of small boats, but no helo in the flat helipad area at the side.
“Can we get down for a look?” he asked his pilot, pointing.
“Not a problem,” replied the pilot, who like most Filipinos had spoken English all his life. The four choppers tucked downward, buzzing the shoreline and small building in formation. They turned back to land, slowing to a hover over a dirt road at the back of the facility. Rankin covered his face as he jumped off the skids, ducking and coughing as he ran toward the buildings. Six Filipino soldiers came off the helicopters behind him, and by the time Rankin rapped on the door to the small shack they were lined up at the corner of the building, ready for a takedown. Guns and Massette had their MP-5s out directly behind Rankin.
The soldier knocked several times, Uzi ready. He eyed the door and lock; it was flimsy, easy to kick down, but he was wary of booby traps.
“I’m going in,” he told the others. He blew off the lock, tensing, expecting a booby trap. Nothing happened. He kicked in the door, hesitating as it flew against its hinges. But there were no explosives, no trip wires; it looked like the sleepy office of the sleepy, one- or two-man operation Corrigan said it claimed to be.
They went inside. There was a desk with two computers, some folders and old newspapers. Nautical memorabilia — a miniature ship’s wheel, a decorative clock — were scattered around the room gathering dust.
“Looks like a water taxi office,” said Guns. “Except that there’s no dispatcher here to take calls.”
“Maybe they’re out,” said Rankin. “Where do you figure the helicopter is?”
“I don’t know. They’re missing their boat as well,” said Guns. “Neither of those little skiffs out there rates as a water taxi.”
“You sure they have one?” Rankin asked.
“Either that or the picture’s a fake,” said the Marine, picking up a framed photo from the front desk.
“Maybe we should go look for them,” suggested Rankin. They left Massette with the Filipinos to search and secure the building, with orders to seize the computers and papers as part of the terrorist investigation. Guns and Rankin climbed aboard one of the Defenders and pulled back out over the ocean.
“What are we looking for?” asked the pilot.
“This boat,” said Rankin, showing him the picture.
“I can check with the Navy patrol,” added the pilot.
“Go for it,” said Rankin.
20
Corrine felt as if her body deflated as the Navy pilots reported seeing the 747 disintegrating as it hit the water.
“Down, it’s down,” said Wolf.
“Good,” she told him.
She turned to the others, giving them a thumbs-up. Then she punched back into Corrigan’s line, relaying the information.
“I’m afraid Ferguson and Conners haven’t been located yet,” he said.
“Yes, I know.”
Neither one stated the obvious — the two men were probably aboard the plane that had just been shot down.
“Navy is challenging an Indian flight over the northern Philippines,” one of the communications specialists said to Corrine. “Data says it’s a 707. They’re off their filed flight plan, but they’re a regular flight for Hawaii. Carry flowers, that sort of thing.”
Corrine started to say that they could let it go, but then she remembered the bulletin Corrigan had issued earlier — the terrorists had two planes.
“Do they have it in sight?”
“Negative. It’s responded properly to the civilian controllers, however. Looks like it’s OK.”
They all wanted to knock off. They deserved to. And this plane was a 707, not a 747 — and Indian besides.
Corrine reached for the mike switch. Her job was to be the president’s conscience, and she’d done it well, ordering the shootdown of the terrorist plane at the very last second — a tough decision that had to be made. Now it was time to go home.
Or was it? Nothing could be overlooked — that was the lesson of the boxcars, wasn’t it?
“Tell them to get it in sight,” she told the Navy controller. “Tell them to make sure it’s a 707, not a 747. And don’t just settle for a radar contact either.”
She hit the switch and keyed back into Corrigan. “Mr. Corrigan, what was the information regarding the planes the Sri Lankan company owns?”
“Which ones?” asked Corrigan.
“They have 707s?”
“They have three, all being refurbished. Bought them surplus,” Corrigan stopped, checking through his papers. “They got them from an Indian airline — I don’t have the exact information in front of me. Is it important?”
Corrine turned back to the com specialist. “Set up a direct line to the Navy patrol, just like you did for Basher. I want that plane stopped.”
21
As the time to leave the plane sped toward him, Samman Bin Saqr thought more and more of staying in the plane, guiding it the next several thousand miles and ending in a blaze of glory in downtown Honolulu. After such a long struggle, paradise would be a welcome reward.
He reminded himself that there were many other battles to wage — the Americans would have to be taught again and again the reality of their sins. His next operation would be even greater. It was selfish to leave the fight so soon.
And so, as they cleared the last of the American patrols and adjusted course to skirt the Philippines as he had planned, Samman Bin Saqr undid his restraints and turned to his copilot.
“We are doing well, Vesh,” he said over the intercom.
The copilot turned and smiled. As he did, Samman Bin Saqr reached to his outer thigh and drew the pistol from the pocket in his flight suit. He fired three bullets point-blank into Vesh’s chest.
“You will still see heaven,” he told his follower. “But this way it is guaranteed, with no opportunity for cowardice.”
Samman Bin Saqr checked the autopilot unit, which had been customized to ensure it would reach its target. Once set, the aircraft would be locked on its path. Radio queries would be analyzed by a special computer section, with recorded answers played back to soothe inquiring minds.
Bin Saqr pressed the buttons in sequence. The yoke moved slightly, away from his hands. The Americans’ fate was now set.
He smiled, permitting himself a moment of satisfaction, then rose from his seat. As he did, the rear of the flight deck exploded.
In the cargo hold, Ferguson threw himself over Conners as the flash bang detonated the Russian grenade. Rather than launching forward, the grenade’s propellant exploded and set off the charge in the fuse as well. The shock wave rumbled through the plane, shaking its ribs like the water in a shallow bowl. Ferguson looked up and saw a shaft of light streaming above him from the flight deck. He jumped up, slamming his fingers into the metal and scrambling upward, gun in hand. He couldn’t hear anything, not even the jet engines — the blast had
