Fly by Night

CHAPTER FORTY

Jibril opened his eyes, or rather tried to. Oddly, the world that spread before him put the word “entropy” in his mind. It was a term he had learned long ago in some undergraduate chemistry class. The measure of a state of disorder. That was what he was looking at — bodies strewn about the cabin amid wiring and paper and equipment. One of Khoury’s guards was nearby, his neck folded impossibly against a shoulder, blank eyes staring into space. Fadi Jibril had never seen death before, but he was seeing it now. Near the flight deck he saw three more bodies, two piled in a heap — the second guard on top of Rafiq Khoury, and Achmed crushed under a pile of equipment that had broken free. He could also see Schmitt at the controls, or at least his shoulder. His shirt was covered in blood, as was the hand Jibril could see on the control column. But the hand was steady.

Jibril performed a self-assessment. His head throbbed where he’d been struck with the butt of a gun, and his right shoulder felt like it was on fire. He saw blood on the console in front of him and, in a strangely detached thought, wondered if it was his. When Jibril tried to move, his right leg shot with pain. He called out to Schmitt, but the pilot didn’t seem to hear.

He reached down and unbuckled his lap belt, the thing that had saved him. Jibril tried to stand, but his right leg buckled immediately, and he tumbled to the steel deck. Grimacing, he pushed onto his side. Jibril looked up, and when he did, his eyes registered something different. It took a moment to realize what it was. Rafiq Khoury had moved. He was closer to Schmitt now.

Jibril tried to yell, tried to raise an alarm, but only managed a hoarse grunt. He began to crawl, watching in horror as Khoury, his body bloodied and distorted, lunged forward and attacked Schmitt. The two men grappled, falling sideways onto the instruments and levers between the cockpit seats. There was a tangle of bloody arms and whipping fists, howls of pain and rage. He watched the two men fall back into the cabin, leaving the craft to fly itself. The imam was utterly insane, Jibril thought, attacking the only person who could fly the airplane. Soon Khoury was on top with something big and heavy in his hand. He was hammering at Schmitt, striking again and again. The burly American tried to fend off the blows but was clearly weakening under the onslaught.

Jibril tried to crawl closer, but his shattered leg was useless. He spotted one of the guard’s weapons nearby, a machine pistol. Jibril had never used such a thing in his life, but he would learn right now. He stretched out and touched the barrel with his fingertips, dragged it closer until he had a good grip. He pointed the steel barrel at Rafiq Khoury and tried to pull the trigger. Nothing happened. The trigger seemed jammed.

More screams from the front, Khoury still pounding away.

Jibril brought the gun closer. Weapons had safety levers, and the engineer tried to deduce where it would be. He found it near the trigger, a tiny black lever. Jibril flicked it forward, pointed the barrel as best he could and fired. The weapon kicked in his hands, and a deafening noise reverberated through the cabin.

Khoury seemed to freeze, his arm poised overhead for a final strike. Schmitt managed to roll clear, and Jibril fired again, this time holding the trigger down. The gun kicked three more times, and he saw the imam shudder, saw his white robe blossom with splotches of red. Then, finally, he collapsed.

Schmitt pushed clear of Khoury’s body and rose unsteadily. There was agony in his battered face, but he caught Jibril’s eyes and the two exchanged a look. Schmitt gave a subtle nod before stumbling back to the flight deck.

Jibril tried to move again, but the pain in his leg was excruciating. He eased back and tried to take pressure off the limb. Resting on the cold steel deck, he closed his eyes. Jibril cursed inwardly. How could he have been so blind to the imam? He had only seen what he’d wanted to see. Heard what he’d wanted to hear. You will be to Sudan what A.Q. Khan was to Pakistan. The father of a nation’s technical might.

With his head vibrating against the steel floor, he let his mind drift. His free thoughts went, quite naturally, to his wife and unborn child. Precisely where they always should have been. Jibril hated how he had been used and manipulated. Hated the damage about to be wrought. So he began to pray. He begged forgiveness and threw himself openly onto whatever reckoning he deserved. The pleas were very different from those he had been issuing for the last six months. Indeed, they were the inverse. Fadi Jibril prayed that his diligent work would somehow fail.

“Schmitt, are you there?”

Davis had been calling frantically for the last three minutes, but gotten no answer. He looked outside and found a bare speck in the distance — Blackstar heading for its target. It was decision time. If he lost sight of the drone, got too far behind, he might never see it again.

“What is happening?” Antonelli asked, her eyes locked to the nearby DC-3.

“I don’t know,” Davis said.

Schmitt had clearly taken his advice and put the airplane through a series of violent maneuvers. Then the craft had settled to a more straight and level trajectory. But as Davis watched now, he had the distinct impression the airplane was unguided, meandering up and down, drifting through shallow turns. As if nobody at all was flying.

Finally, a shaky voice rumbled over the speaker. “Davis?”

It was Schmitt, but he sounded tentative and unsettled in a way Davis had never heard before.

“You okay?” he answered.

A long pause. “Yeah, we’re under control.”

“We?”

“The engineer and me. We’re the only ones left. He’s banged up, but alive. He’s on our side now.”

“So you’re secure?” Davis asked, wanting to be sure.

“Secure — sure. Khoury and his bunch are done. You had a good idea.”

“I never thought I’d hear that from you.”

“And you won’t ever again.”

Yeah, Davis thought, Schmitt’s just fine.

“But we’re not out of the woods yet,” Schmitt added. “I think I bent this old airplane. She’s flying crooked and the ailerons are binding.”

Davis looked past Antonelli. He didn’t see Blackstar. “Dammit!” he muttered. He banked the airplane hard and pushed the throttles all the way up. Davis put the microphone to his lips, “Do what you have to, just get that bucket on the ground. And ask the engineer if there’s any way to stop Blackstar.”

Davis watched the airspeed inch upward. He needed knots, so he pushed the nose down to help the old bird accelerate.

After a minute, Schmitt came back. “Jibril says no, he can’t control it. Blackstar is on its own now. But you’ve got the target right. It’s heading for the conference in Giza.”

“All right,” Davis replied, “I’m going after it.”

“Going after it?” Schmitt spat. “What will you do if you catch up?”

“Hell if I know.”

The Great Pyramid of Giza has been casting a shadow for over four thousand years, but never before had it fallen over such a luminous array of dignitaries. Twenty-two leaders of the new, emerging Arab world were mingling in the staging area, a sheltered enclosure behind the main stage. This alone might have given any right-minded security chief pause, but up to this point everyone was behaving, save for the occasional incoherent rant by the madman of Libya.

The usual throngs of tourists had been turned away today, leaving countless vacations bruised and tour guides wagging excuses. It was the only way. Presently, a single person stood on the stage, the conference’s beleaguered director of security. He was an Egyptian, a senior man in the new president’s Office of State Security. Nearing the end of his career, the director was known for his steady demeanor under pressure — something he relied upon now.

He stood on the stage and looked out at the crowd, which was actually not that large, and then at the media corral where a veritable army of reporters stood in wait. The journalists were geared for battle — cameras, microphones, smartphones. If all went as planned today, a positive tilt toward peace in the region was anticipated, even if the ceremony itself would quickly be forgotten. And any problems? the director mused. Any problems would be splattered across the world in a matter of seconds, and from a hundred different angles. That was the problem in his line of work. The better you performed your job, the less it was noticed. But if you screwed up—

The director put a hand in his pocket and keyed the microphone that was wired to his collar. “Report.”

The reply came to his earpiece immediately, “Still Condition One. No threats, sir.”

The director did not respond. Thirty more minutes of that, he reasoned, and I’ll soon be in a soft chair by the sea.

His earpiece crackled to life. “One moment, sir. Our Air Force command center has received a warning from their U.S. liaison officer. One of their aircraft carriers is tracking an unauthorized aircraft thirty miles to the south. It’s heading this way.”

“What are they doing about it?” the director asked, not bothering to inquire why it took the Americans to bring the matter to everyone’s attention.

An interminable pause. “Our own Air Force is sending a pair of fighters to investigate. The colonel insists on leaving the bulk of his force in sector three to watch the northern border. He says the reported target is moving very slowly and not a possible threat.”

There was nothing the director of security could say to that. The Air Force was the Air Force, and if something slipped through it would be their heads rolling in the gutters of Abdeen Palace. All the same, he turned to his right and scanned the southern sky.