temporarily deafened him.
The plane dipped forward. The door had remained intact, but the blast had punched a jagged, eighteen-inch hole through the middle. Ferguson scrambled on the ledge and saw that the welded bar at the side had been shattered. He put his hand on it to steady himself and felt it move as the plane began to dip sharply on its left wing. Ferguson started to fall backward but managed to grab the end of the bar, suspended for a moment in midair.
Inside the cabin, Samman Bin Saqr struggled to get up. He knew the devils had somehow managed to board his plane, and knew also that he would stop them. He pushed away from the captain’s seat, his face wet with blood. He reached back to his thigh for his pistol, then wiped his eyes with his sleeve, trying to see.
As Ferguson struggled to hold his balance, he put his hand back on the doorframe. Before he could steady himself, however, the door began to slide down like a sled on a slippery slope; he pulled back as it shot to the floor, the aircraft still reeling in the sky. He threw himself into the empty white hole, falling onto the carpeted deck and losing his pistol.
Ferguson pushed upright as the plane tilted to the right. Something rose in front of him, more shadow than human, more devil than anything that breathed. Every ounce of energy in his worn and battered body boiled into rage, and Ferguson threw himself forward, forgetting everything but rage.
He grabbed Samman Bin Saqr by the neck. The terrorist swung his pistol wildly, firing and at the same time trying to hit his assailant with the barrel. Ferguson swung his right fist down into Samman Bin Saqr’s temple, pounding and pounding.
The airplane, its automated pilot damaged by the shrapnel of the grenade, nosed into a dive, accelerating as the two men struggled. As its speed multiplied, the aerodynamic design of its airframe took over, stopping it from its plunge and making it rise. The two men tumbled backward, their fates intertwined with unfathomable hate and fury. Samman Bin Saqr managed to pull Ferguson over his side and pin him against the side control panel.
“I’ll kill you, American,” said Samman Bin Saqr, choosing English so his assailant could understand his last words.
Ferguson felt the barrel of the pistol against his head but heard nothing, still deaf. His gun was behind him somewhere, but he remembered the second flash-bang in his pocket. He reached desperately, hooking it with his thumb and trying to grab the pin, but the plane shifted downward again, rocking left and right with the windy turbulence outside. Ferguson slid the grenade around to get at the pin but then lost the grenade as Bin Saqr pressed against his hand.
The Muslim fanatic cursed as the American slid away from the barrel just as he fired the gun. Bin Saqr struggled to get the gun back and fire again. He would kill the devil, kill him, then fly the plane himself to his reward.
As he pulled the barrel close to Ferguson’s head, he realized someone else was on the flight deck behind him. He turned, expecting somehow that Vesh had come back from the dead. But it wasn’t — it was Conners, on his knees, a pistol in his hands. The SF sergeant squeezed off a shot; the nine-millimeter bullet caught Samman Bin Saqr square in the forehead as he turned.
The second bullet took off the top part of his skull and splattered a good portion of his brains against the side windscreen.
22
As soon as Corrine heard the report from the Navy patrol, she knew that somehow, some way, Ferguson and Conners had managed to take over the aircraft.
“Can you raise it on the radio?” she asked.
“We’re trying. Looks like it’s out of control. It’s flying south but very erratically.”
Corrine looked over at Gray, who was tracking the position. “If they fly south another ten minutes, they’ll be in a sea-lane,” said the Air Force major. “Beyond that, they’ll be over land.”
She nodded, then clicked her mike to talk. “Close your distance so you can shoot them down,” she told the Navy pilot. “I want you close enough to read any markings on that plane. If they don’t respond to you and change their course, I want you to shoot them down.”
“Understood. I’ll get close enough for a cannon shot. I’ll be right on top of him,” replied the pilot.
“I don’t care if you use an ax to take that plane down, as long as it’s not over land.”
23
Rankin spotted the speedboat fifty miles offshore. It was sitting in the middle of nowhere, a large radar revolving on a platform near the stern.
“Guns, why would a boat be way the hell out here?” Rankin asked.
“That a trick question?” the Marine asked, leaning forward from the rear bench.
“Let’s take a look,” Rankin told the pilot.
“Wait,” said the pilot. “We’re being hailed — the Navy fighters are warning off aircraft.”
“Holy shit, look at that,” said Guns, pointing out the right-side window. A 747 tucked out of the sky, weaving drunkenly.
Aboard the terrorist airplane, Ferguson squirmed around to get out of Samman Bin Saqr’s death grip. His head pounded and he had trouble breathing; his mouth tasted blood.
Conners, worn-out by the exertion it had taken to get up to the cabin, remained on the floor, just barely conscious. Ferguson made his way over to him as the plane began to level off. He shook him; Conners looked up and smiled.
“Finnegan rises again,” muttered the soldier. “Now what the hell do we do?”
Ferguson saw his mouth moving, but heard nothing.
“They got my ears fucked up, Dad. I can’t hear — you can sing all you want.”
Conners slumped back down. Ferguson shook him — they’d have to figure out how the radio worked so they could get instructions on how to fly the plane and maybe ditch it in the water. Since he couldn’t hear, he needed Conners awake.
Ferguson saw a door at the rear quarter of the flight deck. Realizing it must be a bathroom and thinking he could use the water to revive Conners, he pushed into the small space. A man he only vaguely recognized as himself gaped at him from the mirror. Ferguson started to laugh. He lost his balance, falling onto the toilet, whose lid fortunately was closed. He looked down at his shoes. Between his feet was a ring lock; the bottom of the floor was a hatchway.
Ferguson reached down and pulled at the latch; it moved, but to open the panel he’d have to go back outside.
“I think I found out how they set the bomb,” he told Conners. He saw the sergeant’s mouth move in response — Conners only grunted — then told him to get his rest; he’d figure out how to defuse it himself.
“Or I may blow us up,” he added. For some reason, the idea struck him as the funniest thing he had ever thought of, and he was still laughing as he pulled the panel upward.
Instead of the bomb controls, he found a parachute rig. As he took it out, he saw there was a hatchway below it, with a large locking wheel in the middle.
“Some fuckin’ martyrs,” he said, examining the bag and webbing.
Jumping from an airliner was difficult under the best circumstances; Ferguson had gone out of C-141s and done both high-altitude, high-opening (HAHO) and high-altitude, low-opening (HALO) jumps, but always with the help of a special baffle that allowed for an easy — relatively speaking — egress from the airplane.
On the other hand, he figured, if these fucks could do it, he could.
