ABOARD INDIAN CARGO CARRIER FLIGHT 12, BOUND FOR HAWAII
As the time to leave the plane sped toward him, Samman Bin Saqr thought more and more of staying in the plane, guiding it the next several thousand miles and ending in a blaze of glory in downtown Honolulu. After such a long struggle, paradise would be a welcome reward.
He reminded himself that there were many other battles to wage—the Americans would have to be taught again and again the reality of their sins. His next operation would be even greater. It was selfish to leave the fight so soon.
And so, as they cleared the last of the American patrols and adjusted course to skirt the Philippines as he had planned, Samman Bin Saqr undid his restraints and turned to his copilot.
“We are doing well, Vesh,” he said over the intercom.
The copilot turned and smiled. As he did, Samman Bin Saqr reached to his outer thigh and drew the pistol from the pocket in his flight suit. He fired three bullets point-blank into Vesh’s chest.
“You will still see heaven,” he told his follower. “But this way it is guaranteed, with no opportunity for cowardice.”
Samman Bin Saqr checked the autopilot unit, which had been customized to ensure it would reach its target. Once set, the aircraft would be locked on its path. Radio queries would be analyzed by a special computer section, with recorded answers played back to soothe inquiring minds.
Bin Saqr pressed the buttons in sequence. The yoke moved slightly, away from his hands. The Americans’ fate was now set.
He smiled, permitting himself a moment of satisfaction, then rose from his seat. As he did, the rear of the flight deck exploded.
In the cargo hold, Ferguson threw himself over Conners as the flash bang detonated the Russian grenade. Rather than launching forward, the grenade’s propellant exploded and set off the charge in the fuse as well. The shock wave rumbled through the plane, shaking its ribs like the water in a shallow bowl. Ferguson looked up and saw a shaft of light streaming above him from the flight deck. He jumped up, slamming his fingers into the metal and scrambling upward, gun in hand. He couldn’t hear anything, not even the jet engines—the blast had 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.