“Jacques was just going over the plan again,” Bowen said. “Our guy’s going to call back with specifics of the move. We have about ten minutes.”
Thibodaux followed a soccer mom with his good eye as she rolled by in a shiny minivan. He turned back to the others when she made the corner. “I was just telling the new guy that we’re not going to get too intricate. Things will get dicey for a minute, but that’s fine. We have to go fast for this to work. Staff Sergeant Guttman will put his bird in the air as soon as we get the call—”
“Bird?” Bowen said.
“Specifically a Schiebel S-10 °Camcopter drone,” Guttman said, pushing up his glasses. He was obviously proud of what Garcia had called his “tech.” “She can fly over a hundred knots or hover in the trees until we need her. She’s got a small Starepod on her nose so I can see what she’s seeing on my iPad. Each of two hard points is equipped with a single LMM.”
“‘Lightweight Multirole Missile,’” Garcia offered as if she was used to translating military geek.
“Figured that,” Bowen said. He’d seen his share of chopper-fired missiles.
Thibodaux took back control of the briefing. “Guttman will work the drone from the passenger seat of your Charger. He’ll take out any lead and follow cars with the LMMs. I’ll pit the Suburban with Ross inside and pinch it into the curb. We put the smack on everyone inside that isn’t Ross. You and Garcia get her the hell out of there in your G-ride.”
“What if I get stopped?” Bowen asked.
“I’ll be behind you in the concrete truck.” Thibodaux shrugged. “But you’re a damned United States marshal. Wave your badge and say, ‘These aren’t the droids you’re lookin’ for.’ ”
“Sounds like you have this all worked out,” Bowen said. “Except for glossing over the part where we have a bloody firefight with the guys in the prisoner van.”
“You forgot about our secret weapon.” Thibodaux grinned. He seemed to thrive under the tension of impending battle.
“You said the drone only has two missiles,” Bowen said. “What’s its function with an assault on the prisoner vehicle after it’s taken out the lead and the follow?”
Thibodaux shot a glance at Garcia. Both smiled broadly as a red Ducati motorcycle turned off the Rockville Pike and growled up next to them. A compactly built woman in jeans and a white leather jacket dropped the side stand and swung a leg off the bike.
“That drone ain’t our secret weapon, son,” Thibodaux said. “Not by a long shot.”
Standing alongside her Ducati, the rider removed her helmet, giving her head a shake to free jet-black hair. Bowen recognized the woman immediately as Jericho Quinn’s Japanese friend and teacher, Emiko Miyagi.
Chapter 62
Captain Rob Szymanski weighed the risks of a possible explosive decompression at 40,000 feet versus keeping the altitude needed to make it to the only piece of rock between him and the western coast of Alaska if the bomb damaged an engine. He split the difference and set the bug on the autopilot to Flight Level 210 or 21,000 feet. Without turning into a lawn dart and frightening the passengers, a maximum rate of descent would get them there in a little over three minutes. The A380 was the quietest bird he’d ever flown, and being well in front of the engines, the cockpit was eerily silent but for the buzz of the electronics array and the occasional click of a keyboard.
First Officer Mick Bott sat in the right seat going over emergency procedures in a three-ring binder in his lap. A machinelike focus and bottomless levels of energy had earned him the call sign McBott as an F18 Hornet jockey in the Navy. The name had stuck and followed him into civilian life.
The captain looked out the side window, seeing miles and miles of nothing in varying shades of blue. “What’s our distance to Dutch Harbor?”
McBott looked up from his manual to consult the navigational display on the console of screens and buttons in front of him. “Two-seven-two miles southeast,” he said. “Half an hour at this speed. Next closest is St. Paul Island at a hundred and sixty miles to our east. Neither runway is set up for heavy metal this big. I show Unalaska/Dutch Harbor at forty-one-hundred feet. St. Paul Island better at sixty-five-hundred, but still way too short.”
Szymanski forced a grin. Over his thirty years of flying, he’d found smiling brought calm to situations that might otherwise melt into pandemonium. “I thought you Navy boys were used to carrier landings.”
“You know I’m game, Captain,” McBott said. “But putting this bird down on one of those little strips would be like landing a carrier on a carrier.”
“Well, alrighty then,” the captain said. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. Start working through the checklist — and set the transponder to squawk 7700.”
“Not 7500?” McBott asked. A transponder code of 7500 signified a hijacking. It could not be reset or denied in the air. Once activated, they’d be forced to land at the nearest airport and would be stormed by gun-wielding law tactical teams.
Szymanski shook his head. “Not yet. Considering the state of the world right now, I’m afraid they’d just shoot us down and be done with it.”
“Squawking 7700. Roger that,” McBott said, punching in the code. “I’d say three murders and a bomb on board qualify as an emergency.”
Chapter 63
Quinn had no idea if the bomb was on a timer or would be detonated by hand. Either way, he had to get up to 12A before he could do anything about it. Since the hijackings of September 11, 2001, airline passengers had taken on a new responsibility over their own safety. Gone were the days when a lone crazy man could stand and threaten a bunch of sheep that would stay obediently in their seats. Past disturbances had demonstrated that this new passenger mentality would not hesitate to run a would-be hijacker over with the drink cart or otherwise beat him to a pulp and restrain him with belts and neckties.
The problem for Quinn was that few people on the plane knew he was one of the good guys. They’d seen him running back and forth with Carly, but nerves were on edge and trust was at a premium. Without some form of help, there was a good chance he’d be stopped and pummeled in the aisle before he even made it to the stairs, let alone the bomb.
Carly, recognizable and trusted in her red-and-white Global Airlines uniform, walked up the right-hand aisle of the aircraft, a few paces ahead of Quinn, who moved up the left toward his seat. The captain hadn’t announced an emergency but the seat belt sign was illuminated and everyone was aware of at least one murder on the plane. Now their stomachs told them the plane was diving toward the ocean. Hands reached out for Carly’s attention, wanting an explanation. She did her best to wave them off, reassuring them everything was okay, and letting them know Quinn was on their side.
The noise of a commotion came from beyond the front bulkhead by the time Quinn neared his seat. A frenzied scream of “Fire!” sent a wave of panic up and down the plane.
Quinn knew better. A fire on a plane could be catastrophic, but the smell of it would be apparent pretty quickly. This was a diversion. He stooped next to his assigned seat, reaching under the tray table to remove the pins holding the metal arm in place. The commotion grew louder and Quinn glanced up to see a tall Asian man pushing a drink cart down the aisle as fast as he could directly toward him. A simple T-shirt showed the powerful arms and shoulders of a young athlete. A determined frown creased his lips.
Quinn yanked the metal tray arm, snapping off the last two inches but giving him a serviceable dogleg-shaped club nearly eighteen inches long. Not wanting to be in the aisle or crammed against the seat back in front of him, Quinn jumped up on his seat cushion with both feet, yelling for the young couple in the row ahead of him to move to the left. They complied, cramming themselves next to the window and giving Quinn room to shove the seat back forward and step around the cart as it rolled by. The Chinese man backpedaled when he saw Quinn’s weapon, smiling maniacally as he produced a weapon of his own, a foot-long bread knife from first class. It was blunt on the end, but a middle-aged Russian man tried to grab the hijacker by the sleeve and got a quick lesson on how sharp the blade was with a deep gash that removed the top half of his ear.