George Burns would have been able to save the plane; the Siddely was a durable aircraft, and he’d flown it on one engine more than a half-dozen times. But the fire spread through the wing, and within seconds he began losing control.
“Buckle yourselves in,” he said, searching for someplace to land. The camp was located on the far side of a narrow range of low mountains; beyond them to the northeast was open desert. George Burns held the plane up as long as he could, trying to get past the ridge to a point where he could glide into the sand.
His right wing began tipping upward; he struggled to hold it, then felt the controls start to give way — the lines that worked the controls had broken and he was losing the hydraulic fluid. Cursing, he jabbed at the pedals and tried pulling back on the control column, desperately trying to position the body of the plane to take most of the shock when it hit the ground. They were low — two hundred feet — but going too fast to land comfortably, even if they’d had a strip beneath them. He struggled to stay airborne as long as possible, let more speed bleed off, get his wings back level — he needed them level so they wouldn’t tip, would just slide in, skim across the desert as he’d done twice before; third time was the charm, they said…
The tip of the left wing hit the ground, jerking the right side of the plane forward as the belly slammed into the sand. The plane skidded sideways, sliding down a rough hill and then tobogganing up and across into a flatter plain of sand. Dirt and smoke flew everywhere; parts of the plane fell off and others disintegrated; the spine of the aircraft snapped in two.
But as crash landings went, it wasn’t that bad. The plane remained relatively intact, and most of the heavy impact — and damage — was behind the flight deck. All things considered, George Burns had done an admirable job landing.
Unfortunately, Burns was not in a position to appreciate it. Thrown forward, his head had hit the dash; he died of a cerebral hemorrhage before Rankin and Guns managed to undo their seat belts.
“You all right?” Guns asked.
“I think I busted my arm.”
Rankin blinked his eyes. He saw two of everything in front of him.
“I think we’re on fire,” said Guns. He stood, unsteadily, and turned to go out the door immediately behind the flight deck. But there was black smoke everywhere.
“This way,” said Rankin, crawling through the windshield, which had blown out during the landing. Guns, coughing, stopped to unhook George Burns, then pulled him out behind him.
Rankin groaned as he fell onto the dirt. He was still seeing double. Stunned, he tried to pull his sat phone out of his pocket to tell the Cube where they were, but his arm wouldn’t move. He stood up, dazed, blinking his eyes to get his vision back to normal.
Pushed out by Guns, George Burns rolled onto the dirt near him. Rankin could tell by the way he landed that George Burns was dead. He got to his feet as Guns jumped down.
“You all right?” Rankin asked.
“More or less. How’s your arm?”
“Hurts.” Rankin’s eyes focused as he looked at his forearm. It was black and slightly swollen. He’d broken bones before and this had that kind of feel, though a little more intense. Inside, the bone had been displaced slightly — not enough for a compound fracture that would pierce the skin, but more than enough to cause a great deal of pain.
“Whoever shot at us will probably come looking for us,” said Guns.
“Yeah. Pull the phone out of my pocket. Tell Corrigan we’re OK. He probably started having a cow as soon as the GPS locator stopped moving,” said Rankin, looking around to see if there was any cover.
16
Thomas Parnelles looked at the blinking red light on his phone console, hesitating before picking it up.
“Parnelles,” he said, pushing down the button.
“MI6 is going ballistic,” Slott said, without any other introduction or greeting. “Everyone but the janitor has called me. Their field guy is raising a major stink.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“I need their help in Indonesia. I can’t afford to just blow them off.”
“Give them the usual company line,” said Parnelles.
“That’s not working. I need to throw them a bone.”
“What bone do we have?”
“Bring them in on the operation. It was theirs to begin with. We should have cooperated with them from the start. Anyone other than Ferg would have done so as a matter of course.”
Parnelles leaned back in his seat, gazing at one of the photographs on the wall, which showed him and Ferguson’s father in their salad days. Slott was probably right when he said that anyone else would have opted to work with the MI6 agent, regardless of personal differences, but on the other hand, second-guessing the judgment of the man on the scene was not good policy. Especially when it was someone like Ferguson.
Parnelles had been guilty of it himself, urging Ferguson to concentrate on T-Rex rather than the Iranian, and he’d been wrong. Very wrong.
He should not have gotten involved. He should have stayed aloof, as he normally did. Even if it was an important mission, even if he did know Robert, even if Robert was so close to him he felt like a son — he should not have gotten involved.
And he shouldn’t now.
“I see no reason to get MI6 involved in this. There’s no room for them,” Parnelles told Slott.
“It
“That may be a matter of opinion,” said Slott. “MI6’s perspective is that they didn’t know there was a possibility that material was missing. We didn’t know, either — Ferg only found out after Atha got away.”
While Parnelles thought Slott was playing devil’s advocate a little too strenuously, it was also true that grabbing Atha could have caused problems as well. Had they done so, this phone call could easily have been about the diplomatic repercussions. Given the circumstances as they now seemed, he’d have preferred that — but would he have said that earlier?
“Can’t you just tell Ferguson to take Hamilton along for the ride?” said Slott.
“Why should I tell him that? He works for you.”
“Let’s face it, Tom, he only listens to you.”
“I’m not sure he listens to anyone,” said Parnelles.
“If MI6 doesn’t cooperate, then the Indonesia operation falls apart. We’re back to square one. The rebels will overthrow the government within six months, and A1 Qaeda moves in the next day,” said Slott. “All Ferguson has to do is let Hamilton sit in a hotel room in Tripoli so the British can take some credit, for cryin’ out loud. That’s not much.”
“We’re assuming his plan is going to work.”
“And if it doesn’t, what’s the harm with having this Brit there? Hell, MI6 can even share the blame.”
Indonesia was important; the Agency was trying to thwart a coup there.
Parnelles looked at the photo again.
This was
“I’ll see what I can do,” Parnelles told Slott, hanging up.
17
