The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  Ashley remained silent.

  His eyes traveled up and down her body. "You don't look like a Jew." His forehead wrinkled. "But then what does a disease look like until you learn about the plague it causes?" He leaned forward and slipped his hand under her breast. "Oh, by the way," he said showing yellow teeth through curved lips, "as you Americans like to brag, you were a great piece-of-ass."

  From deep within her stomach an uncontrollable spasm forced a projectile of vomit to spew forth splattering Bashir face. He recoiled, instantly rolling away from her and then crawled to a crouched position. Crying out in horror he dashed to the rear of the plane to wash himself. Her reaction may have been caused by his touch, his words or as a symptom of her concussion. Whatever the reason, she felt pleasure for the first time.

  When he returned, Ashley stiffened expecting his anger. She waited for him to kick and beat her, but it didn't happen. Instead Bashir skirted her as if avoiding a source of deadly radiation. He slammed the cockpit door behind him.

  Ashley rested her head on the cold hard deck. She had no idea a cup of coffee and two chocolate chip cookies could smell so bad, but then she didn't know she would be knocked unconscious, raped, and chained to an atomic bomb either.

  Time to reach up, grab a foot and twist it.

  The handcuffs. They were her cuffs: the Model 100 made by Smith and Wesson–standard equipment used by most law enforcement agencies in the country. Years ago the Chicago PD issued her a shiny new set of cuffs with a looped key that locked them. Fearful she might lose the key, she had studied the locking mechanism and taught herself how to pick the lock. All she needed was a bobby pin, and about 30 seconds to bend it into the right shape.

  She didn't own a bobby pin and suspected few people of her generation knew what one looked like or that they were used to hold hair in place. She must improvise. Maybe a small nail or wire.

  Ashley lay still and concentrated while fighting the urge to panic. She did an inventory of everything within her reach. The smashed phone proved useless. Her blouse had buttons, and her pants at her feet contained a few coins–no help. Under her armpit she felt the leather folder that held her badge. The badge had a flat metal clip. Worthless. She pictured the folder in her mind. Aside from the badge, it held her ID card. The last time she used it she had shown the folder to Emilio Ortiz through the glass doors. She had, also, shown Emilio the picture of Bashir clipped to the outside. Her thought froze. Clipped to the outside. A paper clip. Yes, a paper clip is a wire about the size of a small bobby pin. She had to get the folder out of the inside pocket of her coat and get that clip. If still there it might be possible to get free.

  She positioned herself to dislodge the folder. By lifting her body forward, and then dropping down and back again, she worked the inside pocket around in front of her. She saw a corner of the leather protruding. Using the side of her right leg she shimmied her body up, forcing her head under the metal platform. The jacket lapel snagged on the floor-bolt, blocking the pocket from her reach. With her teeth she bit the upper lapel of her coat and pulled up. On the third try the pocket slipped off of the bolt and past the metal leg. As she forced her hand down toward the folder, the handcuffs dug into her wrist. Her thumb made contact, but she needed a finger to grasp it. Her thumbnail slipped and pushed the edge deeper inside.

  Ashley rested a moment, then brought both legs up and arched her back. Straining with all of her strength she nudged the folder with a knee. Each time she pushed, it edged out a fraction of an inch. Totally pissed, she hit it hard enough to reach it with her left hand, grip it and pull it free. Hoping to see a paper clip, she turned it over. The clip contrasted against the dark brown leather. Ashley dropped her head down on her arm and said a silent prayer.

  Almost there.

  She slipped the paper clip off the folder and straightened it. Then inserted one end halfway into the lock and turned it to a 90 degree angle. Next she bent the clip in the opposite direction creating an S shape. She then opened the handcuff on her left hand. In seconds she unlocked the right handcuff, sat up, and rubbed her wrists. That effort caused her to feel dizzy and her eyes to lose focus. It passed after a few seconds.

  I'm free.

  She buttoned her blouse, stood and pulled up her pants. The ankle holster held her Ruger handgun. What to do now? Ashley examined the bomb Bashir had described. It appeared too small to be so deadly, but at least five people had died to make this flight possible and two more will die in a few hours along with thousands more.

  Ashley determined the plane must have hauled cargo because there were no seats. Seven small square windows lined both sides of the fuselage. She looked out and judged they were at twelve thousand feet which meant the aircraft was pressurized allowing flight at higher altitudes.

  Bashir had warned no one could set off the bomb, but if she could, would it be high enough to be harmless? She remembered reading about the two atomic bombs dropped at the end of World War II, but didn't know how big they were or at what altitude they detonated.

  Ashley stepped over to the platform and studied the bomb. Like her mother that September day in New York, she knew she would die, but wanted it to mean something. Bashir said it was armed and would explode at 500 feet. The only way to be certain the bomb killed no one was to fly this aircraft to an uninhibited place. There was only one way to do that. She had to kill Bashir.

  Ashley moved her gun from the ankle holster to her pants pocket and walked to a spot next to the hinged side of the cockpit door. She must think this through. Bashir was a slimy bastard, but also smart and determined. She would get one chance. She had to get it right the first time.

  She leaned against the bulkhead and imagined the layout of the cockpit she had to enter to kill Bashir. Ashley had never been in a DC 3, but she had flown many twin engine planes. She imagined two seats with power controls between them, instruments arrayed in front of the pilots, and communication equipment overhead. Bashir would be in the captains' seat, port side. She had the benefit of surprise on her side, but she’d have to get to him fast and shoot him in the top of his head. A side shot might compromise pressurization and destabilize flight. The corners of her mouth turned up. No holes in the plane, babe.

  At that moment the cockpit door opened, Bashir walked into the cabin, looked down and froze. Ashley's right hand went into her pocket. He turned. She brought up the gun. He screamed and lunged for her. She fired without aim. A great howling sound engulfed them. He grabbed her arm. She fired again. His head jerked back. Disbelieving eyes widened. Ashley shoved him with her left hand. He fell at her feet, blood gushing from his head. The cabin depressurized. Ashley's ears plugged–all sound disappeared.

  She sidestepped and aimed at his head. Her finger pressed on the trigger. With tight lips she whispered, "what’s one more bullet between friends?” He lay motionless, but still breathing. She hesitated then stepped to the feet of the body, took aim and kicked him in the balls, hard. No reaction. She tucked the gun in her pocket.

  That first bullet–the wild bullet–had pierced one of those square windows causing it to disintegrate. Air shrieked out through the shattered glass. She pinched her nose and blew hard. With a whistling sound, her ears cleared.

  Ashley pulled his foot over to the platform and handcuffed his ankle to the same metal leg she knew so well. While he probably wasn’t the bobby pin type, she knew she had to immobilize him in a more permanent manner.

  In the rear she found three locked compartments across from the restroom. She opened one with a well-placed kick. Inside she found tools, a coil of electrical wire, duct tape, and a length of 2 x 4 wood.

  She tied Bashir's arms to the wood as he lay on his back and his other ankle to the opposite platform leg. With the tape, Ashley reinforced each body part and slapped a hunk of it on the head wound to slow the bleeding. Bashir now resembled a nonlethal crucifixion. Tying Bashir in a spread-eagle position gave Ashley guilty pleasure. It almost made her plight worth it–almost. She considered c
utting his pants off, but decided it would not be lady-like, and would in fact be disgusting. She did carefully slip Bashir’s cell phone out of his pants pocket in case she needed a communication backup. After checking her handiwork, she felt satisfied Bashir Hashim would stay put right under his beloved bomb.

  When she stood, a pain stabbed her head and she felt dizzy again. She grabbed the platform and held on until it faded. The cockpit door swayed as the plane reacted to a change in wind velocity.

  Time to go to work.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  BILL JOHNSON LEFT WALTER’S OFFICE and called Ashley three times on the way back to his desk in the field office. The first two tries ended with her cryptic voicemail response. "Kohen here. Leave message." Most people call once and give up or leave their number. Bill figured she would answer if he kept calling. Three calls should prompt her curiosity, a trait he knew she had. His tactic worked or did it? On the third call he heard noise. Bill said, "Ashley, time to check in." He heard a droning sound in the background, and something like the phone hitting against a hard object-– then nothing. Several recalls were unsuccessful. He waited a few minutes for her to call back. She didn't.

  When Bill got to his office, he added it up. She promised to check in, but hadn't. She finally answered her phone, but didn't speak. Her phone no longer rang. In a game played with a terrorist capable of a horrendous attack, that's one, two, and three–you're out.

  Bill called the telephone service provider, identified himself, and asked to speak with a managing supervisor. Straining to keep his voice level he gave her Ashley’s phone number and the time of the answered call. "This concerns a matter of national security. I need to know the location of that call, and if this number is still active. I will hold your company, personally responsible for any delay answering my questions. Do you understand? "

  "Yes, sir. I understand. We always cooperate with the police. I'll have my technicians trace the call in our cellular network. Stay on the line."

  Bill plopped down in his chair. He didn't know Ashley had promised to call Walter and hadn't followed through. His concern mounted. Hell, she could be my daughter or even my granddaughter. I should have checked on her myself.

  The supervisor came back on line. "Are you still there?"

  "I'm here. What'd you find out?"

  "We ran a check on our frequency reuse patterns. We have pinpointed your receiving cell within our numbered location area." Bill's hand tightened on the phone, “and determined the mobile unit was on or next to the El Paso International Airport, and that number is no longer active."

  Bill bolted upright in his chair. "Are you sure?"

  "Oh yes. All usage is tracked and recorded for statistical and billing purposes. I'm sure."

  "I mean are you sure it's no longer connected?"

  "Not currently online or maybe turned off."

  Bill thanked her and called upstairs. "Walt. I tried to call Ashley. Her mobile picked up, but she didn't speak. All I heard was background noise. The next time I called, her phone was dead."

  "Dead?"

  "Yes. Ashley never turns her phone off. The phone company confirmed it is off. "They traced the call to the El Paso Airport. She planned to visit an address on the other side of town, not the airport. I think you better call the SAC in El Paso and get his people out there right away. Our girl's in trouble."

  Walter called the El Paso Field Office. FBI agents flooded the airport within minutes. When an agent shoved a picture of Ashley in Emilio Ortiz's face, and asked if he had seen her, Emilio didn't hesitate. "Oh, yes, the pretty policewoman. She went to hanger nine." The agents discovered her government car parked in front of the hanger and entered. They found the hanger empty and a smeared trail of blood that started inside the door and ended in the middle of the floor. The Douglas DC 3, tail number N-149L was gone and so was Special Agent Ashley Kohen.

  SIXTY-SIX

  THE COCKPIT OF THE AWAKENING sparkled like a restored classic car. The rich scent of freshly conditioned leather smelled sweet to Ashley. This seventy year old plane was refurbished in every detail. She shared little with the brainwashed fanatic sprawled on the deck behind her, but as a former flight instructor, she understood the pride a pilot takes in his aircraft. She closed the cockpit door and locked it.

  The aircraft shifted suddenly. She felt unsteady on her feet. Ashley grabbed the pilot's seatback for balance. A sharp pain reminded her of the swollen head wound now throbbing. She gripped the seat and fought against the growing concern that her injury might degrade her abilities. When the pain cleared she felt a new fear descend over her. Can I do this? It's not only my wound. Can I remember my flight training well enough to fly this plane? She closed her eyes, tilted her head up, and without forming words asked for support.

  The sun, low in the sky, reflected orange light though the cockpit windows. She buckled up, and studied the instrument panel. All the necessary items were there, but arranged in an odd pattern unlike a modern aircraft. This would take some getting used to.

  With the loss of pressure the cabin temperature had dropped to near freezing. Ashley disengaged the autopilot and descended to a lower altitude. She noted the current flight configurations. The indicated airspeed read eighty-four knots. That explained why the plane was mushing through the air and the stall horn sounded off intermittently. She increased power to 120 knots. The current altitude was 2500 feet, well within uncontrolled airspace. Ashley noted a heading of 315 degrees NW. The fuel gauge read full. Not knowing the size of the tank or fuel consumption, she couldn’t calculate the aircraft's range. The autopilot controls were antiquated. Probably original design. She found the switch for the external red and green wingtip lights, and turned them on. Shocked, she saw the transponder turned off, which meant this aircraft’s identity was blind to Air Traffic Control and other aircraft in flight. She would deal with that shortly. First she must find her position.

  Mr. Spread Eagle said he was going to Las Vegas. The 315 degree heading pointed in that direction. She had glanced out of the cockpit window every few seconds hoping to spot an identifiable landmark. When she saw an interstate highway bisecting urban sprawl she pictured a highway map of southwestern New Mexico. This early in the flight, the only location that fit that description was Las Cruces. She estimated the distance between there and El Paso to be about fifty miles.

  She searched the cockpit and found three sectional flight charts. She spread the charts out, and using the map's scale, measured the distance from El Paso to Las Cruces–forty-four miles. Close to her estimate. To get an idea of how much fuel she had she then measured the distance from El Paso to Las Vegas, and found it to be 727 miles or 633 knots give or take. Maintaining 120 knots and factoring in the distance already covered, it would give her five to six hours of flight time depending on weather and headwind conditions. She had serious planning to do and needed all of that time.

  Faced with many unanswered questions, she wrote down what she knew.

  (1) The aircraft appeared reliable.

  (2) Bashir carried enough fuel to reach his target plus ten percent: standard operating procedure.

  (3) No transponder signal probably meant no flight plan had been filed, and there was no record of this flight.

  (4) Based on the charts, they were in uncontrolled airspace flying under VFR, visual flight rules, often described as ‘See and be Seen’.

  (5) At some time she would enter controlled airspace, and should contact Air Traffic Control–ATC.

  (6) She could not disarm the bomb.

  (7) The bomb will explode at an altitude of 500 hundred feet.

  (8) She had to find a location where no harm would come to anyone.

  The Pratt and Whitney engines emitted a steady hum as the ground below faded into twilight. The pinpoints of light down below grew in number and intensity. Towns and cities formed cluster patterns. Widely spaced lights suggested suburban or farm and ranchland where people lived. Ashley felt a tightening in her chest–there were s
o many lights. They were everywhere. Everywhere.

  If only she had followed protocol, this could have been prevented. She should have called for backup, not burst into that hanger alone. But no, she was so damn smart she could handle anything. Right? Well, Special Agent Ashley Kohen, what are you going to do now? She shut her eyes and clamped her teeth shut. She knew if she didn't fix this mess, people would die.

  She had to find a place where no one lived. A place that is off-limits for humans. She grabbed the flight charts and searched for restricted areas. The third chart displayed Las Vegas. Then it hit her like a divine revelation. Right there on the chart in big letters were the words Nellis Air Force Base–the bombing range where atomic bomb tests occurred in the forties and fifties. Tears welled up as she bowed her head and clasped her Star of David. It's a way forward, Mom. A way forward.

  The bombing range had five separate off-limit areas. In the middle of this spiraling complex she discovered what she wanted: a small centered restricted area far from human habitation. Area R4807 would became her target. It would be the safest place to detonate the bomb. Any radioactive material would be carried aloft and dissipate over a large and remote landmass.