damn near made it, too. several of the men look up, seeing grant as he approaches. travis turns, looking at grant.
well then, i guess your asses are all mine. a sober moment passes through the group.
no.  might need me.  got to stay awake.  but as baker moves cappy's arm across his chest to isolate it, cappy inhales sharply in pain.
baker.  my neck. whole left sife.  burns like acid. all down my arm.  alarmed, baker carefully feels behind cappy's neck, gingerly palpitating down his neck, stopping at a point near the shoulder blades. cappy again winces, nearly fainting from the pain.
he's right. got to know if there's a bomb. could be a pressure switch, timer. try to land the plane, change altitude, anything could set it off. don't know what you're dealing with. got to find it. the men look to rat for a decision. rat looks at cappy, then to grant. he nods.
let me have a look. baker attaches a second eyepiece to the unit, holding one to cappy's eye as he squeezes the trigger. grant observes the interior along with cappy.
micro-processor, dedicated fixed drive, least 40 megabytes.  could be running a dozen programs.  cappy now sees the guts of the bomb, the lens moving around, showing the relays and probes, pressed into the plastic explosive at the base.
take me in a little closer.  as the lens zooms in and moves around the interior, cappy grows more concerned and focused by the second.
sweet jesus.  nerve gas, binary canisters.  plastic in two pound blocks, sixteen pounds more or less, enough to atomize this plane.  guy doesn't fuck around. this ain't no pipe-bomb and a six volt battery. this is major-league talent. the lens plays across a glass tube with several elements inside.
now what is this? stop. go in on that. right there. now that's something i do recognize. barometric pressure switch. activated on take-off, probably set to air-burst during landing. could be the way in. looks like an isolated trigger. if i can.  if you can disable that switch, it might buy you some time. grant stands, looking into the faces of the men grouped around him. rat ponders the situation.
honestly?
we're all lookin' up the ass end of a dead dog.
don't worry, cahill, this is just like playing with leggos, but more exciting. bring that bomb kit over here and let's get started. cahill slides the bomb kit into position.
first things first. looks like that black cover is just a lead shield. see if you can lift it off.  but, cahill, everything real easy, okay?
okay, that's good. looks like it's in parallel and isolated. go ahead and complete the by-pass. cahill attaches the end of an alligator clip to the right side of the switch, completing a by-pass loop of the unit.
cahill, could you adjust the mirror? i want to take a better look at this thing. that's better. now, clip the wires on either side. don't touch anything else. cahill places the cutter around the wire. he hesitates and then, clips the wire, watching the om meter, the needle darting slightly and then holding on: 15 oms. relieved, he clips the second wire.
good work. that should do it. relieved, cahill sits back, keying his com-unit.
what the hell was that?
jesus murphy. stop them, cahill. stop the hit!
use the radio. tell them to stop the hit. now! cahill fumbles for the channel switch on the com-unit.
you see any terrorist with anything looks like a transmitter, box, wires, anything?
well, someone just ran a program test on the bomb. whoever he is, he's holding an override switch, and he's got his finger right on the god-damned trigger.  cahill closes his eyes.
short strokes -- it's a masterpiece. set up on three stages; several back-ups. pressure switch was designed to trigger as the plane landed.
if that failed, there's a timer operated by the fixed disc. probably the flight time plus an hour or two.
he's way ahead of you. two power sources, one protects the other. tamper-proof. cut one, the second one sets off the bomb.
this guy's good, real good.  but i'm better. won't be easy, but there's a way. grant turns to cahill.
don't worry about my man, cahill, he's got what it takes. besides, he fucks up, i'll kill him. grant pats cahill on the shoulder. he moves over the containers towards the avionics room, leaving cahill to stare at the bomb.
low-power, number one. just touch the wire for a heartbeat. in cahill's hand is a laser-knife, the size of a fountain pen, a wire leading to a power box on the floor beside him. cahill touches the trigger and the beam changes intensity, the wire suddenly vaporizing, leaving the bare wire underneath exposed.
that's good. now clip in. cahill wipes the sweat from his brow, his shirt soaked in perspiration. at his side is a small black box, taken from the bomb kit. at one end of the box are a series of ports for electrical connections. several wires lead from the ports to the bomb, clipped in to wires in various components.
outstanding. you've got the major sensors by-passed. mr x will still think the bomb's intact. kick the power up to three and cut the wires to that first relay. that's a load-fluctuator, a fail- safe against an electromagnetic burst.
settle down, cahill. you're doing fine. you know anything about fishing?
doesn't matter. shut the fuck up and listen. take a deep breath. relax. close your eyes. you're sitting at your desk.  it's in the middle of a pine forest. wind cool and light, the sun shining down through the trees. you're beside a stream, water rollin' over the rocks into the most beautiful pool of deep, green water you've ever seen.  cahill's breathing slows, his face beginning to relax. cappy closes his eyes.
 you get up from your desk and walk to the pool, your fly rod in your hand, royal coachman tied on, your can't miss fly. at the back of that pool is bad leroy brown, fifteen pound german trout, just startin' to rise from beneath a tangle of logs. now, all you got to do is pull back, float your line out, lay that fly down like a feather, right in front of old leroy's nose.  cahill opens his eyes. his hand has stopped shaking. he moves forward, cutting through the wires with the laser.
we're almost home. next stop is a little tougher. relax. just do what i tell you. the red one on top, first. then, separate the wires with the spreader, cut the yellow one underneath. just kiss that red one like a feather. don't touch the other wires. take your time. slow and steady. as the laser-knife begins to glow, cahill slowly lowers it to the first wire, beginning to cut.
decoy. a fuckin' decoy. the whole thing's a fake. he snookered us. tight on cahill's sweating face.
a decoy, to waste our time. the real works must be below, under the plate.
real cute, this guy. built a decoy into the system. time you finish fiddle-fucking around, the timer would have gone off. cahill's screw-up probably saved us a lot of time.
we'll have to start over. cahill, leans back, his head bumping the wall of the container.
i'm sorry, that's all we can do. i can't say what we'll find.
easy. not too fast. now hold it, don't move. cahill holds the panel just inches above the top frame- work of the bomb.
knowing how this fucker thinks, i expect he's got a surprise for us. check under the panel with your light. look for something connecting the two panels, a trip- wire maybe. holding the panel steady, cahill lowers his head, using the light on his head gear to scan between the two levels, the second level consisting of a series of relays and a softball-sized stainless steel sphere. he scans the area, seeing a hair-fine wire, attached to the top panel and below, to a micro-switch.
that's it. now just reach in with your nippers and clip that wire. cahill, holding the panel with one hand, fumbles for the nippers in the tool kit. moving them into position he cuts the wire.
now, attach the grip. cahill unfolds a small tripod, supporting a shaft with a suction cup at one end. he places the tripod over the sphere gently pressing the suction cup over the cover.
now back off, just a hair. just enough to see if it's friendly. cahill swallows hard, takes a deep breath and turns the reverse-screw mechanism at the top of the tripod, lifting the cover a fraction of an inch. he stops, using a tiny penlight and a dentist's mirror to examine the edges and the back side of the plate.
okay, back it off a little more. cahill slowly removes the cover, revealing the interior of the hollow sphere, at the bottom of which is a tiny brass armature situated above a steel contact point, similar to that in an automobile distributor.
don't touch anything. let me see those points. cahill adjusts the mirror, holding a magnifying glass over the sphere, focusing it for cappy.
looks clear. don't think mr. x expected us to get this far. but you need something thin and non- metallic to slip between those points. cahill searches through the kit but can't find anything plastic. he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a handful of cocktail napkins, paper, etc. he finds a plastic coffee straw. slitting the straw with a knife he holds it out, ready to insert it between the points. cahill turns back to the sphere with the plastic strip, taking a deep breath. but suddenly he stops. cahill looks up at cappy in the mirror.
good call. you're starting to think like me. in the kit, there should be a pair of infra-red goggles. find 'em. cahill searches through the tool kit, putting on a pair of infra-red goggles, plugging a power cable into the battery unit. he lowers the goggles into place, switching them on.
that bad, huh?
we did it, cahill.