He kept an eye on the altimeter. Thirty-three thousand feet became thirty thousand, and twenty-eight thousand. It wasn’t low enough. If the gun went off and drilled a hole in the fuselage, the sudden loss of pressure was still enough to crash the aircraft. Assuming the spin didn’t take care of that detail first.

  A blow landed on his head, and he released the controls, struggling to stay conscious. The yaw increased, and they spun faster. Another blow hit him on the head, but Ryder shouted, “I’ve got it,” and he focused back on the controls. A hard stamp on opposite rudder halted the spin before it gained even more momentum. For the first time, he felt he had a chance of correcting the mad plunge, until a body flew past him.

  The terrorist had taken a hard kick from Ryder that propelled him through the cockpit. He collided with the starboard flap lever, and it began to deploy. Designed for low speed, the Boeing was flying in excess of five hundred and fifty miles per hour. The combination of high speed with the unusual angle of the wing was devastating. The rumble of the flap deploying ceased as the huge chunk of metal tore away, leaving a wide gap in the trailing edge of the wing.

  Still, the Boeing 737 was a tough bird, and he corrected again to forestall a complete loss of control. They were still descending at maximum speed when the Arab managed to disentangle himself. He came at Nolan, the point of his dagger angled for a jab to the eyes. In desperation, he threw out a hand to block the blow, but Will was ahead of him. The fire extinguisher sailed through the air and collided with the man’s nose. He flinched, his face was streaming blood, but he wore the crazed stare of a man who has but one aim in his life, to kill infidels before he died. To satisfy the butcher he prayed to as he traveled to Paradise.

  Ryder appeared from nowhere, bringing his dagger down in a cruel, slashing blow. The blade sliced into the man’s face, and he sliced again, guiding it across the terrorist’s eyes. At the end of the blow, he reversed the angle and slashed back across the throat. The Arab’s eyes were wide as he started to die, examining Nolan’s face, as if analyzing the man who’d beaten him. He mouthed an unintelligible curse, a final breath whispered from his ruined throat.

  They weren’t out of trouble. The loss of the flap and the gaping hole in the wing profile was causing more problems. Nolan was a trained pilot, but he’d never checked out on the Boeing 737airliner. All he could do was fly by the seat of his pants, and hope for the best. The intricacies of fly-by-wire were a mystery to him. There was something else. Some of the aircraft’s systems had been destroyed by enemy action, and he didn’t know which. He heaved back the column, and it was sluggish to respond. The danger of depressurization had eased now the shooters were dead, but they had plenty of problems to grapple with, apart from the passengers who were screaming in terror.

  The descent was as steep as ever, and he worked to correct the dive, without success. The column didn’t respond, and the plane seemed to have acquired a life of its own after the damage to the airframe and controls. When he pulled back, the spin eased, but the fuselage shook like every nut, bolt, and rivet was about to vibrate loose. When he tried to use the control surfaces to change the attitude of the dive, the angle of descent became even more acute.

  He needed muscle. There were too many tasks, too many controls, levers, pedals, and switches to regain control of the stricken aircraft. “Will, take the co-pilot’s seat, now!”

  A second later Master Chief Petty Officer was wedging his big frame into the seat next to him, and he gripped the controls in his powerful hands. Bryce had also checked out on plenty of aircraft types, and he instinctively sensed what was needed. Nolan felt strong hands guiding the column, and he released it.

  “Keep it like that. I’ll use a combination of throttle and work on the ailerons and rudder.”

  “Copy that.”

  He noted Bryce’s voice was calm. They’d been in worse situations before, and they would be again. Routine SOP. Plunge them into the shit, and fight like crazy to get out. At least, that was the theory. Nolan juggled the pedals, used different combinations of power and aileron, and tried banking at a steep opposite angle to reduce the rate of dive.

  “Boss, try the spoiler on the opposite leading edge,” Will shouted over the noise, “They’re designed for ground maneuvers, but it could make a difference.”

  “They could tear the wing off when they deploy.”

  Will shrugged. “I guess we won’t be any worse off than we are now. Lieutenant, try to get us down in one piece, please. If I wind up in a hospital over Christmas, she’ll never forgive me. It’s the last chance saloon for my marriage, believe me, not getting home isn’t an option.”

  “I hear you. Hold tight.”

  He hit the button to deploy the leading edge starboard spoiler, and at first, the shuddering vibration increased. He watched the wing bend and could hardly believe it capable of reaching such an angle without snapping off. It didn’t snap off. For a short time, the vibrations increased and threatened to disintegrate the fuselage in mid–air. Both men held on using every ounce of their strength and skill. There was no place else to go. They waited. And waited. Until with almost imperceptible slowness, the violent shaking began to ease. It eased more, and with gradual adjustments to the controls, they brought the death plunge under control. The nose came up, and the aircraft was flying straight and level again. For the first time, Nolan hit the transmit button to call Air Traffic Control.

  “New York JFK, this is Alaska Air 737-800 inbound from Ankara, declaring an inflight emergency.”

  A voice came back to them, a bored air traffic controller, maybe about to finish his shift. No doubt assuming they had a pregnant woman about to give birth, or a suspected heart attack on board. SOP. “What is the nature of your emergency, Alaska Air?”

  “The pilot and co-pilot were shot dead by hijackers. Both hijackers are now dead, and we have regained control of the aircraft. During the fight, we lost the autopilot and the control systems took unknown damage. The starboard flap is missing, and there may be further damage to the flight controls and control surfaces, but we cannot estimate how bad the damage is.”

  The pause lasted several seconds. The ATC supervisor came back with a spluttered, “Jesus Fucking Christ, you’re shittin’ me! Wait, you didn’t hear that. You’re one of the passengers?”

  “Yes.”

  “I understand. Let me get further instructions. How many hours do you have on that aircraft type, Sir?”

  “Less than an hour.”

  He didn’t reply. Two minutes later, another voice came over the air. “Am I talking to the joker flying the plane?”

  Nolan smiled to himself. “That’s affirmative. This is Lieutenant Kyle Nolan, U.S. Navy. I need clearance to land at JFK, and we’ll need plenty of runway.”

  “The hell you will. This is New York City, in case you forgot. I’m sending up two Air Force jets to escort you in, but don’t fly anywhere near the city. Set course for Teeterboro, and I’m warning you, come anywhere near the City, and they’ll shoot you down.”

  “Destination Teeterboro, affirmative.”

  No need to say thanks for us saving the aircraft. Arrogant SOB!

  Will was already looking up the coordinates, and he punched them into the Nav computer, which failed to function. Nolan called ATC again.

  “This is Alaska Air 737, directed to Teeterboro. The navigation is out. I need a course to follow.”

  Less than thirty seconds later, he had the numbers. The receiver for the navigational beacon had ceased to function, and the flight computer was u/s.

  “Will, we’ll be doing this the hard way.”

  “When was it any different?”

  He grinned. “True. Check the compass and call the numbers.”

  “Copy that.”

  They landed at Teeterboro an hour and a half later, shepherded in by watchful F/A 18s of the Air National Guard. They’d cleared everyone well away from the path of the damaged 737, and the area was empty of aircraft and people, except for an unmarked Learjet parked close in the General Aviation area. The area wasn’t empty of vehicles. There was an assortment of fire trucks and ambulances scattered around. More ominous were the half dozen Humvees, three on each side of the runway. They weren’t there to help out the passengers. Two of the jeeps mounted an auto-cannon in an armored cupola. Just in case. Nolan brought the big Boeing down, and they skittered along the runway, pursued by the emergency trucks. He gave Bryce a sideways glance.

  “That wasn’t too bad, all things considered. If we…”

  He didn’t get any further. The starboard leg collapsed, the wing dropped down, and hit the ground, sliding along in a shower of sparks and smoke.

  He shouted, “Cut the engines.”

  Will was already turning the switches. The windscreen was obscured, and it puzzled him at first until he realized it was foam. Fire trucks were racing alongside, showering them with foam. The aircraft slid for several hundred yards and veered onto the grass, which slowed the momentum. Another two hundred yards, and they came to a stop. The foam cooling on the hot surfaces hissed and spat, but apart from that, there was silence.

  “We made it.”

  He nodded his agreement to Will. “Yeah. Chalk up another one for the good guys. Except for them.”

  He nodded at the bodies stretched out at the rear of the cockpit.

  Nolan grimaced. “Poor bastards, they never stood a chance.”

  They were four hours in Teeterboro, answering questions from every uniform in the United States. Transport Security Administration, local cops, airport cops, State Police, Fire Service, and even a squad of clean cut, suited, and white shirted FBI agents. The U.S. Coastguard hadn’t showed, but he expected them at any moment. A pair of civilians with hard, unpleasant faces arrived, which meant Homeland Security had turned up. They answered the questions thrown at them and waited for someone to give them the okay to leave. The SEALs were left alone, ensconced in a separate room from the passengers. When Will tried the door, it was locked. He glanced at Nolan.

  “It seems they want to enjoy our company for a while longer. If I don’t get out soon, my wife’ll go ape. Christ, it’s almost Christmas, and we’re locked up for saving that aircraft.”

  The other SEALs regarded him with sympathy. He had that rare thing, a family, a wife and kids to go home to. Lucky Will Bryce, but he wouldn’t stay lucky for much longer. Not if he didn’t get home this time. There’d been too many Christmases when he didn’t make it. This one mattered. This was the end.

  He hammered on the door in rage and frustration, and they were surprised when it opened. A man walked into the room, and they jumped to attention.

  “At ease, men.”

  Vice-Admiral Jacks ran SEAL operations at Coronado Base. He was instantly recognizable, short and bow-legged, but broad shouldered and rock-solid, with close-cropped blonde hair and a neat beard. His razor-creased working uniform was devoid of unnecessary embellishment, just the name patch, Jacks, and the insignia of a Vice-Admiral on the collar, the single star and gold stripe. Yet Jacks was not known for false vanity. His uniform was a perfect fit due to a trim physique after constant training and long workouts.

  His eyes bored into Nolan like lasers. “Any casualties?”

  “Just the two gomers who took the one way ticket to hell.”

  “I don’t give a damn about them, I meant the good guys.”

  “The pilot and co-pilot, but we’re good. Except we’ve been here too long. Sir, we need to get home, it’s Christmas. Master Chief Bryce has to get home to his family. It’s urgent. More than urgent.”

  He ignored the issue of Christmas. “Those men you killed, any clues about them? Where they came from, which organization?”

  Nolan grimaced. “They were on a suicide mission. The accents sounded Syrian.”

  “So no question who they worked for?”

  “None, Admiral. ISIS. Thank the Lord it’s Christmas, and we’re not going back to Syria.”

  He regarded each man in turn, as if assessing him, and turned his attention back to Nolan. “Aren’t you?”

  Chapter One

  Vice-Admiral Jacks rescued them from a media scrum waiting for them at JFK. He’d commandeered a Sikorsky CH-53E Super Stallion to ferry them to Andrews Air Force Base. He kept the briefing short.

  “This is a priority operation, and we need a fireteam checked out on current Arctic and Mountain Warfare procedures.”

  He’d raised an eyebrow. “Arctic warfare? I thought you said Syria.”

  “It is, and it isn’t. The place is an independent Sultanate that stretches around the peaks of Mount Hermon. The problem is…”

  “Sir, if I may...”

  “Master Chief, what is it?”

  “Admiral, whatever beef we have with this flyspeck chunk of rock, this one’s not for me. I’m days away from a divorce. This is my last chance, Sir. Can you get someone else?”

  Jacks stared at him for a few moments. His gaze was hard at first, but it softened as he considered what Bryce had said. “Master Chief, I’m sorry about your problems. I’m not forcing anyone to go, but hear me out, and you can decide. Deal?”

  He relaxed. “Thank you, Admiral. The way my wife is kicking up, nothing short of nuclear war would persuade me to miss going home.”

  Jacks looked thoughtful and went on, “Hermon is ruled by Sultan Naser Khalil, and when I say ruled, I mean his word is law. You can forget any ideas of democracy. The place has been grindingly poor until now, but they’ve turned things around lately, and created a luxury ski resort. Things have started to pick up for these people, until now, that is. Our old enemy has invaded.”

  Vince Merano said the word. “ISIS.”

  “ISIS, yes. They’ve invaded from their territory in Syria, and they plan to take over. All that’s stopping them is the Sultan’s guardforce. Like most dictators, the Sultan likes to surround himself with elite troops, and they’re putting up a good fight.”

  Nolan had tried to figure it out and failed. “Admiral, why are they doing it? ISIS has its work cut out inside Syria and Iraq, and they’re losing the war. Why bother with some mountain top ski resort, what’s in it for them?”

  A pause. Jacks glanced at Will Bryce and answered Nolan’s question. “A nuclear weapon.”

  There was a long silence, as they digested the enormity of the Islamic terrorists gaining access to nukes.

  “How the hell did this mountain top shithole become a nuclear power?”

  Jacks grimaced. “When a Russian long-range bomber on a training flight went off course over the Black Sea during a storm. They flew in the wrong direction, and eventually crash-landed somewhere on Mount Hermon. We understand the locals know nothing of the nuke, but somehow ISIS found out. The good news is they don’t know the location of the plane. It went off radar flying toward the mountain and disappeared somewhere inside the Sultanate. ISIS is trying to find it. I want you to go there, locate it, and keep it out of their hands. There’s something else. The Sultanate has Syria as its nearest neighbor in the east. To the west, they share a border with Israel, a nuclear-armed nation. I don’t need to tell you what would happen if ISIS gets this nuke.”

  None of them cared to speculate. What would be the point, a nuclear war was a nuclear war, end of discussion.

  “What’s the timescale, Sir?”

  He answered John-Wesley Ryder with a question. “You planning anything over the Christmas vacation, Ryder?”

  “She’ll wait, if she knows what’s good for her, Admiral.”

  His smile was wintry. “No doubt. Nolan, you have any problems with this?”

  Other than wanting to spend a normal Christmas like any regular guy? Shop for some gifts, see the kids, look up an old girlfriend, and get laid. Write a letter of resignation, maybe?

  “None, Sir.”

  “Fine. The C17 is waiting for you out on the tarmac, and I’ve managed to rustle up the extra gear you’ll need for the operation. You leave in one hour. One more thing, where you’re going is a place they don’t like outsiders. The Sultan has dismissed several attempts to contact him about searching for the wreck. We’ve offered bribes, threats, even build him a new palace if that’s what rings his bell. Nothing. Nada, zip, he’s not interested. Says his flyspeck country is independent, and they don’t want aid from outsiders. He’s developing a ski resort there, and he thinks it’s gonna make ‘em all rich.”

  “What about Israel?” Nolan asked, “Why don’t they handle the operation?”

  Jacks winced. “If the Israelis go in, you can expect the shit to hit the fan and then some. I don’t need to remind you about Middle Eastern politics. The Israeli Prime Minster farts, and the bleeding heart liberals are out on the street protesting. There’s the other nation that borders Mount Hermon. Syria. ”

  “Shit.”

  “Right. Any involvement with Syria could be even worse than Israel going in. It’s a basket case, as you know. Forget Syria, forget Israel, and forget any help from us. You’re on your own. Go in, locate that aircraft, and find the bomb. Make sure it’s safe and beyond use for anyone that happens across it. If necessary, we could arrange for a long-range missile to ‘accidentally’ wander off course and destroy the damn thing. However, for obvious reasons, we don’t want to play games with a plutonium core. We want you to bring the core out with you. It’ll be shielded, so there’s no danger.”

  “No danger,” Nolan echoed, “A plutonium core.”

  Someone said, “Fuck.”

  If Jacks heard, he made no comment.

  * * *