Finding out the names of the journalists had been his next task. Tracking them down took some legwork. They were freelance journalists, so there was no true home base they operated from. Ironically, the news footage they sold to the networks led him to them. It took a great deal of money to find them, contact them, and set up the ruse to fly them to New York.
But now, the final player was in his crosshairs. It took a significant amount of money to find the French commander who stood ten feet from his wife and son’s and watched the Hutu butchers slaughter them. The man did nothing but prevent others from stopping his family’s murder. Even his own soldiers tried to intervene, but Colonel Dandre Gaudet stopped them. When rumors got back to France of Gaudet’s actions, or lack of, he was whisked back to France immediately. The government spin machine in France distanced themselves from the massacre at Kigali. They were partially right. The French government had nothing to do with the decisions Gaudet made that day. Appalled by this atrocity, the French removed him from command; but because he was one of France’s most decorated soldiers, he was moved to a strictly ceremonial role.
Like today.
Colonel Dandre Gaudet represented the French Army at the U.S. Army Ranger tribute to the assault on Pointe du Hoc. He would be on the reviewing stand, along with American generals, French dignitaries, and local politicians.
Ashford dwindled his fortune to gather information and devise his plan for revenge. Gaudet was a soldier and by definition, the most dangerous. He initially had contracted a hit man from Spain to take out the colonel. Two days after Ashford paid his assassin, the man was picked up by INTERPOL for other activities in Italy. It would be a matter of time before the hit man led them to Ashford. This one, he realized, he’d have to do himself. And do it fast.
Buying a gun in Europe posed its own set of problems. This wasn’t the U.S., and the first time he asked about acquiring one, too many red flags went up. Why was a tourist interested in buying a gun? He managed to talk his way out of it, but he found buying one illegally was just as hard. It was probably best, he wasn’t a marksman, so shooting him from a distance was out.
When he read about this ceremony and Gaudet’s involvement, the germ of an idea was formed. He spent a lot of his money on information, but it all came together. After his family was murdered, the thought of suicide never left him. There was no point in living. Other than revenge. The decision was easy once the museum committee put him in touch with Bill Wesson, who was more than eager to take on a financer for the event. He considered the three-innocent people who would die in the plane today, and even more on the ground. The thought was quickly discarded; there are no innocent people in the military.
His family would be avenged.
Bill and Harry continued to work, unaware of his actions. Between Bill flying in formation and Harry’s radio calls to the other aircraft, he moved freely. Ashford appreciated the distraction as he edged closer to them.
A lone tear ran down his left cheek. Ashford’s left hand rubbed his eyes. They were moist. Visions of his wife and sons raced through his consciousness. His body shook, and he braced himself with his left hand against the back of Bill’s seat. Loud gasps came from his mouth as his lungs struggled for oxygen.
Harry glanced over his shoulder at Ashford.
"Hey, dude," Harry said. "You'd better get down below, or you're going to miss everything."
The voices in his head screamed at him. The time to act was now. He’d never get another chance.
Ashford raised the pistol two feet from his head and aimed right between Harry's eyes. Harry's expression changed, from concern to confusion, and finally, to understanding. The man knew he was about to die. At least, that's how Ashford interpreted it.
He squeezed the trigger.
Jason’s body jumped at the sound when the gun fired. Blood splattered against the wall of the aircraft and front windshield and Harry slumped over in his seat. Jason stopped; bile pushed into his throat, his ears ringing from the gunshot. He was wedged in the small crawlspace, a good ten feet away.
Bill swung his arm and grabbed Ashford’s hand with the gun, causing Ashford to shoot indiscriminately, firing several rounds into the side windscreen toward the back of the airplane. Ashford finally broke loose, turned the gun on Bill, and fired three quick rounds. The sound reverberated again throughout the fuselage of the small bomber and Jason could hear nothing but the solid ringing in his ears.
The crazy bastard just murdered the two pilots!
Ashford paused and looked first at his gun, then at the flight controls. Jason noticed there was no violent movement of the airplane. It was still on the autopilot, although a rudimentary one at best. Ashford stared at the two bodies in the pilots’ seats, as if unsure of what to do next. Why the hell did he kill these guys?
Jason edged backward. He hoped Ashford had other thoughts on his mind than shooting him too.
Damn. The gun was out of bullets. He didn’t know how many were in the magazine. The receiver locked in place after the third bullet he shot at Bill. He didn’t think he’d need more bullets. It only took one to kill Harry, but adrenaline took over as he struggled with Bill and he emptied the magazine into him.
Ashford slid the receiver forward, then checked the airplane instruments. The autopilot held the aircraft at the same altitude. He glanced back and forth at the two pilots and wondered how he would remove them from the seats, so he could fly. Then it hit him.
He’d forgotten all about the third guy. Jason Conrad.
He turned and peered down the small crawlspace. Jason was wedged in the back, staring at him.
Ashford aimed the pistol at him.
“Come on out of there,” he said. “You know I can’t miss at this range.”
The lieutenant hesitated, then slowly crawled forward. His bluff worked.
Jason stared down the barrel of the pistol. It was not a pleasant experience. He was trapped, and Ashford could shoot him at any moment.
But he didn’t.
Why?
At the end of the crawlspace, Jason pulled himself out and stood three feet away from Ashford, who kept the pistol pointed at him.
“I need you to move the bodies,” Ashford said.
“Why?”
“I have to fly the plane.”
“Where?”
"None of your business, where. Look, kid. . . I don't want to hurt you. Just move the bodies from the seat, and I'll let you go back to the tail of the aircraft. I'll leave you alone, and when we land, you can go."
Jason tried to process what happened.
“Why did you kill them?”
“We had some differences in opinion regarding our business deal.”
That was a lie, of course, but Jason appreciated the fact he was still alive. It didn’t make sense at all. The guy had bombs in his luggage and just killed the pilots of their plane. It would be easier to kill him too.
Jason crawled forward, never taking his eyes off the pistol. Ashford shifted to the left side of the fuselage beside the hydraulic reservoir.
“Go ahead and pull Harry out,” Ashford said. The gun in his hand moved from Jason toward to the rear of the plane. The roar of the engines made it difficult to hear, but Jason got the message.
Space was limited. Jason leaned over Harry’s body in the right seat and unbuckled him. He was definitely dead. The first dead man Jason ever saw not at a funeral. He wondered if it would be the last. Jason shivered as he pulled the body over the armrest and between the two seats, blood from Harry’s head smeared on his arms and shirt. He checked their location. Nine-thousand feet, two-hundred-thirty knots, and the coastline was off to the right.
By the time Jason moved Harry’s body over the seat, the lead aircraft in their little formation dropped out of sight.
They must be descending for the fly-by, he thought, and wiped his hands on the front of his shirt.
“Get Bill out of there, too,” Ashford said.
Jason hesitated. “Do you
know how to fly this thing?” He didn’t recall anyone mentioning Ashford was a pilot.
“Yes. I’ve got enough experience to do what I need to.”
“Okay,” Jason said. “I wouldn’t count on the autopilot lasting forever. You might want to get on the controls soon. Oh, and everyone else in the formation has descended to the altitude for the fly-over. Since we’re still up here, they must think something is wrong.”
“Like what?”
"I don't know, take your pick. We're in controlled airspace, and we're not flying where we are supposed to be. I'm sure they've tried contacting us on the radio, and nobody's answered. Not a good spot for us to be in with the President of the United States so close by."
“What do you mean?”
Jason couldn’t believe the ignorance of the man. “How the hell did you become so rich, while being so stupid? If we don’t do what they expect us to, it’s highly likely that some fighter jet will blow us out of the sky.”
16
June 6, 1994
* * *
Harry’s body lay on the cold metal floor of the fuselage. Jason slid him to the side and hoped what he told Ashford would resonate. He thought he had noticed Bill breathe as he unstrapped Harry’s body. Was it wishful thinking? Outside to the right, the coast of France sat below the shimmering sun, as it rose above the horizon. Ahead of them, Pointe du Hoc jutted out into the sea. Jason wasn’t sure how long they could stay airborne, nor how to change the configuration. He’d only flown a plane with one engine, fixed gear, and no auto-pilot.
“Get back to the tail bubble,” Ashford said to Jason. He waved the pistol toward the rear.
“What about Bill?” Jason said. The guy was nervous; and he was the one with the gun.
“He’s dead. He’s not going anywhere.”
Ashford climbed behind the controls, his seatbelt unbuckled. Jason checked the instrument panel again. Still two-hundred thirty knots. Ashford wrapped his left hand around the yoke, the pistol still gripped in his right hand. Out the front windscreen, the other aircraft flew a couple of thousand feet below them. And the beach edged closer on the right, the cliff at Pointe du Hoc grew bigger. Their flight path would parallel the coast, from the south to the north.
He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. That much is obvious.
Over his shoulder, Ashford saw him still standing there.
“Kid, get your ass in the back. . . NOW.” The pistol pointed in his direction, again.
Jason glimpsed at Bill. Was he still alive? He crawled back into the small tunnel, feet first, to keep an eye on Ashford. The initial nervousness he experienced was waning fast. His mind shifted to survival mode. He tried to analyze Ashford’s actions; why shoot the two pilots? Why not kill him too? Where did he plan to take the aircraft? Was he working with someone?
His thoughts were interrupted when the aircraft began to descend. It was a gradual descent, but the airplane sped up. Ashford never pulled the power back, so the aircraft accelerated. Jason recalled the video he had studied. The maximum speed the aircraft could fly in a dive was three-hundred-twenty knots. He didn’t think they were going that fast, maybe thirty or forty knots faster than before. Too hard to tell from back here, but if he kept his up, the aircraft would exceed that speed soon.
Things had happened quick, he wasn’t sure how to piece it all together. Philip Ashford’s family, brutally murdered. The man he blames—on the ground at a ceremony, suitcases filled with explosives and ball-bearings, extra fuel, two pilots shot . . .
How had he been so blind? Ashford did not plan to steal the airplane—he wanted to use it as a bomb. He planned to kamikaze his way down there to blow up the reviewing stand. This didn’t make any sense. Why harm all those innocent people just to kill one man? Jason tried to empathize and imagine how he would feel if he lost his wife. He understood revenge and would probably seek it. But not at the expense of the people on the ground. Philip Ashford is a totally unhinged human being. This wasn’t just a flip of the switch incident. This was pre-meditated. He’s planned this for a long time.
Ashford bounced the airplane up and down; obviously, he had no flying experience. He couldn't hold the plane straight and level, and he didn't know how to re-engage the auto-pilot.
They were close, Jason sensed it. He decided if this was the end, he wasn’t going to die a victim. He would die fighting. Gradually, he edged his way back to the opening. Ashford had long since stopped checking on him, another verification he zeroed in on his target. Jason climbed out of the tunnel and began to creep toward him, when he felt light on his feet.
Ashford pushed the nose of the aircraft over, slowly at first, then he pushed hard. The action took the G's off the bomber; Jason, and everything not tied down, floated toward the top of the plane for a moment. He raised his hands to protect his head from hitting the top of the fuselage.
He's pushing over to zero-G.
It was the same type of maneuver astronauts used to train for weightlessness in space, but much rougher. When he eased off the forward pressure, Jason and everything else settled back to the floor. Ashford jerked the yoke forward and back; he aimed for the mass of people at the base of the cliff. Jason guessed they were about six thousand feet above the ocean.
He didn’t have much time.
Ashford seemed focused on the reviewing stand at Pointe du Hoc. He continued to adjust the pitch of the aircraft. More force was needed to hold the nose down as the plane accelerated. Ashford placed the gun on the glare shield, to control the yoke better using both hands.
Jason recognized his opportunity. He lunged forward and grabbed Ashford around the neck from behind. Ashford let go of the yoke as he tried to pry Jason's arm loose. The untrimmed bomber violently pitched nose up, and Jason lost his balance. His arm slipped from Ashford's neck, and gravity pushed him toward the floor. At the last moment, he snagged Ashford's shoulder.
Once again, Ashford gripped the yoke and pushed forward, forcing the nose of the bomber back down.
“Damn it,” Ashford yelled.
A quick glance—the aircraft pointed at the top of the cliff as the plane passed through four thousand feet.
Ashford pushed harder, to zero G-load on the airplane. Everything not secured to the aircraft began to rise once again. The pistol floated off the glare shield—unnoticed—over Ashford’s head, and straight to Jason. He held on to the back of Ashford’s seat with his left hand. As the pistol drifted by, he grabbed it with his right, just prior to Ashford releasing pressure on the yoke.
Jason noticed the hammer was cocked and the safety off. He turned the pistol on Ashford and squeezed the trigger.
Click.
He cycled the receiver, and it locked back in place. That's not right. He checked the chamber—both it and the magazine empty.
Outside, the cliffs of Pointe du Hoc loomed large, filling the windscreen. Jason could see men scaling the sides of the cliff. Suddenly, Bill reached over and pulled the throttles to idle. Ashford, surprised he was alive, looked to his left at the new threat he thought he’d killed earlier.
Jason took advantage of the distraction and slammed the pistol into the back of Ashford’s skull, with a resounding crack. He hit him again three more times in quick succession, the hard-cold steel of the empty pistol breaking the skin, sending blood flying. Ashford went limp, slumped in his seat, and his hands fell off the yoke.
The rapidly approaching terrain filled the windscreen. Jason dropped the pistol and leaned in between the seats to grab the controls. The aircraft shook violently due to the speed. The noise of the wind blast against the windscreen sounded like a raging river bouncing over a rock bed. Jason pulled, but his effort didn’t seem to do anything.
“Pull . . . harder,” Bill said.
Jason didn't need more instruction, he pulled as hard as he could, aware not to jerk back on the stick. The aircraft shuddered and began to climb away from the rising ground. He cross-checked the altitude and airspeed. They climbed through twelv
e hundred feet, and the airspeed decreased below three-hundred knots. Jason turned the aging bomber to a northwest heading, over the water.
“Go. . . five thousand. . . level out,” Bill gasped. Blood dripped from his mouth down his chin onto his shirt. His entire right side was drenched in blood. Jason couldn’t see how many times he was shot. He was in bad shape. Jason struggled with the yoke, but as the aircraft slowed, the flight controls became easier to handle.
“Add. . . power,” Bill said. Jason pushed the throttles forward, then stopped to try and capture the altitude. He missed; the B-25 settled seven-hundred feet high and one-hundred ninety knots.
Bill reached up and adjusted the throttles. As the airspeed stabilized, he coupled the auto-pilot.
Once Jason was sure the aircraft was stable, he dragged Ashford out of the seat. He secured his hands behind his back with some para-cord and tied him to a spar away from the flight deck, then wrapped duct tape around his body and arms. He clamored back into the seat and buckled the seat belt. Scanning the instruments, he attempted to assess where they were. The bomber headed northwest. France was to his right and England was to his left. His mind was a mess, he had no clue what to do first. Every private-pilot had the fantasy about being on an airliner, the pilots become incapacitated, and the flight attendant makes the following announcement, “Is there a pilot on board?”
Shit. It’s not that easy. Altitude and airspeed. Check. All this other stuff. . . not so much. Well, what he knew kept them airborne so far. Thankfully, Bill’s still alive. He can land this thing on the ground safely.
“Bill, which way do we need to go?”
The silence was deafening. He glanced at Bill, whose chin rested on his chest.
“Bill? You okay?” He shook the pilot.
Bill’s eyelids fluttered. His head raised a little, before closing them again.
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