First Team

1

Rankin settled into the seat on the upper deck of the Antonov An-22, trying to compensate for the thin padding by adding one of the blankets he’d found in the overhead compartment. He hoped to start catching up on his sleep, though between the seat and the loud snores of Guns and Massette behind him- somehow managing to pierce the drone of the four turboprops on the wings — his prospects were rather dim.

The An-22 the three SF soldiers were flying in had been designed in the 1960s as a long-distance freight hauler for the Soviet military; this particular version had ferried T-62 tanks around the country for nearly two decades before being surplused and then sold — illegally, though its papers demonstrated otherwise — to a small airfreight company based in Germany. The company had gone bankrupt, and one of its creditors ended up with the plane; the creditor had in turn sold it at auction, and within a few months the aircraft belonged to a private company partly owned by a man known to have connections with the Egyptian secret service. These connections were actually a cover for his true relationship with the American CIA, a connection that had allowed Corrigan to arrange for the Team’s transport to Japan relatively quickly.

Though in Rankin’s opinion, delays that would have meant a more comfortable flight and something to eat would have been well worth the time. He hoped they’d be able to grab something in Tokyo before going back to the States. His end of the mission had been pretty much a wipeout. Worse, he knew from Corrigan that Ferguson and Conners had hit pay dirt and was pissed that he had missed it.

The plane hit a run of turbulence and began skittering up and down like a kite. When it finally settled down, Rankin bunched the blanket up behind his head to take another go at trying to sleep. As he closed his eyes, his sat phone buzzed.

“Rankin, we need you in Manila, right away,” said Corrigan. “We’re getting a flight for you into Tokyo.”

“Yeah?”

“We’re still pulling the details together. The assault’s under way, but we have information on a hangar in Manila. It fits with the LA theory. Things are fluid.”

“I’m hungry,” Rankin told him.

Corrigan couldn’t quite compute what the comment meant. He took a shallow breath, then stuttered. “What are you talking about?”

“I want to get some food in Japan,” Rankin told him. “I’m starving.”

“Shit, Rankin, I don’t have time for your crap,” said Corrigan, killing the line.

2

Van Buren didn’t understand what they were telling him at first. There was so much happening around him and on the ground that it was difficult to keep everything in place.

“There’s a plane — it’s taking off,” repeated the Air Force lieutenant. “It’s in the air.”

“What kind of plane?” asked the colonel. The first assault team had just reached the ground. Resistance appeared unorganized.

“A big jet — 747. It’s off — they’re getting away.”

“Tell the escort flight,” said the colonel. “Get someone on him. Tell Ms. Alston.”

Corrine sat at the edge of her seat in the MC-17, listening to Air Force Major Daniel Gray explain what the AWACS data meant. Gray was tasked with coordinating the SF group’s actions with any and all Air Force units that were part of the operation; much of his job involved acting as a translator for the different parts of the mission.

Russian fighters had been alerted to the activity and were now within ten minutes of the Chechen base. They were not answering radio hails. Meanwhile, the aircraft that had taken off from the base was a 747 and seemed to be heading for Iran. More than likely it was an Iranian aircraft being used as an escape plane by the Islamist terrorists.

Or, wondered Corrine, was it loaded with radioactive material?

“Where do you want our warplanes?” Gray asked.

Corrine could send the F-15s to protect her people, or attempt to shoot down the plane; she couldn’t do both.

Doubts and guesses crowded into her mind — what if the 747 crashed in a populated area? She pushed the questions away but hesitated a split second longer.

What would the president do, she asked herself. That’s why she was there — to make the decision he would and take the heat for it.

“I want to talk to the Russian commander,” said Corrine.

“There’s no guarantee he’ll listen,” replied the major.

“I understand that. In the meantime put enough F-15s between the MiGs and our ground force to protect them,” she said. “Tell the flight leader he has my permission to use whatever force he needs to protect our people. He can shoot the bastards down if he has to.”

“Yes, ma’am. But I’ll have to commit all four fighters to that intercept,” said the major. “The 747 is going to get away.”

“Send our escort to pursue the plane,” she said.

“We’re pretty far off, and that’ll leave us defenseless. If the Russians decide to come and get us—”

“Go!”

“They’re on their way.”

Scorpion flight leader Major Cliff Salerno put his hand to the throttle and selected afterburner, goosing his F-15C onto the new coordinates. Scorpion One’s Pratt & Whitney F100s punched out roughly twenty-four thousand pounds of thrust, rocketing the plane over the speed of sound. The fierce acceleration slammed Salerno back against his ejection seat, the laws of motion desperate to remind him that he was still under their domain.

The Eagle pilot checked his radar, sorting out what was going on in the air ahead. He was crossing over Armenia headed southeast; the assault team was striking a base to his left. The AWACS controller gave him an intercept vector for a 747-type aircraft, which ought to be roughly 150 miles off his right wing.

“Your instructions are to terminate its flight,” added the controller.

Salerno repeated the instructions, then double-checked with his wingmate, Captain Jed “Patsy” Klein, commanding Scorpion Two. Among the many calculations the two men now began was an assessment of their fuel status — they had to make sure they’d have enough to get back to a tanker or risk turning their multimillion-dollar interceptors into gliders. The 747, which was still too far ahead to be picked up by the Eagles’ APG-70 radars, was over the east coast of Lake Sevan.

Armenia, which had been part of the Soviet Union before the downfall of the Communists, had no air force to speak of and provided very little threat to the American planes. The Russians, meanwhile, were concentrating on the Chechen base; the 747 was theirs — if they could catch it.

The controller gave them fresh data for their intercept, adding that the 747 was flying exceptionally low in the mountains. At present course and speed they should have it on their screens within five minutes.

The two aircraft were at twenty-six thousand feet above sea level, pushing toward a mountain that rose roughly thirteen thousand feet. Both planes were carrying four AMRAAM AIM-120 medium-range air-to-air missiles and two shorter-range ATM-9 Sidewinders. The Eagles were also equipped with 20 mm cannons. Any of those weapons would suffice to take down the airliner.

“Be advised also we have a flight of Iranian MiG-29s operating on the northern border of Iran,” said the controller. “They haven’t reacted, but they’re there.”

“Scorpion One,” acknowledged Salerno.

Ferguson and Conners were tossed around the back of the plane like golf balls in a tumbling footlocker as the 747 zigged and zagged southward. Conners took his pistol out and fired wildly, but if the bullets made it through the heavy canisters of waste material strapped around the interior portion of the fuselage, they had no effect on the plane. Ferguson shouted at him to stop, but Conners kept firing until the clip ran out.

“Stop!” Ferguson yelled, crawling toward him in the pitch-black darkness. “Stop!”

“Ferg? What?”

Ferguson reached Conners and touched his arm. It was wet with blood from his head wound.

“Conners, stop shooting,” Ferg told him. “Let’s figure this out.”

“Where are you?”

“This is me holding your arm,” Ferguson told him. “What, you think I’m a ghost?”

The aircraft jerked hard left and descended sharply, then twisted on its wing back to the right. Ferguson fished in the pack and retrieved the flashlight. He shined the beam on Conners’s face; the SF sergeant was pale and disoriented.

“Fuckin’ cold, Ferg,” said Conners.

“Yeah. Let’s figure this out,” Ferguson told him. “We’ll have to find a way to climb up to the flight deck at the front. There ought to be a door there.”

Salerno acknowledged the fresh vector from the AWACS, then took a long, steady breath, reminding himself to stay calm. His wingmate, offset a few thousand feet in altitude and about a mile to his right, reported that he had a contact on his radar.

It was too soon to be their target, Salerno knew, but he told him to query it anyway. Like all interceptors, the Eagles carried identification friend-or-foe gear that electronically “asked” another airplane who it was. Friendly aircraft and commercial flights were programmed to respond with a code that would tell the fighter pilot who they were. In this case, the IFF signal came back indicating that the plane was a civilian flight, which was confirmed by the AWACS controller. The aircraft was an innocent 767 en route to Iran from Russia; they let it go.

A minute later, the controller’s voice came back, now two octaves higher. “They’re asking for help — the Iranians are scrambling — their defenses — the MiGs are on an intercept. We have more planes coming off Tabriz.”

The controller took a breath of air, then resumed more calmly, updating the position of the 747. It had changed course and was now flying directly south.

“Very low,” added the controller. “He’s going to hit the mountains.”

“I think I have him,” said Salerno, the image flashing in his brain as well as the radar. He took another long breath. The big plane was a little over sixty miles away, too far to launch the AMRAAMS.

Salerno put his pedal to the metal. The Iranian MiGs were coming north, SAM radars were switching on, and the Russians were sending something south — he pushed his head forward, his fist locked around the stick, willing the fat 747 into the targeting reticule on his HUD. He needed more closure — he had to build momentum for the missile and get closer to the target to fire. He had the damn thing; it was a question of taking his time, hanging in long enough to fire.

His radar warning receiver picked up one of the approaching MiGs trying to target him. Salerno’s consciousness flicked away the threat, considering it irrelevant.

“I’m spiked, shit,” said Klein. He began defensive maneuvers.

The 747 moved into the box on the HUD, the aircraft’s avionics closing its fist on the fat target.

“Yes,” said Salerno, and he pushed the trigger on the stick, launching the AM-RAAM toward the plane. He dished a second and punched the mike button to tell his wingmate that the missiles were away, but the transmission was overrun by a new warning.

“Missiles in the air!” said the AWACS controller. “Break ninety.”

“I’m spiked!” said Klein again.

Everything ran together in Salerno’s head. Two Hawk missiles had been launched from a ground station near the border; the MiGs were firing Russian-made homers, long-range radar missiles. Klein turned to engage them. The 747, meanwhile, had disappeared from the screens. Salerno started to press toward the mountains where the aircraft had been flying, then heard Klein call for help.

“I’m coming,” he told his wingman, tucking hard in his direction.

Is it down?” Corrine asked Major Gray.

“The AWACS thinks so; the missile was launched before the 747 disappeared from its screen. But we can’t confirm the kill; there’s too much else going on.”

“We need to know,” she said.

“Our Eagles have to get back, or they’ll run out of fuel over Iran. One of them is being targeted by the Iranians already. Believe me, that’s the last place we want a pilot,” said Gray.

“All right,” Corrine told him. “Alert CentCom to what’s going on. The Nimitz’s planes should extend their patrols around Iran just in case.”

Corrine leaned back in the seat. Things were actually going fairly well. The Russians were not happy about the appearance of the American assault team at the Chechen base, but were grudgingly holding off from firing at them. Van Buren’s people had secured the airstrip and all but one of the buildings; he was about to land and supervise the rest of the operation.

At that point, they could sort out exactly what they had. Hopefully, they’d find Ferguson and Conners hiding with broken telephones.

Corrine took a deep breath, trying to relax.

Samman Bin Saqr struggled to hold the nose of the big aircraft level as the missile exploded a hundred yards away, sucked just off course by his defensive chaff and ECMs.

His decision to call on the Iranians for assistance was not without consequences, for the now the Iranians were hailing him with orders of their own — he was to change course and fly to their main airport near Tehran.

Samman Bin Saqr did not acknowledge. He was gambling that they would not shoot him down in the next ten minutes, and that was all the time his calculations showed he needed to fly out of their range. At that point, if his radar showed that he had no contacts following him, he would press the button on the altered Ident or identifier module. The black box would tell anyone who cared to ask — electronically, of course — that the plane was a duly registered Sri Lankan aircraft.

Bin Saqr would then swing onto the course that the plane which corresponded to that identifier routinely took. Assuming that his operatives had followed their orders — and at this point, he could only assume that — he would be free of pursuers.

A warning blared in the cockpit — he was precariously low. A mountain loomed ahead, its peak a hundred feet above his nose. Samman Bin Saqr touched the yoke, trying to squeeze through the pass on the right. He saw the rocks and closed his eyes, trusting that Allah would not let him die before his mission was complete.

Salerno pulled the big F-15 through a hard turn, sending nearly seven gees slamming against his body. His pressurized suit compensated quickly, fighting to equalize the forces on his body and keep his brain swimming in just the right amount of blood. As the pressure began to ease, Salerno found himself twenty miles from one of the Iranian MiGs, and closing fast. His wingmate was ahead of the MiG, trying to shake it off before it could fire.

“Firing,” said Salerno calmly, pulling the trigger on the MiG.

An AMRAAM clunked off the rail, its engine igniting with a fiery flash. The missile’s onboard radar asked for an update from the Eagle as it closed in on its quarry at just over Mach 4. It made a slight correction, then sent the Iranian pilot to meet his maker.

In the meantime, Klein had turned the tables on a second Iranian, knifing downward, then using his superior engines to thrust himself onto the MiG’s tail before the other pilot could quite figure out where he was going. Klein closed the gap, his Sidewinder ready to launch. The MiG-29 jinked left, then rolled hard back the other way, the airplane cutting an almost-perfect Z in the sky. Klein hesitated, not quite in a good firing position but aware that juicing the throttle too much might send him flying in front of the Iranian. Finally, as the indicator on the Sidewinder growled at him to fire already, he realized he had the MiG nailed and goosed the Sidewinder into the air.

The Iranian tried jinking right, but the American air-to-air missile was nearly in his tailpipe when he started to turn. The explosion ripped the backbone out of the plane; the enemy pilot did well to bail out and escape the fireball.

“We have two more planes to get by,” Salerno told his wingman. “Hang with me.

“Two,” acknowledged Klein. He felt his heart pounding in his throat and tried to force the elation of his first kill away — they were a long way from home, with a gauntlet yet to run.

Salerno checked his fuel matrix once more. If they drove straight on through to the tanker, they’d get there with perhaps five minutes of airtime to spare — more than a little close for comfort. But flying on a direct path to the tanker meant flying right through the two Iranian MiGs, which were just turning to meet them about fifty miles ahead.

“Let’s take it to them,” Salerno told his wingman. “I’m going to ask the tanker to come south.”

“Roger that,” acknowledged Klein, his voice an octave higher than normal.

3

Van Buren trotted off the ramp of the MC-130, an A-4 carbine under his arm. A captain in charge of the initial assault team was waiting for him a short distance away, ready to lay out the situation.

“Talk to me,” yelled Van Buren as soon as he saw the officer. “Some sort of fabrication facility there,” said the captain, jerking his hand back toward the mountain. “Plane must’ve been in there. We have the two buildings on the north side of the base. Guerrillas in the southern one, holed up at the far end. First building is empty; we’re checking it out now. Looks like trace radiation only. Defensive position on the south was taken out by the Stealth fighters; same with the other SAM site at the north. We think there are a couple of people in the hills farther out,” he added, gesturing in the direction of the base’s external guard posts. “At the moment, we have the road secured, and we’re gathering prisoners. There’s one area I want you to see.”

“Conners and Ferguson,” said Van Buren. “You find them?”

“No, but that has to do with what I want to show you,” said the captain. “Prisoner of theirs, I think.”

The SF troops had brought two small ATV-like vehicles in the Hercules to use as utility rovers and help with transporting captured material. One of the trucks — usually called a “Gator” — was just coming down the ramp of the aircraft. Van Buren commandeered it and rode with the captain toward the perimeter area where Conners and Ferguson had infiltrated. The fence had been flattened by the paratroopers, and the entire area, now secure, was lit by a searchlight confiscated from the Chechens. Several bodies were up in the rocks, mangled by large, bloody wounds. One of the men was handcuffed to a large piece of metal in the ravine.

“The manacle on their hands, I think it’s a Russian manacle,” said the captain. “That’s one of our plastic jobs, holding him to the girder there.”

“He must be their informer,” said Van Buren. “The guerrillas must have ambushed them here.”

“Captain!” shouted one of the troopers. Van Buren turned and walked toward the soldier, who was trotting from the area of the runway. “Sat telephone, sir. Found it back over there by the runway.”

Van Buren picked up the phone and slid open the antenna.

“They might have gotten away,” said the captain. “Could be anywhere in those hills. Or they could be with the guerrillas in that other building.”

Van Buren nodded. Knowing Ferguson, he was sitting back in the Hercules, smirking while Van and his men searched the area.

God, he hoped that was the case.

“Let’s secure the building and find out,” said Van Buren, closing the antenna on the phone and heading back for the Gator.

4

The two American F-15s thundered over the mountains, nearly nose-on for the two MiGs and closing at a rate of roughly twenty-five miles a minute, which gave Jenkins about thirty seconds to decide on a strategy.

The encyclopedic brief Jenkins had received before his mission had covered Iranian aircraft capabilities and declared that the MiGs would most likely be equipped with heat-seeking Russian-made R-73 missiles, known in the West as “AA-11 Archer.” These were potent weapons, and in theory they could be fired from any aspect in a dogfight. As a practical matter, however, the Iranians would probably choose between one of two strategies — either breaking and turning as the F-15s came close, spinning and trying to gain momentum for a close-quarters attack from the rear; or taking head-on shots as the Americans drove by.

The MiGs were roughly three thousand feet below them and had to anticipate an attack as well as line up their own. The Iranians couldn’t carry a lot of fuel, which was likely to limit their ability to pursue at high speed. They would have to play for a single shot and make the most of it.

Though flying superior planes with better weapons systems, the Americans had one disadvantage — they were very low on fuel. Their powerful radars and easily detected airfoils left no doubt about where they were. And by the time they reached firing range for the AMRAAMS, the enemy fighters would also be able to attack.

“I have the one on the right,” Jenkins told his wingman. “If they break, just fire your AMRAAM and go on through — we don’t have the fuel to fuck with them.”

“Two.”

Technically, Jenkins’s ROE or rules of engagement allowed him to fire only if directly threatened; that clearly covered the first engagement, where he had been tracked by hostile fire-control radar. He might be open to second-guessing, as neither MiG had yet made an unambiguous move to shoot him down. But there was no way — no way in the world — that he was going to allow himself to be a sitting duck, much less paraded through the streets of Tehran as an American imperialist.

As the planes closed to within forty miles of each other, the Eagle’s RWR blared. The two MiGs were carrying radar-guided R-77 series missiles, supported by an upgraded radar; known to NATA as the AA-10 Adder, the Russian-made air-to-air weapon was roughly the equivalent of an American AMRAAM — a little surprise for the intelligence folks back home, who had claimed the Iranians didn’t possess such missiles.

Jenkins took it in stride. The next few seconds passed like a rap riff — the lead MiG launched two missiles; the other began to cut right; Klein fired an AMRAAM, then another; Jenkins fired his; the radio went crazy with static; Jenkins watched his MiG tack downward into a turn, trying to get behind him; Jenkins’s RWR whined; Jenkins dished chaff and flares but held to his course; the AWACS operator belatedly warned that they were being targeted; Jenkins leaned on the throttle for half a second; something exploded in the far corner of his canopy behind him; the air in his face mask suddenly felt heavy, reminding him of a summer afternoon before a storm.

And then they were past the MiGs, Klein yelling that there were missiles in the air, Jenkins calmly unleashing the last of his decoy flares. Something exploded behind him; he heard a light pop, the sort of sound a cap gun might make. His plane stayed true, the emergency lights off.

The AWACS controller scored two more MiGs down.

Not a good day for the enemy. Just a routine ho-hummer for the U.S. Air Force.

Even before he realized he hadn’t been hit, Jenkins worried about his wingman. He clicked the mike button twice, fear suddenly overwhelming him.

“Patsy?” he asked, feeling his voice starting to edge toward a tremble.

“I’m here. You?”

“Looks like it.”

“I fired a second missile,” said the wingman. “I got all juiced up and fired without even a lock. Shit.”

“Yeah, roger that. We’ll take it out of your pay, cowboy. You got one.”

“I got one,” said the wingman, not really believing it. Typically, Klein was focused on what he had done wrong rather than what he had done right.

“I’ve had enough of this shit. Let’s go tank and go home,” said Jenkins.

5

He knew it didn’t fit, though Thomas couldn’t quite decide why. The distance from Chechnya to Manila to LA was perfect, and yet, it just didn’t fit.

He picked up a report a DI analyst had prepared a year before on possible terrorism targets in Los Angeles and the impact a 747 loaded with high explosives would have. It was horrible, of course, truly horrendous — but it didn’t fit.

LA had been assumed to be the target because of the photographs found on Kiro when he was apprehended.

But Kiro wasn’t connected with this operation at all; they’d proven that in Iran.

Thomas sat back from his computer, rubbing his eyes. It reminded him of the UFO sightings off Brazil in 1968 — two totally different sightings believed to be connected, and only upon further analysis proven to be separate incidents altogether.

Manila was right, but not LA, he decided. But the Philippines wouldn’t be the target if they were buying fuel there. And now that he looked again at the receipts, he saw that the amount of fuel purchased was extremely small — not nearly enough to fill a jumbo jet.

Still searching for clues, he retrieved his folded world map from the floor, spreading it over his desk, then using a pencil to estimate radiuses the plane could fly to. Looking for UFOs, he decided, was a heck of a lot easier than this.

6

The coldness came clandestinely, sneaking up on Ferguson like a warrior infiltrating a frontier settlement. By the time he noticed it his hands were frozen; he had trouble moving not just his fingers but his wrists. Conners huddled in the front corner of the craft, shivering and passing in and out of consciousness. Ferguson dressed his wounds as best he could; the sergeant wasn’t bleeding anymore, though he’d obviously lost a good deal of blood. Not only were his clothes soaked, but Ferguson’s were as well.

When the plane finally stopped jerking up and down and back and forth, Ferguson returned to his search of the interior, sliding the flashlight’s beam around the interior. He saw what he thought had to be the door to the flight deck at the front of the space, a full level above his head. The ladder that would have been on the bulkhead in a standard cargo version of the plane had been removed, but the metal cladding of the explosives and radioactive cargo formed a ledge on either side. He started to climb up the space by pushing against the narrow walls directly below the door — they formed a kind of artificial chimney — but the space was a little too wide and shallow to make ascending easy, and as the aircraft hit turbulence, Ferguson lost his balance and dropped a few feet to the floor.

Looking for an easier climb, he found a section of the metalwork nearby that had pieces welded on like a ladder; he went up and found an irregular, roughly eight-inch ledge about nine feet off the floor on the left side of the hold. He worked his way toward the front of the plane, alternately using the flashlight and rubbing his cold knuckles across the surface, trying to decipher the indentations. The terrorists had packed roughly five feet of explosives and material on each side of the hold, arranging them in a patchwork pattern to maximize the plane’s destructive power; they were not very concerned with rounding off edges or filling gaps, and Ferguson cut his fingers several times as he worked around. Finally, he reached the doorway.

Ferguson steadied himself, then reached to his belt and took his pistol out. His plan was simple — he’d yank open the door, swing with it, and get onto the flight deck, where he’d shoot out the pilot and the rest of the crew. He didn’t bother thinking beyond that; it was superfluous.

But as he reached for the handle, the plane jerked upward. For a second Ferguson felt weightless, suspended against gravity. Then the floor of the plane seemed to reach up and snatch him down, and besides feeling cold he felt the incredible shock of pain hit him in the back of his head.

The thump of Ferguson’s body slamming to the floor a few yards away shook Conners awake. He stared as the flashlight spun wildly toward the rear of the plane, its beacon illuminating the metal grids lining the interior. The lids of his eyes felt like ice-cold daggers poking at his eyeballs. Conners started to get up but felt a heavy hand press against him; he crawled instead, making his way toward the light. When he finally got it, he pushed back to find Ferguson, who was lying on his back, arms and legs straight out.

“Jesus, Ferg, let’s go now,” Conners told him.

It was hard to tell if the CIA officer was even breathing. Conners put his ear to his chest, trying to listen.

The plane dipped forward, and Conners tumbled over his comrade. He tried to push himself off, and the plane jerked hard to the right. His stomach suddenly felt queasy — he leaned over and began to throw up.

7

Corrine listened as Gray explained the abilities of the reconnaissance satellites, veering from the overly simplistic to the overly technical and back again. The bottom line itself was simple — it could take days to actually find the wreckage of the downed 747.

Assuming they had gotten it.

“Let’s assume we didn’t get it,” Corrine told Gray. “Where can it go?”

“Well, 747 range would be something over seven thousand miles,” said Major Gray. “Maybe even a bit more, depending on the version, how it was loaded, flight conditions.”

“We’ll have to search every airport or field that a 747 could land on within that range,” said Corrine.

“That has to be well over a thousand. I doubt it’s still in the air. The Navy would have found it by now,” said the expert. “They have the Gulf completely covered, and they’re in the Indian Ocean. Nothing without a civil registration — no plane is going to get past them. I’m sure we got it,” added Gray.

“Just in case,” said Corrine. “I’d like to talk to the Nimitz battle group as well. In the meantime, we’ll raise the alert level at Manila.”

“Your call,” he said.

“It is,” she agreed, clicking into the com circuit to get an update from Van Buren.

8

Based on her preliminary readings, Van Buren’s radiation expert, Captain Renya Peterson, declared the hangar area in the mountain completely off-limits until the robot probes could survey it. Tests at the mouth of the cave showed there were weak- and midlevel gamma generators and traces of alpha material inside; while the levels were not serious outside the cave, they were bound to be considerably higher inside. In contrast, only the building Ferguson had explored earlier had any level of material, and this was relatively low, generating the sort of readings one might find in a medical radiation department where procedures were lax.

A knot of radiation-containment specialists and support troopers huddled in space suits near the cave, waiting for an hour until the last of the guerrillas in the second building surrendered. Van Buren had fourteen prisoners, all severely wounded. He decided to evac them right away, which would avoid any conflict with the Russians, who were reported en route. That necessitated more off-loading of equipment and more delays, and so, by the time they were ready to send the little rover into the mountain, the sky had faint hints of the approaching dawn ripening its edges.

Larger than the PackBot Explorers made by iRobot and used for exploring caves and minefields in Afghanistan, the lower chassis of the Atomic Rover looked like a squashed shoe box with two sets of tank tracks at each side. The main set ran the length of the vehicle; at the front, another set of treads rose like arms, helping the critter climb over obstructions. On top of the robot was a small disk not unlike that used to pick up satellite transmissions; in this case it fed and received a stream of data to and from the base station, which was contained in a pair of large suitcases and a laptop about fifty yards from the mouth of the cave. In front of the disk were two very small video cameras, which fed high-definition optical and near-infrared images back to the station. A pair of radiation counters and isotope analyzers, along with a chemical warfare “sniffer,” were mounted near the nose of the tiny vehicle. A fuel cell propelled AR and could do so for roughly twelve hours.

As Van Buren watched, the device rolled across the gravel where they were standing and rambled onto the hardened apron the 747 had used to get out; it popped up on the lip of the cement near the entrance and moved inside. Two men controlled AR, one handling the driving and the other the sensors. Each lieutenant had been thoroughly cross-trained in his companion’s job and, if circumstances required, could handle the entire show himself.

The small vehicle stopped in the middle of the hangar-sized area and began scanning around. Since Ferguson and Conners hadn’t been found yet, Van Buren assumed they were somewhere inside, though he was starting to fear that the two men would not be found alive.

The radiation suits the team wore provided protection against alpha and beta waves, where the real danger was contamination by breathing or swallowing particles, or infection in open wounds. They could not, however, shield out gamma waves; safety there depended largely on limiting time and proximity to the source. Each man on the team carried several film sensors, badges similar to those worn by medical personnel in X-ray departments to record their exposure to potentially harmful radiation. Each suit had a sensor that would sound if the exposure levels exceeded the preset limits. Before disembarking, the gear would be shed and left at the site. Upon returning to Incirlik a strict decontamination and isolation procedure — VB’s experts jokingly referred to it as twenty Saturdays’ worth of baths — would be followed.

Captain Peterson peered over Van Buren’s shoulder. “Crazy fucks,” Peterson said, holding a small Palm-like computer device that analyzed the radiation data fed from the robot. “Crazy fucks.”

Coming from the mouth of any other member of the SF team, the words would have seemed normal. But Peterson wasn’t just a woman — she was short, weighed maybe a hundred pounds, and had the complexion of a porcelain doll. Van Buren could not have been more surprised if her head began spinning around on her body, and he stared at her, waiting either for an explanation or a ventriloquist to appear.

“How bad is it in there?” he asked.

“Layman’s terms?”

“Please.”

“If you stayed inside for four hours, you’d have about twice the lifetime dosage you would give a patient with Stage IV thyroid cancer,” she said. “Won’t kill you right off, but eventually it’ll catch up with you. They’ve got all sorts of different material. There’s a lot of low-level gamma rays, but they were working with some nastier stuff as well. They must’ve had an accident at one point, a small spill that they had to contain.”

The specialist began talking about radiation levels and probability curves, and Van Buren started to get lost in the details.

“Layman’s language,” he asked.

“There are a couple of hot spots that we have to watch for inside,” she said.

“What about our guys?”

“We can go in, but we stay away from the hot spots and limit exposure. Nobody more than an hour, and no one inside without a suit.”

“I meant Ferguson and Conners.”

“If they haven’t been inside too long — well, it depends on where they are and what else we find. We’re talking about long-term effects, how close they are, how susceptible to cancer they may be. It’s complicated.”

“Bottom line is, sooner they’re out the better,” said Van Buren.

“Amen.”

A large storage area at the left of the hangar had fifty-gallon drums packed with middle-level waste, mostly cesium 137 and cobalt 60 from medical applications. These generated gamma radiation partly shielded by a low, thick wall separating the space from the main hangar area. Almost directly opposite it at the right side of the building, microscopic amounts of uranium filled several cement cracks, the remnants of the accident Peterson had speculated about. Besides presenting a danger, these traces suggested that the terrorists had had greater quantities and taken them away in the plane.

“This is what’s really scary,” said Captain Peterson, pointing to a chart display on one of the laptops. “That’s nitrate.”

“A bomb?” asked Van Buren.

“Has to be,” said Peterson.

“Uh-oh,” said one of the lieutenants driving AR.

A loud crack sounded through the speaker on the console. There was a flash in the screen, and the feed died. Cursing, the lieutenant’s fingers danced over the keyboard. Backup wire controls allowed the Rover to reverse its course, though the driver could not see where he was going and had to rely on the unit’s grid map.

“At least two guerrillas, maybe more, inside,” yelled the lieutenant on the monitor.

Van Buren pulled on his hood and ran toward the men crouched near the entrance to the hangar.

“Kalman’s in there,” said Lieutenant Yeger, who was in charge of AR’s four-man escort detail.

“Where?” said Van Buren.

“On the left.”

“Why did he go in?”

“He and Jacko went in to set up a backup relay antenna. The area where he was had been cleared. Jacko had started out, and Kalman was just about to. They were like, five yards apart, max.”

“Tell him to stay where he is.”

“I can’t. Radio’s out. Either he’s behind something that’s messing up the line-of-sight transmission, or the hangar shielding is killing it. I lost him on the com set.”

Peterson and two men dressed in the protective gear and carrying M4s ran up behind Van Buren as the guerrillas inside the mountain began firing at AR again. The rover stopped dead about a hundred feet from the entrance, its top blasted to pieces.

“We have to go in and get our people,” said the colonel. The hoods of the protective suits were equipped with voice-activated communications devices.

“Here,” said Peterson. “Come here and let me draw it out for you. There’s a few spots to avoid.”

She knelt and drew a diagram in the dirt, a kid working out a play in a pickup football game.

“This spot, you stay away from,” she said, showing where the worst of the radiation was. “Avoid these cracks. And keep your suit intact.”

The guerrillas were on a second level of the cave near the rear, above the hangar level. A team was waiting at the rear entrance to the facility, which Ferguson and Conners had used earlier. Yeger suggested that they make a feint at the entrance, drawing the attention of the people inside, while a team went in from the back. Van Buren agreed, after making sure they had their protective gear on.

The rear deck of the hangar where the gunmen were angled away, limiting their line of fire to the left side of the cave. This gave Van Buren’s men access to the interior — though it would bring them perilously close to the area contaminated by the uranium dust.

Of course, if the guerrillas came down to the main level, anyone going in could be easily cut down. The colonel decided to send a second rover — this one had no nickname, but looked almost identical to AR — inside to survey the area first. As they got ready to go, Peterson suggested they put a flash grenade on the robot to draw attention away if they needed to rescue Kalman or move under fire.

“No way to set it off,” said one of the rover controllers.

“Fuck hell there is,” said the diminutive woman. “Attach it to the front and pull the pin with the claw.”

Even Van Buren laughed at her eloquence.

Five minutes later, the robot ambled inside, not one but two grenades attached to the chassis by a thick band of duct tape. Peterson told them through the headset what she was seeing on the video. Her voice sounded almost seductive.

“You’re clean at the lip of the cave. One man, two on the ledge. There’s Kalman — he’s alive, I can see him moving. He’s on the left side, behind the lip of that wall,” she said.

“Team two ready at the back door?” Van Buren asked.

There was a slight delay while the message was relayed.

“Good to go,” said Peterson.

“Go,” said Van Buren.

9

Rankin, Guns, and Massette unfolded themselves from the seats and walked toward the hatchway as the aircraft stopped rolling near the hangar area. Massette popped the door open, then jumped back — they were a good distance from the ground, with no ramp in sight.

A gray, four-engine DC-8 sat across the tarmac waiting for them, engines idling; the old aircraft had been leased by the American military and been commandeered to take them to Manila.

“Yo! Let’s go!” shouted a short, squat man, who stood on the ground about halfway between the two aircraft. “Let’s go!” he shouted again, his voice somehow loud enough to be heard over the idling engines. He was wearing civilian clothes, but his haircut and demeanor gave him away as military.

“Jump,” Rankin told Guns.

“Fuck,” said Massette, who could feel the pain in his leg already.

Rankin started to push him aside. Guns dropped to the floor and lowered himself, pulling his gear out with him as he hopped — literally, since he lost his balance and nearly toppled over — to the ground. Rankin just stepped off, though when he landed he wished he hadn’t, the sting punching his ankles. Massette finally decided to play it halfway, easing down to his butt and hanging his feet over before plopping to the ground.

“I’m Murphy,” said the man. “Where’s Rankin?”

“Yo,” said Rankin.

“You gotta get to Manila. This is your plane. Your boss has been trying to reach you.”

“Yeah, no shit. So who the hell are you?” said Rankin.

“I just told you.”

“You got to be a SEAL,” said Guns. “And I’m going to guess master chief, right?”

“And you’re a fuckin’ Marine,” sneered Murphy, who said nothing else as he walked back to the DC-8.

“How did they know that?” asked Massette.

“By smell,” said Rankin, pulling out his sat phone to call Corrine.

10

One by one, Van Buren’s team slipped into the cave while the rover moved forward to catch the guerrillas’ attention. The terrorists aimed their weapons at it, but did not fire; the audio feed picked up muffled conversation as the guerrillas discussed what to do about the miniature beast.

“Couple of people behind them,” whispered Peterson.

Van Buren was the next-to-last person inside. The team moved along the wall, crouching behind a low row of machines and broken crates. The point man stopped behind a pair of molded plastic chairs and aimed his M-4 toward the balcony.

“I can get one,” he whispered.

“Just hold,” said Van Buren. “Let the other team move into position.”

He nudged to the side, trying to locate Kalman. He thought he saw something moving in the dim light filtering in from the outside but couldn’t be sure. He resisted the temptation to run across and find him.

The rover stopped just before the wall beneath the guerrillas’ position, then backed slowly and began making a circle, primarily to draw their attention but also to check through an area of crates at the back to see if anyone was there. The second team, meanwhile, had entered from the back door and made its way to the edge of the ramp, using a simple scope device to observe the interior.

The seconds ticked off like the long hours of an interminable schoolday. Van Buren took a slow, controlled breath, vision narrowed to the dim viewer of the night-gear monocle. He fought off distractions — the thought of what he might tell his son about the mission tickled him a moment, then disappeared.

“Ready,” whispered Peterson.

“We go on the bang,” said Van Buren. “Shield your eyes.”

The rover slid to a stop. One of the guerrillas stood and started to get down, climbing over the rail so he could go to it and examine it. The arm on the unit clicked, but nothing happened, the lieutenant having trouble manipulating it correctly.

Just pull the damn thing, Van Buren thought to himself. Then bam — the grenade flashed and exploded, a big Fourth of July firecracker going off at the back of the cave. The point man took out the terrorist on the balcony, while Yeger blasted the one who’d jumped down to examine the rover. A second flash-bang, tossed by the team at the ramp, exploded, followed by a pair of short bursts from MP-5s.

Van Buren ran across the open floor, looking for Kalman. Something hard bounced off his back — a ricochet that caught just the right angle — and he felt a stinging numbness in his arm. But he pushed up to his feet and found his man hunkered behind a row of long crates.

In the forty seconds or so that it took for the others to finish securing the hangar, the numbness in Van Buren’s arm spread to his neck, then up and around his face. His legs stiffened and he felt as if he were being choked. He grabbed Kalman by the arm, pulling him toward the mouth of the cave.

What would he tell James?

Van Buren reached the mouth of the cave, where men in space suits fell on Kalman, who was already protesting that he was fine. Someone shouted in Van Buren’s ear:

“Colonel, we’re advised that a convoy of Russian armored vehicles is on the highway roughly one hour away.”

“All right,” said Van Buren. His jaw hurt to move. “We’re wrapping up. Prepare the aircraft. Get the demolitions people in — blow the roof down.”

“Make it quick in there,” warned Peterson.

“Go, let’s go,” said Van Buren. “Where are Ferg and Conners?”

“They’re not here,” said Yeger. “We have two prisoners, two dead men.”

“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

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

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 you 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

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 thinking 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

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.

The company had to be involved, and there had to be at least two planes. But the firm was not on any of the hot lists and had no connection to bin Saqr or any of the terrorist groups associated with Allah’s Fist, al-Qaida, or any other group. Thomas dismissed it once more as a mistake. But as he prepared to ask for a fresh affiliate search from the DCI Counterterrorist Center, it occurred to him that he was merely avoiding the obvious. He was, after all, doing what countless disbelievers in UFOs did — going through contortions to disprove what was right in front of their noses.

Two planes. Bin Saqr had two planes, and access to legitimate identifiers belonging to the Sri Lankan company.

Thomas jumped from his chair His energy grew as he covered his materials; by the time he hit the corridor he was in a frenzy of conviction. He raced downstairs, impatiently submitted to the security checks, then walked so quickly to the sit room that he was short of breath.

“You need a shave, Thomas,” said Corrigan, looking up from the desk.

“Sri Lanka,” Thomas told him. “And I think they may have two planes.”

“Two?”

Thomas started to push his papers toward Corrigan. “Look at these registries.”

“It’s all right, I trust you,” said Corrigan. “We’ll put Sri Lanka on the search list.”

“Kankesaturai,” said Thomas. “The airport there — I have satellite photos of their facilities, and I’ve asked for information on flights out.”

“What about Manila?”

“It doesn’t fit yet.”

Corrigan had taken a shower and a twenty-minute power nap, but he was still bogged down by fatigue. He struggled to focus on Thomas’s data and compute what it meant.

“Would they bomb Sri Lanka?”

“They’re not,” said Thomas. “They’re just refueling.”

“Refueling?”

“It must be. They could fly from there to Manila.”

But they hadn’t bought enough fuel to refuel there. Did the Sri Lankan airline have a terminal at the airport?

Thomas thought it didn’t, but he’d have to check.

“Thomas?” said Corrigan. “What about LA? Is it the target?”

“I don’t know,” said Thomas. “To get to LA they’d have to refuel, so it could be. But they didn’t buy enough fuel for that.”

“What did they buy fuel for?”

“A little water taxi, probably just a cover, a phony company.”

“You sure?” asked Corrigan.

“No. We should check it out,” said Thomas. He was back to his map — Hawaii had been just outside the range of targets from Sri Lanka. “We have to protect Honolulu,” he said.

“Hawaii?”

“Paradise!” Thomas practically shouted the word, realizing now the significance of the NSA intercepts he’d seen the first day he started.

“You sure?”

“Do it,” he said. “And Sri Lanka. We have to check there. And Manila.”

“All right. Take a breath,” said Corrigan, picking up his headset. “Give me the names one at a time.”

15

When Rankin arrived, the airport had been locked down. No aircraft was allowed to land without escort, and none could take off except after a thorough search. U.S. and Philippine military authorities controlled the airspace around the islands, and security was so tight that Rankin and the others had to prove their identities even after an F-16 escorted them to the base.

A temporary joint command task force had been established in an empty hangar, and they went immediately to find the commander. He turned out to be a lieutenant general from the Marines, who took one look at the unkempt men in front of him and demanded to know what the hell they were doing in a military command post.

“We’re Special Forces, part of Special Demands and the operation that found the terrorists,” Rankin explained.

Before he could get to his request for a helicopter and troops to check out the boating operation, the general waved over one of his aides, a major whose shoulders were wider than some small cars.

“Debrief these men,” said the general. “See what useful information they have for us.”

“With all due respect, sir, the briefing should come from uh, the Team desk,” said Rankin. “We have our own orders—”

“I’m countermanding your orders. You’re under my command now.”

“Well, no, that’s not the way it works,” said Rankin.

“What? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, soldier?” asked the general.

“With respect, sir,” said Rankin. “We already have a job to do. We want to find these fucks.”

The major looked like he was ready to grab Rankin by the neck and wrestle him outside.

“You’re not addressing me, are you?” said the general.

“Well, sir — uh, with respect,” said Rankin, his tone suggesting anything but. “Our orders come through a different pipeline.”

“Have them debriefed, Major.”

“Let’s go, soldier,” said the major, putting his hand on Rankin’s chest.

Guns tugged at Rankin’s arm, and the two men followed the major outside, trailed by Massette. Had the Marine officer simply grilled them on what type of aircraft they were looking for, Rankin might have calmed down and simply called Corrine and asked her to talk to the thickheaded officer. But instead he started bawling Rankin out for disrespect; when the words “court-martial” left his lips, Rankin turned in disgust.

“I don’t have time for this horseshit,” said Rankin, furious. He started to walk away.

“Soldier, you get your butt back here until you’re dismissed,” said the major.

Rankin’s graphic description of what the Marine officer could do with that particular instruction was deflected by Guns, who suggested that all parties concerned would benefit from a phone call to the Cube. He pulled out his sat phone — the major’s eyes grew a bit wide as he saw it — and dialed into Corrigan.

Massette took advantage of the momentary diversion to pull Rankin away, and the two men walked away from the hangar.

“Fucking asshole,” said Rankin.

“He’s an officer; what do you expect?” said Massette.

“Exactly,” said Rankin.

Guns in the meantime managed to calm the major by handing the phone to him; Corrigan applied some of his PsyOp training, assuring the major that it was due to his unit’s efforts that the Philippines were considered secure — and by the way, the hippies who’d just arrived there were CIA employees, not familiar with the chain of command. Temporarily mollified if misinformed, the major handed the phone back to Guns. Corrigan told him to run down the water taxi service Thomas had found and stay the hell away from the lieutenant general until Corrine talked to him. The service had an office at Polillo, an island in the bay on the other side of Luzon.

“How we supposed to get there?” Rankin asked Guns when he came back.

“Corrigan suggested we rent a car.”

“Screw that. We’re at a fucking airport.” Rankin craned his head around. There were several Marine Sea Stallion helos nearby, but it was a good bet the Marines wouldn’t be lending them out anytime soon. Nor would the Navy give up any of its aircraft if it had to check with the lieutenant general for clearance.

On the other hand, there were four Philippine Air Force MD 500MG Defenders parked by an auxiliary building near an American Airlines flight that had been parked for a search.

“Beats driving,” said Massette.

They made their way over to the helicopters, and after checking with their guards were directed to the colonel in charge of the unit. The colonel had indeed been shunted away from the action by the Marines and was none too pleased about it. The MD 500s were older versions of the A-6 Little Bird scouts, which were used by SOAR and other SF units; though no longer on the cutting edge, they were still potent scouts and capable gunships. Rankin explained who they were and that they had a lead out on Polillo.

“Why would the terrorists want a water taxi?” asked the colonel.

Rankin could only shrug. “We won’t know until we get there,” he said.

“Well, let us go then, all of us,” said the colonel, turning and snapping orders to one of his aides.

“You’re beginning to sound like Ferg,” said Guns, as they climbed into one of the choppers.

“Fuck you, too,” said Rankin.

16

Ferguson stabbed the knife at the thick wire cable, unable to see in the dark what he was hitting.

The blade deflected off something hard. He pounded again, felt it slap through something softer. Ferg pulled it out and stabbed once more. The knife found the plastic covering of the cable, cut through — he hacked at it, confidence beginning to build. But with his next blow he felt the knife tip break. Stopping, he leaned back and put the knife into his belt, then reached up to feel the spot with his fingers. A thick collar ran beneath the plastic; beneath that was a piece of pipe. He took the knife out and hacked more carefully, prying away material until he had about six inches’ worth of it exposed about the thickness of a fist.

“I’m going to try shooting through it,” he told Conners. “You with me, Dad?”

“I’m here, Ferg.”

Ferguson adjusted his feet, then leaned on his left arm, trying to get into position so he could brace his arm as he fired. He shifted around twice, leaning back and forth.

“Yeah, here we go,” he said. Ferguson pushed his forehead against his arm to help steady it, then pressed the trigger.

17

As soon as Corrigan described the Sri Lanka connection, one of the operators at a nearby console put up his hand and started waving at Corrine. “There’s a Sri Lankan aircraft approaching grid space F-32,” he said. “It’s a 747.”

“Get planes on it.”

“They’re already approaching.”

The aircraft in question was a cargo version 747 just entering air space over Malaysia. It took about three minutes to arrange for a radio feed directly into the pilots’ circuit. Slammer One-Four and Slammer One-Six were about sixty seconds from having the plane in visual distance. It had already been checked electronically, and Corrine’s own information confirmed that the plane was on a scheduled flight to Brunei.

“We want them to land at Subang,” Corrine told the pilots. Subang Air Base was part of Kuala International Airport. Two American Special Forces soldiers were assigned as advisors to an army unit there, and the Malaysian military had been contacted to stand by and secure any diverted aircraft. “They’re to land there immediately.”

“Understood,” said the lead pilot, Commander Daniel “Wolf” Clarke. Wolf and his wingman were coming toward the 747 at about thirty-eight thousand feet, at roughly a thirty-degree angle from its nose. The Sri Lankan pilot had not yet answered their hails.

“Four MiGs from Malaysian Number 17 squadron preparing to take off,” relayed one of the controllers.

“I don’t think the Navy needs their help,” said Major Gray.

Corrine’s aircraft was several thousand miles away, helping coordinate the search over Iran for the supposedly downed jet, which more and more looked as if it hadn’t been downed at all. The interplay between the two Tomcat pilots made her feel as if they were just a few miles away — as if she might go to one of the windows at the front of the aircraft and spot them up ahead.

“Slam Six, you getting a response?” Wolf asked his wingman.

“Negative, Four. You sure these guys speak English?”

“Yeah all right, I see him, correcting — stay with me six. Definitely a 747.”

“SF Command Transport 3 copies,” said Gray. “You have a 747 in sight. Does it have markings?”

“Negative. No markings. No markings at all,” said Wolf. “They’re holding course. We’re coming around.”

The two F-14s banked, circling around so they could come at the 747 from the rear. Though as far as they knew it was incapable of offensive actions, they nonetheless approached it gingerly, their adrenaline level steadily climbing. The Sri Lankan plane still had not answered their calls on any frequency, nor had it acknowledged the order to land. The Tomcat crews were close enough to see in the cockpit, but the Sri Lankan pilots steadfastly refused to look in their direction. It was five minutes from landfall.

“There’s no way they don’t they see them,” Gray told Corrine.

“Get their attention,” Corrine told the Navy flight. “Make sure they know you’re there.”

The Navy aviator hesitated for just a moment, then requested permission to fire a few rounds “across the bow.”

“Yes,” said Corrine. “Do it.”

The bursts lasted no longer than a second and a half. The big plane lurched off its flight path, seemingly in the direction of Slammer One-Four. Wolf tucked his wing and cleared away from the Boeing’s path. It took a few seconds for the two Tomcat pilots to sort out the situation and make sure they weren’t in each other’s way.

The Boeing pilot, meanwhile, began accelerating, his nose pointing downward.

“He’s descending,” Wolf radioed. “But he’s still not answering our hails.”

“He’s not heading for the airfield,” said Gray. “He’s going south. He’s on a direct path for Singapore. He’ll make landfall in two minutes. We have to get him over the water. Now.”

Singapore sat more than two hundred miles to the south of Kuala Lumpur, a fat and inviting target. And in fact while the cities and towns along the coastline were considerably smaller and much, much poorer, they were all potential targets, once the aircraft was over land.

“Slammer One-Four, fire more warning shots,” said Corrine. “Advise him that we will shoot him down if he does not immediately respond to your commands.”

“I’ve done that.”

“Do it again,” said Corrine. She pushed her sweater away from her wrist, noting the exact time on her watch.

Samman Bin Saqr felt something in the aircraft giving way or breaking behind him; there was noise deep in the cargo bay, something like a muffled explosion, though the engines themselves seemed in order.

The explosives had been packed and arranged to prevent accidental ignition; his engineers bragged that neither lightning nor fifty rounds from an American 20 mm cannon would set them off until the proper moment. But there had definitely been a sharp crack in the back, a noise that to him sounded like an explosion.

With no way to check the problem, he checked his position on the GPS device, making sure that it coincided with the internal navigation equipment. There was no deviance; the plane would fly itself perfectly to the target once he left.

Basher One-Four to Command Transport Three. No response.”

Corrine watched the seconds adding themselves one by one to the window on her watch. There was no question in her mind now that she was going to order the plane shot down; she wanted merely to wait until the last possible second — the lawyer in her forming the opening argument.

The seconds clicked off until there were forty left.

“Basher One-Four, has the aircraft responded?”

“Negative,” said Wolf, surprised that she asked again.

“Shoot it down. Now,” said Corrine. “Do not let that aircraft go over land.”

“Basher One-Four, confirming order to shoot down Sri Lankan cargo aircraft registry 5SK.”

“Confirmed. Shoot it down immediately,” said Corrine.

The Navy pilots traded terse commands, then Wolf took the shot, opening up with his cannon from point-blank range from behind the airliner.

“He’s going in,” said Basher One-Six.”

“Watch yourself! Watch!”

The two aircraft had to pull off as debris flew from the stricken 747. The terrorist plane turned into a fireball, spinning toward the ocean just short of the coastline.

18

Ferguson squeezed off another shot. He’d cleared right through the pipe, but as far as he could tell, nothing had changed. He put the gun next to the edge and fired again. This time his weight wasn’t quite balanced, and he slid; unable to catch himself, he tumbled down to the deck.

“Ferg. Ferg!” yelled Conners.

“Yeah, I’m all right. I shot clean through the motherfucker.”

“Maybe they have a backup. Or maybe that’s not the control cable.”

Ferguson climbed back up, taking the knife. He felt thin wires in the hole, and described them to Conners.

“If we weren’t in an airplane, I’d say they were for detonators,” said Conners when he finished. “Or something thin.”

“Lights maybe?”

“I guess.”

“I think it’s a backup explosive system,” said Ferguson. “Maybe we can find the bombs and blow up the plane.”

Conners didn’t say anything. He sat back against the side, pulling up his shattered leg. It wouldn’t bend. The blood and vomit had dried, but his head still pounded. “How fucked are we, Ferg, with this radiation?” he asked.

It was about the last question Ferguson was expecting, and he started to laugh. “Oh, pretty fucked,” he said.

“How much? We going to get cancer?”

“You think we’re going to get out of this without getting blown up?” Ferguson asked.

“Shit, yeah.”

“Well, on that scale, cancer’s not that bad.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah.” Conners needed some sort of reassurance, and Ferg decided to try and offer it. Even so, he had a hard time; it was one thing to make fun or be sarcastic, and another to sugarcoat reality. There was no way they were walking away from this.

But if they did walk away, he thought, what would it be like?

“Remember those slides we saw that Corrigan made? Worst effect is the alpha stuff, but that has to be ingested, which probably won’t happen here until the particles are blown up, right? Because they didn’t spread uranium dust in the plane — they probably have it in those containment wafers scattered in these boxes here. As long as we don’t breathe it, we’re cool.”

Ferguson paused. His stomach was feeling queasy, but that might just be because he was hungry and tired. It somehow felt reassuring to talk about the effects of the radiation as if he were writing a science report; it had been that way with his cancer, too, explaining it to his sister.

“What we’re getting mostly is gamma, and some of that it probably shielded, too,” continued Ferg. “I mean, we’re sick dogs, Dad, don’t get me wrong — even if we get out of here pretty soon, a lot of interesting medical stuff in our future.”

“Leukemia?”

“Oh, sure. Think of it this way — smoking cigarettes probably isn’t going to make things any worse.”

“What’s cancer like, Ferg?”

“How’s that?”

“You got it, right?”

Ferguson felt something prick at him, as if the question were a physical thing. No one in Joint Demands, not even Van or Slott, knew.

“That’s compartmented need-to-know, Dad,” he said, pushing past the surprise by turning it into a joke.

“We heard rumors, but no proof. Now I can tell.”

“It sucks, Dad. But at the moment, it beats the alternative. Come on, let’s get to work.”

“I’m sorry you got it.”

“Me too. Come on, let me see what happens if I strip those wires down and cross them.”

“I got a better idea, Ferg. Since we’re going to kill ourselves anyway.”

“Fire away, Dad.”

“We got two grenades. Throw ‘em up near that door, see if they blow through the panel.”

“They’re only flash-bangs, Dad,” said Ferg. “They’re just going to make very loud booms.”

The aircraft seemed to tremble, then Ferguson and Conners felt it tilting forward and starting to descend.

“Let’s go for it,” said Ferguson. “Let’s do it.”

“Yeah,” said Conners. He handed over the grenades, then slid down to the floor. Ferguson reached down for him, but got the shirt he’d discarded earlier instead. It had something in the pocket.

“What about the Russian grenade Ruby gave me?” Ferguson asked. “The VOG thing. Any way to set it off?”

“We don’t have a launcher. It works like one of our 40 mm grenades in a 203. The pins inside hold the trigger off until there’s centrifugal force. It has to spin fast.”

“Can we take it apart?”

Conners tried to focus. The grenades came in two basic models, one with an impact fuse in the nose, the other — this one — slightly different, designed more specifically as an antipersonnel shrapnel weapon, throwing metal over a wide area. It hopped up when it landed, then exploded.

If they could set off the cap at the back, the propellant might explode.

Or not.

Hit the charge in the front. Something would go off.

“Spit it out, Dad,” said Conners.

“There’s a fuse in the nose, an explosive charge — if you hit it point-blank, I think it would explode. It might be enough to set off the propellant then.”

“You think I could throw hard enough to set it off?”

“Not even you could do that, Ferg,” said Conners.

“So if I shoot it, what happens?” said Ferg.

“Yeah,” said Conners, as if Ferguson had given the answer rather than the question.

“I don’t know if the shrapnel will go through all the shit they have inside the plane,” said Ferguson. “But it will go through us.”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” said Ferg. He took the grenade and his gun. “I’ll do it near the cockpit. Take those bastards with us maybe.”

“Go for it.”

Neither man moved. Both were willing to die — both realized they were going to die — but neither wanted to cause the other’s death.

Then Conners had another idea. “The flash-bang might set it off, if you wedged them together right. It’s not much of a killing force, but it could set off the percussion cap at the back, or maybe the fuse in the front, because it has to be pretty loose to begin with.”

“Which one?”

Conners thought. “The back. It’s like a bullet being fired.”

“I could shoot the back point-blank, like a striker.”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell,” said Ferguson. He grabbed hold of Connors and dragged him toward the front of the plane.

“What are you doing, Ferg?”

“We’ll use the grenade to blow open the door. We’ll huddle under the ledge, the explosion misses us, we go get the bastards. The flash-bang will be the striker. It’ll work.”

Conners said nothing as Ferguson dragged him forward, convinced belief was better than despair. Finnegan’s saga floated into his brain. Oh, for a good slug of whiskey right now, he thought to himself.

“Shoot me before we crash,” said Conners, as Ferguson let go of him.

It was dark, so Conners couldn’t see Ferguson wince. The CIA officer patted the SF soldier on the arm, then started to climb up toward the door he’d found earlier.

“I’m going to stick the grenades in the door and jump,” Ferguson told him. “If it works, it’ll either blow a hole in the fuselage, or the door to the cockpit, or ignite the whole plane.”

“Or it won’t work,” muttered Conners.

“Always a possibility,” said Ferg.

Conners curled himself against the metal, hunkering his head down. The pain of his wounds hadn’t disappeared, but his mind seemed to have pushed itself away from it. He felt as if he could think at least; he was conscious, awake, and knew he’d be awake when he died. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

It took Ferguson two tries to get back on the ledge near the door. The small metal bar that had acted as a handle for the door was about a half inch too tight to hold them together; Ferguson squeezed it back but still didn’t have enough room. He fit the Russian grenade in place and forced the stun grenade down, wedging it with his knife between the two devices. He tried to position the tip of the blade at the center of the Russian grenade, like a striker against a detonating cap, but he couldn’t really see what he was doing. The flash-bang squeezed only about a third of the way down.

It wasn’t going to work, Ferguson thought as he gripped the top of the M84 grenade.

Better to do something, Ferg’s father always said, even if it’s futile. You’re going to pee your pants one way or another.

Maybe the sound of the damn flash-bang going off would scare the piss out of the terrorists, and they’d lose control of the airplane. Or maybe it would ignite the Russian grenade, shoot it through the cockpit, and put a hole in the back of the pilot.

And maybe they’d all just go boom. There certainly were enough explosives packed into the 747.

“So this is the way I go out, Dad,” he said. He was speaking to his own father, not Conners, though maybe in a way he’d always been talking to his dad when he talked to the older SF man.

“See ya in heaven, boys,” said Ferguson. He pulled the pin on the grenade, heard — or thought he heard — a click, then jumped off the ledge.

19

Rankin leaned out of the helicopter as it whipped over the compound. There was a docking area with a pair of small boats, but no helo in the flat helipad area at the side.

“Can we get down for a look?” he asked his pilot, pointing.

“Not a problem,” replied the pilot, who like most Filipinos had spoken English all his life. The four choppers tucked downward, buzzing the shoreline and small building in formation. They turned back to land, slowing to a hover over a dirt road at the back of the facility. Rankin covered his face as he jumped off the skids, ducking and coughing as he ran toward the buildings. Six Filipino soldiers came off the helicopters behind him, and by the time Rankin rapped on the door to the small shack they were lined up at the corner of the building, ready for a takedown. Guns and Massette had their MP-5s out directly behind Rankin.

The soldier knocked several times, Uzi ready. He eyed the door and lock; it was flimsy, easy to kick down, but he was wary of booby traps.

“I’m going in,” he told the others. He blew off the lock, tensing, expecting a booby trap. Nothing happened. He kicked in the door, hesitating as it flew against its hinges. But there were no explosives, no trip wires; it looked like the sleepy office of the sleepy, one- or two-man operation Corrigan said it claimed to be.

They went inside. There was a desk with two computers, some folders and old newspapers. Nautical memorabilia — a miniature ship’s wheel, a decorative clock — were scattered around the room gathering dust.

“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

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

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

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

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.

Aboard 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 arch 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.

The chute stalled, and Ferg’s hand slipped off the toggle; the two men sailed forward, stopped in the air, sailed forward again, rocking crookedly as they descended.

The boat jerked to life as the parachute opened. Rankin realized what was going on — it had been sent to retrieve the pilot of the 747.

Rankin pulled up his Uzi, checking it to make sure it was ready, while Guns did the same with his MP-5 in the back.

Above and to the west, the terrorists’ flying dirty bomb veered toward the empty ocean, arcing on its left wing. Black smoke trailed from the belly of the plane. Blackness enveloped the underside. Something flew off the plane — its right wing, shattered by cannon fire from the F/A-18 and sheared off by the violent aerodynamic forces as it plunged. The plane put down its nose like an otter, diving into a lake; then it plunged into the water, breaking up as it hit and disappearing in a cloud of steam.

“The chute,” Rankin told the chopper pilot. “They’re almost in the water. Go. We want to take the boat out before it gets there. Go!”

When they hit the water, Ferguson felt his stomach explode, ice and vomit crashing together in his mouth. In the next second he was underwater. His fingers fumbled to release the belt and strap, tearing at the metal locks impotently. Desperate to breathe, he pulled his right hand free, then tore at the harness. Caught by the wind, the chute pulled away, bringing him to the surface, then dying back down as it filled. Ferguson managed to undo it from Conners first, then kicked and got his leg out as the chute pulled away. He fell below into the darkness of the cold water, still attached to Conners by his belt. He pushed upward, feeling Conners kick as well. Fresh air hit his eyes; he gulped and got only a little water in his mouth.

There was a boat nearby, a hull or something — Ferguson started to push toward it but a swell caught him from behind and smashed him back down.

Rankin and Guns stood in the helicopter, emptying their guns at the occupants of the boat. One of the men brought up a shoulder-launched SAM just as Rankin started to reload. The American slammed home the fresh clip, and in the same motion pressed the trigger of the gun; the Uzi hiccuped, then splattered into the terrorist, who had raised the missile, sending both flying backward into the ocean.

“They’re there, they’re there!” yelled Guns, and in the next second he’d whipped off his boots and jumped from the helo, the spray strong in his face as he left the bird. He took two powerful strokes after he surfaced, grabbed Conners by the chest, and pulled. The sergeant felt heavier than he’d thought, but two strong kicks brought them to the stern of the boat, which was slowly taking on water from the bottom.

Rankin, not as a strong a swimmer, was just pulling himself up the other side. Ferguson pushed Conners up on deck and found himself being dragged there as well. The Filipino helicopter swung in an orbit around them as an F/A-18 whipped overhead.

Released from the belt, Ferguson flopped on his back in the open speedboat, not sure whether he was alive or dead or dreaming. Guns and Rankin pulled Conners to the back, propping his head on a cushion as they worked to revive him.

For all four men, time had ceased to exist. The past and the present and the future swelled in the spray of the waves, churning in an endless moment that had no boundaries. And then one by one they fell from it, coming back to human time, human hurt, human triumph and fear — all except Conners.

Ferg didn’t understand at first. His hearing had come back in his left ear, though not his right, and when Guns told him, he shook his head, thinking he didn’t quite get it.

“Dad’s gone, Ferg. He was too shot up,” said the soldier.

“He was alive on the plane,” said Ferguson, who wanted that to make a difference.

Guns shook his head and shrugged. Tears were slipping from his eyes.

“He was fucking alive,” said Ferg.