King Solomon's Curse

1

Deputy US Marshal Art Garrison peered through a porthole at the empty azure sea thirty-seven thousand feet below, then looked back at his prisoner. Younger and cockier men would have made a sardonic comment about it being the last good view the shackled man would ever have, but the craggy team leader merely gave him a cold stare, getting a sneer in response, then turned away.

It had taken almost two years of legal wrangling for Philippe Mukobo, a native of the Democratic Republic of Congo but whose reign of terror had bloodied several other central African nations, to be turned over to the custody of Garrison and his two fellow marshals. Mukobo was high on Interpol’s most-wanted list for numerous crimes including mass murder, rape and drug running, but the diplomatic weight of the United States had decided for which he would stand trial — and where.

The Skyblue Airlines 747-8 was on its way from Paris to New York. Mukobo’s lawyers had fought a long but ultimately futile battle at the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg to prevent his extradition for the murders of a group of American aid workers six years prior. All avenues now exhausted, the warlord was being taken in chains to face justice.

The thought brought a brief smile to Garrison’s stern face. Mukobo was a monster, plain and simple, and he would finally get what he deserved. Life without parole in a federal penitentiary was the best he could hope for; execution was more likely. Though the plane was heading for New York, his trial would take place in nearby New Hampshire. Partly because three of his victims were from that state, but also because it maintained the death penalty. Those pushing for Mukobo’s prosecution wanted every possible sentencing option.

He glanced at his watch. Four hours before landing; halfway across the Atlantic. Garrison permitted himself to relax a little, leaning back in the comfortable business-class seat. The Justice Department had booked every seat on Flight 180’s upper deck to isolate Mukobo from the other passengers, any displaced travellers getting upgrades to first class courtesy of Uncle Sam. Pricey, but less so than despatching a US government jet solely to transport one prisoner.

A quick check on his team. Radley was behind him, guarding the spiral staircase down to the main deck, while Szernow sat by the cockpit door. Should anything happen, they were ready for it.

Another look through the porthole. The sky was clear. It would be a smooth flight.

‘You okay, Pierre? You look a bit airsick.’

Pierre Noret, the 747’s co-pilot, laughed to cover his nervousness. ‘I’m okay. Thirsty, that’s all.’ He looked at his watch, then drained a plastic water bottle.

The plane’s captain, Paul Watley, nodded. ‘Call one of the girls, have them bring you some more water.’

‘No, I’m okay.’ Noret stood. ‘I have some in my bag.’

‘Don’t get lost,’ said Watley with a chuckle.

Noret smiled thinly, then headed aft. Despite its size, the 747 was designed to be flown by just two pilots; he and Watley were the only people in the cockpit. With the reinforced door locked, the only way for anyone else to gain access was if one of them allowed it.

There was a small crew rest area at the cockpit’s rear. The Frenchman entered, collecting his bag. He suddenly felt hot, sweat prickling his skin. Nervousness became nausea as he took out a fountain pen. It appeared perfectly ordinary, if pricey, but airline pilots were well known for ostentatious accessories. Certainly this one had drawn no attention at the security check.

Noret carefully removed the cap, realising his fingers were trembling. Calm, calm. If he aroused Watley’s suspicions, his only hope of making a fresh start free of his mounting debts and rapacious ex-wife would be over before it even began.

His hands steadied. He slowly turned the pen’s body. A slim needle extended from the nib. The Frenchman hesitated, then tipped the pen downwards, as he had been instructed. A tiny dewdrop of colourless liquid swelled on the silver sting’s point.

One last tense time check, then he headed forward, the pen clutched in his right hand like a dagger. Watley, reading the news on an iPad, didn’t look around at him. Noret advanced on the American, eyes fixed on his target: the right side of Watley’s neck, just above his collar. He would only get one attempt…

The captain sensed the co-pilot’s approach. ‘When we land, it might be worth you seeing the company doctor.’ He turned his head. Noret froze. ‘You really didn’t look well — and God, you look even worse now! Are you sure you’re okay?’

Noret felt sweat sting his eyes. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ He didn’t dare move, terrified of drawing attention to the object in his hand.

Watley gave him a look of concern… then returned his attention to the iPad. ‘Just so long as you—’

The Frenchman lunged, stabbing the pen’s tip into the pilot’s neck. There was a flat phut as a gas injector forced its contents into Watley’s bloodstream.

The captain gasped and jumped up. ‘What was — what the hell?’ He stared at the pen as the Frenchman drew back. The needle was still clearly visible, its tip red with blood. He clambered from his seat, Noret fearfully backing away. ‘What did you…’

Watley staggered, clawing at his co-pilot… then crumpled to the cockpit floor.

Noret stared at him, breathing heavily, before checking Watley’s pulse. He was unconscious, but alive. The sedative had worked as promised.

He dragged the taller man back into his seat and fastened his belt, then went to the engineering consoles and switched the circuit breakers to cut off power to a specific system: the satellite link connecting the aircraft’s wi-fi and telephone services to the outside world. Now, the only working communication channel was via the cockpit radio.

There was one more breaker to open. He hesitated, then tripped it — deactivating the cockpit voice recorder. There would be no audio record of what was about to happen.

Noret returned to his own seat and belted up. Wiping away sweat, he redonned his headphones and tuned the radio to a memorised frequency. ‘Dragonfly, Dragonfly, do you hear me? This is Papillon. Do you hear me?’

No response for several seconds, then: ‘Papillon, Papillon, this is Dragonfly.’ A man’s voice, electronic masking rendering it almost robotic. ‘We hear you. Situation?’

‘Phase one complete,’ said Noret, surprised at his own ability to reduce the enormity of what he had just done to a euphemism so quickly. ‘Where are you?’

‘Flight level three-eight-zero, one kilometre directly behind you. Are you ready to commence?’

He had to compose himself before answering. Assaulting Watley was one thing, but what he was about to do was the antithesis of every commercial pilot’s instincts. Even if everything went perfectly, there was still an element of risk to the three hundred and five passengers and crew. ‘Yes. I’m ready.’

‘Proceed.’

The voice went silent. Noret took a deep breath as he reached the point of no return… then disengaged the autopilot and shoved the control yoke forward, throwing the 747 into a steep dive.

Nausea rose in his stomach as the huge aircraft dropped towards the ocean. He could hear screams through the floor from the passengers below. Trained responses kicked in: he hit the button to turn on the seatbelt lights, then activated the emergency oxygen supply. Muffled bangs echoed through the fuselage as ceiling panels disgorged breathing masks. He switched on the intercom. ‘This is the co-pilot! All passengers must return to their seats immediately! Remain calm and put on your oxygen masks. We have a system malfunction, and are descending to a lower altitude for safety. Everything is under control.’

He eased back the four throttles to lower the stress on the airframe. The altimeter spun downwards, nothing but ocean visible ahead. Passing thirty thousand feet, twenty-nine. He needed to get the airliner to no more than eight thousand feet above sea level and hold it just above stall speed, which in the current conditions would be about one hundred knots. It was balancing on a knife-edge, but Noret was confident in his skill as a pilot.

A voice came through his earphones. ‘Captain! What’s happening, what’s going on?’ Rose Dewar, the chief purser. ‘Captain Watley! Are you there?’

‘This is Noret,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘We’re losing cabin pressure. Everything is under control, so please keep the passengers calm.’

‘But — but the cabin pressure seems okay down here.’ Dewar was a highly experienced flier, and even through an oxygen mask he could hear her confusion.

‘We don’t know exactly what’s wrong, but there is definitely a major malfunction. The captain is taking us down before it gets any worse.’

He switched off the intercom and checked the altimeter. Twenty thousand feet and still descending rapidly. Someone hammered on the cockpit door. ‘Captain! What’s going on? Captain, answer me!’

‘Go back to your seat!’ Noret shouted. He had been warned that the US marshals would try to assert their authority once it became clear something was wrong.

More pounding. ‘We have a high-risk prisoner here — I demand to know what’s happening!’

‘What’s happening is that we are trying to keep this plane in the air!’ Noret yelled back, still watching the altimeter. Sixteen thousand. ‘Sit down and put on your seatbelt! Our first priority is the safety of this aircraft and its passengers, so let us do our job!’

Garrison started to say something else, then stopped. Noret assumed he was returning to his seat, but even if he was not, there was no way he could enter the cockpit.

Thirteen thousand feet — and now the co-pilot pulled back the yoke, easing the Boeing out of its dive. Ten thousand, the blue horizon sliding back into view. He reduced the throttles still further. The airspeed indicator dropped, two hundred knots, one-fifty. A course adjustment to bring the airliner directly into the wind, giving him the maximum possible lift.

Eight thousand feet. He levelled out. One hundred and twenty knots, still slowing.

Phase two was complete.

As if in response to his thought, the flat voice returned to his headphones. ‘Papillon, Papillon. Status?’

‘This is Papillon,’ Noret replied. ‘Holding at flight level eight-zero, bearing two-four-seven degrees, slowing to one hundred knots.’

‘Roger. We are moving to transfer position.’

Noret leaned forward and looked up. Nothing but empty sky — then a white shape hove into view overhead.

Another aircraft.

He felt a flash of fear. The second plane — a Bombardier Global 7000, a long-range business jet — was less than a hundred metres above, well within the distance considered a ‘near miss’. Every part of his training told him to veer away, but he forced himself to hold course. The sleek metal crucifix slid into full view.

Its forward hatch opened.

The Bombardier shimmied, the pilot battling to keep it steady as a hundred-knot wind blasted into the cabin. Noret’s breath caught. If the plane went out of control, it could tumble right into the 747…

It stabilised — then juddered again as something else disrupted the airflow. A thick metal bar swung out from the open hatch, a steel cable extending from a pulley flapping in the slipstream. Something resembling a boat anchor was attached to the end of the line.

‘Papillon, Papillon,’ said the radio voice. ‘We are in position for phase three. Are you ready?’

‘Engaging autopilot,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘Preparing to receive.’

He switched the computers back on, then unbelted and stood. Watley was still slumped in his seat. He crossed the cockpit to stand behind the captain’s position.

A plastic cover was set into the curved ceiling. Noret pulled it away, revealing what was built into the hull behind.

The escape hatch.

The Boeing 747’s unique design had created safety headaches for its engineers, the cockpit so high up compared to other airliners that jumping to the ground in an emergency could be fatal. They had solved the problem in an inventive way. The cockpit crew could open the hatch, then use a set of cable reels mounted in the ceiling to make a controlled descent to earth, rappelling down the aircraft’s flank.

Noret had no intention of using the cables, though, and going through the hatch was the very final part of his plan. Instead he braced himself, turned the yellow-painted latch handle until he heard the thunk of bolts… and pulled.

The hatch swung downwards — and a hurricane-force wind screamed into the cockpit.

Alarms howled, the 747 shivering as its aerodynamics were disrupted. Noret locked the hatch open and staggered to his seat. The autopilot was handling the disturbance, but he wanted his hands back on the controls. ‘Dragonfly!’ he shouted into the microphone as he disengaged the computers again. ‘Ready for transfer!’

He looked up at the other plane. The anchor wavered in the wind, then dropped towards him. Noret held the 747 steady, flexing his fingers as the wind chill bit. He switched the intercom back on to address the cabin crew. Dewar’s near-panicked voice immediately came through the earphones. ‘I’m here, I’m here,’ he told her. ‘We’ve lost pressure in the cockpit. Keep the passengers in their seats — including the men on the upper deck. When we get the situation under control, we’ll divert to Greenland or Iceland.’

‘What’s wrong with the plane?’ Dewar asked. ‘Are you both okay?’

‘We’re good,’ he replied, giving Watley a brief glance. ‘We don’t know the cause of the malfunction. As soon as we do, we’ll update you. Out.’

He looked up. The cable was still unreeling, the Bombardier’s pilot making small attitude adjustments to guide the anchor towards the opening in the 747’s humped fuselage.

It came closer, closer. He could now see what he had been told to expect; the mechanism was folded so it would fit through the hatch, with a long dangling strap at its base. When it was just ten metres away he reactivated the autopilot and hurried to the emergency exit. The wind lashed at his face. He shielded his eyes with one hand, holding the cockpit wall with the other.

A bang as the anchor hit the hull, scraping along the metal before the slipstream flicked it away. Noret grimaced, but held his position. He glimpsed the other plane’s wing as it slipped sideways to bring the cable into line with the hatch, but his eyes were fixed upon the opening’s forward edge, waiting—

Another thunk — then the black strap flapped past. He snatched at it, but missed as the anchor rattled over the fuselage. He suppressed his panic and waited for it to reappear. Another frightening impact outside as the cable swung back — and this time he caught the strap. ‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it!’ he shouted into the headset. ‘Give me some slack!’

The Global 7000 descended slightly. The anchor slid over the hatch’s edge, and he yanked it into the cockpit.

‘I have it!’ he called. ‘Deploying now!’

The mechanism he had just received was spring-loaded, restrained in its folded configuration by a thick metal clip. He wrestled it into position, holding it against one corner of the open hatchway, then forced off the restraint. It expanded with considerable force, revealing that it was a hollow rectangular frame. It had been designed to fill the opening precisely, each corner wedging firmly in place. Noret pushed at it. The frame didn’t move. ‘It is secure!’

‘Roger, Papillon,’ said the man in the other jet. ‘Commencing transfer.’

Noret rushed back to the controls. Any actions needed now would be well beyond an autopilot’s capabilities. He looked up again — and felt another shot of fear. Knowing what was going to happen had not prepared him for the reality.

A black-clad man leaned out of the Global 7000’s open hatch. He wore a harness, which he clipped to the bucking steel line — then as Noret watched in amazement he rapidly lowered himself down the cable towards the 747, the hundred-knot wind tearing at his thick clothing. The dark figure grew larger and larger before disappearing above the windscreen. A moment later, thuds told the co-pilot that he had made contact with the hull.

He looked back at the hatch. The sunlight streaming in from outside was suddenly shadowed. Legs swung through the opening, the man smoothly dropping into the cockpit as if he carried out such stunts on a daily basis. The new arrival wore a breathing mask and tinted goggles, his features completely hidden. He detached himself from the cable and touched a microphone on his throat. ‘I’m in.’

‘Papillon, second transfer commencing,’ said the filtered voice in Noret’s headphones. A second figure climbed from the Bombardier. His descent and arrival in the cockpit was as rapid and assured as the first.

‘They are both here,’ Noret said, awed.

‘Copy, Papillon. Begin phase four.’

The Frenchman switched on the intercom to address the passengers and crew directly. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the co-pilot. We have suffered a structural failure that has caused the cabin to decompress. The aircraft is now at an altitude low enough for the air to be breathable, and we are changing course for the nearest airport…’

Garrison listened to the announcement, one hand holding his oxygen mask in place. His sidearm was in the other. The first thought of all three marshals had been that an attempt was being made to free Mukobo, Garrison covering their prisoner while his comrades fixed their weapons upon the staircase. But the only person who had climbed it was a stewardess, ordering the marshals to return to their seats before disappearing again.

Whatever the situation, it was deteriorating. The draught escaping around the cockpit door warned that the hull had been compromised. The co-pilot’s announcement of a structural failure seemed to rule out any connection to Mukobo — nobody trying to rescue him would risk not only the warlord’s life but their own by sabotaging the plane — but Garrison still wasn’t going to allow his charge to take advantage of it. ‘You just keep still now,’ he warned, pushing the gun’s muzzle against the shackled man’s side. ‘Only way you’re leaving this plane without me is through a hole in the hull.’

Mukobo, however, appeared genuinely surprised and afraid. Reassured, Garrison turned his attention back to the co-pilot’s message: ‘… are aware of the situation, and emergency services will be waiting when we land…’

The two black-clad men moved to the cockpit door as Noret continued speaking, one lifting his goggles to peer through the peephole. ‘Four men,’ he muttered. ‘Target is on our left, three rows back, window seat. One hostile next to him, aisle seat. Second hostile on our right, front row, aisle seat. Third hostile also on right, rear row, aisle seat.’

His comrade nodded. ‘You take the right. Ready weapons.’ Noret had been assured that their guns were non-lethal and incapable of penetrating the airliner’s fuselage.

Noret had been told a lie.

Both men carried Glock 17s, fat cylindrical suppressors attached. They stepped back from the door, the first man slowly reaching for its lock. ‘On three,’ said the other. A silent, perfectly synchronised countdown—

The bolt clacked back — and both men burst out into the upper cabin.

A screaming wind rushed through with them, startling the four men within. The marshals quickly reacted to the unexpected new threat… but not quickly enough.

The first attacker’s gun was already locked on to Szernow, sending two bullets slamming bloodily into the deputy’s chest before snapping up to do the same to Radley. The second man fired three shots at Garrison with similar lethal efficiency. The grizzled man slumped dead against his prisoner.

Mukobo stared in shock as the two men approached, one covering the stairs as the other dumped Garrison uncaringly on the floor and retrieved his keys. ‘Stand up,’ the intruder ordered.

The warlord hesitated, but a flick of the gun told him that he had no choice. The man unlocked his shackles, then produced another harness. ‘Put this on. Make sure it’s secure if you want to live.’

Mukobo did as he was told. The gunman gestured towards the cockpit. ‘In there. Move!’

Rescuer and prisoner scurried through the door, Mukobo recoiling from the blasting wind. Noret looked back. ‘How long before the marshals wake up?’

The black-clad man ignored him, going to the hatch and securing a clip on the African’s harness to the steel cable before repeating the action with one of his own. The second gunman backed into the cockpit, weapon raised to cover his retreat. Noret reacted with shock as he saw it was no Taser or dart gun. ‘Wait, you said there would be no killing!’

The figure turned towards him — and fired.

Two bullets hit the Frenchman’s head. A wet burst of blood and brain matter splattered the windscreen and instruments. The gunman closed and locked the cockpit door, then came to Noret’s position and shoved his corpse aside to deactivate the autopilot. The 747’s nose began to pitch downwards, slowly… but inexorably. He touched his throat mic. ‘Dragonfly, this is Sparrow. Prepare for extraction.’ He went to the hatch and attached himself to the line.

The first man climbed out into the gale. Mukobo, shivering in the wind, stared in disbelief. ‘What are you doing? We will be killed!’

‘Fold your arms and stay calm,’ said the remaining man. He looked up through the opening. The Global 7000 had moved directly above the 747’s nose. ‘Stand under the hatch.’

Mukobo’s eyes flicked to his gun, then he reluctantly obeyed. The man stood close beside him and peered upwards again. The other jet was now right overhead. ‘Dragonfly, extraction now.’

The intruder braced himself, gripping Mukobo with one hand — and pushing a button on the folding frame with his other.

A sharp crack as an explosive bolt fired, breaking the frame apart — and all three men were hauled skywards as the Bombardier climbed. The slipstream immediately snatched them backwards, swinging them terrifyingly over the larger jet’s fuselage, but the line was already being winched in. The 747 dropped away beneath them — with no one at the controls.

The dangling trio ascended towards the business jet. Mukobo cried out in fear, but his companions remained stoic and calm. Hands reached out from the hatch to grab them, a man pulling the first rescuer inside and detaching him from the cable before hauling Mukobo and the second intruder through the opening.

The warlord collapsed breathlessly on the deck as the arm was retracted and the hatch closed. The wind’s roar abruptly cut out, the sudden silence almost disorienting. The men who had extracted him from the 747 carried him to a seat at the cabin’s rear.

Panting, Mukobo focused on the man facing him — then jumped in alarm as recognition struck. ‘You!’

He tensed as if to lunge at him, but his rescuers shoved him back down. The other man didn’t even flinch. ‘Mr Mukobo,’ he said as the plane banked, turning back eastward. ‘I have a proposition…’

The 747 thundered on, its descent gradually steepening. Desperate hammering sounded over the wind as the cabin crew beat uselessly on the cockpit door. A pause, then gunshots, bullets from the dead marshals’ weapons smacking into the lock — but the armoured barrier remained secure.

The altimeter dropped below two thousand feet. The combination of altitude and descent angle triggered a warning, a whooping alarm sounding as a synthesised female voice spoke with inhuman calm. ‘Pull up. Pull up. Pull up.’

Nobody could respond to it. Fifteen hundred feet. ‘Pull up. Pull up.’ The Boeing dropped towards the sea—

Watley stirred.

The cacophony finally overcame the remnants of the drug in his bloodstream. One thousand feet. The American groaned. ‘What… Pierre, what the—’

He froze as he saw his co-pilot dead in his seat, half his skull missing. The computer’s repetitive words finally sank in. Five hundred feet. Terror-induced adrenalin obliterated any lingering sedative and he grabbed the controls, pulling back the yoke and slamming the throttles to full power. Three hundred feet, two hundred, and the 747 responded, but too slowly—

One hundred feet, fifty, the airliner’s bow hitting the water — and augering into it.

With the engines at maximum thrust, the results were catastrophic.

The 747’s tail flipped upwards, the nose crumpling as it drove deeper into the sea. Watley had just enough time to scream before a broken structural spar sliced him in half. An engine tore loose from its mount as the plane rolled and punched through the hull, compressor blades disintegrating into razor shards that shredded everyone in their path. Fuel from a ruptured wing tank burst into a liquid inferno and sent a wave of flame crashing over the wreckage. Blazing chunks of mangled metal skipped across the water before finally being swallowed by the Atlantic.

Silence soon fell, drifting smoke and floating debris all that remained of Skyblue Airlines Flight 180.