by M. B. Lewis
The second pilot climbed in, shut the door, and crawled over the cases and bags that littered the tiny aisle to the cockpit. Halfway there, he hollered ahead.
“Let’s go!”
The aircraft leaned forward. The pilot was holding the brakes while he pushed up the power. Kadie cradled Brian in her arms as she searched out his window. Tracers still zipped through the air.
A few seconds later, bullets riddled the airplane.
Maybe they weren’t so safe after all.
6
Ismailia, Egypt
The abandoned Ismailia Airport
* * *
Duke Ellsworth shoved the throttles up. “Set takeoff power,” he said.
Mac reached over the throttle quadrant and adjusted the power. “Ignition lights—off. Auto-feather lights—on. Power—Set.” He climbed into the co-pilot’s seat.
Duke released the brakes, and the King-Air lurched forward and accelerated rapidly. Tracers from ISIS AK-47’s zipped in their direction from the left-forward quadrant. Mac was still buckling in when they passed sixty knots. He called out the speed, but Duke didn’t reply. As they approached one-hundred knots, Mac started to call that out when Duke yanked back on the yoke, and the King-Air leaped from the ground. He transitioned to the artificial horizon on the instrument panel and set the pitch at ten degrees nose up. Mac raised the gear, and the aircraft shuddered as it struggled to avoid a stall. The airspeed reached one-hundred-ten knots, and Duke held that speed as the aircraft climbed away from the ground at the best rate. There would be a brief window of time where his plane would be in range of the 7.62mm rounds that flew toward them. And judging from the amount of tracer fire, that could be dangerous.
“We must have woken them up in the terminal,” Mac said.
“I think they’re awake everywhere now,” Duke replied over the passengers screaming in the back. Tracer fire came from behind them, peppering the airplane.
I hope we make it out of here in one piece. God help us.
“Should be out of range soon.” Duke checked the airspeed indicator. “One-hundred-thirty-knots.”
“Passing two-thousand feet,” Mac said, fidgeting in his seat.
Duke’s eyes shifted from his airspeed and the altitude to the tracers that zipped around them. Most of them fell short, but he felt the ones that impacted the plane. A right turn would have placed more distance between him and the shooters, but he elected to maintain his climb. He thought it would get them out of the firing envelope quicker vertically than if he lowered the nose and moved away horizontally at a faster speed—no way to know for sure, even after this was over.
The airspeed settled at one-fifty, and Duke continued his climb. When he reached six-thousand feet, he nudged the nose down and accelerated away from the airport.
“I’m heading for the Suez Canal,” Duke said. “Keep an eye out for MANPADS,” the man-portable-air-defense missiles, or shoulder-launched projectiles of death. Their airplane was equipped with a rudimentary flare system to counter heat-seeking missiles; they just had to see the missile first. If they did, the flares were very effective against early generation heaters, as they were called. If they didn’t, well . . .
Once they reached the coast, Duke climbed to ten-thousand feet. That would give them a few more seconds to detect a missile launch. Duke coupled the autopilot, set his power, then pulled out a can of Wintergreen-flavored, long-cut Skoal out of his pocket. He twisted off the lid, grabbed a pinch between his thumb and forefinger, and stuck the smokeless tobacco between his cheek and gums. His body shuddered as the minty nicotine gave him a rush.
Duke spit in an empty water bottle, then looked at Mac. “Check on our passengers and look for any battle damage. I want to pressurize and go higher, but I’m worried there are too many holes in the fuselage.”
“You got it.” Mac unbuckled and stepped to the door. “Everyone okay back there?” Duke heard voices, but they were drowned out by the engines. After a minute or so, Mac slid back into his seat and buckled back in.
“One of the guys was shot in the leg, but they’ve got a med-kit broke out and looks like they got him cleaned up. Everyone else is okay. There are a lot of holes in the back, though. Don’t think we can pressurize. Shocked that more of them didn’t get hit.”
Duke nodded. “It’s a blessing, for sure.”
Mac broadcast their position on the Israeli frequency as they flew offshore past the international boundary of Egypt. The last thing they wanted was a couple of Israeli F-35’s chasing them down. It would be a very short chase.
“Uh-oh,” Mac said.
Duke checked the engine instruments and immediately saw the problem. The oil pressure on the left engine fell. Fast.
“Must have shot up the engine,” Mac said. “Maybe they shot a hole in the sump?”
“No telling. Doesn’t matter—we won’t have the engine for long anyway. Let’s keep our altitude at ten-thousand for now.” Duke leaned forward and checked the engine on the left wing. Ambient light from the stars allowed him to see black streaks over the engine cowling. “Yup, it’s oil.”
The two pilots kept the engine running until the pressure hit red line, then they shut it down. They proceeded with their checklists when someone stuck their head in the cockpit door.
“It sounds like one of the engines quit,” a female voice said.
Duke glanced to his right. Hmmm. Cute.
“Lady,” Mac said, “one of our engines got shot up. Had to shut it down. We’re busy. Please sit down and let us handle it.”
“Are we going to crash?” she said.
“Only if you don’t go back to your seat,” Mac replied.
The woman disappeared.
“You’re mean,” Duke said.
“Not mean. Efficient. I got rid of her with minimum discussion.”
Duke nodded with a grin. “We’re going to have to head to Israel. Contact them and let them know we’re an emergency aircraft and need to land at Tel Aviv.”
“Big international airport. Think that’s a good idea?”
Duke shrugged his shoulders. “Left engine crapped out after twenty minutes. There’s no telling if anything is wrong with the right one. If there is, we’ll be ditching this thing in the Mediterranean.”
Mac coordinated with Israeli air traffic control, giving them the nature of the emergency, the number of souls on board, and flight time remaining based on their fuel.
Fuel.
Duke checked the fuel for the first time since he had leveled off at six-thousand feet. They still had fuel pressure—the quantity was just several hundred pounds less. Mac did some back-of-the-napkin calculations and confirmed it with their flight plan. They were leaking fuel.
“Must have taken rounds to the oil tank,” Duke said. “That sits aft of the compressor air inlet and the forward end of the accessory gearbox. Probably had a fuel line or two nicked in there to boot.”
“Well, with one engine or two, we won’t make Istanbul leaking fuel at this rate,” Mac said. “We’d most likely need to land in Cyprus.”
“Thank God Israel is here.”
Mac smiled. “Yes, indeed.”
The two men prepared for landing. When they were fifteen minutes away from the airport, the distant plumes from two jet afterburners shimmered against the onyx black sky. The jets turned and headed in their direction.
“Here they come,” Duke said.
“You can bet their air-defenses on the ground will be tracking us the whole way in.”
“Yup. I’m sure the IDF will be waiting for us when we land.” The entire Israeli Defense Force would be active, unsure if the approaching aircraft was friend or foe. The Israelis would not be shy about blowing them out of the sky at the slightest provocation.
Runway 08 was the active runway at Ben Gurion International Airport in Tel Aviv, but the controller wanted them to land on Runway 03, so they wouldn’t shut down the primary runway. Duke followed the controller’s directions and established hims
elf on a visual straight-in for Runway 03. Two F-35s intercepted them when they leveled off at two-thousand feet and confirmed they were who they said they were. One of the jets broadcast the King-Air did indeed have an engine shut down and commented that they had bullet holes in the cowling and fuselage.
“Well,” Mac said, “at least we know what caused the oil leak.”
“As if there was ever any doubt.”
Mac chuckled. “Felt safer in the combat zone back in Iraq.”
“Yeah.” Duke was ambivalent about Iraq. The on-again/off-again approach to combat operations in Iraq had gotten beyond ridiculous. He was there for only one purpose: To help the guys on the ground. It wasn’t like his days flying the AC-130J gunship, raining death and fire from above, but his role as a contractor flying ISR missions was still rewarding. The intelligence, surveillance, recon planes they flew were similar to this old King-Air.
Duke slowed the aircraft and delayed extending the landing gear. He didn’t want any more drag on the airplane until the last possible second. The fuel leak increased, but they would have enough to land, even at this rate.
To his left, one of the F-35’s hung on his wing fifty yards away, flaps down, and the thrust vectoring nozzle in its most downward trajectory. Cool. That meant his partner was behind them, ready to shoot them down at the first sign of something suspicious. Mac broadcast their intentions every step of the way. He also told them they had an injured passenger onboard and requested medical assistance.
At about one-thousand feet, Duke lowered the landing gear to configure for the no-flap landing. He didn’t use any flaps because he didn’t want the extra drag on the plane in case the other engine quit, and he had to glide the remaining distance in. With 9,094 feet of concrete ahead of him, he would have more than enough runway to stop the plane with no flaps.
The King-Air touched down a thousand feet down the runway and taxied off at the end and turned right, just like the controller directed. He taxied down the Tango taxiway to the dark Apron VC where the IDF waited for them. Every vehicle on the ramp illuminated their headlights, and Duke interpreted that to mean they wanted him to stop. Setting the parking brake, he feathered his remaining engine. The numerous Humvees, ATV’s, motorcycles, and MRAPs with troops bailing out of the back closed in. Thirty-seconds after Duke shut down the right engine, they were surrounded by countless weapons of different calibers pointed directly at them.
7
Tel Aviv, Israel
Ben Gurion International Airport
* * *
Kadie squinted out the tiny window as she and Brian observed the swarm of military vehicles approaching the crippled plane. They just got shot at after taking off from one airport; now they were surrounded by an army after landing at another. She joined GDI to help save the world using science and technology, but she quickly realized that bombs and bullets ruled in this region of the world.
In the back of the small plane, Doctor Upton treated Abdul, who had been shot in the leg. Curt was back there too, checking on him. Within moments, the seasoned co-pilot stepped out of the cockpit without a rifle this time.
“Hi, folks,” he said as he crawled over the bags and Pelican cases that blocked the small aisle. “Welcome to Israel. My name is Mac. Sit tight and give me a few minutes to talk to the folks outside. We’ll have to clear Customs and Immigration, but that’s going to take a while. Anticipate a long and painful process once we get started.” He glared at Curt, still holding his AK-47 in the back of the plane. “I’d unload your rifle and break it down best you can. And whatever you do, don’t bring it off the airplane.” Mac stepped out the door.
Kadie couldn’t see anything that took place outside, but inside the plane, Brian was upset. He struggled to process everything that was going on.
“Did we have—an engine f-fire?” he said.
Kadie shrugged her shoulders. “I’m not sure, but they shut it down. I’m sure it got shot up by bullets. That was scary.”
Brian’s eyes went wide, and he smiled. “That was awe—some! There were glowing bullets flying every—where.”
Kadie cringed. I guess he’s processed this okay, she thought. She wasn’t sure if he understood the gravity of the situation. They had come very close to dying, and Abdul was still in pain.
“That was a g-good pilot,” Brian said.
Kadie glanced behind her toward the door Mac had exited. “Yes, he was.”
“Not that one—the other one who flew it.” Brian pointed to the front. Yes, there was still another pilot, but they hadn’t seen him yet.
She ran her fingers through his hair. “You’re so smart. There are two pilots on this plane.”
Curt left his seat and slid behind her and set a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. That was a lot more excitement than I bargained for on this trip.”
“Well, we knew ISIS could be a problem. That’s why I’m here.” Curt spoke with a confident swagger, but it didn’t sit well with Kadie after what they just experienced. Regardless, she chose to say nothing. There might come a time when his being here would come in handy.
“What about you, Brian? How are you doing?” He spoke louder and slower to her brother. She cringed again. He’s not deaf; he’s Down syndrome. Kadie had spoken to Curt about Brian’s condition when they first met. Curt was rather flirtatious. When Curt first met Kadie and Brian, he told her, “Down syndrome is not normal.”
“It’s normal to me,” she replied. She wanted Curt to understand upfront: she and Brian were a package deal.
“I am fine,” Brian said, shifting his gaze out the window. “How—long—awe—we going to be here?”
“What?” Curt said. “I don’t understand.”
Kadie intervened. “He asked how long we are going to be here?”
“He—I don’t know. We just landed. We’ll be here for a couple of hours. Once we’re done, I’ll contact corporate and have them work on transportation to Istanbul.”
Her eyes drooped. “How about a hotel and a nice hot shower?”
Curt’s eyes lit up, and he started to say something but stopped himself. She hoped her comment wasn’t seen as an invitation because it wasn’t.
“You might be right. It’s been a long night for everyone. We’ll secure a hotel, then work out transportation for tomorrow.”
Mac climbed back on the airplane and stood in the doorway. “Folks, we’re going to exit the plane now. Bring your go-bags with you but remove any kind of weapon and leave it on your seat. No guns, knives, hammers, chisels . . . nothing you wouldn’t get through TSA in the States.”
“We need to get Abdul off of the plane,” Upton said. “I can’t suppress the bleeding any further.”
Curt examined the crowded aisle. “He’d have to climb over all these bags.” He motioned to everyone in the front. “Unload these cases and bags so he can have a clear path.”
Mac slid back out the door, and the GDI team grabbed their bags and went through them, just to make sure they had none of the items that might be considered dangerous, then took them off the airplane. After three minutes, they formed a line to hand the bags off the plane. Several of the bags and Pelican cases had bullet holes in them, and the GDI team realized just how fortunate they were.
To the East, the sun rose over the horizon, painting a captivating mosaic of warm colors across the horizon. The gentle breeze that flitted in from the ocean compensated for the warm temperature. Odd, Kadie thought. It is much more comfortable here than in Port Said. And both are on the coast.
A pair of medics climbed into the airplane and brought out Abdul, followed by Doctor Upton. Curt was the last of their team to leave the airplane. The small group gathered aft of the left wing, about fifty feet away from the plane. Mac roamed around the airplane to assess the damage. Kadie started to pivot away when she saw movement on the plane but stopped when the mysterious second pilot appeared in the doorway. Kadie caught herself, mumbling, “Oh.”
T
he pilot stepped off the plane and approached the small group. He was the tall, rugged type; almost a stereotype of what one might expect to be a pilot, only he dressed like Indiana Jones, minus the hat and leather jacket. He checked on Abdul in the ambulance before they drove off, then returned to the rest of his passengers.
“Is everyone okay?” the pilot said. He searched the faces of the small team and strolled down the line and introduced himself to each team member. He’s smart, she thought, he’s trying to get us to relax. They still were surrounded by a small contingent of soldiers, all heavily armed.
When he got to her, she expected him to turn on the charm. It wasn’t ego. It was just what always happened to her. Curt wouldn’t stop talking to her for ten minutes when they first met a few weeks ago.
“Hello. I’m Duke Ellsworth.” She shook his hand. He was rough and needed a shave and a shower. Even his clothes appeared to have been worn for days.
“Kadie Jenkins.” She placed her arm around her brother. “And this is my brother, Brian.” She squeezed Brian, whose attention drifted. He fidgeted, his short arms bent at the elbows, and the fingertips of each hand tickled the tips of the other.
Duke knelt and stuck out his hand until Brian shook it. He looked Brian straight in the eye. “That’s a strong grip you’ve got there. How’s it going, buddy?”
Brian’s face broke into a smile. “G-good. Awe you the pilot?”
Duke smiled. “One of them. You’ve already met my partner, Mac.”
“You awe—a good pilot.”
Duke rested a hand on Brian’s shoulder. “Well, thanks, Brian. But don’t let my partner hear that. He’ll insist he does everything.” Duke’s smile was genuine, and Brian picked up on that immediately. “I’ve got to do a quick inspection of my airplane. Do you want to walk around with me?”