Van Wartt turned his head, keeping his eyes on Asuty and the man with the gun. In Afrikaans he spoke to Bull, standing behind him. Bull said, “Ja,” and raised his gun to eye level, aiming at the man.
“Enough,” Abdul Wahab shouted from the side. He pointed his Beretta at Asuty. “Tell him to drop the gun.”
Asuty’s face contorted, and then he motioned to his henchmen to drop their weapons.
“Get in the truck.”
Wahab’s actions confused Stone. Why did he stop Asuty from killing them? Did he fear Van Wartt? Stone looked over at Sandra, who also appeared perplexed.
At this, a plane roared past a hundred feet overhead, landing lights on, heading for the Bruin Karas airstrip. Stone looked up, not believing what he saw. An ancient twin-engine Fairchild C-119, Flying Boxcar, a Korean War-era military cargo plane. Probably the only remaining aircraft of its kind not in a museum. He detected a faint trail of black smoke coming from its starboard engine.
Asuty’s men began shouting. One started the truck and switched on the truck’s headlights. Amid the commotion, Wahab took Asuty’s arm firmly. “Let’s go!”
Van Wartt and Bull looked down at the three lying on the ground. “We’ll put them in the boxcar for the time being. If the need arises, we can use them as hostages,” Van Wartt said while studying Lange.
Stone and the other two were dragged across the hard-packed dirt to the boxcar and lifted inside. When all three were in, Van Wartt looked at them for a moment, but again said nothing. The door closed and someone slid the bolt shut. The straining groan of the overloaded truck’s motor grew fainter as it headed for the airfield. The Land Rover could be heard following.
A moment of quiet passed in the darkness, and then, as if on cue, all squirmed next to each other. Stone and Sandra with their free fingers attempted to pull off the duct tape, first from their hands, then when free, their feet. Lange freed his mouth from the loose tape and whispered words of encouragement. The two carefully peeled the duct tape from their mouths and took deep breaths.
“Do you see any way out of here?” Stone asked, finding the closed door with his hands.
“This might help.” Sandra switched on a miniature LED flashlight attached to a key ring.
The interior of the wooden boxcar smelled of dust and age from years sitting in a relentless sun. They found the doors on either side locked from the outside.
“Shine the light up on the roof,” Lange said. “Should be hatches up there.”
“There,” Sandra said. “Either of you two gents care to give me a boost?”
Both Stone and Lange lifted Sandra up to the hatch. She pushed and banged, but the hatch wouldn’t open. While holding her, Stone’s legs, groin, and arms ached. His face, he knew, was bruised, but neither eye was closed like Lange’s. Sandra hadn’t complained of any injuries. “Tough gal,” he wanted to tell her, but knew she would consider the remark condescending.
They sat, or rather collapsed to the floor, with the flashlight’s thin light pointing in the center of their circle. Exhausted, Stone wanted to close his eyes and sleep, but knew they had to come up with a plan of escape.
“Nothing in the realm of possibility would allow for one of us to still have a radio?” Lange asked.
“They used mine to put this gash in my head,” Stone said.
“I threw mine out in the bush along with my Glock before I surrendered.”
Stone stretched, but stopped when a pain shot along his back. He closed his eyes and reviewed what could be the sequence of future events. “Our terrorists are now loading an ancient atomic bomb in the hold of an equally ancient Fairchild C-119, named by airmen years ago without affection as ‘The Flying Coffin’ for its shape as well as its propensity to crash.”
“Hayden, how do you come up with that stuff?” Sandra sounded annoyed.
“I had a ride on one when I was in college ROTC.”
“Considering your age, I imagine it would have been in one of those World War I biplanes, mate.” Lange laughed. “By the way, I want to thank you two for inviting me along on this little picnic.”
Remembering that the man called Bull had a private conversation with Lange, Stone asked, “What was up with you and your fellow Boer?”
“Agh. To take a turn on one of your expressions, Boers are thicker than water.”
Stone explained. “Dirk. Knowing you were an Afrikaner saved us … for the time being. I still can’t believe Wahab let us live.”
“Any ideas where they’re taking the bomb?” Sandra asked, but no one answered.
Sandra turned off the light to save the battery. They sat silently in the dark. Colonel Gustave Frederick would soon fly in with the bomb removal team, late for the show. Chances were good they’d come to the boxcar and release them. Then they’d make plans to intercept the C-119 carrying the bomb.
Stone began thinking about how radioactive the boxcar could be when Lange whispered, “Hello. I believe one of our motorcycles has returned.”
“Hope your buddy Bull has come to release us,” Stone said.
They waited for someone to release the latch on one of the doors. Stone and his companions got to their feet and heard an unwelcomed voice.
“Well, CIA spies. The time has come. You did not truly believe you would live?”
It was Nabeel Asuty’s voice, and they soon learned what he had in mind. A hissing sound came from below the wooden floor, and through the cracks in the planks he saw a crimson glow. Smoke started creeping into the boxcar.
“Would have preferred to saw off your head, Mr. Stone. You too, blonde slut.”
As the motorcycle took off, Sandra growled, “Let’s make a pact. If anyone lives, that asshole dies.”
A second flare had been placed at the opposite end of the car. It took no time for the dry planks to catch fire and burn hot. The smoke proved the immediate problem — they would be asphyxiated before they burned to death. The two red glowing areas lit the inside of the car, and through the smoke, Stone watched Lange place both arms around Sandra. He should be the one doing that.
One of the hot spots burst into flames and the heat became oppressive. Stone wondered if he could jump through one of the flaming holes to the outside, but quickly realized the choking smoke would not allow them the time to wait for a hole to form.
“Our only chance is to break open this door,” Stone yelled. “Let’s hit it. All at once!”
They repeatedly slammed their bodies against the door. Stone knew he ached from the beatings he received and knew his companions hurt. Their determination to open the door despite their pain impressed him.
The flames came from both sides, and all coughed from the smoke. Finally the aged planking holding the latch gave. They yanked the door open and cool air rushed in. All three leaped from the boxcar, landing and rolling on the ground.
Not long after, as they sat on the dirt and coughed, Bull and a youngster drove up, came over, and passed around a water jug. The railcar roared in flames. All lifted their heads as the old plane lumbered above them.
“There goes the bomb,” Bull said.
The flames reflected off the plane’s gray undercarriage. There were no aircraft identification markings. Just as they heard the last of the C-119’s engines, another smaller twin-engine propjet flew overhead and turned south in the opposite direction.
“Mr. Van Wartt and Abdul Wahab returning to Cape Town.” Bull searched their faces and asked, “Would have expected any competent military operation to have a backup, aye Mr. Dirk Lange?”
“Our backup must have stopped for coffee,” Stone said.
“Quite the joker, Yank,” Bull said. “But there is a bit of Armageddon on that plane.”
Stone wanted to thank him for his part in having the bomb get into the hands of the terrorists, but considering he held a submachine gun, thought better of it.