And then he hit, much harder than he’d thought he would, his whole body slamming against the top of the plane, his chin striking a rivet in the white metal that made him feel like he’d loosened his teeth. The hands-free unit in his ear popped loose and disappeared behind him, torn away by the wind. All the breath exploded out of him in a single burst, and spots swam before his eyes.
And then, over the whirr of the plane’s propeller and the rhythmic thumping of the helicopter’s rotor he heard a horrible, soul-crushing sound, a squeaking, squealing noise of rubber being dragged across metal.
His feet were sliding across the wing top, the soles of his shoes trying desperately to grip as the wind tried to push them off.
Chapel shot his hand out, trying to grab for the radio antenna.
It was too far away. He couldn’t reach.
Desperately he tried to extend his fingers, to get even the slightest grip on the thing, but even as he strained and pushed he was sliding backward, his belt buckle grinding against the wing. He was going to slip off, he was going to fall—
Forgetting about the radio antenna, he looked desperately around him for anything else he could grab. One of his feet slipped over the back of the wing and there was nothing there — he brought his knee up, tried to get his shoe back on the wing, tried to push himself forward but only managed to speed up his slide, and then both his legs were hanging off the back of the wing. He splayed his fingers out, tried to hold on to the wing with just friction, knowing it was a losing battle, knowing—
He swiveled himself around, trying to get more of his body up onto the wing, and his hand went underneath, under the back of the wing surface. And touched something — yes, there! On either side of the plane a diagonal strut stuck up at an angle to support the weight of the wings, a thick bar of steel exactly the right diameter to be used as a handhold. He could just brush it with his fingertips, but if he shoved himself backward a little more, gave up a little more of his hold on the wing… yes! He grabbed it solidly in his hand, just as his body started to slip over the edge, faster and faster. If he fell from the wing, he knew his own momentum would tear him from the strut, so he rolled off carefully, getting his legs down, swinging them toward the plane. He couldn’t see the landing gear but he kicked around until he got one foot on the wheel and pushed himself against the side of the plane.
His hand couldn’t hold on to the strut for much longer. It was holding up almost all of his weight — his foot on the landing wheel couldn’t get a stable hold. He brought his other foot up and wrapped his leg around the strut. That would hold a lot better than his hand. It gave him a chance to breathe, a chance to think of what to do next.
Looking around, he found the hatch on the side of the plane that would let him inside. It looked like it was miles away, but maybe, if he really extended his arm he could just reach it…
His fingertips brushed the latch, and the hatch popped open, torn backward by the wind. It bounced back and forth on its hinges, threatening to slam closed again. He was going to have to jump for the hatch, and there was nothing beneath him this time, nothing to catch him if he fell.
He knew there was no other option. He pushed himself off the strut, launching himself toward the hatch just as it flapped open again. His hand shot out and found something to grab onto and he pulled himself inside the plane, just as the hatch flapped shut and latched itself behind him.
He lay on the carpeted floor of the plane, in the leg well between two rows of seats, and just focused on breathing. It was quiet and warm there, so quiet and warm after the freezing sky of Siberia. He would just give himself a second, just rest for half a second before—
“Jim?” Nadia asked.
Chapel scrambled up onto his feet. He lifted his hand to show it was empty, then took a step forward between the two rows of seats.
Up ahead of him, Nadia sat strapped into the pilot’s seat, looking at him over her shoulder. One of her hands was on the steering yoke. The other held her phone.
“Please,” he said. “Don’t do anything rash. I just came to talk.”
“You jumped out of a helicopter and onto my plane to talk? Jim, that was… that was insane.”
“That’s my job. Doing stupid things for America.”
She gave him a smile. It wasn’t a match for the warm, excited smiles she used to give him, back when… before she…
He fought down his anger, his need for revenge. There were bigger things at stake here than getting back at her. “Nadia, you’ve really painted yourself into a corner here. The Russians are going to shoot you down in about ten minutes if you don’t start talking to them. You have to give them something.”
“Do I?” she asked. She glanced back through the windscreen. “They seem to be backing off. I thought for a moment they intended to ram this plane.”
“They’re holding back right now. But they don’t need to ram you. They’ve got a machine gun that can cut the wings off this thing.”
She sighed. “Come forward. I can’t talk to you over my shoulder like this and fly at the same time.”
He made his way to the front of the plane and sat down next to her. There was no copilot’s position, no controls in front of him. He wouldn’t be able to fight her over who got to fly. Not that he even knew how, though he supposed Angel could talk him through it… damn. He’d lost his hands-free unit when he jumped. He could still call Angel on the phone in his pocket, but for all practical purposes he was on his own.
“Just — just put down the phone, for now,” he told her. “Please? I know what you can do with that thing.”
“If I put down the phone, you’ll have no reason not to kill me.”
“The thought had occurred to me,” he said, before he could stop himself. “But I won’t. I plan on living through this. If I tried something, you would lose control of the plane, and then we’d both die.”
“Perhaps you think it would be worth it, after everything I did.”
He closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his hand. Then he looked over at her and met her eyes. And realized he had no idea what to say next.
She kept the phone in her hand.
“Anyway,” he said, “I’ve seen you fight. You could probably take me.”
That made her smile again. There was a little more light in her smile this time. “Count on it.” But still she didn’t put down the phone.
“Okay,” he said, trying to keep his voice calm. He had to think of this like a hostage negotiation — with three hundred and fifty million people, the population of America, as the hostages. “All right. You don’t want to put down the phone. So tell me what you do want. Tell me where we go from here.”
“You know what I want.” She glanced through the windscreen at the helicopter, which was keeping station just clear of her wing tip. “It looks like I’m not going to get it.”
“So what’s your plan?” he asked.
“My plan?”
“You have one, don’t you?” he said, as gently as he could.
“Oh, certainly.” She laughed. “I did. But as usual, you came along and made it impossible.”
“I — what? As far as I can tell I’ve just been along for the ride this whole time. I was there to help you make things this desperate.”
“Come now,” she said. “I won’t believe that. You knew right away when you met me — you knew I was up to something. That’s why you spied on me, isn’t it? That’s why you kept looking for the gaps in my story. It’s why you seduced me.”
“I didn’t — wait, what?” Chapel asked, blinking rapidly. “I did what?”