Zero Separation

by Philip Donlay

  Donovan did everything from memory—no time for a checklist. It was either going to work or it wasn’t.

  Two hundred feet above the ground the parking lot loomed large in the windshield. Donovan lifted the throttle up over the gate and fuel poured into the combustion chamber. Snapping igniters instantly lit the mixture. The temperature climbed dangerously, but Donovan didn’t care how hot it got, as long as it started producing thrust.

  Donovan picked up the microphone and made one last transmission and hoped it was enough. “Viper Leader, I’ve got a relight on my left engine.”

  The massive fan blade at the front of the engine began to spin faster, causing the internal blades to develop more speed. The da Vinci shuddered and vibrated as the damaged engine soared from idle to maximum thrust. The Safeway parking lot passed beneath him, and Donovan was able to coax the Gulfstream away from the ground and get the da Vinci to climb before the engine thrust peaked, stayed there for several seconds, and then dropped off to idle.

  Donovan had no control over the engine—his throttle lever was worthless. Each time the engine spooled up near its upper limits, the temperature climbed well past the design limits. Donovan used each surge of thrust to climb the da Vinci away from the ground, and then as the thrust ebbed, the Gulfstream began settling toward the ground.

  Off to the side, he caught sight of the F-16 silhouette. His escort had moved back into position. Donovan struggled to react to the variables in engine thrust. He used the speed brakes to keep from going too fast and then slammed them closed when the engine dropped off to idle thrust. Once again he spotted the airport, it was close, and he felt a small flicker of hope that he’d make it to a runway.

  He was fighting the controls; his instruments told him he was losing hydraulic pressure. The fire warning bell went off and more red lights began flashing on the panel. Despite his efforts the airplane drifted sideways; he couldn’t control the direction. Another explosion rocked the da Vinci. The tortured engine, like its twin, had finally reached its limits and come apart violently.

  Donovan fired the last remaining charge of fire retardant into the engine. Nothing happened and the red light glowed brightly on the panel. He ignored it and measured his distance to the field. Dead ahead the rescue vehicles were lined up on either side of runway one left, but he was too low. There was no way he was going to land on that runway. It was going to be a miracle if he made it to any of the runways. The nose swung farther to the right and kept drifting. No amount of rudder was making any difference. The da Vinci was pointed at a row of buildings that housed all of Dulles Airport’s cargo operations. He was going too fast—he lowered twenty degrees of flaps and with the last of his hydraulic pressure used it to lower the landing gear. The da Vinci blew over the airport perimeter in a steep right turn, the runway momentarily flashed underneath him and the emergency vehicles that lined each side of the runway were left behind in seconds.

  The fire was still raging inside the engine, and he was eating up ground at an alarming rate—the cargo buildings were coming fast. At a hundred sixty knots, he leveled the wings and raised the nose to flare. The Gulfstream hit the ground hard, tried to bounce, and then settled. The da Vinci weaved as both tires on the right main gear blew apart and shredded. Shards of cast-off rubber peppered the airframe and ripped into the aluminum belly rupturing the fuel tanks. Donovan knew exactly what was happening but was helpless as the da Vinci plowed through the infield grass. The nose gear collapsed in a crush of twisted metal, and the front of the airplane slammed into the sod. Both main gear struts snapped off cleanly from the stress, and the airplane skidded sideways on its belly throwing up great chunks of dirt and debris. As the da Vinci reached the empty cargo ramp, it slid onto the concrete in a shower of sparks that ignited the jet fuel spewing from its wings. The flames marked a path where the da Vinci crossed the ramp, hit the edge of a building, plowed through a chain-link fence, and sheared off the left wing before finally dissipating the last of its energy.

  The nose of the creaking, hissing wreck pushed through the fence and came to rest in a parking lot, the fuselage wedged between two buildings.

  Donovan sat, stunned at the realization that the da Vinci had stopped. Off to his left, a ribbon of fire trailed across the pavement toward him. Overhead the deafening roar of two fighter jets raced past.

  Propelled by the fear of fire, Donovan rolled out of the seat and dropped to the floor. His legs felt rubbery and his head pounded. The emergency lights were on and in the dim light he saw that Montero had strapped herself in like he’d told her—she was facing away from him but moving. In the rear of the plane Strauss was curled up on the floor, injured. But as Donovan drew closer, he was shocked to see that Strauss wasn’t reeling in pain but reaching down to free a stiletto from his boot. Two furious slashes later, Strauss was free of the plastic restraints, pivoting to face Montero who was still strapped into her seat. Donovan saw that her Glock was lying at his feet. She must have dropped it during the crash.

  Strauss launched himself at the same time Donovan reached down for the gun. Montero put up her arms in self-defense, but she was no match for Strauss who plunged the blade into her chest. Donovan leveled the pistol and squeezed the trigger. The gun bucked in his hand and the round flew high. Strauss ducked, and then pulled the handle to release the emergency exit. Donovan fired again and the bullet hit the headliner just above Strauss’s head. The Israeli dove headfirst out the opening and tumbled out onto the wing. By the time Donovan reached the window, Strauss was nowhere to be seen.

  Donovan couldn’t tell if Montero was breathing or not. A breeze brought the heavy smell of burning jet fuel into the cabin, and he knew they had to get out in a hurry.

  He supported her with his good arm and eased her out of the emergency exit and stood on the wing. A nearly empty parking lot was all he could see on this side of the wreck. Behind him, cut off by the wreckage and the fire, he could hear the sirens and throaty engines of the rescue vehicles. He stepped off the wing onto the ground, and with Montero’s limp body in his arms, ran from the burning airplane. He spotted flashing emergency lights across the parking lot. He recognized a Dulles Police Force squad car, but just as quickly, he saw the police car speeding away from them instead of toward them. He knew almost everyone on the force. Not a single one of them would race away from a crash.

  Donovan carried Montero a safe distance and laid her down on a patch of grass beneath a streetlight. He gently brushed her hair out of her eyes and put two fingers on her neck until he found a pulse. He turned. The da Vinci lay forlornly on the asphalt, like some crippled bird splayed on the pavement. The left side of the plane was now fully ablaze—cutting him off from the rescue vehicles’ ramp side.

  Heavy footfalls told him someone was coming up fast behind him. Donovan spun, the Glock instantly in his hand as he leveled the weapon at the approaching figure. The startled man wearing white coveralls stopped in his tracks and raised his hands in immediate surrender.

  “Don’t shoot, man, I’m only trying to help.”

  He lowered the weapon and motioned the man closer. “She’s a federal agent, stay with her. Try and slow down the bleeding if you can. People will be here shortly.”

  “What in the hell happened? I heard the crash. Is everyone out of the plane?”

  “Everyone’s out. Keep pressure on her wound.” Donovan gathered himself to his feet and began to move away.

  “Where are you going?” The man knelt next to Montero and did as he was told.

  The parking lot held a smattering of cars, but Donovan knew they’d all be locked. Then, in the distance, he spotted a yellow neon sign and began to run.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Lauren watched with absolute helplessness as the set of lights had descended out of sight. It appeared again and climbed above the distant tree line. As the airplane drew closer, she could see it was trailing a long plume of fire and headed straight for her. Moments later she could make out the size and shape
of the airplane. It was the da Vinci.

  The Gulfstream banked dangerously as it turned ninety degrees to the runway, descended, and abruptly slammed down hard on the infield grass. The airplane shed parts and threw up huge clumps of turf as it skidded toward a set of buildings. Skidding on its belly, it reached the apron and a shower of sparks erupted as the metal met concrete. The da Vinci veered away from a solid brick wall, collapsed a fence and finally came to a halt, wedged nose to tail between two buildings. She could see flames immediately erupt around the plane and it felt as though every nerve fiber in her body screamed in agony. Donovan was inside the burning plane and there was nothing she could do but watch and wait for the explosion that would surely follow.

  The emergency vehicles had been caught off guard. They were still across the airport, but closing fast. She pleaded with them to hurry as the fire trucks roared past her and set up a perimeter near the burning Gulfstream. Once they’d barreled past, she slammed the SUV in gear and shot off across the ramp in pursuit.

  Lauren watched as thick foam was spewed from first one truck and then more converged on the crash site. The foam instantly covered and suffocated the fire. Foam as well as water was sprayed onto the jet fuel pooling under the airplane in a bid to dilute the volatile fluid. Figures in silver firefighting suits began slowly lumbering toward the Gulfstream.

  Legs shaking, Lauren stepped out of the SUV. An ambulance was parked close enough for her to hear the static-filled radio reports pouring in from the men on the scene. Overhead, two military helicopters came in low from the east. They swung around smartly and landed a safe distance away on an empty taxiway. Their rotors remained spinning.

  “We have a male victim in the cockpit,” came the first radio broadcast. “We’re bringing him out now.”

  Lauren felt sick as she stepped closer to the ambulance and its radio. She needed to hear everything that was happening. A figure was passed through the emergency over-wing exit and she instantly knew it wasn’t Donovan. The man was too short to be her husband, which made him one of the terrorists. Lauren waited for more information. She knew there were four people on board. She only needed two of them to be alive—Montero and Donovan.

  “We just arrived on the east side,” came another radio burst. “We found a woman in the parking lot. She’s alive but in bad shape. Can we get one of those choppers to come around on this side? We need to fly her out of here. Now!”

  Behind her, one of the Black Hawks immediately throttled up its engines. The rotors changed pitch and the helicopter lifted abruptly off the ground, hovered momentarily, and then climbed into the air. As it flew overhead Lauren caught a flash of the interior and the hazmat-suited paramedics seated inside. The helicopter skirted the wrecked Gulfstream, cleared the buildings, pivoted sharply, and then settled out of view on the other side.

  “That’s it,” a voice reported. “It appears the cargo is secure. It’s sealed in three steel cylinders. The interior of the airplane and the perimeter has been secured. There isn’t anyone else aboard. We’ve got a single witness that says he heard what sounded like gunshots after the crash. A man carried the woman clear of the plane, and then fled the scene. He was armed with a pistol.”

  Lauren staggered back toward the SUV. Her mind was racing to decipher events that made no sense. Donovan and Strauss were missing. Montero had been carried clear of the burning plane. It had to be Donovan who did that—Strauss wouldn’t have bothered. If Donovan left the scene, it was because he was chasing Strauss. Out of pure frustration and anger, Lauren kicked the side of the SUV. Why would her husband go after Strauss alone when the one thing he needed most was medical attention?

  She assembled the facts in her head and then pictured the aeronautical map of the area she’d seen in Liberty Operations. As if imagining a chess game, she finally understood what had happened. Then she saw the next series of moves before they were being made and it all made sense. Lauren swore under her breath, turned, and climbed into the SUV. She slammed the door and backed away from the chaos. She couldn’t explain her suspicions to anyone else. The only reason Donovan wouldn’t send up an alarm would be if Strauss could use it to his advantage. Lauren deduced that Strauss was somehow in a position to monitor police frequencies, so an all points bulletin would be useless. Donovan had figured out where Strauss was headed and gone after him.

  Lauren focused on each detail that had taken place in the last hour until she too had a good idea where Strauss might be headed. Her phone began to ring. First it was Michael, then Buck, who she knew was no doubt infuriated by her disappearance. All the SEAL knew was that the women he was hired to protect and Nathan Strauss were both missing. She ignored the calls, stepped on the gas, and drove away from the crash scene.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Donovan reached the Hertz rental car property and jumped full stride onto the chain-link fence. He used his momentum to boost himself to the top. His bandaged hand protecting his palm from the barbed wire, he dropped to the other side. He stayed low and sprinted toward what looked like the return lane. The cars were lined up three abreast, but no one was around. Donovan opened the door to a slate-gray Chevy Trailblazer and, as he had expected, found the keys in the ignition. He slid behind the wheel, cranked the engine, and then pulled out of the queue and drove unnoticed off the lot. Once free of Hertz, he gunned the Trailblazer toward the north airport exit.

  In his rearview mirror he watched as the emergency vehicles began to arrive at what was left of the da Vinci. Every cop car in the area was headed toward the da Vinci, except the one he’d seen earlier—the one he was sure Strauss was driving. It had to be him, Donovan thought, which meant that Strauss was also listening to a police radio and was once again armed. If Strauss heard anything on the radio about him driving a police vehicle, it would be a simple matter for him to pull over some unsuspecting motorist and hijack another car, most likely killing that person in the process. It was the same maneuver he’d pulled in Florida after killing Sasha.

  Donovan roared onto the Dulles Greenway and shot through the E-Z Pass lane and swung into the left lane. As he hit ninety, he found nothing in his rearview mirror but the night. Strauss was nothing if not a consummate planner. Donovan had seen it in the way he flew, the way he’d stolen two Gulfstreams—the way he’d used Montero. Strauss was going to land the da Vinci at Manassas, so he obviously had an escape already planned from there, which was now compromised. Donovan was positive that Strauss would have another exit strategy planned for himself—his emergency backup plan.

  The Chevy’s speedometer climbed past one hundred miles per hour as Donovan searched the road ahead for the blue-and-white squad car. Donovan knew most of the men and women on the Dulles police force and had for years. For Strauss to have escaped as quickly as he did, Donovan could only assume the worst. He’d probably killed the officer in the cruiser who’d responded to the crash. Donovan eyed Montero’s Glock that he’d set on the passenger’s seat. He’d already fired three times. He had no idea how many bullets remained. He wished she were here now. This was her game, not his.

  The cough started deep in his chest and caught him by surprise. He put his fist to his mouth and rode through the spasms until his sternum hurt and his eyes watered. In the distance, just above the trees, he saw the flash of a green light followed by a white one—the rotating beacon that marked the Leesburg airport. Donovan braked hard and pulled to the shoulder. He swung the Trailblazer off into the grass, through a ditch, and up onto the frontage road that led to the airport. The shortcut shaved precious minutes and he floored the Chevy toward the airport entrance.

  Leesburg, like many satellite airports, didn’t have enough traffic to warrant a control tower. It would be exactly the setup Strauss would want. Donovan killed his headlights and drove toward the parking lot of Landmark Aviation, the primary operator at the airport. As he’d expected, everything looked closed.

  Donovan powered down the window to listen. Just beyond a chain-link fence sat twenty
or thirty small airplanes, mostly single-engine propeller types. The only sound Donovan heard was the gentle crunch of the Chevy’s tires on the pavement. Across the parking lot, away from the building, Donovan spotted the police cruiser.

  Donovan eased to a stop. He picked up the gun and used the butt to smash the overhead dome light—no use giving Strauss a lighted target.

  He slid out of the car, staying as low as he could as he ran. Besides the distant sounds from the main road, all he heard was the ticking of the Chevy’s engine and the pulsing noise from the summer insects. Leading with the Glock, he went to the passenger’s side of the cruiser. In the seat, slumped sideways in a bloody uniform, was a Dulles police officer. Donovan recognized the dead man as Bobby Henderson, a veteran of the force. He tried the door and found it was locked, as was the door on the driver’s side. There was no one else in the vehicle.

  Staying in the shadows, Donovan snuck to the chain-link fence where he waited, looked, and listened. He was about to climb over when the sound of a rattling chain drifted in the wind, catching his attention. He scrambled over the fence and dropped to the other side. Donovan ran to the first row of planes and found they were tied to the ground by chains, not rope. All of the airplanes were secured by chains, and somewhere across the six acres of aircraft, the sound he’d heard was Strauss untying an airplane so he could escape.

  Donovan kept his ears tuned for any sound that would steer him closer. He stayed low, and quickly went from one plane to another, searching each row in the darkness. He knelt by the tail of a plane as his breath caught in his throat. He buried his face in his hands, but there wasn’t anything more he could do. Like before, the cough erupted from deep in his lungs, ripping at his chest and shattering the silence.