Righteous Strike

by Eric Meyer

  He raced back inside the aircraft and dove into the cockpit. Javed was sitting in the left-hand seat, beaming at him. “Mr. Stoner, tell me what you think? I started the engine, how’s that?”

  “Great. Get out of the seat, Javed. We’re leaving. No, restart the starboard engine. You’re my co-pilot.”

  “Me?” If it was possible, the smile widened even more. And then he frowned, “Mr. Stoner, I’ve never flown an aircraft.”

  “You’re about to get your first lesson. Start her up and strap in, kid. We’re leaving.”

  Javed pressed the button, and the starboard engine roared back into life. Stoner adjusted the mixture. Without hesitation, the engine kicked in, and both engines were running smooth and sweet.

  A final check on the controls, ailerons, rudder and flaps, and he pushed the throttles forward to the stops. Simultaneously, he was shouting at the people in the cabin.

  “We’re taking off, and they’ll start shooting at us. I want everyone on the floor, and…uh, yeah, close the damn door!”

  He was speeding to the end of the runway. He’d have to make the turn at the end and take off into wind, the opposite way, into the teeth of the enemy fire. The Haqqanis, determined to kill them. The Paks, determined to stop the theft of their aircraft. And kill them. In the cockpit, he and Javed, determined to take off. To win the battle of wills, and he’d ram the aircraft down their throats if they beat him.

  They reached the end of the runway. He throttled back and steered the aircraft around to point the opposite way, into wind, ready for the take off roll. Ahead, the strip was dark and difficult to see. They'd just have to make do. He applied the brakes and pushed the throttles forward to the stops. When the engines were screaming at maximum power, and the Harbin was like a greyhound straining at the leash, he let go the brakes. The aircraft bounded forward and picked up speed.

  Progress was slow at first. They were overloaded, and the end of the strip was coming up fast, too fast. They entered a patch of shadow as clouds covered the moon, and the runway was invisible. All they could do was keep going and hope for the best. Abruptly, the runway lights came on, and he was able to see again. His relief was short-lived. The Pakistanis had illuminated the strip so they could target the stolen aircraft, and gunfire whistled in from beside the terminal building. Bullets soared overhead, and more ominously, a machine gun opened up with tracer. The firefly-like flashes danced toward them, and some punched through the fuselage.

  In the distance, close to the end of the runway, he saw a dark shape lying on the tarmac. Griggs, a fitting end for a brutal, bloodthirsty animal. He touched the controls to steer away from the obstruction, and from the boarding stairs close by. The starboard wheels went off the tarmac and into the rough ground at the side. The aircraft bumped and shuddered, and he twitched the rudder to bring it back onto the tarmac, but it would be close-run thing to squeeze past the body and the boarding stairs.

  Another burst of firing came from ahead. They’d be Griggs' men, although their fire was wild. He guessed they'd lost heart when they saw their Colonel go down. The machine gun stopped firing as the magazine emptied, and the gunner would be reloading. A bullet punched through the Perspex cockpit window, and he glanced at the ground speed indicator. He didn't have a clue what the takeoff specifications were for the Harbin, but they were hitting eighty knots. It would have to do. They were running out of tarmac. Gently, ever so gently, he eased back on the control column, and the aircraft lumbered into the air. The moment he felt the wheels leave the tarmac, he told Javed to retract the undercarriage. They'd need every advantage they could get to climb to a safe height, and the drag of the undercarriage would make things more difficult.

  Of course, there was always the danger they could hit a pocket of air or an engine could falter, and they’d drop back onto the tarmac, which would mean a belly landing. He considered that possibility and decided gaining height was more important than worrying about the safety factor. But still, they didn't gain height. They were no more than ten meters off the ground, and the aircraft was picking up speed. But still he didn't trade speed for altitude.

  They were dangerously close to stalling, and all he had was a rough guess about the stall speed with the weight they were carrying. He wanted to exceed the limits by a good margin.

  A stone building loomed in front, perched on the slope of a hill. He moved the rudder a fraction to avoid it, but the slope was too high to fly over. He banked, and with the starboard wing almost skimming the slope, brought the overloaded aircraft around. For almost a kilometer he followed the contours of the hill, still in a steep bank, and inside the cabin, some of the women were screaming.

  They’d scream a lot more if they knew what I was trying to avoid, and how close we were flying to it.

  Then they started to leave the hill behind, and he was in a shallow valley. He brought the aircraft around to level flight, and at last, pulled back on the stick to gain height. The area was mountainous, and if they were to have a chance of getting away, he had to juggle speed and altitude to be able to fly over the next obstacle.

  With the aircraft flying level, Sara came forward into the cockpit, her face grave. "How long before we get there?"

  She meant Kabul. "I don't know. It depends on a number of factors. It could be an hour, it could be a couple of hours. It depends on whether I need to take evasive action, and on whether this crate keeps flying. Two hours."

  “It’s too long. We don’t have that amount of time.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  She paused, and he knew what was coming. "It's Greg. We’re worried about him, and Barbara doesn't believe he has much time left. His breathing has become rapid, and we’re also worried about the onset of infection from the wound."

  "You’re telling me he's dying?"

  He was staggered. After the triumph of the escape, killing Griggs, and beating the attempts to stop them getting airborne, he'd felt elation. They'd done it, despite every obstacle. There was something else that gave him a twinge of satisfaction. Of pride, even. Despite the way he'd been living lately, which people said should have killed him; he'd come back, and together with the others, pulled off the impossible. And now…"

  "What can we do?"

  "Find somewhere to land soon. Much sooner."

  He thought quickly, and all that lay between them and Kabul was what had become his hometown. Jalalabad.

  "We could land at Jalalabad International. They have a large hospital, and the emergency room is good. Especially for gunshot wounds, they have a lot of experience."

  She nodded. "Make it Jalalabad. But, Stoner, don't slow down for anything. Even if we make it to the hospital in Jalalabad, it’s still touch and go. Every minute counts, every second."

  "I hear. Do what you can for him, Sara. If Greg dies, a part of me dies."

  "I know that. Stoner, there’s something I have to say."

  "What is it?"

  “It’s about what happened in the past. I told you I was unhappy about you living over the brothel. And there were other things, the way you live, the risks you take.”

  "Yeah, it’s not everyone’d idea of a stable lifestyle.”

  "No, it isn’t. But I understand a lot more now. It's your business, just like your other business, using those big guns of yours to help people get justice.”

  He tried a wry grin. “Sara, I’m a surplus machinery dealer. It’s all legit, above board.”

  She swatted the comment away. “That’s a crock of shit, and you know it. Getting us out of that cell needed a hefty amount of violence, and I realize sometimes it’s necessary. It's not ideal, but Afghanistan isn't an ideal country. Nor is Pakistan."

  "You could say that," he muttered.

  She ignored him. "What I'm saying is we could give it another shot."

  His eyes widened. He hadn’t expected her to say those words. Not ever. "I'd like that."

  "But I won't stay above a brothel. Is that clear? You do what you want, but that'
s a step too far."

  "Copy that, Lieutenant Carver."

  She grinned. "That's okay, then. I'll get back to Greg."

  He flew on, using all his skills to coax every ounce of speed out of the aircraft. They had one thing going for them, the engines. Despite the initial problem getting the port engine started, it was running well, and he kept them at maximum speed, assigning Javed the task of watching the temperature and all pressure gauges like a hawk.

  "If any needle goes into the red, you shout it out."

  "Yes, Mr. Stoner."

  He flew on, and they'd left the airfield behind. There was no sign of any pursuit from Pakistani Air Force fighters or gunships, and everything looked good.

  Next stop Jalalabad.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Ghulam Noon was slowly packing his things. The replacement crew was supposed to relieve them the previous day. After the emergency when they shot down the gunship, everything changed. He had reports to fill in, and they'd insisted he send out two of his men to inspect the wreckage and report back. It was nearly over. The relief missile crew was due to arrive at 14.00, and he and his men could return to their barracks. Although there'd be even more reports and lengthy meetings while they figured out a way to make the right noises to the Government of Afghanistan, should they complain about the loss of their valuable helicopter.

  He looked at the half bottle of wine he’d brought along to celebrate the end of a long and miserable posting and shrugged. Why not, it was almost all over. Dawn would be about to break, and it had been a long night. With no chance of any sleep until the following night, he didn't see why he shouldn't indulge just a little. He used a corkscrew to open the bottle, put the bottle to his lips, and drank deeply. When he'd finished, he inspected the level and to his surprise, he'd drunk half the contents.

  That’s what this damn place does to a good Muslim.

  Still, he deserved a medal for his quick action in killing the intruder. He lifted the bottle to his lips and was about to take another swig when the door burst open, and his Sergeant rushed in. He was about to shout at him to knock first, but the NCO spoke first.

  "Sir, Sir, we have another contact. It looks like an aircraft, slow-moving, fixed wing."

  "IFF?"

  "Nothing, Sir. I've checked several times, and there is definitely no indication of it being one of ours. Which means…"

  "We have another intruder," Noon said. Maybe it was the wine, but he felt fired up with enthusiasm. If there were any question about the medal, downing this latest intruder would resolve it. Promotion to Captain Noon, the coming man, it was all possible.

  "Sergeant, prepare to launch the missile. Let's see what we have. Maybe we can make it two in a row.”

  Both men clambered through the door of the control cabin, almost shoulder to shoulder, and Noon pushed the NCO aside in irritation. He wanted to reach the screen and save himself. He sat down in the operator’s chair and stared at the radar return. The man was right, an unidentified aircraft flying across Pakistani territory, and broadcasting no IFF. He looked at his Sergeant. “What do you think?”

  "It's military, not civilian. None of the characteristics of a civilian flight, passenger, or cargo. It must be a hostile intruder."

  Noon felt his enthusiasm turned to excitement. He would be celebrated across Pakistan, a hero for destroying yet another intruder. "Prepare the missile."

  "We're locked and loaded, Sir. I'll activate the tracking mechanism and run through the system diagnostics."

  "You haven't done that already?" His tone was sharp, and the man looked embarrassed.

  "I had a problem, Sir, which delayed me for a short time. Until I’d resolved it, I couldn't run up the missile systems. I was about to start when I noticed the radar return."

  "What kind of a problem did you have, Sergeant? What could possibly have kept you from your duty?”

  A flush of shame swept across his face. "Sir, I had to go."

  "Go?"

  “To the latrine. I had the shits."

  Lieutenant Noon looked upward, searching for inspiration.

  The fate of Pakistan could hang in the balance, the security of the nation I serve at maximum risk. And this bastard was attending a call of nature.

  "Don’t let it happen again. Now prepare the missile, and alert me the moment you’ve completed the diagnostics."

  "Yes, Sir."

  The man dashed out of the door, and Noon waited, tapping his fingers on the desk in impatience. Five minutes went past, and the door opened.

  "Lieutenant, I think we should make visual confirmation. Just in case…"

  "Visual confirmation? Are you mad? By the time we've done that, they'll have escaped, be out of range."

  He stood his ground. "I still think we should make sure. It could be one of ours, with a faulty IFF transponder. The thing is, the way he's flying doesn't look like an intruder. I was thinking about the radar return, and it looks familiar. My guess is a Harbin, Y-12, which means it could be Air Force. Sir, the last thing we want to do is shoot down one of ours."

  Noon could feel his dreams of glory slipping away.

  "Listen, you idiot. We follow orders, and our orders are anything unrecognized, showing no IFF, and outside of the normal civilian flight path, is to be treated as hostile, and we shoot it down." His voice rose until it was almost sure scream. Noon was desperate, "Do you understand me, Sergeant?"

  The man stared back at him, all traces of shame and embarrassment gone. Instead, his gaze betrayed his contempt. "I understand you, Lieutenant. I don't agree with you, but I understand."

  "Your agreement is of no interest to me," he muttered. He returned to the screen, and the aircraft was already in range, "Commence launch sequence. Fire on my order!"

  The man flick switches to activate the guidance system and the pre-ignition sequence for the missile.

  "Wait for it, nearly, nearly, now!"

  He pressed the button, and outside the roar of the missile igniting and lifting from the launcher was deafening. Yet even as he'd given the order, Noon, was having second thoughts.

  What if I’m wrong? What if that fool of a Sergeant is right? If I shoot down one of our own, I won't be a hero; I’ll be in disgrace. I could even face a court martial.

  He picked up the binoculars on the desk and threw them at his NCO.

  "Get out there and look at the aircraft. Make sure the missile is on course, but if you have any reason to think it's one of ours, let me know immediately. I can hit the self-destruct button, and we can claim it as a test that went wrong."

  The man grabbed the glasses and raced outside. Once more, Noon drummed the desk, filled with impatience, although he was thinking fast, and his impatience drained away to take a different form. Dread. He may have just ruined his career.

  "Sergeant, do you see it yet?"

  "Oh, I can see it, but I can't identify it. It's too far away. Missile is on course."

  Noon's hand hovered over the button.

  By the beard of the Prophet, let it be a hostile.

  * * *

  Stoner began to relax, and he pointed out the function of each control to Javed, who was filled with rapt attention. "Is it possible I could fly one of these, Mr. Stoner? Could I be a pilot one day?"

  "Anything is possible, kid. However, the temperatures and oil pressures?"

  "I check them every few seconds. They are below the red, and the needles appear to be stable."

  "Stable is good. Keep watching. This here," he pointed up to the roof of the cockpit, "is the warning alarm for…"

  He didn't finish. He saw the puff of smoke, and instantly knew what it was, a missile launch.

  The bastards are firing at me, and in this lumbering old crate, there’s little I can do.

  He glanced left. The steep slope of a hill was too near to climb over it. To the right, another hill, more like a mountain. He was flying down the valley, and it was like they were in a funnel, rushing towards the missile, with not a damn thin
g they could do about it. He had one possible course of action. To fly low, hug the bottom of the valley floor, and hope the ground effect would confuse the missile’s guidance system.

  "Hold tight!" he shouted, simultaneously pushing the control column forward. They were already at maximum power, and the sudden change caused the aircraft to plunge sharply. From behind in the cabin, he heard the screams of terrified women.

  "Javed, go back there. Make sure everyone is okay."

  "Is there anything I can do here?"

  "A prayer, perhaps, but somehow I don't think it'd help us much. Go back and see how they’re doing in the cabin."

  He ignored him and lost more height, concentrating on the missile, which had arced over and was following their changed trajectory.

  Whichever way it goes, it’s gonna be touch and go. No, it isn't.

  He was making rapid calculations in his head, working out their chances, and he came up with a figure. Zero. There was nothing they could do, save keep trying, hoping, and maybe one or two would keep praying. The missile thundered towards them, and after all they'd been through, he felt bitter and angry that this last obstacle had popped up to finish them off. Soon, they'd be so much wreckage scattered over the valley floor, and in this remote place, it was likely no one would find them for decades. An ongoing mystery, like that aviator Amy Johnson, disappeared in the 1930s when attempting a round the world flight.

  Rafe Stoner, the big mystery. I can almost imagine the headlines. Did he elope with Congresswoman Adams? Or was it part of a wider plot by the CIA to keep secret the fate of the Ambassador's wife? Or some other reason? Hundred of theories, and not one likely to be close to the truth.

  He calculated they had less than ten seconds before the missile hit.

  Chapter Eleven

  He couldn’t work it out. One moment, they were facing death from an incoming missile. The next the missile exploded seconds before it reached them. Javed re-entered the cockpit, his face pale and shocked.

  “What happened, Mr. Stoner? We heard an explosion.”