The hand of death left his shoulder.
Jibril decided that identifying the target was not important. All that mattered was the evil around him. Deftly, he brushed a finger on the caps lock key and began typing the sequence. The coordinate field on the screen became populated with an indecipherable mash of symbols.
“What are you doing?” Khoury objected.
“I don’t know what is wrong, sheik. The—”
Two arms wrapped around Jibril’s chest, restraining him like a straightjacket. Khoury leaned in and entered the final coordinates, just as Jibril had taught him. The same scramble of symbols.
“What have you done?” Khoury hissed.
Fixed to his chair, Jibril watched as the imam figured out the problem. He released the caps lock key, and his second attempt succeeded. The message FINAL POSITION UPDATE CONFIRMED flashed for three seconds, followed by a lone word in surreal green letters at the center of the screen. AUTONOMOUS. In a matter of minutes, Blackstar would turn north on its final course, guided in the terminal phase by onboard systems that would hold to an accuracy of less than ten meters. Precise enough, Jibril supposed, for whatever Khoury had in mind. Worst of all, there was no way to change the command or abort. Blackstar was now irretrievable.
Jibril began to struggle against the arms that anchored him to his chair. Struggled until something blunt crashed into his head. Dazed, Jibril went limp and felt warmth oozing down one cheek.
Khoury leaned forward to be in his field of vision. “In the end you have failed me, Fadi. Fortunately, your American conscience is too late.”
“My … my what?”
Khoury started to speak again, but was interrupted by shouts from the cockpit. The words were indistinguishable to Jibril — his headset still covered one ear, and the other was ringing from the blow he’d taken. But his eyes were sharp enough. He saw Achmed coming aft again. He began jabbering to Khoury, gesticulating wildly. Only when he got closer did the words register for Jibril.
“Again he sends me here!” Achmed complained. “There is nothing wrong, I tell you. He is a madman!”
Khoury stared at the cockpit, suspicion in his mismatched gaze. He murmured into Achmed’s ear.
From the headset, Jibril heard the woman’s voice crackle across the airwaves again. It was maddening. If he spoke only once again in his life, it would be to warn whoever it was, hope that they could forestall the terror about to rain. But Jibril had no voice. The only way to transmit was to use the microphones in the cockpit.
Moments later, his headset buzzed as someone did exactly that.
Davis heard Schmitt growl over the radio, “Who the hell is this?”
He took the microphone from Antonelli. “Say position!”
After modest pause, Schmitt said, “We’re thirty south of Giza, near our IP.”
IP was the military abbreviation for “initial point,” the spot you used as a beginning reference for a final attack run. Davis checked his instruments and estimated that Schmitt was twenty miles ahead.
Schmitt again. “Jammer, I don’t have much time. Khoury and Achmed are getting suspicious. Can somebody tell me what the hell this is all about?”
“Yeah, I’ll tell you,” Davis said. “That drone you’re controlling is about to obliterate the Arab League conference in Giza.”
Another pause, this one much longer. Davis imagined Schmitt deciphering the ramifications of that. He wasn’t stupid — just self-centered. He’d been concentrating on a nice payday, and probably assuming that anything involving Rafiq Khoury and Fly by Night Aviation had to be minor league. Now he was thinking differently, understanding the damage about to be done.
“So what can we do?” Schmitt finally replied.
Davis had no answer. He’d come this far just to establish contact, but now what? If he were sitting in the cockpit next to Schmitt, they could put aside their miserable past and come up with a plan. Davis could swing a fist or a crash ax while Schmitt flew. From where he was, Davis was helpless.
“How much time is left?” he asked. “Do you have any idea when this strike is going to happen?”
Schmitt said, “I can see the drone now. It’s in a holding pattern a thousand feet below me.”
“Okay, so it hasn’t launched yet. If there’s enough time we could—”
“Ten o’clock!” Antonelli shouted from across the cockpit.
The way she blurted it out, Davis’ first instinct was to turn his head sixty degrees to the left — the ten o’clock position to any pilot — and look for an incoming missile. Then he put it in her layman’s terms, lowered the microphone, and looked at her. “Ten o’clock?” he repeated.
“That’s when it will happen.”
“How the hell could you know that?” Davis asked.
“It has been in the news for weeks. The Arab League conference begins at ten o’clock. All the heads of state will be gathered.”
Davis wasn’t wearing a watch, so he cross-checked the clock on the old airplane. Twenty-three minutes. He fumbled over the chart he’d been working with and estimated the position of Blackstar relative to Giza. Twenty minutes was just about right — if Blackstar left right now.
He keyed the microphone. “Schmitt, I think the drone is going to depart the IP any minute. We’ve got to do something now. What if you powered down all the electrical busses on your airplane? Could that interrupt the control? Maybe screw something up?”
“I could try, but it wouldn’t work for long. I’ve got two of Khoury’s goons over my right shoulder. They have guns and aren’t going to let — hang on, Jammer. I’m watching the drone right now, and it just took a turn to the north. Maybe if I — crap!”
Schmitt’s microphone went hot again, and Davis heard shouting. Schmitt was clearly struggling. More shouts in Arabic, loud and clear. Close to the microphone. Close to Bob Schmitt. He was under attack. The transmission cut off.
Davis tried to imagine what he would do in that situation. Outnumbered, outgunned. Only one idea came to mind.
“Defensive maneuvering! Push over, negative Gs! You’re strapped in but they’re not! Do it now!” Davis hoped Schmitt could still hear the radio. He repeated it all, then kept repeating it because that was all he could do. Davis saw a tiny dot ahead and thought it might be Schmitt’s DC-3, but soon he realized it was the other aircraft — the ominous arrowhead that was Blackstar. It was heading north, just like Schmitt had said, so the DC-3 had to be to its left. Davis scanned, and did see a second dot, perhaps ten miles ahead. He watched closely, and for the first few seconds the airplane was cruising straight and true.
Then it looked like a roller coaster in a typhoon.
Rafiq Khoury had been keeping an eye on the stunned engineer while his men — Achmed and the two guards — dealt with Schmitt. Khoury was a satisfied man. His work was done, and all that remained was to rendezvous at the abandoned airstrip with General Ali’s helicopter — or rather, President Ali’s helicopter. There, they would kill Jibril and the Americans, and as a final touch make this aircraft their funeral pyre. He wondered briefly if the general had captured the last American, Davis. Khoury decided it didn’t matter. They had succeeded in every way. Khoury was staring at Jibril’s computer screen, idly imagining the possibilities his new life would present, when he suddenly began to fly.
He rose effortlessly into the air, as if the world around him was tumbling. There was no up or down, only spinning references and objects soaring past like gravity had taken leave. He hit the ceiling hard, and his eyes shut reflexively. When he opened them again, Khoury saw madness. Bodies and crates and equipment, hanging suspended like so many flakes in a snow globe.