Day of the Delphi

by Jon Land

  Blaine hadn’t had even a sip of alcohol since Vietnam over twenty years before. There were times over there when booze was the only thing that helped him get through, so much so that he swore off it entirely as soon as his service was finished. Maybe he was afraid drinking would bring the feeling of the war back to him. Maybe he was afraid of expanding the down-time dependence he had developed.

  At last the big plane began to back away from the gate and start its taxi toward the runway. The flight had been delayed for nearly an hour, first by an anomalous on-board count apparently caused by a passenger who’d checked in and failed to get on the plane. Then a new cart of meals arrived to replace one that contained the wrong entrées. McCracken tried to relax through it all, but his thoughts wouldn’t let him.

  He gazed down and saw his club soda resting in the proper slot on the center armrest. He didn’t even remember the stewardess bringing it. The seat next to him was empty, as were most in the first-class section. The captain came over the PA to report that they were rapidly climbing toward their cruising altitude of 35,000 feet. A flight attendant’s voice replaced the captain’s to announce that the meal would be served shortly.

  An uneasy chill slid up McCracken’s spine. A passenger had checked in but not boarded. The new meal cart had been loaded after this anomaly had shown up.

  The chill deepened.

  Blaine’s thoughts tumbled through his brain. It was possible, even probable, that by now those he was pursuing had placed him with Tom Daniels in Rock Creek Park last night. And if they presumably knew that Daniels had uncovered Operation Yellow Rose, and by association Arlo Cleese, the Miami connection would be obvious. But if Blaine was simply being watched, his tail should have been on board right now. Unless the tail’s failure to board indicated a different strategy had been opted for, the meals replaced in order for the opposition to place something else on the plane.

  Blaine got up from his seat and moved through the curtain into the coach section of the plane. A pair of meal carts were being wheeled down either aisle, just behind the drink wagons. Flight attendants were politely asking the passengers for their choice of entrée and beverage. McCracken angled toward the meal cart in the left-hand aisle. He pretended to be patiently waiting to slide past it, uncertain at this point what his inspection could realistically entail, under the circumstances.

  He might have remained uncertain if he hadn’t heard the voice of the flight attendant from the other aisle: “There’s one wedged in there. If you’ll just be patient, I’ll …”

  McCracken slid sideways across a center row of four seats. He shoved the lowered tray tables upward, spilling two plastic cups of soda and jostling against the knees of the dismayed passengers.

  In the neighboring aisle, the flight attendant was still struggling to free the jammed food tray. She seemed to have located the problem and was about to yank when Blaine snapped a hand down to hold her forearm in place.

  “Sir?”

  “Take your hand off the tray and remove it slowly.”

  “What seems to be the problem here?” another flight attendant was asking.

  McCracken ignored her. His eyes remained fixed on the blue-clad young woman whose hand was still resting on the stuck tray.

  “Do as I told you.” And he squeezed her forearm just enough to force her to comply. The stewardess removed her arm slowly. A slightly older flight attendant who seemed to be in charge approached from the rear of the coach cabin.

  “I’m going to have to ask you to return to your seat, sir.”

  McCracken closed to within a foot of her and leaned forward. “I think there’s a bomb in the cart,” he said softly.

  Fear and uncertainty mingled in the head flight attendant’s eyes. She looked back and forth from Blaine to the meal cart.

  “You’re really going to have to return to your seat,” she repeated. “Please, sir.”

  “Fine, as long as this cart comes with me.”

  McCracken started to wheel the cart forward. The head flight attendant thought about trying to stop him, then simply helped steer the cart to avoid a commotion.

  The captain was waiting back in the first-class cabin when Blaine slid the cart through the curtain. “I’m going to have to insist that you take your seat, sir. The alterna—”

  “He says he thinks there’s a bomb in the meal cart,” the head flight attendant whispered.

  “What?”

  “Not thinks,” Blaine corrected, his hand feeling for the tray the younger stewardess thought was stuck. “It’s here, all right.” His face squinted as he struggled to reach in deeper. “And I … think … I’ve … found it.”

  Several of the first-class passengers had turned toward him. The captain took a step closer to the meal cart to block their view of what McCracken was doing.

  “Who are you?” the captain demanded.

  “The man this bomb was placed here to kill. Also the man who might be able to disarm it.”

  “Disarm it? If you’re right, I’m declaring an emergency and turning this plane around.”

  “Probably not a good idea.”

  “Get your hand out of there!”

  McCracken removed it slowly, his cursory inspection completed. “Listen, Captain, unless I miss my guess this bomb was activated at a certain altitude and is rigged to explode when our descent eventually takes us to that same altitude again.”

  The captain’s expression wavered. “How can we be sure?”

  “I remove it for closer inspection.”

  McCracken set up shop in the cramped confines of the first-class galley. A set of tools pulled from an emergency chest were at his disposal, along with steak knives and other utensils from the galley. With the help of the head flight attendant, whose name was Judy, and Captain Hollis, he removed all the trays in the cart except the ones in the immediate vicinity of the bomb. Then he angled himself backwards and with the help of a flashlight peered in at what remained.

  The bomb was there, all right: sophisticated, a kind he had seen several times before. The wiring was all internal, connecting the microcircuits to four inlaid layers of C-4 plastic explosives. A pair of computer chips acted as the bomb’s brain and controlled its intricate sensor system. It was wedged against the back wall of the cart, built to the specifications of a food tray and attached to the ones immediately above and beneath it. The bomb was not rigged to timer detonation. It could be triggered either by the removal of one of the attached trays or, on the chance neither tray was withdrawn, by the change in pressure that accompanies descent to a certain altitude.

  “Well?” the captain inquired when McCracken eased himself out.

  “Hand me a steak knife and a screwdriver,” Blaine said to Judy before responding. Then he turned to Hollis. “Five minutes, Captain.”

  Actually it was closer to ten. The sophisticated guts of the bomb were enclosed in a black steel casing, custom-drilled to allow the proper number of wires to be snaked out from it. It was affixed to the back of the cart with simple adhesive which Blaine was easily able to slice through. In fact, he felt the explosive slide free before he was ready.

  “Captain,” he called.

  “Right here.”

  “I want you to reach into the cart and slide the two remaining trays outward when I tell you. I can’t take a chance on severing the wires connecting them to the bomb’s housing until I’ve had a closer look.”

  Sweat dropped into McCracken’s eyes and he paused to blink it away.

  “Okay, Captain. Reach inside and tell me when you’ve got the trays.”

  Blaine felt the captain’s arms graze up against him en route to the trays.

  “I’ve got them.”

  “Both?”

  “Yes.”

  “Start sliding them toward you now. I’m holding the bomb in my hand and it’s still wired to the trays. We’ve got to move exactly together … That’s it … Easy … Easy … .”

  McCracken brought the bomb forward from its perch in rh
ythm with the captain’s pace. As soon as the trays began to clear the cart, Judy took the top one in hand, leaving the captain with only the bottom.

  The bomb emerged in Blaine’s hands last, behind a trail of wires attaching it to the trays. It was a foot long by ten inches wide and three inches in depth. Its black casing revealed no exterior controls.

  McCracken straightened himself up so he was between Judy and Captain Hollis. Together they approached the area of the galley that had been cleared of all clutter. The contents of the trays clanged a bit when placed down on the counter. Blaine laid the bomb between them.

  He leaned over and inspected the steel housing with the flashlight. He probed some of the screw holes with the end of a steak knife and then a screwdriver. Apparently satisfied, he pulled a pair of scissors to him and cut the wires connecting the bomb to the trays.

  Captain Hollis sighed audibly. “Is that it?”

  “Not by a long shot. I’ve only deactivated the sensor mechanism. It’ll still blow up sometime in the midst of our descent when the proper pressure sets off the internal detonator.”

  “Can you disarm it?”

  Blaine looked up and shook his head. “The casing is booby-trapped. Remove it and the bomb detonates.”

  “You’re saying you can’t disarm it, and if I take us down, it will explode,” Captain Hollis concluded.

  “Yes.”

  “In other words, we’re stuck up here until our fuel runs out.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “No?”

  “There’s one alternative.” Blaine’s eyes held the captain’s. “We can get the bomb off the plane.”

  CHAPTER 13

  It took Captain Hollis a long moment to realize that McCracken wasn’t kidding.

  “In case you haven’t noticed, that bomb is too big to fit through a window, and opening a door at 25,000 feet isn’t a very good idea.”

  Blaine thought briefly. “Is there access into the baggage compartment from this level?”

  “You’re standing on it,” said Judy, the head flight attendant.

  “There’s a panel we can remove,” Hollis elaborated. “But if you’re thinking about opening one of the cargo doors—”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then—”

  “I’ll need a rope, or the closest thing you’ve got to one,” McCracken continued, moving his eyes from Hollis to Judy. “And all the vodka you’ve got on board.”

  “I hope Absolut will do,” she returned.

  “So long as it’s hundred proof, it’ll do fine.”

  Blaine explained his plan while a eight-foot length of strung-together nylon seat belts soaked in three liters of vodka in one of the galley sinks. He had already sliced the mask extremity off a small emergency oxygen tank, so that activating it would send the oxygen rushing out the tube like an open nozzle.

  “Wait a minute,” Hollis said before McCracken had finished his explanation, “even if this works you’re still gonna get yourself sucked out of the aircraft and crash us in the process.”

  “I won’t get sucked out if I tie myself down to the frame somehow. And if I can get the compartment sealed again before total depressurization, you’ll be able to maintain control.”

  “Sealed? How do you think you can go about sealing a two-foot square hole in the bottom of the plane?”

  Blaine’s mind worked quickly. “Lots of luggage be jostling around, of course.”

  “For sure.”

  “All being sucked toward the hole.”

  “Plenty right on through.”

  “But not all.”

  The captain’s face brightened for the first time. “Yes! Yes, goddamnit, it just might work!” Then he sobered again. “Doesn’t do much to help you down there, though.”

  “There’s a tie line strung across the width of the baggage hold,” Judy pointed out. “I’ve seen handlers use it to tie down bags. It’s connected up with the frame. If you strap yourself onto it, you won’t be sucked out.”

  McCracken nodded.

  “Just give me time to get this thing turned around and headed back for Washington,” Hollis instructed. “Best-case scenario, we’re still gonna need an emergency landing.”

  “I could live with that, Captain.”

  “It’ll take me a few minutes to get everything rigged,” McCracken said after they had returned to the Washington area.

  On the ground at National, emergency preparations were under way. On the plane the thin carpeting had been pulled up on the galley floor and a panel removed to reveal the entrance to the cargo hold.

  “Time for me to prepare the passengers,” nodded Hollis.

  Blaine started to lower himself through the hatch. “Happy landings.”

  “See you on the ground.”

  The bomb was tucked carefully in a pack strung to his shoulders, padded with towels to prevent it from being jostled. Also contained in the pack was the vodka-soaked eight-foot length of seat belts as well as the customized oxygen tank. A larger portable oxygen tank dangled across his chest. The mask attached to it was wrapped about his neck. Around his waist he had looped a twenty-foot length of tight nylon rope pulled from an emergency kit. He would use the rope to fasten himself to the cargo hold’s tie line to keep from being sucked out of the plane.

  The dark cold embraced McCracken as he descended into the hold. Thin ceiling lights streamed down, casting a dull glow over the neatly arranged luggage. The flight was crowded, and as a result the baggage compartment was packed. Blaine reached the floor as the hatch above him was sealed.

  He followed the tie line toward the front of the plane and cleared a spot on the floor of luggage. The hole he needed to create in the plane’s aluminum skin had to be large enough to drop the bomb through but not so large that it would be impossible to plug with the flying luggage. With that in mind, he removed the alcohol-laden seat belts from his pack and arranged them carefully into a two-foot square on the floor of the hold where only an inch of aluminum lay between him and the open air. He then rose and began using the rope looped around his waist to adhere himself to the tie line.

  This was the most sensitive task of all, for he needed to be fastened tight enough to keep him from being sucked out but loose enough to allow for the easy and swift completion of the task before him. Blaine achieved the best compromise he could manage and pulled an emergency flare from his pocket. He yanked the fuse free and the bright orange flame flickered and flared. McCracken let it drop on the squared seat belts and the alcohol caught instantly. Flames rose along the rectangular outline, blackening the floor.

  Alone, these flames would hardly be sufficient to burn through the Airbus’s outer skin. But feed the fire with a flood of oxygen from the portable tank he’d brought with him, and the heat of the flames would rise exponentially, eating through the aluminum like paper. It would happen fast and Blaine had to be ready to drop the bomb through as soon as it did in the last moment before depressurization. For this reason he drew the bomb from his pack and held it against his chest with his left hand while his right tightened its grip on the emergency oxygen tank. It felt like a large can of hair spray to him, and with the mask sliced off to expose the tubing, it functioned pretty much the same way as one as well.

  His shoulders, waist, and legs strapped to the tie line, Blaine leaned over to bring the oxygen as close as possible to the alcohol-fueled fire. First he made sure the mask attached to the larger tank strung to his chest was fitted around his mouth. Then he tightened his grasp on the bomb and pressed the smaller, hand-held tank’s nozzle.

  An audible poof! followed as the flames first swelled upward and then burned white-hot. They cut through the plane’s outer skin in no time, a two-foot-square hole burned open right before his eyes. The first gush of outside air shoved the last of the flames back up at him as he dropped the bomb toward the opening. McCracken feared that the sudden rush had stripped him of the stability required to accurately release the steel casing. But the bomb slid stra
ight through the hole he had created, certain to detonate harmlessly at whatever altitude it had been set for.

  In the next moment it seemed that all the air was sucked out of the hold. Even with the oxygen pumping home through his mask, Blaine felt as if something had reached in and stripped the air from him as well. His ears bubbled and his head pounded. He could feel the plane wobbling, shaking in the air as it plunged through the sky nose-first. His insides seemed to join it. He felt himself being whipped about, the pressure testing his bonds to the tie line to the fullest.

  The feeling conjured thoughts of a wild free-fall while parachuting, albeit one through an obstacle course as McCracken was jolted from all directions by flying luggage. A suitcase smashed him from the rear. He got his hands up in time to ward off a leather tote and then ducked under a duffel bag heading straight for his face. He caught glimpses of larger pieces of luggage being sucked through the hole in the bomb’s wake. He knew even now the fissure he had created would be widening, soon to spread the length of the entire hull unless the flying debris was able to plug up the hole and relieve the pressure.

  Luggage continued to fly about. Pieces of all shapes and sizes wedged briefly in the fissure before being sucked through. The loss of pressurization continued to toss McCracken about at will, even as he searched for a means to aid the plugging process before it was too late. Directly beneath him pieces of luggage swirled and shifted about as if hurrying for their turn to be expelled, swirling through in a whirlpool-like stream. It was like watching water going down a drain, no hope of the hole being plugged up in the process.

  Blaine felt the nose of the Airbus dip even more, time running out faster than he had expected. That realization led him to tear his legs and arms free of the holds he had tied them into. Fastened in only at the waist now, McCracken began reaching out to shove luggage forward and pile it atop the fissure to keep the chasm closed for more than an instant. He heaved for oxygen with each hoist. He felt lightheaded and willed himself not to pass out. The layer of suitcases thinned as soon as he built it up, and he just kept heaving piece upon piece into the center of the maelstrom. Staying even was as good as getting ahead, so long as he could keep up the pace.