The hissing sound of a high-pressure air escaping the aircraft was matched only by the gust of wind forcing itself through the open cockpit door and into the main cargo bay where Munroe and Sloan were clinging to their flapping seat buckles. The initial nosedive had eased but they were still descending rapidly. Munroe had no idea what height they were at but without oxygen they would soon pass out, and he pulled open the nearest metal flip door located on the fuselage and pulled out two portable masks, one of which he thrust into Sloan’s hand. With the mask slipped over his nose and mouth Munroe was already on his feet and using the thick cargo netting secured against the wall to pull himself forward. He passed Sloan, who’d had the same idea, and they quickly began to propel themselves along when after a few seconds gravity returned fully and the C-130 began to level out.
Munroe immediately headed for the cockpit as Sloan checked on the pilot, who was still out cold. He pulled back the half open door to find the other pilot wearing a full-face mask and struggling with the yoke as air rushed through the broken side window.
“What happened?” he yelled above the roaring wind and the pilot looked back at him and gave a sharp nod in the direction of the left wing.
“We’re being fired at,” he shouted. “I’m trying to put the flames out.”
Munroe craned his neck and looked out of the shattered cockpit window to see one of the two engines on fire, and as the pilot pulled a yellow lever jutting out from the panel above him the flame disappeared in a puff of smoke.
Munroe dropped into the co-pilot seat and pulled out the full-face oxygen face mask from underneath. He pulled the straps over the back of his neck and used the internal mic. “Who’s firing?”
The pilot was adjusting the trim as he attempted to keep the plane level and he was oversteering to account for the lost engine. “Two ground missiles, coming from the Louisiana coast. Countermeasures flares drew them off but the second was close enough to damage the far port engine.”
Sloan now appeared in the cockpit doorway and she steadied herself against Munroe’s seat. She said nothing but Munroe pointed over to the smoking propeller and she understood straightaway.
“Can we make the airport?” Munroe yelled above the thunderous sound of swirling wind still surging into the cockpit.
“It’ll be an emergency landing, but we can make it. As long as we don’t get another incoming…”
Warning alarms lit up the cockpit and as Munroe looked out of the side window he could see the thin trail of a rocket burner heading straight towards them. The pilot instinctively began to lurch the aircraft steeply to the left as the yellow hue of flared countermeasures popped from the back of the fuselage in the direction of the incoming missile. The whole C-130 was shaking as the stress of the manoeuvre pushed its frame to the limits and Munroe reached back and grabbed on to Sloan’s coat sleeve, offering support as the missile exploded into the countermeasures off the port side, sending shrapnel slicing through the cockpit. Metal debris blew out the remaining windows and disintegrated both HUD displays, also catching the pilot in the chest, sending blood splattering across the dashboard and causing him to lurch forward limply against the yoke, sending the aircraft into a steep freefall once again.
Munroe grabbed the co-pilot’s yoke and pulled back on it and as he regained control, bringing the plane level. Sloan was already unbuckling the pilot and dragging him back into the cargo bay. Munroe wasn’t sure if the man was alive; the crimson wound across his chest looked deep, and he unbuckled his seatbelt and took the pilot’s as Sloan now returned to the cockpit and slid into the seat next to him, putting on the oxygen mask as she did so.
“Who the hell’s firing at us?”
“Don’t know, but it’s ground-based,” Munroe replied as the pressure of the oncoming wind seeping through the open windows pushed him back into his seat.
“Jesus, Ethan. Someone doesn’t want us reaching New Orleans.”
Munroe didn’t reply; instead he was searching ahead for Louis Armstrong airport, and to his relief he found the landing strip lights directly ahead. They were still some miles out but with three engines functioning he could get them down.
“Can you land this?” Sloan yelled, and he gave her a firm nod.
“I’ve flown a C-130 before.”
“Yeah, but have you landed one?”
His pause did not exude the confidence Sloan had hoped for.
“I’ll get her down so long as we’re not fired upon again.”
He’d barely finished the sentence when the red emergency light lit up the dashboard and after a glance at the radar Munroe rolled the aircraft into a steep turn as the fuselage was lit up again by the automated flares popping into the air with their heated signatures attracting the incoming projectile.
“Hold on, this is going to be close.”
The missile was again tempted by the flares and a bright flash lit up the cockpit with the explosion, but this time the shrapnel slammed into the nearest port propeller, and the shockwave rattled the whole plane so violently that it felt as if the whole aircraft would tear itself apart.
Munroe stared over at the nearest engine and he could tell the bent propellers were only being spun by force of the oncoming wind. They were now down to just two, on the right side, and the whole aircraft began to yaw downwards, shaking violently. As Munroe fought against the yoke he jammed his foot hard on the opposite rudder pedal and attempted to straighten his line of flight. With only one side having thrust he had to offset the nose of the plane at an angle so the remaining propellers had enough directed thrust to keep the aircraft moving forward, but the wind shear was testing the aircraft to its limits, the vibrations intensifying with every passing second.
They were now less than three miles out from the approaching runway, and down below the dense sprawl of New Orleans radiated its bright, welcoming glow. There wasn’t time to head back out to the coast, and if they went down here the damage would be immense. A C-130 crashing full speed into the streets, during the Mardi Gras celebrations, would be nothing short of catastrophic, and Munroe pressed his thumb down on the yoke’s mic button. “New Orleans international tower, this…”
Shit, he didn’t even know the call sign.
“This is the C-130 military cargo plane approaching the main runway from the south east. Both port side propellers have failed. Emergency landing requested.” Of course it wasn’t a request but a demand, and as he waited for a response he yelled out to Sloan. “We need to slow her down, we’re coming in too fast. See that grey switch between us?” He motioned with his chin but Sloan already had her hand on it. She clearly had more knowledge of aircraft than he’d realised.
“Extend the flaps, one stage only.”
As Munroe continued his struggle with the yoke, Sloan engaged the flaps, and with a heavy buffeting to the wings the plane began to reduce in speed. With only two functioning propellers they couldn’t slow too much or they’d stall and drop from the sky like a dead weight. For Munroe, judging the correct speed was nothing more than an educated guess and a feel for the aircraft, and he knew he would have to bring it down faster than he should do. Despite this dead reckoning he wasn’t even sure where the landing gear was located.
There was still no answer from the tower and Munroe figured the radio had been damaged during one of the blasts.
“There it is.” He nodded to the central panel and the landing gear handle as the runway loomed closer, less than a mile away. “Drop the wheels,” he yelled, and Sloan pulled the handle and the sound of hydraulics hissed below them as the landing gears locked into place.
There was no need to say ‘hang on’. They shared a simple glance and Sloan grabbed the sides of her seat as Munroe descended towards the matt black tarmac, fighting the yoke with all his strength.
They soared over the airport fencing and within metres of touching down he released some of the pressure on the yoke and the nose flipped back to its centre line, but his timing was slightly off. As the C-130’s wheels slammed down onto the tarmac the entire aircraft wobbled and began to tip to one side. Munroe was already countering with the rudder pedals and he felt the plane’s centre of gravity shifting, and then it stabilised and dropped back down onto all wheels with a heavy crunch. He slammed the brake pedals hard, too hard at first, almost causing the aircraft to careen off the runway, but then he lightened the pressure and the speed began to drop, knot by knot.
The sound of metal screeching against tarmac told him one of the wheels had crumpled during the initial touchdown, but the rudder pedals were still operational, and by the time they neared the end of the runway he was down to a comfortable roll, and he used the momentum to guide the plane along the nearest taxiway and then off onto a large patch of grass. He could think of better places to park, but at least they were clear of any incoming commercial flights, and as the wheels ground to a full stop he allowed himself to exhale deeply. To his right Sloan was doing the same, and as they both looked at each other she coolly nodded her appreciation.
“Welcome to New Orleans,” he announced, his breathing heavy. Without even a reply Sloan was unbuckling and heading back into the cargo hold to check on the two pilots. Munroe should have joined her immediately, but as he stared out of the broken cockpit window and watched the convoy of emergency fire trucks and ambulances heading in their direction he found himself momentarily preoccupied. No, uneasy. But not because of the controlled adrenalin spike he could feel running through his veins. It had been a close call after all, but that wasn’t it. What was making him uneasy was the ‘how’. How did Daedalus, if it had been Daedalus, know where they were? Firing rockets at a UK military aircraft over an American city was insane enough, but how did they know their location?
His conclusion was the unsettling part, and he rubbed his forehead and then sat back in his seat. There were only a select few who knew where he and Sloan had been heading… and they were all DS5.