One yard.
Good-bye, Sarah. I’m sorry about James’s shirt. Don’t join me and the parents anytime soon.
Bang.
The noise was deafening. Movement everywhere. Men shaken in their seats; the unconscious ones being flipped up and down. Sparks streaming alongside the outside of the windows. Metal screeching, bits of it falling off. Glass smashing. Wind rushing through the cabin. Men shouting. Screaming. The plane twisting and shuddering.
It was like this for fifteen seconds.
The plane tilted. Half of a wing was ripped off, the remainder dug into the runway, sparks spewing out of the trail. The plane spun, lifted off the ground, walloped back down, spun again.
Blood in Will’s mouth. Brain banging against the inside of his skull. Pain everywhere. And confusion.
Plane still spinning, heading off the runway toward grassland. Good or bad thing? Will had no idea. Off the runway, mud and grass flying up the sides of the craft, some of it entering the plane and covering faces and bodies.
Different noise now. Rough ground. Slowing down. Tail snapped off. Shit! Back end of plane upending. Two bodies flying your way. Cover your head. No idea which way’s up or down.
Thwack.
Will lay still, men on top of him. Movement? No, everything seemed to have stopped. No sound. No sight. Does that mean death?
Then shouting. Familiar voices.
Roger. “Fucking move!”
Derksen. “Fire in the rear! Get that door open!”
Mark. “Shit! Shit!”
Mikhail. “Will?”
Weight being lifted off him. Breathing easier. Light, but acrid. Mikhail over him. Arms grabbing him. “Come on, Will.”
On his feet. Going to collapse. No, being held firm by the Russian. Carnage everywhere. Laith and Adam yanking on the emergency exit’s handles, faces covered in crap, clothes ripped. Derksen barking orders.
“Come on, Will.”
You’re alive. Think. Action.
Will rushed to the door and grabbed a piece of the handle. “One, two, three. Now!”
They turned the handles, Will and Laith simultaneously kicked the door, and it fell away.
“We’ve got an exit!” Will glanced at the three unconscious Dutch operatives, piled by the cockpit door. “One each, fifty yards from plane.” He hauled one of the men onto his shoulder, clambered out of the wreckage, and ran as fast as he could before lowering the man onto grass and sprinting back to the plane. Laith and Adam passed him in the opposite direction, carrying the other injured men. Inside the plane, Derksen and the remaining two DSI operatives were moving up the aisle while holding guns in one hand and Dmitriev with the other. The old man had cuts on his face, looked ashen and in shock, but otherwise seemed unharmed. Roger and Mark were in the cockpit checking the pilots. Blood was pouring down the copilot’s face; his colleague had his head tilted back, eyes screwed tight, and was moaning.
“What’s their condition?”
Roger’s answered, “Copilot’s out of it but alive; pilot’s conscious.”
“Broken neck or back?”
“Don’t know.”
Will cursed and looked toward the rear of the plane. Black smoke was billowing in the rear compartment, and he could see flames. If they moved the pilots and they had broken necks or backs, they could kill them. “Fuck it! Plane could go up any second. We’ve got to get them out of here.”
Roger and Mark began unstrapping the pilots as Derksen and his men guided Dmitriev out of the craft.
Will called out to Derksen, “There are aircraft buildings about three hundred yards away, forest beyond that; couldn’t see any other cover apart from the control tower, which is four hundred yards in the opposite direction.”
“Okay. We’ll take him to the buildings.”
Will looked at Mikhail. “Go with them.” He helped his colleagues one by one carry the pilots and lay them on the ground adjacent to the plane. Removing his thick overcoat, he laid it flat. With Roger, they rested the pilot on top of the coat, grabbed corners of the coat, and ran the makeshift stretcher to the part of the field containing the unconscious DSI men. He glanced at Roger and said, “Stay on Dmitriev,” grabbed the coat, and rushed back to Mark and the copilot. They repeated the drill, placing the injured man in the coat, and began carrying the copilot away from the plane.
They were thirty yards from the wreckage when the plane exploded and sent them crashing to the ground. Will covered his head as shards and chunks of metal flew through the air, waiting helplessly for a bit of the craft to smash through his skull. He breathed deeply; nothing had hit him. Rolling onto his side, his stomach wrenched as he looked at Mark. A jagged piece of metal was protruding from his thigh; his shredded trousers were covered in blood.
Mark said between gritted teeth, “I can make it to the others. . but can’t help you with the copilot anymore. Sorry.”
“Shit!” Will dashed to him, saw that the metal had gone right through Mark’s leg, and prayed that it hadn’t severed a major artery. Removing his belt, he said, “Got to get a tourniquet on there before-”
“I know what to do.” Mark grabbed the belt and began wrapping it around his thigh. “Help the others.” After fixing the strap in place, he crawled past Will, beads of sweat on his grubby face, while trying to ignore his agonizing injury.
Will lifted the copilot and used a fireman’s carry to get him to the other injured men. Roger, Derksen, Mikhail, and the two other Dutch operatives were one hundred yards away, taking Dmitriev toward three white buildings and two stationary Islander planes. Laith and Adam were examining each man, trying to ascertain their injuries and make them as comfortable as possible. “Where the hell are the damn emergency services?” He glanced toward the distant control tower. “The air traffic controller called them at least ten minutes ago.”
Laith shrugged. “Appears we’re in the middle of frickin’ nowhere.”
Will looked around the airport. Aside from the three buildings, the tower, the strip of runway and open grassland on either side of it, there was nothing else here save forest on all sides of the complex.
Something felt wrong.
A tiny, isolated airport.
Hidden away.
Zero security.
Fuck!
This was meant to happen.
Laith screamed, crumpled to the ground. Adam yelped, flipped sideways.
Will dived forward, just before a third bullet struck ground where his feet had been. “Sniper! Sniper!” He glanced at his colleagues, saw both had been shot in their calves, sprinted, zigzagged, dived again, and rolled. Sprinting ahead to Roger and the others, he screamed, “Get to cover!”
Derksen turned to face him, 150 yards away, then collapsed. Three seconds later, his two colleagues were lying next to him, all of them writhing in pain from the leg shots. Roger and Mikhail grabbed Dmitriev and tried to move the old man as fast as they could, but they only managed a few paces before Roger shouted, “Fuck!” He released Dmitriev, staggered, and collapsed while holding his hand over the gun wound to his knee. A moment later, Mikhail was knocked off his feet and fell on top of him, the back of his knee a bloody mess.
“Get to the buildings! Keep moving!”
Dmitriev walked as fast as he could, though he was an easy target. Will dashed right, as a bullet grazed his thigh. Wincing in pain, he kept sprinting, changed direction again, wondering why the sniper was incapacitating the team but not killing them.
He raced past Roger and Mikhail, both alive but unable to move due to their injuries.
Another shot.
Jesus, what was that?
A burning sensation behind one leg.
Severe pain.
Will fell forward, pulled out his handgun, used his elbows to crawl onward.
Couldn’t stand.
Not with a high-velocity bullet having passed through his leg.
Dmitriev was eighty yards from the buildings. Why wasn’t he shot?
Fifty yards behind him, Will crawled inch by inch, his face screwed up, his breathing rapid.