First Team (64 page)

“What about the Russian grenade Ruby gave me?” Ferguson asked. “The VOG thing. Any way to set it off?”

“We don’t have a launcher. It works like one of our 40 mm grenades in a 203. The pins inside hold the trigger off until there’s centrifugal force. It has to spin fast.”

“Can we take it apart?”

Conners tried to focus. The grenades came in two basic models, one with an impact fuse in the nose, the other—this one—slightly different, designed more specifically as an antipersonnel shrapnel weapon, throwing metal over a wide area. It hopped up when it landed, then exploded.

If they could set off the cap at the back, the propellant might explode.

Or not.

Hit the charge in the front. Something would go off.

“Spit it out, Dad,” said Conners.

“There’s a fuse in the nose, an explosive charge—if you hit it point-blank, I think it would explode. It might be enough to set off the propellant then.”

“You think I could throw hard enough to set it off?”

“Not even you could do that, Ferg,” said Conners.

“So if I shoot it, what happens?” said Ferg.

“Yeah,” said Conners, as if Ferguson had given the answer rather than the question.

“I don’t know if the shrapnel will go through all the shit they have inside the plane,” said Ferguson. “But it will go through us.”

“Yeah.”

“All right,” said Ferg. He took the grenade and his gun. “I’ll do it near the cockpit. Take those bastards with us maybe.”

“Go for it.”

Neither man moved. Both were willing to die—both realized they were
going
to die—but neither wanted to cause the other’s death.

Then Conners had another idea. “The flash-bang might set it off, if you wedged them together right. It’s not much of a killing force, but it could set off the percussion cap at the back, or maybe the fuse in the front, because it has to be pretty loose to begin with.”

“Which one?”

Conners thought. “The back. It’s like a bullet being fired.”

“I could shoot the back point-blank, like a striker.”

“Yeah.”

“What the hell,” said Ferguson. He grabbed hold of Connors and dragged him toward the front of the plane.

“What are you doing, Ferg?”

“We’ll use the grenade to blow open the door. We’ll huddle under the ledge, the explosion misses us, we go get the bastards. The flash-bang will be the striker. It’ll work.”

Conners said nothing as Ferguson dragged him forward, convinced belief was better than despair. Finnegan’s saga floated into his brain. Oh, for a good slug of whiskey right now, he thought to himself.

“Shoot me before we crash,” said Conners, as Ferguson let go of him.

It was dark, so Conners couldn’t see Ferguson wince. The CIA officer patted the SF soldier on the arm, then started to climb up toward the door he’d found earlier.

“I’m going to stick the grenades in the door and jump,” Ferguson told him. “If it works, it’ll either blow a hole in the fuselage, or the door to the cockpit, or ignite the whole plane.”

“Or it won’t work,” muttered Conners.

“Always a possibility,” said Ferg.

Conners curled himself against the metal, hunkering his head down. The pain of his wounds hadn’t disappeared, but his mind seemed to have pushed itself away from it. He felt as if he could think at least; he was conscious, awake, and knew he’d be awake when he died. That wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

It took Ferguson two tries to get back on the ledge near the door. The small metal bar that had acted as a handle for the door was about a half inch too tight to hold them together; Ferguson squeezed it back but still didn’t have enough room. He fit the Russian grenade in place and forced the stun grenade down, wedging it with his knife between the two devices. He tried to position the tip of the blade at the center of the Russian grenade, like a striker against a detonating cap, but he couldn’t really see what he was doing. The flash-bang squeezed only about a third of the way down.

It wasn’t going to work, Ferguson thought as he gripped the top of the M84 grenade.

Better to do
something,
Ferg’s father always said, even if it’s futile. You’re going to pee your pants one way or another.

Maybe the sound of the damn flash-bang going off would scare the piss out of the terrorists, and they’d lose control of the airplane. Or maybe it would ignite the Russian grenade, shoot it through the cockpit, and put a hole in the back of the pilot.

And maybe they’d all just go boom. There certainly were enough explosives packed into the 747.

“So this is the way I go out, Dad,” he said. He was speaking to his own father, not Conners, though maybe in a way he’d always been talking to his dad when he talked to the older SF man.

“See ya in heaven, boys,” said Ferguson. He pulled the pin on the grenade, heard—or thought he heard—a click, then jumped off the ledge.

~ * ~

19

OVER THE PHILIPPINES

Rankin leaned out of the helicopter as it whipped over the compound. There was a docking area with a pair of small boats, but no helo in the flat helipad area at the side.

“Can we get down for a look?” he asked his pilot, pointing.

“Not a problem,” replied the pilot, who like most Filipinos had spoken English all his life. The four choppers tucked downward, buzzing the shoreline and small building in formation. They turned back to land, slowing to a hover over a dirt road at the back of the facility. Rankin covered his face as he jumped off the skids, ducking and coughing as he ran toward the buildings. Six Filipino soldiers came off the helicopters behind him, and by the time Rankin rapped on the door to the small shack they were lined up at the corner of the building, ready for a takedown. Guns and Massette had their MP-5s out directly behind Rankin.

The soldier knocked several times, Uzi ready. He eyed the door and lock; it was flimsy, easy to kick down, but he was wary of booby traps.

“I’m going in,” he told the others. He blew off the lock, tensing, expecting a booby trap. Nothing happened. He kicked in the door, hesitating as it flew against its hinges. But there were no explosives, no trip wires; it looked like the sleepy office of the sleepy, one- or two-man operation Corrigan said it claimed to be.

They went inside. There was a desk with two computers, some folders and old newspapers. Nautical memorabilia—a miniature ship’s wheel, a decorative clock— were scattered around the room gathering dust.

“Looks like a water taxi office,” said Guns. “Except that there’s no dispatcher here to take calls.”

“Maybe they’re out,” said Rankin. “Where do you figure the helicopter is?”

“I don’t know. They’re missing their boat as well,” said Guns. “Neither of those little skiffs out there rates as a water taxi.”

“You sure they have one?” Rankin asked.

“Either that or the picture’s a fake,” said the Marine, picking up a framed photo from the front desk.

“Maybe we should go look for them,” suggested Rankin. They left Massette with the Filipinos to search and secure the building, with orders to seize the computers and papers as part of the terrorist investigation. Guns and Rankin climbed aboard one of the Defenders and pulled back out over the ocean.

“What are we looking for?” asked the pilot.

“This boat,” said Rankin, showing him the picture.

“I can check with the Navy patrol,” added the pilot.

“Go for it,” said Rankin.

~ * ~

20

OVER THE PACIFIC

Corrine felt as if her body deflated as the Navy pilots reported seeing the 747 disintegrating as it hit the water.

“Down, it’s down,” said Wolf.

“Good,” she told him.

She turned to the others, giving them a thumbs-up. Then she punched back into Corrigan’s line, relaying the information.

“I’m afraid Ferguson and Conners haven’t been located yet,” he said.

“Yes, I know.”

Neither one stated the obvious—the two men were probably aboard the plane that had just been shot down.

“Navy is challenging an Indian flight over the northern Philippines,” one of the communications specialists said to Corrine. “Data says it’s a 707. They’re off their filed flight plan, but they’re a regular flight for Hawaii. Carry flowers, that sort of thing.”

Corrine started to say that they could let it go, but then she remembered the bulletin Corrigan had issued earlier—the terrorists had two planes.

“Do they have it in sight?”

“Negative. It’s responded properly to the civilian controllers, however. Looks like it’s OK.”

They all wanted to knock off. They deserved to. And this plane was a 707, not a 747—and Indian besides.

Corrine reached for the mike switch. Her job was to be the president’s conscience, and she’d done it well, ordering the shootdown of the terrorist plane at the very last second—a tough decision that had to be made. Now it was time to go home.

Or was it? Nothing could be overlooked—that was the lesson of the boxcars, wasn’t it?

“Tell them to get it in sight,” she told the Navy controller. “Tell them to make sure it’s a 707, not a 747. And don’t just settle for a radar contact either.”

She hit the switch and keyed back into Corrigan. “Mr. Corrigan, what was the information regarding the planes the Sri Lankan company owns?”

“Which ones?” asked Corrigan.