First Team (61 page)

“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

OVER THE PACIFIC

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

BUILDING 24-442

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.