by Eric Dabbs
Even though he feared the blade might rip free and zip toward him, Alex jammed the tip of the knife into the outer frame, and wedged the butt of the handle against the open cover.
The wind rumbled in his ears and razed across his face like a high speed air blaster scouring away dust particles. Alex reached inside the compartment. His fingers found a thin ledge to grip, and fighting against the torrent of air sweeping over the top of the plane, he used the ledge to pull himself closer to the opening.
The knife held its position, rattling in place, the tip skittering like an engraving tool over the framework inside the compartment. The rubber butt of the handle was the only thing keeping the lid open.
Alex used his left hand as an anchor while he worked with his right hand, feeling for the pocket containing the locator card. His fingers struggled with the zipper—high velocity winds acting like gravity—pressing his arm flat against his chest.
He tugged on the zipper. Halfway there. One more pull.
There. He had it.
He dipped his hand inside the pocket, felt the hard edge of the card. Locked three fingers onto it with a vise-clamp grip.
A wind burst rocked his body, his hold digging into the bomber. The gust jerked his right hand from his pocket—a dagger of pain knifing through his ribs—but the locator card snagged against the zipper, a corner of the silver square protruding from his fatigues.
The wind distorted his facial features, forcing his mouth into a grimace and splaying his lips open, exposing his gums. Cold air iced his cheeks. He knew from experience that blood was filling the tiny vessels in his face, his body fighting to keep his skin from freezing. A groan began in the pit of his stomach and grew into a desperate wail as Alex struggled against the violent wind speeds threatening to blast him off the plane.
He channeled his center of energy, drawing on the fortitude it took to become a Navy SEAL. He squinted, narrowing his eyes into thin slits. His laser focus brought the tiny slot at the center of the compartment into view. He'd studied Sir Helmsley's diagram over and over in the hotel room. But he always imagined inserting the card inside the hangar at the airbase, not blazing along at hundreds of miles per hour, ten thousand feet above the ocean.
Once again, Alex grabbed the card and clutched it with iron fingers.
The thought of failure loomed over him. Urgency. Blood on his hands. Millions of lives weighed in the balance.
He inched the card closer to the fiber optic slot.
A blast of air walloped his body, followed by another invisible blow that ripped the night vision goggles from his head. The apparatus disappeared into the night behind him, and in an instant, everything went dark.
He'd have to finish the job blind.
Alex shuffled the card into position, poking and jabbing it into the control panel while he clung to the stealth bomber.
"It's got to be somewhere!"
With a final push, the locator card dropped into the outlet. He felt the indention with the tiny optical eye snap into place. According to the diagram, there was only one way the device could fit.
He was about to allow himself a brief celebration when his knife lost its battle with the control panel cover. The blade whirled past him, skimming over his shoulder, grazing his back, gone forever.
The lid slammed down on his knuckles, but the pain was bearable compared to his ribs.
Cold air rushed into the sliced fabric of his shirt, chilling his skin, but more importantly, he felt no sting from a flayed open wound. The blade had missed him by millimeters, thanks to his fatigues.
Alex had one order of business left to address. He pulled himself forward by using the small ridge behind the cockpit. He summoned all his strength and thrust his body over the glass far enough to get an eye to eye glimpse of Hollingsworth. The stealth's instruments glowed with green, red, yellow, and orange lights.
Alex rapped on the glass.
Inside a shiny black helmet, Hollingsworth glanced up at the sound, and did a double take as Alex gestured with a thumb up. Even now, the flight lieutenant seemed to be having trouble with the plane's controls. He returned his attention to the dashboard in front of him. His fingers poked at buttons and flipped switches to no avail. His helmet bobbled on his shoulders, a sign of resignation and defeat.
The stealth jolted underneath Alex and the bomber began to veer away from its route, altering course.
With this phase of the mission complete, Alex turned loose and rocketed backwards toward the rear of the cargo plane. The cable snapped his body like a bull whip, but snatched tight at the end of the slack provided by the winch. Every bone and joint felt the wallop, adrenaline racing through his blood stream, making him feel invincible.
He soared through the air, the distance between himself and the port side door growing shorter as they reeled him toward safety.
Foot by foot, the steel cable wound and pulled its load closer and closer.
The wind pelted his face. Alex knew it wasn't over until he rested inside the hull of the cargo plane.
The winch heaved him forward, his body flapping in the turbulence. Only twenty feet away, he felt a strange vibration in the cable. It could be the motor struggling against his two hundred pound frame, or it could be the winding fabric of steel grinding over the metal guard. Alex remembered Bentley's spill about how the winch was designed to pull loads in from the rear of the cargo ramp. Since the cable had been pulled forward through the side door, Carson had acted like a human pulley, attempting to loosen the tension on the line as Bentley operated the controls.
Ten feet from the side door, the winch ground to a halt. Alex doubted Bentley had stopped reeling him in. A more likely scenario, the motor had seized up and refused to churn out another revolution. This seemed to be the case when Carson appeared at the door and started pulling him in, hand over hand, double time, his face awash in physical exertion even in the dark of night.
Alex inched within an arm's length of Carson.
The lance corporal shook his head and then released his hold on the line, but the tension remained. Bentley must have taken the reigns as Carson reached to pull him inside the plane.
Carson leaned forward and reached out, but the tips of his fingers only grazed Alex's outstretched hand.
Alex lunged upward as the lance corporal swiped down at him, but they missed with the poorly timed attempt.
Both men stared at each other, nodding as if synchronizing the next lunge, and with one last desperate, well-timed sweeping rake of their arms, they locked hands to forearms.
Carson's gloved hand slipped down but curled around Alex's wrist.
The young marine was stronger than he looked. As Carson fell backwards further into the plane, Bentley emerged and joined the tug of war. Alex's stomach scraped over the bottom edge of the doorway as the two men hauled him from the threshold of death and into the safety of the plane's cargo hold.
59
An hour into the return flight and safely inside the cargo plane’s fuselage, Alex ended a conversation with Washington via the satellite phone. The resolution of the current terror threat, including the disarming of the nuclear bomb was going to come down to a race to the finish.
In the cockpit, Alex monitored their progress as Wilson continued to track Scepter One on the return trip to Greenland. The wide-winged bird was running off and leaving them. Apparently, the British had revved up the aircraft’s speed, and with the cargo plane at full throttle, it was all they could do to keep up. Earlier, they were fortunate the flight lieutenant didn’t have a clue he was being pursued. If he’d known, he could have out ran them to the eastern seaboard with ease.
All that was left now was for time to pass. The cargo plane pushed hard, but lost ground with the stealth bomber with each second that counted down. According to the tracking computer, the stealth was cruising at six hundred miles an hour. At that speed, the bomber would arrive at the airbase about five minutes ahead of them.
It was 5:30 a.m. Greenland time
as Alex gazed at the eastern horizon through the cabin windows. The morning sky brightened as the sun rose, creating a panorama of pinkish, streaking clouds. On the verge of a nuclear disaster, he did his best to block out the anxiety waging war in his mind.
He stood behind Wilson, a hand on the back of the co-pilot chair. “It just occurred to me, with everything we’ve been through together, that I don’t even know your first name.”
Wilson glanced back at Alex over his shoulder. “I’ve only shared my name with a few people, usually because the mission requires anonymity. But really, I’ve never cared to get too personal. However...you’re the kind of person I could see as a friend.” He turned his eyes to the horizon again. “My name’s Mike. Agent Mike Wilson. Nothing too fancy. Just a faithful government employee.”
“Well, Mike, it looks like we’re nearing our destination.” Alex pointed at the handheld computer, leaning against the dashboard, out of the way of the plane’s major gauges.
“It says we’re thirty minutes away.”
“Too close for comfort.”
“Hey,” Wilson said, smiling, “you wanna parachute in? I could just keep going, leave the blast range.”
“You’re a comedian as well as a faithful government employee. Nice to know you have something to fall back on in case the agent gig doesn’t work out for you.”
Truth be told, Alex was just glad Hakem Raziz’s predication failed to come true. He was living to see the light of day again, he just hoped it wouldn’t be his last.
60
NANORTALIK ISLAND, GREENLAND
The remaining thirty minutes of the return flight to Greenland and the old airbase crawled by, but eventually the landing strip came within sight. The stealth bomber was the first to touchdown. Alex knew the marines would surround the sleek plane and take the flight lieutenant into custody. It was the part that came after that which caused him the most concern.
"We're coming in for a landing," Wilson shouted over his shoulder to Alex, who was in the middle of a chat with Major Bentley.
Alex grabbed onto a cargo net with both hands for support, he'd been preparing himself to disarm the bomb himself if the SEAL team failed to make it in time. "If I remember, there were three wires that led from the timer to the bomb's fire set. One of those wires should stop the countdown. Only question is, which one?"
"Do you remember the colors?" Bentley asked.
"Red and green, I'm sure of that. But the other one I can't recall."
He'd seen the wires when he planted the homing device, but he never anticipated the responsibility to fall on him to be the one to disarm the nuclear weapon. According to Washington, the SEAL team had yet to arrive at the airbase. They weren't late. The stealth had caught everyone by surprise when it took off without warning.
The fuselage jolted beneath both men as the cargo plane touched down.
"Been a while since you took a rough landing like that?" Bentley said.
Alex nodded. "About the wires...I guess I'll have to figure them out one at a time."
"Hate to mention this, but one wrong cut and..."
Alex sucked in a deep breath. It didn't quite satisfy his lungs. He wasn't sure if it was because of his broken ribs or the thought of a mushroom cloud vaporizing him and every other living thing within a fifty square mile radius.
The sobering mental picture had him lowering the rear cargo ramp before the plane came to a halt. Alex, Bentley, and Carson hopped from the ramp and pounced to the asphalt on bended knees. Wilson killed the engines, flung his headset aside, and joined them in a sprint for the bomber.
Alex could only hope there was enough time for the SEAL team to arrive and take over. He angled for the bomb and its stainless steel casing. His hopes came to a crashing halt when he caught a glimpse of the morbid expression on Captain Eric Walsh's face—the same marine who’d piloted the Huey and dropped him over Coraco’s warehouse facility.
"Can you handle the nuke?" Walsh blurted.
Alex opened his mouth to reply but only a stutter escaped his lips.
"I hope you're ready." Walsh led him around to the other side of the stealth airplane. "There it is." He jabbed a finger at the nuclear device. It's shiny casing stood out from the dark body of the plane.
As Alex rounded into view of the timer, he collapsed to his knees. The air in his lungs seemed to vanish. His heart beat a pulse pounding cadence in his chest. He couldn’t breathe as the bright red digital numbers seared into his consciousness.
"There's no way the SEAL team can make it in time," Walsh said.
The world seemed to narrow in on Alex. For all he knew, it was just him, and the captain, and the bomb on a deserted island. The countdown ticked off one second at a time: 04:49, 04:48, 04:47...
61
Be calm, Alex told himself.
But how could he be calm in a moment like this? He turned his head to Walsh, and for the first time noticed Master Sergeant Perry Stack standing next to him. Behind him was Major Bentley, Corporal Brad Reardon, Lance Corporal Carson, and finally, Agent Wilson. Their faces were twisted in utter disbelief.
Alex, realizing everyone was counting on him, drew in a raspy breath. He was the only one present who had basic training in weapons of mass destruction. It hardly qualified him for the job, but it was all on him, no one else could pull this off. He barely felt a twinge of pain in his side. He felt numb all over.
"Captain, do you have a knife or wire cutters, something?"
Walsh stared at Stack, who passed Alex a pair of wire snips. The master sergeant had been prepared for the moment.
Alex snatched the snips from Stack's fingertips and steeled his resolve, his full attention on the timer's countdown: 04:20, 4:19, 04:18...
Quickly, Alex realized he needed a blade to pry the timer casing from its frame. He turned to Stack again, who pulled a six-inch knife from a sheath on his waist and handed it over.
Alex curled his fingers around the handle and returned his gaze to the ticking time bomb.
He drove the tip of the blade into the metal framework. 04:07, 04:06...
Alex jerked the timer toward him, exposing the wiring on the fire set. There were, in fact as he recalled, three wires—red, green, and blue.
But which one should he cut?
He death gripped the wire cutter in his right hand and brought it to bear on the wires. His mind raced with doubts. One wrong cut and boom, it’s all over. Nuclear hellfire blasting them all to kingdom come.
The countdown dipped below four minutes.
Blue, green, or red?
The red wire brought visions of mushroom clouds.
The blue one screamed safety.
The green one, who knew? Time. Time was of the essence. Red? No. Blue? Too obvious, it had to be the green one. He moved the snips to the green wire.
"Are you sure?" Wilson blurted out.
"No!" Alex fired back. It was the cold honest truth, but he neared the cutter to the wire anyway. 03:30, 03:29, 03:28...
The sharp blades of the cutter hovered over the green sheathing covering the wire beneath. Alex winced. Drew in a harsh breath, and squeezed the snips, penetrating the wire, severing it in two. The timer continued: 03:17, 03:16...1:00, 00:59...
Having rose to a squatting stance, Alex's fingers quivered, his stomach rolled with nausea. He rocked on his heels. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out.
"It was a set-up," Wilson said. "They had to rig it that way. You've got two choices now, red or blue?" His words were quick and sporadic. "One may stop the timer...and the other one...”
00:47, 00:46...
The world swirled around Alex, narrowing his vision around the edges.
00:38, 00:37...
He raised the snips to the final two wires. Which one? Red? How could it be that one? Red always meant danger and disaster. The timer...00:30, 00:29...
"It could be the blue one," Alex half-whispered. It seemed like the right choice. Blue made him think of peace and tranquility.
His heart and mind raced as the timer dropped below twenty seconds.
The blade hovered over the blue wire. 00:15, 00:14, 00:13...
"Are you sure?" Walsh broke the silence. His voice sounded like thunder echoing around Alex.
This could be everyone's last breath.
"No, no, no, it's too obvious." Alex wagged his head. "It's got to be the red one. It's got to be the red one."
00:09, 00:08...
In a quick, jerky movement, he whipped the cutter to the red wire, held the blades over its outer coating...00:04, 00:03, 00:02...
Alex clamped down and cut the wire in half...00:01...
The digital numbers blazed like fire.
Frozen in time.
He gasped and sucked in the breath he'd been holding, waiting to see if the final second would tick away.
But it didn't.
"You did it!" Wilson squealed. His masculine voice hit a high pitched tone Alex hadn't thought possible. The big agent yanked him up and embraced him in a bear hug, which racked Alex’s ribs with breath stealing pain.
All eyes gazed over at their celebration and then switched back to the single second still hanging on the timer. After a long, tense moment of uncertainty, the final realization set in, relief flooding the entire group of men. It was over. They had avoided disaster.
As Alex looked around, elation burst from inside him in the form of an unmistakable smile that he couldn't hide. Everyone congratulated him, hugged him, patted him on the back. Life would go on. Good had triumphed over evil one more time.
In all the jubilation, his mind went back to that day, September 11th.
9/11.
The day terrorists high jacked commercial airliners and carried out attacks on America. Thousands perished on that tragic day.