by Matthew Dunn
Nothing happened.
“Now that you know my identity”-Dmitriev pointed a frail finger toward Will-“it would be appropriate to know who you are.”
Will answered in Russian, “We’re part of the protection detail.”
“Really?” Dmitriev stared at each man before returning his attention to Will and stating in English, “None of you look like Dutch cops.”
Derksen leaned toward the Russian while fastening his seat belt. “They’re along for the ride because they’ve got information which will enable us to further keep you safe. Other than that, nothing’s changed. I’m in charge on the flight; you do exactly as I say.”
“Information?” Dmitriev kept his gaze fixed on Will. “What information?”
Derksen motioned to Will to stay silent.
But Will answered, “We’re intelligence officers, multi-agency, though all of us have been working together to neutralize a specific threat to you.”
The old man briefly closed his eyes. “A threat that has a code name beginning with the letter K?”
At first, Will didn’t know if he should answer. If a person was going to kill him, he’d often wondered if he’d want to know that person’s identity just before it happened. It made no difference to the outcome, though perhaps it could give it some kind of meaning. “Yes. You know exactly who he is.”
Dmitriev opened his eyes and stared at nothing. “Then everything has gone according to plan.”
Will frowned. “What plan?”
Dmitriev said nothing.
Adam rubbed his disfigured face, wincing slightly.
Mikhail asked, “Does it hurt?”
The Scotsman looked at the spycatcher with an expression of suspicion, then smiled. “Aye. Cabin pressure during takeoffs and landings. Keeps me sharp.”
Mark leaned forward and gently punched Adam’s knee. “Just as well there ain’t any air hostesses on the flight, matey. Your ugly boat race would send ’em packing.”
“Nah. I’d play the wounded war hero sympathy card. Works every time. It’s almost made it worthwhile having ma face blown off.”
The plane was ascending fast. Engert had told Will that the pilots had been carefully selected due to their prior military experience and ability to get planes up and down quicker than most commercial pilots.
Will eased back into his seat while keeping his attention fixed on Dmitriev. So much had been done to try to kill the Russian; in equal measure, a vast effort and number of resources had been deployed to protect him. All because of what was in his head. What was the secret, and why were things going according to plan? They’d find out when Dmitriev took the stand. But as Will looked at the retired intelligence officer’s haunted expression, he wondered if that would happen.
Derksen moved along the aisle and entered the cockpit. Twenty seconds later, he reemerged and said, “We’re high enough now. Next thirty minutes should be fine. Pilot will let us know when he starts his descent.”
Everyone removed his seat belt. Laith stretched out his legs. “Time for some shut-eye. Hey, Derksen-you got one of them hoods you like putting on people? Might actually be useful this time round, help me get some sleep.”
The DSI officer ignored the comment. Instead he patted a hand on Dmitriev’s forearm and retook his seat. “We’re safe for the time being.”
They all heard the sound of two near-simultaneous dull thuds. One second later, the plane started violently shuddering.
“Damn turbulence.”
The shuddering got worse; men were lifted a few inches out of their seats; there was a moment of weightlessness, more shuddering; the plane seemed to be descending, rolled left; all of the men on one side of the plane were hurled into the aisle.
“What the fuck’s happening!”
Will tried to get to his feet, was thrown forward into Roger and Mark, gripped the overhead lockers to get himself upright, then lurched into the opposite seats as the plane banked right, his shoulder banging into more luggage compartments. Wincing in pain, he pulled his body along the floor toward the cockpit. Behind him men were shouting, their bodies crashing into each other and the sides of the plane.
The copilot was sending out urgent distress calls, sweat pouring down his face, his body shaking but held in place by his belt. Next to him, the pilot was gripping the wheel, desperately trying to retain control of the craft.
Will got to one knee, using both arms to grip the back of the copilot’s seat. “What’s happened?”
Between gritted teeth, the pilot answered, “Both engines taken out. Immediate failure.”
“Explosions, fire, electrical fault?”
“I don’t know! Just stopped working.”
“What can we do?”
“You can’t do anything. Get back in there. We’re going to have to see if we can glide the bird down.” The pilot glanced at his colleague. “Any coordinates yet?”
The copilot nodded. “Just got them. Only one strip in the area, but it’s long enough. Tiny commercial airport. I’m speaking to its traffic controller.”
“Okay.” The pilot’s whole body was shaking. “Tell him to get emergency services to the airport.”
Will crawled back into the passenger compartment. Inside was chaos. Some men were still being tossed around; others had managed to get their seat belts on and were grimacing as the straps bit into their stomachs with every movement of the plane. “Engine failure! Crash landing!”
Derksen grabbed Dmitriev, pulled him down next to him, and quickly fixed the seat belt onto the old man. “An attack?”
“We don’t know.” Will rose to his feet and was immediately thrown backward as the plane went into another dive. After tumbling down the aisle, he slammed into the cockpit door. Two cupboards at the end of the aisle opened, and china plates and cups smashed their way down the plane toward him. A Dutch operative’s head smacked against the door, inches from his own, and the man immediately lost consciousness. Another flew across the aisle with sufficient force to knock out not only himself, but also the DSI operative he hit.
The plane was now shaking so badly that everything in Will’s vision was a blur of constant movement.
The pilot’s strained voice came over the speakers. “Brace for impact!”
Held in place by the angle of descent and an unconscious operative, Will looked out of a window. Land was visible, getting nearer, rushing past them. He glanced at his team. All of them had managed to get their belts on and were holding onto anything to try to keep themselves still.
Derksen shouted at Will, “Has to have been a bomb. Must have been a malfunction; only part of it went off.”
Will agreed. “At stop, get Dmitriev as far away from the plane as possible.”
“No shit!”
Will’s heart was racing, his body covered in perspiration and aching from the impacts. Was this how it was going to end? Most of the Spartan Section wiped out in a plane crash? He forced himself to think about other matters: fire, smoke, evacuating the plane, fuel leakage, keeping Dmitriev alive.
The plane was bouncing through the air, so quickly Will wondered if it would just tear apart before it hit the ground.
The land was rushing faster past them, was closer, closer. One hundred yards away.
Fifty.
Will looked at Roger and his men. Might be the last time he’d see them.
Roger stuck his thumb up and smiled at Will.
It’s been fun working together.
That’s what the gesture meant. Or something similar.
Twenty yards.
Derksen thrust Dmitriev’s head down and held it firm while silently mouthing words.
Maybe a prayer.
Ten yards.
All of the men were silent now. Preparing for death.
Thoughts raced through Will’s mind. What would it be like? As quick as a bullet? Or body lacerated by shards of metal? Did he regret anything? Yeah, every damn fucking thing.
Five yards.
I’ll s
oon be with you, Dad. Finally get a chance to grab that beer together. Is Mum with you? Do they have beer where you are?
Two yards, runway racing beneath them.
One yard.
Good-bye, Sarah. I’m sorry about James’s shirt. Don’t join me and the parents anytime soon.
Bang.
The noise was deafening. Movement everywhere. Men shaken in their seats; the unconscious ones being flipped up and down. Sparks streaming alongside the outside of the windows. Metal screeching, bits of it falling off. Glass smashing. Wind rushing through the cabin. Men shouting. Screaming. The plane twisting and shuddering.
It was like this for fifteen seconds.
The plane tilted. Half of a wing was ripped off, the remainder dug into the runway, sparks spewing out of the trail. The plane spun, lifted off the ground, walloped back down, spun again.
Blood in Will’s mouth. Brain banging against the inside of his skull. Pain everywhere. And confusion.
Plane still spinning, heading off the runway toward grassland. Good or bad thing? Will had no idea. Off the runway, mud and grass flying up the sides of the craft, some of it entering the plane and covering faces and bodies.
Different noise now. Rough ground. Slowing down. Tail snapped off. Shit! Back end of plane upending. Two bodies flying your way. Cover your head. No idea which way’s up or down.
Thwack.
Will lay still, men on top of him. Movement? No, everything seemed to have stopped. No sound. No sight. Does that mean death?
Then shouting. Familiar voices.
Roger. “Fucking move!”
Derksen. “Fire in the rear! Get that door open!”
Mark. “Shit! Shit!”
Mikhail. “Will?”
Weight being lifted off him. Breathing easier. Light, but acrid. Mikhail over him. Arms grabbing him. “Come on, Will.”
On his feet. Going to collapse. No, being held firm by the Russian. Carnage everywhere. Laith and Adam yanking on the emergency exit’s handles, faces covered in crap, clothes ripped. Derksen barking orders.
“Come on, Will.”
You’re alive. Think. Action.
Will rushed to the door and grabbed a piece of the handle. “One, two, three. Now!”
They turned the handles, Will and Laith simultaneously kicked the door, and it fell away.
“We’ve got an exit!” Will glanced at the three unconscious Dutch operatives, piled by the cockpit door. “One each, fifty yards from plane.” He hauled one of the men onto his shoulder, clambered out of the wreckage, and ran as fast as he could before lowering the man onto grass and sprinting back to the plane. Laith and Adam passed him in the opposite direction, carrying the other injured men. Inside the plane, Derksen and the remaining two DSI operatives were moving up the aisle while holding guns in one hand and Dmitriev with the other. The old man had cuts on his face, looked ashen and in shock, but otherwise seemed unharmed. Roger and Mark were in the cockpit checking the pilots. Blood was pouring down the copilot’s face; his colleague had his head tilted back, eyes screwed tight, and was moaning.
“What’s their condition?”
Roger’s answered, “Copilot’s out of it but alive; pilot’s conscious.”
“Broken neck or back?”
“Don’t know.”
Will cursed and looked toward the rear of the plane. Black smoke was billowing in the rear compartment, and he could see flames. If they moved the pilots and they had broken necks or backs, they could kill them. “Fuck it! Plane could go up any second. We’ve got to get them out of here.”
Roger and Mark began unstrapping the pilots as Derksen and his men guided Dmitriev out of the craft.
Will called out to Derksen, “There are aircraft buildings about three hundred yards away, forest beyond that; couldn’t see any other cover apart from the control tower, which is four hundred yards in the opposite direction.”
“Okay. We’ll take him to the buildings.”
Will looked at Mikhail. “Go with them.” He helped his colleagues one by one carry the pilots and lay them on the ground adjacent to the plane. Removing his thick overcoat, he laid it flat. With Roger, they rested the pilot on top of the coat, grabbed corners of the coat, and ran the makeshift stretcher to the part of the field containing the unconscious DSI men. He glanced at Roger and said, “Stay on Dmitriev,” grabbed the coat, and rushed back to Mark and the copilot. They repeated the drill, placing the injured man in the coat, and began carrying the copilot away from the plane.
They were thirty yards from the wreckage when the plane exploded and sent them crashing to the ground. Will covered his head as shards and chunks of metal flew through the air, waiting helplessly for a bit of the craft to smash through his skull. He breathed deeply; nothing had hit him. Rolling onto his side, his stomach wrenched as he looked at Mark. A jagged piece of metal was protruding from his thigh; his shredded trousers were covered in blood.
Mark said between gritted teeth, “I can make it to the others. . but can’t help you with the copilot anymore. Sorry.”
“Shit!” Will dashed to him, saw that the metal had gone right through Mark’s leg, and prayed that it hadn’t severed a major artery. Removing his belt, he said, “Got to get a tourniquet on there before-”
“I know what to do.” Mark grabbed the belt and began wrapping it around his thigh. “Help the others.” After fixing the strap in place, he crawled past Will, beads of sweat on his grubby face, while trying to ignore his agonizing injury.
Will lifted the copilot and used a fireman’s carry to get him to the other injured men. Roger, Derksen, Mikhail, and the two other Dutch operatives were one hundred yards away, taking Dmitriev toward three white buildings and two stationary Islander planes. Laith and Adam were examining each man, trying to ascertain their injuries and make them as comfortable as possible. “Where the hell are the damn emergency services?” He glanced toward the distant control tower. “The air traffic controller called them at least ten minutes ago.”
Laith shrugged. “Appears we’re in the middle of frickin’ nowhere.”
Will looked around the airport. Aside from the three buildings, the tower, the strip of runway and open grassland on either side of it, there was nothing else here save forest on all sides of the complex.
Something felt wrong.
A tiny, isolated airport.
Hidden away.
Zero security.
Fuck!
This was meant to happen.
Laith screamed, crumpled to the ground. Adam yelped, flipped sideways.
Will dived forward, just before a third bullet struck ground where his feet had been. “Sniper! Sniper!” He glanced at his colleagues, saw both had been shot in their calves, sprinted, zigzagged, dived again, and rolled. Sprinting ahead to Roger and the others, he screamed, “Get to cover!”
Derksen turned to face him, 150 yards away, then collapsed. Three seconds later, his two colleagues were lying next to him, all of them writhing in pain from the leg shots. Roger and Mikhail grabbed Dmitriev and tried to move the old man as fast as they could, but they only managed a few paces before Roger shouted, “Fuck!” He released Dmitriev, staggered, and collapsed while holding his hand over the gun wound to his knee. A moment later, Mikhail was knocked off his feet and fell on top of him, the back of his knee a bloody mess.
“Get to the buildings! Keep moving!”
Dmitriev walked as fast as he could, though he was an easy target. Will dashed right, as a bullet grazed his thigh. Wincing in pain, he kept sprinting, changed direction again, wondering why the sniper was incapacitating the team but not killing them.
He raced past Roger and Mikhail, both alive but unable to move due to their injuries.
Another shot.
Jesus, what was that?
A burning sensation behind one leg.
Severe pain.
Will fell forward, pulled out his handgun, used his elbows to crawl onward.
Couldn’t stand.
Not with a high-velocity bullet having passed through his leg.
Dmitriev was eighty yards from the buildings. Why wasn’t he shot?
Fifty yards behind him, Will crawled inch by inch, his face screwed up, his breathing rapid.
Kronos placed the sniper rifle down, withdrew his pistol and military knife, walked past the bound and gagged air traffic controller, and made his way down the control tower. So far, everything had gone according to plan. With the login info he’d stolen from the Dutch pilot in Frankfurt, he’d logged on to Holland’s AIS air traffic control website and obtained information about general aviation commercial carriers that had lodged their flight plans in Dutch airspace for the day that Dmitriev was being transported. Only one plane was logged to fly between the southern military base and The Hague, and he established that it was currently being serviced and kept in a civilian airport. He’d infiltrated the place and inserted two cigarette-lighter-sized explosive devices into the carrier’s engines. Both were timed to go off at a moment during the flight when the only nearby airstrip was this one. As extra insurance, he’d taken over the air traffic control tower and used its communications system to guide the captain of the plane to this place. The captain had no idea that he was talking to an assassin who had no intention of calling emergency services.
It would have all been so much easier if his plan had been to kill Dmitriev without speaking to him first.
He still had to be careful. By now, Dmitriev would have reached the buildings, and might have decided to continue onward into the forest. That didn’t matter, because he’d easily catch up with the old man. What did matter was that, though injured, the Russian’s security team could still shoot him from a distance. He’d had to keep them alive, because it was possible he needed their help. Moreover, he was a professional, and his orders were to kill Dmitriev; he’d received no instructions to kill anyone else.
Exiting the building, he ran into the forest and sprinted close to its edge. He caught glimpses of the three white buildings. He’d reach them in one minute. Then everything would be concluded.
Fighting every instinct in his body to stop, roll over, and wait for help, Will kept crawling toward the buildings. He was forty yards away, but might as well have been four miles away at the speed he was moving. Dmitriev was there, waiting by one of the walls, looking left and right, no doubt trying to decide what to do. Will attempted to call to him, but blood entered his mouth and made him choke. Dmitriev moved.