First Team [First Team 01] Read online

  “Looks like a water taxi office,” said Guns. “Except that there’s no dispatcher here to take calls.”

  “Maybe they’re out,” said Rankin. “Where do you figure the helicopter is?”

  “I don’t know. They’re missing their boat as well,” said Guns. “Neither of those little skiffs out there rates as a water taxi.”

  “You sure they have one?” Rankin asked.

  “Either that or the picture’s a fake,” said the Marine, picking up a framed photo from the front desk.

  “Maybe we should go look for them,” suggested Rankin. They left Massette with the Filipinos to search and secure the building, with orders to seize the computers and papers as part of the terrorist investigation. Guns and Rankin climbed aboard one of the Defenders and pulled back out over the ocean.

  “What are we looking for?” asked the pilot.

  “This boat,” said Rankin, showing him the picture.

  “I can check with the Navy patrol,” added the pilot.

  “Go for it,” said Rankin.

  ~ * ~

  20

  OVER THE PACIFIC

  Corrine felt as if her body deflated as the Navy pilots reported seeing the 747 disintegrating as it hit the water.

  “Down, it’s down,” said Wolf.

  “Good,” she told him.

  She turned to the others, giving them a thumbs-up. Then she punched back into Corrigan’s line, relaying the information.

  “I’m afraid Ferguson and Conners haven’t been located yet,” he said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  Neither one stated the obvious—the two men were probably aboard the plane that had just been shot down.

  “Navy is challenging an Indian flight over the northern Philippines,” one of the communications specialists said to Corrine. “Data says it’s a 707. They’re off their filed flight plan, but they’re a regular flight for Hawaii. Carry flowers, that sort of thing.”

  Corrine started to say that they could let it go, but then she remembered the bulletin Corrigan had issued earlier—the terrorists had two planes.

  “Do they have it in sight?”

  “Negative. It’s responded properly to the civilian controllers, however. Looks like it’s OK.”

  They all wanted to knock off. They deserved to. And this plane was a 707, not a 747—and Indian besides.

  Corrine reached for the mike switch. Her job was to be the president’s conscience, and she’d done it well, ordering the shootdown of the terrorist plane at the very last second—a tough decision that had to be made. Now it was time to go home.

  Or was it? Nothing could be overlooked—that was the lesson of the boxcars, wasn’t it?

  “Tell them to get it in sight,” she told the Navy controller. “Tell them to make sure it’s a 707, not a 747. And don’t just settle for a radar contact either.”

  She hit the switch and keyed back into Corrigan. “Mr. Corrigan, what was the information regarding the planes the Sri Lankan company owns?”

  “Which ones?” asked Corrigan.

  “They have 707s?”

  “They have three, all being refurbished. Bought them surplus,” Corrigan stopped, checking through his papers. “They got them from an Indian airline—I don’t have the exact information in front of me. Is it important?”

  Corrine turned back to the com specialist. “Set up a direct line to the Navy patrol, just like you did for Basher. I want that plane stopped.”

  ~ * ~

  21

  ABOARD INDIAN CARGO CARRIER FLIGHT 12, BOUND FOR HAWAII

  As the time to leave the plane sped toward him, Samman Bin Saqr thought more and more of staying in the plane, guiding it the next several thousand miles and ending in a blaze of glory in downtown Honolulu. After such a long struggle, paradise would be a welcome reward.

  He reminded himself that there were many other battles to wage—the Americans would have to be taught again and again the reality of their sins. His next operation would be even greater. It was selfish to leave the fight so soon.

  And so, as they cleared the last of the American patrols and adjusted course to skirt the Philippines as he had planned, Samman Bin Saqr undid his restraints and turned to his copilot.

  “We are doing well, Vesh,” he said over the intercom.

  The copilot turned and smiled. As he did, Samman Bin Saqr reached to his outer thigh and drew the pistol from the pocket in his flight suit. He fired three bullets point-blank into Vesh’s chest.

  “You will still see heaven,” he told his follower. “But this way it is guaranteed, with no opportunity for cowardice.”

  Samman Bin Saqr checked the autopilot unit, which had been customized to ensure it would reach its target. Once set, the aircraft would be locked on its path. Radio queries would be analyzed by a special computer section, with recorded answers played back to soothe inquiring minds.

  Bin Saqr pressed the buttons in sequence. The yoke moved slightly, away from his hands. The Americans’ fate was now set.

  He smiled, permitting himself a moment of satisfaction, then rose from his seat. As he did, the rear of the flight deck exploded.

  In the cargo hold, Ferguson threw himself over Conners as the flash bang detonated the Russian grenade. Rather than launching forward, the grenade’s propellant exploded and set off the charge in the fuse as well. The shock wave rumbled through the plane, shaking its ribs like the water in a shallow bowl. Ferguson looked up and saw a shaft of light streaming above him from the flight deck. He jumped up, slamming his fingers into the metal and scrambling upward, gun in hand. He couldn’t hear anything, not even the jet engines—the blast had temporarily deafened him.

  The plane dipped forward. The door had remained intact, but the blast had punched a jagged, eighteen-inch hole through the middle. Ferguson scrambled on the ledge and saw that the welded bar at the side had been shattered. He put his hand on it to steady himself and felt it move as the plane began to dip sharply on its left wing. Ferguson started to fall backward but managed to grab the end of the bar, suspended for a moment in midair.

  Inside the cabin, Samman Bin Saqr struggled to get up. He knew the devils had somehow managed to board his plane, and knew also that he would stop them. He pushed away from the captain’s seat, his face wet with blood. He reached back to his thigh for his pistol, then wiped his eyes with his sleeve, trying to see.

  As Ferguson struggled to hold his balance, he put his hand back on the doorframe. Before he could steady himself, however, the door began to slide down like a sled on a slippery slope; he pulled back as it shot to the floor, the aircraft still reeling in the sky. He threw himself into the empty white hole, falling onto the carpeted deck and losing his pistol.

  Ferguson pushed upright as the plane tilted to the right. Something rose in front of him, more shadow than human, more devil than anything that breathed. Every ounce of energy in his worn and battered body boiled into rage, and Ferguson threw himself forward, forgetting everything but rage.

  He grabbed Samman Bin Saqr by the neck. The terrorist swung his pistol wildly, firing and at the same time trying to hit his assailant with the barrel. Ferguson swung his right fist down into Samman Bin Saqr’s temple, pounding and pounding.

  The airplane, its automated pilot damaged by the shrapnel of the grenade, nosed into a dive, accelerating as the two men struggled. As its speed multiplied, the aerodynamic design of its airframe took over, stopping it from its plunge and making it rise. The two men tumbled backward, their fates intertwined with unfathomable hate and fury. Samman Bin Saqr managed to pull Ferguson over his side and pin him against the side control panel.

  “I’ll kill you, American,” said Samman Bin Saqr, choosing English so his assailant could understand his last words.

  Ferguson felt the barrel of the pistol against his head but heard nothing, still deaf. His gun was behind him somewhere, but he remembered the second flash-bang in his pocket. He reached desperately, hooking it with his thumb and trying to grab
the pin, but the plane shifted downward again, rocking left and right with the windy turbulence outside. Ferguson slid the grenade around to get at the pin but then lost the grenade as Bin Saqr pressed against his hand.

  The Muslim fanatic cursed as the American slid away from the barrel just as he fired the gun. Bin Saqr struggled to get the gun back and fire again. He would kill the devil, kill him, then fly the plane himself to his reward.

  As he pulled the barrel close to Ferguson’s head, he realized someone else was on the flight deck behind him. He turned, expecting somehow that Vesh had come back from the dead. But it wasn’t—it was Conners, on his knees, a pistol in his hands. The SF sergeant squeezed off a shot; the nine-millimeter bullet caught Samman Bin Saqr square in the forehead as he turned.

  The second bullet took off the top part of his skull and splattered a good portion of his brains against the side windscreen.

  ~ * ~

  22

  ABOARD SF COMMAND TRANSPORT 3

  As soon as Corrine heard the report from the Navy patrol, she knew that somehow, some way, Ferguson and Conners had managed to take over the aircraft.

  “Can you raise it on the radio?” she asked.

  “We’re trying. Looks like it’s out of control. It’s flying south but very erratically.”

  Corrine looked over at Gray, who was tracking the position. “If they fly south another ten minutes, they’ll be in a sea-lane,” said the Air Force major. “Beyond that, they’ll be over land.”

  She nodded, then clicked her mike to talk. “Close your distance so you can shoot them down,” she told the Navy pilot. “I want you close enough to read any markings on that plane. If they don’t respond to you and change their course, I want you to shoot them down.”

  “Understood. I’ll get close enough for a cannon shot. I’ll be right on top of him,” replied the pilot.

  “I don’t care if you use an ax to take that plane down, as long as it’s not over land.”

  ~ * ~

  23

  OVER THE PACIFIC, NEAR THE PHILIPPINES

  Rankin spotted the speedboat fifty miles offshore. It was sitting in the middle of nowhere, a large radar revolving on a platform near the stern.

  “Guns, why would a boat be way the hell out here?” Rankin asked.

  “That a trick question?” the Marine asked, leaning forward from the rear bench.

  “Let’s take a look,” Rankin told the pilot.

  “Wait,” said the pilot. “We’re being hailed—the Navy fighters are warning off aircraft.”

  “Holy shit, look at that,” said Guns, pointing out the right-side window. A 747 tucked out of the sky, weaving drunkenly.

  ~ * ~

  A

  board the terrorist airplane, Ferguson squirmed around to get out of Samman Bin Saqr’s death grip. His head pounded and he had trouble breathing; his mouth tasted blood.

  Conners, worn-out by the exertion it had taken to get up to the cabin, remained on the floor, just barely conscious. Ferguson made his way over to him as the plane began to level off. He shook him; Conners looked up and smiled.

  “Finnegan rises again,” muttered the soldier. “Now what the hell do we do?”

  Ferguson saw his mouth moving, but heard nothing.

  “They got my ears fucked up, Dad. I can’t hear—you can sing all you want.”

  Conners slumped back down. Ferguson shook him—they’d have to figure out how the radio worked so they could get instructions on how to fly the plane and maybe ditch it in the water. Since he couldn’t hear, he needed Conners awake.

  Ferguson saw a door at the rear quarter of the flight deck. Realizing it must be a bathroom and thinking he could use the water to revive Conners, he pushed into the small space. A man he only vaguely recognized as himself gaped at him from the mirror. Ferguson started to laugh. He lost his balance, falling onto the toilet, whose lid fortunately was closed. He looked down at his shoes. Between his feet was a ring lock; the bottom of the floor was a hatchway.

  Ferguson reached down and pulled at the latch; it moved, but to open the panel he’d have to go back outside.

  “I think I found out how they set the bomb,” he told Conners. He saw the sergeant’s mouth move in response—Conners only grunted—then told him to get his rest; he’d figure out how to defuse it himself.

  “Or I may blow us up,” he added. For some reason, the idea struck him as the funniest thing he had ever thought of, and he was still laughing as he pulled the panel upward.

  Instead of the bomb controls, he found a parachute rig. As he took it out, he saw there was a hatchway below it, with a large locking wheel in the middle.

  “Some fuckin’ martyrs,” he said, examining the bag and webbing.

  Jumping from an airliner was difficult under the best circumstances; Ferguson had gone out of C-141s and done both high-altitude, high-opening (HAHO) and high-altitude, low-opening (HALO) jumps, but always with the help of a special baffle that allowed for an easy—relatively speaking—egress from the airplane.

  On the other hand, he figured, if these fucks could do it, he could.

  But there was only one rig.

  Ferguson sat Conners up against the side of the cockpit and got him to hold the thick webbing of the chute straps in his hands. He climbed into the pilot’s seat, wondering what the odds were of flying the aircraft to some sort of landing. As he pulled against the unresponsive yoke—the autopilot had been rigged to completely override the cockpit controls once locked—a yellow streak flashed across the bow of the plane. Ferguson, unsure at first what he was seeing, stared as the streak turned black, then disappeared. He turned to his left, looking out the window.

  A Navy jet flashed below. Ferguson pounded on the glass and cursed. Something crashed into the plane hard from behind; he felt a low rumble, and realized they were shooting at the plane. He reached to grab the headset from the dead copilot, then remembered that he still couldn’t hear. Cursing, he jumped back up.

  “Dad, let’s get the fuck out of here,” said Ferguson.

  Conners saw his companion’s face as he picked him up. He had no idea where they were—a bar back in Jersey? He wondered.

  Then he remembered they were in the terrorist airplane.

  “We gotta get the bastards,” he told Ferguson, who for some reason was turning him around.

  The straps would only fit around one of them. Ferguson put the rig on Conners so that the chute was on his stomach, then managed to work his own leg through the left strap and tied himself to his companion with his belt. The arrangement wouldn’t exactly pass muster with the U.S. Parachute Association, but it was going to have to do—the aircraft waddled and shook with a fresh round of cannon shots at the rear.

  Ferguson pulled Conners with him to the air lock. It turned easily, and as soon as it hit its stop, began to descend. Unsure what was happening, Ferguson hesitated a moment, then saw a side brace inset into the opening, which looked as if it were a manhole opening for a sewer. He grabbed for it, pushing over, then felt a rush of air. The plane’s nose kicked toward the earth—Ferguson and Conners fell into the opening, which extended like a laundry chute through the bottom of the aircraft and below the fuselage and its murderous jet stream. As soon as they were inside the wind howled; Ferguson tried to instinctively grab on to the side to stop his fall but a jet of air forced him and Conners downward and away from the plane, literally spitting them toward the ground, temporarily overcoming the fierce counterforces near the airfoil. In an instant they were tumbling free, in about as uncontrolled a free fall as possible, projectiles tossed from the underside of the aircraft.

  They’d gone out around twelve thousand feet, which under other circumstances might have been considered an easy jump. It allowed for about a minute of free fall before it would be necessary to pull the rip cord, which ideally Ferguson would do around three thousand feet. But as he spread his arms to try to arch, he felt Conners lurching away from him. Ferguson grabbed at him, shouting for him to arc
h and trying to pull his upper body back in a way that, to his confused mind, would perfectly stabilize them. As he did, the parachute exploded out of the pack, preset by an automatic altimeter. Caught unprepared, Ferg jerked back, hanging off Conners as they spun wildly in the air. He saw the nylon of the canopy rising and spreading above him, and pushed over the trooper to grab at the togs, which would control their descent.

  The chute had been designed and packed for a high-altitude opening, and it unfolded in slow motion, which made it somewhat easier for Ferguson to react and get control. But he was working practically upside down, and even if he’d been completely upright, the weight of the two men would have knocked off the custom-designed rig. Ferg couldn’t even reach the left tog. The cells of the chute filled, slowing them, but then the uneven tilt pushed the left side of the canopy in. The rear flagged out, catching the wind but pitching Ferguson around awkwardly as he struggled to grab the other controls. The blood drained from his arms and head. He felt dizzy, and his stomach flipped over.