed right: each aircraft was carrying chemicals—something to burn the already bleeding and shattered survivors of