Hunt the Scorpion

by Don Mann

  That seemed the only reasonable explanation. He walked briskly past men cleaning and fueling various aircraft, trying to look as if he belonged there. There was a technique to not being noticed—act normal, keep as small as you can, avoid eye contact, look at the ground, be the gray man, no superfluous thoughts. He allowed himself one: Thank God the security at this airport sucks.

  One more: God, please lead me to Holly and Brian.

  Past the terminal, a gust of wind smacked his face. To his right, a United Emirates DC-10 was landing. He heard screeching rubber, the jet engines whining as they reversed. They were sounds he’d heard thousands of times, but tonight they seemed more vivid and important. Passing the first hangar, he squinted into the dark open space. Saw the hulk of a passenger jet. No cars. No people.

  The next three hangars were empty except for miscellaneous airplane parts.

  Where the fuck did it go?

  A series of smaller hangars ahead. Some had what looked to be disabled planes in front of them. He was hurrying toward them when he heard a vehicle behind him and to his left. It sounded like a forklift in high gear.

  Pausing, he heard scraping metal, men’s voices.

  Reversing course, he turned into the space between hangars 3 and 4. Behind them he saw a Boeing 727—white, no passenger windows, a small green-white-and-red Iranian flag painted on the tail.

  What’s this?

  Seeing the parked Mercedes, he knelt beside the hangar and watched. The front cargo bay of the jet was wide open. The lights inside the fuselage were on. He heard the forklift again, then saw it swing into view carrying a large metal container that looked rust colored in the artificial light.

  The forklift operator raised the container and fitted it into the cargo door. Men inside the aircraft pulled it farther inside.

  Crocker waited until two more containers had been loaded, then texted Mancini his location and added: “Seen or heard from Rem?”

  An answer rebounded quickly. “No.”

  Where the fuck is he? What’s taking him so long?

  Pushing aside his frustration, he willed himself to focus and tried to dispel doubts that what he was doing made sense.

  LOW BATTERY flashed on his cell phone. He placed it in his back pocket.

  Three men were walking toward the front of the jet. Casually dressed, they were drinking coffee or tea from cardboard cups and speaking in Farsi.

  The first man climbed the stairs to the cockpit, which soon lit up. The other two joined him.

  The cargo bay was still open. Crocker inched closer along the side of the hangar to get a better view. Saw the forklift parked behind hangar 4. Two men wearing mustard-colored overalls stood beside it. They opened a door to the hangar and entered.

  The tail engine of the 727 started up with a howl; then the two Pratt & Whitney side-mounted turbofan engines fired up together.

  Crocker took a deep breath. The coast is clear. It’s now or never.

  He ran in a low crouch to the cargo door of the jet, grabbed hold of the metal lip, and pulled himself up. He flattened himself to the inside of the fuselage and waited, heard nothing but the engines. Light spilled from the cockpit door. Farther back, past his right shoulder, he saw six large metal shipping containers, three along each side of the fuselage. About twenty feet behind them stood a row of seats and beyond them, empty space.

  With his back pressed against the side of the plane, he inched his way to the containers, hoping he might be able to learn what was inside them.

  At the sound of footsteps he held his breath and ducked behind one of the containers, squeezing into the space between it and the fuselage wall and checking to make sure his phone was set on Vibrate.

  Someone up front pulled the cargo bay door shut, and then the overhead lights came on.

  He heard more footsteps, boots against metal. Caught a glimpse of men in mustard-colored overalls approaching. They pushed on the container next to him, strapped it against the fuselage, and locked it onto a hook in the floor.

  Crocker was trapped behind the adjacent one with no place to go. He heard one of the men say something. They pulled the container away, then slammed it hard, throwing Crocker back so that the side of his head slammed into the metal fuselage. He passed out.

  A minute later he came to, lying on his side and jammed into the little space between the middle container and the fuselage wall. His left wrist was pinned. The pain was as terrible as the scream from the engine.

  The plane moved quickly, took off, gained altitude, and banked sharply left, causing the container to shift and rip deeper into his skin.

  What the fuck have I done?

  He willed himself not to lose consciousness again, focusing on the dull roar of the engine, trying to block out the pain.

  The big plane banked right, causing the container to shift a fraction of an inch, just enough that when he pulled with all his might, his wrist ripped free, leaving skin and blood behind. He was sure that bones had been broken but couldn’t do anything about that. He could only wrap the wrist in a handkerchief to stem the bleeding.

  Slowly and with difficulty he squeezed around the corner of the container and looked toward the back of the plane, where he saw two men in the row of seats. One was reading, the other had his head back and his eyes closed.

  This is idiotic, he said to himself. I’m trapped and I’m headed away from Holly. How am I going to help her now?

  His left wrist was a mess, the back of his head hurt, he had no weapons, and when he checked his cell phone he saw that it was out of juice.

  What he didn’t want was to land in Iran, be arrested, be subjected to some kind of public trial, then tortured and hanged.

  So he squeezed to the front of the first container and planned his next move.

  This was judgment day. Condition red.

  Removing the web belt from his pants, he waited until both men in the row of seats had closed their eyes, then made his move, flattening himself against the front of the container to his right and sliding around it to the other side. He hugged the side of the fuselage and stepped sideways to the cockpit.

  The door was ajar.

  He saw the pilot slouched in his seat, headphones on, yawning. The copilot to his right had his stockinged feet on the console and was reading a magazine. The third man, the flight engineer, was seated inside the door with his eyes closed.

  Crocker inhaled several times quickly, enriching his blood with oxygen. Then he bolted inside, grabbed the flight engineer’s head in his right hand, and smashed it against the metal cockpit panel—one, two, three times.

  All the frustration that had been bottled up inside him rushed out.

  The copilot reached for something in the console beside his seat. Crocker let go of the flight engineer’s head, reached over the seat, and wrapped his belt around the copilot’s neck. Pulled him straight up out of the seat. Watched him kick, flail his arms, try desperately to reach around and grab Crocker.

  Meanwhile, the pilot was screaming in Farsi and swinging something that looked like a thermos with a strap around it that hit Crocker in the back of the head, stunning him for a second. He stepped out of the way and twisted the belt tighter around the copilot’s neck until he felt his body spasm, then relax.

  Crocker felt blood from a head wound dripping down his back. He saw the pilot reach over the copilot’s body and grab a pistol—a black automatic—stuck in the seat. He cracked him hard on the side of his head with his left elbow, then grabbed the hand with the gun. As he tried to wrestle the pistol away a shot discharged, smashing into the instrument console and careening into the floor.

  Fuck.

  The sound numbed his ears and filled his nose with cordite. He was gaining control of the pistol when the pilot bit down on his hand. Crocker clocked him in the mouth with the side of the pistol five times, hard, until blood, teeth, and saliva spilled over his hand and wrist, and the pilot collapsed.

  Now Crocker occupied a tight space between three b
leeding bodies, adrenaline pounding through his veins, the nerves in his wrist, hand, and the back of his head sending distress signals to his brain.

  He pushed himself past the pilot’s body and took his seat, scanning the many instruments. Focused first on the engine panel in the middle, which indicated that all three engines were operating at 46,200 pounds of thrust; a machmeter, which measured the ratio of true airspeed to the speed of sound; then an altimeter, horizontal direction indicator, flight director, digital vertical speed indicator.

  To his right he found the radio and audio selector panels, a VHF navigation and communications panel, an ADF panel with digital readout and rotary knob control. Overhead, a light panel divided into two sections—cockpit lighting and exterior lighting. Also overhead were subpanels for ignition, alternate flaps, cockpit/cabin/ground call systems, cockpit voice recorder, cargo fire detection/suppression system, wing-engine anti-ice, window heat, and pilot heat.

  Crocker tried not to be overwhelmed. A Delta Airlines pilot had once told him that in a few years the only flight crew required on a large commercial jet would be a man and a dog—the man to feed the dog, and the dog to bite the man in case he tried to touch any of the controls.

  He had friends who were ST-6 pilots and operated what they referred to jokingly as the top-secret Teeny Weeny Airlines. Several times they’d allowed him to take off and land Learjets and other small planes. Many years ago he’d also spent several afternoons training on a PPL flight simulator at an air force base near Las Vegas.

  But this was many times more complicated—a big, 153-foot 727-200 at least twenty years old, which meant that it wasn’t equipped with the very latest technology.

  He knew enough to set the engine thrust to 85 percent and pitch the nose five degrees above horizontal to maintain current speed and altitude. The problem was that the Sperry SP-50 two-axis autopilot was engaged and programmed to direct the aircraft to Tehran. It was headed east at 479.8 mph, altitude 21,022 feet.

  Crocker didn’t know whether he should try to contact ground control or try to turn the jet around. Concerned about alerting the Iranians, he chose the second option. He grabbed hold of the steering tiller in front of him and started to move it to the left.

  Immediately an alarm went off and a red light started flashing, causing Crocker to panic. He realized that he had forgotten to shut off the autopilot first. Once that was accomplished, he said a quick prayer. With stars glimmering through the front and side cockpit windows, he slowly moved the tiller to fifteen degrees. His hand perspired as the plane bounced and started to dip and bank slowly left. It felt as if he was steering an enormous, inflated bus.

  Once the jet had made the gradual turn, he set a course west-southwest, then breathed a sigh of relief.

  They were headed back in the direction of Tripoli, with clear skies.

  My good luck.

  Moonlight glistened off the sea below. Blood from the pilot was sticky under his feet.

  Feeling alone and slightly elated, Crocker figured that he might be able to locate the north coast of Africa, might even be able to find Tripoli. Then he realized he was getting way ahead of himself, because even if he did manage to navigate back to Tripoli, which was somewhat unlikely, how the hell would he land the big jet?

  Since the aircraft was probably carrying a nuclear bomb or nuclear material, there was significant risk involved even in trying to land it.

  Wouldn’t it be better to crash it into the Mediterranean Sea?

  That way he wouldn’t expose tens of thousands—maybe hundreds of thousands or millions of people—to dangerous radiation. It was the safest, most sensible option. Even better, he thought, than trying to fly the plane out over the Atlantic Ocean.

  Better to end it here. Get it over with, before he lost control of the plane or passed out from loss of blood.

  He thought of Captain “Sully” Sullenberger landing US Airways Flight 1549 in the Hudson River. Remembered seeing him interviewed on Letterman after the incident, this humble, soft-spoken professional who had kept his head and made the right split-second decisions in a moment of crisis. But Flight 1549 had landed on a river, not an ocean, and Sullenberger was an experienced pilot, not a novice with little training.

  Crocker’s options were more limited.

  The jet was currently 21,000 feet above the Mediterranean. Crocker lowered the flaps and pulled back on the throttles until the 727 slowly started to descend.

  He’d led a full, exciting life. Now his wife was missing, and he was going to die. His only regret was that he couldn’t save her. He prayed someone would. Then he wondered what would happen to his teenage daughter. Thinking of the two of them started to break him up inside. He flashed on images of his mother, father, sisters, brother, while his whole body started to tremble.

  He shifted his attention to the altimeter, which had dropped below 20,000 feet. The jet hit a pocket of turbulence and jolted to the right.

  He watched the numbers descend: 18,000, 17,000, 16,000. Thinking about Holly, he realized she was the person he would miss most. He prayed he’d meet her again, somewhere, and hoped there was a heaven, or something like it.

  It seemed wrong that everything he’d seen and experienced would just end. He’d find out soon enough.

  Now 14,000 feet.

  Hearing the door creak behind him, he looked over his shoulder and saw two dark-haired men staring at the bodies on the floor. They looked at Crocker with hatred in their eyes, as if asking Where the fuck did you come from, devil?

  The man standing directly behind him stepped forward and smacked him in the side of his head with a pistol.

  Crocker felt a jolt of pain. Saw stars.

  Facing forward and holding tightly to the steering tiller, he lowered the flaps further. Now 10,000 feet and falling. When he reached toward the center console to pull back on the throttles, the man bashed him in the head again. The second man grabbed Crocker around the neck.

  The cockpit spun, and he lost consciousness.

  He awoke seconds later to bloodcurdling screams. A man’s body had fallen forward onto the center console, pinning Crocker’s right arm.

  The aircraft was gaining speed and altitude.

  Crocker pushed the man off and noticed the blade of a Swiss Army pocketknife protruding from the back of his head. He eased back on the throttles again.

  Turning, he saw Mancini struggling with the second of the two intruders. They looked like wrestling bears. The big SEAL had the smaller man in a headlock and was punching him repeatedly in the face. He heard bones breaking, the man cursing and gasping for breath. Saw him reach for a pistol that had fallen onto the flight engineer’s seat.

  Crocker rose, spun around, grabbed the man’s wrist, and snapped it back violently until it popped, just the way his defensive tactics instructor had taught him soon after he was selected for ST-6. The man arched his back and released a terrible wailing sound that ended when Mancini drove his head into the sharp edge of the cabin door. Then he let go and let the body slump to the floor.

  Feeling the red gashes carved down his neck, Mancini said, “Ugly bastard scratched me like a girl.”

  Crocker, hugely relieved, said, “Manny, it’s real good to see you. Your neck will heal.”

  “Sorry it took me so long.” This comment delivered like it was no big deal. He plunked himself down in the copilot seat and took control of the second steering tiller as if he knew what he was doing. He started to level the jet off.

  “You know how to fly something this big?” Crocker asked.

  “Does a rabbit know how to fuck?” Mancini felt along the ridge of his front teeth and asked, “Jesus, boss, were you deliberately trying to crash this thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey. That little fucker mess up my front tooth?”

  Crocker waited for Mancini to push away the blood with his tongue, then reported, “There’s a piece missing on top. Makes you look even meaner.”

  “You know I’m a nice gu
y. I just have zero tolerance for assholes, especially tyrants and fanatics.”

  “I’m real glad.”

  Crocker watched him check the gauges and reset the flight director. Wiping the sweat off his brow, he asked, “Where the hell were you?”

  “Snuck onto the aircraft after you. Went up the back stairway but got locked in the rear storage compartment where I was hiding. Luckily I had my Swiss Army knife with me. Couldn’t tell if it was a lever lock or tumbler. After numerous tries, I picked it.”

  “Think there’s a chance you can land this sucker?” Crocker asked.

  “We wanna go back to Tripoli, right?”

  “That would be good.”

  “You sure? I bet I can locate Ibiza. We can have a few days of R&R.”

  “I’ve got some unfinished business in the Libyan capital.”

  “Roger that. Love these old 727-200s. My next-door neighbor bought an entire cockpit instrument panel on eBay, and the two of us have been assembling it in his basement.”

  “What for?”

  “Fun.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  If you can keep your head when all about you

  Are losing theirs and blaming it on you…

  —Rudyard Kipling

  Twenty minutes later they touched down smoothly on runway 1B at Tripoli International Airport and were immediately surrounded by three pickups filled with NTC soldiers. Crocker refused to let them board the plane. He borrowed a cell phone from a Belgian soldier and called Jaime Remington, who showed up twenty minutes later with an NTC deputy foreign minister in tow.

  A tense hour of back-and-forthing later, the deputy minister still wanted the plane’s cargo turned over to him.

  Crocker was willing to let them have the bodies, but as for the six shipping containers, he said, “No way that’s ever going to happen.”

  Remington: “Be reasonable. These people are extremely sensitive when it comes to issues of national sovereignty.”

  “We’re talking about nuclear material that was being smuggled out of the country.”

  “The trouble is that technically it belongs to the Libyans.”