Zero Separation (30 page)

He turned until he was looking down the carpeted aisle at a cockpit. There he found the dim light cast by the instruments as well as Strauss and Rafael. He pulled against his restraints and found the familiar sharpness of the plastic tie wraps used on his wrists and ankles. Working behind his back in the near darkness, Donovan traced each plastic strand with his fingers until he understood that each wrist was encircled by its own tie wrap. It felt like a third strap looped his hands together as well as encircled the metal leg of a science station.

All of the science stations in the
da Vinci
were modular. They could be adjusted to suit the requirements of a given mission. The leg was bolted to a track in the floor, but underneath the edge of the
table was a removable pin that would separate the leg from the table. If he could remove the pin, he'd be free.

Donovan gathered his legs underneath him and coiled himself into a squatting position. A wave of nausea enveloped him and he swayed and fell to the side. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard, trying not to be sick.

Long minutes passed before he felt like another try. Donovan positioned his legs and once again tried to slide his hands up the leg of the table. Breathing hard against the exertion, a sheen of sweat broke out on his face. He balanced himself, positioning his weight over his feet and tried to picture which way the pin faced. With his hands secured behind him this was going to be difficult. Satisfied that he wouldn't fall this time, he slowly thrust upward with his legs and was relieved when his hands slid upward along the smooth metal of the table leg. His knees and thighs screamed in protest as his fingers touched the pin. Forced into a semicrouch, as if stopping in the middle of a deep-knee bend, Donovan fumbled behind his back for the button on the quick-release pin. He found it and had to twist himself slightly to one side for more leverage. The hard plastic from the tie wrap dug painfully into his wrists. He teetered momentarily before his knees gave out and he slid back down the leg to the floor. He gasped at the pain in his shoulders and legs, frustrated by his failure.

Donovan fought to get his breathing under control and steeled himself for another attempt; his legs wouldn't allow him many more tries. Once again, he grimaced and raised himself up from the floor. He found the pin and managed to push the button and pull. The pin came halfway out and Donovan jiggled it back and forth until it finally popped free from the housing and the leg tilted off to the side, away from the table.

Donovan raised himself the last three inches and pulled his wrists up and over the top then lurched sideways leaning against the side of the fuselage. His knees and thighs burned from the exertion while pinpricks of pain from the circulation returning to his
hands were intense enough to make him wince. With his wrists still secured behind him, Donovan turned until he could see out the window.

Above the
da Vinci's
wingtip stretched the wing of another airplane and its size dwarfed the Gulfstream. It was so unexpected that Donovan momentarily grappled with the implications and then everything Strauss was doing made perfect sense. Strauss had intercepted and joined up with a commercial airliner, an Airbus. Perched far out on the tip of the airliner's wing, beyond the flap tracks and engine, a single strobe light flashed in a completely dark sky. Being this close to an airliner while flying seemed surreal, but as Donovan watched closely, he could see the gentle movements Strauss was making to keep the
da Vinci
positioned perfectly underneath the other plane. If anyone were watching on radar, all they would see was the solitary target belonging to the Airbus. Both the Gulfstream and the anthrax were headed toward Washington, D.C., completely undetected. No one would know they were there until it was far too late to do anything to stop the murder of millions.

Donovan now understood why Strauss had asked about the Pan Avia black boxes. Strauss had needed to know that what he had planned hadn't been discovered. They must have tried this before with the Bristol Technologies Gulfstream—and failed. The 767 was brought down in a midair collision. The featureless world outside told him they were either out over the ocean or above a thick cloud layer, but in reality they could be anywhere. Donovan had no idea how long he'd been unconscious or, more importantly, how much time he had to try and stop Strauss.

Donovan peeled himself away from the window, replaced the leg of the table, and then slowly stood upright, careful not to make any sudden moves. He stepped softly, not wanting to make a sound. The rhythmic flashes from the airliner's strobe light allowed him to briefly make out the shapes close to him. Across the aisle, Montero lay motionless. With his bound ankles limiting his mobility,
Donovan inched past her and slowly worked his way toward the rear of the
da Vinci
.

It seemed to take forever, but he finally reached the very back of the cabin. Donovan kept looking toward the cockpit to make sure his movements were as yet undiscovered. He stopped in front of a narrow equipment locker, turned, and rested his back against the metal door. He carefully felt around until his fingers found the smooth steel indentation that marked the door latch. Working quickly, he managed to get two fingers under the lever and lift with just enough pressure to silently unlatch the door.

Working from memory, Donovan searched the third shelf from the bottom until he touched the soft-sided bag. He unzipped it and felt each tool until he found the one he wanted. It took him a moment to maneuver the edge of the plastic restraints into the opening of the wire snips, but the moment he did he squeezed and felt the plastic snap apart. He brought his tortured hands into his lap and massaged his wrists. He cut the remainder of the tie wraps from his wrists and ankles and then pocketed the cutters. Donovan searched the tool bag and found a screwdriver, a set of hex wrenches, a small penlight, an assortment of small box end wrenches, and a roll of electrical tape. The kit was designed for electrical work not mechanical jobs, but at least the screwdriver could be used as a weapon. The roar from the engines was louder back here, and he could easily hear the small corrections Strauss was making to hold formation with the Airbus. It gave Donovan hope that they were far too busy up front flying to turn around and notice that he'd gotten free.

Donovan slipped into the lavatory and gently closed the door. He clicked on the penlight, faced the mirror, and gently examined the right side of his face. The cut above his eye had stopped bleeding, the swelling felt like a golf ball parked under his skin. He opened the door to the baggage compartment and swept the small beam inside the confined space.

The three anthrax-filled cylinders were strapped onto a make-shift
wooden rack, their openings positioned toward the floor. Once the valves on the tanks were opened, the deadly toxin would pour out through a funnel that led to a manifold. It was simple, all Nathan had to do was depressurize the airplane, release the baggage compartment door, and open the valves. Judging by the shape and position of the manifold, the airflow would suck the anthrax out into the slipstream and death would begin to rain down on those below. It was straightforward enough to work perfectly.

Donovan switched off his light, and stood impatiently in the darkness until his eyes readjusted. With the screwdriver at the ready, he opened the lavatory door, prepared to lunge at anyone standing there. To his great relief the aisle was empty.

He crept forward and knelt down next to Montero. He reached around and clipped the bonds on her hands and feet and then gently placed her arms at her side. Donovan brushed the hair from her face, placed two fingers on her neck until he found a steady pulse. He bent down until his mouth was almost touching her ear.

“Wake up,” he whispered. He shook her shoulder. “Veronica, wake up.”

She groaned.

“I need you to open your eyes. Can you do that? Open them and look at me.” Donovan couldn't tell if he'd reached her. Her eyelids fluttered and then squeezed together tightly. “Don't talk, just listen. It's me. Don't make any noise at all. We have to be quiet.”

Her hand went to her forehead, searching for the source of her pain, and then she curled up and wrapped her arms around her midsection.

“You'll feel nauseous for a little bit,” Donovan whispered. “It's from the drugs they gave us. It'll pass.”

“Where are we?” Montero said as she opened her eyes.

“Other than being in the back of the
da Vinci
, I don't really know.”

Montero looked at her hands, held them in front of her face. “I'm free?”

“Yeah,” Donovan replied. “Now we have to figure out how to deal with them.”

“What do you mean?” Montero pushed him away and then grimaced from the pain. “In a minute I'm going to the cockpit and I'm going to kill them both. I can promise you that Nathan Strauss isn't going to survive this. When I'm finished, you come up and fly the plane.”

“Look out the window.”

Montero eyed him suspiciously then inched up until she was even with the Plexiglas. Donovan waited until the sight fully registered. She turned toward him, eyes wide open and unblinking.

“It's another airplane,” Montero said. “We're underneath another goddamned airplane!”

“If we make a move on the cockpit right now, we'd probably cause a collision.”

“How did they—how can it—I mean it's the middle of the night! How can they see what they're doing?”

“This airplane is equipped with an enhanced vision system. It's basically an infrared camera that feeds the picture to a dedicated display for the pilot. Just like any night-vision device, Strauss has a monochromatic view of everything in front of the
da Vinci
. It turns night into day, and while what he did is difficult, he's a good pilot. The EVS just makes it easier.”

“The Bristol Technologies airplane,” Montero cocked her head to the side as she pieced it together. “This is what they were doing, right? A brand-new Gulfstream like theirs would have the same EVS thing, wouldn't it? Only they collided with the Pan Avia flight.”

“That's my guess.” Donovan nodded. “Remember how the Pan Avia crew was shooting that gap in the line of thunderstorms? Sudden turbulence could have easily caused the two planes to make contact.”

“What do we do? We have to stop Strauss.”

“We have some time before we resort to storming the cockpit,” Donovan replied.

“So we sit here and wait? Wait for what? I'm not real big on this cloak-and-dagger crap,” Montero whispered. “I say we make some noise and draw one of those guys back here. I'll kill him and then we go forward and kill the other one. Again, you come up and land the plane. End of problem.”

“They're not stupid, and they're armed. There's no place for us to take cover. We'd be sitting targets back here if one of them decided to start shooting. I promise we'll reserve the right to charge the cockpit, but only as a last-ditch effort. In the meantime, let's try and contact the outside world. Maybe we can find someone to help us.”

“Help us?” Montero hissed. “Who could possibly help us?”

“If we could make contact with the crew of the airliner, maybe they could provide some distance between the planes before we rushed Strauss. If we do it now, everyone dies.”

“Isn't there a phone back here?” Montero said, searching in the near darkness, as if trying to remember where it was.

“We can't risk it. A light comes on in the cockpit when it's in use. Strauss would see it immediately. But the computer uplink doesn't have a light. That could work.”

“To do what exactly? Send an e-mail, blog about our situation? That seems a little low impact. It's the middle of the night. Who in the hell would you even send it to? We have to kill Strauss!”

“Rushing the cockpit is suicide—that's our last resort. I've been to the baggage compartment. I saw the anthrax tanks. There's no way they can release the toxin without depressurizing the airplane, opening the baggage door as well as the tanks. One of them has to physically go back and make that happen. We'll make our move then. I promise.”

Montero closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and nodded.

Donovan moved across the aisle and quietly slid the laptop out of its cushioned slot. He motioned for Montero to crawl over to where he sat.

“Wait a second.” Montero placed her hand on his wrist. “If you
switch that thing on, it might put out enough light for them to notice.”

Donovan handed her the computer and the screwdriver. He stood and snatched a blanket from one of the compartments.

“Okay.” Montero tested the weight of the screwdriver in her hand. “You type, I'll stand guard.”

Donovan slid the blanket over his head and switched on the computer. Despite the cold air, his hands were damp as he immediately muted the sound and then waited as the screen lit up and started to cycle through its start-up routines. When the screen blinked to life, Donovan's eyes shot to the clock. It read 3:52 a.m. He tried to imagine any reason the clock could be wrong—but there wasn't. They'd been unconscious for hours, which meant they were far closer to D.C. than he'd guessed.

As fast as he could, he clicked through the prompts and typed in his password. He had to wait for the next screen to appear and when it finally did, he pulled down the e-mail page, thought for a moment, and then typed the heading:

From Donovan: URGENT!
In the body of the e-mail he simply wrote:
Reply immediately—need help. Nash
.

He opened his address book and quickly clicked on the people whom he thought might be in a position to help. Then he sent the message. If this didn't work, then he and Montero's options would quickly dwindle down to two distinct possibilities. They'd either die from a bullet—or in a midair collision with an airliner.