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Authors: Allan Leverone
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after departure. Several times during the first couple of
hours of the flight, Mitchell had stepped back from the cockpit and observed
her as she pretended to sleep, her eyes barely open under her thick eyelashes.
In each instance, he had approached stealthily and stood off to the side in an
attempt to remain unobserved.
He was sizing her
up; that much was obvious. The question was, why?
After the first
time, Tracie had debated opening her eyes and asking him directly what his
problem was, but her instincts told her that would be a mistake, and Tracie had
learned years ago not to question those instincts; they were the subconscious
mind’s way of protecting its owner when the conscious mind could not quite wrap
itself around a problem. Following a nagging feeling had saved her life on more
than one occasion, and Tracie was no more likely to ignore her instincts than
she was to jump out of this B-52 with no parachute.
Mitchell hadn’t
appeared at all over the last couple of hours, though, which meant either his
curiosity had been satisfied, or he was flying this leg of the trip and
couldn’t leave the flight deck. She guessed it was the latter—his ongoing
nervousness and desperation were clear to her. The man was obviously operating under
some serious stress.
She opened her
eyes a slit, observing her surroundings without revealing her wakefulness. All
was quiet in the cargo area. Mitchell was nowhere to be seen.
Tracie stretched
and wondered how close the big aircraft was to the North American shoreline.
She had flown from the U.S. to Europe and vice-versa plenty of times and had
developed an innate sense of the trip’s timing. They had to be getting close.
She was thinking about unbuckling her lap restraint and wandering up to the cockpit
when a sharp popping noise erupted from the front of the aircraft. Then
another. It sounded like exploding firecrackers.
Except they
weren’t firecrackers.
Someone was
shooting on the flight deck.
A voice shouted in
surprise and alarm. The B-52 yawed violently to the left and began a steep
dive. Tracie felt her body pull against the seat restraints and she fumbled
with the buckle. Her fingers scrabbled for the metal release and missed. She
tried again and managed to lift the buckle, but the straps would not budge.
She was trapped.
Her heart was racing and she felt a rising sense of panic. She had just seconds
to get to the front of the airplane or likely become a victim. She yanked on
the seat belt release again, as the sound of the jet engines screamed in her
ears, the aircraft still in a diving left turn.
Then she realized
why she could not escape—the tension of her body pulling against the seatbelt
would not allow the mechanism to unhook. She reached for a handhold built into
the side of the plane and pulled hard, grabbing the metal seatbelt release with
her other hand and yanking it upward. Finally it gave and she was free.
She tumbled into
the aisle, sliding into the fuselage and smashing her shoulder against an
aluminum duct, denting the ductwork. Then the aircraft leveled off and she fell
to the floor.
Tracie slipped her
Beretta out of her shoulder holster and sprinted toward the cockpit as a third
shot ripped through the aircraft.
The scene on the
flight deck was chaotic and gruesome. Navigator Nathan Berenger lay on the
floor, partially blocking the narrow entrance to the cockpit. Most of his skull
had been blown off, his head barely recognizable as human. Blood had splattered
everywhere, as had bits of bone matter and human tissue. Tracie’s half-second
glance at Berenger told her all she needed to know. The navigator was dead,
beyond help.
At the controls, Major
Stan Wilczynski was struggling with Tom Mitchell. Wilczynski had been shot at
least once and was bleeding badly from a wound in his shoulder, but fought
grimly for control of Mitchell’s gun. He had somehow managed to level off the
diving B-52 while locked in a life-and-death struggle with his
hours of the flight, Mitchell had stepped back from the cockpit and observed
her as she pretended to sleep, her eyes barely open under her thick eyelashes.
In each instance, he had approached stealthily and stood off to the side in an
attempt to remain unobserved.
He was sizing her
up; that much was obvious. The question was, why?
After the first
time, Tracie had debated opening her eyes and asking him directly what his
problem was, but her instincts told her that would be a mistake, and Tracie had
learned years ago not to question those instincts; they were the subconscious
mind’s way of protecting its owner when the conscious mind could not quite wrap
itself around a problem. Following a nagging feeling had saved her life on more
than one occasion, and Tracie was no more likely to ignore her instincts than
she was to jump out of this B-52 with no parachute.
Mitchell hadn’t
appeared at all over the last couple of hours, though, which meant either his
curiosity had been satisfied, or he was flying this leg of the trip and
couldn’t leave the flight deck. She guessed it was the latter—his ongoing
nervousness and desperation were clear to her. The man was obviously operating under
some serious stress.
She opened her
eyes a slit, observing her surroundings without revealing her wakefulness. All
was quiet in the cargo area. Mitchell was nowhere to be seen.
Tracie stretched
and wondered how close the big aircraft was to the North American shoreline.
She had flown from the U.S. to Europe and vice-versa plenty of times and had
developed an innate sense of the trip’s timing. They had to be getting close.
She was thinking about unbuckling her lap restraint and wandering up to the cockpit
when a sharp popping noise erupted from the front of the aircraft. Then
another. It sounded like exploding firecrackers.
Except they
weren’t firecrackers.
Someone was
shooting on the flight deck.
A voice shouted in
surprise and alarm. The B-52 yawed violently to the left and began a steep
dive. Tracie felt her body pull against the seat restraints and she fumbled
with the buckle. Her fingers scrabbled for the metal release and missed. She
tried again and managed to lift the buckle, but the straps would not budge.
She was trapped.
Her heart was racing and she felt a rising sense of panic. She had just seconds
to get to the front of the airplane or likely become a victim. She yanked on
the seat belt release again, as the sound of the jet engines screamed in her
ears, the aircraft still in a diving left turn.
Then she realized
why she could not escape—the tension of her body pulling against the seatbelt
would not allow the mechanism to unhook. She reached for a handhold built into
the side of the plane and pulled hard, grabbing the metal seatbelt release with
her other hand and yanking it upward. Finally it gave and she was free.
She tumbled into
the aisle, sliding into the fuselage and smashing her shoulder against an
aluminum duct, denting the ductwork. Then the aircraft leveled off and she fell
to the floor.
Tracie slipped her
Beretta out of her shoulder holster and sprinted toward the cockpit as a third
shot ripped through the aircraft.
The scene on the
flight deck was chaotic and gruesome. Navigator Nathan Berenger lay on the
floor, partially blocking the narrow entrance to the cockpit. Most of his skull
had been blown off, his head barely recognizable as human. Blood had splattered
everywhere, as had bits of bone matter and human tissue. Tracie’s half-second
glance at Berenger told her all she needed to know. The navigator was dead,
beyond help.
At the controls, Major
Stan Wilczynski was struggling with Tom Mitchell. Wilczynski had been shot at
least once and was bleeding badly from a wound in his shoulder, but fought
grimly for control of Mitchell’s gun. He had somehow managed to level off the
diving B-52 while locked in a life-and-death struggle with his
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