At the same time, the "Ground Auxiliary Power Team" went to that generator. One of them fired it up while a second made sure the cord was properly plugged into the aircraft. The other two made a hasty examination of the aircraft to make sure it was not connected in any unexpected other way with the ground. It was not.
And, simultaneously, the "Rear Stair Door Team" rushed to the rear stair doors. One of them, stepping over one body, climbed as far as he could-he encountered another body-and threw a Whiz Bang into the passenger compartment. It went off within two seconds of the one thrown through the front door.
The grenadier, closely followed by his team members, then went into the aircraft and twenty seconds later came out again.
He spoke to his microphone.
"Clear. No apparent damage. This fucking thing is full of flowers. What the hell is that all about?"
The team who had entered the aircraft through the front door began to descend the rear stairs. Master Sergeant Charles Stevens, who was in overall charge of both the Front Door and Rear Stair Door teams and had accompanied the latter, suggested to them that assisting in taking the bodies on the stairs aboard would be a nice thing for them to do.
He didn't use those words but they took his point.
As Castillo and Torine ran toward the aircraft, they saw a half-dozen brilliant yellow vehicles of the Tomas Guardia International Airport fire department racing across the field toward the blazing fuel truck.
So far, no one seemed to be paying much attention to what was happening near the 727, not even to the four Little Birds sitting there with their rotors slowly turning.
"APU's up and running, sir," Master Sergeant Stevens said to Colonel Torine. "We'll stick around until you get it moving."
"You stick around until I get one engine running," Colonel Torine said. "Then disconnect the APU and get out of here. There's nothing more that you can do."
"Yes, sir. Good luck, Colonel. You, too, Major."
He saluted as Castillo and Torine went up the stairs, which were slick with blood.
Colonel Torine got in the pilot's seat, adjusted it to accommodate his long legs, strapped himself in, and then looked around for something he finally found on the shelf over the instrument panel. He handed it to Castillo.
"Checklist, Charley," he said as he reached for the master buss switch.
"One, gear lever and lights," Castillo read.
"Down and check," Torine responded.
"Two, brakes," Castillo read.
"Parked."
"Three, battery."
"On."
"Starting number two," Torine said, which was not the next step on the checklist. Castillo looked over at Torine.
There was a whining sound as the Pratt amp; Whitney JT8D-9 turbofan in the vertical stabilizer came to life.
"You're going to have to go back and close the stair door, Charley," Torine said. "That's supposed to be done before you start the checklist."
"Yes, sir."
"The control's on the left bulkhead."
"Yes, sir," Castillo said and hurriedly got out of his harness and went through the cabin. He had to step over all four bodies again to reach the stair door control panel; his foot slipped in a pool of blood. When he looked down-he had not intended to-the sightless eyes of the man whose death he had ordered looked back at him.
He opened the control panel door, found the raise stair switch, threw it, and waited until a green light came on. He felt the vibration as Torine started the other two engines.
He started back to the cockpit and found himself looking again at the sightless eyes.
He took another step forward, then stopped. The Whiz Bangs had displaced tour or five flower boxes; one or them was ripped open. Castillo scooped out its contents, turned, and laid them, not very gently, on the dead man's face. Then he went as quickly as he could back to the flight deck.
"Pick the checklist up at 'taxi,' Charley," Torine ordered.
"Yes, sir."
The 727 was moving. Charley wondered if you were supposed to move before you started the taxi portion of the checklist.
"One, flaps and runway," he read.
"Flaps, check," Colonel Torine responded. "Runway? That one." He pointed out the window.
Castillo saw a wind cone indicating that Torine was headed in the right direction to make a right turn onto the runway into the prevailing wind.
He also saw the Tomas Guardia International Airport fire department fighting, without any apparent success, the fire on the blazing fuel truck.
And he saw a Little Bird, six Gray Fox operators hanging on to it, fly right on the deck over the runway threshold and then drop out of sight. He looked around and saw no others.
"Two," he read from the checklist, "Takeoff data."
"In a manner of speaking," Torine said, "I already did the max takeoff gross weight figuring on this"-he motioned to his pocket computer and Charley remembered him furiously tapping its keys with his stylus in the hangar at Pope Air Force Base, figuring how far the stolen aircraft could fly-"so all we have to do is line it up with the runway and go." Yes, sir.
The 727 reached the threshold. His hand on the throttles and his feet never touching the brakes, Torine lined the 727 up with the centerline of the runway with a steady roll.
"Call out our airspeed, please," Torine said as he moved the throttles forward.
"Seventy," Castillo called when the airspeed indicator came to life.
"Eighty, ninety, one hundred, one twenty, one thir:"
"Rotating," Torine said.
The 727 put its nose into the air. A moment later, the rumbling of the landing gear on the runway died.
"Gear up," Torine ordered.
Charley found the switch and worked it.
"Gear up and locked," he reported.
"Okay," Torine said. "While I try to recall what all these switches and other stuff are for, why don't you see if you can turn on the Radio Direction Finder and whatever other navigation equipment you find? I'm going to head for the Atlantic."
[TWO]
Aboard Costa Rican Air Transport 407
11.374 degrees North Latitude
81.699 degrees West Longitude
Above the Atlantic Ocean
1505 10 June 2005
"Ah," Torine said. "I wondered how long that would take."
He pointed out his side window.
A USAF F-15 was on their wingtip. A moment later, a second appeared directly ahead and two hundred feet over them. And then a third F-15 appeared on their right wingtip.
"What do you want to bet there's one on our tail, too?" Torine asked.
The pilot of the F-15 on their left held up a hand-lettered sign. It read: "119.9."
"Tune the radio, please," Torine said.
Charley tuned one radio transceiver to 119.9 megahertz.
The voice of the fighter pilot came immediately into their headsets: "Costa Rican Air Transport Four-Oh-Seven, this is United States Air Force Six-Two-Two. Do you speak English?"
"Reasonably well," Torine replied after switching to transmit.
"You are directed to immediately commence a 180-degree two-minute turn and begin a descent to flight level ten. Do you understand?"
"Before I do that, son," Colonel Torine said, "what I want you to do is get on your Abort Mission frequency and relay the following to Central Command: Attention, General McFadden. I am in command of Costa Rican Air Transport Four-Oh-Seven. Regards. Jake.' "
"I repeat," the F-15 pilot said, "you are directed to immediately comm-"
"I'm not going to tell you again, son," Torine interrupted. "Get on the horn to CentCom now. Change the signature block to: 'Jake Torine, Colonel, USAF.' You read me?"
The F-15 pilot didn't respond for nearly two minutes. Then he said: "Sir, what is your wife's maiden name?"
"McNulty," Torine said. "Mary Margaret McNulty."
"Hold one, sir "Sir, CentCom directs that I accompany you to your destination. What is that, sir?"