by Larry Bond
22
ABOARD SF COMMAND TRANSPORT 3
As soon as Corrine heard the report from the Navy patrol, she knew that somehow, some way, Ferguson and Conners had managed to take over the aircraft.
“Can you raise it on the radio?” she asked.
“We’re trying. Looks like it’s out of control. It’s flying south but very erratically.”
Corrine looked over at Gray, who was tracking the position. “If they fly south another ten minutes, they’ll be in a sea-lane,” said the Air Force major. “Beyond that, they’ll be over land.”
She nodded, then clicked her mike to talk. “Close your distance so you can shoot them down,” she told the Navy pilot. “I want you close enough to read any markings on that plane. If they don’t respond to you and change their course, I want you to shoot them down.”
“Understood. I’ll get close enough for a cannon shot. I’ll be right on top of him,” replied the pilot.
“I don’t care if you use an ax to take that plane down, as long as it’s not over land.”
23
OVER THE PACIFIC, NEAR THE PHILIPPINES
Rankin spotted the speedboat fifty miles offshore. It was sitting in the middle of nowhere, a large radar revolving on a platform near the stern.
“Guns, why would a boat be way the hell out here?” Rankin asked.
“That a trick question?” the Marine asked, leaning forward from the rear bench.
“Let’s take a look,” Rankin told the pilot.
“Wait,” said the pilot. “We’re being hailed — the Navy fighters are warning off aircraft.”
“Holy shit, look at that,” said Guns, pointing out the right-side window. A 747 tucked out of the sky, weaving drunkenly.
* * *
Aboard the terrorist airplane, Ferguson squirmed around to get out of Samman Bin Saqr’s death grip. His head pounded and he had trouble breathing; his mouth tasted blood.
Conners, worn-out by the exertion it had taken to get up to the cabin, remained on the floor, just barely conscious. Ferguson made his way over to him as the plane began to level off. He shook him; Conners looked up and smiled.
“Finnegan rises again,” muttered the soldier. “Now what the hell do we do?”
Ferguson saw his mouth moving, but heard nothing.
“They got my ears fucked up, Dad. I can’t hear — you can sing all you want.”
Conners slumped back down. Ferguson shook him — they’d have to figure out how the radio worked so they could get instructions on how to fly the plane and maybe ditch it in the water. Since he couldn’t hear, he needed Conners awake.
Ferguson saw a door at the rear quarter of the flight deck. Realizing it must be a bathroom and thinking he could use the water to revive Conners, he pushed into the small space. A man he only vaguely recognized as himself gaped at him from the mirror. Ferguson started to laugh. He lost his balance, falling onto the toilet, whose lid fortunately was closed. He looked down at his shoes. Between his feet was a ring lock; the bottom of the floor was a hatchway.
Ferguson reached down and pulled at the latch; it moved, but to open the panel he’d have to go back outside.
“I think I found out how they set the bomb,” he told Conners. He saw the sergeant’s mouth move in response — Conners only grunted — then told him to get his rest; he’d figure out how to defuse it himself.
“Or I may blow us up,” he added. For some reason, the idea struck him as the funniest thing he had ever thought of, and he was still laughing as he pulled the panel upward.
Instead of the bomb controls, he found a parachute rig. As he took it out, he saw there was a hatchway below it, with a large locking wheel in the middle.
“Some fuckin’ martyrs,” he said, examining the bag and webbing.
Jumping from an airliner was difficult under the best circumstances; Ferguson had gone out of C-141s and done both high-altitude, high-opening (HAHO) and high-altitude, low-opening (HALO) jumps, but always with the help of a special baffle that allowed for an easy — relatively speaking — egress from the airplane.
On the other hand, he figured, if these fucks could do it, he could.
But there was only one rig.
Ferguson sat Conners up against the side of the cockpit and got him to hold the thick webbing of the chute straps in his hands. He climbed into the pilot’s seat, wondering what the odds were of flying the aircraft to some sort of landing. As he pulled against the unresponsive yoke — the autopilot had been rigged to completely override the cockpit controls once locked — a yellow streak flashed across the bow of the plane. Ferguson, unsure at first what he was seeing, stared as the streak turned black, then disappeared. He turned to his left, looking out the window.
A Navy jet flashed below. Ferguson pounded on the glass and cursed. Something crashed into the plane hard from behind; he felt a low rumble, and realized they were shooting at the plane. He reached to grab the headset from the dead copilot, then remembered that he still couldn’t hear. Cursing, he jumped back up.
“Dad, let’s get the fuck out of here,” said Ferguson.
Conners saw his companion’s face as he picked him up. He had no idea where they were — a bar back in Jersey? He wondered.
Then he remembered they were in the terrorist airplane.
“We gotta get the bastards,” he told Ferguson, who for some reason was turning him around.
The straps would only fit around one of them. Ferguson put the rig on Conners so that the chute was on his stomach, then managed to work his own leg through the left strap and tied himself to his companion with his belt. The arrangement wouldn’t exactly pass muster with the U.S. Parachute Association, but it was going to have to do — the aircraft waddled and shook with a fresh round of cannon shots at the rear.
Ferguson pulled Conners with him to the air lock. It turned easily, and as soon as it hit its stop, began to descend. Unsure what was happening, Ferguson hesitated a moment, then saw a side brace inset into the opening, which looked as if it were a manhole opening for a sewer. He grabbed for it, pushing over, then felt a rush of air. The plane’s nose kicked toward the earth — Ferguson and Conners fell into the opening, which extended like a laundry chute through the bottom of the aircraft and below the fuselage and its murderous jet stream. As soon as they were inside the wind howled; Ferguson tried to instinctively grab on to the side to stop his fall but a jet of air forced him and Conners downward and away from the plane, literally spitting them toward the ground, temporarily overcoming the fierce counterforces near the airfoil. In an instant they were tumbling free, in about as uncontrolled a free fall as possible, projectiles tossed from the underside of the aircraft.
They’d gone out around twelve thousand feet, which under other circumstances might have been considered an easy jump. It allowed for about a minute of free fall before it would be necessary to pull the rip cord, which ideally Ferguson would do around three thousand feet. But as he spread his arms to try to arch, he felt Conners lurching away from him. Ferguson grabbed at him, shouting for him to arch and trying to pull his upper body back in a way that, to his confused mind, would perfectly stabilize them. As he did, the parachute exploded out of the pack, preset by an automatic altimeter. Caught unprepared, Ferg jerked back, hanging off Conners as they spun wildly in the air. He saw the nylon of the canopy rising and spreading above him, and pushed over the trooper to grab at the togs, which would control their descent.
The chute had been designed and packed for a high-altitude opening, and it unfolded in slow motion, which made it somewhat easier for Ferguson to react and get control. But he was working practically upside down, and even if he’d been completely upright, the weight of the two men would have knocked off the custom-designed rig. Ferg couldn’t even reach the left tog. The cells of the chute filled, slowing them, but then the uneven tilt pushed the left side of the canopy in. The rear flagged out, catching the wind but pitching Ferguson around awkwardly as he struggled to grab the other contr
ols. The blood drained from his arms and head. He felt dizzy, and his stomach flipped over.
The chute stalled, and Ferg’s hand slipped off the toggle; the two men sailed forward, stopped in the air, sailed forward again, rocking crookedly as they descended.
* * *
The boat jerked to life as the parachute opened. Rankin realized what was going on — it had been sent to retrieve the pilot of the 747.
Rankin pulled up his Uzi, checking it to make sure it was ready, while Guns did the same with his MP-5 in the back.
Above and to the west, the terrorists’ flying dirty bomb veered toward the empty ocean, arcing on its left wing. Black smoke trailed from the belly of the plane. Blackness enveloped the underside. Something flew off the plane — its right wing, shattered by cannon fire from the F/A-18 and sheared off by the violent aerodynamic forces as it plunged. The plane put down its nose like an otter, diving into a lake; then it plunged into the water, breaking up as it hit and disappearing in a cloud of steam.
“The chute,” Rankin told the chopper pilot. “They’re almost in the water. Go. We want to take the boat out before it gets there. Go!”
* * *
When they hit the water, Ferguson felt his stomach explode, ice and vomit crashing together in his mouth. In the next second he was underwater. His fingers fumbled to release the belt and strap, tearing at the metal locks impotently. Desperate to breathe, he pulled his right hand free, then tore at the harness. Caught by the wind, the chute pulled away, bringing him to the surface, then dying back down as it filled. Ferguson managed to undo it from Conners first, then kicked and got his leg out as the chute pulled away. He fell below into the darkness of the cold water, still attached to Conners by his belt. He pushed upward, feeling Conners kick as well. Fresh air hit his eyes; he gulped and got only a little water in his mouth.
There was a boat nearby, a hull or something — Ferguson started to push toward it but a swell caught him from behind and smashed him back down.
* * *
Rankin and Guns stood in the helicopter, emptying their guns at the occupants of the boat. One of the men brought up a shoulder-launched SAM just as Rankin started to reload. The American slammed home the fresh clip, and in the same motion pressed the trigger of the gun; the Uzi hiccuped, then splattered into the terrorist, who had raised the missile, sending both flying backward into the ocean.
“They’re there, they’re there!” yelled Guns, and in the next second he’d whipped off his boots and jumped from the helo, the spray strong in his face as he left the bird. He took two powerful strokes after he surfaced, grabbed Conners by the chest, and pulled. The sergeant felt heavier than he’d thought, but two strong kicks brought them to the stern of the boat, which was slowly taking on water from the bottom.
Rankin, not as a strong a swimmer, was just pulling himself up the other side. Ferguson pushed Conners up on deck and found himself being dragged there as well. The Filipino helicopter swung in an orbit around them as an F/A-18 whipped overhead.
Released from the belt, Ferguson flopped on his back in the open speedboat, not sure whether he was alive or dead or dreaming. Guns and Rankin pulled Conners to the back, propping his head on a cushion as they worked to revive him.
For all four men, time had ceased to exist. The past and the present and the future swelled in the spray of the waves, churning in an endless moment that had no boundaries. And then one by one they fell from it, coming back to human time, human hurt, human triumph and fear — all except Conners.
Ferg didn’t understand at first. His hearing had come back in his left ear, though not his right, and when Guns told him, he shook his head, thinking he didn’t quite get it.
“Dad’s gone, Ferg. He was too shot up,” said the soldier.
“He was alive on the plane,” said Ferguson, who wanted that to make a difference.
Guns shook his head and shrugged. Tears were slipping from his eyes.
“He was fucking alive,” said Ferg.
EPILOGUE
For some must watch while some must sleep,
Thus runs the world away.
— Shakespeare, Hamlet, 3.2.273-47
1
SUBURBAN NEW JERSEY — SIX DAYS LATER
Corrine felt the tears starting to come even before the monsignor approached the lectern at the side of the altar. Like many of those crowded into the large church, the monsignor had known the Conners family for decades, and when he talked of the sergeant, still remembered him as a young man. The priest’s words weren’t elegant, but they came from the heart; he spoke of sacrifice and duty, and he illustrated those qualities with things he had seen Conners do himself. Even Van Buren, sitting next to Corrine, felt tears forming in his eyes.
As Rankin and Ferguson got up to join Conners’s relatives and friends bearing their comrade from the church, Corrine noticed that Ferguson had an odd smile on his face. She thought to herself that he was a cold creature, a man so out of touch with his emotions that he couldn’t cry. His eyes met hers. She shook her head; he smiled and seemed to wink at her.
Rankin had found a real trumpeter to play taps at the cemetery, but there was a surprise waiting next to the tarped pile of dirt when they reached the graveyard — a bagpiper, who played two songs, one a dirge, the other closer to a jig. And then one by one the mourners went to the grave, tossing their flowers.
Ferguson was the last to go to the grave. He knelt and slipped a bottle from his pocket.
“For you, Dad,” he said, sliding the whiskey gently down to lie at Conners’s head. He looked back as he walked away, part of him truly expecting that Conners would pull a real-life Finnegan and rise from the grave.
In the car, Corrine took out her sat phone and checked for messages. One had come from Corrigan — the Team was needed for a briefing ASAP. The war against terror knew no days off.
“My car’s at the airport,” she told Rankin and Guns. “I can drive you over.”
“Sounds good,” said Rankin. Van Buren had already offered him a lift, but he preferred riding with her.
“Hey, what about Ferg?” said Guns.
“What about him?” said Rankin. “He was with one of the cousins. They gave him a lift.”
“He know where we’re going?” asked Guns.
“Call him,” Corrine said.
Rankin made a face, but took out his phone. Ferg’s voice mail answered, and he left the message.
* * *
An hour after he left the cemetery, Ferguson strode into the bar that Conners had told him about while they were on their mission in Chechnya. Its wood-lined walls were thick with the accumulation of nearly a century’s worth of tobacco smoke, and the polished surface of the bar had heard a million tales of glory and misery. It was only one o’clock in the afternoon, but the place already had a decent crowd. There was a lively buzz in the air, the sort of sound that made Ferg glad his hearing had come back.
“Two shots whiskey, neat, both of ‘em,” Ferg said, pulling his wallet. “Beer chasers — make it Guinny,” he said, pointing at the Guinness tap.
As the bartender poured the drinks, Ferguson took a tape out of his pocket.
“I wonder if you’d play this for a friend of mine,” Ferg told him.
The bartender took the tape and looked at it quizzically. He was an older man, and he’d heard much stranger requests than this, so he shrugged and went over to the tape deck, putting in.
Liam Clancy’s voice filled the bar, off an old album Ferguson’s sister had tracked down for him. Ferg raised his shot glass and turned to the room, adding his own to Clancy’s as he came to the final verse of “Parting Glass”:
All the comrades that ever I had,
They’re sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that ever I had
They wish me one more day to stay.
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I’ll gently go and softly call,
‘Goodnight and joy be with you all.’
As the song faded, Ferguson tossed the whiskey down his throat and turned back to the bar. Standing, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick wad of hundred-dollar bills, withdrawn from his personal account that morning. He spread them out on the bar near the untouched shot glass.
“No one pays for their own drink today,” he said. “All for the honor of Sergeant Hugh Conners, a braver man you’ll never see.”
And then he took a last sip from his beer, leaving the glass half-full as he walked out into the cold New Jersey afternoon, alone.
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