Hoffman picked up the rifle dropped earlier by one of the shooters at the top of the stairwell and signaled for Haddad to follow. They had to get off the cargo level. The sound of suppressed gunfire raged behind them. Without a moment to spare, he rushed up the stairs, sweeping the open space above and to the left with the compact rifle. The business end of a suppressor poked over the top of the stairs, a dark stain sprayed against the bullet-riddled wall beyond it. As he continued to climb, a facedown head appeared. Another body lay close by.
He quickly stepped over the body at the top of the stairs and triggered the rifle’s flashlight, illuminating the entire space. Two rows of commercial-airline-style seats faced forward, taking up most of the room. A quick check confirmed they were alone. Haddad stopped at the top of the stairs and detangled the dead man’s rifle, lowering himself into position to cover the inevitable counterattack. Hoffman would deal with the pilots if they were still alive. Judging by the number of holes in the wall behind Haddad, it was anyone’s guess.
“What do you see?” he whispered to Haddad.
“Nothing,” replied the operative with a surprised tone. “It’s completely quiet.”
“How far can you see?”
“About three-quarters of the way, with a blind spot on the left, all the way back.”
“Something’s wrong,” said Hoffman, the rifle aimed at the cockpit door.
A suppressed crack echoed from below, but the bullet wasn’t aimed at the stairwell.
“Are they shooting our wounded?” said Hoffman.
“I don’t think so,” Haddad answered. “I can see all of our people.”
Another crack rang out, followed by a familiar voice. “Cargo bay is clear! Status update on the flight deck?”
“It’s Farrington. Get down there,” whispered Hoffman. “Tell him I’ll have the cockpit clear in a second.”
While Haddad descended, Hoffman repositioned himself, lying flat on the deck with his feet facing the cockpit door. He had no idea if the door on one of these had a lock like commercial airliners and had zero desire to test the handle. It was an easy way to get shot through the door. He nestled the rifle into his shoulder, the rifle pointing up at the space between the handle and the door frame. Hoffman gave his plan a second thought. This bird was likely their only way out of here. Shooting through the door should be his last resort. Instead of bullets, he hit the door twice with the bottom of his boot.
“Open the door!” he said.
He kicked again. “Open the fucking door, or I’ll shoot it open!”
“Don’t do that! You do any more damage to the cockpit controls, and I can’t fly this thing,” replied the voice.
“You’re going to fly us out of here?” said Hoffman.
“If you promise not to kill me.”
“What about the copilot?”
“Dead. The first bullets that passed through the bulkhead killed him,” said the pilot. “We don’t have a lot of time here. The base is on full alert. They have a small garrison.”
“He’s right about running out of time,” said Farrington, appearing above the top of the stairwell. “I’d rather not get stuck here answering questions about this. He’s willing to fly us?”
“That’s what he claims,” said Hoffman. “Good to see you, by the way. Who else made it?”
“We’re it,” said Farrington, climbing the rest of the stairs.
“Careful,” said Hoffman, pointing at the bullet holes.
Farrington didn’t seem to care. “Is the door unlocked?”
“Unlock the door and take a few steps back. Lace your fingers and place them in front of your face, covering your eyes,” said Farrington. “If you shoot me, my colleague will shoot you. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Do it!”
A sturdy-sounding mechanism clunked.
“It’s unlocked. I’m standing as you—”
Farrington opened the door and leaned inside, pulling the pilot by his flight vest through the opening and slamming him against the bullet-riddled bulkhead. Hoffman didn’t need to be told what to do next. He slid into the surprisingly spacious cockpit and cleared it, finding the copilot exactly how the pilot described, slumped in his seat, half of his head splattered on the front and side windows.
“Clear! Were either of you armed?” said Hoffman as Farrington wrangled him back into the cockpit.
“They don’t typically arm the pilots.”
“Nothing typical about this flight,” said Farrington, pushing him back into the pilot’s seat. “Get us moving.”
“I need confirmation that fuel truck didn’t connect,” said the pilot.
Farrington pushed the rifle barrel against the back of his head. “Don’t fuck with me. This wasn’t a refueling stop.”
The pilot suddenly got defiant. “They might have hooked it up to keep you from getting suspicious. This flight will not get far connected to a tanker truck!”
“They didn’t bother,” said Farrington. “Saw it with my own eyes. Get us moving!”
“Someone needs to close the ramp. We can’t take off with it open.”
“Can you taxi with it open?” said Farrington.
“It’s not ideal.”
“If this aircraft isn’t moving within the next few seconds, I’m going to kill you. I know the APU is running, and these engines don’t need long to warm up.”
“It will still take at least a minute for the APU to bring the engines back to idle. Maybe quicker,” said the pilot, flipping a series of switches that created a mechanical humming.
Farrington pulled the copilot’s body out of the adjacent seat and swung into the seat behind him. He sat down and pulled out his satellite phone. “I assume you’re not U.S. Air Force?”
“I used to fly these in the Air Force,” said the pilot.
“Who hired you to fly a U.S. Air Force C-17?” asked Farrington, keeping the rifle trained on the pilot.
“CIA. We work on a contract-to-contract basis.”
“What about the SEALs?”
“We picked up four SOCOM operators and their gear at MacDill. Shortly after taking off, they rerouted us to the air base at Guantanamo. The teams swapped out during a brief stop there.”
“Without SOCOM’s knowledge, no doubt,” muttered Farrington.
“Look, we just fly. They told us to lock the door; then the shooting started. We had no idea.”
“Your loadmaster seemed to know what he was doing,” said Hoffman.
“Not all of our contracts are the same.”
The pilot flipped a few more switches, grasping the four-engine throttle on the center console and the control stick in front of him.
“We’re ready,” said the pilot, increasing the throttle.
The aircraft started to move forward. A loud pop filled the cockpit, blood splattering the window in front of the pilot. Farrington grabbed the man’s collar to pull him out of the seat, but a second bullet snapped through the side of the aircraft and hit the pilot before he could yank him down. The pilot arched his back and slumped in the seat — dead. A third bullet hit the cockpit, puncturing the hull behind the pilot’s seat and ricocheting off Hoffman’s rifle. He dropped to the deck, in the row between the back seats, and inspected the weapon, finding a cracked handguard. The rifle was still functional.
Farrington slipped out of the copilot’s seat and crouched behind the pilot, reaching over a long console of switches and electronics to pull the throttle back to idle. The aircraft lumbered to a stop. Another bullet passing through the cockpit’s thin aluminum skin struck the copilot’s headrest.
“Now what?” said Hoffman. “Fly it out ourselves?”
“How hard could it be to take off? There’s a throttle and a joystick,” said Farrington.