Flight 741

by Don Pendleton

  If it came down to that, Mike Blanski knew that he would have to move. He could not play the voyeur's role while those around him were selected for death as martyrs. If it came down to executions, he would have to intervene somehow. But for the moment, he could wait.

  He did not wish to call attention to himself unnecessarily. So far he was anonymous, and with a little luck he could remain that way. It would have served no useful purpose to provoke the terrorists, to stage a hopeless incident for honor's sake.

  The greater part of honor, given every salient circumstance, would be survival. Avoidance of explosive contact with the enemy.

  Unless the enemy himself should make it absolutely necessary.

  He could afford to watch and wait. He had the time, no one was waiting for him anywhere...Whatever happened in the next few hours or the next few days would be assimilated into Blanski's life experience, becoming part of who and what he was, for better or for worse.

  And if he had to make a move against the terrorists, he wanted every small advantage on his side. The intervening hours, days, would give him opportunities to study them, to weigh their strengths and weaknesses against his own. They had the numbers and the hardware on their side, of course, and yet...

  A single man could make his mark against the odds, with grim determination and audacity. Mike Blanski would be certain that his move did not unnecessarily endanger any innocents. He would be going in with eyes wide open, drawing off the hostile fire and striking where he could with best results.

  But it might not be necessary, after all.

  There was a chance that they would pass through their captivity unscathed — at least in body.

  Blanski knew that there was nothing he could do about the minds.

  But he would bide his time, observing everything about the enemy and waiting for the opportunity, the need to make his move.

  And he would pray, as well as he remembered how, that there would be no need to make that move at all.

  * * *

  The dead-end flight to Lebanon had taken something out of Julie Drake. Her duties had been scratched for the duration, but the terrorists permitted her to move among the passengers, to comfort them as best she could. Somehow the simple act of conversation, staring into frightened eyes and panicked faces, drained the flight attendant of her normal energy reserves. It should have been so easy, but somehow Julie Drake had taken on the fears of those around her, until the burden lay across her slender shoulders as a crushing weight.

  The pain in Julie's chest had gradually receded to a dull, subconscious throbbing, keeping time with the accelerated rhythm of her pulse. She would be bruised, of course; distractedly, she wondered if the gunman's footprint would be outlined on her flesh. It was impossible, she knew, and yet... the mental image of his brand came back to her repeatedly, embarrassing her, bringing angry color to her cheeks. When this was over, it would take some time before she went to bed with anyone again.

  Julie stopped herself, acutely conscious of the fact that she might not survive the afternoon. A bruise between her breasts would be the least of all her problems if the terrorists decided it was time to stage a demonstration for the world outside, selecting sacrificial victims from the passengers and crew.

  The mental image of a footprint on her chest was suddenly replaced by visions of a bloody, broken body lying on the runway.

  Hers.

  No way, she thought, and wished that she could summon up a greater certainty within herself. She knew that airline pirates rarely killed their hostages, unless there were some hostile overtures by passengers or crew. On rare occasions they selected victims as examples, but there was a common pattern, even so. The sacrificial victims were predominantly male and, in the case of Arab terrorists, predominantly Jewish.

  Julie glanced around, searching for the ones who might be offered in her place... and she was instantly ashamed. The passengers were in her charge, she was responsible for seeing to their needs. Indeed, she was responsible for keeping them alive.

  No bigot in her heart or mind, she searched the rows of faces once again, afraid that any Jewish passenger might recognize her secret guilt on sight. And for a painful instant, Julie realized how decent men and women could be terrorized, coerced, until they reached a point where they would gladly offer other victims in their place. Take anybody, please God, but pass me by!

  The vast majority of passengers in coach were too consumed with private fears to notice Julie Drake. She moved among them, edging past the gunners at their posts, providing water, whispered solace, sometimes nothing more than a smile. Where frightened or angry eyes met hers, she tried to look inside the hostage's hearts, allowing them in turn to see inside her own.

  The prisoner in transit offered her a smile, undressing Julie with his ferret eyes. If he was frightened by the terrorists, it didn't show. He seemed at ease.

  His escort, on the other hand, was tense, perspiring freely, dark hair plastered to his forehead. Glancing back and forth between the gunners, he would slip a hand inside his jacket surreptitiously, Julie saw, as if he kept a treasure hidden there. His ramrod posture had begun to wilt slowly, once the 747's engines and its air-conditioning were shut down.

  Another passenger who caught her eye was seated on the aisle and traveling alone, distinctly separate from the older married couple wedged in to his right against the window. Tall, athletic looking, he reminded Julie of a soldier, but he wore civilian clothes. A minor movie star perhaps? In coach?

  His rugged face projected strength and confidence, together with a hint of something else. She could not give that something else a name, but Julie was grateful for his warm and reassuring smile. If there was worse in store, she hoped that he would be nearby.

  The idea almost made her laugh, when she had the chance to think it through.

  He wasn't going anywhere, of course.

  None of them were, until the terrorists were satisfied that they had milked the situation for all it was worth.

  It might be days before the crisis broke. Or weeks, she told herself, and quickly put the morbid thought away. For now, the problems of the moment were sufficient.

  Tomorrow, with any luck at all, would be another day.

  If she could just hold on and do her job until negotiations were completed for their safe release.

  It was her duty — to the passengers, the other members of the crew.

  It was her duty to herself.

  And she was coming out of this alive, no matter what it took to see her through. Determination, perseverance, were the keys in a survival situation. She had learned that much from training courses, from the day-to-day realities of life.

  She could do anything, provided that she kept her wits about her.

  She would not break, disgrace herself, or let her duty fall to other hands. It was a sacred trust that she would not surrender while she lived.

  And that might be the problem, after all.

  * * *

  "Take him below," the grinning Nixon face commanded. "He has work to do."

  Steve Korning felt the Ingram's muzzle jab between his shoulder blades, propelling him in the direction of the stairs. He made no effort to resist; if anything, he was relieved to put the flight deck and the smiling latex countenance behind him.

  He had passed the hours of the flight in the upper lounge. Occasionally, he had been permitted access to the lavatory, but otherwise had been restricted to his seat. The slender gunman watched him like a hawk at first, but gradually came to take his presence in the lounge for granted, glancing at him only when the flight attendant shifted in his seat or raised his hand to indicate a pressing call of nature.

  Korning had observed the pseudo-Nixon in his glory, treating Captain Murphy and the others like some kind of cut-rate flunky crewmen on a private charter flight. The gunman's sneer might be invisible behind his mask, but you could read it in his voice.

  The touchdown in Beirut had come as a relief to Korning, even though he recognize
d that they were still in danger. If it came to shooting now, no matter if a bullet tore the fuselage, they would be safe from an explosive decompression, and sudden death at thirty thousand feet. They weren't home free, but they had gained a certain safety margin once the landing gear touched down.

  Throughout the flight he had been listening for any sounds of violence from below, his stomach twisted into anxious knots. He felt for Mary Fletcher, Julie Drake, the rest of them, and wished that he could be among them now. And yet he balked at calling on the terrorists for any favors, anything that might provoke their anger.

  He was frightened, but Korning was surprised to find that terror had given way to something like a nagging apprehension. It was ever present, but distinctly less severe than the initial shock of facing down a loaded submachine gun in the early moments of the crisis. Smiling to himself, he wondered if he had already grown accustomed to the danger, if it was a similar reaction that enabled soldiers, cops — whoever — to perform their duties under fire.

  He reached the spiral staircase and started down, the Arab gunner on his heels. The flight attendant knew that if he was going to attempt a break, he would never have a better time. His escort would be concentrating on the steps, a portion of his mind consumed with the logistics of descent. If Korning acted swiftly, throwing caution to the winds...

  He would be killed.

  No way on earth could he reverse his track, disarm the terrorist and claim the submachine gun for himself. No way at all, before the terrorist had time to stitch him with a disemboweling burst and blow his leaking carcass down the stairs.

  He let it go, and concentrated on the man upstairs. He was alone with Captain Murphy and the others. Three on one, with nothing but his latex Nixon-face and automatic pistol standing in their way. They could disarm him, and make a silent getaway.

  The cockpit roof on every 747 boasted five emergency escape vents: one each for the captain, his first officer, the flight engineer — and two more in anticipation of some other crewmen being on the deck. Designed for sudden exit if the cockpit access door was blocked by wreckage or flames, every vent was fitted with its own inertia reel, a coiled rappeling line that granted access to the ground. Intended to provide the flight crew with a second chance in case of fire, the hatches and inertia reels would serve as well to take the captain and his personnel beyond the line of fire.

  Another gunman passed them on the stairs, ignoring Korning, nodding to his escort as he headed for the upper lounge. So much for sudden getaways, goddammit.

  Tension hovered over first class like a living thing. The privileged few were unaccustomed to receiving orders, let alone confronting terrorists with guns, and they were not withstanding pressure well. With one exception — an inebriated dowager with bright-orange lacquered hair — each of the eleven women present had been weeping.

  A handful of the men were red around the eyes, but most of them were staring at their hands or glaring at their captors with affected courage. Korning knew that none of them would make a move unless the terrorists laid down their guns — and even then, the first-class swells would need some time to think it through.

  The atmosphere was slightly less intense as Korning reached ambassador. Two gunners, stationed at the galley module, covered forty-four submissive passengers with submachine guns at the ready, hand grenades protruding from trouser pockets. He brushed on past the starboard gunner, with his escort bringing up the rear, and made his way direct to coach.

  It was here, he knew, that trouble would most likely arise. One full-time sentry, scant attention from the other two who had their no-man's-land staked out around the galley module, and 350 passengers confined to narrow seats, eight souls across. How long before a child broke loose from its distracted parents, or an angry redneck screwed up courage to confront the terrorists? How long before the gunner grew fatigued, or sickened of the low, incessant sobbing that pervaded coach like morbid background music? Could they hold it all together, or was Korning staring in the face of a massacre impatient to erupt?

  He spotted Julie Drake and said a silent prayer of thanks that she was hanging in there with the rest. He had no way of guessing at her injuries, but Korning knew that she had taken a substantial knock from one of her assailants.

  Some nerve, that lady.

  Korning hoped they'd have another chance to get acquainted, off the job. Another chance, please God, to walk away from 741.

  No point in dwelling on the future now, he realized. There might not be one, anyway. A moment or an hour or a day from now, their captors might decide it would be fun to line up some passengers or flight attendants and test their marksmanship.

  But he could hope. The bastards couldn't take that away from him. No matter what they said or did, they couldn't get inside his mind and steal his will to live.

  So flight attendant Korning told himself.

  He was dead wrong.

  Chapter Five

  Mike Blanski half imagined he could feel a rising sense of agitation in the claustrophobic cabin of the aircraft. Three long hours without air-conditioning had transformed coach into a large, communal sweatbox. But the new sensation was a separate something else. He picked up snatches of a muffled conversation from beyond the curtain barriers up front, a mounting expectation on the faces of the Shiite sentries, and he knew they were about to meet the skyjack's mastermind.

  But he was not prepared when the Richard Nixon figure brushed the sliding drapes aside, emerging with an autoloading pistol in his hand.

  A mask, of course, but it would do for playing to the television cameras lined along the runway. Another jab at the United States. A little Shiite humor mingled with the ever-present stench of death.

  The Nixon figure spoke.

  "Good afternoon, my friends." The sheer presumption of it stuck in Blanski's throat. "We very much regret the course of action forced upon us by the client-state of Israel and her master, the United States... but such is life. It has become imperative to dramatize our situation for the world."

  The guy was educated, Blanski gave him that. The Arab accent almost seemed an afterthought, as if he had to consciously remind himself that it was necessary. Blanski marked him as one of those who didn't mind accepting U.S. hospitality, absorbing every morsel made available at this or that exclusive university, before he turned around to maul the feeding hand. A rotten hypocrite ... which was no more than just another way of spelling "terrorist."

  "I have transmitted our demands to the authorities," the Nixon figure said. "To guarantee your safe return, the state of Israel must release a number of political detainees from its dungeons by the hour of twelve o'clock tomorrow."

  The political detainees would be terrorists, of course, convicted in the courts, and Blanski wondered how much cash had been demanded to accompany their release from the Israeli "dungeons." In his personal experience, it wasn't like a terrorist to take such risks without the possibility of some financial compensation somewhere down the line.

  "Regrettably," the pseudo-Nixon told his captive audience, "I have this message from United States authorities."

  He hauled a crumpled paper from his pocket, cleared his throat and started reading aloud.

  "Unable to negotiate these terms. Regret the loss of hostages, but the United States cannot involve itself in an Israeli state decision."

  There was angry muttering among the passengers, some fearful looks exchanged across the aisles. And suddenly, two rows in front of Blanski, an American was on his feet.

  "That's bullshit," he declared in ringing tones. "You wrote that crap yourself."

  A Shiite sentry rushed him from behind, the stubby Ingram crashing down upon the man's skull behind one ear. He slumped back in his seat, unconscious as he sagged into the arms of his hysterical wife.

  The grinning Nixon figure held his scrap of paper high.

  "This note is signed by the United States ambassador to Lebanon, on orders of the President. They have abandoned you without regard for wha
t may happen if our very moderate demands should be ignored."

  Another ripple ran around the cabin, more fear than anger audible this time. The lie was taking root already, gnawing at the personal resolve of every passenger in coach.

  "We of the people's revolution can afford to wait," the voice behind the latex lips declared. "I have proposed a deadline, and we will observe those terms regardless of this... this dismissal by the great United States. We shall preserve your lives until the hour of twelve o'clock tomorrow."

  "What then?"

  The question came from somewhere down in front.

  "If our demands have not been met, it will be necessary to select a suitable example as a token of our dedication to the cause."

  "You mean to kill us?"

  "Twelve o'clock," the mask replied. "Perhaps your government will find its conscience in the meantime, eh?"

  A hush fell over coach, disturbed but faintly by the sounds of weeping somewhere off to port.

  The Nixon figure cleared his throat again.

  "Because our stay might be protracted, I must call upon you for cooperation with the soldiers of our cause. You must remain at all times in your seat. No movement whatsoever in the cabin."

  "What about the bathroom?" someone blurted down in front. A childish voice.

  The rubber Nixon smile was mocking in its joviality.

  "No movement whatsoever in the cabin," he repeated, relishing the words. "Our men are few, and we were not prepared for an extended siege. If some of you experience distress... I urge you to remember whose intransigeance has placed you in this sad position."

  "Who are you?" someone called from the direction of the lavatories.

  "We are soldiers of Jihad."

  "But who are you?"

  The latex Nixon hesitated momentarily, and when he spoke at last, his answer chilled Mike Blanski to the bone.

  "I am the Raven. It is name enough."