Cherub Black Friday (5 page)

‘Hey,’ Elbaz said, looking back as Ryan’s shadow sent a flicker across the cockpit glass. Ryan expected a rebuke, but Elbaz sounded friendly for once. ‘We’ll put the mayday call out in three minutes. Should be on the ground five after that, so jazz them all up back there.’

‘Right, boss,’ Ryan said.

Tracy looked around and seemed like she was going to say something too, but nothing came out and Ryan tried not to think about her torment as he walked back to the single row of passenger seats.

‘Hey,’ Ryan said, tapping the arm of the terrorist dude, who had a cheapo iPod rip-off plugged into his earholes. ‘Elbaz says eight minutes. Be ready to move as soon as we touch down.’

The other IDoJ terrorist was studiously reading a Koran and gave Ryan a nod as he tucked the little blue hardback into the pocket of his linen shirt, then started feeling around the cabin floor for his trainers.

Kazakov was the only person who’d slept, same as he’d done on board the IL-76. After two tours of duty during the Russian invasion of Afghanistan, Kazakov claimed he could sleep anywhere provided nobody was shooting directly at him.

‘Get up, Dad,’ Ryan said.

He put emphasis on
Dad
, because it’s easy to forget a cover story in the first seconds after waking up.

‘Where are we?’ Kazakov asked, before opening wide into a yawn.

‘A few minutes from landing,’ Ryan said.

As Ryan lowered himself into his seat, the plane lunged and his knees thumped the partition in front. He leaned out to look back into the cockpit, half-expecting to see Tracy fighting Elbaz for control of the plane. Instead, she was in her seat, making the emergency call.

‘Mayday, mayday!’ Tracy said. ‘Globespan 2726 heading for Atlanta. Our left engine just had a major blow-up. Right side is spluttering and I can’t get accurate fuel readings. Turning one-sixty degrees east. Emergency landing in progress. Mayday, mayday!’

Ryan couldn’t hear the reply from air traffic control.

‘Roger your emergency landing coordinates,’ Tracy said. ‘Navigation has pinpointed runway, over.’

Ryan clipped his seatbelt on and felt his guts head for his throat as the plane lurched again. ‘Jesus.’

Kazakov slid a pill bottle out of his mechanic’s overall and gobbled two caffeine tablets before offering them to Ryan.

‘You need your wits about you and these’ll keep you awake,’ the instructor said.

Ryan looked uncertain. Each pill contained the same amount of caffeine as three strong cups of coffee, but they could also leave you with a serious headache when the effect wore off.

‘You haven’t slept in twenty-four hours,’ Kazakov said firmly. ‘Take one.’

As Ryan reluctantly swallowed a single pill, Kazakov turned to the two terrorists across the aisle.

‘Drugs?’ he asked, grinning wildly and fully aware that the two strict Muslims would be horrified at the thought of taking a stimulant.

Cotton wool cloud was passing the window and when they broke through Kazakov peered down over sunny Alabama countryside. But there wasn’t as much countryside as he’d have liked to have seen and, in particular, he was troubled by the sight of a gleaming football stadium with
ASU
painted inside bright yellow endzones.

‘What’s wrong?’ Ryan asked, as Kazakov stood up. ‘Mind your head, we’re bouncing all over the joint.’

‘The last time I checked, Hayneville, Alabama had a population of a thousand and wasn’t near any football stadiums,’ Kazakov said, loud enough to unsettle the two IDoJ guys across the aisle.

Kazakov stepped into the cockpit and made both pilots jump as he shouted. ‘Where the hell are we landing, Elbaz?’

Both pilots were concentrating on the rapid descent, and they were lined up to a runway a few kilometres away.

Elbaz turned to Kazakov. ‘Last-minute change.’

‘Like how?’ Kazakov shouted. ‘This isn’t what was agreed.’

Ryan didn’t like what he was hearing. He felt under his seat and was reassured by the handle of a large hunting knife. TFU had known Tracy’s plane was going to be hijacked and Dr D had arranged for an emergency arsenal to be placed aboard in case Ryan and Kazakov needed it.

‘We had a tip-off that someone was watching the airport,’ Elbaz explained. ‘Get back in your seat. You have no cause for concern. You’ll still get paid.’

Even if Kazakov was going to make a move, he couldn’t do it until tyres were on the ground. Ryan glanced out of the window to see how high they were and got a view down into the football stadium. There were queues of cars rolling into the parking lot, stands filling up with spectators and a blimp floating in the distance.

‘Turkey Day classic, stadium grand opening,’ Elbaz shouted, sounding proud of himself. ‘Every police in Montgomery will be on duty, and with that traffic we’ll be long gone before they get anywhere near us.’

‘Customs?’ Kazakov asked.

‘Nothing down there but tarmac. The whole area’s gonna be turned into a parking lot for the stadium.’

An electronic voice came out of a speaker grille in between the pilots’ seats. ‘
Two hundred metres
.’

‘Sit down and buckle up,’ Elbaz ordered. ‘Touchdown in thirty seconds.’

‘
One-eighty metres
.’

Ryan and Kazakov exchanged uncomfortable glances as the big Ukrainian clambered back to his window seat.

‘Change of venue,’ Kazakov said.

They couldn’t discuss details with the IDoJ guys sitting close by. As the plane’s wheels thumped the runway Ryan felt jazzed up. The caffeine pill was doing its job, and he was glad he’d taken it because there wasn’t going to be any FBI team waiting to scoop them up when the 737 rolled to a stop.

‘Where’s it going?’ Dr D yelled, as she grabbed her mobile to call air traffic control.

FBI team leader Schultz had a laptop open on the motel room bed and was using Google Maps to check out all the local airfields.

‘If it’s heading for Montgomery, there’s a choice of three,’ Schultz said. ‘Montgomery regional airport, Maxwell air force base. There’s also a mothballed landing strip out by the new Hornets’ stadium.’

Dr D thought for a second. ‘Regional airport will have full-on security and unless they’re planning to blow themselves up on landing, they’d have to be nuts to land in the middle of an air force base. So how far’s the mothballed landing strip from here?’

‘Twenty miles,’ Schultz said, after a pause. ‘But there’s a football match kicking off in an hour. Traffic around there’s gonna be hell.’

Bangles jangled as Dr D pounded her little fist on the desk top. ‘They’ll have known that,’ she snapped. ‘IDoJ probably has an escape route planned out, while we’re stuck behind traffic rolling into a college football game.’

‘I guess the U-Haul trucks coming in here were part of the deception. Do we arrest them?’

‘Try and follow them when they leave,’ Dr D said. ‘The big question is, does IDoJ know we’re on to them, or did they just change the landing site because they’re super cautious?’

Schultz was about to reply when another FBI man burst in without knocking. ‘It’s on TV,’ he blurted.

Without asking permission, the agent flipped on an old-fashioned tube TV bolted to the motel room wall and tuned a local station showing the football game.

The coverage had just started, but studio commentators were all excited about a plane that had skimmed the stadium and come within a couple of hundred metres of the blimp.

‘Well I don’t know what’s going down,’ the marshmallowy commentator said. ‘But that could have been a tragedy on opening day for this
amazing
new stadium. We’ll bring you all the latest on this college classic after these messages from our sponsors.’

‘We need bodies up there,’ Dr D said. ‘Local law enforcement. There must be police at the stadium.’

‘What about the two agents and hostage pilot?’ Schultz asked. ‘If we storm in they could be executed.’

‘We’ve lost track of eleven tonnes of high explosive that could kill thousands,’ Dr D snapped. ‘Priority one is getting that back no matter
what
the consequences. Priority two is arresting every IDoJ operative we can get our hands on.’

The FBI man looked shell-shocked. ‘But  … ’

‘Those are my orders,’ Dr D said. ‘And those orders cover your ass, so get on with it.’

Ryan used a double tap on the back of his ear to switch his com unit on as the plane taxied. He hoped to hear a familiar voice, but the tiny device only had a range of two kilometres and all he got was digital noise caused by interference from the aircraft’s radar.

‘Keep cool,’ Kazakov whispered as the plane came to a halt. But a bang ripped out from the cockpit.

As Kazakov jolted, Ryan leaned into the aisle where he saw Elbaz standing with a gun. Tracy was slumped against the cockpit’s side window, with the right side of her headset in bits and blood spattered on the cockpit glass.

‘Why’d you kill her?’ Ryan shouted furiously.

Elbaz turned with the gun and Ryan clenched, fearing he was next.

‘What use is she now?’ Elbaz asked. ‘She’s seen our faces.’

Then he flipped a couple of switches to release the cargo door in the side of the fuselage. No steps had been brought up to the plane, so one of the other terrorists pulled in the cabin door and yanked the lever to activate an inflatable emergency slide.

As the first terrorist went down the chute, Kazakov put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. ‘Don’t get emotional.’

‘They killed her,’ Ryan said, as he grabbed his backpack out of the overhead locker. ‘What about us?’

‘Tracy’s of no value to them,’ Kazakov said. ‘If they touch us, they’ll expect to answer to the Aramov Clan and I doubt they’ll risk that.’

It was bright sunshine and touching twenty degrees as Ryan zipped down the nylon chute towards the runway. The tarmac was in decent condition, but the runway markings were peeling. Giant mounds of soil obscured their view towards the stadium and there were excavators and dump trucks lined up, ready to transform this airfield into an overflow parking lot for the new stadium and adjacent college.

On the other side of the plane a forklift with
Denver Airport
painted on the side was driving up to the cargo door. When it touched the side of the plane, six men standing on the elevated deck dived into the hold to start unloading.

At the same time a squat man with a kufi on his head embraced Elbaz and spoke with a mid-west accent.

‘My brother, welcome to America!’

‘Mumin!’ Elbaz said enthusiastically. ‘Is everything organised?’

Kazakov stepped up to the men, keeping one hand on the knife in his pocket.

‘Where’s my money?’ Kazakov yelled. ‘You’d better know who you’re messing with here.’

‘An FBI agent was seen at the original landing site,’ Mumin explained calmly. ‘We didn’t know the reason so new arrangements were made on very late notice. You will come to no harm, but I must ask you to stay with us for a short time.’

‘That wasn’t the plan,’ Kazakov said.

‘Plans change,’ Mumin said firmly. ‘Your money and US passports will be given to you when we reach our base. Would you rather the FBI had arrested you upon landing and you spent the rest of your life in federal prison?’

Ryan tried getting his head around the evolving situation. The plan had been for the FBI to swoop when the 737 landed in Hayneville, scooping up the explosives and everyone working for IDoJ. He badly needed sleep, but at least they had a chance to keep track of the explosives if they were travelling to IDoJ’s base.

As the elevated platform lowered three pallets of explosive from the aircraft, Mumin pointed Ryan and Kazakov towards a yellow mini-van.

‘Wait in the back,’ Mumin said. ‘Don’t turn on telephones or any other electronic devices. Any radio signals can be triangulated by the FBI.’

Kazakov and Ryan stepped through a sliding door and into a shabby ex-taxi.

‘Good day,’ the driver said warily, as Ryan breathed the sickly citrus air-freshener dangling off the rear-view mirror.

The driver was in his teens, brown skin, with a slim build and boy’s puny moustache. He didn’t say another word as Ryan and Kazakov watched the plane being unloaded.

Ryan counted seven men and a woman on the cargo team. They’d clearly practised unloading aviation pallets and their rapid coordination and matching blue overalls reminded him of a Formula One pit crew.

The wind carried a cheer across from the stadium as the final battered silver container went up a ramp into the truck painted with the logo of a sportswear retailer. The tracks around the landing strip had been used by heavy vehicles on stadium construction and the four trucks crawled off over rutted ground.

When the last truck pulled away, Elbaz and Mumin hopped in the back of the mini-van, and sat facing Ryan and Kazakov. Once the sliding door slammed, the young driver set off, just six and half minutes after the 737 had stopped moving on the end of the strip.

While Mumin was handed an Uzi submachine gun by the driver, Elbaz looked at Kazakov and sounded keen to keep him happy.

‘We very much wish to work with the Aramov Clan again and I’m sorry for this operational inconvenience,’ Elbaz said. ‘Twenty thousand dollars will be added to your fee, as an apology.’

Ryan’s back jarred as they went over a particularly big pothole.

‘I understand why you’ve done this,’ Kazakov said. ‘But you should have told me while we were in flight.’

‘I suppose,’ Elbaz said.

‘Weren’t you supposed to blow the 737 to hide the evidence?’ Ryan asked.

‘It’s rigged,’ Mumin said. ‘But it’s fuelled to Atlanta and I don’t want it going off while we’re close by. The blast will be triggered by a motion sensor when the first Fed climbs aboard.’

Elbaz smirked. ‘Bonus casualties!’

Ryan’s hands itched to turn on his phone and drop just one text to TFU, but all he could do was bide his time.

A few moments later they pulled off through a hole cut in the airfield’s perimeter fencing and turned on to a four-lane highway. There was only one car in sight on this side of the median, while the other side was gridlocked with vehicles, trailing yellow flags and daubed with football slogans.