ABOARD SRI LANKAN FLIGHT 112, BOUND FOR KANKESATURAI
The coldness came clandestinely, sneaking up on Ferguson like a warrior infiltrating a frontier settlement. By the time he noticed it his hands were frozen; he had trouble moving not just his fingers but his wrists. Conners huddled in the front corner of the craft, shivering and passing in and out of consciousness. Ferguson dressed his wounds as best he could; the sergeant wasn’t bleeding anymore, though he’d obviously lost a good deal of blood. Not only were his clothes soaked, but Ferguson’s were as well.
When the plane finally stopped jerking up and down and back and forth, Ferguson returned to his search of the interior, sliding the flashlight’s beam around the interior. He saw what he thought had to be the door to the flight deck at the front of the space, a full level above his head. The ladder that would have been on the bulkhead in a standard cargo version of the plane had been removed, but the metal cladding of the explosives and radioactive cargo formed a ledge on either side. He started to climb up the space by pushing against the narrow walls directly below the door—they formed a kind of
artificial chimney—but the space was a little too wide and shallow to make ascending easy, and as the aircraft hit turbulence, Ferguson lost his balance and dropped a few feet to the floor.
Looking for an easier climb, he found a section of the metalwork nearby that had pieces welded on like a ladder; he went up and found an irregular, roughly eight-inch ledge about nine feet off the floor on the left side of the hold. He worked his way toward the front of the plane, alternately using the flashlight and rubbing his cold knuckles across the surface, trying to decipher the indentations. The terrorists had packed roughly five feet of explosives and material on each side of the hold, arranging them in a patchwork pattern to maximize the plane’s destructive power; they were not very concerned with rounding off edges or filling gaps, and Ferguson cut his fingers several times as he worked around. Finally, he reached the doorway.
Ferguson steadied himself, then reached to his belt and took his pistol out. His plan was simple—he’d yank open the door, swing with it, and get onto the flight deck, where he’d shoot out the pilot and the rest of the crew. He didn’t bother thinking beyond that; it was superfluous.
But as he reached for the handle, the plane jerked upward. For a second Ferguson felt weightless, suspended against gravity. Then the floor of the plane seemed to reach up and snatch him down, and besides feeling cold he felt the incredible shock of pain hit him in the back of his head.
The thump of Ferguson’s body slamming to the floor a few yards away shook Conners awake. He stared as the flashlight spun wildly toward the rear of the plane, its beacon illuminating the metal grids lining the interior. The lids of his eyes felt like ice-cold daggers poking at his eyeballs. Conners started to get up but felt a heavy hand press against him; he crawled instead, making his way toward the light. When he finally got it, he pushed back to find Ferguson, who was lying on his back, arms and legs straight out.
“Jesus, Ferg, let’s go now,” Conners told him.
It was hard to tell if the CIA officer was even breathing. Conners put his ear to his chest, trying to listen.
The plane dipped forward, and Conners tumbled over his comrade. He tried to push himself off, and the plane jerked hard to the right. His stomach suddenly felt queasy—he leaned over and began to throw up.