Tier One Wild (3 page)

*   *   *

Inside the cockpit the two-man American flight crew had no idea that four Delta Force commandos were crawling toward the cockpit along the aircraft’s fuselage. Both the pilot and copilot sat strapped to their seats with their headsets on, and they concentrated on the rushed takeoff sequence, manipulating the appropriate buttons.

The leader of the terrorists, the jittery man-child with the bulletproof vest who called himself Jellock, leaned into the cockpit. “One minute we are in air or boy die!”

The copilot held out a placating hand to the armed gunman, then turned to the captain. “We ready to go?”

“I have no idea,” the pilot replied as he turned to the runway in front of him. “But we’re outta here before they shoot that kid.”

He reached for the throttle, and the copilot did the same.

TWO

The four operators moved forward in single file on top of the plane. Only two handholds jutted from the plane’s surface, and with a single gloved hand each, Slapshot and Kolt tested every bit of tensile strength of an antenna blade the shape of a shark’s fin while Digger held on to a strange-looking nozzle protruding up about five inches and set back seven feet from the escape hatch. The other hand was locked in a death grip around Stitch’s right ankle.

Slapshot reached out to grab Digger’s right ankle, but he stopped himself from doing so and instead reached over and latched on to Digger’s left leg.

Stitch, at the head of the line, could feel the vicelike grip around his ankle as one of his mates held on tight. He assumed the others were doing the same to the men in front of them.

Without warning, the heavy whine of the engines behind them grew to a roar, and the aircraft moved forward with a jolt that made all four men press their gloved hands tight against the roof for purchase.

“She is taking off!” Stitch tried to yell it above the engine noise, but none of his mates heard him. At first the four operators struggled to stay glued to the aircraft body as the 767’s thrust increased and it rolled forward into the darkness down the runway. But quickly they began crawling forward again, as fast as they could on the slick surface.

Because the plane had been refueled earlier at the terrorists’ demands, Raynor and his men knew the takeoff speed for the heavy plane would be somewhere in the neighborhood of 180 knots. It was already at 10 knots, and Raynor couldn’t key his radio mic for fear of falling off the aircraft. He yelled to Stitch in the front of the short line of operators. “Breach it!”

Now the entire team’s survival depended on Stitch. He had less than forty seconds to get the job done, or he and his fellow operators would find themselves flying on the outside of the plane until they were whipped off to their deaths by the incredible wind.

All 767 jets are equipped with an emergency escape hatch above the cockpit. Formally referenced in the technical maintenance manuals as the Crew Compartment Overhead Hatch, the little door in the roof provides an emergency egress pathway for the plane’s crew. It is not considered an entrance point and was never intended to provide access to anyone on the outside of the aircraft.

But Delta did not care what the aircraft designer’s
intentions
were.
Their
intentions were what mattered now.

As the jet reached twenty knots’ ground speed, Stitch leaned on his left side and reached into his chest rig to draw the harpoon device. He pulled it free, pressed the activation button with his right thumb, and lined it up two feet away at the center mass of the escape hatch. Given the distance, he couldn’t miss.

Developed by a shrewd Delta assaulter, the harpoon was a simple CO
2
cartridge and a hollow tube the size of a large pickle that provided a quick and dirty way to depressurize an aircraft before an explosive breach through the side doors. Its capability was crucial in the event that the hijackers had booby-trapped all the plane’s doors before the assault force arrived on the scene.

This time, though, the assault force consisted of just four men and there would be no explosive breaching of the side doors. Moreover, as cunning and conniving as Delta operators are, no one had ever envisioned harpooning the escape hatch after takeoff thrust had been applied and the plane sped down the runway toward liftoff.

Aircraft, as a general rule, do not take off after an assault has begun.

As the ground speed of the 767 passed sixty knots, Stitch pulled the trigger and the harpoon pierced the shiny metal as advertised, immediately initiating a slow depressurization of the cabin below. Stitch then tossed the firing mechanism over the edge of the speeding aircraft to get it out of the way.

*   *   *

With his left hand on the throttle, the copilot heard a loud noise through his headset, and saw the sharp black edge of a large dart protruding through the middle of the escape hatch, above and centered just behind the pilot and copilot. “What the…”

He snapped out of his momentary paralysis as the lead terrorist burst back into the cockpit.

Behind the menacing Skorpion machine pistol, the man’s dark curly hair and deep brown skin tone stood in sharp contrast to his loose white shirt buttoned over his body armor.

“V one,” the pilot said calmly, announcing that they had reached the speed at which they would need to continue to take off, even if there was an engine failure. The pilot ignored everything around him and concentrated on the runway ahead.

The terrorist who called himself Jellock said, “What was that noise?” The copilot did not answer. Another thud on the roof diverted the terrorist’s eyes up to the escape hatch.

*   *   *

On the roof of the speeding jet, Stitch’s job was only half finished. He needed to get the hatch open. With the plane now at a ground speed of ninety knots, he frantically dug into his chest rig and pulled out a six-inch explosive charge from a pouch. He peeled away the thin film covering the sticky tape with his teeth, and he slapped it on the hatch-locking mechanism. Quickly he turned his head away and detonated the charge.

Boom!

*   *   *

The explosion punctured the escape hatch and filled the cockpit with a misty gray haze. Jellock had been staring right at the hatch, so he was temporarily blinded by the flash. He screamed and raised his weapon with one hand and fired blindly into the cockpit while rubbing his eyes with his other hand. One of his rounds found a home in the left shoulder of the pilot, who spun in his seat, but remained upright in his safety harness.

Jellock raised his Skorpion toward the roof now and let loose another burst. The rounds ripped through the padded insulation and punctured the thin metal skin of the aircraft. Unsure of what was coming next and opting for the protection of his comrades, the Pakistani turned and fled the cockpit.

*   *   *

Stitch felt a sting in his left hand as he gripped the hatch edge and pulled himself forward. An incredible burning in his pinkie finger that felt as if the hatch had been slammed shut on it. But he remained in control of his entire team’s destiny, so he ignored the pain and struggled against the wind resistance and the forward thrust of the aircraft as he felt the jet’s nose attitude increase at one hundred knots.

Without taking time to look inside, he reached through the opening and tossed a nine-banger behind the crew seats. Almost instantly a succession of nine bright and deafening explosions rocked the cockpit.

Disorienting the flight crew during takeoff was an unfortunate but necessary component of breaching a cockpit held by terrorists. Stitch just had to hope like hell the men flying the plane could overcome the effects of the blast and get the jet in the air without veering off to the left or right or running out of runway.

Stitch pulled himself face-first into the small hole right behind the last of the explosions, completely unaware that a .32-caliber round from the terrorist’s gun had severed his pinkie finger.

He tumbled six feet to the floor, landed half on the copilot and half on the main console. It hurt like hell, but he was relieved to be inside.

The wounded and disoriented pilot had handed off responsibilities to his copilot, and somehow the copilot managed to remain composed. He kept the aircraft straight on the runway, even though the flash-bang had all but blinded him. He had to get his ship airborne; there was no way he could back off the throttle and reject the takeoff at this point, there was not enough runway to prevent the fuel-laden craft from exploding in a fireball at the far edge of the airport grounds.

He guided his huge 767 into the air with steady hands that belied the chaos going on around him.

Scrambling to follow Stitch into the aircraft, Digger slid in headfirst with the same bit of pathetic acrobatics of his teammate.

Slapshot tumbled in behind them.

Digger and Stitch didn’t wait around to be introduced to the pilots. The two operators gained their footing and exited the crew compartment door to begin clearing the aircraft, with their weapons out in front of them. The steep angle of the takeoff roll required them to move through the cabin as if they were running down a hill. Slapshot stayed where he was and reached up to help Kolt into the plane.

The aircraft’s rear wheels left the runway and it rose at a ten-degree pitch and 190 knots. Kolt held on to the edge of the hatch for dear life, now pulling with all his might against the roaring air current. He pulled himself forward and in through the hatch, but as he did this, the jagged aircraft skin caught the cord running from his Peltor ear protection to his radio, yanking his earpro as well as his helmet off as he dropped to the floor. Kolt’s goggles were attached to the helmet so he found himself without eye protection, either.

Raynor landed to the rear of the center console next to Slapshot, vaulted to his feet, and then leaned back down between the flight crew. He yelled to be heard over the roar of wind and engine noise from the hatch above.

“Lock the door behind us! Fly a runway heading! No banking! Level off as fast as you can!”

Even though the nine-banger’s effects made hearing the black-clad commando nearly impossible, the American Airlines crew got the idea.

*   *   *

Kolt Raynor brought his Glock up as he raced out the cockpit doorway behind Slapshot. The pilot, though injured with a small ragged hole in his shoulder, unbuckled his harness, stood, then closed and locked the door. He then did his best to jam the escape hatch above back into place before reaching for the first-aid kit.

*   *   *

The four Delta men had studied the aircraft in great detail while en route from Fort Bragg, memorizing every inch and every feature. This wide-body 767-400 had two aisles in first class with a single row of large seats running down the center. The rows then continued past the forward galley, all the way back through the first coach cabin, to a central exit alley with lavatories. The two aisles then continued on through the rear coach cabin to the galley and lavs at the rear of the plane. Digger and Stitch raced down the right aisle of first class, clearing it as they ran forward. Kolt and Slapshot followed just behind and on the left side. The four assaulters passed the several dead bodies stowed in first class, then rushed through the forward lavatories and galley, and continued down the steep aisles on both sides of coach.

By the time Kolt made it into the coach cabin, terror had struck the passengers like a tidal wave. Wild animal-like screams and shrieks pierced his ears. The Delta operators knew all about panic and what to expect from innocent civilians on board a hijacked aircraft. The civilians, though terrorized and frantic, retained enough survival instincts to keep their heads down during the interdiction. Raynor and his boys knew that anyone brave enough to look up over the seat, for the first couple of seconds anyway, was very likely one of the bad guys.

All four Americans promoted the natural tendency of the innocents to stay out of the line of fire with angry shouts: “Get down! Get down! Get down!”

Slapshot sprinted down the left aisle in the forward coach cabin. He noticed a dark brown hand with a black machine pistol just above a headrest and took aim. He raised his HK rifle to eye level, placed the red dot of his optics an inch above the headrest, slipped his finger into the trigger guard and onto the taut trigger, and dropped the hammer twice on two subsonic 5.56 rounds. It was all muscle memory and he completed the action in under two seconds. Both hot copper bullets tore through the headrest just low of his aiming point, and entered the armed man’s chest. The pistol fell to the cabin floor next to the Pakistani’s body.

“One crow down,” Slapshot said into his mic.

Delta kept moving.

Stitch had, unquestionably, the worst job of the team. He was the “runner.” Armed only with a pistol in his right hand and a second pistol strapped to his chest, he raced down the right aisle, scanning intently, trying to separate normal sights from threat indicators. But his job as the runner was not to engage all the bad guys himself. No, his rush aft was designed to draw out the enemy. The three Delta men behind him knew to scan ahead to ID terrorists gunning for Stitch, the man spearheading their assault.

By now Stitch knew he’d lost a finger to enemy fire; his bloody left hand stung even through the painkilling effects of his adrenaline, but the appendage continued to function, so he ignored the pain and continued.

Suddenly his forward momentum stopped as he ran smack-dab into a punishing burst of .32-caliber rounds.

He hadn’t even seen the shooter.

The bullets slammed squarely into the center of his chest plate armor. The impact stood him straight up and locked his knees momentarily before his instincts forced him to the deck.

The shooter then stood up, clearly thinking he would get a better angle on the American commando. Digger, in overwatch of Stitch’s movement, placed his rifle’s sights above the terrorist’s red headband and squeezed off two rapid rounds. Both found their mark, and they blew blood and brain and bone straight up and onto the overhead compartment. The enemy dropped back into his seat like a bag of wet cement as those around him screamed.