by JT Brannan
But Sarah was surprised not to see Sabine and the three other kids. ‘Thanks Stefan,’ she said, accepting his offer of a mug of coffee as she relaxed into the chair. ‘What are you guys doing?’
‘Oh,’ Steinmeier said, sitting down between Ben and Amy, ‘we’re just going through some of our old photo albums. Mark’s in a few of these, although Ben and Amy don’t seem to think it’s him!’
Sarah smiled. He had certainly looked different back when he had been Mark Kowalski, that was sure. But she wondered why Stefan had the album out, and why he was showing them such strange pictures.
‘Where’s everyone else?’ she asked next.
‘On an unfortunate trip,’ Steinmeier explained. ‘Sabine’s mother has taken rather ill, so they’ve all gone to visit her in Bern.’
‘Oh, it’s nothing serious I hope?’
‘Well,’ Stefan said uneasily, ‘at this stage they do not know. We will have to wait and see. And maybe pray, yes?’
‘I’m sorry, Stefan,’ Sarah offered, and Steinmeier nodded his head.
He felt guilty for lying to her. There was nothing wrong with his mother-in-law. He had simply sent his family away for their own safety.
Because just five hours earlier, he had finally made the call.
11
Dan Albright was no longer in the hospital. After disconnecting himself from the monitors and drip he was hooked up to the previous evening, he had signed himself out. The doctors had at first refused to let him go, but he had demanded it and they had no power to keep him.
It had been necessary for the doctors to remove his eye completely, and it was now protected by a white plastic eye guard. His savaged nose was also covered by a guard, and his shaven head was criss-crossed with scabs. With the addition of light stubble, he now looked nothing like he used to; nothing at all.
After leaving the hospital, he had subsequently booked into a nearby hotel, where he had started making his plans. He had left for the sole purpose of tracking down Sarah Cole and killing her. He decided he was going to kill her kids first, right in front of her, force her to watch every last second. And then he was going to slit her throat from ear to ear.
He was lying in bed dreaming of his revenge when the call came. ‘Albright,’ he answered, immediately sitting up in bed upon hearing Charles Hansard’s voice on the other end. ‘No sir, I’m fine. No, I’m not at the hospital anymore, I was discharged last night … Yes sir, I’m in good health.’
And then Albright listened quietly to what Hansard told him, and he felt the excitement build as he was given his orders.
12
If the aircraft was going to cross over the US coastline within the next hour, then at their cruising speed of 250 miles per hour, they would be at Andrews within the next ninety minutes or so. This was both a good thing and a bad thing, Cole reflected as he wrenched free the upper attachments of the wrist and ankle bracelets from the chair at the rear of the cargo hold.
It was good because the aircraft’s speed would necessarily slow as it made its final approach, whilst the altitude would also reduce steadily, and both facts would make his task more achievable. It was bad news also however, as it didn’t give him long to accomplish this task – climbing out of the plane, moving over the length of the aircraft’s fuselage, before smashing through one of the cockpit windows from the outside, and then climbing back in to subdue the flight crew and take control of the plane.
Such a task seemed impossible, but Cole knew it could be done – or at any rate, would have to be done.
The answer lay in the electromagnets that had been used to restrain him. Cole knew the special chair was not a regular part of the Hercules’ equipment, and although it was now plugged into the aircraft’s main electricity supply, it would have had to be wheeled on board whilst magnetised under its own power.
Cole found a set of tools strapped to the side of the fuselage interior, and then once he had located the heavy battery pack at the rear of the chair, he wasted no time in detaching the unit. He then pulled the wires free from the chair, before breaking off the top part of the cuffs.
He then stripped the control panel from the head of the chair, removing the switches and connecting them back up directly to the cuffs, before testing to make sure it was all still operational. He held one of the ankle cuffs against the chair and flicked the switch, and the electromagnet pulled the top manacle in tight. The bond was nearly unbreakable once the current was passing through the magnet, and despite pulling for all he was worth, Cole couldn’t move it one iota.
Satisfied, Cole emptied the German guard’s backpack and placed the battery pack inside, leaving the wires trailing out from between the closed zip. He then focussed on strapping one ankle bracelet and one wrist bracelet to the front of each leg, cinching them tight.
Although the fact that there had been two switches on the chair – one to control the wrist shackles and the other to control the ankle shackles – had made his earlier escape a little harder, it was now going to play to his advantage.
He was going to use the electromagnetic manacles as climbing clamps, which would hold him securely to the metal fuselage, even with a 250 mile per hour wind trying its hardest to rip him free. He had used such aides before in the SEALS, when climbing up the slippery hulls of ships – although those clamps had of course been professionally custom-made. His home-made version would have to do though, and the same principles still applied.
Because one switch activated the ankle clamps and the other the wrist clamps, he strapped one of each to his legs, and he would have the corresponding opposite clamp in each hand. When he pressed the switch, one side of his body would therefore be securely fastened to the side of the plane, leaving his other side free to move; and then once in position, he would magnetise the other side, before freeing the first side and moving again.
It would be a slow process, Cole reflected as he made his way to the rear parachute door. He would have gone out of the front crew access door, but unfortunately it was on the other side of the now locked interior door, just opposite the stairs leading to the flight deck. It meant that he would have to exit via the rear of the plane, and traverse almost the entire length of the vehicle.
Cole reached for the door lever, the guard’s Glock pistol wedged securely into his belt, and pulled down hard. The door slid back and sideward, and Cole was immediately buffeted by the streaming, biting cold wind.
He took a deep breath and moved forward, hoping that the battery would last long enough for the dangerous climb. If it didn’t, it was one hell of a long way down.
13
‘What?’ Hansard asked, startled by the report that he had just received from a member of the security detail he had posted to Andrews Air Force Base.
‘According to the flight engineer, Cole escaped from the chair and subdued the guard,’ Hansard heard repeated on the other end of the line. ‘The guy managed to close the door aft to the flight deck, so Cole couldn’t get through. They’re starting their descent now, but it looks like the rear starboard parachute door has been opened.’
Hansard considered the situation for a few moments. Cole never ceased to amaze him, he really didn’t. Those electromagnets were supposed to be unbreakable! And where was Cole now? ‘Did he jump?’ Hansard asked next.
‘We don’t know, sir. The crew say there weren’t any parachutes stored in the cargo hold, so if he did, he’s dead, simple as that.’
Hansard was silent for a long time. What was Cole up to? What was he doing? What did he hope to achieve?
But there was simply nothing Cole could do, Hansard decided at last. If he was still aboard, he would be killed upon landing; if he had jumped, he would be dead already. Trapped in the cargo hold, there was nothing he could do.
And even if he did land, and even if he did then manage to escape from the Air Force base, what then? Who would believe his story anyway? It would be too late to make any sort of difference now anyway.
Still, it neve
r hurt to be sure. ‘Get the tactical team ready,’ Hansard ordered. ‘When the plane lands, send them in hard. Try and keep the crew safe, of course, but make sure that if Cole is there, he’s dead.’
14
The wind that tore at his body was even worse than Cole had feared. The electromagnets did their job, keeping him clamped tight to the aluminium fuselage, but the slipstream threatened to pull the skin from his body. Breathing was exceptionally difficult, and Cole had to get air into his lungs in tiny, shallow, staccato breaths. It was a trial of strength and determination just to flick the switches that powered each pair of magnets on and off; moving his limbs when freed was near impossible.
But move he did, first out of the parachute door, clamping himself to the side of the doorway; and then up and over the fuselage, to the top of the plane. It would have been more direct to travel straight down the side of the aircraft, but the air displacement from the huge propellers would have made progress simply unachievable.
And so Cole had gone steadily upwards, and now found himself on the top of the plane, the top of his head taking the brunt of the wind, down onto his shoulders, threatening – always threatening – to rip him off completely, sending him hurling towards the frozen earth fifteen thousand feet below.
The plane was descending now, slowing its air speed and reducing altitude, the inverted attitude of the aircraft giving Cole a vague view of the world beyond; there was land – frozen, snow-covered, and decidedly urban. They were close.
And so Cole marched steadily onwards towards the segmented windows of the cockpit – just fifteen metres away, but it could have been fifteen miles. Right hand switch – click – right hand and leg released – move both limbs in synchronisation, fighting against the tearing, icy wind – touch down again, magnets in contact once more with the airframe – right hand switch – click – right hand and leg re-secured against the fuselage, several all-important inches nearer the cockpit – a few shaking, ragged breaths – and then the whole slow, painful process again on the opposite side.
He was running out of time, and realization dawned on him of what the consequences would be if he failed – Hansard’s plan would work and the America that Cole knew and loved would be entirely destroyed.
He increased his pace, moving forwards faster, with renewed effort and determination. Hansard would not win.
15
Finally, after what seemed like hours upon hours of painful effort, Cole was there, at the cockpit, just inches away from the chosen window.
For improved visibility for the crew – important when flying low, a regular occupation for the venerable aircraft – the Hercules had a mass of glass, stretching all around the cockpit in smaller segments. Some of the sections were smaller than others, but the one Cole had selected – directly to the port side of the flight deck – was more than big enough for him to climb through.
From his position on top of the aircraft, Cole had clambered back down the side, not wanting to have to go through one of the frontal segments – he didn’t fancy flying with no windscreen, taking the full brunt of the Atlantic wind in the face all the way.
He clicked his right hand switch, and as his hand came free, he tried to keep his leg in close contact with the aircraft to help steady himself. His hand went down for his gun but, weighed down by the electromagnetic bracelet, was immediately whipped backwards, the force pulling his leg away too, until his whole body swung back towards the fuselage, pivoting around the fulcrum of his left arm and leg.
He cursed, forcing his body to come back round with all his strength, until he managed to pivot back, his right hand dropping to his belt, pulling the Glock semi-automatic free, struggling against the pull of the wind as he raised the barrel, placing it at an oblique angle firmly against the back end of the flight deck’s middle side window.
Gasping for breath, resisting the powerful pull of the wind, even as he saw the buildings of the air base below come into sharp focus, he pulled the trigger – one shot, two, three, four, five, six, until the window finally – finally! – began to star and crack.
It wouldn’t shatter, Cole knew, and so he pulled himself in closer, using the butt of the gun to smash the window – again once, twice, three times – until the whole thing collapsed inwards, and then Cole was there, both switches turned off, the magnets no longer securing him but hands placed in the window frame as he hauled himself in, gun up and raised at the terrified, bewildered flight crew.
16
The loadmaster wasn’t there, but that still left four crew members for Cole to deal with. The co-pilot was right in front of him as he pulled himself through the window, and Cole immediately smashed him in the face with the butt of his pistol, knocking him out cold.
Even as the co-pilot slumped unconscious in his seat, Cole leapt forwards through the enclosed flight deck, hammering a front thrust kick into the navigator’s chest before knocking the flight engineer down with a palm heel strike to the face.
Taking advantage of the two crew members’ disorientation, Cole followed up with marma strikes to the men’s necks, ensuring complete loss of consciousness.
From the moment Cole had entered the cockpit to the moment he had the Glock up and aimed at the pilot, the other three crew members strewn unconscious around the flight deck, less than five seconds had elapsed.
The pilot had started his mayday call to Andrews, but now fell silent, staring down the barrel of Cole’s gun.
‘Delta Six One, this is Control Tower Andrews, repeat your last, over,’ Cole heard from the radio, barely audible above the rush of wind through the flight deck.
‘Delta Six One, I say again, repeat your last, over.’
‘Change course to two-four-one degrees,’ Cole told the pilot. The man hesitated, and Cole pushed the gun nearer. ‘Do it,’ he demanded, and slowly, reluctantly, the pilot made the necessary adjustments.
‘Now tell them the plane’s rudders and ailerons have been damaged with the weather,’ Cole told him. ‘Tell them you can’t turn the plane. Tell them it’s locked on course.’
The pilot nodded. ‘Control Tower Andrews, this is Delta Six One,’ the pilot said, firm control over his voice. ‘We’ve had a technical malfunction, lost steerage, possible rudder fault. We cannot make the landing at Andrews, I repeat, we can no longer make the landing at Andrews. We are unable to alter direction, over.’
There was a pause. ‘Delta Six One, what is your present course, over?’
The pilot gave it, clearly and loudly.
‘Delta Six One, do you know the location of those coordinates, over?’
The man looked down at his navigational charts, paused as he checked the numbers, and then closed his eyes. ‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered in disbelief.
Course two-four-one degrees aimed the huge transport aeroplane straight at the White House.
17
Hansard felt sick to his stomach.
The report from Andrews suggested that the Hercules had developed a steering problem that meant it could no longer bank or turn without threatening to rip itself apart, a problem the technical team thought might have to do with the rear parachute door being kept open for so long in such terrible weather conditions.
It meant that the plane would no longer land at Andrews, but would continue on its current course, which would take it straight past Fort Dupont, the eastern branch of the Potomac River, and right over Capitol Hill. Andrews had contacted the White House already, much to Hansard’s disgust, and there was already a team out trying to clear Constitution Avenue in order to give the pilot an impromptu landing site.
A technical issue was plausible, of course, and yet Hansard’s gut instinct told him it was Cole. Somehow the man had made it onto the flight deck and had taken control of the plane.
There wasn’t long – the Hercules was even now flying over Chesapeake Bay, and would be at the White House in less than thirty minutes.
Unfortunately, the White House had already been informed, it was an allied
aircraft, and the pilot was still alive and talking to the Andrews Control Tower – all of which meaning that Hansard had no official justification for shooting it down.
But he knew his own assault team had arrived at Andrews earlier that day in two Bell helicopters, unconnected to the official security services.
One pilot and two gunmen in each. It wasn’t ideal, especially in this weather, but it would just have to do.
18
Ellen Abrams sat at the small French dressing table in the dressing room of her master bedroom suite, located in the southwest corner of the White House main residence.
The window beyond looked over the deeply snow-covered Rose Garden towards the West Wing, but for now the President was looking in the oval mirror that sat atop the table, examining herself.
As always, she looked immaculate; but it never hurt to check. Her personal team of make-up artists would go to work on her before the press conference, of course, but she had to appear in control of her own appearance even in front of them.
It wasn’t her skin tone, her hair, or her own make-up that she was checking now though; it was her poker face. Did any sign of the fear, the worry, the anxiety of the present global situation show itself anywhere on her face? Did it show in her body language? Her posture?
Because she was frightened. There had been an American attack on a fellow global superpower that was now threatening to throw the world back into the dark ages of the Soviet-era Cold War, and it had happened on her watch.
It appeared to be the work of one man, William Crozier, the ex-Director of the National Clandestine Service, but Russia and China obviously didn’t believe that. And with good reason, as it turned out – the latest reports from the secondary CIA investigation hinted that Crozier might have been involved with outside agents who were as yet unknown.
