Temple

It shot like a missile through the steel wall behind Copeland's body, rocketing up into the passenger deck of the Antonov, ploughing at colossal speed into the cockpit walls, exploding right through the pilot's chest before it blasted out through the plane's windshield in a spectacular shower of glass.

With its pilot now well-and-truly dead, the Antonov banked wildly, entering the first stages of a nosedive.

In the cargo bay, the world tilted crazily. Race saw the damage that he'd done, saw where this plane was going.

While I've still got one second left, I'm going to try to disarm that bomb.

Bittiker was still standing on the skirt of the tank, still holding his Calico pistol, but he'd been thrown wildly off balance by the discharge of the cannon.

Race crunched the tank's gears, found the one he wanted.

Then he jammed his foot down on the accelerator, slamming it against the floor.

The tank responded immediately—its tracked wheels leaping into motion and the massive steel beast shot off the mark like a racing car. The only thing was, it shot backwards-out along the loading ramp, shooting off its edge, tipping over it and falling out into the clear open sky.

The Abrams tank fell.

Fast. Really, really fast.

Indeed, no sooner had it dropped off the loading ramp of the Antonov than the cargo plane—gutted by the blast of the tank's cannon—just banked away into a nosedive and exploded in a gigantic, billowing ball of flames.

The Abrams fell through the sky—rear-end first—at phenomenal speed. It was so big, so heavy, it just cut through the air like an anvil, a screaming 67-ton anvil.

Inside the tank, Race was in a world of trouble.

Everything was tilted on its side and the whole tank shook violently as it was buffeted by the friction it created with the air outside.

For his part, Race lay awkwardly in the middle of the command centre, having been thrown there when he had reversed the tank off the loading ramp. Next to him was the Supernova. It now sat horizontally, wedged firmly in between the ceiling and floor.

Race saw the timer on its display screen counting down: 00:00:21 00:00:20 00:00:19

Nineteen seconds.

About the same time he had before the tank smashed into the ground from a height of about 20,000 feet.

Aw, luck it.

Either the Supernova went off and he died along with the rest of the world—-or he disarmed it and died alone when the tank slammed into the earth in about seventeen seconds' time.

In other words, he could sacrifice his own life to save the world's.

Again.

Goddamn it! Race thought. How could the same thing happen to him twice in two days?

He looked at the computer screen:

YOU NOW HAVE

00:00:16

MINUTES TO ENTER DISARM CODE.

ENTER DISARM CODE HERE

Sixteen seconds…

The tank screamed through the sky.

Race looked forlornly at the timer as it counted inexorably downwards.

And then suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. He snapped to look up—and saw Earl Bittiker crawling in through the driver's hatch up at the top of the falling tank, his Calico pistol in his hand!

Oh fuck!

00:00:15

Forget about him!

Just think!

Think? Christ, how the hell is a guy supposed to think inside an Abrams tank that's plummeting to earth at about a hundred miles an hour, with a guy climbing in through the driver's hatch carrying a gun?

00:00:14

Race tried to clear his mind.

All right, last time he had known that Weber had set the disarm code. But this time, he didn't have the first clue who had set the code, principally because he didn't know who had designed the device's ignition system.

00:00:13

Ignition system…

Those were Marty's last words, the words he had spoken as he lay dying in Race's arms.

00:00:12

The Abrams hit terminal velocity, began to emit a shrill screaming sound like that of a falling bomb.

Bittiker was halfway through the driver's hatch now. He saw Race, fired his pistol at him.

Race dived out of the way, ducked behind the Supernova, grabbed the cellular phone from his pocket as more bullets slammed into the steel wall of the tank beside him.

'Demonaco!' he yelled over the din of the falling tank.

“What is it, Professor?'

'Tell me quickly! Who designed the ignition system on the Navy's Supernova?'

Three thousand miles away, John-Paul Demonaco snatched up a nearby sheet of paper. It was the list of the members of the Navy-DARPA Supernova team.

His eyes zeroed in on one line.

RACE, Martin E.

Ignition system DARPA D/327997A

design engineer

'A guy named Race. Martin Race!' Demonaco shouted into the phone.

Marty, Race thought.

00:00:11

Marty had designed the ignition system. That's what he'd been trying to tell him before he died.

Therefore Marry had set the disarm code.

00:00:10

Eight-digit numerical code.

Bittiker was fully inside the tank now.

What code would Marry use?

00:00:09

The tank was still falling, screaming through the air at a thousand feet per second.

Bittiker saw him, raised his Calico again.

What code did Marry always use?

00:00:08

Birthday? Significant date?

No. Not for Marty.