Then, all at once, gravity returned with a vengeance.
From the ceiling, Khoury crashed down like a brick to the metal floor. He heard snapping noises that could only be his bones shattering. He felt indescribable pain in his lower leg. Screams filled the air, cries of both desperation and agony. Khoury tried to move. He got one elbow to the deck and raised his head from the cold metal.
Then it all happened again.
Schmitt’s DC-3 was careening through the sky, oscillating and tumbling.
“What is happening?” asked a horrified Antonelli.
“Negative Gs, then positive. Schmitt is pushing and pulling from stop to stop on his control column. It’s a last ditch maneuver. He’s buckled into his seat, so he’ll stay put, but anybody who isn’t strapped down in that airplane is getting thrown around like beads in a maraca. I just hope that seventy-year-old airframe stays in one piece.”
They both watched Schmitt’s DC-3 swirl up and down through two more violent cycles, actually flipping inverted on the second. Then it seemed to settle, like a floating leaf that had cleared a section of rapids to end in a calm pool.
The two airplanes were only three miles apart now, nose to nose. Davis had to look out the right-hand window, past Antonelli, to still see Blackstar. The drone was getting smaller, a dot nearly lost in the dusty haze. Davis banked the airplane to change the relative geometry, and the closure to Schmitt’s airplane slowed. He picked up the microphone, and said, “Schmitt, are you there?”
There was no reply.
CHAPTER FORTY
Jibril opened his eyes, or rather tried to. Oddly, the world that spread before him put the word “entropy” in his mind. It was a term he had learned long ago in some undergraduate chemistry class. The measure of a state of disorder. That was what he was looking at — bodies strewn about the cabin amid wiring and paper and equipment. One of Khoury’s guards was nearby, his neck folded impossibly against a shoulder, blank eyes staring into space. Fadi Jibril had never seen death before, but he was seeing it now. Near the flight deck he saw three more bodies, two piled in a heap — the second guard on top of Rafiq Khoury, and Achmed crushed under a pile of equipment that had broken free. He could also see Schmitt at the controls, or at least his shoulder. His shirt was covered in blood, as was the hand Jibril could see on the control column. But the hand was steady.
Jibril performed a self-assessment. His head throbbed where he’d been struck with the butt of a gun, and his right shoulder felt like it was on fire. He saw blood on the console in front of him and, in a strangely detached thought, wondered if it was his. When Jibril tried to move, his right leg shot with pain. He called out to Schmitt, but the pilot didn’t seem to hear.
He reached down and unbuckled his lap belt, the thing that had saved him. Jibril tried to stand, but his right leg buckled immediately, and he tumbled to the steel deck. Grimacing, he pushed onto his side. Jibril looked up, and when he did, his eyes registered something different. It took a moment to realize what it was. Rafiq Khoury had moved. He was closer to Schmitt now.
Jibril tried to yell, tried to raise an alarm, but only managed a hoarse grunt. He began to crawl, watching in horror as Khoury, his body bloodied and distorted, lunged forward and attacked Schmitt. The two men grappled, falling sideways onto the instruments and levers between the cockpit seats. There was a tangle of bloody arms and whipping fists, howls of pain and rage. He watched the two men fall back into the cabin, leaving the craft to fly itself. The imam was utterly insane, Jibril thought, attacking the only person who could fly the airplane. Soon Khoury was on top with something big and heavy in his hand. He was hammering at Schmitt, striking again and again. The burly American tried to fend off the blows but was clearly weakening under the onslaught.
Jibril tried to crawl closer, but his shattered leg was useless. He spotted one of the guard’s weapons nearby, a machine pistol. Jibril had never used such a thing in his life, but he would learn right now. He stretched out and touched the barrel with his fingertips, dragged it closer until he had a good grip. He pointed the steel barrel at Rafiq Khoury and tried to pull the trigger. Nothing happened. The trigger seemed jammed.
More screams from the front, Khoury still pounding away.
Jibril brought the gun closer. Weapons had safety levers, and the engineer tried to deduce where it would be. He found it near the trigger, a tiny black lever. Jibril flicked it forward, pointed the barrel as best he could and fired. The weapon kicked in his hands, and a deafening noise reverberated through the cabin.
Khoury seemed to freeze, his arm poised overhead for a final strike. Schmitt managed to roll clear, and Jibril fired again, this time holding the trigger down. The gun kicked three more times, and he saw the imam shudder, saw his white robe blossom with splotches of red. Then, finally, he collapsed.
Schmitt pushed clear of Khoury’s body and rose unsteadily. There was agony in his battered face, but he caught Jibril’s eyes and the two exchanged a look. Schmitt gave a subtle nod before stumbling back to the flight deck.
Jibril tried to move again, but the pain in his leg was excruciating. He eased back and tried to take pressure off the limb. Resting on the cold steel deck, he closed his eyes. Jibril cursed inwardly. How could he have been so blind to the imam? He had only seen what he’d wanted to see. Heard what he’d wanted to hear. You will be to Sudan what A.Q. Khan was to Pakistan. The father of a nation’s technical might.
With his head vibrating against the steel floor, he let his mind drift. His free thoughts went, quite naturally, to his wife and unborn child. Precisely where they always should have been. Jibril hated how he had been used and manipulated. Hated the damage about to be wrought. So he began to pray. He begged forgiveness and threw himself openly onto whatever reckoning he deserved. The pleas were very different from those he had been issuing for the last six months. Indeed, they were the inverse. Fadi Jibril prayed that his diligent work would somehow fail.
“Schmitt, are you there?”
Davis had been calling frantically for the last three minutes, but gotten no answer. He looked outside and found a bare speck in the distance — Blackstar heading for its target. It was decision time. If he lost sight of the drone, got too far behind, he might never see it again.
“What is happening?” Antonelli asked, her eyes locked to the nearby DC-3.
“I don’t know,” Davis said.
Schmitt had clearly taken his advice and put the airplane through a series of violent maneuvers. Then the craft had settled to a more straight and level trajectory. But as Davis watched now, he had the distinct impression the airplane was unguided, meandering up and down, drifting through shallow turns. As if nobody at all was flying.
Finally, a shaky voice rumbled over the speaker. “Davis?”
It was Schmitt, but he sounded tentative and unsettled in a way Davis had never heard before.
“You okay?” he answered.
A long pause. “Yeah, we’re under control.”
“We?”
“The engineer and me. We’re the only ones left. He’s banged up, but alive. He’s on our side now.”
“So you’re secure?” Davis asked, wanting to be sure.
“Secure — sure. Khoury and his bunch are done. You had a good idea.”
“I never thought I’d hear that from you.”
“And you won’t ever again.”