Airport - Code Red: BookShots

by James Patterson

  ‘You were discharged without honour, Bates.’

  ‘Right. I wasn’t very good at obeying bad orders. However, I am in here. Admittedly “without honour”, but I can help. Unless you don’t want my help . . .’ I gave a convincing performance of a man about to hang up.

  ‘Wait! I am General Sir Miles Deering. I am indeed in the Forward Command Post lying to the south of the terminal. What’s your status, Bates?’

  ‘The weapon is due to detonate in seventeen and a half minutes, as you know. We are unhurt, well armed and away from the check-in hall. Essa has some four hundred passengers there. We got away. More important, the chemical weapon is in the basement of this building. We can reach it, but have no idea exactly where it is located.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Chaz had remained at the bank of controls, leaning over and tapping at a keyboard. There were three monitors above the console. I guessed they were for the security cameras. Chaz used a toggle and stabbed at keys. Different parts of the airport came up on the screens. In thirty seconds he had found the basement cameras.

  ‘Hang on,’ I said into the smart radio.

  Chaz’s fingers were a blur and he kept skimming the controls even when he looked up to the monitors every few seconds.

  ‘There!’ I yelled, and heard the general shout an expletive down the line. ‘Sorry, General,’ I mumbled as I watched the monitor. ‘My buddy has found the location of the weapon.’

  On the screen, we could see five heavily armed men in combat fatigues. Two of them were standing to one side next to a pillar. Attached to it was a box. At its centre was a green tube. Wires descended from the base of the box. It just had to be the weapon. Close by, on the floor, lay Radi’s opened briefcase. And to the far right of the screen we could just about see a man in a suit. Dirar Radi himself.

  CHAPTER 27

  ‘SO,’ SAID GENERAL Deering. ‘Do you chaps have a plan?’

  I looked at Chaz. Up to now we’d had no time to think of anything other than our own survival, but my mind was working, the cogs whirring fast.

  ‘One moment, sir.’ I turned to Chaz. ‘Can you get a full schematic of the airport on any of these machines?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘General Deering. Chaz is searching for a full schematic of the airport.’

  ‘My technician here wonders if Mr Shoemaker could’ – there was a pause as the general consulted with someone – ‘use . . . FaceTime. Or . . . or some other method to transmit the security-camera footage to us?’

  Chaz nudged me and I turned to see a 3D image on the main monitor. He then tapped a few keys and I assumed he was somehow communicating the security footage to the tech guys at the Forward Command Post. ‘OK,’ I said down the line. ‘We have a 3D schematic of the airport.’

  I studied the screen. We were up on Level 1; the jihadists were a floor below us on Ground. I traced the lines on the screen with a finger. The basement camera had shown the bomb to be inside the main boiler room on B3, the lowest level. I moved my finger up and saw a loading dock on B2. ‘Chaz. An entry point,’ I said. ‘What do you think?’ He nodded and I turned back to the smart radio.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Bates, we have the schematic now on our screens. And my tech says thanks for the security-camera footage.’

  ‘Good. Right. The bomb is on B3, main boiler room. We need a rear assault with a diversion up top. If you look at the back of the terminal, there’s a road ramp that leads down to a loading bay on B2. That could be an access point for a small team.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘But as a backup, we need more than a couple of guns between Chaz and me.’

  As I was talking, Chaz was poking around. He’d opened a metal cabinet. Inside was an array of guns.

  ‘We’ve found some weaponry here in the security office.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘But if, for some reason, your men don’t break through to B3 and it ends up with us going in alone, I don’t like the odds – three to one. I have an idea about that, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Leave that to us, sir. We need to meet up with your men.’ I checked my watch again and we synced up with the Command Post. It was precisely thirty seconds past ten o’clock. ‘Sixteen and a half minutes remaining. Assuming the men down on B3 work to schedule.’

  ‘Righto, Bates. I’ve coordinated with my second, Colonel Jack Stewart. He’s one of yours.’

  I smiled at Chaz. He meant SAS. I felt good about that.

  ‘He’ll take a small group around the western flank of the terminal and link up with you at precisely ten thirteen. We’ll create a diversion close to the south entrance to the terminal. You then have approximately four minutes to get down to B3, eliminate the defenders and neutralise the bomb. Our tech team is working on the security-camera footage you found. Anything they get on the nature of the weapon we’ll shoot over to you on the smart radio.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘Anything to add?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Chaz leaned in and spoke to the general for the first time. ‘Sir, I suggest we maintain radio silence except in case of emergency. I can’t be one hundred per cent sure how secure the comms are, or how long the scrambling will hold. The terrorists are very well organised and using some clever tech.’

  ‘Understood. Good luck, the pair of you.’

  CHAPTER 28

  WE WERE BACK out on the concourse. We had each added Colt M16s and backup handguns, a pair of SIGs, to our firepower, our pockets stuffed with ammo. I’d found a nice heavy commando knife, a Fairbairn Sykes. As we ran, I explained to Chaz what I was planning. He grinned. ‘Clever.’

  ‘All we need is a proper kitchen. Trouble is,’ I said quietly, ‘every time I come here, the layout has changed slightly.’

  Chaz spotted a Starbucks. ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Unlikely. Isn’t there some pseudo-French place along here somewhere?’

  ‘I think so. There’s a Yo! Sushi over there. What about that?’

  I shook my head. ‘The French place is called Pierre’s or Le Palais or something.’

  We ran, crouching, past Gucci and Hermès, swung a left and then a right and saw EAT, and then an O’Neill’s Irish Pub.

  ‘The pub,’ I said. ‘That might work.’

  I led the way, scoping the empty tables and bar with my P90. Chaz backed in close behind me, checking that the causeway was clear and no one had seen us duck inside the pub.

  The place was usually buzzing, but now it was like some deserted Wild West saloon after the gunslinger had come through the swing doors. The TV was on, a huge flat-screen perfect for showing football. Today, though, the terror attack on Churchill Airport had blanket coverage, red and blue flashing lights and an overexcited news reporter with Terminal 3 as her backdrop. The volume was up and as we ran I heard her latest update: ‘At least four hundred civilians are thought to be held hostage in the main check-in hall. Many others escaped earlier, especially those passengers in Departures who were preparing to board. It’s believed up to five thousand people, including hundreds of airport staff, have fled the building. They are currently being processed in a hangar some half a mile to my right.’ She pointed towards Terminal 5.

  We dashed down a narrow passage beside the bar, through a pair of doors with a round window in each and emerged into a storeroom stacked high with boxes. The words on them flashed through my mind as we rushed across the room: Cadbury, Walkers. Then we were in a cooler room with crates almost to the ceiling. We saw beer bottles and boxes of spirits, cases of soft drinks and mixers. In one corner stood a wheelie bin, clear cellophane dangled over its lip. A second later we were in a mid-sized kitchen, all stainless-steel surfaces and sharp knives. Food lay in dishes, there was flour on the floor and a bottle on its side; extra-virgin olive oil had collected in a wide puddle beside the steel counter. The staff had definitely left in a hurry.

  ‘OK, Chaz, can you find half a dozen small bottles of water? About th
is size?’ I held my hands about fifteen centimetres apart. He got straight onto it, pulling open fridge doors and overhead cupboards.

  I turned to the other side of the kitchen. ‘Food? Ingredients? Where the fuck do they keep that stuff?’

  I yanked open door after door. Pots and pans, glasses, lots of glasses. I whirled round and tried a different set of units to my right, and with the fifth set of doors, I struck gold. Boxes of chocolate powder, mustard, tea, instant coffee. ‘Vinegar. Great.’ I pulled the four-litre bottle from the cupboard and tossed it onto a counter beside me. ‘Now, baking powder.’

  I dragged the cartons, bottles and boxes from the cupboard. Nothing. ‘Shit!’ I exclaimed, and moved on to the next cupboard to my right. Rows of bottled lemon juice, ketchup, Worcestershire sauce. ‘Damn!’

  Next cupboard. Boxes. I rifled through them, tossing them to the floor behind me and reached deep into the cupboard to drag more from the back. I could sense I was close. Then, right at the back, behind an industrial-sized tub of Nutella, stood three boxes of baking powder. I grabbed two, pulled them out and spun to the counter as Chaz rushed over with an armful of bottles nestled up against his chest. We dumped everything on the counter.

  ‘Right, Chaz,’ I said. ‘Empty the bottles.’ I uncapped the vinegar and ripped open the baking soda. ‘Shit! I forgot paper napkins.’

  ‘I saw those,’ Chaz said, and he rushed away to a cupboard close to one of the fridges. I started to pour vinegar into the empty water bottles, until each was about a quarter full. Chaz was back with a pile of napkins. That’s when we both heard the sound simultaneously – something small and hard, a phone maybe, clunking across the concrete floor.

  CHAPTER 29

  WE SPUN ROUND in a heartbeat, our P90s trained on the same spot, a narrow opening between a cupboard and the back wall of the kitchen.

  ‘Come out with your hands up,’ Chaz commanded.

  We heard a weird sound. Was it a woman crying?

  A young woman emerged first, then a middle-aged guy with horn-rimmed glasses, a chef’s apron over his jeans and buttoned-down shirt. Last came a heavily pregnant woman in a floral dress, a knapsack on her back, her hair tied back. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  ‘Please. Don’t hurt us,’ the girl said.

  Chaz and I lowered our guns.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ It came out rougher than I meant it to and the three of them visibly backed off. I repeated myself, softer.

  The pregnant woman stepped forward. ‘Linda. Linda Frith.’ She extended a hand, the other tucked under her belly. ‘The alarms went off. I was . . . we, my sister, Jess’ – she nodded towards the younger woman – ‘we were too scared to go.’

  ‘I stayed with them,’ the man said. ‘Then it was all too late. I’m Jerry.’

  I ignored his hand. ‘We’re racing against the clock,’ I said and turned back to the counter.

  As speedily as I could, I poured baking powder in lines along six paper napkins. Chaz and I started rolling them. Flipped them over and folded again.

  Jess had approached. ‘What you doing?’

  ‘Making flash bombs. You’ve seen the TV, yeah?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘There’s a chemical weapon in the basement. The check-in hall has been taken over – hundreds held there.’

  The girl looked pale.

  ‘And you?’ Jerry asked.

  ‘We happened to be in the right place at the right time,’ Chaz said.

  ‘Well, that depends on your perspective,’ I added as I stuffed the first of the filled napkins into a bottle of vinegar. Chaz was working as fast as me and we started to screw the tops really tight.

  ‘May I use your knapsack?’ I asked Linda.

  She looked surprised, then pulled it off. ‘’Course.’

  She took out her purse, her passport and a small make-up pouch. Ditching the make-up, she slipped the purse and passport into a pocket at the front of her floral dress.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said and loaded it up with the six bottles. ‘We have to go.’

  ‘Take us. Please.’

  I shook my head. ‘We’re entering the most dangerous part of the terminal. You’re far better off staying here.’

  ‘Not if the bomb goes off,’ Jerry said and held my gaze.

  ‘Got a point, buddy,’ Chaz said, turning to me.

  I sighed. ‘I guess so.’

  CHAPTER 30

  I GLANCED AT my watch. It was approaching 10.08. Five minutes to get to the rendezvous point. Nine minutes to stop a catastrophe.

  We moved as fast as we could with the three from the pub, but naturally the pregnant woman, Linda, was a liability.

  ‘I’m really sorry,’ she said. ‘Maybe you should go on.’

  ‘We’re committed now,’ I said.

  I led the group. Chaz came up the rear. Jerry and the two women ran, huddled together. In that way, we headed north along the left flank.

  The smart radio buzzed. I glimpsed at the screen as we ran. ‘Info about the bomb from the Command Post,’ I said to Chaz and tossed him the device.

  We stopped for a few seconds while he studied the screen. ‘The analysts are pretty sure it’s a Soman bomb with an electronic timer,’ he said, and handed back the radio.

  We passed deserted shops and eating places until we reached the main duty-free area, a retail space as big as all the other shops and cafés put together.

  Straight ahead was a bank of lifts. Can’t risk those, I thought and veered right, dodging a trolley piled high with boxes. Our three new friends pushed on. Linda and Jerry went around the stacked trolley, left and right, but Jess was distracted and didn’t see it. She smacked into the thing with a loud thump and was thrown backwards. Chaz was with her in a second.

  He crouched down. ‘You OK?’

  Jess was dazed and holding her wrist, her face contorted in agony. ‘Shit! she exclaimed. ‘I think I’ve . . .’

  Chaz took her wrist and probed gently. We had all stopped. I stood guard, sensitive to the slightest movement. I felt for the girl, but my guts were churning. The seconds were ticking down.

  ‘You’ve dislocated it,’ Chaz said.

  ‘I’m OK,’ Jess groaned and started to get up. Chaz helped her. It was only then we all saw the nasty laceration across her left thigh; her jeans were ripped open, blood was flowing down her leg.

  Chaz and I spotted a sharp metal edge protruding from a crate on the cart. Jess put weight on her leg. ‘I’ll be all right,’ she mumbled. She didn’t sound too convincing. ‘We have to . . .’ She took a unsteady step forward. I caught Chaz’s eye and we moved forward to a doorway leading onto a service staircase. The door had a square window at head height. It slammed behind us and we stood in a white-walled stairwell. To our right, a flight of stairs ascended to an admin level, another set to our left led down. I could see lights down there, but they blanked out after Ground. I knew from the schematic that this staircase only went down to B1.

  ‘This is where it starts to get tricky,’ I said. ‘One floor down is the check-in hall. There are twenty or thirty heavily armed jihadists there with the hostages. We have to get past that ground-floor level.’ I paused and we all heard sounds from below. Someone had opened the door leading onto the stairwell. We heard the door on Ground swing shut and the sound dampen again, then footsteps approaching. Someone was climbing the stairs.

  ‘Up,’ I hissed.

  Chaz retreated to the door on our level, and slipped behind it as I stepped up the first flight of stairs with the others. I could see down and through the window in the door where Chaz stood to the right.

  A man was taking the stairs cautiously. He had a Kalashnikov at the ready and was looking around him. I saw him approach the landing, and by moving my head an inch to the right, I could also see Chaz through the window in the door. The man took two steps, then a third. I nodded to Chaz.

  His timing was perfect. He smashed the door inwards with brutal force and the leading edg
e hit the terrorist like a truck. He fell back against the railing and Chaz was inside before the man had stopped moving. I saw a flash of metal and Chaz’s knife slide left to right, cutting through the man’s neck. He folded, like spaghetti from a fork. I heard Linda gasp behind me.

  ‘Right. Let’s go,’ I said quietly.

  CHAPTER 31

  JERRY, LINDA AND Jess averted their eyes as they passed the dead man and stopped at the top of the stairs taking us down straight into the lion’s den. Jess leaned back against the wall. She was clearly in agony.

  I stepped over the corpse and took the lead again, stopping at the foot of the first flight of stairs. I crouched and could see what was going on through the square window of the door at the bottom of the steps, catching glimpses of the check-in area – jihadists in black, and in the middle distance several large groups of terrified civilians. It looked very much as it had when we were there. I could hardly believe that was only twenty-five minutes ago.

  ‘We go as fast as we can, but as carefully as we can,’ I whispered close to the three from the pub. Linda looked petrified, her hands shaking. Jerry swallowed hard and Jess just gave Chaz and me an agonised nod. The leg of her jeans was soaked with blood.

  I stepped down, my finger on the trigger of the P90. The last thing I wanted was to be caught, but if we were spotted, I knew I would take out as many of the terrorists as I could and Essa would be my prime target.

  I’d been in tense situations before and so had Chaz; but never anything where the stakes were quite so high. I felt the nerves in the pit of my stomach and gripped the gun, a layer of sweat between my fingers and the metal.

  At the foot of the stairs, I crouched low. The others copied me; Linda on her hands and knees. It felt as though time had slowed. It took us ten seconds to get past the doorway and onto the next flight of stairs down, but it felt like ten minutes, easy.

  We gathered on the first landing down from Ground and then pressed on faster, breathing almost normally again.