It was a straight, unobstructed shot down each aisle. The plan was to fire two flash-bang grenades into the forward cabin, where the stairs led to the upper deck. These would disable any bad guys there and, unfortunately, any hostages. They had fired several inert practice rounds in the 747 back at Pope, trying mainly to get the trajectory right. Grenade launchers were ballistic weapons, much like mortars. The projectiles—40mm grenades in this case — when fired arched through the air to their target. This necessitated a certain amount of vertical space to allow for the distance to the nose of the aircraft. It was close, as they had found in practice.
The initial pop! of the firing was followed by a whoosh as the bullet-shaped projectiles shot toward the front. Seven meters from the muzzle the false nose cones of each broke away, leaving a barrel-like object not much bigger than a plastic film can. They began to tumble just past apogee, three inches from the interior ceiling.
Both of the grenades hit and detonated within a split second of each other. The forward section first filled with a blinding light that seemed strangely long in duration to those who could see. Abu and Abdul were not among them.
The initial flash blinded both of the terrorists. Four other multiple flashes, each thousands of times more powerful than the brightest camera strobe, followed within a hundredth of a second. None were seen by those they were intended for, though two passengers on the left side also felt the effect.
Abu was closest to one of the explosives. After the magnesium flashes had finished, eight small military firecrackers burst outward from the casing. Three went straight up and fired four feet off the floor, just a foot from Abu’s left ear. The immediate effect was a thunderous cracking in the range of 180 decibels. As the sound reached his eardrums they ruptured fully, unable to absorb the audible punishment. He recoiled against the bulkhead, his hands pressing hard against his ears, elbows out, and the Uzi lying uselessly at his feet. Miraculously he hadn’t fallen, and just rolled back and forth against the partition.
Abdul was luckier in that none of the noisemakers had fired so close to his ears. He was, however, thrown to the floor, partly by reflex and partly from exaggerated force of the blasts.
The flash-bangs had done their job.
The explosions in rapid succession almost beneath him sent Hadad’s eyes wide.
Both pilots went silent as their heads swung instantly back to the hijacker. He appeared to be confused. His eyes darted back and forth in his downcast face. Then, with a jerk, his head came up and his eyes locked on the captain’s. Hendrickson thought he saw a slight shake of the terrorist’s head, but maybe not. Was he truly surprised?
“No.” It was said firmly, yet without much emotion. Hadad brought the gun up, training back and forth between the pilots. His free hand felt for the door behind as his feet inched backward. “I will still win.”
McAffee and Graber were through the left-side hole before the last pop of the flash-bangs. Buxton and Jones were the first through the right side. Both pairs ran forward at a dead run.
There was little residual smoke from the blasts. Graber was in the lead, his SIG held two-handed and pointed forward. His eyes were already searching for targets past the tritium post sights as they entered the forward cabin. There was no hesitation.
McAffee heard the shots first, to his right. Buxton and Jones were firing. Both were. The four shots were in too rapid a succession to be from a single weapon. Graber was three feet ahead and turning to the right. The major turned, too. There was a bad guy down in front of Buxton, and…
Graber fired almost straight back at the major, but to his right. Three quick shots, and the gun came at McAffee, following the body down to the floor. The head brushed Blackjack’s leg as it hit.
Shit. McAffee only had time for a split-second look, but it said all that was needed to the captain. Thanks for my ass.
There were two down. The other two had to be upstairs, and there was no room for hesitation. McAffee and Graber moved toward the straight stairs that went aft and up, unlike the spiral staircase on older 747s. They got within two feet when several bullets stitched down the risers from above. The major fell left out of the way. Then there was the scream in combination with the bullets. It was actually more of a wail, and it got louder. Then everything came toward them.
Neither had to say anything. Both of the senior Delta troopers leaned into the staircase — into the path of the bullets — and fired at the massive hulk of olive drab coming down at them. Two rounds connected, both in the head. The huge terrorist went instantly limp to his knees, and then hard down on his face. He was dead.
Let’s go! The words were internal. McAffee led off up the stairs. He stepped right on the body without a second thought.
Buzz knew he was just seconds away from death, but then he was a Marine, and that thought had never brought him fear. His legs moved automatically, and his left hand pushed off the armrest as he catapulted his body up and back. Two feet away was death. The murderer. Buzz’s right hand was outstretched, reaching for the Uzi as it came closer by inches and rotated toward him a bit faster.
Hadad pulled the trigger in three rapid taps. The co-pilot’s body went down, his legs stuck awkwardly between the seat and armrest. Six of the nine bullets connected, all in the dead man’s face, which no longer resembled anything human and, fortunately, lay against the dark carpet and out of view.
For a second Hadad froze. Then he felt the stare of another. The captain. His eyes were full of fire. Hadad could feel the hate, but there was no time to respond. He had to get to the vest. Of course, he could kill the pilot here and they would all die, but the devices would never be used. He might not get his chance to irradiate the American capital, but he could contaminate a hundred square miles of ocean.
Hendrickson had to fly. His anger, seething and ready to drive him to kill, would have to be checked. His friend was dead, though the body continued to spasm and gurgle about the head. He swallowed hard as the terrorist left the flight deck, then he turned back to the controls.
Jesus Christ…
McAffee, with Graber on his rear, reached the top as Hadad turned back from the cockpit door. There was no hesitation on the Delta major’s part, but he had to swing his body and weapon a hundred and eighty degrees as he cleared the railing. Hadad’s Uzi was already pointing in the right direction, but his reactions were slowed by fatigue and confusion. He moved to his left and brought the submachine gun up at the crouching and spinning black figure twenty feet away. The vest was eight feet from him, and he continued to move at it. His finger came down on the trigger at the same time McAffee’s did.
Blackjack was moving right, almost falling. Two rounds caught him square in the chest, and another two farther to the left, in the upper arm. The firestorm of pain was instant and intense, but he kept the SIG trained on his target with his right hand.
Hadad saw only a brilliant white-and-yellow flame, like a candle growing in intensity uncontrollably. There was also a sound of sorts, but he couldn’t tell what it was. Then he felt cold, and his body seemed to tumble in the air. Was he floating? He didn’t know. Everything was strange, and quiet, and then, very suddenly, the last of his consciousness faded away.
Graber, too, had fired. Twice to the major’s four. Two of McAffee’s shots had missed and were embedded in the seats to the right. He didn’t miss like—