CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
High above the fertile fields of northeastern France—altitude approximately 24, 223 feet—engines No. 1 and 2 suddenly quit and threatened to send the SOF C-141 Starlifter into a nosedive.
Only the quick thinking of the two British RAF pilots prevented the giant special-operations cargo plane from plunging to an unforgiving end. Warning alarms and Klaxons screamed through the cockpit. Every circuit board demanded attention. Lights flashed asynchronously as the shimmies nearly shook the crew to death. The pilot and copilot joined hands on the throttle in an effort to coax more power from the remaining pair of engines. The sheer weight of their cargo testified to the futility of the effort.
Welby Blythe, Group Captain, tuned his radio to the emergency band and issued a Mayday while his copilot, Flight Lieutenant Graham Little, made every effort to control their descent. The joint operations center at NATO’s Northern Command Office had accounted for the possibility of a single engine failure and taken precautions to ensure the plane could still make a “short” hop from Geneva, Switzerland, to Portsmouth. They had never even considered the disastrous consequences of a double-engine burnout.
Blythe received no response to his hails and gave up the radio for the moment. He tried to quell the shock and terror that rode through him with the same intensity and fearsomeness of his charge. Blythe had logged more successful missions than practically any other officer of his rank in the RAF, a record he’d remained quite proud of through his years as an airman. Now, however, it appeared the Devil had stacked the odds against him on this one. Blythe couldn’t recall having faced a grimmer situation in all his time behind the stick.
The captain clenched his teeth. “If we get her down in one piece, boys, it’ll only be a bloody damn miracle!”
A few alarms continued to chatter incessantly, although the first officer and two navigators had cleared most of them to reduce noise and confusion. After all, they knew they were losing altitude and didn’t really need the sensitive instruments to point out the fact.
Both the digital and mechanical altimeters continued to plummet in concert with their descent as the remaining pair of operable Pratt & Whitney turbofan engines groaned in protest. Blythe considered other options. He first thought about ordering the cargo haulers seated in back to dump as much of the payload as necessary to keep the craft airborne, but he knew the risk of such equipment falling into the hands of a potential enemy. Terrorists or other criminal elements might not realize the value of that cargo, but at minimum they could make use of the armament. He also recalled the accompanying detail of Special Air Service operatives assigned to protect that cargo at any cost. Their orders would include immediate termination of even a crazed, military pilot desperate to save his own ship.
With no other real options at their disposal, Blythe and Little continued to guide the C-141 toward its inevitable course.
That course eventually put the belly of the cargo plane just yards above a copse of trees. Blythe engaged the landing lights and then coordinated with his copilot to execute their landing. Above the strain of engines they could feel the vibrations of the nose landing gear as it rolled downward and locked into place. The basso thrumming of engines ceased in favor of the high-pitched whine when they opened the throttle to maximum to raise the nose, followed by immediate dissipation to stall speed. The belly just scraped the tree line but reached a point of long, open field beyond it.
The soft earth proved an almost demonic force, its spongy resilience pronouncing death on the landing gear supporting the heavy aircraft. The tail of the plane performed a violent sashay, uncontrollable from the cockpit with the nose gear still airborne. All four men leaned forward simultaneously in their seats, subconsciously hopeful the additional weight would bring the NLG in contact with the ground. When it finally touched earth, the vibrations became doubly vicious. Blythe felt as if his teeth might literally dislodge from his gums. A wash of mud, grass and weeds instantly coated the cockpit windows and all but eliminated visibility. The plane continued for about another 150 yards or so, then jolted the crew in their seats with a sickening crack to port that could only have been a tree taking out the wing. The sensation of centrifugal force took over as the plane began an almost lazy spin.
The torque nauseated Blythe, made him dizzy and threatened him with total blackout.
The landing ended suddenly with a bone-crushing stop as the aft section of the plane came into contact with something hard and unyielding. The impact slammed the flight crew against their harnesses and back into their seats. One of the navigators emitted a short yelp, and Blythe saw something sail past his shoulder and strike the main panel. The object performed a flip-flop dance down the front of the instrument panel with wet, smacking sounds, and in the half light of a gauge Blythe could see it was part of a human tongue.
For a minute or two Blythe didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to deal with the whimpers of a nearly tongue-less navigator, the hushed reassurances of the other men for his friend. Blythe looked slowly to his right and averted his eyes when he saw the gross dangle of Little’s head against a restraint. Blythe reached out slowly. Bile rose in his throat when he touched his fingers to the soft cleft of Little’s throat where it met with his jawline. No pulse.
Sanity took hold quickly then—almost as if Little’s demise had confirmed Blythe’s continued existence—and after a wiggle of fingers and toes to verify all his body parts were still attached, Blythe disengaged the restraint harness and squeezed out of his seat. He watched as the navigator held his injured comrade’s head against his shoulder. Blood ran freely from the other man’s mouth onto the sleeve of his friend, but the navigator didn’t seem to notice.
“Get the first-aid kit and see if you can stop that bleeding,” Blythe instructed. “I’m going to check on the hold.”
The navigator nodded. “Aye, sir. How is Little?”
“Dead,” Blythe reported plainly. He could see the pain in the navigator’s expression and softened the tone in his voice. “Friend?”
“School chum, sir.”
“I’m sorry.”
With that, Blythe continued to the rear hold before the navigator could see the tears well in his eyes. He had to use all his body weight to open the door enough that he could squeeze through it. Stacks of boxes, some of them containing survival gear, had dislodged from their bins and wedged open the door. Blythe managed to get to the hold.
At first glance in the damp, red-orange glow of emergency lights, he assessed the special titanium-alloy containers that contained
