The Ghost of Flight 666

CHAPTER 37: Skycraning It

As the dark shadow of the large tropical island of Sumatra passed on the starboard side, blotting out the stars of a misty night, it was just the Champion Galaxus, the Iranians and Slade. The flotilla of supporting ship evaporated. Once the Iranian lie was exposed no one was willing to protect the hijacked freighter.

Slade was given the go ahead to try and secure the bridge. He was just gathering up his arsenal in order to take one last, desperate gamble. If he could take the bridge, even for a while, he might disable the ship. That would at least buy time.

The plan was for Slade to take the bridge and hold it. The action should draw the attention of the Iranians, making the Uranium cargo vulnerable. Five minutes after he had the bridge the Deltas would hit the freighter.

If the attack failed the Key West was to torpedo the freighter.

Slade was ready.

He dispatched the two snipers — amazed that they would take time out for prayers on duty — he had a feeling the praying wouldn’t do them any good anyway. The machine gun crew, two men and a Russian made PK, were on the top of the bridge overlooking the ship. They depended on the snipers to cover their back, only the snipers were dead. That made them vulnerable to Slade’s suppressed Makarov.

Slade had regained his nest atop the bridge. Only now he had a machine gun and two Dragunov sniper rifles. That put him in a considerably better mood.

The sound of hydraulic motors resounded over the deck, cutting through the moist tropical air. The cargo hatch over the nuclear containers was opening. They were the folding hatch design, allowing the entire hold to be accessed, the problem was that as the hatch folded upwards it blocked Slade’s view of the hold. He couldn’t tell what was going on down there. Why was Nikahd opening the hold now?

As if to answer his query, the bridge door below him opened and Nikahd himself marched out of the bridge with his security contingent in tow. This was a stroke of luck. The cargo hatch was open so the Deltas could get at the Uranium and Nikahd’s security gorillas were not on the bridge.

As soon as the colonel reached the deck four stories below the bridge Slade called the director. “I’m on my way in!”

There were guards at either door. Slade dropped behind the guard on the starboard side, knifing him as he landed. He was in the shadows and no one in the bridge noticed. Taking a second to drag the body away from the door, Slade took stock of the bridge from the safety of the darkness.

There were four men on the bridge and a guard outside the other door. The guard was facing away. Turning the latch slowly, Slade eased the door open and stepped into the bridge. It was rigged for night, so unnecessary lights were off and the bridge was bathed in a dim red glow. Slade was a shadow.

He stepped inside, moving slowly so as not to attract their attention, and slid into the deeper shadows by the plotting table. He centered the red dot of his P90 on the back of the first man’s head. He’d go for chest shots for the rest, but he wanted the first man to fall cleanly.

Slade squeezed the trigger. The silencer absorbed most of the report from the gunpowder going off; however, it couldn’t do anything about the hollow splash of a head exploding. The man’s head waggled forward and snapped back like someone punched him. He crumpled to the floor. The other three men looked toward the sound, not yet comprehending what was going on. Slade gave each of them a squeeze of the trigger.

The killing hardly made a sound, but the cries of men dying caught the guard’s ear. He turned and saw Slade. The P90 emptied its magazine through the tempered window, showering the guard with glass and bullets.

The man fell. Nikahd and his men stopped and stared up at the bridge. He had a few moments, only that before they rushed him. Striding to the helm Slade ripped the throttles to full stop. A bell rang and the engines wound down. Replacing the cylindrical magazine, Slade emptied it into the bridge control console, shattering anything and everything that looked like a useful piece of equipment.

He plugged a new cylinder in the P90 and prepared to meet Nikahd’s guards. Only they didn’t come. They were trotting with Nikahd, heading for the now open cargo hold. Slade couldn’t understand why until he heard the unmistakable whine of a turbine engine. All of a sudden it hit him.

“Damn!” he cursed, rushing out of the bridge through the door he entered. He threw caution aside and fired on the first Iranians he saw, trusting to speed and confusion rather than stealth. Several men went down. He rushed past them, firing, changing his magazine on the fly, kicking a wounded man out of the way and pressing on.

Slade skidded to a halt.

There was a high pitched shriek coming from the cargo hold. A pillar of light rose out of the hold and into the night sky. Rising up from the hold, in the center of the shaft of light, was an enormous green helicopter; it looked like some huge insect from an old Godzilla movie.

Slade instantly recognized the machine: a Sikorsky Skycrane, a legendary aircraft that specialized in carrying bulk cargo. Sure enough, strapped behind the cockpit and between the long spindly landing gear were the three containers. The Sikorsky came to a hover, moving forward far enough to allow Nikahd, who was standing on the next cargo hatch, to climb aboard.

“Damn it! I should’ve checked the crate!” Slade told himself, sprinting through the darkness. Several Iranians looked his way but then all Hell broke loose on deck. Like specters from a horror film black shadows spilled over the ships rails spitting fire. The Deltas had arrived.

The two men barring Slade’s path melted to the deck, shot through and through. He pulled himself atop the hatch cover and got up, running hard as the Sikorsky started to rise. Slade leapt, grabbing the edge of the platform on which the containers rode, throwing the crook of his right arm around the frame of the cargo platform. It was a precarious hold at best. Slade slung a leg up and hooked his heel inside a cargo strap. With his left hand, he grasped the clip for his rappelling line and snapped it onto the D-Ring through which the strap ran.

The Sikorsky banked and Slade lost his grip, falling off the platform. He landed hard back on the cargo hatch cover. He cursed as the pain coursed up his back, but over the cacophony, somehow he heard his name called.

“Slade!”

He looked to his left and saw Kincaid standing there in amazement. “Killer!”

The Sikorsky was flying away, climbing hard, and already taking fire from the Deltas. There was something strange about the sound though. It took a second before Slade looked down to see his hundred foot long rope reeling out like a mad fishing line.

“Oh shit!”

The chopper snatched Slade off the deck like a minnow on a hook.