SRI LANKA—AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER
The ground crew Samman Bin Saqr had chosen was waiting at the hangar when he landed, alerted by his message. Two fuel trucks met him in the apron area; he permitted himself a short respite, climbing down from the plane as it was “hot pitted,” refueled, and prepped so it could leave without hesitation.
The terrorist leader made his way down to the tarmac where his men were working feverishly. The replacement crew met him as planned, fully expecting to fly the plane to its target. Samman Bin Saqr studied both men, then tapped the pilot on the shoulder.
“You will take the first officer’s seat,” he told him. He turned to the other man, who had been trained as the copilot. “Go with the others. Your time will come.”
Both men nodded, without commenting, and moved to their respective tasks. One of the maintenance people walked toward the rear of the aircraft.
“Where are you going?” said Samman Bin Saqr sharply. He had handpicked the maintenance people, just as he had chosen all of the people involved in the project. But now he
feared that the Americans had somehow managed to infiltrate his team.
The man pointed toward the side-loading cargo door. The door had been welded shut early in its overhaul; only the specially built opening at the rear had been used to load the aircraft.
“Leave it,” said Samman Bin Saqr. “Leave the plane as it is.”
The man started to object. Samman Bin Saqr turned to the head of the ground team, who was just trotting up to see what the problem was. “Shoot him,” he said.
He heard the shot as he walked back toward the cockpit. Samman Bin Saqr permitted himself a short pause on the steps, waiting as the fuel trucks finished. He was taking off several hours too soon, but it couldn’t be helped. It wouldn’t do to wait. He had an appointment with destiny.
By the end of the day, America’s island paradise would be a hell of unimaginable proportions. His legacy would be known for decades, perhaps even centuries, to come.
Ferguson knew they were on the ground, but nothing else made sense to him. He could hear the engines humming at idle. He wondered if they had been forced down, unsure whether that would mean the rear door would be opened or if the plane would simply be blown up.
He fished in the darkness for his rifle. He found his rucksack, then crawled over it, still searching for the AK-74. Conners lay half on it, breathing unevenly. He’d thrown up all over himself.
The first sign of radiation poisoning? Or was it simply motion sickness?
Ferguson pulled the rifle out from under the sergeant’s body. As he retrieved it, the 747 began to roll. He began firing wildly at the floor of the plane, thinking he might strike the landing gear or otherwise disable it. The plane’s engines were so loud he could barely even hear the gun as it fired. He burned the clip, slapped it away, grabbed the last one from
his ruck and fired again, even more wildly, peppering the back of the plane.
Ferguson lost his balance as the jet pushed its nose up into the air. He tumbled against the metal, landing near the cargo bay door that he had come in through. Desperate, he pulled out his pistol and fired wildly at what he thought was the door’s locking mechanism; two bullets ricocheted off to his right, and if any of the others hit, they had no effect on the lock.
“Shit,” he said. He gave in to his frustration, slamming the heel of his gun against the metal-grate floor, pounding it down and screaming, venting his fury at the plane, cursing himself for stupidly boarding it, cursing the bastard terrorists, cursing his inability to think clearly and come up with a plan. He punched and kicked the floor until not just his hands but his shoulders and thighs were numb.
When finally he had purged his rage, he sat back up in the darkness and tried to figure out what to do next.