“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
