Countdown to Mecca (29 page)

The road to the runway didn't exist. Any driver who wanted to remain alive would have told them that the hill was too steep to go straight down, but Jimmy didn't care. He piloted the car like a bobsled—Doc and Jack hanging on for dear life. They took one jarring jump, then another, and started sliding to the side.

“We're going over!” Jack shouted. He saw what would happen. The car would fishtail, then start rolling, top over bottom, as they were all mashed into pulp between the roof and floor.

“No!” Jimmy boomed, tromping the pedals and wrestling the wheel. “Never … over…!” Suddenly the car was level and surging ahead. Jack kept his eyes on the plane, but Doc and Jimmy's eyes were on the front gate's guards, who had managed to snap their stunned jaws shut and start leveling their compact carbines at the barreling auto.

Both Doc and Jimmy had their arms straight out from the driver's side windows, and were pinpointing their aim despite the car's movement. Doc cursed himself for missing the guard to the left on his first shot, but he knew it had been close, because the guard turned and kneeled. He wouldn't have bothered if the bullet hadn't been so near that the man had heard, or even felt, it.

Jimmy bellowed with rage and glee as he pulled the trigger twice, making the guard to the right fall back. Jack studied the plane as the man in the truck jumped out of the cab and started waving and shouting. The high-winged plane had a sleek turboprop engine on each side, and with its long, cone-like nose looked a bit like an aerodynamic flying troll. “Czech plane,” said Doc, catching a glimpse as he repositioned himself. With the guards running, he and Jimmy could no longer get a clear shot. “It's an Evektor-Aeotechink, for short runways.”

“Helpful,” Jack shouted sarcastically over the roar of the car. “Thanks! How do we stop it?”

“There's no way that's a bomber!”

“All it has to do is fly over its target.”

Doc tried to find a shot to stop either the plane or the men, but he knew, at this distance, he'd only be wasting bullets. “We can call the Saudis and tell them to shoot it down,” he yelled back to Jack.

“And they'd believe us?!” Jack countered. They had no right to be here, no real evidence, and neither thought a prince-approved interview was going to carry much water in this case.

“Damn!” yelled Doc, and they watched as the first man started the plane up while the other two disappeared into the main building.

“They're running for cover!” Jack enthused. “We got them! Now all we have to do is get in front of the plane, and…!”

“No!” Doc yelled, pointing. Jack's eyes followed Doc's arm, and his blood ran cold. Coming out of the building, charging at them, were now four armed men. “Jimmy…,” Doc started, but he didn't need to say more. Their driver, grinning like a death's head, stomped on the accelerator.

Thrown back in his seat by the acceleration, Jack didn't realize what was happening until something thumped hard against the car two seconds later. He ducked involuntarily as something else pounded the roof above him. There was a second thud, and the car skidded to a stop. They'd hit not one, but two people.

Doc leaped from the car. Jack did the same. A rifle lay in the dust just beyond the door. It was a 7.62mm ARM version of the Galil, a sturdy, Israeli-built assault rifle that in this case was configured as a light machine gun. A 25-round box hung from its belly. As Jack grabbed the rifle, he saw something moving on his left out of the corner of his eye. He swung the gun like a baseball bat, connecting with the head of one of the men they'd just knocked over. The man, already battered by the car, fell to the side.

Jack tightened his grip on the gun and smashed him again, this time on the top of the head. A geyser of blood spurt from the fissure; Jack sent another blow to the man's chest, then stumbled backward, shocked at what he had just done.

“Check him for a radio,” Doc yelled, running up behind Jack. He had a Galil in his right hand and an oversize pistol in his left. Even in shock and at this distance, Jack recognized the pistol as a Desert Eagle, a .50 caliber semiautomatic reputed to be the most powerful handgun in the world. The barrel included a muzzle brake, which not only made the weapon look more foreboding but lessened its recoil.

Jack, still dazed, went down on his knee but drew back his hand as the prone man's chest heaved. Doc didn't hesitate—he slid down on the other side and grabbed the man's sidearm, another Desert Eagle. He hit the man's forehead with the butt end, then stuffed the gun into his belt.

The man had a radio in his tac vest but its headpiece had been ripped off when the car hit him. Doc grabbed the small brick and tossed it as far as he could. Then he undid the man's tac vest and tossed it to Jack.

“In the car, go, go!” said Doc.

Jack nodded, fumbling with the gear and looking up as his heart pounded. While they fought, the other two guards had loaded a bomb-shaped crate onto the plane, and the aircraft was starting its takeoff run.

Doc was saying something as he moved to engage the two remaining guards, but the words didn't connect to any rational thought. Things were moving too fast. Jack knew from experience that he had to dampen down his adrenaline, and in effect slow the world around him down. Take each piece of action on its own, slowly, and he would win. Life is like a clock, Jack heard his father say. Everything fits together.

“Jack, duck!” yelled Doc.

Jack pushed himself toward the door as the windshield shattered. The sheet of broken safety glass flew into the front, punctured by bullets from a gunman thirty feet ahead.

Jimmy, somehow unaffected by the bullets or debris, aimed to fishtail the rear end of the car into him, but the sand and his speed made him lose control. As he tried to brake, the car went into a three hundred and sixty spin. It whipped around, and then that smacked broadside into the man who'd been firing to stop them.

The guard went under the car as it continued to spin, getting pulverized by the wheels. No matter how loud the car and plane were, they still didn't manage to drown out the sickening sound of bone, muscle, and flesh being blended.

Dizzy, Jack grabbed for the door latch as Doc yelled at him. He ignored his friend, stumbled, then found his footing, and started running toward the plane.

“Get down, get down!” shouted Doc behind him.

Jack either fell, or threw himself, to the ground. Bullets hit the dirt nearby, kicking up mini-explosions of grit and sand. Doc maneuvered behind him, trying to get an angle on the final guard. Jack saw a flash of light on his left, down in the sand. It was one of the fallen rifles.

Jack leaped on it like a drowning man on a life preserver. He squirreled around to get it into position and put his eye near the scope to see. Meanwhile, the white flashes in front of him rose, and the mini-explosions came closer. Jack put his finger on the trigger and the rifle roared, a dozen bullets spitting out before he could stop it.

There were no more flashes, and no more gunfire. Jack looked behind him but couldn't see Doc, Jimmy, or the car. He rose to his knees, searching, then heard the plane's engines whine.

Gotta stop the plane!
he thought.

He was a good twenty feet from the edge of the runway, and the plane was at the far end, another thousand or so beyond. He'd never run that distance fast enough to stop the aircraft from taking off.

Then the car was beside him, Jimmy's maniacal smile filling his addled vision. Jack all but clutched at it, his arms somehow wrapping around the section between the passenger side windows. There was no longer any glass to prevent his bear hug. The windshield glass was draped across the wheel and the passenger seat. The engine screeched, and then he was yanked off the ground as the car hurtled toward the taxiing plane.

Jack dug at the glass, trying to reach the door handle. The wheels spun but caught enough solid ground to lurch the vehicle forward again, making his fingers scramble across the door. Jack held on for dear life as the battered car skidded and veered across the concrete.

The plane was moving down the runway. There was gunfire to Jack's right, and flashes down near the building. Something burst through the side window behind him.

“Stop the plane!” he howled.
Because I'm dead anyway,
he thought.

There were no other ideas in his head, no great philosophies, no justifications, or moral arguments about good and evil. He was utterly focused on the car and the runway and plane. The desert wind bit at his face. He smelled the blood of the men they'd hit and the fumes of the car. He felt the bruises that covered his body. He heard the car and airplane thundering toward each other.

A light flashed on and the EV-55's turbines whined, the plane's pilot finally realizing the car was coming for him. The two vehicles roared at each other, racing together like a pair of mad dervishes. The plane started to move left; Jack felt the rear wheels slide out of control. White light flashed in his face and the earth seemed to fall below him; there was a roar so loud his eardrums felt as if they broke.

“Jimmy!” he screamed, as he fell. “Jump!”

Then a tornado of dirt, fire, fuel, and oil spun him around, pummeling his head until he shot into a black hole of pain.

 

40

Unconsciousness was a purgatory of pain and confusion—a dizzy swirl where the world made no sense. Jack's mind churned at a level below dreams and sensation. He was at the bottom of a deep ocean, able to breathe only through some accidental miracle. Finally, something prodded Jack to rise. It was a feeling of light, color, and shape that pushed slowly upward. Only gravity was holding him back. His head was heavy. More lights, colors, and shapes began to drift out of the blackness before him. He began rising more quickly. His chest hurt. His legs were bent at odd angles. His ribs screamed with pain.

His heart pounded. He wondered,
Am I going to die? Am I dead already?

But then he saw the desert sky above him, and felt the desert sand beneath him, as well as the desert heat all around him. Finally, he was conscious, looking up at a familiar face he couldn't quite recognize.

“D-Doc?” Jack finally sputtered.

The old soldier nodded. “Good boy. Stay awake. Upsy daisy.”

“W-what?”

“Come to papa, Jack.” Doc pushed his arm under him and lifted, scooping him to his feet. Still dizzy, Jack began sliding in the direction of Doc's tugs. “You're just in time,” Doc said gravely. “He's been asking for you.”

“W-who? What is going on?” Jack shook his head, trying to clear his eyes and his mind. “The plane…!”

“Yeah,” Doc said, slowly lowering him back to the ground. “The plane.”

Jack found himself sitting amid a circle of bent metal and broken glass. He vaguely recognized some of it—a wheel here, a wing there. It was the twisted remnants of the car and the plane.

It wasn't like in the movies. The crash hadn't resulted in fireballs and explosions. Just two man-made machines torn apart by velocity and contact. A strange elation tore into Jack's head, but it only brought more stabbing pain. Even so, through the haze, he thought:
We had done it. We stopped the plane.
But then there was another, unwanted, thought.
At what cost?

The cost came into view a moment later. Jack was sitting next to a small, prone, body. He saw Doc hunch down on the other side of the horizontal form swathed in white. Then, shining through, came the smile. Weaker, but still there.

“Mr. Jack,” said Jimmy weakly.

Jack's vision cleared some more. He saw the man laying there amid the wreckage, battered and bloody. As if not to see it, Jack raised his gaze, but then he saw Doc's solemn face. Just before Jack looked back down, Doc shook his head slightly. No.

“Jimmy,” Jack breathed. “You didn't have to.… Why did you do it?”

“It okay,” Jimmy mumbled. “Wanted to tell you before … wanted to thank you…”

“Thank me?” Jack blurted incredulously. He had brought the poor man to death's door. “Why?”

“Waiting,” said Jimmy, his voice getting softer as Jack listened. “Waiting to join family. Just … wanted to find right time … right reason … didn't want to just throw life away…!”

Jack was rendered mute by the man's mourning, pain, and sacrifice. He stared, head spinning, as Jimmy attempted one last smile.

“I did good, yes? Save many people…?”

“Yes, Jimmy, yes,” Jack said. “Maybe millions.”

He thought Jimmy was going to cry. But, to his astonishment, he saw the brave man trembling … and silently laughing.

“Jimmy,” Jack said hoarsely. “Why are you … how can you…?”

Jimmy feebly shook his head, his mouth still twisted in a happy smile, his words getting weaker with each syllable. “It's okay, Mr. Jack. I laugh because I know something they don't know.…”

“What, Jimmy?” Jack asked, his eyes wet even in this heat. “What is it?”

Jack saw the man mouth the words, and even though he didn't hear them, they were as plain as day. “We win.”

With that, Jimmy's eyes shut for the last time.

Jack took a deep breath, then closed and opened his own eyes several times, trying to get them refocused. He took another breath, this one slow and deliberate. He started to rise to his feet, but the dizziness intensified. He sat back down.

He could no longer see where he was. He leaned over, putting his left hand out as a prop, then his right. He began to crawl slowly away. He didn't know where he was going. He just wanted to go away. But he didn't get far. Jack lay on the ground, on his face, and closed his wet eyes.

Either a few seconds, or a few lifetimes later, Jack's eyes and ears, opened again. “I'm amazed he lasted that long, considering his injuries,” was the first thing Jack heard. “I guess he was holding out for you.”