Chapter 1
In a darkened room, a large projection screen ran the same news broadcast it had for the last twelve hours. On the broadcast, a pretty blond haired reporter sat behind a desk dressed in a sharp red blazer. She had been reporting the same story for the past two hours, taking over for the previous anchor that had reported before her. Consulting a stack of notes, she stared calmly into the camera and eloquently addressed the viewers tuned in.
"...No new demands have been made by the hijackers aboard flight 340 since their original one," she stated. "All attempts to further negotiate with them have been met with silence." The reporter looked down at her notes again, and the screen switched from her to a scene captioned 'earlier footage' of a Boeing 747 docked at the Washington D.C airport. It was surrounded on all sides by police and military vehicles, and about a hundred soldiers and police officers had weapons trained on it. The recorded footage zoomed in on the open hatch on the side of the plane where two figures were brandishing weapons wildly at the mass of law enforcement.
"For those viewers just joining us, at approximately 10:00 PM eastern standard time, a group of people hijacked flight 340, which was bound for San Diego from Washington D.C," the reporter said over the image. "No one on the plane was injured when the hijackers took over. The hijackers rerouted the flight over the Atlantic, and landed in the early hours of this morning to refuel. Authorities still have no idea how so many armed people were able to get onto the plane undetected."
The image changed again, this time to a shaky scene from inside the plane. "The first demands of the terrorists was access to a video camera," the reporter said over the video. "They then returned the camera's tape to the negotiators with the following message a few minutes later."
The terrorist's message was brief. Whoever held the camera obviously had no experience with it, as it slid in and out of focus. Blurring in and out of the image was a stone faced woman, brandishing a handgun. Her face was drawn into an angry and threatening mask.
"Listen up!" she shouted into the camera. The audio quality was poor, and the press had taken the time to put subtitles across the bottom of the broadcast. "We want the following people released from prison!" she vocally listed off several people. "If you do not comply, we will release an untested virus into a major city on the east coast! Any attempts to fuck with us will be met with the death of one of the hostages." The camera briefly panned wildly over several rows of passengers, all of which were terrified, screaming and whimpering. Half a dozen armed men constantly threatened them. There, the camera cut and the video ended. The screen switched back to the pretty reporter.
"The names that were listed off by the hijackers are former Umbrella Corporation executives. These executives were arrested and convicted for the tragedy that occurred in Raccoon City almost a year ago. Around noon today, negotiators managed to reach an agreement with the hijackers. During the next refueling process, the majority of the hostages were released, with the exception of the pilots and one flight attendant. In return, the military allowed them to take off again. The police then asked to see the virus the hijackers possessed, but the hijackers refused. The military is still trying to determine if it is a credible threat."
As she spoke, the screen once again cut away from the reporter and back to a video labeled 'earlier footage'. It showed a boarding staircase being attached to the plane. Several dozen S.W.A.T police fully armed and armored were crowded around the staircase, brandishing guns and riot shields. The hostages were released one by one. Every time a passenger was ejected, he or she was swallowed up by the black mass of armored men and ushered away to safety.
The video skipped ahead and depicted a tense moment. Several S.W.A.T members had climbed the first few steps to retrieve the last hostage, a scared elderly man. As they secured him, a hijacker emerged holding the captive flight attendant at gunpoint at the top of the stairs. With his arm around her, he jabbed a small submachine gun to her temple, then to the police, then back to her head. The camera didn't pick up the audio from the distance it was at, but the hijacker was ranting wildly at the police. No doubt he was telling them to back away.
The flight attendant he held was a young woman who looked about 25. All the camera could reveal about her features was her jet black hair and the trim blue airline uniform she wore. She was roughly bound and gagged with what looked like duct tape. She was visibly frightened out of her wits.
The police backed off and the staircase was retracted. The airplane's hatch closed. The video stopped, and the reporter appeared on the screen again.
"The plane finished refueling without further incident, and the military allowed them to take off. They are currently circling over the Atlantic once again. The police and military estimate their time to refuel again is in four hours." The reporter took one last look at her notes. "We'll have more on this story as it develops. I'm Paige Richards for Live Action News."
The volume switched off, and the words MUTE appeared in the lower right of the screen. A man stepped in front of the screen, remote in hand. The projector creating the images washed it's light over him, turning him into a mirage of colors. He folded thick arms across his broad chest. The colors from the projector absorbed into his black shirt and black combat pants, but were still prominent on his bare arms and face. He wore an I.D badge casually on his belt: Colonel William Evans.
"It's time to take action," he said. No point in drawing it out. "Negotiations are failing miserably, and people's lives have been at stake for too long." He pointed the remote into the darkness in front of him and clicked a button. The screen that he was melding with turned from the silent news station to a collection of key photos and schematics. "We've been authorized to go in and neutralize the threat."
A good soldier, Evans firmly believed that strategy was the key to victory. That was the reason why he and five selected people had been sitting in the darkened room for the better part of a day, watching the events unfold. They would gather information and prepare to strike once the order was given. It finally was, straight from the White House.
"As always," he began. "I'm not going to stand up here and tell you what we're going to do. We talk it out." He placed his hands on his hips. "Infiltration: Any takers?"
There was a brief pause. The combination of the dark room and the projection bearing down on him made it almost impossible for Evans to see his people. True, he had final say in everything, but he wanted to here suggestions from his people. Sometimes, they had better strategies than he did.
"Well," someone began slowly, "the hijackers are on a mobile structure, which means that our points of entry are limited. In this case, an airplane, we can only enter it when it's on the ground." Evans nodded, prompting the speaker to continue. "But, they'll expect an attack when the plane is docked, which makes it difficult to gain entry and combat advantage."
Evans nodded again. "Right. Going in guns blazing puts the remaining hostages at risk. We need the element of surprise." This time, a different voice spoke.
"So we board the plane in flight?"
Evans laughed. "Almost impossible to do undetected." Using the remote, he brought up a diagram of the plane. "We sneak in when the plane is on the ground." He pointed with his hand to the underbelly of the plane and traced a line along a shaft. "This type of bird has access points from it's landing gear to the interior of the plane. We get in on the ground, wait for it to take off, then ambush them in the air. It'll look like we appeared out of nowhere." Next, he called up several photos of the hijackers; screenshots taken from the news casts.
"What do we know about the hijackers?" There was another pause. A womans voice floated through the darkness. It had a heavy Irish accent.
"We don't know their numbers, but we can confirm that they are at least about a dozen strong, judging by the clips that we've seen. But," she added, "that doesn't mean that there isn't a lot more." Evans nodded again.
"Exactly, what else?"
"As far as their armaments goes, they're carrying outdated pieces," she stated. "Sir, could you bring up slide 28?" Evans complied, and the screen switched to an interior shot of the plane from the hijackers demand video. The woman speaking into the camera had her face twisted comically, as if she was stopped in the middle of a vowel. "That bloke in the corner's got a Mac 10. The small guy on the side is jamming an AK-47 into that fat guy, and Missy here has what looks to be a VP70. Slide 34, sir?" Evans clicked the next picture up. "The guy with the attendant has got a Skorpion. All of that stuff is outdated, sir, and mismatched from different countries. If we were dealing with a military type of crew, they would be more up to date and we'd see a similarity in firepower. Plus, everyone we've seen so far is American, which rules out foreign involvement. Other than that, we don't know who they are exactly." Evans decided to remedy that.
"We do, actually. Intelligence just got us the information. Most of these people, ladies and gentlemen, have been identified as former Umbrella employees." This bit of information caused a few murmurs. A new voice spoke out.
"Well, that explains the threat with the virus." Evans nodded, this time grimly.
"That's the primary reason why we've been given the go ahead." he said. "If nothing is done, we could be looking at another Raccoon City, or worse. If it was a bomb, we could predict casualties. We don't know what this virus could do. For all we know, it could wipe out the whole damn continent." The room was silent.
"That's right. I don't need to tell you the stakes of this mission. They're as high as they come. We're not talking about the lives of just a few people..." Evans let his people dwell on that fact for a bit.
"Sir, do you have a guess is to why they're taking this type of approach?" someone asked. Evans shook his head.
"Beats me," he said, "Maybe they're sick of cloak and dagger, maybe they're just desperate. What they will do if the execs are released is anyone's guess. They just haven't given us an explanation. Although, if they wanted to cause pandemonium, they would have just released the virus, so something must be up." That seemed to satisfy the question, and Evans resumed the strategy meeting.
"Alright, one last thing before I spell it out: load out." The pause was longer than usual this time. Even Colonel Evans didn't have many ideas. It wasn't everyday that you had to have a gunfight in an airplane thirty thousand feet in the air. One wrong move and everybody could end up dead. When the suggestion was spoken, Evans was surprised to hear the team's rookie's voice.
"It's going to be a fragile environment. We go in with MP-5s, loaded with Equialloy rounds. We all take suppressors and a couple of M84's. With any luck, we can take them out little by little before they notice us, and without the plane coming apart with us in it."
"The new guy's right," Evans admitted. "That's about the only way to do this. Alright, any questions?" Silence. "Here's the plan..."
Evans mapped out their strike. The next time the plane came for a refueling, it would be guided a little closer to the airport terminal than usual. The crew refueling the plane would go about their normal business. Evan's team would emerge from a manhole directly underneath the plane. Their point of entry would be the rear right landing gear. There was an access passage that would lead to the cargo hold. Once inside the hold, they could breach through to the passenger seating. They would sweep the plane, first the general seating on the first level of the plane, then split into two teams. One would take the first class on the second level, the other would clear the rest of the first level.
Best case scenario, all the hijackers would be eliminated, and the hostages saved. They would simply land the plane at the airport. Worsening scenarios would involve parachutes, and worst case scenario, well...Evans didn't want to think about it.
"Gear up. We have a little more than two hours to get into position."
The dark room emptied, and the soldiers headed to the locker room. They all began to fit into their attire. Combat boots and black pants were slid onto their lower bodies. Knee pads secured snugly over them. Along with elbow pads, these would be essential for quick and painless movement in the bowels of the plane. Tactical vests were zipped up over their black military uniforms. The many pockets and compartments would soon be filled with ammo and utilities. Hollow sleeves on the inside of them contained Kevlar inserts, and the lining would inflate into a life preserver. Lastly, they strapped on compact parachutes. If something went out of control, the team might have to evacuate the plane in a hurry.
After tucking sleeves into full length black shooting gloves, the team left the locker room. It had taken them about ten minutes to suit up. They headed to the building's armory, their black boots clunking on the tiled floor as they made a B-line for their weapons. They each walked up to the receiving window, which was a basically a hole cut into the thick cage surrounding the mass of weapons, and acquired their weapons; six well cleaned Heckler and Koch MP-5s, suppressors already screwed in over the barrels. Additionally, they were given Beretta M92's as sidearms.
At the next window, they were given several boxes of Equialloy rounds and eighteen empty magazines for the submachine guns and handguns, three apiece. Dividing the ammo and magazines, the team began to slide each individual round into the magazines. The Equialloy rounds were aluminum, coated in plastic, and filled with small buckshot. They were designed to enter the target, then discharge the buckshot inside. They were high speed rounds, but would slow greatly on impact. Other than against a human body, they had very little penetration power. The buckshot would cause additional internal trauma. If the bullet exited, it wouldn't be moving fast enough to do any damage to any of the surroundings.
Once filled, they slid the loaded magazines into their vests. From the man behind the ammo window they received two M84 flashbang grenades and a single breaching charge apiece. They would need the flashbangs, but the charges were extra, just in case.
The final touch to their equipment would be gas masks. In the poorly ventilated aircraft, it would quickly get smoky and hard to breath and see after the gunfire and light explosives. The team exited the armory in less than 20 minutes.
With their masks hanging at their belts and submachine guns slung over their shoulders, they headed to the motor pool and loaded into two idling SUV's. Already being located in Washington gave them plenty of time to get to the airport. During the drive, they stuck ear buds in and hooked them to the radios at their belts. A thin elastic strap secured the wire around their neck. A brief check showed that they were working properly.
The airport was closed to the public, and full of police and military. It was an unusually good day for such a dark atmosphere. The sun was shining, and there were hardly any clouds in the sky.
The military made way for the team. Evans spoke with a few people, relaying the plan. He had everyone's full agreement. It was at this time that Evans felt the excitement he always felt before a mission. He wasn't exactly excited in a good way, but his adrenaline was already beginning to flow. He was pumped, and ready to do his job. They found the manhole they would emerge from. One of the soldier's voice's crackled over Evan's earpiece.
"Looks like they're coming in a little ahead of schedule," the soldier said. "You've got twenty minutes, over."
"Copy," Evans radioed back. "Everyone pile in," he ordered, "We have to get into position."
The team entered the manhole and filed into the cramped sewer, and tried to ignore the horrible smell. They strapped on their gas masks. The woman with the Irish accent laughed as they loaded their weapons by the beams of flashlights..
"I knew it was a good idea to bring masks," she said, her voice muffled by the filter. "I just hope that this smell doesn't linger. It'll give us away before we even enter the plane."
"Can it, Cullen. Focus." barked Evans, sliding the manhole back into place over them. Cullen didn't say anything else, but still sniggered beneath her mask.
A few minutes later, they all heard the whining sound of airplane engines. It grew louder and louder until it was directly above them. Now, like Evans, all of their adrenaline started to pump. Any second now. Then, in all of their ears...
"Fueling crew is working, move in."
Evans pried the manhole open, and the team quickly filed out. The plane was a massive gray missile, looming right above them. Scampering low to the ground, they booked it for the landing gear. Evans cleared the gap for hostiles, then climbed up into the plane. He was followed by Cullen, the rookie, and the rest of the team.
"No change in activity," the soldier who radioed them reported, "You're clear."
The access passage was tiny. All the gear they carried plus the emergency parachutes strapped to their backs wasn't making it any bigger. Crawling on his belly, Evans led his team towards the rear of the plane foot by foot.
"Keep it down," he radioed, wincing at the loud banging echoing down the shaft. "We've got plenty of time before we're airborne." The team slowed to a painstaking crawl; feet became inches, but the banging they made subsided. They didn't want to create any noise to give away their presence.
Some time later, the fueling process was complete. The team now lay huddled just outside the cargo room. Evans could feel the plane taxi back to the runway, then begin to accelerate. Even though he didn't mind flying, he felt a little nauseous from the rapid speed and cramped quarters. After a few minutes, the plane slowed and began it's slow ascent to cruising altitude.
Evans dug into one of his many pockets and pulled out a thin fiber optic wire. He cracked open the hatch he was near and stuck it out, then looked through the scope. From what he could see, the cargo room was empty. When he listened, he didn't hear any activity other than the growl of the plane's engines. He clicked his radio to a permanent broadcast. From now on, his team would hear him in their ears.
"Lock your mikes on. Move out, keep it quiet."
Quietly opening the hatch, he crawled out. The entire room was full of suitcases and bags. Luckily, the service hatch was on the correct side of the cargo hold, so they didn't have to make their way through a sea of luggage. The rest of the team emerged from the passageway. Evans pulled out a small PDA from a pocket. No messages. Evans had it because they would be out of radio range. The air control would contact him when the plane was safely out over the Atlantic again. They didn't know for sure if the hijackers would take that path again, but it was their only option. If the plane was destroyed, no wreckage would injure anyone on dry land.
"Kennedy, drill through and plant a scope directly above you." Evans ordered, "You should be able to see the second class seating." The rookie gave a curt nod.
"Roger," he said and moved into place and took a small drill from a pouch, then began to drill through the low ceiling. Evans turned to the next soldier. They all looked the same because of their masks, but Evans was a good enough leader to tell who was who.
"Grover, get out the cutting torch and prepare to slice." Grover took the small pack he was carrying and unpacked the torch, then set it up.
The minutes passed slowly. Evans could feel the sweat running down his brow and along the seal of his gas mask.
"It's so hot in these damn masks!"
The rookie finished planting the fiber optic scope. Brushing some metal shavings and plaster of his face, he peered awkwardly through the lens of his mask.
"Two hostiles, further down the seating area." At that moment, Evan's PDA beeped softly. He had a new message. It was short and sweet:
-You're fifty miles out, heading east. Good luck.-
Showtime.
"Grover, start cutting." Evans ordered. "Kennedy, watch if anyone notices."
It took Grover about ten minutes to create a three square foot hole in the ceiling. Luckily, none of the hijackers noticed the acrid scent of burning metal or the sound of the cutting torch. Grover, with the help of another teammate, lowered the square of metal to the floor quietly. They then gave Evans a boost into the cabin above when the rookie confirmed that the hijackers hadn't moved.
Tucked around a corner, he wasn't visible to the men that the rookie had seen. He was near the rear hatch, past seat row 69 in the back of the plane. He motioned over the hole, and Cullen popped up. He helped her up, and she pressed herself against the wall next to him. Next came the rookie. He peeked around the corner, then crossed the gap and took cover behind a counter. The fourth and fifth soldier came up through the hole. They took positions next to the rookie and Cullen. The sixth soldier had to jump and get hauled up by the arms, but he made only the softest noise as he was pulled up.
Once everyone was up, Evans looked around the corner slowly. The two men the rookie saw were still at the far end of the cabin, chatting. One had a pistol, the other had a submachine gun whose model Evans couldn't make out.
Evans voice was a whisper in his teams ear. "Short, controlled bursts. Call your kills. Kennedy, Cullen, you're with me on point. Grover, Stark, Collins, watch our backs and clean up."
Evans, Cullen and the rookie filed out, their guns pointed in front of them, locked onto the two chatting hijackers. The remaining three soldiers followed. The aisle between the plane's seats branched into two rows; there were three seats apiece on either side of the plane, plus three in the middle for a total of nine across. Stretching down the length of the plane, all the seats on both levels held about 428 people. As they rounded the bathroom, Evans heard the sound of a toilet flushing.
"Shit! Lavatory!" he whispered. A door opened next to him. A man with a shotgun strapped across his back stood in the doorway buckling his belt. He looked up in surprise at Evans. Before he could react, Evans rammed the butt of his MP-5 into his face. The man fell back into the bathroom and bounced off the sink. The two men at the end of the cabin turned at the clatter and looked in shock. Evans gave the order.
"Weapons free."
