Air Marshals

by Wynne, Marcus

  DELTA FLIGHT #107, FRANKFURT TO DULLES:

  Charley pried out the access panel on the back wall of the cabin with his knife. He'd cut away the carpeted exterior to expose the plastic panel, and managed to get the point of his Spyderco knife under it. He bent the blade almost double before he got enough of the panel out where he could get his fingers on it.

  "Charley, the pilot wants to talk to you," Joan said from her position at the cockpit door.

  Charley turned away and went back to the cockpit. The pilot was propped up in the galley, Charlene tending to him. He opened the cockpit door and Walker Hilton looked up.

  "I just got a message from Frankfurt. They caught one of the hijackers before he got on. He was carrying a Johnny Walker bottle full of liquid explosive. He had a couple of them when he got on, but there was only one in the bag when they took him off."

  Charley got on the intercom with Stacy. "Charley 3, this is Alpha 1. Are there any full size liquor bottles or bottles of any kind around any of the down tangos?"

  "Negative, Alpha 1."

  Charley switched over to the First Class cabin. "Bravo 2, this is Alpha 1. Are there any full size bottles of any kind around any of the downed tangos?"

  Karen knelt, keeping her weapon pointed down the length of the aircraft. She poked open the carry-on bag that had been at Ayoush's feet when she had put him down. Inside were a bottle of Johnny Walker, a radio, and two small blocks of plastic explosive.

  "Alpha 1, this is Bravo 2. I do have that, it requires BD, I say again, Bravo Delta is what it requires."

  BD meant bomb disposal. She had explosives down stairs.

  "Do a survey, Bravo 2. Is it active? Can you tell?"

  "Negative, Alpha 1. Doesn't appear to be fused, but I can't tell."

  Charley cursed. All of the in-crew explosives expertise was up here with him and Don. He didn't look over at the figure laid out in the first seats, a blanket draped over him.

  ***

  "What are they doing back there?" Jon asked.

  "They've got passengers laying in the aisles, stacked on each other. They've got meal carts on both sides of the galley blocking off the aisles. There's one shooter on each aisle. They keep peeking out, looking for us. They're not saying much now. Every once in a while, they'll scream out at the passengers not to move," Butch said. His eyes were still red and streaming from the muzzle flash of Steve's gun going off beside his face. "How's your arm?"

  "I'll be okay." Jon wound a dishtowel tighter around the gash in his arm and rubbed at the growing welt on his head.

  "They're working on something there," Stevey said tersely. "They might try to get up the I-beam to the cockpit. You can get up there from the back, where they store the big life rafts."

  "Well, what do you want to do about it?" Butch said. "We can't rush down the aisles. They've got it barricaded, and we've got 75-100 passengers between us and them."

  "Can we get down into the crawl space from here?" Steve asked.

  "I don't think so. I think the main fuel tanks separate the crawl space back here. Besides, the access panel is in the aisle."

  "Think we could low crawl to it?"

  "We're not going to chance that, Steve," Butch said firmly. "None of us can cover whoever is going to crawl to the panel. No way. It won't help to get one of us killed without taking those guys out."

  ***

  Geordie Griffin was from Alabama and a career Army man like his father before him. He didn't have a family yet, but he hoped to some day. The instincts of a father ran strong in him, and it enraged him to be sitting here helpless among the other terrified passengers, while children wept pitifully and without hope a few aisles away. He'd become a soldier to protect his country and to him that was a personal issue: it meant women and children and them that couldn't help themselves and right now that meant everybody. He could see from his seat that some of them air marshals he'd heard about were barricaded in the forward galley, and he'd seen the terrorists building them a little bunker back there, stacking up folks like sandbags in the aisle. They hadn't called him out, which was probably for the best, because he'd have fought them for sure. Some of the passengers cursed the air marshals for their cowardice, barricading themselves up while leaving the passengers back here with these terrorists. Geordie, while he was an artillery man, knew enough about basic infantry tactics to see that the smart thing was to hole up in those strong points -- neither side could venture out to do too much damage. There was no way to rush the terrorists without having to run down the aisle right into their guns. Geordie saw the air marshals peeking out, sizing up their chances, but so far they hadn't gone for it. But Geordie had a chance...he was sitting right in the middle of the middle row of seats, his hands resting on the back of the chair in front of him like everybody else. But them terrorists couldn't hardly see past where they were hiding back behind the corner. He'd tested it a couple of times by peeking back and dropping his hands. They couldn't see him. He held his fingers to his lips to the passengers beside him, then quickly turned round in his seat and slipped over the back, into the empty row of seats behind him. Geordie crouched on the floor. He heard the panicked breathing of the people stacked up in the aisles.

  "Shush," he whispered, to one wide-eyed young girl face down in the aisle. "Don't you say a word, now."

  He slid over another row of seats, getting closer to the back bulkhead wall.

  ***

  WASHINGTON, DC:

  "They're about 45 minutes out," Simon Dinkey said to General Stone. "We have the FBI Hostage Rescue Team standing by, with DELTA FORCE in reserve and assistance."

  General Stone nodded. "I want you out there on the tarmac, Simon. You're going to be my eyes and ears. Take one of the Airway Facilities technicians with you to keep the radios up. I do not want you out of contact with me. Clear?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Move out."

  Simon marched out of the Command Center, Mike Crock and an Airway Facilities technician following behind. He had a vehicle waiting to take him to Dulles, where the Agent in Charge of the FBI's elite Hostage Rescue Team waited with his aircraft recovery assault team. The Delta commander would be there as well, eager to work his troops in. The eyes of the White House were on this operation, as were the television cameras of every major network and most of the minors.

  Simon was looking forward to his part in things.

  ***

  DELTA FLIGHT #107, FRANKFURT TO DULLES:

  Charley Dey inched his way along the shuddering I-beam that ran the length of the 747. Wires, cables, stringers and girders running from and around the I-beam made his progress slow, as was the need to maintain quiet. The suspended ceiling of the main cabin was just below his feet, and he could hear fragments of voices, some high with fear, some with pain, crying out below him. It enraged him that people in his charge would be crying out like that. He fought to keep his rage focused, to concentrate on the task at hand, to find that cold place inside the rage that would enable him to do one thing at a time in the proper sequence. Like to get around this cable bundle, to keep his balance on the I-beam, just like the log in the water challenge at Ranger school, to remember where he was in relation to the cabin below. Somewhere beneath him, Stacy Bagley stood by herself, watching over the frightened passengers, calling out to them and keeping them calm and in their seats; somewhere Steve and Butch and Jon were crouched in a galley without communications.

  He slowed to a crawl, straining, his ears tuned to catch what he could through the groan of the engines and the squeaking of the airframe around him as it labored through the thick air at 10,000 feet. Somewhere beneath him were two dangerous armed men -- men who had probably surrounded themselves with explosives. Charley inched along on his belly, as slowly and as cautiously as the young man he'd been in Viet Nam had over the rice paddy dikes. Just past the bulk of the life raft bundles was the stairwell that dropped down into the rearmost galley. Charley froze there and listened.

  ***

 
; Geordie Griffin was curled up on the floor between the rows of seats, doing his best imitation of a field mouse on hawk day. The passengers laid out on the floor could see him. He pleaded silently with them to be quiet and not to look at him. The two remaining terrorists screamed out their demands from behind their human barriers.

  "Air marshals! Throw down your weapons and come out! We will kill these passengers one at a time!" one of them shouted. He was shouting as much to give them time as to confuse the marshals; the two knew they had little or no chance of recovering the aircraft from their current location. They didn't know about the hidden structure of the aircraft that might have enabled them to make their way to the cockpit without fighting down the aisles. While they could kill passengers until they ran out of ammunition, it would be the best resolution to ensure that all of the Americans and the remaining air marshals joined them in their martyrdom. It was best now to keep the marshals unsure about their objectives until the plane was within sight of the airport and on descent, when the eyes of the world and every major news network would be on them.

  Geordie knew none of this. He knew that if he could get across five more rows of seats, he'd be right up against the bulkhead, and he could inch along and snatch one of those rag heads the next time he stuck his beak out to snap at those helpless people laid out on the aisle. Geordie had learned hand to hand combat in basic training, but it was nothing compared to the learning he'd gotten growing up poor in a tough town. He'd been handed a whip-ass sandwich from time to time and handed out a few himself. He figured a fighting Alabama man was something that rag head wouldn't be used to nohow.

  He curled up and cultivated patience, just like waiting in a deer stand.

  ***

  "What the fuck is that civilian doing?" Butch said.

  "He's going to try to take out one of the terrs," Stevey said. "He's been making his way back over the seats for the last fifteen minutes. Not a bad way to go, either...he's almost there."

  "He's going to get killed."

  "Maybe. And maybe he'll draw one of those fuckers out where I can hit him and we can get down there before they hurt anybody else."

  "I could make my way over these seats forward to where Stacy's at," Jon ventured.

  "No," Butch said flatly. "We can't cover you without exposing ourselves, and you don't know that all the bad guys are down. There could be one in the seats who'll pop you or stick you with one of those goddamn plastic razors and then he'll have your gun. Just stay put. Somebody is directing things and I'll bet it's Charley or Don. Just chill out and be ready to move when we have to. We can't be too far out from the mainland. We might be going into Canada for all we know."

  ***

  "He said to tell you to remember what he said about aerial envelopment, Stacy," Joan said into the intercom. "He said you'd know what that meant."

  Stacy looked up at the suspended ceiling. "Yeah, I know what that means." She turned down the intercom. "Sweet Jesus come a flying, cause the warrior angel will descend," she murmured a prayer she remembered from her girlhood. "You be careful, homeboy," she whispered.

  ***

  "We can't be too far out now," Farouk Hamas said to his partner. He looked at his Casio watch. "He must be on approach."

  He checked and rechecked the arming package for the explosives bundled into his carry-on. The other radio, with its extra battery pack, was set carefully off to one side, the volume turned so that he could hear the steady beep coming from it. A simple push button, obviously added to the radio, protruded from one side. Farouk bowed his head and murmured a prayer from the Koran. He prayed for his soul and those of the other warriors of Islam who had died and would die today.

  His partner watched the huddled backs of the passengers over the sights of his Makarov. Two hand grenades were stuffed into the pockets of his baggy slacks, ready to go into the aisles if the air marshals were foolish enough to try and charge them. He saw a sliver of head poking out of the galley two sections up where the remaining air marshals were barricaded. He pulled back; the shooting ability of these marshals was formidable.

  Farouk stood up and took his place on the opposite side of the galley. His partner dropped back, shook the tension out of his arms, and bowed his head in prayer.

  On the other side of the bulkhead, Geordie Griffin flattened himself and inched toward the pistol and the hands protruding past the bulkhead.

  ***

  Crouched above the rearmost galley in the crawl space behind the life rafts, Charley Dey examined the lowering mechanism for the stairs and ceiling hatch. The hatch was designed to be opened from the other side to lower the stairs and access the packed life rafts. There was a storage area up here for napkins and other galley incidentals. He could open the hatch without too much noise, but as soon as it dropped the stairs would deploy downwards, blocking an immediate clear shot. It would prevent him from getting down without being shot and give the terrorists the opportunity to detonate their explosives. He peered at the panels surrounding the hatch. At least one was a suspended roof panel. He probed the edge of it gingerly. He could lift it up, if it wasn't fastened down on the far side of the panel, where he couldn't reach it.

  ***

  DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT:

  "What is the situation?" Simon Dinkey demanded. "Let me speak to the Air Marshal team leader!"

  He snapped into the microphone as though he were dressing down a young lieutenant. Bob Tallbert, the Agent in Charge of the Hostage Rescue Team, looked at his counterpart from Delta, Colonel Bob Young, and shook his head negatively. Young nodded in agreement and pursed his lips in distaste.

  "The team leader is busy. I am the Pilot In Command. Who the fuck are you? Put the controller back on, I've got an aircraft to land." Hilton's anger was clear.

  Dinkey blinked. "I'm Simon Dinkey and I'm the Administrator's representative and...."

  "Get off the air, Dinkey, we have an aircraft to land," the tower chief said as he took the microphone out of Dinkey's hand.

  "We need a situation report!" Dinkey protested.

  The tower chief ignored him. "107, this is Washington Center, you are cleared for approach, Runway 17, 17 is cleared for your approach."

  "Roger, Washington Center, 17 is cleared for approach." There was a pause. "I'm putting one of the air marshals on."

  Joan Slyce's voice came over the speaker. "Ground force command, this is Federal Air Marshal Unit 10, Alpha-3 on the deck. I authenticate charley alpha tango echo, charley alpha tango echo. This transmission is not secure, not secure. We have hostiles barricaded in the rear of the aircraft, we have echo x-ray papa unsecured in the cabin, unknown number of possible hostiles in among passengers. Flight deck, upper cabin, first class, first cabin of business secured, all else not secure, not secure."

  "What is echo x-ray papa?" Tallbert demanded of Dinkey.

  "I don't know," Dinkey said, reaching for the mike. Mike Crock snatched it before Dinkey could take it..

  "It means they have unsecured explosives in the cabin," Crock said. He held the mike and said, "Alpha-3, Alpha 3, give locations of friendlies."

  "Negative," Joan replied. "This transmission is not secure, not secure."

  "Goddamnit," Dinkey snapped. "Give me that microphone."

  "She can't say anything because however many terrorists are left can monitor her transmissions. She's trying to deny any information to who ever is left," Tallbert said. "I thought you knew what the fuck this was about, Dinkey?"

  "I'll remind you that the FAA is in control of this aircraft, Special Agent Tallbert, until we turn over control, and..." Dinkey began.

  "I'll take care of that right fucking now," Tallbert said. He took out a cellular phone and hit the speed dial. "Sir, this is Tallbert. I want handover right now. Yes, sir. Colonel Young is right here, sir. Yes, sir. Here, tell it to Mr. Dinkey." He handed the cellular phone to Dinkey.

  The Director of the FBI said, "I'm sitting here with the Administrator, Mr. Dinkey. He has turned control of the
aircraft over to us as soon as the wheels touch down and Air Traffic has done their job. Would you like to speak to him?"

  "That won't be necessary," Dinkey said stiffly. He handed back the cellular phone to Tallbert.

  Tallbert tucked it away and said to Young, "It's time for the Bob and Bob show."

  Colonel Young's face was drawn into a fierce mask. "Let's go. Thank you for your assistance, and we'll maintain open comms," he said to the tower chief, pointedly ignoring Dinkey. "Let's go hunting," he said to Tallbert.

  ***

  DELTA FLIGHT #107, FRANKFURT TO DULLES:

  "You got him, Stevey?" Butch asked.

  "Yeah, I got him," Steve said tersely. He focused in on his front sight, where Farouk's hand, weapon, and a slice of his face were visible past the galley bulkhead. The civilian who'd worked his way back to the bulkhead was inching up on that gun. The other terrorist was out of sight.

  "He's going for it," Butch said. "He's gonna go for it."

  ***

  "How much longer?" Joan asked the pilot.

  "We should be on the ground in fifteen minutes," Walker said. "Where's your boss?"

  "Taking care of business," Joan said. She looked over the bloody wreckage in the upper cabin, and the gaping hole in the back bulkhead that led into the support structure. "I hope."

  ***

  Geordie took a deep breath and lunged for the pistol sticking out past the edge of the bulkhead. He grabbed it and yanked back, slamming the weapon and the terrorist's hand against the bulkhead. He struggled to keep control of the barrel, to keep it pointing up, away from the passengers, and succeeded so that when the weapon went off the bullet went into the ceiling.

  The round punched through the ceiling panel forward of Charley and continued to punch a hole in the skin of the aircraft. Startled by the shot, Charley slipped off the I-beam and landed with all his 190 pounds on the thin fiber of the ceiling panel. The panel buckled and gave way beneath him. Charley fell feet first into the galley space, right on top of Farouk's partner. Charley dropped his Sig in an attempt to catch himself, and found himself wedged between the metal counter in the galley and the wildly struggling terrorists.