by Ward Larsen
Then it looked like a roller coaster in a typhoon.
Rafiq Khoury had been keeping an eye on the stunned engineer while his men—Achmed and the two guards—dealt with Schmitt. Khoury was a satisfied man. His work was done, and all that remained was to rendezvous at the abandoned airstrip with General Ali’s helicopter—or rather, President Ali’s helicopter. There, they would kill Jibril and the Americans, and as a final touch make this aircraft their funeral pyre. He wondered briefly if the general had captured the last American, Davis. Khoury decided it didn’t matter. They had succeeded in every way. Khoury was staring at Jibril’s computer screen, idly imagining the possibilities his new life would present, when he suddenly began to fly.
He rose effortlessly into the air, as if the world around him was tumbling. There was no up or down, only spinning references and objects soaring past like gravity had taken leave. He hit the ceiling hard, and his eyes shut reflexively. When he opened them again, Khoury saw madness. Bodies and crates and equipment, hanging suspended like so many flakes in a snow globe.
Then, all at once, gravity returned with a vengeance.
From the ceiling, Khoury crashed down like a brick to the metal floor. He heard snapping noises that could only be his bones shattering. He felt indescribable pain in his lower leg. Screams filled the air, cries of both desperation and agony. Khoury tried to move. He got one elbow to the deck and raised his head from the cold metal.
Then it all happened again.
Schmitt’s DC-3 was careening through the sky, oscillating and tumbling.
“What is happening?” asked a horrified Antonelli.
“Negative Gs, then positive. Schmitt is pushing and pulling from stop to stop on his control column. It’s a last ditch maneuver. He’s buckled into his seat, so he’ll stay put, but anybody who isn’t strapped down in that airplane is getting thrown around like beads in a maraca. I just hope that seventy-year-old airframe stays in one piece.”
They both watched Schmitt’s DC-3 swirl up and down through two more violent cycles, actually flipping inverted on the second. Then it seemed to settle, like a floating leaf that had cleared a section of rapids to end in a calm pool.
The two airplanes were only three miles apart now, nose to nose. Davis had to look out the right-hand window, past Antonelli, to still see Blackstar. The drone was getting smaller, a dot nearly lost in the dusty haze. Davis banked the airplane to change the relative geometry, and the closure to Schmitt’s airplane slowed. He picked up the microphone, and said, “Schmitt, are you there?”
There was no reply.
CHAPTER FORTY
Jibril opened his eyes, or rather tried to. Oddly, the world that spread before him put the word “entropy” in his mind. It was a term he had learned long ago in some undergraduate chemistry class. The measure of a state of disorder. That was what he was looking at—bodies strewn about the cabin amid wiring and paper and equipment. One of Khoury’s guards was nearby, his neck folded impossibly against a shoulder, blank eyes staring into space. Fadi Jibril had never seen death before, but he was seeing it now. Near the flight deck he saw three more bodies, two piled in a heap—the second guard on top of Rafiq Khoury, and Achmed crushed under a pile of equipment that had broken free. He could also see Schmitt at the controls, or at least his shoulder. His shirt was covered in blood, as was the hand Jibril could see on the control column. But the hand was steady.
Jibril performed a self-assessment. His head throbbed where he’d been struck with the butt of a gun, and his right shoulder felt like it was on fire. He saw blood on the console in front of him and, in a strangely detached thought, wondered if it was his. When Jibril tried to move, his right leg shot with pain. He called out to Schmitt, but the pilot didn’t seem to hear.
He reached down and unbuckled his lap belt, the thing that had saved him. Jibril tried to stand, but his right leg buckled immediately, and he tumbled to the steel deck. Grimacing, he pushed onto his side. Jibril looked up, and when he did, his eyes registered something different. It took a moment to realize what it was. Rafiq Khoury had moved. He was closer to Schmitt now.
Jibril tried to yell, tried to raise an alarm, but only managed a hoarse grunt. He began to crawl, watching in horror as Khoury, his body bloodied and distorted, lunged forward and attacked Schmitt. The two men grappled, falling sideways onto the instruments and levers between the cockpit seats. There was a tangle of bloody arms and whipping fists, howls of pain and rage. He watched the two men fall back into the cabin, leaving the craft to fly itself. The imam was utterly insane, Jibril thought, attacking the only person who could fly the airplane. Soon Khoury was on top with something big and heavy in his hand. He was hammering at Schmitt, striking again and again. The burly American tried to fend off the blows but was clearly weakening under the onslaught.
Jibril tried to crawl closer, but his shattered leg was useless. He spotted one of the guard’s weapons nearby, a machine pistol. Jibril had never used such a thing in his life, but he would learn right now. He stretched out and touched the barrel with his fingertips, dragged it closer until he had a good grip. He pointed the steel barrel at Rafiq Khoury and tried to pull the trigger. Nothing happened. The trigger seemed jammed.
More screams from the front, Khoury still pounding away.
Jibril brought the gun closer. Weapons had safety levers, and the engineer tried to deduce where it would be. He found it near the trigger, a tiny black lever. Jibril flicked it forward, pointed the barrel as best he could and fired. The weapon kicked in his hands, and a deafening noise reverberated through the cabin.
Khoury seemed to freeze, his arm poised overhead for a final strike. Schmitt managed to roll clear, and Jibril fired again, this time holding the trigger down. The gun kicked three more times, and he saw the imam shudder, saw his white robe blossom with splotches of red. Then, finally, he collapsed.
Schmitt pushed clear of Khoury’s body and rose unsteadily. There was agony in his battered face, but he caught Jibril’s eyes and the two exchanged a look. Schmitt gave a subtle nod before stumbling back to the flight deck.
Jibril tried to move again, but the pain in his leg was excruciating. He eased back and tried to take pressure off the limb. Resting on the cold steel deck, he closed his eyes. Jibril cursed inwardly. How could he have been so blind to the imam? He had only seen what he’d wanted to see. Heard what he’d wanted to hear. You will be to Sudan what A.Q. Khan was to Pakistan. The father of a nation’s technical might.
With his head vibrating against the steel floor, he let his mind drift. His free thoughts went, quite naturally, to his wife and unborn child. Precisely where they always should have been. Jibril hated how he had been used and manipulated. Hated the damage about to be wrought. So he began to pray. He begged forgiveness and threw himself openly onto whatever reckoning he deserved. The pleas were very different from those he had been issuing for the last six months. Indeed, they were the inverse. Fadi Jibril prayed that his diligent work would somehow fail.
“Schmitt, are you there?”
Davis had been calling frantically for the last three minutes, but gotten no answer. He looked outside and found a bare speck in the distance—Blackstar heading for its target. It was decision time. If he lost sight of the drone, got too far behind, he might never see it again.
“What is happening?” Antonelli asked, her eyes locked to the nearby DC-3.
“I don’t know,” Davis said.
Schmitt had clearly taken his advice and put the airplane through a series of violent maneuvers. Then the craft had settled to a more straight and level trajectory. But as Davis watched now, he had the distinct impression the airplane was unguided, meandering up and down, drifting through shallow turns. As if nobody at all was flying.
Finally, a shaky voice rumbled over the speaker. “Davis?”
It was Schmitt, but he sounded tentative and unsettled in a way Davis had never heard before.
“You okay?” he answered.
A long paus
e. “Yeah, we’re under control.”
“We?”
“The engineer and me. We’re the only ones left. He’s banged up, but alive. He’s on our side now.”
“So you’re secure?” Davis asked, wanting to be sure.
“Secure—sure. Khoury and his bunch are done. You had a good idea.”
“I never thought I’d hear that from you.”
“And you won’t ever again.”
Yeah, Davis thought, Schmitt’s just fine.
“But we’re not out of the woods yet,” Schmitt added. “I think I bent this old airplane. She’s flying crooked and the ailerons are binding.”
Davis looked past Antonelli. He didn’t see Blackstar. “Dammit!” he muttered. He banked the airplane hard and pushed the throttles all the way up. Davis put the microphone to his lips, “Do what you have to, just get that bucket on the ground. And ask the engineer if there’s any way to stop Blackstar.”
Davis watched the airspeed inch upward. He needed knots, so he pushed the nose down to help the old bird accelerate.
After a minute, Schmitt came back. “Jibril says no, he can’t control it. Blackstar is on its own now. But you’ve got the target right. It’s heading for the conference in Giza.”
“All right,” Davis replied, “I’m going after it.”
“Going after it?” Schmitt spat. “What will you do if you catch up?”
“Hell if I know.”
The Great Pyramid of Giza has been casting a shadow for over four thousand years, but never before had it fallen over such a luminous array of dignitaries. Twenty-two leaders of the new, emerging Arab world were mingling in the staging area, a sheltered enclosure behind the main stage. This alone might have given any right-minded security chief pause, but up to this point everyone was behaving, save for the occasional incoherent rant by the madman of Libya.
The usual throngs of tourists had been turned away today, leaving countless vacations bruised and tour guides wagging excuses. It was the only way. Presently, a single person stood on the stage, the conference’s beleaguered director of security. He was an Egyptian, a senior man in the new president’s Office of State Security. Nearing the end of his career, the director was known for his steady demeanor under pressure—something he relied upon now.
He stood on the stage and looked out at the crowd, which was actually not that large, and then at the media corral where a veritable army of reporters stood in wait. The journalists were geared for battle—cameras, microphones, smartphones. If all went as planned today, a positive tilt toward peace in the region was anticipated, even if the ceremony itself would quickly be forgotten. And any problems? the director mused. Any problems would be splattered across the world in a matter of seconds, and from a hundred different angles. That was the problem in his line of work. The better you performed your job, the less it was noticed. But if you screwed up—
The director put a hand in his pocket and keyed the microphone that was wired to his collar. “Report.”
The reply came to his earpiece immediately, “Still Condition One. No threats, sir.”
The director did not respond. Thirty more minutes of that, he reasoned, and I’ll soon be in a soft chair by the sea.
His earpiece crackled to life. “One moment, sir. Our Air Force command center has received a warning from their U.S. liaison officer. One of their aircraft carriers is tracking an unauthorized aircraft thirty miles to the south. It’s heading this way.”
“What are they doing about it?” the director asked, not bothering to inquire why it took the Americans to bring the matter to everyone’s attention.
An interminable pause. “Our own Air Force is sending a pair of fighters to investigate. The colonel insists on leaving the bulk of his force in sector three to watch the northern border. He says the reported target is moving very slowly and not a possible threat.”
There was nothing the director of security could say to that. The Air Force was the Air Force, and if something slipped through it would be their heads rolling in the gutters of Abdeen Palace. All the same, he turned to his right and scanned the southern sky.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Davis was captain of a seventy-year-old airplane, one in which he had logged no more than four hours of flight time. He was nearly out of fuel, violating Egyptian airspace, and heading for a high-profile political event without clearance. His copilot was a general practice physician with zero hours of flight time. But at least I’m not high on khat, he mused.
He scanned the northern sky, looking high and low, not sure what kind of profile Blackstar had been programmed to fly. Stay high and rely on stealth? Or go low and mask behind the terrain? The landscape was relatively flat, no mountains or canyons in which to hide, so Davis’ gut told him to look high. That would also give Blackstar more kinetic energy in its terminal dive—more bang for the buck. He figured he was twenty-five miles from Giza. Blackstar had to be close, no more than five miles ahead. Unless it had been programmed to fly a circuitous route. Swing wide and come in from the east? Davis had no way to tell.
“There!” Antonelli shouted.
Davis saw her pointing to the four o’clock position, back over her shoulder.
“Christ, we passed it up.”
The doctor had good eyes—Davis banked right and saw it, the arrow-like Blackstar daggering ahead like some kind of remote controlled demon. Which was exactly what it was. He picked up an intercept track. They’d be right beside the drone in a matter of minutes. Whatever good that would do.
“Where the hell are the fighters?” he asked.
“The what?” Antonelli replied.
“The Egyptians must have air cover, fighters watching out for trouble. They can’t see Blackstar—that’s why Khoury used it, because it’s stealthy. But now we’re here. This old trashwagon must have a radar cross section the size of a building. Somebody has to be tracking us. I figured that if we followed along and tied ourselves to Blackstar, we’d draw some support. Somebody who can take it out.”
They both swept their eyes over the sky but saw nothing. Then an F-16 flying at supersonic speed flashed a hundred yards in front of them.
Antonelli jumped back in her seat, and a second later they hit the jet’s wake vortices, two sharp bounces that made the old airplane groan.
“What was that?” she exclaimed.
“Egyptian Air Force,” Davis answered. “Just like I was hoping.”
“What are they going to do?”
“Good question.”
Davis had a lot of air combat training, much of it flying against F-16s like the one that had just screamed past. He was, however, used to having a little more performance at his disposal.
“I’m hoping these guys will be on our side.”
“So am I,” Antonelli agreed.
Davis watched the fighter that had just dusted them go high, a big whifferdill to reposition. That’s what I’d do. He looked left and right, searching for the other jet. Fighters always came in pairs. You might not see the second, but it was there somewhere. If Davis were to guess, he’d have it camped out at their six o’clock right now, flying S-turns, because F-16s weren’t meant to be driven at a hundred and twenty knots. The pilot probably had an AIM-9 heat-seeker locked and loaded, giving a nice solid “ready” tone on one of their big radial engines. That idea didn’t sit well with Davis, but there wasn’t much he could do. He had asked for fighters, now he had them. But they clearly hadn’t seen the drone. Their radars had guided them to a big, ponderous DC-3, so that’s what their eyes had locked onto.
Davis searched for Blackstar but didn’t see it. In all the commotion he’d lost his visual.
“Dammit!” he said. “Do you see the drone?”
Antonelli craned her neck left and right, searching the sky. “No, not anymore.”
“Great. Just when we get help.”
“What can we do?” she asked.
Davis saw the high F-16 dropping to his altitude, probably getting ready to
introduce himself with a few visual signals.
“There’s only one option right now. We surrender.”
Davis held the control column firmly and rocked his wings, big side-to-side rolls that were unmistakable. It was a signal any fighter jock in the world would understand. Knock it off. A pilot’s white flag.
The lead F-16 pulled up on his left, no more than a hundred feet away, trying for a visual to the captain’s window. Davis tuned his primary radio to 121.5 MHz, the international distress frequency, and tried to make contact. The fighter didn’t reply. He was watching the lead airplane edge closer when Antonelli blurted, “There!”
He looked where she was pointing and saw Blackstar. It was five, maybe seven miles away, still heading north. Closing in on its target.
“I see it,” Davis said, “but they don’t. These guys intercepted a blip on their radar, and found an old DC-3. If we keep this heading, we’re going to lose sight of the drone. All we’re doing is pulling them away from the real threat.” He tried the radios again. Still no reply.
“Why don’t they answer?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe they haven’t tuned the frequency yet, or maybe they’ve got people on other radios yakking in their headsets—a command center or air traffic control. It can get pretty busy at a time like this. In a minute or two or ten, we’ll be talking to them. Unfortunately, we don’t have that kind of time.”
Antonelli looked out her window at the sleek jet. “But if we cannot talk to them, how will they find the other craft?”
“There is one way,” Davis said. “If I break away toward Blackstar, they’ll follow. The problem is, there’s a guy parked behind us right now. If we make a threatening move, he’s going to fire a missile—but I don’t know how long he’ll wait to do it. Could be five minutes, could be five seconds. For us, it’s a risky maneuver.”
