She only wished she could have helped. On crawling through the cargo door she'd found a mountain of luggage, supplies, and equipment to overcome. The violent maneuvering of the airplane on the ground had sent her reeling twice, and she'd gotten to the bulkhead just in time to see her partner thrown against the wall. Her heart skipped as he lay motionless, but then she saw Alex drag him forward and bind his hands and legs. Thatcher was still alive.
Lydia watched Alex as he moved up front and took the copilot's seat. He was addressing the pilot — not conversationally, but with intimidation. Alex was giving instructions. The pilot, a Russian she imagined, was not necessarily on Alex's side. Given the carnage that had already taken place, he was probably just out to save his own skin.
Lydia had heard Alex's first demand — Keep it headed west! As the airplane droned onward, she knew time was not on her side. Lydia turned and quietly rummaged through the luggage and equipment, looking for something to help her against Alex. The labels were in Cyrillic, but most was obvious enough — spare tires, tools, cans of grease and oil. Nothing that would give her a chance. She went back to her vantage point and her heart soared. Thatcher was stirring against his restraints.
The wind rushed across the still open entry door nearby. Lydia imagined pushing Alex out — was she cold enough to do it if the chance came? Had she become like him? Lydia did not have the answer to either question. She desperately scanned the forward part of the airplane. If nothing else, the noise from the open door would mask any sounds.
Think dammit! Think like Alex! And then Lydia's eyes locked onto something — it was just to her right, against the bulkhead. The weapon she needed.
Braun saw nothing but blue water in every direction. He had no desire to battle the ocean again. Keeping an eye on the pilot, he was encouraged that he knew enough about flying to keep the man honest. They had sufficient fuel to make the Philippines. There, Braun would force a landing at an obscure field, a road if necessary. And then he would take Heinrichs treasure and disappear.
Looking back, he saw Thatcher stir. The Englishman's eyes opened, and he groaned. Then his hands began to twist, testing the bindings. Braun had done his best with what was available, but the man might eventually worm his way free — he was nothing if not persistent. Braun walked back and bent down to face Thatcher.
"So, Major, you are back with us?"
The reply was defiant. "I hope I look better than you."
Braun grinned and touched the goose egg that had erupted just above his scar. His face would also be smeared in blood. "Yes, my friend, you put up a good fight. But you have lost."
"I'm behind at the moment." Thatcher was able to lock eyes with the pilot.
"No, Major, our Russian friend will not help you. He knows what is best for him." Braun's tone grew lighter, "You know, I have wondered for some time — how did you track me to Newport?"
Thatcher hesitated before explaining. "Back in England I interrogated a young corporal, Hans Gruber's secretary."
Braun strained to remember. "Yes … yes. I do remember him. He gave you my name?"
"That and a few other things. He was destroying some of Gruber's files, but he looked them over first."
Braun nodded vigorously. "Yes. That makes sense."
"So now you tell me," Thatcher said, "what are you going to do?"
Braun gestured to the suitcase in back. UI still hold the secrets of the world's greatest weapon. I have seen this thing, Major. I was a witness to the test. Someone will pay a great deal of money for the information."
"Money? Is that what Newport was about? You never really cared about Lydia, did you?"
Braun grasped at the question, but it was like trying to catch a thrown dagger. "No," he blurted, "of course not. Though we might have ended up together had it not been for your interruption." This idea surged in Brauns mind — the man before him had ruined everything. "I am growing weary, Major," he spat. Braun grabbed Thatcher roughly by the collar. "Who else is after me at this moment? And what do they know? If you do not answer these questions right now—" Braun stopped in mid-sentence and tensed. Something was wrong. He saw it in Thatcher's eyes. He followed the Englishman's gaze and looked over his own shoulder. There, standing by the open door, was Lydia. In her hand was Karl Heinrich's suitcase.
"Stay where you are, Alex!" Lydia shouted to be heard over the noise, but also to take command. Even she was surprised by the confidence that radiated in her voice.
Alex said nothing. He stood tall and simply stared. Lydia tried to read the expression on his face. He had to be surprised, but there was something else. Something she didn't recognize. "If you come any closer, Alex, I'll throw it out the door!" To emphasize the point, she undid the latches on the heavy case. It cracked open slightly, and the edges of a few papers eked out to flutter sharply in the turbulent air. "Untie Michael," she demanded.
Alex finally spoke. "Lydia. What in God's name are you doing here?" He began to move closer.
"Stay where you are!" she shouted.
He seemed not to hear. His eyes were locked to hers, not even seeming to register the suitcase she had thought would command his attention. What is he thinking? She cracked the case further, and a handful of pages fluttered out and were swept away in the windstream. Alex stopped a few feet away.
I'll do it, Alex! You know I will!"
He lunged and grabbed for her arm. Lydia was ready. She swung the case outside and it snapped open. Stacks of paper flew out, a flurry of white swirling behind into the empty sky. Alex was on her. In the struggle Lydia lost her grip on the handle, and the suitcase was gone. They fell to the floor in a tangle, Lydia slipping toward the door.
"No!" he screamed.
Just like on the train, Lydia thought she would fall. But this time Alex had her. He pulled her back inside. With a fierce grip on her shoulders, he brought her away from the door. Alexs grip loosened, but he kept holding on, locking her at arm's length. Lydia braced for a strike, the back of a hand across her face. She expected anger, but what she saw instead was carved into his every feature. Confusion. The mercurial, indomitable Alexander Braun seemed utterly bewildered.
"Do you know what you just cost me?" he said.
Lydia was defiant. "And how can you say that to me?"
They stared at one another for a long moment. Then an engine sputtered.
The pilot spewed a stream of harsh Russian that could only be expletives. The starboard engine coughed again, then shuddered to a stop with a sickening vibration. The Ilyushin lurched to one side as the pilot slapped at levers up front. The port engine went to full power.
"Fuel!" the pilot yelled.
They all looked out at the affected engine. Liquid was streaming out from a pair of jagged holes in the metal cowling.
Thatcher said, "The MP's were shooting at us — they must have nicked a fuel line! Can you do anything?" he shouted to the pilot.
The Russian shook his head violently. "We fly on one engine, but not far!" He pointed behind as the aircraft began a turn. "We must to go back — Guam! This is only way!"
The port engine screamed at full power. Alex broke away from Lydia. He went up front and looked at the gauges, trying to make sense of it.
"We can t go back! Head somewhere else!" he ordered the pilot.
The man ignored him. "I am pilot. There is no choice. Forty minutes, and we are back in Guam. Either that, or —" he pointed down to the indigo blue Pacific.
Chapter 44
The stricken Ilyushin was level at three thousand feet. It was the best she could manage on one engine, but they'd made it halfway.