Gunfire tore through the cabin. The acrid scent of gunpowder burned Hannibal's throat. Around him, bullets punched through the fuselage. It was a good thing they were not pressurized, or this plane would have already gone down.
The C-141B Starlifter shuddered again, caught in the grip of the storm outside. The violent turbulence rattled everything in their compartments, threatening to fall free.
Hannibal knelt behind a row of seats, gripping his M16 rifle, feeling the deck shift under his feet as the aircraft rocked unpredictably. The fight had tipped in their favor, but it wasn't over yet. He needed to end it before Holloway wrestled back control.
Keller moved into position with his rifle raised, scanning for targets. A few of Holloway's men were still in the fight, ducking behind what little cover they had, but their formation had fractured. They were no longer the hunters but prey scrambling to survive.
Hannibal saw Holloway standing near the cockpit door. He wasn't panicked but watching for an opening when someone made a mistake.
Hannibal adjusted his hands on the rifle, keeping it steady. He wasn't about to give Holloway the opportunity he wanted.
To his left, one of the hijackers raised his weapon, preparing to fire. Hannibal swung the rifle up and pulled the trigger twice. The first shot caught the man in the shoulder, knocking him off balance. The second hit him in the abdomen, sending him sprawling to the floor.
A sudden downdraft slammed the plane from outside, and it pitched hard right. Hannibal grabbed the nearest seat as gravity yanked at him to go flying across the cabin. One of the hijackers lost his footing entirely, hitting the bulkhead headfirst with a solid thud.
"We're losing control up here!" someone yelled from the cockpit
Hannibal knew they were running out of time.
Keller reached him first, breathing heavily. "We take that cockpit now, or we're dead."
Hannibal nodded. They couldn't afford to wait any longer. "You take the others. I'll handle Holloway."
Keller nodded. "Consider it done, Colonel." He turned, running low toward the remaining hijackers.
Hannibal studied Holloway, watching the minute details. The way his fingers curled around his rifle and how he shifted his weight. The moment before the moment.
Holloway smiled. "You always did have a way of complicating things, Colonel Smith."
Hannibal's ribs ached from the earlier blows. "Complicated keeps things interesting."
The aircraft groaned under the pressure of the wind outside, rocking the fuselage. The oxygen masks above them rattled in their compartments.
Holloway's grip on his weapon changed, but he didn't raise it…yet
Hannibal knew what was coming and moved first. As Holloway's rifle came up, Hannibal closed the distance, running into Holloway like a linebacker taking out a ball carrier, using his shoulder like a spear. He knocked the weapon out of Holloway's grasp as they crashed into the cockpit door, forcing it open.
Pain flared through Hannibal's ribs, but he used it, twisting Holloway's wrist, trying to force his arm behind his back.
Holloway drove his elbow into the side of Hannibal's head. A sharp, white-hot burst of pain exploded through his skull, momentarily distorting his vision.
Holloway lunged for the gun.
Hannibal grabbed Holloway by the collar and yanked him forward, sending them both tumbling into the cockpit.
Holloway's flailing arm struck something then the aircraft dropped suddenly.
The cockpit erupted into warning sirens with red lights flashing across the instrument panel.
Hannibal's stomach lurched as the C-141B went into a dive.
"We've lost throttle control! We're going down!" the co-pilot yelled in panic.
Hannibal didn't think. Ignoring the blinding pain in his ribs, he shoved Holloway off him, jumped into the right-hand pilot's seat, and reached for the yoke. He locked his fingers around the controls as gravity tried to tear him from the seat. The g-forces of the dive were brutal, slamming him back into the chair. His arms shook from the strain as he fought to pull the yoke back to get them out of the dive.
The plane didn't respond to the controls.
"Where's the pilot?" Hannibal screamed.
"Dead," the co-pilot responded. "Hit during the gunfight."
The wind screamed as the storm swallowed them whole. Hannibal's muscles burned from the effort, pulling with all of his strength on the yoke to stop their rapid descent. The aircraft kept fighting him. The rolling, decreasing numbers on the altimeter increased at a rapid rate. It would be long until they hit zero. Then, the C-141 would make a big, fiery ball and an even bigger hole. No one would survive.
Hannibal's breathing came in harsh, ragged pulls. The strain of pulling back on the yoke made his vision gray at the edges. The plane was too heavy, but he wasn't letting go.
His hands trembled as he tightened his grip, hauling back on the yoke with all of his strength, forcing the aircraft to obey his commands.
The nose began to level.
The cockpit alarms still screamed, and the storm still raged outside, but the aircraft was no longer in freefall.
Hannibal sucked in a breath, feeling the muscles in his arms threaten to give out as he held the yoke steady between his legs. But the most important thing was they were still in the air.
He let out a slow, measured breath. "Now, let's land this thing."
###
The C-141B Starlifter bucked violently beneath Hannibal's death grip on the yoke as it vibrated like a living thing trying to wrench his hands free from the storm's relentless assault. The wipers struggled against the sheets of rain hammering the windshield, smearing water across the glass instead of clearing it.
The deep groan of stressed metal filled the cockpit as the instrument panel flickered. The wind howled around the fuselage as the airframe shuddered under the turbulence. Every unneeded altitude change fought against his control. Every control input felt like a battle against gravity itself.
Hannibal's arms ached from the relentless force it took to hold the plane somewhat level. The sheer weight of the plane pulled against his arms as every movement required more strength than Superman. He wasn't a trained pilot, not in the conventional sense. He'd landed planes before, the Boeing 747 at LAX, but never something this damn big and never in conditions this bad. And he had an ace in the hole at LAX. Murdock, even blinded, talked him through the landing. Today, he was alone with no backup.
Behind him, the co-pilot worked feverishly, flipping switches and monitoring the instruments at the flight engineer's station. The cockpit lights flickered, momentarily dimming before stabilizing again. The co-pilot retook his left-hand seat, placing his hands on the throttles.
The radio crackled. "Starlifter 0-4, you are still coming in too fast! Reduce your airspeed immediately! Slow your descent before you come up short," a harsh voice said.
Hannibal clenched his jaw. He was already fighting to keep the nose stable, but they were descending too quickly, and even with the engines throttled back, the aircraft wasn't bleeding off enough airspeed.
"Copy that. We're working on it," he said through the headset mic, then looked at the co-pilot. "Flaps?"
The co-pilot pulled down a lever several notches next to the throttle controls. The wing flaps extended, increasing drag and lift, forcing more resistance against the air. The adjustment wasn't instant, but Hannibal felt the subtle pull against the controls as the aircraft's descent stabilized.
"The nose gear still isn't deploying," the co-pilot said grimly.
Hannibal checked the indicator panel. The main landing gear lights were green. But the nose gear light was red.
"Try the emergency extension," he ordered.
The co-pilot grabbed the manual release lever and yanked hard.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then came the resounding metallic clunk beneath them. The cockpit fell silent. Then nothing.
The co-pilot rechecked the readings. "Nose gear still isn't locking into position."
Hannibal stomach tightened. If the nose gear refused to deploy, that meant they'd be landing on the main gear alone. If the nose slammed down too soon, the front of the plane would be jammed into the tarmac, crushing the cockpit like an aluminum can. He didn't have time to dwell on his possible death.
"Starlifter 0-4, emergency crews are standing by. What is your landing status?" the radio blared.
The co-pilot's hands trembled over the throttles. "If we come in too steep—"
"We won't," Hannibal said flatly.
Outside, the runway stretched ahead of them into the horizon. The wet tarmac gleamed under the flashing emergency lights. They were still coming in too fast.
Hannibal forced the yoke back, flaring the nose up to ensure the rear landing gear would touch first. The aircraft groaned in protest, the control surfaces struggling against the storm's violent wind shear.
Airspeed was dropping, but it still wasn't low enough.
"Throttle back," Hannibal ordered.
The co-pilot pulled back the throttles. The engines whined as their output decreased.
The runway rushed toward them.
Hannibal tightened his hands on the yoke. He fought the aircraft's weight, guiding it as smoothly as he could despite the brutal swirling winds buffeting them. His arms trembled with exertion, his muscles screaming under the constant pressure as his pulse hammered in his ears, but he didn't let go.
A voice crackled over the radio. "Starlifter 0-4, emergency crews standing by. What is your landing status?" the radio blared again.
"Nose gear is inoperative. We're coming in on the mains," Hannibal said over the radio.
"Understood. Stand by."
Hannibal didn't have time to think about anything else. He aimed the plane for the dark, slick blur with the white stripes in the center ahead of him. On each side were the flashing red lights of the emergency vehicles. He had one shot at this.
"Brace," Hannibal yelled.
The main landing gear slammed hard onto the tarmac, sending a bone-jarring tremor through the entire aircraft. Hannibal gritted his teeth, locking his elbows against the force of the impact.
The nose hovered above the ground. For a few seconds, the aircraft rolled on its rear landing gear, the tail staying elevated at a precarious angle. Hannibal fought the instinct to push forward on the yoke too soon. If the nose slammed down before they slowed enough, they were dead.
The tires skidded, spraying water in massive sheets as they fought for traction as the co-pilot hit the foot brakes on the rudder pedals.
Hannibal kept the yoke pulled back, holding the nose off the tarmac as long as physics would allow. The plane shuddered, resisting, the high winds pushing against them. Hannibal held the controls, every muscle burning as he fought to keep the nose up.
Then gravity won, and the nose dropped.
With no forward gear, the aircraft's front fuselage slammed into the tarmac. Metal screeched. Violent sparks erupted from the underbelly as the friction of steel against wet pavement lit up the runway in a shower of golden fire. The plane skidded, veering to the right, but Hannibal forced the yoke left, keeping it aligned with the center of the runway as best he could.
The shriek of metal and rubber stretched on as the aircraft slowed, and the resistance finally caught up with the momentum.
The shaking lessened as the grinding whine faded into nothing but rain hitting the fuselage.
And then—stillness.
For a long moment, all Hannibal could hear was the pounding rain on the windshield and his rapid heartbeat.
He continued to white knuckle grip the yoke. His arms trembled, and his chest ached from how hard he had to fight the controls. They were down.
A ragged breath from behind him.
Hannibal looked over his shoulder. "Did you say something?"
Keller coughed. "Yeah. I'd rather take my chances with a parachute next time."
Hannibal smiled, though he still couldn't unclench his fingers from the yoke. "That bad?"
Keller laughed. "Have you ever heard a plane scream at you? Because that plane just screamed its death knell."
Hannibal sighed, finally able to peel his hands off the controls. He flexed his fingers slowly to regain the feeling in his hands, feeling every joint protest the movement. His entire body felt like one solid cramp.
Outside, the flashing lights of emergency vehicles cut through the storm, their beams illuminating the wrecked forward section of the C-141. Crews were already rushing toward them.
The fight for the plane was over. But Hannibal knew the next battle was only beginning.
###
The C-141B Starlifter sat motionless on the rain-covered runway, steam rising where the scorched metal of the nose had scraped against the tarmac. The storm hadn't let up. The steady sheets of rain reflected the strobing red and blue lights of the emergency vehicles. Through the windshield, Hannibal saw silhouetted figures rushing toward the aircraft and military jeeps skidding to a stop.
Hannibal rested his hands on the yoke as he couldn't lift his arms. The yoke was damp with his sweat. His arms ached, his ribs throbbed with each breath, and the adrenaline that had carried him through the fight and landing began to bleed away, leaving a profound exhaustion settling into his bones.
The plane rocked as the men in the cargo area moved around. The airframe groaned, settling after the brutal landing. The cabin door finally gave way, wrenched open from the outside, and the stale, warm air inside cooled immediately. Wind and rain tore through the cabin, bringing with it the smell of jet fuel, burned rubber, and scorched metal.
Hannibal leaned back in his seat, hearing the voices through the open cockpit door.
"Secure the hijackers!"
"Medical teams, move in!"
"Get the injured first.
"Check for leaks—watch for a fire hazard!"
Hannibal exhaled slowly. The worst was over.
A medic climbed into the cockpit, breathing quickly from the sprint across the tarmac. He crouched beside Hannibal's seat, reaching into his bag. "Sir, are you injured?"
Hannibal cocked his head. His ribs protested that simple movement. "Define injured. In my case, it depends on your definition."
The medic reached for his wrist, pressing his fingers on the pulse point. "Your pulse is fast, around 140, and you have a deep, still bleeding cut on your temple. There's dark bruising under your eye." He pulled out a penlight and flashed across Hannibal's eyes. "And your pupil reaction is uneven. You may have a concussion. Is there anything else I should know before I get you ready for transport?"
Hannibal knew the young man's tone. He was weighing whether the man in front of him was about to collapse or too stubborn to admit he needed help.
The medic reached for the stethoscope draped around his neck.
Hannibal pulled his arm back before he could press it against his chest. "I just landed a damn cargo jet. What makes you think my pulse wouldn't be high?"
"Sir, please work with me. You need medical attention," the medic said.
Hannibal leaned back in the seat. "I'll manage."
Keller entered the cockpit, moving stiffly with his left arm pinned against his ribs. His uniform was streaked with sweat and dirt. "Trust me, you need a damn checkup, sir."
Hannibal nodded. "I appreciate your concern, Sergeant."
Keller exhaled through his nose. "Then take my advice, sir. Answer his question. Do you hurt anywhere else?"
An MP stormed into the cockpit with his weapon raised. "Hands where we can see them!"
Hannibal sighed, sagging into the seat. "Not exactly the welcome I was expecting."
Keller turned to the MP. "Stand down, Sergeant! This man just survived a hijacking and landed this damn plane. Get that weapon out of his face."
The MP hesitated, but Keller didn't as he continued to stare down the MP, who, after a beat, lowered his rifle.
Hannibal caught movement from the corner of his eye. Two MPs were dragging Holloway out of the plane. His wrists were bound, and his face bloodied. The MPs shoved Holloway forward, disappearing down the now lowered rear ramp.
Hannibal blinked when someone else entered the cockpit. An unwelcome and unwanted presence.
Colonel Roderick Decker stood there, rain dripping from his uniform with his hat askew. The storm had soaked through his coat.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
"You've been running for a long time, Smith. Looks like your luck finally ran out," Decker said in a tone that wasn't amusement or satisfaction.
Hannibal met his stare as exhaustion threatened to take him under. "I don't believe in luck, Colonel Decker. Just good planning."
Decker's expression remained neutral. "We'll see how well you planned for this," Decker motioned to the MPs. "Take him to the medics. Make sure he's treated, but he's not leaving my sight."
Hannibal turned to the waiting medic. "To answer your question, since we were rudely interrupted, my ribs are killing me."
"Do you need help standing?" the medic asked.
"Yes, because right now, I'm too tired to do it on my own," Hannibal said.
The real fight was beginning.