behind Smith and tapped him on the shoulder. He followed her back to the cockpit, saying a silent prayer that Klein had been able to work his magic. A thin ring of red was visible at the edge of Dahab’s turban and he seemed to have completely lost touch with the world around him. The only good news was that the passenger sitting next to him had retreated to a vacant seat at the back of the plane. One problem down, a thousand to go.
“I’m still not entirely certain who you are,” the pilot said as Smith stepped into the cockpit and closed the door. “But I’ll grant that you have a great deal of influence. We’ve been diverted to a military base on an island near the Maldives. It also appears that we’ll be acquiring a fighter escort from a nearby American carrier.”
His expression suggested that he wasn’t happy about the assist from the U.S. Navy. Maes was smart enough to know that there was nothing a fighter could do to help them. The only reason for its presence was to make sure that if things went seriously south, the plane never made it to land.
“I’ve also been told in no uncertain terms that you are now in full command of this flight and that we are to follow your orders without question.”
Smith nodded, not bothering to hide his relief. Fred Klein once again had come through.
Jon Smith strolled casually down the aisle in the copilot’s uniform, sunglasses on and hat pulled low over his forehead. He smiled and nodded at the passengers as he passed but stayed focused on the Sudanese in his peripheral vision.
The flight attendants had been fending off an increasing number of complaints about the African, and as Smith got closer, he could understand why. The edges of Dahab’s turban were wet enough that the blood would soon be running down his face. He didn’t seem to notice, though, and continued to rap split knuckles against the window.
As bad as viruses like Ebola and Marburg were, Sarie was right — they were just mindless biological machines. The creatures infesting this man seemed almost sentient. It was as if they understood that their host was dying and were consciously trying to find a way to escape.
Dahab’s stare remained fixed as Smith approached carrying a canvas mailbag containing a heavy wrench and a roll of duct tape — the most sophisticated weapon and hazmat equipment the plane had to offer.
He stopped at the rear bathrooms, watching a terrified flight attendant come down the aisle and lean her impressive bosom into the row behind the Sudanese.
“You look like two very fit gentlemen,” she said, following the script they’d concocted. “A drink cart tipped over up front. Would it be possible for you to help me?”
Smith retrieved the tape from his bag and used it to secure the sunglasses to his face while the men followed her up the aisle. A pair of surgical gloves completed his protective clothing, and he ran a latex-covered hand over a gash in his cheek sealed with Krazy Glue.
Showtime.
He tried to keep his gait relaxed as he slipped into the empty seats behind Dahab, removed the wrench from the bag, and double-checked the cord threaded through the grommets around the opening.
His actions had attracted a fair amount of attention, and he grinned at a toddler staring at him three rows forward. The gloves were easy to hide, and most of the duct tape was obscured by his hat, so after a few minutes the passengers went back to their books and movies.
He rose casually and gave the child still staring at him another quick smile before ramming the canvas bag down over Dahab’s head. The African immediately tried to jump from his seat but discovered that his seat belt was fastened — something Smith had confirmed when he’d walked past.
By the time he thought to reach for the clasp, Howell had vaulted the people trying to escape the seats directly in front, going headfirst over them and clamping a hand around the buckle mechanism. Smith used the cord to tighten the bag around Dahab’s neck with one hand and arced the wrench toward his head with the other, ignoring the rocking of the plane as the passengers shifted en masse.
It was only inches from impact when the Sudanese jerked forward. The power of his movement felt utterly inhuman, and the wrench missed its target as Smith was pulled helplessly over the seats.
With three grown men now thrashing around in the confined space of two economy seats, there was no way to cock the wrench back far enough to build any real momentum. Smith abandoned it, concentrating on trying to keep the bag in place as Dahab reached back and found his throat.
His grip felt more like a five-fingered vise than anything human. Air and blood flow suddenly cut off, all Smith could do was grab weakly for the man’s wrist. He tried to use the wall for leverage, but his vision began to swim and he became confused as to where the wall was. The sound of a snapping bone that initially seemed to be signaling the collapse of his spine instead eased the pressure suffocating him. Another quiet crack and his vision cleared enough to see Howell digging beneath Dahab’s fingers, breaking them one by one.
When the third one went, Smith pulled back, falling into the aisle gasping for air. He was free.
But so was the Sudanese. The seat belt had released and he was now staggering into the aisle with Howell hanging like a rag doll over one of his shoulders. Smith stayed low and wrapped his arms around Dahab’s legs, unintentionally bringing him down on top of Howell. The bag slipped, but the Brit managed to shove it back down despite the fact that he was absorbing a steady stream of blows that reverberated with the same sickening thud as a butcher pounding meat.
Smith released the African’s legs and grabbed for the wrench, bringing it down full force on the back of his head.
Instead of falling over dead, though, Dahab just kept beating the increasingly defenseless Howell. The protection provided by the bag and turban had combined with the infection to allow him to completely ignore the impact.
Smith brought the wrench down again and again, grunting and huffing like a madman. The African’s skull turned soft on the left side and he focused on that spot, gritting his teeth and throwing his entire weight behind each swing.
Finally, the man went limp and Smith fell back against the seat behind him, gasping for breath. The sunglasses he’d taped to his head were still in place and he ripped them off, checking to make sure the cut on his face was still glued together. It was, but that didn’t mean much.
Howell finally managed to get out from under Dahab’s lifeless body and tried to get to his feet like any self- respecting SAS officer would. His legs couldn’t support him, though, and after a few valiant attempts, he just sank back to the ground, coughing uncontrollably.
61
Jon Smith stepped over Dahab’s garbage bag — cocooned body and peered into the open door to the bathroom. “You okay, Peter?”
Howell was leaning over the sink, supporting himself with palms planted on either side. When he spoke, the water in his mouth ran out red.
“Just cricket, thank you for asking.”
“Do you think any of his blood got in your cuts?”
“How the hell should I know, Jon? There isn’t a square inch of me that isn’t torn or broken.”
“Yeah…”
“What about you?”
“The same.”
“Well, I guess we’ll know soon enough, then.”
The pilot had done the best he could to calm the passengers, telling them that Dahab was a drug runner wanted for murder and that they were from Interpol, but not everyone was convinced. Cautious whispers had evolved into loud, multilingual discussions, and then into a constant, panicky drone. Ten rows up, two men were standing in the aisle jabbing at each other in one of a number of arguments that seemed almost certain to get out of hand. When one got shoved into the lap of the woman behind him, Smith stepped through the curtain and banged loudly on the wall.
