Mark Midway Box Set: Mark One, Mark Two, Mark Three, and Mark Four

by John Hindmarsh

  Chapter 41

  Schmidt’s cell phone intruded into his thoughts.

  “Schmidt.”

  It was Linda. “We checked. The crew who flew out from Europe are in hospital. They ate or drank something last night that might have been poisoned or at least drugged. They’re recovering. We’re waiting on toxicology for details. Looks like you need to take action.”

  “Planning for it. I’ll contact you once we’re in control. See if you can find anything about the replacements. Not sure where you’d start—maybe the operator who serviced the Cessna has details.”

  “Already on it. We’ll let you know when we have more details. Good luck.”

  “Thanks. I think we’re going to need it.”

  Schmidt turned his attention back to the front of the cabin. Corporal Sophie Winton eased the unconscious cabin attendant into a seat at the front of the cabin. Schmidt met her halfway; he had watched the confrontation as the corporal had held the attendant’s hand. It was, he thought, a subtle form of questioning, with the victim falling unconscious when the intensity of the interrogation increased.

  “What did you discover?”

  “She isn’t fully aware of their plans. She doesn’t know where they intend to land, although she has major concerns that they don’t intend to take us to Boston. In other words—”

  “A suicide flight.”

  The corporal nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you get access to the cockpit?”

  “Three clicks on the intercom and the same number of knocks on the door.”

  “Let me brief the colonel and then we’ll go ahead.”

  “Yes, sir.” The soldier resumed her position at the front of the cabin and Schmidt returned to his seat.

  “It may be a suicide flight—90% probability. My corporal has the code to gain entrance to the cockpit. We can take out the two pilots—leaves us in a jam, though, without pilots.”

  “Not altogether. I mentioned to you last night that I’m a pilot. I have over two thousand hours from my RAF service and my commercial license is current. I have three hundred as co-pilot on Hercules and the same on Gulfstreams. I landed this little beast on the way over; at Keflavik— Iceland’s international airport where we stopped to refuel—and at Dulles. Under guidance of the captain, I’ll admit. However, I’m confident I can handle the landing, once we find out where to go.”

  “Welcome news. Come with me, we’ll have to do this quickly.”

  Entry to the cockpit was straightforward and fast. The co-pilot opened the door and when he saw the two MPs he grabbed for a weapon. Sophie shot him. She stepped forward and held her pistol to the neck of the captain. Evelyn followed, stepping over the body of the dead terrorist. She dropped into the co-pilot seat and said, “I have control.”

  The man sitting in the captain’s seat had frozen when he heard the shot and saw the co-pilot’s body fall. He held up his hands. Schmidt stood in the doorway and instructed the corporal, “If he twitches or looks sideways, shoot him.”

  “With pleasure, sir.” Corporal Winton addressed the pilot. “You’ll get out of your seat, very carefully. Don’t even think about attacking me—there are two other pistols aimed at your head.” One was in Perez’ steady hand and the other was held by Schmidt. She stepped back, out of what she thought would be the pilot’s reach even if he lunged at her, and monitored his moves with a total focus, forgetting to breath. The pilot appeared to have given up his objective, although Sophie was not convinced.

  “Mike, get your ties out, quickly. You, put your hands behind your back. That’s the only move you can make—anything else and it’ll be your last. Mike, come on, tie his wrists together. Good. Pilot—whatever your name—walk into the cabin. Don’t make any sudden moves. Stand next to the second seat on the left.” Schmidt had moved backwards into the cabin, keeping a yard or so in front of the pilot. He held his handgun ready as the pilot followed the corporal’s directions.

  Sophie directed the private. “Mike, search him first. Empty his pockets, remove his belt.” She watched as the soldier followed her instructions. She continued, “You, now sit down. Mike, tie his arms to the seat armrests.” She looked at the pilot and smiled. “I know, it’ll be uncomfortable with your hands behind your back. Hey, sue me. Now tie his feet together—as tight as you can; we’re not worried about blood circulation. Good. Now tie his feet to the seat fittings, where they’re bolted to the floor. When you’re finished, take the seat behind him. Hold your weapon at his head level. If he moves, shoot him.”

  The pilot looked like a trussed chicken. Perez grinned at the corporal and muttered, loud enough for her to hear, “Bossy woman.”

  Schmidt said, “Well done, both of you. I agree with the corporal’s instruction: if our prisoner moves, shoot him. Sophie, you’d better tie the cabin attendant; even though she’s unconscious now, that condition won’t last.”

  “Yes, sir. That task was next on my list.” The corporal holstered her handgun and lifted the woman into the seat across the aisle from the pilot. It took her seconds to restrain the cabin attendant in the same manner; it would be uncomfortable, but it was secure.

  “There you are, sir,” Corporal Winton said to Schmidt. “Should I help the colonel?”

  “Don’t tell me you’re also a pilot?”

  “Yes, sir. Not as many hours as the colonel, though. I can press buttons or use the radio, if she needs to stay focused.”

  “Go, go. Why are you wasting time here?”

  The corporal was in the cockpit before Schmidt had finished speaking.

  “Colonel, I’ve got about four hundred hours. Nothing too sophisticated. Twin engine, props, no jet time.”

  “Sit, make yourself comfortable. Do you know how to talk to that fighter—the Raptor—out there? I think we’re in the wrong airspace.”

  “Wow. Yes, sir. What’s our rego?”

  “We’re GOLF ALFA ONE XRAY OSCAR. Use 121.5; they’ll tell you to change if they want.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sophie donned the headset, selected the emergency channel, listened for a few seconds, and pressed the mike button.

  She said, “This is Cessna GOLF ALFA ONE XRAY OSCAR. Over.”

  The reply sounded in both headsets. “This is Texas Hat to Cessna GOLF ALFA ONE XRAY OSCAR. You’re in the wrong place. Follow me. I hope you’ve got a good story. Out.”

  The Raptor pilot turned his aircraft and Colonel Hudson followed.

  “Texas Hat to Cessna. Confirm fuel for thirty minutes plus. Over.”

  Sophie said to the colonel. “Sir, do you know?”

  “I think we have enough for a couple of hours. So confirm one hour.”

  “Cessna to Texas Hat. Confirm one hour. Over.”

  “Texas Hat to Cessna. Advise pilot experience. Over.”

  Colonel Hunter laughed. She said, “My turn was a little unsteady. Let them know enough detail so they are aware of what our needs might be.”

  “Cessna to Texas Hat. We’ve had problems. Current pilot in command is British Army Colonel Evelyn Hunter, limited hours on this aircraft type. US Army Corporal Sophie Winton is co-pilot. Note co-pilot has nil hours on type. Original co-pilot is deceased, original pilot in command is under restraint. We suspect they are terrorists. Passengers include US Army General Archimedes Schmidt plus others, British and US military, and civilians. Over.”

  “Texas Hat to Cessna. I said you needed a good story. I think you might have one. We’ll escort you to a suitable Air National Guard Base. Emergency services will be on full alert. Let me know if you have a problem or need assistance. Over.”

  Sophie by-passed correct protocol. “Thank you, Texas Hat.”

  They followed the fighter jet for another fifteen minutes.

  “Texas Hat to Cessna. We’re going to land you at Stratton Air National Guard Base. We’ll handle all communications. Stay on 121.5. The base shares Schenectady County Airport. We’ll land you on runway 22, which runs north to south. Towards the southern end as you co
mplete your landing run, you’ll divert to the National Guard Base. Understood? Over.”

  Sophie looked at the colonel. “You okay with all of that?”

  “Tell them acknowledge. I’m not sure of the buttons to press for cabin announcements so tell our passengers to strap in and come back to your seat.”

  “Cessna to Texas Hat. Acknowledged. We’re landing at Stratton Air National Guard Base. We’ll remain on 121.5. We’re using runway 22, north to south. We’ll divert to the National Guard Base on completion of landing run. Over.”

  “Well done. Now follow me. I’ll lead you in. Don’t forget to drop and lock your landing gear.” There was a touch of laughter in the reminder.

  “Cheeky sod,” said Colonel Hunter. “He owes me a beer for that.”

  “I think if he leads us in safely, we’ll be the ones owing beers.”

  The colonel brought the Cessna to stop where indicated by the ground flight controller. The Raptor had led the way in, along the runway, and once the pilot had observed the safe landing, he had communicated his congratulations, waggled his wings, and accelerated to return to his home base. But not before Sophie had obtained his contact details. If she had an opportunity, she’d promised him as much beer as he could drink.

  Emergency vehicles accompanied the Cessna in the last section of its landing run, and MP vehicles were waiting at the Air National Guard Base.

  “Congratulations, Colonel,” Sophie said. “That was a smooth landing. I can breathe again. I think we’ll be telling our story for a while.” She indicated the waiting vehicles. “They’ll be entertained, especially as it’s MP to MP.” She watched as the colonel went through the shutdown procedure. At some stage in her near future, she promised herself, she was going to add more hours, as many as she could afford.

  Schmidt opened the cockpit door and said, “Well done, both of you. We’re going to be here for a while. I’ve been in touch with the base’s senior officer and he’s promised to process us as quickly as possible. That means we need pilots—I don’t suppose you know of any?”

  “I think we should wait on the genuine ones, those who came with us,” Colonel Hunter replied.

  “They’re in recovery mode. No long-term harm done, apparently. It will be another day before they’re okay to fly, though. Depending how much paperwork we have to go through here, we might continue by car. It all depends.”

  “General, I’m sure we’ll get to rescue Mark before too long.”

  Chapter 42

  Mark waited for the psychologist to recover from her sobbing. He held no sympathy for her; there was no captive-bonding or Stockholm effect in their relationship. Whenever he thought of the torture he had endured, he had to force down the flood of anger to prevent himself from doing harm. To either or both—the psychologist or O’Hare. He had no interest in her full name or in her background. O’Hare was—Mark was confident—going to pay for the pain, drugs, and agony inflicted at his command. Somehow, somewhere, sometime. Mark had sworn that oath.

  At last Emma raised herself from off the floor. Mark continued to wait. The hammering had ceased. He thought whoever was trying to gain admission had re-grouped, possibly to try other means of forcing an entry. Given the metal structure of the small building, he expected those outside would either use a cutting torch to get access or set a fire near or under the CHU. He hoped they tried the cutting torch first—it would mean they wanted himself and Emma alive—or at least, one of them. He lacked data.

  At last Emma managed to regain control of her emotions. She washed and dried her face and returned to the narrow office. She had hiccups.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You’ve already said that.”

  “I—I want to help.”

  “How? I’ve searched for a weapon. There’s the other exit but it’s likely to be guarded.”

  “They only have two guards.”

  “Can you guarantee they haven’t arranged reinforcements? Are you sure they’re O’Hare’s people?”

  “N—No. I never thought of that.”

  Mark shrugged. “They could have more people involved; they could be arranging for a cutting torch; they could start a fire and roast us. The possibilities aren’t endless, I suppose, but they can do us harm.”

  The hiccups worsened. Mark walked the length of the CHU and back, lost in thought. He paced the circuit again.

  An hour passed. Followed by another. The hammering resumed. It sounded as though they were using a heavier implement. Mark checked the steel door. There was no sign of damage. He sat for a while, lost in thought. He resumed his pacing along the forty feet length of the CHU and back. The hammering ceased.

  It was another hour before the hammering began again. Mark wondered at the intention of whoever was outside: were they simply trying to disturb them or was it a serious intent to penetrate the container? He resumed pacing. He did not notice as Emma raised her hand as though to attract his attention. He repeated his circuit. This time she reached out and touched his arm. He turned.

  “Yes.”

  She bit her lip. “I—I lied to you earlier.”

  “What? Which one?”

  “I said I didn’t have a weapon.”

  Mark was close to losing control of his anger.

  “Well, it was true—I didn’t have one here, in the CHU.”

  “And that’s changed, how?”

  “I brought my pistol with me when I came back. It’s in my handbag.”

  “Now you tell me.” He held his hand out.

  Emma fumbled with her handbag and drew out the pistol. It was a Glock. He snapped out the magazine—six bullets, .38 caliber.

  “Any more?” He indicated the magazine as he inserted it back into the Glock.

  “Two.” She felt around in her bag and found the two magazines and handed them over.

  Mark checked. He had another twelve bullets. Not enough to start a war, but probably as many as he needed. He tucked the spare magazines into his pants pocket.

  “I’ll go out the other door—their attention is probably on this one. Come with me and lock the door behind me. I’ll come back via the other door. Wait until I knock, understand. Two raps and a pause and then one.”

  “Don’t—don’t go.” She tugged his arm. “I’ll be alone.”

  Mark ignored her entreaty. He tucked the handgun into his belt and headed to the other door. With luck, the locking levers would open without a sound. Otherwise—he shrugged. He’d spent more than enough time in this metal prison.

  He turned off all the lights as he walked along the length of the CHU. It would be dark outside, he assumed, and light suddenly shining through a doorway would attract attention—unwanted attention. When he reached the end of the narrow corridor, he turned the corner to reach the locked door. He grabbed hold of the lever and slowly applied force. The lever and its attached bars moved a fraction of an inch at a time. There was no noise. He maintained pressure and continued to ease the lever until it reached its unlocked position. He hoped the fit of the door did not add a noise risk when he attempted to push it open. He turned the lock and leaned against the weight of the metal structure, moving it in small increments. He sighed with relief when he had a gap wide enough to fit through; the door had performed flawlessly.

  Mark waited minutes before moving the door any further. He hoped he had controlled the opening process with enough caution that the movement had not attracted anyone’s attention. He dropped to his knees, and with even more caution, moved his head and body until he could see outside. No one. He pushed the door out another six inches. Still no one. He moved the door and checked again.

  There. A man was standing about twenty feet away, his back to the CHU. He was smoking a cigarette. He carried a weapon; it looked like a miniature machine gun. Mark couldn’t identify it. The overhead lights did not provide much illumination. As far as he could determine he was in the middle of some kind of container farm; he did not know whether they were CHUs or proper freight containers. The
re were rows of them, stacked three and four high. He heard, in the distance, the roar of diesel motors followed by a long train whistle. This certainly was not Gitmo, he decided.

  Mark pondered for a moment how to handle the watcher with his cigarette. If he tried to sneak up on the man, he was liable to be detected. If he fired at him from the CHU doorway, he might miss and the noise would alert other guards. He decided to sneak up on the man, at least until he moved. He stepped out onto the concrete, closed the door, and with utmost care, moved towards the guard. Mark held the Glock ready, aimed at the back of the man’s head.

  The guard inhaled smoke and dropped the cigarette on the ground. He twisted his boot on the ember, squashing the butt. He straightened up and shifted his weapon. Mark was only ten feet away. He continued to move, inch by inch, a leopard stalking its prey.

  His target yawned and leaned against a steel support, a vertical beam of some kind. Mark stayed focused. He stopped when he was two feet away.

  “Turn around, slowly. No, don’t move your weapon.”

  “Govno!” The watcher jerked his weapon around.

  Mark didn’t debate whether the movement was an attack or an involuntary movement as a result of surprise. He fired the Glock. At a distance of two feet he was not likely to miss. The guard fell, his weapon clattering onto the concrete. Mark cursed under his breath—the noises were startling in the quiet of the night.

  A shout from the other side of the CHU indicated someone was concerned. He wasn’t sure what the language was and didn’t know whether it was a question or command. No one replied. He headed to a shadowed area some yards away, where lights did not reach. He hoped the shadows would hide him from whoever came to investigate the shot and subsequent silence. He didn’t have to wait for long.

  A dark figure came from the far side of the CHU, displaying caution with each soft step. The man called out again. It was the same word, perhaps the name of the watcher Mark had shot. He didn’t reply. He waited, certain he had blended into the shadows and was partially protected by another steel beam. Mark used his pistol to track the newcomer, ready to fire when he was certain of a successful shot.