Skyjack: A Kidnap-And-Ransom Thriller Read online

  SKYJACK

  New York • London

  Copyright © 2018 by Kimberley Howe

  Jacket design by Ervin Serrano

  Jacket photographs: Airplane by Elerium/iStockphoto; Sun by magann/iStockphoto; Desert by stockstudioX/iStockphoto

  First published in the United States by Quercus in 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.

  Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to [email protected].

  e-ISBN 978-1-68144-299-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018931641

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10104

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  For Rambo’s Daddy, David Morrell:

  inspiration, mentor, friend

  There must always be a struggle between a father and son, while one aims at power and one at independence.

  —Samuel Johnson

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  March 10, 1956

  37,000 feet above the Mediterranean Sea

  Captain Earl Johnson had never felt so alive.

  The B-47’s lightning speed and unparalleled maneuverability set his senses ablaze. But even the jet’s six engines couldn’t keep his crew warm today. Plummeting temperatures had shrouded the plane in an icy shell. He concentrated, his frozen fingers caressing the throttle, careful to keep his plane in formation with the three other Stratojets.

  Earl shifted in the cramped space, his breath exiting in crystallized puffs. The plane’s beefy manual rested under his feet, protecting his toes from frostbite. His copilot’s and engineer’s teeth chattered, but they’d never utter a word of complaint. Cold, stiff, uncomfortable—and all as happy as prize pigs slathered in mud. Earl couldn’t imagine a more perfect moment than this: rocketing along at 37,000 feet, the altitude at which they had optimum fuel consumption but where the difference between overspeed and stall speed was only a few knots. By pushing the forward edge of this narrow speed range, Earl risked a shockwave that could strip the air from his wings and pitch him into an unrecoverable dive; at the slow end, the aircraft could stall and fall out of the sky. A little turbulence could mean the difference between the two. Dangerous but efficient, it was the sweet spot known among pilots as “coffin corner,” a place where Earl felt right at home. Riding the edge kept him sharp and provided a good distraction from the icy temperatures and the financial pressures of a new baby on the way.

  They’d left MacDill Air Force Base in Florida over eight hours ago, destination Ben Guerir in Morocco. The four planes torpedoed through the sky, headed for their rendezvous with the aircraft tankers so they could execute their second refueling. Each B-47 held two containers of uranium 235, enough fissile material to construct two nuclear bombs, each a hundred times more powerful than the one that had pancaked Hiroshima.

  Earl’s radio buzzed on the encrypted frequency.

  “Bluebird Three, visibility’s socked in from 28,500 to 14,500 feet. We’ll need to descend to 14,000 for refueling. Stand by.” Earl’s best friend, Slow Joe—as he was ironically called due to his need for speed—piloted the fourth plane.

  “Roger.” Earl pushed the throttle up to 275 knots, a roaring 557 mph across the ground 37,000 feet below, and let the engines howl for a few seconds before they had to dive deep into the clouds to make the rendezvous. Joe’s hand would undoubtedly be twitching as Earl’s bomber took the lead.

  “You’re forty-seven screams louder than your wife after a five-day layover.” Slow Joe’s voice was playful over the radio. “Yessiree, she told the squadron commander that no way could she handle you for three hours, let alone five days.”

  Earl’s copilot and engineer laughed at Joe’s poke, used to the two of them carrying on. The tight space inside the bubble canopy off
ered zero privacy.

  “Y’all think you’re funny, but no one’s cooking grits for you at home,” Earl replied. The single men weren’t subtle about envying his married status. He took his ribbing with a dash of humility—until the guys got too rambunctious and he had to tamp them down.

  He checked the time and pressed the radio button. The tankers should be waiting for them under the clouds. “Trail formation on the way down,” he said, commanding one plane to follow the next. “Thicker than corn syrup today. Try not to get lost, Joe.” Okay, maybe he wasn’t oozing with humility, but any pilot worth his salt had to have a pair.

  “Roger. You’re buying the beer when we get to Morocco. It’s the least you can do for making me refuel last.” Slow Joe might be full of sass, but there was no more reliable captain.

  “I bought last time. Nice try. Over and out.” Earl dove through the thick clouds, keeping an eye on his altimeter. The cloud cover was impenetrable, like a kettle billowing steam straight at the windscreen.

  He followed Bluebird Two in trail formation, as planned. His eyes darted back and forth, and his knees quivered—from the cold or pressure, he wasn’t sure. Damn, he could barely see the tail of the plane in front of him. Good thing the precise power control made formation flying relatively simple.

  He blocked all distractions, his world narrowing to a pinpoint focus. Ragged, wispy clouds whipped by the canopy, then disappeared as the B-47 shot into the clear. A quick glance at the altimeter. Yep, fourteen thousand feet and out of the goo, just as the weather guessers had advertised. Earl eased the control wheel aft to arrest the bird’s descent and nudged a handful of throttles forward to hold altitude. He exhaled a long, steady breath.

  Three tankers hovered below. Bluebird One and Two were already starting the process of connecting with two of them. Behind each tanker was an imaginary cone-shaped segment of space known as the envelope. Inside that zone, the boomer could transfer the fuel.

  The third tanker loomed in front of him, a huge mother ship. Connecting with the tubby KC-97s always presented a challenge. Two planes linking up midair to deliver highly combustible fuel—what could possibly go wrong?

  Earl’s attention sharpened, his speed dropping to a pedestrian 200 knots to match the tanker’s shallow dive. Slow Joe had a phenomenal track record of first-shot contacts; he was an air-refueling ace. Earl didn’t want any glitches, or he’d take more razzing tonight over drinks. Bottom line: wind, weather, and just about anything else could mess with the process.

  He opened the small refueling door in the nose and maneuvered the B-47 up and a little to the left. The boomer placed the receiver in the receptacle, connecting the bomber with the KC-97.

  “Fill ’er up, and get that windscreen cleaned, sir?” the KC-97 engineer asked.

  Earl shook his head with a smile. “Why is everyone a comedian today? Let’s just get this done.” It had been a long, grueling flight.

  The “connected” signal lit up, and the engineer initiated the fuel transfer. A thirsty B-47 could suck in six hundred gallons per minute during refueling—even faster than Slow Joe’s beer intake on a good night.

  Earl concentrated on keeping the B-47 steady, trying to adjust for the burble of air buffeting the plane from the KC-97. Fuel splattered the windscreen, startling him. Dammit, the seal must not be airtight. Slow Joe would have a go at him for this. Looked like an elephant was taking a whiz right on them. He flicked on the bomber’s wiper blade and strained to see through the spray and oily film smearing the windscreen.

  The tanker sped up slightly as its fuel load decreased. Grateful, Earl increased his speed to keep pace. The B-47 ached to go faster, like a reined-in racehorse.

  He fought to stay in position, the control wheel in constant motion as he made small adjustments, but the film of fuel on the windscreen warped his view of the tanker.

  Finally, the boomer finished refueling and radioed him. “You’re full, sir. Cleared to disconnect.”

  “Roger, over and out.” He smiled. Success, even with a crack in the seal. Let’s see if Joe could be this slick.

  “We’re clear,” Earl’s engineer said.

  Freed from the tanker, Earl pulled alongside the KC-97 so the crew could read his bomber’s number. He yearned to return to the thinner air, where the B-47 was more at home.

  “Slow Joe, you’re up. See if you can beat my time.” He waited for a smart-aleck reply.

  Silence greeted him.

  Unusual. His buddy was never at a loss for words.

  “Come in, Bluebird Four.” He waited.

  Nothing.

  “You see him?” Earl asked his copilot.

  “No joy, sir.”

  Earl tried the radio again.

  No response.

  “Bluebird One and Two, any visual on Four?” Earl asked.

  Several seconds passed.

  “No, sir.”

  “Can’t see it.”

  For a moment, Earl thought, even hoped, that Slow Joe might be playing a trick. But he knew better. Joe would never compromise a mission, especially not this one.

  Earl tried again and again, but it was as if Joe’s plane had vanished. Despite the frigid temperature, a wave of heat radiated down his spine, and sweat soaked his back.

  Seconds later, he contacted Strategic Air Command headquarters at MacDill Air Force Base.

  “What is it, Captain Johnson?” A duty officer at the command post sounded sleepy, as if he had just woken up. Then again, it was the middle of the night in Florida.

  “Sir, it looks like we have a Broken Arrow. I repeat, Broken Arrow.”

  “Stand by.” The officer’s voice snapped to attention, no longer groggy.

  Broken Arrow. The loss of two containers full of fissile material with a 704-million-year half-life—along with a B-47 and its crew—meant no one in the Strategic Air Command would be sleeping tonight.

  Chapter 1

  Thea Paris felt as if she were trapped inside a giant cocktail shaker. Up, down, side to side—the turbulence delivered a walloping to the 737. A sheen of sweat dampened her forehead, her vision was blurred, and the world felt slightly off-kilter. Was her blood sugar out of whack? A quick glance at the app on her phone: 110. All under control. Her nerves, not so much. Modern airliners were resilient enough to ride out severe turbulence without coming apart or falling out of the sky, but that knowledge didn’t help her feel any better.

  She just hated flying.

  Maybe it was the lack of control that drove her crazy? Rif Asker—her colleague and longtime friend—was an ace pilot, and he gently chided her about how she was able to remain calm under enormous duress in her job, while the sound of jet engines firing up rattled her to the core. Well, Rif wasn’t there today, and air travel was an essential part of being a crisis response consultant, the industry term for a kidnap negotiator.

  Most of the time, she could distract herself by focusing on her current case, but it didn’t always work. She gritted her teeth and tried to present a brave front to the two boys beside her, both first-time fliers. The African charity her late brother, Nikos, had founded to help recovering child soldiers had started an adoption program, and these two brothers were headed to their new home in London with the Waverton family. Jabari Kuria was twelve, Ayan, nine. After witnessing their parents’ beheadings by Boko Haram, they had been forced to invade neighboring villages to abduct other children, soldiers in a war they didn’t understand.

  The plane dropped suddenly, leaving them weightless for what felt like an endless moment. Then their butts slammed back into their seats as the metal bird hit an updraft. Thea’s stomach protested. If the seat-belt light hadn’t been on, she’d have been tempted to grab an Ativan from her SINK (survival insurance nightmare kit) in the overhead compartment. The tote contained everything but the kitchen sink, including a steel compass, a flashlight, a booster, first-aid supplies, her diabetes medications, and other potentially useful items that, if detected, would cause an airport security office
r to escort her to a windowless room for further questioning. As a freedom broker, she traveled undercover to global hot spots and never knew what might be needed. The SINK came with her everywhere.

  Jabari smiled and poked her arm. “This is more fun than riding an ostrich.”

  Only a kid could think of this shaken-not-stirred flight as a good time. Her fingers strangled the armrests. She checked the boys’ seat belts for the fourth time. “It sure is.” She forced a smile. “And every flight is different. Sometimes there’s no shaking at all.”

  She shouldn’t complain about the rocky skies. Getting the boys to their adoptive home was what counted. They’d missed their connection in Nairobi, but with Rif’s help, they had been able to secure three seats on a chartered Boeing Business Jet, flying to London in style. The Wavertons and Papa planned to pick them up at Heathrow, bringing Aegis, the Paris family dog, to meet the boys and help put them at ease. The last time they’d been together, Thea and her father had argued about Nikos’s memorial; she’d wanted to place it next to her mother’s tomb at their house in Martha’s Vineyard, but Papa had refused. Yet more fallout from her brother’s death. Maybe when she reached London, the two of them could find some time to work on healing their fractured relationship.

  Ayan was curled up in his window seat, pointing outside. “Why aren’t the wings flapping?”

  “It’s not a bird, silly. It’s a plane, a jet.” Jabari enjoyed lording his superior knowledge over his little brother, but if anyone tried to bully Ayan, Jabari would be the first to defend him. Knowing the hell they’d gone through, she hoped this would be a fresh start, a chance to reclaim their childhoods. The boys’ situation struck a very personal chord with her, as Nikos had also been kidnapped by an African warlord at twelve and forced to do unspeakable things. He’d never fully recovered from the trauma. And the orphanage was his legacy—now their legacy, as she’d assumed responsibility for the charity with Nikos gone.

  Ayan’s index finger hammered at the TV screen in the seat back in front of him. “Look, Jabari, it’s a story about a lion.”

  A smile managed to surface through her unease. The Lion King was one of the in-flight movies.

  “What if I want to watch something else?” Jabari’s lower lip jutted forward.