Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers)

by Philip Donlay

  “Calvin says the front is moving quickly,” Montero replied. “Our course through the Carpathians shouldn’t be impacted. He says that on our arrival, we’ll encounter scattered clouds at two hundred to three hundred feet, with visibilities ranging from two to five miles in light rain. The wind will be gusty from the northwest. He said to expect standing water on the runway.”

  “Dragon one-one, climb now to three thousand eight hundred feet. On my mark, make a hard right turn to a heading of two-four-zero degrees.”

  As if to punctuate the weather briefing, the southern sky lit up, and Donovan saw the narrow, dead-end valley they were roaring through at six miles per minute. Rugged, boulder-strewn granite seemed to close in on either side of the Boeing. The radar altimeter bounced around between four to six hundred feet above the ground.

  “How hard of a turn are we talking?” Michael asked.

  “No less than four degrees per second,” Merlin said calmly. “Start your turn now.”

  Donovan banked the Boeing hard to the right to thread them between the next set of mountaintops. He had ten seconds to be on the new heading and for the first time he noticed the inside of his mouth felt like cotton. Scattered lights came into view as they crossed the ridge. He held the heading as the 727 raced along the outskirts of the small town, the deafening sound of their passing would echo off the hills and no doubt confuse a startled population.

  Michael turned and spoke to Montero. “What does Calvin have to say about Marta and Trevor?”

  “Calvin says he can’t reach them, and Merlin can’t positively identify them, either. No one knows for sure where they are.”

  “Is there any other support on the way?” Donovan asked.

  “Not that we can count on,” Montero replied. “We may very well be on our own.”

  “Dragon one-one, descend to two thousand nine hundred feet and turn left to a heading of two-three-zero degrees.”

  Donovan made the course corrections, and the Boeing shuddered as turbulence rocked the airliner. He expected it to grow worse the closer they flew to the squall line. Snaking out before them was a road. At this hour he only spotted a few vehicles, either their taillights or headlights visible in the clear mountain air. It gave Donovan a brief sense of perspective in their blind headlong rush through the mountains, a momentary reprieve, and he took several slow breaths in and out to steady himself. He needed Lauren to be alive, yet he had no illusions about their chances of a successful rescue. That they held the element of surprise went without saying, but that wouldn’t last long, and they had no idea what their opposition would be like. They’d be trained, that was a given. But would they be alert and ready, or asleep and slow to respond? He and Montero both had handguns; Michael was unarmed, having left the cumbersome shotgun in the helicopter when they landed at the Budapest Airport. Less than twenty rounds between the two of them. He didn’t want to think about the odds of their success in finding and rescuing Lauren, let alone getting out of the country alive.

  The turbulence worsened and the airspeed needle jumped past the redline and the controls began to shake in his hands. Under the new onslaught, Donovan was begrudgingly forced to pull the throttles back to slow the Boeing.

  “We have a problem,” Montero said. “Calvin says the emergency GPS signal from Lauren’s Blackphone shows that she’s on the move.”

  “What do you mean emergency?” Donovan asked.

  “It means someone removed the main battery without punching in the correct exit code. Every thirty seconds, using the phone’s backup battery, a location ping is sent via satellite.”

  “Is she on the ground or in the air?” Donovan asked, knowing exactly why the battery would have been removed from her phone.

  “Ground,” Montero said. “Satellite confirms two vehicles, a large truck, and a sedan leaving the airfield, traveling west.”

  “We just lost our runway.” Michael spoke the words that he and Donovan both understood all too well.

  “This was always going to be a crash landing,” Donovan said as he glanced over at Michael. “All that matters is we walk away.”

  “Look at the upside,” Michael added. “Our element of surprise just went way up.”

  “Guys,” Montero said. “Calvin says that they just turned south, the road they’re on takes them into the trailing edge of the weather.”

  “Ask Calvin if we’re going to reach her before she drives back into the teeth of the storm?” Donovan asked.

  “He says it’s too soon to tell for sure,” Montero relayed. “But at the moment, it looks like the storms are going to be a factor.”

  As more lightning exploded on the horizon, Donovan could see that the valley closed dead ahead. The turbulence eased, and with a new determination, Donovan pushed up the throttles and once again pegged the airspeed needle against the redline—and held it there.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  RAIN FROM THE line of thunderstorms pelted the roof of the hangar, at times sounding louder, as if hail had joined the downpour. Lauren could hear the howl of the wind as it rattled the metal roof of the building. She supported her broken forearm as best she could, finding that if she didn’t move, it was more numb than painful. She intently watched as the men finished loading the truck. She’d studied each item, trying to decide if any of them might be a second nuclear device. Aleksander was nowhere in sight, and she wondered what he was doing. What if Daniel’s body had been recovered? The lie that Daniel was alive was the only reason she was still alive. The longer she sat and processed the realities, the darker her thoughts became. She couldn’t help but wonder if Aleksander’s threats about an extended conversation had been hollow words, and that instead of taking her with them, they were going to kill her and leave her to be found by the Slovakian authorities. She glanced at her watch. If Donovan and Michael had failed, then a large portion of Moscow would be destroyed in less than an hour. If they had averted the attack, had they survived? Her thoughts, as always, darted to Abigail and what would happen to her little girl. She wondered how many parents had felt what she was feeling, the helplessness of knowing that their treasured children could very well grow up without them. Abigail would be well taken care of, in the safe, loving environment of William’s niece and dear family friend, Stephanie VanGelder. In sixteen years, on her daughter’s twenty-first birthday, she’d be told the truth of who she really was, that her father was the late Robert Huntington. Along with the shock, questions, and frustration, would also come the reality that she’d just inherited billions. From Lauren’s own experience, she knew it would be a harsh truth for their daughter to absorb. Lauren felt her eyes tear up at the thought of Abigail as a grown woman. Abigail would have vague memories, and of course pictures, but what would always remain were the unanswered questions.

  Lauren offered a small prayer up to the universe, not for herself, but for Abigail, and for Donovan to still be alive, and make it home to raise their daughter. The rear door of the truck slammed shut and brought Lauren back to the present. From her right came Aleksander, a scowl on his face as he pocketed his phone and drew his knife. With a quick cut, Lauren’s wrist was released from the chair. She had no defense as Aleksander pulled her to her feet and pushed her toward the door. Agonizing pain radiated from her left arm and she spotted the smear of blood from her leg wound on the seat of the chair.

  “Let’s go!” Aleksander shouted to everyone in the hangar as he roughly propelled Lauren forward, his hand an iron grip on her right bicep.

  Lauren limped forward before he brought her to a stop and spun her aside so he could open a door that led out into the pouring rain. He pushed her toward the rear door of an older BMW and shoved her inside. He climbed in after her and forced her to scoot across the bench seat until she was situated behind the driver. Aleksander produced another tie-wrap and secured her left wrist to the armrest in the door. He pulled the seatbelt across her torso, clicked it into place and pulled it tight.

  The driver and another man sat
in the front seat and once the truck pulled past them, they swung out and fell in behind the larger vehicle. The rain had let up slightly, and Lauren could see patches of pea-sized hail on what little grass lined the rough track that led away from the secluded hangar. Lightning lit up the sky, and with each flash, she hoped to see armed soldiers, weapons drawn, assaulting the convoy in an attempt to retrieve the second Phoenix, and in the process, rescue her. But with each successive burst, the two vehicles moved away from her last known position and picked up speed. With each minute, she was going deeper into the rabbit hole, and realistically, no one would ever find her in time.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “WHATEVER HAPPENS, WE’RE going to need to do it in a hurry,” Donovan said to both Michael and Montero. “Once we’re exposed to Slovakian radar, the situation becomes fluid, and we’ll have to react fast.”

  “Dragon one-one, maintain present heading and descend to one thousand nine hundred feet. You’ll exit the corridor in three minutes.”

  “Calvin says infrared analysis confirms that Lauren is in the trail vehicle, the sedan. She’s seated in the back seat behind the driver.”

  “Is he sure she’s alive?” Donovan said with more force than he intended.

  “Yes,” Montero said with equal force. “Calvin says he’s positive.”

  “Ask him about the weather and brief us on the road itself,” Donovan said, clinging to Montero’s words. The trailing edge of the towering squall line was just off their left wing. Almost constant lightning allowed him to see the valley beneath them and the downward sloping terrain on both sides that was going to expose them to Slovakian radar in moments. He felt like a mouse sneaking along the baseboard in a room full of cats. Speed and surprise were their only weapons.

  “Calvin says at our present speed, we’ll intercept the convoy in five minutes. Weather over the target is scattered clouds at four hundred feet, overcast at two thousand feet. Frequent cloud-to-cloud, as well as cloud-to-ground, lightning, with intermittent moderate rain. Wind is variable from two-four-zero to three-zero-zero degrees, at twelve knots, with maximum gusts estimated at twenty knots,” Montero relayed. “He also says they can’t locate or contact Marta or Trevor. The helicopter seems to have vanished. We’re on our own, guys.”

  “Donovan, wait a minute. We need to think about our speed,” Michael called out. “If we’re suddenly a target on their radar going three hundred knots, it’s going to set off all kinds of alarms. If we’re going a hundred and fifty knots, we’ll look like a small plane. That doesn’t seem nearly as threatening, and it might buy us some time to find a viable exit strategy.”

  Donovan pulled all three throttles back to the stops and deployed the speed brakes. The Boeing slowed dramatically.

  “Guys,” Montero said as she leaned forward. “If people start shooting, remember where Lauren’s sitting. If this goes the way I plan, we’ll be driving her out of here in that car.”

  “Dragon one-one, you’re cleared to descend to twelve hundred feet. In one minute you’ll exit the corridor and be free to navigate at your discretion.”

  “Merlin, Dragon one-one, I copy,” Michael said. “Thanks for your help this evening.”

  Donovan had the 727 slowing through one hundred and eighty knots when Michael advised he was lowering flaps. As both trailing and leading edge devices pushed out into the slipstream, the Boeing slowed even more. Michael continued to lower flaps, and Donovan carefully added power until their airspeed was pegged at one hundred fifty knots.

  “We’re ten miles from intercept,” Montero said. “Calvin says the road they’re on is a two-lane paved highway. There are scattered trees along the side, and due to the proximity of a power plant, there are massive cross-country transmission lines spider-webbed across the area.”

  Donovan clenched his jaw and felt the Boeing buffet from the gusty surface winds. At one hundred and fifty knots, it felt like they were crawling over the ground. The lightning was now horizon to horizon as well as high above them. Rain drops began hitting the fractured windshield.

  “Calvin has calculated the probable route the convoy is taking. We’ll arrive overhead of the convoy at a stretch of highway that runs relatively straight for a mile, but in the center of that section of road are power lines that bisect the pavement at ninety degrees. They’ve counted at least six individual transmission lines.”

  “For God’s sake, don’t hit the wires,” Michael said as he strained to look out the window and spotted two vehicles on a distant road. “I have no clue what happens when 727s encounter power lines, but it can’t be good.”

  “We’re not going to make an overhead pass. These guys know airplanes. A low-flying 727 will tip them off, and I want complete surprise. Michael, you said it earlier, and I think you’re right, we probably damaged the main gear when we took out the Phoenix. We’re landing this thing gear up. It’ll be more predictable,” Donovan said as he scanned the road in the distance for any other traffic. The low, scattered clouds complicated the job. “I’m going to come around and set this thing down so as to come to a stop right in front of them. Montero, ask Calvin if he can guide us around to land into the convoy—or damn close to it.”

  “Let’s go over this one more time just to be clear.” Michael spoke, but his eyes remained forward, searching. “You’ve got one more notch of flaps you can call for. Once they’re down, in this wind, your final approach speed is one hundred twenty knots. The gear stays up, but don’t let it float. Fly this thing all the way to the ground until it touches. Hell, keep flying until it stops. Even though we’ll be on our belly, you’ll have reverse thrust.”

  “Got it,” Donovan said as the Boeing was pelted by heavier rain and forward visibility dropped to a mile.

  “Once we’re stopped,” Michael continued, “leave the engine shutdown to me. You worry about getting Montero on the ground. She’s our best weapon. Each of these side windows is an emergency exit. In the small compartment above each window you’ll find a knotted rope. Throw it out and use it to escape.”

  “I see them, two o’clock—two miles.” Donovan’s eyes narrowed as he spotted the two vehicles. “It’s got to be her.”

  “Calvin says turn to a one-eight-zero degree heading. In two minutes you’ll turn due west, cross over a small town, and the road heading northwest out of that town is the one we want. He says to touch down as close to the edge of town as possible. The straight section of pavement is five thousand feet in length, and don’t forget the power lines halfway down.”

  Donovan glanced at the second hand on the clock and marked the time. He pictured Calvin’s instructions, trusting the man to get it right. Behind him he heard Montero check her pistol.

  “Your turn will be in fifteen seconds,” Montero said, then hesitated. “Oh shit! Merlin just said that we’re about to have company—MiGs—and they’ve gone supersonic to intercept us. They’ll be here in eight minutes.”

  “Damn it,” Donovan said. Through the rain he spotted the lights from the town and added power. “Michael, so much for slow and nonthreatening. Leave the flaps where they are for now; we’re flying this approach faster than one-twenty. They can’t shoot down an airplane that’s already on the ground.”

  “Flaps are standing by,” Michael said. “Fly her as fast as you want!”

  Donovan added more power. He held the Boeing in a thirty-degree bank and felt like he could touch the rooftops of the houses below. The rain reduced the visibility to less than a mile, and he still didn’t have the road in sight. He knew going around wasn’t an option.

  “Calvin says the road is eleven o’clock, we’re almost on top of it.”

  “There it is!” Michael called out. “We’re high and fast, get us down!”

  “Final flaps!” Donovan called out as he searched for and spotted the road through his cracked windshield. He slammed the throttles to idle. The last section of flaps slowed the airplane dramatically. The Boeing 727 seemed to stagger in the crosswind and turbulence a
nd began to drop heavily toward the ground as Donovan reacted and added power.

  Michael hit the switches, and the landing lights pierced the darkness, revealing the wet pavement.

  Donovan pulled back on the controls to try to arrest the descent rate and deplete his speed. The Boeing was still hurtling over the ground at one hundred and fifty knots when the landing lights illuminated the thick power lines that stretched across the road. Donovan’s hand flew to the speed brakes and pulled the lever. The 727 shuddered as it staggered and dropped under the wires. The cables flashed overhead, and Donovan felt something impact the tail, but the Boeing continued downward, and the belly of the 727 struck the pavement hard.

  The airframe screamed in protest as Donovan went to maximum reverse thrust. The controls shook in his hands. The noise was deafening and the landing lights winked out as debris shattered the glass filaments, plunging them into darkness. A vicious impact slammed them all forward and then to the side as the right wing hit something solid and the Boeing began to rotate. Donovan did everything he could to slow the rotation, and as he did, he caught sight of the headlights ahead.

  The Boeing hit something solid, and the straps from his harness bit into Donovan’s body, the nose swung hard to the right, and this time there was nothing he could do. He kept his hands on the controls, fighting until the end. He heard the ear-piercing screech of metal tearing and separating. Every muscle in his body went rigid as something behind him snapped, and the Boeing’s nose lurched off the ground, rolling to the side, and then fell heavily to the ground. In the dark, Donovan tried to hold on. The cockpit tilted and then crashed into the rain-soaked field, coming to a stop on its side.

  Dazed, Donovan found he was hanging sideways in his seat. He turned to Michael, who groaned, having cupped his broken fingers to try to protect them. It took Donovan another moment to comprehend that the dim light coming from outside the shattered windows was the unmistakable flickering light of flames.