by Larry Bond
“Outside, get everyone outside.” He turned to go back in but someone stopped him — Peterson.
“Your suit,” she said, pointing. “It’s torn.”
“I’m OK.”
“Over here!” she yelled. There was a strict protocol, and not even Van Buren could avoid it. Medics swarmed around.
“No blood,” said someone.
“Thank God,” said someone else.
“I’m OK,” said Van Buren.
“Hit the back of the vest,” said a medic. “Concrete.”
“I’m all right,” he said.
“Make sure it didn’t get into his skin.”
“No blood.”
“I’m OK,” insisted Van Buren. Dizziness and nausea swirled in his head; he pulled his hood off, breathing the crisp night air, hoping it would revive him.
“I want a board,” said the medic next to him. “Piece of concrete ricocheted and hit your back. Your spine may be bruised.”
“No, that’s not necessary,” said Van Buren, his head clearing. “Did we get Ferguson and Conners?” he asked. “Where’s Ferg? Where the fuck is he?”
“They’re not here,” said one of the sergeants whose team had secured the buildings, then conducted a search. “AC-130 is using its infrared to locate guerrillas. There’s two groups moving out down the road, and all those guys have guns. Ferguson and Conners aren’t here. They must’ve gone out on the plane.”
“Typical Ferg, always looking for another party.” Van Buren walked with one of the medics to a second area, where he was to shed his gear and take a cocktail of anti-radiation drugs as a precaution. “Where’s communications? Somebody get me hooked up to Ms. Alston. Everybody else — let’s go, saddle up. Come on, you know the drill. Go. Go.”
11
SRI LANKA — AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER
The ground crew Samman Bin Saqr had chosen was waiting at the hangar when he landed, alerted by his message. Two fuel trucks met him in the apron area; he permitted himself a short respite, climbing down from the plane as it was “hot pitted,” refueled, and prepped so it could leave without hesitation.
The terrorist leader made his way down to the tarmac where his men were working feverishly. The replacement crew met him as planned, fully expecting to fly the plane to its target. Samman Bin Saqr studied both men, then tapped the pilot on the shoulder.
“You will take the first officer’s seat,” he told him. He turned to the other man, who had been trained as the copilot. “Go with the others. Your time will come.”
Both men nodded, without commenting, and moved to their respective tasks. One of the maintenance people walked toward the rear of the aircraft.
“Where are you going?” said Samman Bin Saqr sharply. He had handpicked the maintenance people, just as he had chosen all of the people involved in the project. But now he feared that the Americans had somehow managed to infiltrate his team.
The man pointed toward the side-loading cargo door. The door had been welded shut early in its overhaul; only the specially built opening at the rear had been used to load the aircraft.
“Leave it,” said Samman Bin Saqr. “Leave the plane as it is.”
The man started to object. Samman Bin Saqr turned to the head of the ground team, who was just trotting up to see what the problem was. “Shoot him,” he said.
He heard the shot as he walked back toward the cockpit. Samman Bin Saqr permitted himself a short pause on the steps, waiting as the fuel trucks finished. He was taking off several hours too soon, but it couldn’t be helped. It wouldn’t do to wait. He had an appointment with destiny.
By the end of the day, America’s island paradise would be a hell of unimaginable proportions. His legacy would be known for decades, perhaps even centuries, to come.
Ferguson knew they were on the ground, but nothing else made sense to him. He could hear the engines humming at idle. He wondered if they had been forced down, unsure whether that would mean the rear door would be opened or if the plane would simply be blown up.
He fished in the darkness for his rifle. He found his rucksack, then crawled over it, still searching for the AK-74. Conners lay half on it, breathing unevenly. He’d thrown up all over himself.
The first sign of radiation poisoning? Or was it simply motion sickness?
Ferguson pulled the rifle out from under the sergeant’s body. As he retrieved it, the 747 began to roll. He began firing wildly at the floor of the plane, thinking he might strike the landing gear or otherwise disable it. The plane’s engines were so loud he could barely even hear the gun as it fired. He burned the clip, slapped it away, grabbed the last one from his ruck and fired again, even more wildly, peppering the back of the plane.
Ferguson lost his balance as the jet pushed its nose up into the air. He tumbled against the metal, landing near the cargo bay door that he had come in through. Desperate, he pulled out his pistol and fired wildly at what he thought was the door’s locking mechanism; two bullets ricocheted off to his right, and if any of the others hit, they had no effect on the lock.
“Shit,” he said. He gave in to his frustration, slamming the heel of his gun against the metal-grate floor, pounding it down and screaming, venting his fury at the plane, cursing himself for stupidly boarding it, cursing the bastard terrorists, cursing his inability to think clearly and come up with a plan. He punched and kicked the floor until not just his hands but his shoulders and thighs were numb.
When finally he had purged his rage, he sat back up in the darkness and tried to figure out what to do next.
12
ABOARD SF COMMAND TRANSPORT 3, OVER THE PERSIAN GULF — AN HOUR LATER
Corrine listened to Van Buren finish his summary of what they had found at the base. He had three additional prisoners aboard his aircraft, which was about fifteen minutes from the Turkish border. Two of his men had sustained small wounds. The radiation exposure to the team was within acceptable limits.
The facility had been temporarily sealed off by exploding several large charges near the entrances. The damage would not preclude the facility from being repaired and reused; presumably the Russians would have to see to that themselves. They were already en route.
Of more immediate concern: A smorgasbord of waste material had been stored in the cave. The plane that had taken off was a flying radiation bomb.
And Ferguson and Conners were undoubtedly on it.
“Thank you, Colonel. Job well done,” she told him. Then she looked up at the communications specialist. “Put the president through now,” she told him.
The young man nodded, doing his best to hide his anxiety at channeling a transmission from the commander in chief. One of the president’s aides came on the line, and the specialist pointed at Corrine as the White House connection went through.
“Well, dear, you are making a considerable amount of noise in Moscow, so I cannot imagine what is going on in the Caucasus,” said the president.
“We’ve secured a terrorist facility in pursuance of U.S. and international law,” she told him.
“I understand the Russian ambassador has a slightly different interpretation of the affair,” said the president. “As a matter of fact, the secretary of state is standing outside my door as we speak, and I hear that his white hair is clumping on my rug.”
“Then perhaps someone from his legal team can dredge up Memo 13-2002, relating to the antiterrorist letter signed during the second Bush administration,” said Corrine.
“You’re thinking like a lawyer,” said the president.
“You don’t want me to?”
“I’m not complaining, Counselor. Just offering commentary.”
The president paused, distracted by one of his aides in his office. When he came back on the line, Corrine tried to seem more conciliatory and less tired.
“Notifying the Russian government of the situation as it developed would have meant jeopardizing our people,” she told the president.
“Now, now, I didn’t put yo
u out there to be offering excuses. I’m expecting that you did the right thing and that the chips will fall where they may. As I understand the memo you cited,” the president added, his voice making it seem as an aside, “the letter covers the pursuit of terrorists, and there seems to be some concern that it means ‘hot pursuit.’”
“I’m not sure I understand the difference between hot and cold,” said Corrine.
McCarthy laughed, though she hadn’t meant it as a joke.
“Mr. President, we think some of the terrorists managed to escape in an aircraft with considerable nuclear material on board. The aircraft was pursued and fired on by fighters that were part of our attack group, but it’s not clear that it was shot down; there’s heavy cloud cover in the area obscuring the crash site. I’ve authorized a team to survey the area, which will undoubtedly lead to more protests.”
“Understood.”
“The aircraft that escaped was a 747 that may have been set up as a bomb; we’re simply not sure. There’s also a good possibility that two of our people are aboard that aircraft.”
The president remained silent.
“If we didn’t get it, and it crashes somewhere,” said Corrine, “it’ll be a hell of a mess. I have a net set out, but if I just shoot it down, it may explode. The fallout is bound to be a problem. People may die.”
“Am I speaking to my private counsel?” said McCarthy.
“Yes,” she said, realizing that he wanted the communication to be confidential.
“Shoot it down, girl.”
“We’re working on it.”
“That’s what I want to hear. Keep me informed.”
13
OVER THE PACIFIC
The flashlight batteries had gone out, but Ferguson realized he could use the light cast from the laptop’s screen to see, at least for short distances. He took it with him as he moved around the plane.
The floor and ceiling panels were screwed in; it occurred to him that it might be possible to unscrew them and reach the control cable for the rudder and elevator in the tail. Ferguson knew nothing about how the controls worked, let alone whether they were hydraulic or electric. But he was so desperate to do something that he instantly became consumed by the idea, focusing on it as the one solution to the situation, the one real thing he could do. If he could find them, he might get through the cables somehow — hack them if they were wires, or use the bullets remaining in his pistol if they were metal to puncture them.
He started looking along the floor first, mostly because it was the easier place to look. On his hands and knees, Ferg took his knife and began working at the screws, which had Phillips head crosses. He got three off and was working on a fourth when the laptop’s power conservation program kicked in, turning it off; he decided that was a good idea, and continued in darkness, feeling his way to each screw on the eight-foot-long panel. He found there was a trick to it — he set the knife tip in at a slight angle, then slapped at the handle with the palm of his hand, using as much force as he could to get the screw started. Once it moved, he could turn it a few times with the blade at a slightly different angle, and then use his fingers to finish it off. The screws were only an inch long, and with one exception came free fairly easily.
Ferguson knew that if his plan succeeded, he would die in the plane. He saw no alternative; he realized that the metal jacket around the cargo bay contained waste material and explosives, and didn’t even bother getting the rad meter to see how bad it was. From the day that he had been told he had thyroid cancer he had faced the possibility of death, and the fact that it was closing in now did not bother him. He worried instead that the terrorists might succeed in flying the plane into some American landmark, or even crash it into a Third World city. He wanted to stop them, and would use all of his energy to do so.
One of the screws refused to come off. Ferguson slapped at it, punching the end of the knife hard. He tried prying underneath it, and finally wedged the blade in. But then as he poked the dagger in the slit again, the tip of the knife broke off.
He lay with his head down on the deck for a full minute. Then he stabbed at the screw, playfully at first, then more seriously, managing to use the sheared edge as a chisel and pushing off the head. That broke the blade more, but not so badly that he couldn’t use it to help pry up the floor panel. He slid it down toward the back and brought over the laptop, turning it on so he could see.
There was a solid layer of metal below him. When Ferguson climbed down to examine it, he found soldered seams. The thin cover took two blows from his knife and gave way.
Instead of wires, the space was filled by a low-grade radioactive sludge, processed from medical waste. He reached in and began to scoop, pulling out what looked and felt like dry, lumpy clay. Finally he reached metal. He felt all around with his hand, but found no cable. He took his knife and pounded again; this time it didn’t give way.
All right, he thought to himself, the roof is next.
Ferguson took off his shirt and cleaned his hand, tossing the shirt back down. Then he pulled over the floor panel, worried that Conners or even he might roll around and fall through if the plane hit violent turbulence.
Lying near the front of the cargo bay, Conners alternated between sleep and a vague, light consciousness, his mind dipping back and forth between black darkness and gray twilight. A dozen songs played at the back of his head, and at times he saw the face of a friend of his, a kid he’d known in high school, real party animal, always ready with a smoke or beer. Other sensations slipped through his mind, colors and sounds and smells, but he didn’t focus on any one thing until Ferguson came over to him, sitting him up to search for his knife. Conners groaned, his stomach rumbling again.
“Just want your knife, Dad,” Ferguson told him. “You rest.”
Ferg’s voice salted his clouded consciousness — Conners snapped fully awake.
“We have to stop these fucks,” he told Ferguson.
“Yeah, Dad, no shit,” said Ferguson. “I need your knife.”
“Force the door,” said Dad.
“They welded it or something,” said Ferguson. “I couldn’t get it open.”
“Blast it.”
“I need your knife.”
“OK.”
Ferguson didn’t bother explaining. He took the knife and the laptop and began looking for an easy area to scale.
“We got to get them, Ferg,” Conners called to him, yelling over the high hum of the engines. He pulled off his vomit-soaked shirt, pushing it toward the pile of puke on the floor.
Ferguson examined the panel over the center of the plane. He thought he could get all but the last three screws relatively easily. With the others gone, he could put his weight on the panel and pull it down. He propped the laptop up nearby and went to work.
Conners pushed to get up, thinking he would help Ferguson. Ferg heard him groan as he settled back down.
“Listen, Dad, you just hang out down there, OK?” Ferguson squinted at him. “I have this under control.”
“We have to stop the plane, Ferg.”
“I’m with you. You just relax.”
The laptop flew off the narrow ledge where Ferguson had wedged it as the airplane bucked with a strong eddy of wind. It smacked into pieces on the floor back near the door. Ferguson cursed, then continued to work, managing to get four screws off in the darkness. He tried to shortcut the process by wedging the knife in and hanging off the panel; when that didn’t work, he went back to working at the screws, his weight shifting precariously as he leaned across from the built-up panel at the side. It was almost impossible to move the screws that were tight, but he found that he could push the heads down a little by prying and hanging on the panel. He began to snap them off, one by one.
“How’s it going?” Conners asked.
“We’re getting there. Three more years, and we’ll be done.”
Conners moved his legs, trying to warm them somewhat. He started humming to himself without really thin
king about it, falling into “Jug of Punch.”
“Glad you’re feeling better,” said Ferguson.
“How’s that?”
“You’re singing.”
“Just humming. Trying to boost your morale.”
“Go for it.” Ferguson grabbed hold of the side of the panel and put his legs against the edge of the small shelf he’d been perched on. Then he sprang forward, pushing with all his might. The last screws snapped. He tumbled to the floor, the aluminum grate clanging on top of him.
“Finnegan lived in Walken Street, a gentle Irishman, mighty odd,’” sang Ferguson, starting to look for his knife. By the time he had found the knife, Conners had joined in. Ferguson walked back toward him to climb up; Conners sensed him coming in the dark and reached out his hand.
“When you take out the controls, we’ll be goners,” he said. His voice was matter-of-fact.
“Yeah,” said Ferguson. “We got to do it, Dad.”
“I just want to say, you’re all right for a CIA spook.”
“Yeah, we’re not all dicks,” said Ferg, reaching in the blackness for his handholds. “Though we try.”
14
BUILDING 24-442
Thomas stared at the screen, which had all of the information he had been able to compile on assets connected to the companies he now saw must be related to bin Saqr. Those assets included a 747 — but it wasn’t the right airplane.
He knew it wasn’t the right airplane because he had tracked through the ID registries and — after an assist by the Boeing people to make sure there was no possibility of a mistake — had found the aircraft in operation just a few days before in India. It was registered to a legitimate Sri Lankan firm, and had made a flight into that country’s airport at Kankesaturai.
But of course that couldn’t be, since the plane was in Chechnya.
Thomas at first resisted the obvious conclusion: that the terrorists were using the Sri Lankan company and owned two aircraft. He searched for more information about the Sri Lankan company and its other holdings: several very old 707s. He thought that the listing of the aircraft with the other firm must therefore be a mistake, since unlike the one believed to have flown from Chechnya this one made legitimate flights.