by Dalton Fury
The Agency guys at the airfield in New Delhi were on the other end of a Thuraya sat phone and their running commentary was piped through the speakers of the JOC. The CIA’s liaison officer stood near Colonel Jeremy Webber, holding a phone to his ear and passing on additional information to the head of Delta Force.
The tension in the air infected everyone. All were frozen in amazement at the huge plasma monitor, referred to in the JOC as “Kill TV.”
The men and women stood in rapt attention as the hijacked aircraft rolled steadily down the taxiway, clearly moving for takeoff on Runway 29. A few seconds later, the Predator downlink went fuzzy. The “eye in the sky” had blinked. It was a mechanical glitch that seemed to be common with that aerial asset at exactly those moments when clear observation was desperately needed.
The Kill TV feed came back up a moment later, just as the silhouetted figures of four men under three parachutes passed between the 767 and the camera’s lens. Black hot figures flying through the air with the heat off their bodies trapped in the chutes above them, creating a faint umbrella shape.
“Holy shit. There they are!” exclaimed the operations sergeant major, breaking the silence that had fallen over the JOC. They should have been landing far back on the tarmac, but it looked to everyone at Bagram as if the Delta team were making for the runway itself. “What the hell are they doing?”
The three chutes sailed purposefully toward the plane on the ground, which meant only one thing to Colonel Jeremy Webber. The men were not continuing on to the drop zone on the now-empty tarmac.
No. It looked like …
Webber cocked his head slightly. “Racer is assaulting.” He said it in a clipped voice that indicated to everyone in the room that he was pissed.
No one in the JOC was new to special operations or terrorist interdictions, but still many gasped in shock. Assaulting an aircraft as it sat at the end of the runway, seconds from takeoff?
Colonel Webber sat back in his chair. He was pissed, but he was not surprised. Kolt fucking Raynor, his man on the scene, had been a pseudo-insubordinate troop commander before he’d been kicked out of Delta four years ago. Now that he was back in the Unit, there was little reason to expect anything but pseudo-insubordination now, even with all Webber’s “personal counseling” of his wayward major.
He stared silently at the downlink screen. Webber would have stopped Racer and the others if he had any control over this situation. But the Delta operators’ audacious and daring actions effectively neutered any long-arm leadership — or micromanagement — since the JOC was 220 miles away from the action.
Colonel Webber cleared his throat and in a confident and booming voice said, “All right, we seem to have a common operating picture and are now in a current operation with operators on target. Push the QRF to the airspace and air-loiter twenty minutes out, spin up the extraction fixed-wing aircraft ASAP, and get me the SECDEF on the red line.”
Immediately several of the staff in the JOC went from statues of stone to blurs of activity — the Quick Reaction Force choppers were ordered into the theater, the extraction aircraft were ordered ready, and secure comms with the Pentagon were established.
Webber’s confident orders, tuned to just the right authoritative tenor by decades of command, sounded confident and certain, but that was just for public consumption.
Silently to himself the colonel breathed softly, “Dammit, Racer, you’d better not dick this up.”
* * *
Even though they had not expected to drop right into combat, the four men six hundred feet above the aircraft were geared up for battle. Kolt “Racer” Raynor and Master Sergeant Clay “Stitch” Vickery wore individual MC-4 HALO rigs while Master Sergeant Peter “Digger” Chambliss hung behind Master Sergeant Jason “Slapshot” Holcomb in a HALO tandem rig. These were not the best parachute rigs available to Delta, but they were the best rigs they had been able to grab as they raced onto the MC-130H Combat Talon II at the intermediate staging base at Masirah Air Base off the coast of Oman. As this was an in-extremis op, they only had time to bring in the best gear they could amass on the fly. All four operators wore the Ops-Core FAST ballistic helmet with infrared strobes activated and blinking on top. Under the helmet all wore dark brown Peltor ear protection and radio headsets. The team would be going in light protectionwise; three wore just chest plates, which would stop a frontal pistol or rifle round to their center mass; only Racer wore hard protection on both his chest and his back.
Each operator had a.40-caliber Glock 23 with a tan grip and a SureFire tactical light attached to a rail under its barrel. These pistols were secured in rigs on their chests, not on their hips. In the tight aisles of a commercial aircraft, the chest holsters allowed for faster deployment of the combat handguns than a belt rig. Only Slapshot and Stitch brought rifles along — each carried an HK416 strapped barrel-down on their left side. Extra ammo was secured in their chest rigs, which also held their MBITR MX radios in nylon side pouches.
The radios were wired to their Peltor headsets so that they could communicate effectively during the assault.
All four men were dressed in black flight suits with an American flag, subdued gray and black in color, on the left shoulder. On the right shoulder a call sign patch was affixed … a black border with a luminous tape letter/number combo. Kolt’s read M11, as he was a troop commander in Mike Squadron. As a troop sergeant major of Mike, Slapshot was M12. Stitch and Digger were, respectively, team leader and second-in-command of Mike’s Alpha team, so their patches read MA1 and MA2. Three of them were wearing desert tan and black Salomon trail shoes, while Kolt wore the same old tan leather combat boots he’d had since the invasion of Iraq nearly ten years earlier. The shoes were worn and torn, but he still loved them, old school though they were.
They had exited the MC-130 Talon II at twenty thousand feet wearing Gentex oxygen masks with a hose attached to a Twin 53 bailout bottle inside a pouch on the right hip. Once they descended below ten thousand feet they disconnected their masks and let them hang to the side. All wore thermal underwear and black balaclavas to maintain body heat during the descent. On their hands were black Mechanix M-Pact Covert gloves with plastic knuckle protectors, and digital altimeters were strapped to the back of each of their hands.
Each man also carried a pair of nine-banger flash-bang grenades and a personal first aid pouch with one-hand tourniquet rigs.
* * *
At four hundred feet above the target Slapshot, with Digger riding in the front of his rig, maneuvered to line up his approach angle to the rear of the 767, which was now turning off the taxiway and onto the runway. All Kolt and Stitch had to do was follow the red and green chemlites on the pack tray of their teammates to the target while maintaining safe separation. Racer, the least experienced jumper in the bunch, struggled to keep in formation with the other two chutes.
Kolt said, “Our spot is the long axis of the fuselage. We’ll harpoon the escape hatch above the cockpit, depressurize the plane, and enter. We’re going to have to do this fast and dirty before they take off. Once inside, haul ass aft and make friends in the rear. Remember, there are a hundred forty souls on board, plus at least six crows.”
“One four zero souls, six assholes, roger,” said Stitch.
“One-forty poor SOBs. Six bad guys. Got it,” replied Digger.
“One-four-zero live. Six die. Then breakfast. Roger,” said Slapshot, interjecting his trademark nonchalance into the tension.
“Boss, I have the harpoon,” Stitch reminded his team leader.
To this Kolt replied, “Pull around to my left and take the base.”
“Roger that,” Stitch said, and seconds later he glided past his major, and then past the tandem team in front. He corrected back to the right and moved to the head of the line. Now it was Stitch’s job to lead the others. He had red and green chemlites on the back of his pack as well, and the men behind him kept their eyes locked firmly on those lights as they neared the target.
All four men were prone on top of the aircraft now, and they fought to stay atop the slick and sloping surface, knowing they needed to get off the roof and inside the plane before the pilot applied takeoff thrust and jetted down the runway. Stitch and Kolt hugged the skin of the aircraft, something akin to balancing on a giant basketball, while Slapshot, still attached and lying on top of Digger, pulled the tandem chute’s quick release to disconnect himself from his mate.
* * *
Inside the cockpit the two-man American flight crew had no idea that four Delta Force commandos were crawling toward the cockpit along the aircraft’s fuselage. Both the pilot and copilot sat strapped to their seats with their headsets on, and they concentrated on the rushed takeoff sequence, manipulating the appropriate buttons.
The leader of the terrorists, the jittery man-child with the bulletproof vest who called himself Jellock, leaned into the cockpit. “One minute we are in air or boy die!”
The copilot held out a placating hand to the armed gunman, then turned to the captain. “We ready to go?”
“I have no idea,” the pilot replied as he turned to the runway in front of him. “But we’re outta here before they shoot that kid.”
He reached for the throttle, and the copilot did the same.
TWO
The four operators moved forward in single file on top of the plane. Only two handholds jutted from the plane’s surface, and with a single gloved hand each, Slapshot and Kolt tested every bit of tensile strength of an antenna blade the shape of a shark’s fin while Digger held on to a strange-looking nozzle protruding up about five inches and set back seven feet from the escape hatch. The other hand was locked in a death grip around Stitch’s right ankle.
Slapshot reached out to grab Digger’s right ankle, but he stopped himself from doing so and instead reached over and latched on to Digger’s left leg.
Stitch, at the head of the line, could feel the vicelike grip around his ankle as one of his mates held on tight. He assumed the others were doing the same to the men in front of them.
Without warning, the heavy whine of the engines behind them grew to a roar, and the aircraft moved forward with a jolt that made all four men press their gloved hands tight against the roof for purchase.
“She is taking off!” Stitch tried to yell it above the engine noise, but none of his mates heard him. At first the four operators struggled to stay glued to the aircraft body as the 767’s thrust increased and it rolled forward into the darkness down the runway. But quickly they began crawling forward again, as fast as they could on the slick surface.
Because the plane had been refueled earlier at the terrorists’ demands, Raynor and his men knew the takeoff speed for the heavy plane would be somewhere in the neighborhood of 180 knots. It was already at 10 knots, and Raynor couldn’t key his radio mic for fear of falling off the aircraft. He yelled to Stitch in the front of the short line of operators. “Breach it!”
Now the entire team’s survival depended on Stitch. He had less than forty seconds to get the job done, or he and his fellow operators would find themselves flying on the outside of the plane until they were whipped off to their deaths by the incredible wind.
All 767 jets are equipped with an emergency escape hatch above the cockpit. Formally referenced in the technical maintenance manuals as the Crew Compartment Overhead Hatch, the little door in the roof provides an emergency egress pathway for the plane’s crew. It is not considered an entrance point and was never intended to provide access to anyone on the outside of the aircraft.
But Delta did not care what the aircraft designer’s intentions were. Their intentions were what mattered now.
As the jet reached twenty knots’ ground speed, Stitch leaned on his left side and reached into his chest rig to draw the harpoon device. He pulled it free, pressed the activation button with his right thumb, and lined it up two feet away at the center mass of the escape hatch. Given the distance, he couldn’t miss.
Developed by a shrewd Delta assaulter, the harpoon was a simple CO2 cartridge and a hollow tube the size of a large pickle that provided a quick and dirty way to depressurize an aircraft before an explosive breach through the side doors. Its capability was crucial in the event that the hijackers had booby-trapped all the plane’s doors before the assault force arrived on the scene.
This time, though, the assault force consisted of just four men and there would be no explosive breaching of the side doors. Moreover, as cunning and conniving as Delta operators are, no one had ever envisioned harpooning the escape hatch after takeoff thrust had been applied and the plane sped down the runway toward liftoff.
Aircraft, as a general rule, do not take off after an assault has begun.
As the ground speed of the 767 passed sixty knots, Stitch pulled the trigger and the harpoon pierced the shiny metal as advertised, immediately initiating a slow depressurization of the cabin below. Stitch then tossed the firing mechanism over the edge of the speeding aircraft to get it out of the way.
* * *
With his left hand on the throttle, the copilot heard a loud noise through his headset, and saw the sharp black edge of a large dart protruding through the middle of the escape hatch, above and centered just behind the pilot and copilot. “What the…”
He snapped out of his momentary paralysis as the lead terrorist burst back into the cockpit.
Behind the menacing Skorpion machine pistol, the man’s dark curly hair and deep brown skin tone stood in sharp contrast to his loose white shirt buttoned over his body armor.
“V one,” the pilot said calmly, announcing that they had reached the speed at which they would need to continue to take off, even if there was an engine failure. The pilot ignored everything around him and concentrated on the runway ahead.
The terrorist who called himself Jellock said, “What was that noise?” The copilot did not answer. Another thud on the roof diverted the terrorist’s eyes up to the escape hatch.
* * *
On the roof of the speeding jet, Stitch’s job was only half finished. He needed to get the hatch open. With the plane now at a ground speed of ninety knots, he frantically dug into his chest rig and pulled out a six-inch explosive charge from a pouch. He peeled away the thin film covering the sticky tape with his teeth, and he slapped it on the hatch-locking mechanism. Quickly he turned his head away and detonated the charge.
Boom!
* * *
The explosion punctured the escape hatch and filled the cockpit with a misty gray haze. Jellock had been staring right at the hatch, so he was temporarily blinded by the flash. He screamed and raised his weapon with one hand and fired blindly into the cockpit while rubbing his eyes with his other hand. One of his rounds found a home in the left shoulder of the pilot, who spun in his seat, but remained upright in his safety harness.
Jellock raised his Skorpion toward the roof now and let loose another burst. The rounds ripped through the padded insulation and punctured the thin metal skin of the aircraft. Unsure of what was coming next and opting for the protection of his comrades, the Pakistani turned and fled the cockpit.
* * *
Stitch felt a sting in his left hand as he gripped the hatch edge and pulled himself forward. An incredible burning in his pinkie finger that felt as if the hatch had been slammed shut on it. But he remained in control of his entire team’s destiny, so he ignored the pain and struggled against the wind resistance and the forward thrust of the aircraft as he felt the jet’s nose attitude increase at one hundred knots.
Without taking time to look inside, he reached through the opening and tossed a nine-banger behind the crew seats. Almost instantly a succ
ession of nine bright and deafening explosions rocked the cockpit.
Disorienting the flight crew during takeoff was an unfortunate but necessary component of breaching a cockpit held by terrorists. Stitch just had to hope like hell the men flying the plane could overcome the effects of the blast and get the jet in the air without veering off to the left or right or running out of runway.
Stitch pulled himself face-first into the small hole right behind the last of the explosions, completely unaware that a.32-caliber round from the terrorist’s gun had severed his pinkie finger.
He tumbled six feet to the floor, landed half on the copilot and half on the main console. It hurt like hell, but he was relieved to be inside.
The wounded and disoriented pilot had handed off responsibilities to his copilot, and somehow the copilot managed to remain composed. He kept the aircraft straight on the runway, even though the flash-bang had all but blinded him. He had to get his ship airborne; there was no way he could back off the throttle and reject the takeoff at this point, there was not enough runway to prevent the fuel-laden craft from exploding in a fireball at the far edge of the airport grounds.
He guided his huge 767 into the air with steady hands that belied the chaos going on around him.
Scrambling to follow Stitch into the aircraft, Digger slid in headfirst with the same bit of pathetic acrobatics of his teammate.
Slapshot tumbled in behind them.
Digger and Stitch didn’t wait around to be introduced to the pilots. The two operators gained their footing and exited the crew compartment door to begin clearing the aircraft, with their weapons out in front of them. The steep angle of the takeoff roll required them to move through the cabin as if they were running down a hill. Slapshot stayed where he was and reached up to help Kolt into the plane.