The Hunt for Atlantis (38 page)

“With what?”

Starkman somehow managed a half-smile and held up a block of CL-20—the timer already running.

“Just make sure you’re off this bridge in twenty seconds,” he wheezed, with his last ounce of strength forcing himself out of the Ferrari to lie on the road at Chase’s feet. “Fight to the end, Eddie …”

“Fight to the end,” Chase repeated as he jumped into the Ferrari and restarted the engine. He jammed it into reverse and pulled away from the BMW, then clicked into first and poured on the power.

Riding in the passenger seat didn’t even remotely compare to the experience of controlling 483 horsepower. The acceleration was so fierce it felt like taking off in a jet. By the time he remembered to change up a gear, he was already doing over sixty miles an hour, the engine wailing like a banshee behind him.

Into third, now doing eighty, snicking the gear lever through the gleaming chrome gate …

In the mirror he saw that the Jeep had almost reached Starkman, the other vehicles now pouring onto the bridge.

The other end of the bridge was coming up fast, but he could only guess how much time he had left before the explosive detonated. Just moments.

One hundred miles an hour and accelerating, but still a few seconds from solid ground—

The image in the mirror disappeared in a flash of light. A moment later came a huge crack like a thunderbolt, immediately followed by a lower, more sinister rumble.

The flat plane of the bridge suddenly became a slope—

It was collapsing!

Starkman’s bomb had blown out the center of the sweeping arch, the two halves of the structure plunging into the river below. All Chase could do was keep his right foot jammed to the floor and hope the Ferrari reached the end of the bridge before the whole thing dropped out from under him!

He was now driving uphill, speed falling alarmingly as a wave of jagged cracks swept past up the road surface. “Oh shit—”

Everything tilted, and the road disintegrated beneath him—

The Ferrari shot off the end of the collapsing bridge as it tumbled into the fjord, crashing down onto solid ground. The exhaust pipes were torn away as the underbody hit the road, the engine note becoming a raw, ragged rasp.

Chase fought to keep the car under control as it slewed around. He stamped on the brake. The Ferrari juddered as the antilock system kicked in, but it was skidding sideways, tires straining, threatening to burst.

He hauled at the steering wheel. The car spun backwards towards a wall.

Foot off the brake, and accelerate—

With a shriek of tortured rubber, the Ferrari came to a stop in a cloud of acrid tire smoke barely a foot from the airfield’s perimeter wall. Chase coughed as the swirling mist blew past him. Through the smashed windscreen he saw another cloud, a ghostly line of dust marking where the bridge had been. The security forces pursuing him were gone, having plunged into the river with their boss.

And Starkman.

Chase paused to give his ex-comrade a silent word of thanks.

Then he turned to look down the runway. In the distance, he saw the hulking white shape of the A380 against the dark backdrop of the surrounding hills, about to turn around.

About to take off.

He put the battered Ferrari into gear, then set off with a screech of tires.

The A380 slowed as it approached the end of the taxiway, preparing for the wide half-turn to point it down the two-kilometer-long runway.

Chase kept his eyes fixed on the aircraft as he accelerated, clicking up through the Ferrari’s gears. The blasting wind forced him to squint, eyes streaming, but all he had to do was keep going in a straight line.

He had never been aboard an A380, knew almost nothing about its internal layout beyond it being a double-decker. But that was the passenger version—this one was a freighter, meaning he was even more in the dark. He would have to wing it when he got on board.

He would have to wing it to get on board. Trying to block the plane’s takeoff with the Ferrari would be like trying to stop a tank with a cardboard box. The enormous aircraft would blow the sports car aside as if it weren’t even there.

And he couldn’t try to stop the plane by shooting at it—there was too much risk of killing Nina if it caught fire or crashed as a result.

Although if it meant stopping the virus then it might have to be a necessary sacrifice—with himself going the same way …

He was doing over 140, barely able to see the speedometer through his watering eyes. The A380 was a white blur ahead as it moved into its turn.

Whatever he was going to do, he had to think of it fast…

“Ms. Frost!” The pilot’s voice echoed over the intercom. “There’s a car on the runway!”

Kari went to the port side of the cabin to look down. “What?” she gasped. Nina peered past her. She saw the runway stretching off into the distance as the plane turned—and racing down it, a scarlet Ferrari convertible!

The car charged towards them at incredible speed, its lone occupant taking on form. Even at a distance she recognized the balding head behind the wheel the moment she saw it. “Oh my God! It’s Eddie!”

Kari reacted with shock, then went to the intercom. “This is Kari Frost. Under no circumstances are you to abort the takeoff. Whatever he does, get this plane into the air. That is an order.” She returned to the window. “What the hell is he doing?”

“Trying to stop you,” said Nina.

Kari set her jaw, her expression turning hard. “He won’t succeed.” She moved to the top of the stairs and shouted down to the guards, “Get your guns and open the hatch! Somebody’s trying to stop us from taking off—”

Nina realized that Kari’s back was to her, and she had only the lightest hold on the handrail.

She didn’t even have time to consider the thought rationally. Instead, she acted on pure instinct, rushing at Kari with both arms held out like battering rams and pushing her down the stairs.

Taken completely by surprise, Kari had no chance to stop herself from falling. She screamed as she tumbled down the metal steps, flailing limbs smashing against the hard edges, then hit the floor with a bang, bleeding and dazed.

Nina stared down at her almost in shock at what she’d done before instinct took over again. Fight or flight…

Flight!

She ran to the door at the back of the cabin, praying it wasn’t locked. It wasn’t. Darting through, she found herself inside the upper hold, a vaulted tunnel of bare metal ribs holding a line of cargo containers, rattling against their restraints. Banks of white LEDs mounted along the ceiling provided ghostly illumination.

There was no lock on the door. She hurriedly looked around for some way to secure it.

The nearest container was just a few feet away, held in place by thick straps attached to lugs in the floor. She yanked at what she hoped was the release lever. With a loud clack, the strap came free. She looped it behind a spar in the wall before tying it around the door handle, pulling it tight. It wouldn’t stop the door from being opened, but it would make it much harder for anyone to squeeze through the narrow gap.

She stepped back, looking down the hold.

The virus …

For the virus to be released in flight, whatever container it was in had to be somehow plumbed to the skin of the Airbus. If she could find the container, there might be some way to sabotage it.

Loud footsteps from the cabin: someone racing up the stairs.

Nina ran down the hold.

The A380 was about to complete its turn, and Chase was almost at the end of the runway. He wiped his eyes, trying to get a clear look at the aircraft. Under the fuselage were five undercarriage legs, one at the nose and the other four spreading out the plane’s weight as widely as possible.

When the undercarriage retracted into the plane’s belly, there should be access hatches he could use to enter the fuselage if he got onto one of the landing legs.

Might be access hatches, he reminded himself.

He had to take the chance. It was now or never. The A380’s four gaping engines were spinning up.

The Ferrari’s tires screeched again as he swerved to one side of the runway. Not to get out of the plane’s way, but to make as tight a turn as possible without losing too much speed, preparing to come in under the aircraft.

The cable gun was ready on the passenger seat beside him.

He would literally only get one shot—if he missed, there was a good chance he would die when the Ferrari was caught in the engine backblast. If he survived that, he would be dead soon after, killed either by Frost’s men or by his virus.

Even if he succeeded, he was probably dead anyway. But he had to try.

Heat scoured his face as he passed behind the engines on the left wing. The Ferrari threatened to spin out, and he eased off the accelerator slightly—if he made a mistake now, there would be no chance to catch up.

The hatch at the plane’s nose opened. Someone leaned out, a gun in his hand—one of Frost’s men looking for him.

The overstressed tires strained for grip—

Now directly behind the fuselage, Chase straightened the car, aiming between the two pairs of landing legs in the A380’s belly.

The engine noise rose to a scream, and the plane started to accelerate.

For its colossal size, the Airbus was frighteningly quick off the mark. Burning air blasted Chase like a hurricane as the Ferrari darted under the plane’s tail. The massive fuselage filled his vision, a giant hammer ready to crush him flat at any moment.

He was between the rear undercarriage legs, still outpacing the aircraft—but not for long.

He grabbed the cable gun.

Now he was level with the front landing legs, foot to the floor to keep up with the racing Airbus. A slight turn of the wheel brought him closer to the left leg, the four giant tires a whirling blur.

One shot.

The wheels were less than a foot from the Ferrari’s side.

As the plane pulled away, Chase aimed the cable gun into the undercarriage well.

One chance—

Fire!

The grapnel shot out, the line whipping behind it. It flew into the wheel well and struck the inner wall. If it fell out, it was all over …

It held!

The grapnel had pierced the metal bulkhead.

He only needed it to hold for a few seconds. Hitting the switch to retract the cable, he shoved the gun through the center of the steering wheel, looping the line back around on itself. Then he let go of the wheel, forcing himself upright against the hundred-mile-an-hour slipstream, and held the cable as it snapped taut—

The Ferrari swerved, dragged in behind the undercarriage.

He jumped over the door and pulled himself hand over hand up the line. Dust and grit kicked up by the plane’s wheels spat into his face. He only needed to traverse a few feet, but the line was already straining.

His feet scraped the runway, almost tearing him loose. Blood oozed between his fingers as the cable cut into his flesh.

The landing leg was just a foot away—one more swing of his arm and he would be able to pull himself onto the undercarriage—

The cable lashed. The Ferrari skidded sideways, dragged behind the plane like a toy. Chase felt the steel line jolt. The grapnel was giving way—

He lunged desperately for the landing leg, blood-soaked fingers closing around the metal just as the cable snapped free.

The Ferrari broke away, spinning out of control behind him. The cable shot past, the grapnel a lethal barb flashing past his face. He instinctively looked around to follow it, in time to see the Airbus plow right over the sports car, flattening it instantly. Mangled debris flew in all directions.

The impact shook even the massive aircraft. Chase struggled to keep hold, kicking in a frantic attempt to find a foothold before he suffered the same fate as the F430.

His boot found solid metal. He pulled himself up. If his guess had been wrong, if there wasn’t an access hatch, he would be crushed when the undercarriage retracted into the belly of the plane.

He looked up, seeing nothing but metal walls and skeins of cables and hydraulic lines.

Shit—

As the Airbus left the runway, the shriek of the engines almost deafening, the landing leg began to retract, folding into the confines of the wheel well. Chase twisted desperately as he was pushed towards the ceiling, the metal ribs of the fuselage like blades about to slice him into pieces—

A hatch!

An access panel, barely two feet wide, with a recessed ring-shaped handle at its base. He grabbed the handle.

It didn’t move.

Either it was stiff through newness, or it was locked. He bet on the former, twisting it harder, and the hatch popped open. He hurled himself through the narrow gap, landing with a thump as the undercarriage clanked into position behind him. The gap between the leg and the ceiling of the wheel well was barely three inches.

The light level dropped sharply as the outer doors slammed, the engine noise falling to a dull roar. Chase took in his surroundings. He was inside a crawl space, less than four feet high and lit by small but intense LED clusters. More cables lined the walls, leading towards the center of the aircraft.

He closed the hatch and followed them, hunting for a way into the holds.

Nina heard someone banging at the door. She moved more quickly down the hold.

What was in the containers, she had no idea—only that none of them were connected to the plane’s hull. Holding the securing straps to keep upright as the A380 rose steeply into the sky, she headed for the back of the aircraft.

The banging on the door intensified. She didn’t have much time, and there were two more decks still to search…

Chase opened another hatch, emerging from the crawl space to find himself in the forward lower hold. The A380’s bottom deck was split in two by the undercarriage, and he’d chosen to head forward rather than aft with the thought that he might be able to reach the cockpit and threaten the pilots.

If the virus was in the aft hold, he was screwed …

The hold was full, no way for him to squeeze around the aluminum containers and barely a foot of clearance between them and the ceiling. He climbed onto the nearest one and crawled forward on his belly as fast as he could.

Kari squeezed through the door. She ducked beneath the strap tied to the handle, then surveyed the hold, catching a glimpse of movement at the far end.

She wiped blood off her bottom lip, staring at the crimson stain on her skin for a moment. “Oh Nina, I wish you hadn’t done that…”

Then she raised a gun and set off after her.

There was a door at the front of the hold. Chase opened it, finding a cargo lift just large enough to fit a catering cart, and next to it a ladder leading upwards.

He ascended the ladder. It emerged in a utility room, a cramped space lined with lockers. He glanced at the labels on them—emergency equipment of various kinds—then took out his Wildey and opened the door a crack to peer out.

Nobody was in sight. He was near the front of the plane. The room seemed to be some kind of crew area, a row of seats against the back wall next to an open door through which he could see the main hold. Another door led forward.

That had to be the cockpit.

Chase stepped out of the utility room, the Wildey at the ready. To his left was a flight of stairs leading up to the top deck; he looked up it, but no one was there.

What should he do? He needed to find Nina. But Frost said the virus would be released when the plane reached its cruising altitude, and with the A380 still in a steep climb, that wouldn’t take long.

Chase made his decision.

He marched to the cockpit door and flung it open. The copilot glanced around, obviously expecting to see one of the other crew members—then barked a warning in Norwegian to the pilot.

The pilot twisted in his seat, grabbing for something.

Chase saw the gun, and reacted exactly as training and experience had taught him. In the confines of the cockpit, the Wildey sounded like a cannon. The bullet blasted a hole right through the back of the pilot’s seat and the man himself to embed itself in one of the monitor screens. Blood splattered over the instruments.

The pilot slumped forward, dead, his hand dropping from the control stick. The plane rolled sharply to one side, throwing Chase against the cockpit wall. He regained his balance, looking up. Instead of trying to keep control, the copilot had gone for a gun of his own—

The Wildey boomed again.

The two security men heading down the main hold to cut Nina off heard the first shot—and the A380’s lurch instantly confirmed that something was seriously wrong. By the time the noise of the second shot reached them, they were already running back towards the cockpit.

Nina shrieked as she was pitched against one of the containers. She grabbed a strap for support and pulled herself back up.

She was certain she’d heard a gunshot just before the plane banked.

A very distinctive gunshot.

“Eddie …” she whispered, barely daring to believe the possibility. Had he somehow managed to get on board?

The plane shook again.

If he was aboard, then he was causing as much trouble as ever …

Chase struggled to squeeze between the seats of the two dead men. The A380’s ultramodern systems had replaced the traditional heavy yoke of an airliner with a small joystick. Which was less physical for the pilot—but also harder for Chase to reach. “What the hell did you have to do that for, you stupid twat?” he growled rhetorically at the pilot.