Farrington rose a little higher next to the pilot’s seat, peering through the blood-smeared front window to guide the monstrous aircraft with the control stick. The sniper fire had completely ceased, which meant Hoffman had killed the sniper, or they were locked in a duel. Either way, it was too late for Hoffman to escape with them. The C-17 had reached the edge of the tarmac, headed for the runway. Once he made the right turn and pointed this thing down the runway, he’d increase the throttle and hope for the best. The aircraft would either reach for the sky or catapult into the Atlantic.
A hand rested squarely on his shoulder.
“You’re clear for takeoff,” said Hoffman. “The sniper’s down.”
Farrington looked over his shoulder. “How the fuck?”
“Castillo was still alive. She took the shot for me,” said Hoffman.
“Alive?” He’d seen her take a second bullet. “Where is she?”
“She was on her way out. Bad hit,” said Hoffman. “She did good.”
Farrington shook his head. “She sure as hell did.”
“Haddad’s closing up below. What’s the plan?” asked Hoffman.
Farrington climbed into the pilot’s seat and wiped the bloody window with his sleeve, barely improving the situation.
“We take off and fly due west. When we reach Brazil, we fly for a while and point it back at the ocean, bailing out near the coast.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know. We have about five hours to figure out something as long as we get off the ground. You ever fly a plane?”
Hoffman shook his head. “Nope.”
“Me neither. But I’ve been steering with this joystick thing, and my guess is it’s like a video game. Get to the right speed and pull back gently.”
“What’s the right speed?”
“I’ve heard like two hundred miles per hour for commercial aircraft,” said Farrington.
“I’d go with, like, two-fifty, maybe. Just a hunch,” said Hoffman.
The aircraft turned onto the long runway, which stood out from its moonlit surroundings as a dark line extending beyond Farrington’s view. All he had to do was keep this thing in the middle of the unfolding black strip. Easier said than done. Just getting it to the runway had been difficult enough.
“You ready?” Farrington asked.
“What if I say no?”
Farrington laughed and pushed the throttle forward, the C-17 responding immediately. The aircraft accelerated down the runway faster than he’d anticipated.
“Take over the throttle and watch the airspeed. This stick thing is shaking,” said Farrington.
“Where’s the airspeed?”
Farrington pointed toward a bank of green glowing screens. “Somewhere there. Look for the one that’s changing a lot.”
“Jesus,” said Hoffman, climbing into the copilot seat.
Hoffman took the throttle with his left hand, nudging it forward. The aircraft surged forward, racing past one hundred miles per hour.
“A little more,” said Farrington.
Hoffman eased the throttle forward until it was a few inches forward of the straight-up position. The C-17 raced down the dark runway.
“Speed?”
“Passing one seventy. Rapidly increasing,” said Hoffman.
“Tell me when it reaches two-twenty-five.”
“Got it,” said Hoffman.
A few seconds later, Hoffman announced the number. Farrington eased the stick back, feeling the aircraft leave the runway.
“No shit,” said Farrington. “Is the altitude rising?”
“We’re rising,” said Hoffman. “I can tell you that much.”
“Just find the altimeter. It’ll be the one with the numbers going up. Hopefully.”
By the time Hoffman found the digital altimeter display, they were five hundred feet and climbing over the Atlantic, headed almost due east. Now he had to figure out how to turn the craft around and head west. Given their miraculous escape, he was in no hurry to try.
Chapter 56
Karl Berg took Sanderson’s call with trepidation. Deep down, he knew it was bad news. The timing was too close. The flight carrying his team had been an hour from landing at RAF Ascension, one of the most isolated islands on the planet. The perfect place to sweep your dirt under a deep blue rug. He and Bauer shared a concerned look as he put the phone to his ear.
“Terrence?” said Berg.
“You were right.”
Sanderson sounded deflated.
“Can I put you on speakerphone?” Berg requested. “Audra Bauer is with me. The rest of the team is working on putting this place back together. Rustic was a bit of an oversell.”
“Sure,” said Sanderson.
Berg set the phone on the table next to them.
“General, what happened?” asked Bauer.
“It’s not the Russians,” Sanderson stated. “Not in a big-picture way. The team was ambushed at the RAF airfield. Farrington, Hoffman, and Haddad are the only survivors.”
“Shit,” muttered Berg, too stunned to conjure anything else.
Despite hinting to Sanderson that Ascension Island would be the perfect place for an ambush, he truly didn’t think anything could happen there. It was a Royal Air Force base! An isolated one for sure, but still an official military installation. Berg had been far more concerned about what might happen when they reached Africa after splitting up on the ground into small groups.
“How many did you lose, General?” Bauer asked.
“That’s what I like about you, Bauer. None of that phony ‘sorry for your loss’ crap. Straight shooter to the end,” said Sanderson. “Seventeen. And you can call me Terrence.”
“Well, I am sorry for the loss of your people, Terrence, and angered by their deaths,” said Bauer. “I assume the survivors are hiding out on the island? Not in RAF custody, I hope.”
“You may not believe this, but they’re flying west toward Brazil,” said Sanderson. “In the same aircraft.”
“Who’s flying?” asked Berg. “Not that it matters. I’m just glad they got out of there.”
“It does kind of matter. Farrington is at the controls.”
“Jesus,” said Berg. “He knows how to fly a C-17 Globemaster?”
“He got it into the air and managed to turn it one hundred and eighty degrees. He’s not really keen on trying anything else. They plan on bailing out over Brazil after pointing the aircraft back out to sea.”
“What happened to the pilots?” asked Bauer. “And I’m not implying anything with that question.”
“The copilot was killed by a stray bullet. The pilot was killed by a CIA sniper.”
“CIA?” said Bauer, giving Berg an unconvinced look.
“I can’t confirm that the sniper, the fake SEALs, or the phony refueling crew were CIA, but the pilot told me he was contracted by the CIA to fly the mission. The flight was diverted to Guantanamo Bay after leaving MacDill Air Force Base. The four DEVGRU SEALs confirmed by General Gordon from SOCOM were replaced by an assassination team that turned on my people. Does the National Clandestine Service hire pilots to do this?” Sanderson asked.
“We have a roster of pilots and crew for every type of aircraft,” Bauer replied.
“And the Department of Defense just loans out aircraft when you ask?”
“No, we receive official DOD aircraft when the president and his national security advisors decide that the mission transport phase requires an extra degree of perceived legitimacy. A U.S. Air Force C-17 stopping in Argentina or Ascension Island to refuel doesn’t draw attention. Neither does that same C-17 headed to the United Nations Base in Uganda. We don’t do it often.”
“How does this stay a secret?” asked Sanderson. “I assume a squadron somewhere is missing an unmistakably large aircraft?”