SEAL Team Six Hunt the Scorpion(76)

The cargo bay was still open. Crocker inched closer along the side of the hangar to get a better view. Saw the forklift parked behind hangar 4. Two men wearing mustard-colored overalls stood beside it. They opened a door to the hangar and entered.

The tail engine of the 727 started up with a howl; then the two Pratt & Whitney side-mounted turbofan engines fired up together.

Crocker took a deep breath. The coast is clear. It’s now or never.

He ran in a low crouch to the cargo door of the jet, grabbed hold of the metal lip, and pulled himself up. He flattened himself to the inside of the fuselage and waited, heard nothing but the engines. Light spilled from the cockpit door. Farther back, past his right shoulder, he saw six large metal shipping containers, three along each side of the fuselage. About twenty feet behind them stood a row of seats and beyond them, empty space.

With his back pressed against the side of the plane, he inched his way to the containers, hoping he might be able to learn what was inside them.

At the sound of footsteps he held his breath and ducked behind one of the containers, squeezing into the space between it and the fuselage wall and checking to make sure his phone was set on Vibrate.

Someone up front pulled the cargo bay door shut, and then the overhead lights came on.

He heard more footsteps, boots against metal. Caught a glimpse of men in mustard-colored overalls approaching. They pushed on the container next to him, strapped it against the fuselage, and locked it onto a hook in the floor.

Crocker was trapped behind the adjacent one with no place to go. He heard one of the men say something. They pulled the container away, then slammed it hard, throwing Crocker back so that the side of his head slammed into the metal fuselage. He passed out.

A minute later he came to, lying on his side and jammed into the little space between the middle container and the fuselage wall. His left wrist was pinned. The pain was as terrible as the scream from the engine.

The plane moved quickly, took off, gained altitude, and banked sharply left, causing the container to shift and rip deeper into his skin.

What the fuck have I done?

He willed himself not to lose consciousness again, focusing on the dull roar of the engine, trying to block out the pain.

The big plane banked right, causing the container to shift a fraction of an inch, just enough that when he pulled with all his might, his wrist ripped free, leaving skin and blood behind. He was sure that bones had been broken but couldn’t do anything about that. He could only wrap the wrist in a handkerchief to stem the bleeding.

Slowly and with difficulty he squeezed around the corner of the container and looked toward the back of the plane, where he saw two men in the row of seats. One was reading, the other had his head back and his eyes closed.

This is idiotic, he said to himself. I’m trapped and I’m headed away from Holly. How am I going to help her now?

His left wrist was a mess, the back of his head hurt, he had no weapons, and when he checked his cell phone he saw that it was out of juice.

What he didn’t want was to land in Iran, be arrested, be subjected to some kind of public trial, then tortured and hanged.

So he squeezed to the front of the first container and planned his next move.

This was judgment day. Condition red.

Removing the web belt from his pants, he waited until both men in the row of seats had closed their eyes, then made his move, flattening himself against the front of the container to his right and sliding around it to the other side. He hugged the side of the fuselage and stepped sideways to the cockpit.

The door was ajar.

He saw the pilot slouched in his seat, headphones on, yawning. The copilot to his right had his stockinged feet on the console and was reading a magazine. The third man, the flight engineer, was seated inside the door with his eyes closed.

Crocker inhaled several times quickly, enriching his blood with oxygen. Then he bolted inside, grabbed the flight engineer’s head in his right hand, and smashed it against the metal cockpit panel—one, two, three times.

All the frustration that had been bottled up inside him rushed out.

The copilot reached for something in the console beside his seat. Crocker let go of the flight engineer’s head, reached over the seat, and wrapped his belt around the copilot’s neck. Pulled him straight up out of the seat. Watched him kick, flail his arms, try desperately to reach around and grab Crocker.

Meanwhile, the pilot was screaming in Farsi and swinging something that looked like a thermos with a strap around it that hit Crocker in the back of the head, stunning him for a second. He stepped out of the way and twisted the belt tighter around the copilot’s neck until he felt his body spasm, then relax.

Crocker felt blood from a head wound dripping down his back. He saw the pilot reach over the copilot’s body and grab a pistol—a black automatic—stuck in the seat. He cracked him hard on the side of his head with his left elbow, then grabbed the hand with the gun. As he tried to wrestle the pistol away a shot discharged, smashing into the instrument console and careening into the floor.