Matthew Dunn - Slingshot

“Nah. I’d play the wounded war hero sympathy card. Works every time. It’s almost made it worthwhile having ma face blown off.”

The plane was ascending fast. Engert had told Will that the pilots had been carefully selected due to their prior military experience and ability to get planes up and down quicker than most commercial pilots.

Will eased back into his seat while keeping his attention fixed on Dmitriev. So much had been done to try to kill the Russian; in equal measure, a vast effort and number of resources had been deployed to protect him. All because of what was in his head. What was the secret, and why were things going according to plan? They’d find out when Dmitriev took the stand. But as Will looked at the retired intelligence officer’s haunted expression, he wondered if that would happen.

Derksen moved along the aisle and entered the cockpit. Twenty seconds later, he reemerged and said, “We’re high enough now. Next thirty minutes should be fine. Pilot will let us know when he starts his descent.”

Everyone removed his seat belt. Laith stretched out his legs. “Time for some shut-eye. Hey, Derksen-you got one of them hoods you like putting on people? Might actually be useful this time round, help me get some sleep.”

The DSI officer ignored the comment. Instead he patted a hand on Dmitriev’s forearm and retook his seat. “We’re safe for the time being.”

They all heard the sound of two near-simultaneous dull thuds. One second later, the plane started violently shuddering.

“Damn turbulence.”

The shuddering got worse; men were lifted a few inches out of their seats; there was a moment of weightlessness, more shuddering; the plane seemed to be descending, rolled left; all of the men on one side of the plane were hurled into the aisle.

“What the fuck’s happening!”

Will tried to get to his feet, was thrown forward into Roger and Mark, gripped the overhead lockers to get himself upright, then lurched into the opposite seats as the plane banked right, his shoulder banging into more luggage compartments. Wincing in pain, he pulled his body along the floor toward the cockpit. Behind him men were shouting, their bodies crashing into each other and the sides of the plane.

The copilot was sending out urgent distress calls, sweat pouring down his face, his body shaking but held in place by his belt. Next to him, the pilot was gripping the wheel, desperately trying to retain control of the craft.

Will got to one knee, using both arms to grip the back of the copilot’s seat. “What’s happened?”

Between gritted teeth, the pilot answered, “Both engines taken out. Immediate failure.”

“Explosions, fire, electrical fault?”

“I don’t know! Just stopped working.”

“What can we do?”

“ You can’t do anything. Get back in there. We’re going to have to see if we can glide the bird down.” The pilot glanced at his colleague. “Any coordinates yet?”

The copilot nodded. “Just got them. Only one strip in the area, but it’s long enough. Tiny commercial airport. I’m speaking to its traffic controller.”

“Okay.” The pilot’s whole body was shaking. “Tell him to get emergency services to the airport.”

Will crawled back into the passenger compartment. Inside was chaos. Some men were still being tossed around; others had managed to get their seat belts on and were grimacing as the straps bit into their stomachs with every movement of the plane. “Engine failure! Crash landing!”

Derksen grabbed Dmitriev, pulled him down next to him, and quickly fixed the seat belt onto the old man. “An attack?”

“We don’t know.” Will rose to his feet and was immediately thrown backward as the plane went into another dive. After tumbling down the aisle, he slammed into the cockpit door. Two cupboards at the end of the aisle opened, and china plates and cups smashed their way down the plane toward him. A Dutch operative’s head smacked against the door, inches from his own, and the man immediately lost consciousness. Another flew across the aisle with sufficient force to knock out not only himself, but also the DSI operative he hit.

The plane was now shaking so badly that everything in Will’s vision was a blur of constant movement.

The pilot’s strained voice came over the speakers. “Brace for impact!”

Held in place by the angle of descent and an unconscious operative, Will looked out of a window. Land was visible, getting nearer, rushing past them. He glanced at his team. All of them had managed to get their belts on and were holding onto anything to try to keep themselves still.

Derksen shouted at Will, “Has to have been a bomb. Must have been a malfunction; only part of it went off.”

Will agreed. “At stop, get Dmitriev as far away from the plane as possible.”

“No shit!”

Will’s heart was racing, his body covered in perspiration and aching from the impacts. Was this how it was going to end? Most of the Spartan Section wiped out in a plane crash? He forced himself to think about other matters: fire, smoke, evacuating the plane, fuel leakage, keeping Dmitriev alive.

The plane was bouncing through the air, so quickly Will wondered if it would just tear apart before it hit the ground.

The land was rushing faster past them, was closer, closer. One hundred yards away.

Fifty.

Will looked at Roger and his men. Might be the last time he’d see them.

Roger stuck his thumb up and smiled at Will.

It’s been fun working together.

That’s what the gesture meant. Or something similar.

Twenty yards.

Derksen thrust Dmitriev’s head down and held it firm while silently mouthing words.

Maybe a prayer.

Ten yards.

All of the men were silent now. Preparing for death.

Thoughts raced through Will’s mind. What would it be like? As quick as a bullet? Or body lacerated by shards of metal? Did he regret anything? Yeah, every damn fucking thing.

Five yards.

I’ll soon be with you, Dad. Finally get a chance to grab that beer together. Is Mum with you? Do they have beer where you are?

Two yards, runway racing beneath them.

One yard.

Good-bye, Sarah. I’m sorry about James’s shirt. Don’t join me and the parents anytime soon.

Bang.

The noise was deafening. Movement everywhere. Men shaken in their seats; the unconscious ones being flipped up and down. Sparks streaming alongside the outside of the windows. Metal screeching, bits of it falling off. Glass smashing. Wind rushing through the cabin. Men shouting. Screaming. The plane twisting and shuddering.

It was like this for fifteen seconds.

The plane tilted. Half of a wing was ripped off, the remainder dug into the runway, sparks spewing out of the trail. The plane spun, lifted off the ground, walloped back down, spun again.

Blood in Will’s mouth. Brain banging against the inside of his skull. Pain everywhere. And confusion.

Plane still spinning, heading off the runway toward grassland. Good or bad thing? Will had no idea. Off the runway, mud and grass flying up the sides of the craft, some of it entering the plane and covering faces and bodies.

Different noise now. Rough ground. Slowing down. Tail snapped off. Shit! Back end of plane upending. Two bodies flying your way. Cover your head. No idea which way’s up or down.

Thwack.

Will lay still, men on top of him. Movement? No, everything seemed to have stopped. No sound. No sight. Does that mean death?

Then shouting. Familiar voices.

Roger. “Fucking move!”

Derksen. “Fire in the rear! Get that door open!”

Mark. “Shit! Shit!”

Mikhail. “Will?”

Weight being lifted off him. Breathing easier. Light, but acrid. Mikhail over him. Arms grabbing him. “Come on, Will.”