The Hidden Oasis Read Online Free PDF Page A

against the plane’s fuselage.
    ‘Can’t risk it!’ yelled Reiter. ‘If it’s rocky down there it’ll flip us over.’
    ‘Chances?’
    ‘Somewhere south of nil.’
    He continued to pull on the control column, a chant of ‘Allah-u-Akhbar!’ echoing from the cabin behind, the copilot and navigator watching in horrified fascination as the altimeter whirred its way downwards through the last few hundred metres.
    ‘If we get out of this you make sure you share those photos, Rudi!’ cried Reiter at the very last moment. ‘You hear! I want to see that woman’s tits and arse!’
    The altimeter hit zero. Reiter gave the control yoke a final yank, the nose by some miracle responding and coming up so that although they hit the ground at almost 400 km/hour, they at least did so level. There was a ferocious, bone-shatteringthud: the impact ripped the Egyptian out of his seat and smashed him first into the ceiling of the cockpit and then against its rear wall, his neck snapping like a twig. They bounced, came down again, the cockpit lights cut out and the port window exploded inwards, shearing off half of Reiter’s face like a scalpel. His hysterical screams were all but obliterated by the raging of the storm, a suffocating cloud of sand and debris pouring in through the opening where the window had been.
    For 1,000 metres they careered across flat terrain, bucking and jolting but just about keeping a straight line. Then the plane’s nose glanced against some unseen obstruction and they went into a spin, the 14-tonne Antonov whirling around like a leaf in a breeze. A fire extinguisher tore itself from its holder and cannoned into the navigator’s ribs, shattering them as though they were made of china; the door of the wall locker flew from its hinges and crunched into the back of Reiter’s head, pulping it. Round and round they went, all sense of speed and direction lost in the choking murk of the cockpit, everything kaleidoscoping into a single chaotic blur. After what seemed like an age but must have been only seconds, they started to slow, the plane’s revolutions slackening as the desert’s surface grasped at the underside and finally brought the plane to a halt, leaning backwards at a precarious angle as though on the edge of a sharp slope, the nose pointing upwards.
    For a moment everything was still, the sandstorm continuing to hammer against the fuselage and windows, the acrid stench of super-heated metal suffusing the cockpit; then, groggily, the co-pilot shifted in his seat.
    ‘Kurt?’ he called. ‘Jerry?’
    No response. He reached out, fingers touching something warm and wet, then started to unbuckle himself. As he did so he felt the plane tilt. He stopped, waited, then continued to fumble, throwing off his harness and levering himself out of his seat. Another tilt, the plane’s nose see-sawing up and then down. The co-pilot froze, trying to sense what was happening, peering into the blackness. Again the plane pivoted before, with a groan and a creak, its nose started to rise and this time kept on going, rearing almost vertical as the Antonov started to slide backwards. It snagged on something, stopped, started sliding again and then it was plummeting tail-first through open space. The sandstorm disappeared and the windows suddenly cleared to reveal tangled glimpses of shadowy rock walls to either side, as though they were falling into a gorge of some sort. The plane bounced and cartwheeled downwards until with a deafening crunch it slammed belly-first into a dense mass of trees. For several moments the only sounds were the crack and hiss of tortured metal. Then, gradually, other noises started to fade in: a rustle of leaves, a distant tinkle of water and, soft at first but growing steadily louder until it filled the night, the startled twittering of birds.
    ‘Kurt?’ groaned a voice from inside the wreckage. ‘Jerry?’

W ASHINGTON . T HE P ENTAGON B UILDING . T HE SAME EVENING
    ‘Thank you all for