by Larry Bond
But if they did walk away, he thought, what would it be like?
“Remember those slides we saw that Corrigan made? Worst effect is the alpha stuff, but that has to be ingested, which probably won’t happen here until the particles are blown up, right? Because they didn’t spread uranium dust in the plane — they probably have it in those containment wafers scattered in these boxes here. As long as we don’t breathe it, we’re cool.”
Ferguson paused. His stomach was feeling queasy, but that might just be because he was hungry and tired. It somehow felt reassuring to talk about the effects of the radiation as if he were writing a science report; it had been that way with his cancer, too, explaining it to his sister.
“What we’re getting mostly is gamma, and some of that it probably shielded, too,” continued Ferg. “I mean, we’re sick dogs, Dad, don’t get me wrong — even if we get out of here pretty soon, a lot of interesting medical stuff in our future.”
“Leukemia?”
“Oh, sure. Think of it this way — smoking cigarettes probably isn’t going to make things any worse.”
“What’s cancer like, Ferg?”
“How’s that?”
“You got it, right?”
Ferguson felt something prick at him, as if the question were a physical thing. No one in Joint Demands, not even Van or Slott, knew.
“That’s compartmented need-to-know, Dad,” he said, pushing past the surprise by turning it into a joke.
“We heard rumors, but no proof. Now I can tell.”
“It sucks, Dad. But at the moment, it beats the alternative. Come on, let’s get to work.”
“I’m sorry you got it.”
“Me too. Come on, let me see what happens if I strip those wires down and cross them.”
“I got a better idea, Ferg. Since we’re going to kill ourselves anyway.”
“Fire away, Dad.”
“We got two grenades. Throw ‘em up near that door, see if they blow through the panel.”
“They’re only flash-bangs, Dad,” said Ferg. “They’re just going to make very loud booms.”
The aircraft seemed to tremble, then Ferguson and Conners felt it tilting forward and starting to descend.
“Let’s go for it,” said Ferguson. “Let’s do it.”
“Yeah,” said Conners. He handed over the grenades, then slid down to the floor. Ferguson reached down for him, but got the shirt he’d discarded earlier instead. It had something in the pocket.
“What about the Russian grenade Ruby gave me?” Ferguson asked. “The VOG thing. Any way to set it off?”
“We don’t have a launcher. It works like one of our 40 mm grenades in a 203. The pins inside hold the trigger off until there’s centrifugal force. It has to spin fast.”
“Can we take it apart?”
Conners tried to focus. The grenades came in two basic models, one with an impact fuse in the nose, the other — this one — slightly different, designed more specifically as an antipersonnel shrapnel weapon, throwing metal over a wide area. It hopped up when it landed, then exploded.
If they could set off the cap at the back, the propellant might explode.
Or not.
Hit the charge in the front. Something would go off.
“Spit it out, Dad,” said Conners.
“There’s a fuse in the nose, an explosive charge — if you hit it point-blank, I think it would explode. It might be enough to set off the propellant then.”
“You think I could throw hard enough to set it off?”
“Not even you could do that, Ferg,” said Conners.
“So if I shoot it, what happens?” said Ferg.
“Yeah,” said Conners, as if Ferguson had given the answer rather than the question.
“I don’t know if the shrapnel will go through all the shit they have inside the plane,” said Ferguson. “But it will go through us.”
“Yeah.”
“All right,” said Ferg. He took the grenade and his gun. “I’ll do it near the cockpit. Take those bastards with us maybe.”
“Go for it.”
Neither man moved. Both were willing to die — both realized they were going to die — but neither wanted to cause the other’s death.
Then Conners had another idea. “The flash-bang might set it off, if you wedged them together right. It’s not much of a killing force, but it could set off the percussion cap at the back, or maybe the fuse in the front, because it has to be pretty loose to begin with.”
“Which one?”
Conners thought. “The back. It’s like a bullet being fired.”
“I could shoot the back point-blank, like a striker.”
“Yeah.”
“What the hell,” said Ferguson. He grabbed hold of Connors and dragged him toward the front of the plane.
“What are you doing, Ferg?”
“We’ll use the grenade to blow open the door. We’ll huddle under the ledge, the explosion misses us, we go get the bastards. The flash-bang will be the striker. It’ll work.”
Conners said nothing as Ferguson dragged him forward, convinced belief was better than despair. Finnegan’s saga floated into his brain. Oh, for a good slug of whiskey right now, he thought to himself.
“Shoot me before we crash,” said Conners, as Ferguson let go of him.
It was dark, so Conners couldn’t see Ferguson wince. The CIA officer patted the SF soldier on the arm, then started to climb up toward the door he’d found earlier.
“I’m going to stick the grenades in the door and jump,” Ferguson told him. “If it works, it’ll either blow a hole in the fuselage, or the door to the cockpit, or ignite the whole plane.”
“Or it won’t work,” muttered Conners.
“Always a possibility,” said Ferg.
Conners curled himself against the metal, hunkering his head down. The pain of his wounds hadn’t disappeared, but his mind seemed to have pushed itself away from it. He felt as if he could think at least; he was conscious, awake, and knew he’d be awake when he died. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing.
It took Ferguson two tries to get back on the ledge near the door. The small metal bar that had acted as a handle for the door was about a half inch too tight to hold them together; Ferguson squeezed it back but still didn’t have enough room. He fit the Russian grenade in place and forced the stun grenade down, wedging it with his knife between the two devices. He tried to position the tip of the blade at the center of the Russian grenade, like a striker against a detonating cap, but he couldn’t really see what he was doing. The flash-bang squeezed only about a third of the way down.
It wasn’t going to work, Ferguson thought as he gripped the top of the M84 grenade.
Better to do something, Ferg’s father always said, even if it’s futile. You’re going to pee your pants one way or another.
Maybe the sound of the damn flash-bang going off would scare the piss out of the terrorists, and they’d lose control of the airplane. Or maybe it would ignite the Russian grenade, shoot it through the cockpit, and put a hole in the back of the pilot.
And maybe they’d all just go boom. There certainly were enough explosives packed into the 747.
“So this is the way I go out, Dad,” he said. He was speaking to his own father, not Conners, though maybe in a way he’d always been talking to his dad when he talked to the older SF man.
“See ya in heaven, boys,” said Ferguson. He pulled the pin on the grenade, heard — or thought he heard — a click, then jumped off the ledge.
19
OVER THE PHILIPPINES
Rankin leaned out of the helicopter as it whipped over the compound. There was a docking area with a pair of small boats, but no helo in the flat helipad area at the side.
“Can we get down for a look?” he asked his pilot, pointing.
“Not a problem,” replied the pilot, who like most Filipinos had spoken English all his life. The four choppers tucked downward, buzzing the shoreline and small building
in formation. They turned back to land, slowing to a hover over a dirt road at the back of the facility. Rankin covered his face as he jumped off the skids, ducking and coughing as he ran toward the buildings. Six Filipino soldiers came off the helicopters behind him, and by the time Rankin rapped on the door to the small shack they were lined up at the corner of the building, ready for a takedown. Guns and Massette had their MP-5s out directly behind Rankin.
The soldier knocked several times, Uzi ready. He eyed the door and lock; it was flimsy, easy to kick down, but he was wary of booby traps.
“I’m going in,” he told the others. He blew off the lock, tensing, expecting a booby trap. Nothing happened. He kicked in the door, hesitating as it flew against its hinges. But there were no explosives, no trip wires; it looked like the sleepy office of the sleepy, one- or two-man operation Corrigan said it claimed to be.
They went inside. There was a desk with two computers, some folders and old newspapers. Nautical memorabilia — a miniature ship’s wheel, a decorative clock — were scattered around the room gathering dust.
“Looks like a water taxi office,” said Guns. “Except that there’s no dispatcher here to take calls.”
“Maybe they’re out,” said Rankin. “Where do you figure the helicopter is?”
“I don’t know. They’re missing their boat as well,” said Guns. “Neither of those little skiffs out there rates as a water taxi.”
“You sure they have one?” Rankin asked.
“Either that or the picture’s a fake,” said the Marine, picking up a framed photo from the front desk.
“Maybe we should go look for them,” suggested Rankin. They left Massette with the Filipinos to search and secure the building, with orders to seize the computers and papers as part of the terrorist investigation. Guns and Rankin climbed aboard one of the Defenders and pulled back out over the ocean.
“What are we looking for?” asked the pilot.
“This boat,” said Rankin, showing him the picture.
“I can check with the Navy patrol,” added the pilot.
“Go for it,” said Rankin.
20
OVER THE PACIFIC
Corrine felt as if her body deflated as the Navy pilots reported seeing the 747 disintegrating as it hit the water.
“Down, it’s down,” said Wolf.
“Good,” she told him.
She turned to the others, giving them a thumbs-up. Then she punched back into Corrigan’s line, relaying the information.
“I’m afraid Ferguson and Conners haven’t been located yet,” he said.
“Yes, I know.”
Neither one stated the obvious — the two men were probably aboard the plane that had just been shot down.
“Navy is challenging an Indian flight over the northern Philippines,” one of the communications specialists said to Corrine. “Data says it’s a 707. They’re off their filed flight plan, but they’re a regular flight for Hawaii. Carry flowers, that sort of thing.”
Corrine started to say that they could let it go, but then she remembered the bulletin Corrigan had issued earlier — the terrorists had two planes.
“Do they have it in sight?”
“Negative. It’s responded properly to the civilian controllers, however. Looks like it’s OK.”
They all wanted to knock off. They deserved to. And this plane was a 707, not a 747 — and Indian besides.
Corrine reached for the mike switch. Her job was to be the president’s conscience, and she’d done it well, ordering the shootdown of the terrorist plane at the very last second — a tough decision that had to be made. Now it was time to go home.
Or was it? Nothing could be overlooked — that was the lesson of the boxcars, wasn’t it?
“Tell them to get it in sight,” she told the Navy controller. “Tell them to make sure it’s a 707, not a 747. And don’t just settle for a radar contact either.”
She hit the switch and keyed back into Corrigan. “Mr. Corrigan, what was the information regarding the planes the Sri Lankan company owns?”
“Which ones?” asked Corrigan.
“They have 707s?”
“They have three, all being refurbished. Bought them surplus,” Corrigan stopped, checking through his papers. “They got them from an Indian airline — I don’t have the exact information in front of me. Is it important?”
Corrine turned back to the com specialist. “Set up a direct line to the Navy patrol, just like you did for Basher. I want that plane stopped.”
21
ABOARD INDIAN CARGO CARRIER FLIGHT 12, BOUND FOR HAWAII
As the time to leave the plane sped toward him, Samman Bin Saqr thought more and more of staying in the plane, guiding it the next several thousand miles and ending in a blaze of glory in downtown Honolulu. After such a long struggle, paradise would be a welcome reward.
He reminded himself that there were many other battles to wage — the Americans would have to be taught again and again the reality of their sins. His next operation would be even greater. It was selfish to leave the fight so soon.
And so, as they cleared the last of the American patrols and adjusted course to skirt the Philippines as he had planned, Samman Bin Saqr undid his restraints and turned to his copilot.
“We are doing well, Vesh,” he said over the intercom.
The copilot turned and smiled. As he did, Samman Bin Saqr reached to his outer thigh and drew the pistol from the pocket in his flight suit. He fired three bullets point-blank into Vesh’s chest.
“You will still see heaven,” he told his follower. “But this way it is guaranteed, with no opportunity for cowardice.”
Samman Bin Saqr checked the autopilot unit, which had been customized to ensure it would reach its target. Once set, the aircraft would be locked on its path. Radio queries would be analyzed by a special computer section, with recorded answers played back to soothe inquiring minds.
Bin Saqr pressed the buttons in sequence. The yoke moved slightly, away from his hands. The Americans’ fate was now set.
He smiled, permitting himself a moment of satisfaction, then rose from his seat. As he did, the rear of the flight deck exploded.
In the cargo hold, Ferguson threw himself over Conners as the flash bang detonated the Russian grenade. Rather than launching forward, the grenade’s propellant exploded and set off the charge in the fuse as well. The shock wave rumbled through the plane, shaking its ribs like the water in a shallow bowl. Ferguson looked up and saw a shaft of light streaming above him from the flight deck. He jumped up, slamming his fingers into the metal and scrambling upward, gun in hand. He couldn’t hear anything, not even the jet engines — the blast had temporarily deafened him.
The plane dipped forward. The door had remained intact, but the blast had punched a jagged, eighteen-inch hole through the middle. Ferguson scrambled on the ledge and saw that the welded bar at the side had been shattered. He put his hand on it to steady himself and felt it move as the plane began to dip sharply on its left wing. Ferguson started to fall backward but managed to grab the end of the bar, suspended for a moment in midair.
Inside the cabin, Samman Bin Saqr struggled to get up. He knew the devils had somehow managed to board his plane, and knew also that he would stop them. He pushed away from the captain’s seat, his face wet with blood. He reached back to his thigh for his pistol, then wiped his eyes with his sleeve, trying to see.
As Ferguson struggled to hold his balance, he put his hand back on the doorframe. Before he could steady himself, however, the door began to slide down like a sled on a slippery slope; he pulled back as it shot to the floor, the aircraft still reeling in the sky. He threw himself into the empty white hole, falling onto the carpeted deck and losing his pistol.
Ferguson pushed upright as the plane tilted to the right. Something rose in front of him, more shadow than human, more devil than anything that breathed. Every ounce of energy in his worn and battered body boiled into rage, and Ferguson threw himself f
orward, forgetting everything but rage.
He grabbed Samman Bin Saqr by the neck. The terrorist swung his pistol wildly, firing and at the same time trying to hit his assailant with the barrel. Ferguson swung his right fist down into Samman Bin Saqr’s temple, pounding and pounding.
The airplane, its automated pilot damaged by the shrapnel of the grenade, nosed into a dive, accelerating as the two men struggled. As its speed multiplied, the aerodynamic design of its airframe took over, stopping it from its plunge and making it rise. The two men tumbled backward, their fates intertwined with unfathomable hate and fury. Samman Bin Saqr managed to pull Ferguson over his side and pin him against the side control panel.
“I’ll kill you, American,” said Samman Bin Saqr, choosing English so his assailant could understand his last words.
Ferguson felt the barrel of the pistol against his head but heard nothing, still deaf. His gun was behind him somewhere, but he remembered the second flash-bang in his pocket. He reached desperately, hooking it with his thumb and trying to grab the pin, but the plane shifted downward again, rocking left and right with the windy turbulence outside. Ferguson slid the grenade around to get at the pin but then lost the grenade as Bin Saqr pressed against his hand.
The Muslim fanatic cursed as the American slid away from the barrel just as he fired the gun. Bin Saqr struggled to get the gun back and fire again. He would kill the devil, kill him, then fly the plane himself to his reward.
As he pulled the barrel close to Ferguson’s head, he realized someone else was on the flight deck behind him. He turned, expecting somehow that Vesh had come back from the dead. But it wasn’t — it was Conners, on his knees, a pistol in his hands. The SF sergeant squeezed off a shot; the nine-millimeter bullet caught Samman Bin Saqr square in the forehead as he turned.
The second bullet took off the top part of his skull and splattered a good portion of his brains against the side windscreen.
