A bang as the anchor hit the hull, scraping along the metal before the slipstream flicked it away. Noret grimaced, but held his position. He glimpsed the other plane’s wing as it slipped sideways to bring the cable into line with the hatch, but his eyes were fixed upon the opening’s forward edge, waiting—
Another thunk — then the black strap flapped past. He snatched at it, but missed as the anchor rattled over the fuselage. He suppressed his panic and waited for it to reappear. Another frightening impact outside as the cable swung back — and this time he caught the strap. ‘I’ve got it, I’ve got it!’ he shouted into the headset. ‘Give me some slack!’
The Global 7000 descended slightly. The anchor slid over the hatch’s edge, and he yanked it into the cockpit.
‘I have it!’ he called. ‘Deploying now!’
The mechanism he had just received was spring-loaded, restrained in its folded configuration by a thick metal clip. He wrestled it into position, holding it against one corner of the open hatchway, then forced off the restraint. It expanded with considerable force, revealing that it was a hollow rectangular frame. It had been designed to fill the opening precisely, each corner wedging firmly in place. Noret pushed at it. The frame didn’t move. ‘It is secure!’
‘Roger, Papillon,’ said the man in the other jet. ‘Commencing transfer.’
Noret rushed back to the controls. Any actions needed now would be well beyond an autopilot’s capabilities. He looked up again — and felt another shot of fear. Knowing what was going to happen had not prepared him for the reality.
A black-clad man leaned out of the Global 7000’s open hatch. He wore a harness, which he clipped to the bucking steel line — then as Noret watched in amazement he rapidly lowered himself down the cable towards the 747, the hundred-knot wind tearing at his thick clothing. The dark figure grew larger and larger before disappearing above the windscreen. A moment later, thuds told the co-pilot that he had made contact with the hull.
He looked back at the hatch. The sunlight streaming in from outside was suddenly shadowed. Legs swung through the opening, the man smoothly dropping into the cockpit as if he carried out such stunts on a daily basis. The new arrival wore a breathing mask and tinted goggles, his features completely hidden. He detached himself from the cable and touched a microphone on his throat. ‘I’m in.’
‘Papillon, second transfer commencing,’ said the filtered voice in Noret’s headphones. A second figure climbed from the Bombardier. His descent and arrival in the cockpit was as rapid and assured as the first.
‘They are both here,’ Noret said, awed.
‘Copy, Papillon. Begin phase four.’
The Frenchman switched on the intercom to address the passengers and crew directly. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the co-pilot. We have suffered a structural failure that has caused the cabin to decompress. The aircraft is now at an altitude low enough for the air to be breathable, and we are changing course for the nearest airport…’
Garrison listened to the announcement, one hand holding his oxygen mask in place. His sidearm was in the other. The first thought of all three marshals had been that an attempt was being made to free Mukobo, Garrison covering their prisoner while his comrades fixed their weapons upon the staircase. But the only person who had climbed it was a stewardess, ordering the marshals to return to their seats before disappearing again.
Whatever the situation, it was deteriorating. The draught escaping around the cockpit door warned that the hull had been compromised. The co-pilot’s announcement of a structural failure seemed to rule out any connection to Mukobo — nobody trying to rescue him would risk not only the warlord’s life but their own by sabotaging the plane — but Garrison still wasn’t going to allow his charge to take advantage of it. ‘You just keep still now,’ he warned, pushing the gun’s muzzle against the shackled man’s side. ‘Only way you’re leaving this plane without me is through a hole in the hull.’
Mukobo, however, appeared genuinely surprised and afraid. Reassured, Garrison turned his attention back to the co-pilot’s message: ‘… are aware of the situation, and emergency services will be waiting when we land…’
The two black-clad men moved to the cockpit door as Noret continued speaking, one lifting his goggles to peer through the peephole. ‘Four men,’ he muttered. ‘Target is on our left, three rows back, window seat. One hostile next to him, aisle seat. Second hostile on our right, front row, aisle seat. Third hostile also on right, rear row, aisle seat.’
His comrade nodded. ‘You take the right. Ready weapons.’ Noret had been assured that their guns were non-lethal and incapable of penetrating the airliner’s fuselage.
Noret had been told a lie.
Both men carried Glock 17s, fat cylindrical suppressors attached. They stepped back from the door, the first man slowly reaching for its lock. ‘On three,’ said the other. A silent, perfectly synchronised countdown—
The bolt clacked back — and both men burst out into the upper cabin.
A screaming wind rushed through with them, startling the four men within. The marshals quickly reacted to the unexpected new threat… but not quickly enough.
The first attacker’s gun was already locked on to Szernow, sending two bullets slamming bloodily into the deputy’s chest before snapping up to do the same to Radley. The second man fired three shots at Garrison with similar lethal efficiency. The grizzled man slumped dead against his prisoner.
Mukobo stared in shock as the two men approached, one covering the stairs as the other dumped Garrison uncaringly on the floor and retrieved his keys. ‘Stand up,’ the intruder ordered.
The warlord hesitated, but a flick of the gun told him that he had no choice. The man unlocked his shackles, then produced another harness. ‘Put this on. Make sure it’s secure if you want to live.’
Mukobo did as he was told. The gunman gestured towards the cockpit. ‘In there. Move!’
Rescuer and prisoner scurried through the door, Mukobo recoiling from the blasting wind. Noret looked back. ‘How long before the marshals wake up?’
The black-clad man ignored him, going to the hatch and securing a clip on the African’s harness to the steel cable before repeating the action with one of his own. The second gunman backed into the cockpit, weapon raised to cover his retreat. Noret reacted with shock as he saw it was no Taser or dart gun. ‘Wait, you said there would be no killing!’
The figure turned towards him — and fired.
Two bullets hit the Frenchman’s head. A wet burst of blood and brain matter splattered the windscreen and instruments. The gunman closed and locked the cockpit door, then came to Noret’s position and shoved his corpse aside to deactivate the autopilot. The 747’s nose began to pitch downwards, slowly… but inexorably. He touched his throat mic. ‘Dragonfly, this is Sparrow. Prepare for extraction.’ He went to the hatch and attached himself to the line.
The first man climbed out into the gale. Mukobo, shivering in the wind, stared in disbelief. ‘What are you doing? We will be killed!’
‘Fold your arms and stay calm,’ said the remaining man. He looked up through the opening. The Global 7000 had moved directly above the 747’s nose. ‘Stand under the hatch.’
Mukobo’s eyes flicked to his gun, then he reluctantly obeyed. The man stood close beside him and peered upwards again. The other jet was now right overhead. ‘Dragonfly, extraction now.’