by David Wind
“You’re sure?”
She ignored his question, “We need help.”
“Excellent,” Mohamad said when Joan hung up. He backed slowly out of the galley and handed Elaine efficiently over to his companion. “Do nothing stupid.”
<><><>
Alan Reynolds replaced the intercom, stood, and went to Haller. “Better call for an ambulance, we’ve got a heart attack.”
“Damn.”
Reynolds went to the cockpit door. He started to open it when, unexpectedly, the door latch was ripped from his hand. Caught by surprise and knocked off balance, his arms flailed outward, seeking a hold to stop his fall.
Rashid Mohamad burst through the door. The hijacker’s right arm raised, his hand holding something dark and round. Reynolds’ eyes widened when he recognized the black object in the man’s hand. He stared in helpless astonishment as the machine pistol arced down. A flaring pain erupted in the engineer’s head. Darkness came before he struck the deck.
The copilot turned at the commotion. He started to rise, but stopped when he saw the barrel of the pistol pointed at his heart.
Then Joan Bidding and Elaine Samson were pushed into the cockpit and the cabin door closed. “Down!” the second hijacker ordered the two women as Mohamad tore Haller’s headset off and put the barrel of his weapon to the captain’s temple.
“Do nothing foolish,” Mohamad ordered. “This plane has been commandeered by the Palestinian Liberation Organization. You are a prisoner of war. You will do exactly as ordered. One mistake and your passengers die. Is that understood?”
Haller nodded. The pistol came away.
“Very good.” Mohamad looked at the instrument panel. “Change course to two-seven-seven. Maintain a level altitude.”
Haller stiffened. A vein pulsed on the side of his forehead. His fingers tightened on the steering controls. “We’re on approach. I can’t do that.”
“Do as you are instructed, Captain, and while you do, you may contact air control and apprise them of your situation.”
Haller thought of refusing. Then, in the reflection on the windshield, he saw the look on Mohamad’s face. He’d often seen that look prior to combat missions—bright burning eyes set amid the hard facial tension of someone prepared for battle, and for death.
“My headset?”
Mohamad did not allow himself an outward smile of victory when he handed the communication gear to Haller.
Haller put it on. “Air Control, this is Trans Air Flight 88. We’re changing course to two-seven-seven-degrees. Clear all traffic from flight path. We have been hijacked, repeat. Trans Air 88 has been hijacked. Tran—”
Mohamad took off Haller’s headset, ending communication with air control. “Thank you, Captain. You made the correct decision. I want you to understand that we are soldiers fighting for a cause. We will do whatever is necessary to win. We do not wish to kill, but we will kill, believe that, Captain. We will kill if necessary. It will be your actions, and the actions of your crew, which determine whether your passengers live or die.”
Haller met Mohamad’s eyes. He considered the alternatives—which actions to take, which risks he judged acceptable or not. At present, there were no viable risks. “No one will attempt anything.”
“Again, a wise decision. Khamil,” he called.
The second hijacker stepped around the fallen engineer and past the two flight attendants. At the copilot’s seat, he withdrew a rubber-tipped hypodermic syringe from his jacket pocket.
“Thorazine,” Mohamad said. “As I’ve told you, we do not seek unnecessary deaths. We have certain objectives to obtain. I will avoid killing if possible. If you do not fight us, you and your crew and your passengers will survive.”
Flaxman looked over his shoulder at the needle. A coppery taste flooded his mouth. He unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve.
“The effects of the sedative will wear off in an hour or two,” Mohamad said when Khamil plunged the hypodermic into Flaxman’s arm.
Chapter Four
Lieutenant Raymond Hyte stood in the doorway. Light spilled over his shoulder and into the bedroom, silhouetting the sleeping child in the center of his bed. He smiled.
The light wasn’t strong enough to see her features clearly, but he knew them as well as his own. They were a part of him; he had created her eleven years before. Her cheekbones were sharp and precise. She had blonde hair with a hint of strawberry. Her mouth was a shade too small for her teeth, but she would grow into the teeth in another year or two. Her nose was small—aquiline, Susan had called it. He hoped it would stay that way. It was important that she have Susan’s nose, not his.
Important? He shook his head ruefully. She was smart and her mind not affected by the divorce. Those were the important things.
He partially closed the door, returned to the couch, and lifted the Scotch and water from the cork coaster on the coffee table.
He sipped the drink, tasting wood. He always tasted wood when he drank Scotch. It wasn’t a bad taste. It sufficed. Like his life.
He rolled the drink around his tongue, reminding himself that he was supposed to relax. But relaxing was hard when his last five weeks had been made up of twenty-hour days in an effort to catch a killer who liked to cut up old women. He and his men had finally caught him just before he’d plunged a butcher knife into a seventy-five-year-old lady. Now, he’d taken four days off to be with Carrie before she went to summer camp. He wanted to savor the naiveté surrounding his eleven-year-old daughter.
The phone rang. Hyte put the Scotch down and picked up the receiver. He was off duty for the next four days. He hoped it wouldn’t be the Department.
“Hello,” he said tentatively, half expecting it to be his ex-wife checking up on their daughter.
“Lou, Sergeant Vicoletti.”
The use of the title, Lou—departmental shorthand for lieutenant—made the call official.
Hyte sighed. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“We’ve got a hijacking at Kennedy Airport. The fucking plane is circling Manhattan. They’ve rerouted all air traffic at Kennedy, LaGuardia, and Newark. It’s a real disaster. Your team is being notified.”
With thumb and forefinger, Hyte rubbed the inner corners of his eyes. He wanted to say he was on a four-day leave. He didn’t; instead, he asked, “What happened to Conklin?”
“He’s in White Plains. His wife’s delivering right now. Not enough time to get him back.”
Hyte glanced over his shoulder to the bedroom where his daughter slept. “Who took the plane?”
“No one knows. There’s been one communication from the pilot, alerting the airport of the hijacking and change of course. Radar is tracking them in a circle around Manhattan. I—”
“Have any demands been made yet?”
“No, sir,” Vicoletti said. “I’ve dispatched a blue and white to your place. The copter will pick you up at Sixty-Second Street.”
Hyte tensed. “No copter. I can drive there just as fast.”
“We don’t know where there is yet.”
“I’ll be ready,” Hyte said and hung up.
He stood, turned, and found his daughter standing in the doorway. The living room light highlighted the slim body beneath the pink nightgown. Her hair spilled over her shoulders. Her blue eyes were alert. “Daddy?”
“I have to go out tonight, sweetheart. It’s an emergency.”
“Is it dangerous?”
Hyte opened his arms. “Come here.”
Carolyn Samantha Hyte came into his arms. He kissed the top of her head. “A plane was hijacked. Someone has to talk to the people who did it. That’s my job.”
She drew back far enough to look him directly in the eyes. “Is it dangerous?”
“Sometimes it is.”
“Be careful, please.”
He hugged her tightly. “I will. For you. Now, let me call Mrs. O’Malley.”
“I can go over there until you get back.”
Hyte shook his he
ad. “You go back to bed. Okay?”
Carrie nodded, rose onto the balls of her feet, and kissed his stubbly chin. “Okay.”
When she was back in bed, Hyte dialed his neighbor.
Helen O’Malley, a grandmother of seventy, had moved into the apartment next to Hyte’s two years ago. It had been a godsend to the cop.
She arrived four minutes after his call. Her iron gray hair in curlers and an ankle-length peach velour robe belted securely around her waist. Hyte thanked her, got his gun from the kitchen drawer, and raced downstairs. Eight minutes later, the NYPD patrol car pulled to a stop at the helicopter pad adjacent to the East River Drive.
<><><>
The situation on Trans Air 88 was exactly what the hijackers wanted. Mohamad had instructed Haller to announce that they would be circling the airport, waiting for landing clearance.
Behind Haller, Elaine Samson sat on the floor, her arms hugging her knees. Joan Bidding held the unconscious engineer, stroking his head. “Khamil has tape,” Mohamad said. “You will please secure his wrists and ankles.”
Elaine glared up at him. “Why do you have to be so fucking polite?”
“Would you prefer I use force?”
“Do it, Elaine,” Haller commanded.
The women bound the flight engineer’s wrists and ankles and then laid him on the floor. “You tie her hands,” Mohamad told Joan.
After Joan secured Elaine’s wrists, she returned to the passenger cabins to tell the other flight attendants that they would be landing shortly. Under no circumstance was she to warn anyone. If she did, Mohamad explained, he would shoot the captain.
Joan Bidding believed him.
Twelve minutes later, Haller told him that their fuel was running low. “We’ll have to land soon.”
Mohamad glanced at the fuel gauges. “We have at least forty-five minutes of circling at minimum air speed.”
The man had done his homework. Haller exhaled in capitulation. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Yes. You will make no movements other than to fly the plane.”
Haller looked at the hijacker. “You can’t get away with it.”
“Get away with what, Captain? We’ve already hijacked your plane. We’ll get what we’ve come for. And,” he went on, his voice smooth and calm behind its British tones, “we hope to cause only a minimum amount of harm to your crew and passengers.”
“You’ve already done more harm than that.”
“That depends on how you view the situation. No one on this plane has died. Concentrate on your flying and contact the control tower, please.”
Haller called in as Mohamad took Flaxman’s headset and put it on. When the tower replied, Mohamad, not Haller responded. “This is Rashid Mohamad. I have commandeered this airplane. To insure the safety of the passengers and crew, you will do the following. All flights landing or departing from Kennedy Airport are to cease; divert all air traffic to other airports. When that is accomplished, we will return to Kennedy and land. Have a fuel truck prepared.”
“Impossible!” came the reply. “The best we can do is close off one runway.”
Mohamad exhaled. It was a sound not unlike the leading edge of a storm. “I am truly sorry to hear this. In that case, everyone on board this craft will die when I crash the plane into one of those two tall buildings downtown.”
Dead silence, filled by low static, followed Mohamad’s words. Mohamad’s smile told everyone on the flight deck that he was amused at the consternation within the control tower.
“Captain Haller, what’s the fuel situation?” Haller looked at Mohamad who nodded.
“Control, we have forty minutes left if we push it.”
“Hold on 88, we’ll get back to you.”
“That would be a good idea,” Mohamad said dryly.
Thirty seconds later, the radio crackled. “Flight 88, the airport will be shut down.”
<><><>
Hyte looked down at the cars on the Belt Parkway. The helicopter was flying fast at an altitude of twelve hundred feet. A low groan caught in the back of his throat. He knew nothing about what was happening, except that the plane would be landing at Kennedy. Instead, he thought about how he had gotten involved in hostage negotiations.
His record had been part of the reason. Philip Mason was the other part. Captain Philip Mason had been his father’s closest friend in the Department. Philip Mason was his mentor. Hyte held him responsible for his divorce. He knew he was being unreasonable. He couldn’t help it. If he hadn’t met the captain at the restaurant…
No, if Susan hadn’t wanted to try the restaurant that her friend had told her about, he wouldn’t be a divorced police lieutenant flying in a helicopter to Kennedy Airport to talk to a lunatic who was holding millions of dollars of airplane and its passengers hostage.
If he hadn’t majored in political science and minored in psychology at N. Y. U., and then gone to law school, he wouldn’t be in the helicopter either. He had never consciously planned to join the Department. He wanted to enter politics—his father had always pushed him in that direction. “You can do more by making laws than by enforcing them,” he’d said.
However, his father’s advice had come too late to abrogate the influence of growing up in a police family. He had known the code since taking his first step. He’d seen the highs of being on the job, and he’d lived with the lows.
He had always been proud of his father. His father was important. What he did was important. Who he was, was important.
The chopper shuddered. Hyte watched the pilot make a minor correction and the flying machine steadied. He looked at the lighted buildings below.
His first flight in a copter had set the pattern for all the rest. A midnight phone call from Mason—Uncle Phil—had awakened him. Twenty minutes later, he was airborne over Manhattan, on the way to Staten Island.
A sniper who wanted revenge on the precinct captain responsible for his arrest had shot Hyte’s father. Captain Mason was waiting for him, but Raymond Hyte, Jr., was too late to say good-bye to his father, who died minutes before the helicopter had landed.
Hyte always thought about his father when he flew in a copter. He couldn’t help it, just as he’d been unable to heed his father’s advice when, a year after graduating from law school and marrying Susan, he ended up facing his future in the form of Philip Mason and the Organized Crime Squad.
The helicopter dropped several hundred feet, drawing Hyte back to where he was—two hundred and fifty feet above the Belt Parkway. “Jesus,” he muttered, stopping himself from further thought as the telltale flashing of runway strobe lights appeared.
The pilot set the helicopter down fifty feet from the control tower.
Shielding his eyes from the particles of dust kicked up by the helicopter’s blades, Hyte scuttled from beneath the whirling rotors. Two Port Authority cops waited at the outer fringes of the helicopter’s windstorm. They led him directly to the air security ready room in the main control tower. Behind him, the copter rose up into the darkness.
Hyte took a quick inventory in the ready room. Three members of his hostage negotiation team were present. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed Brian Atkins, detective second grade and the youngest of Hyte’s squad, was perched on the edge of a desk. Atkins’ was the team’s marksman. A former Marine sniper, he could hit the center of an ace of spades at a thousand feet with a high power rifle.
The second member was Joseph Moran, who sat behind Atkins, talking into a phone. Moran was shrewd looking and tall, with a bored look firmly settled on his obviously Irish face. Hyte hoped the look would stay there tonight.
“Where’s Sy?” Hyte asked Harvey Bennet, the third member of the team, a bald-headed and compact twenty-year veteran of the NYPD.
Detective Sergeant Simon Cohen was the fourth member, the team’s second in command, and Hyte’s first partner when Hyte made detective.
“Upstairs,” Bennet said as a man in a gray double-breasted suit, white shirt, and a blue tie entered the s
ecurity room. He was Charles Koenig, the Port Authority’s head of security for Kennedy Airport. Koenig was a dapper man of fifty-six, with lively and intelligent blue eyes, thinning white hair combed neatly into place with a line of pink scalp exposed by a left side part.
Hyte and the security man had worked together several times in the past. “Charlie, what’s the story?”
Koenig gave him an abrupt head shake. “Not good,” Koenig said. “The plane is carrying ninety-one passengers and ten crew. No word if there’s more than one hijacker. He’s demanded we close down the entire airport. “
Hyte paused at that. “Why?”
Koenig shrugged. “To see what he can get?”
Hyte scratched at a spot on his neck at the base of his hairline. “Possibly. What was the threat? They’ll kill a passenger?”
“You’re not going to like this, Ray,” Koenig said in a low voice.
Hyte blew a thin stream of air from between pursed lips. “I already know that.”
“If the airport isn’t closed down and all personnel evacuated from the runways, he’ll crash the plane into one of the World Trade Center buildings.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“But effective.”
Hyte had no argument for that. “Let’s get upstairs. Anyone know who these people are?”
“There’s an FBI agent on his way. He might know.”
When Hyte gazed curiously at Koenig, the man went on. “I, ah, delayed the call until you were dispatched.”
Hyte understood Koenig’s ploy. No one liked the way the feds took over during a hijack situation. The first authority on the scene usually took command. Hyte represented that authority.
“I need a list of all the passengers,” he told Koenig. “Where did the flight originate?”
“Tangier.”
The answer caught Hyte off guard. “Tangier? Why the hell did they wait until they crossed the ocean? That doesn’t make any sense. Why not go to a country in the Middle East?”
No one answered him.
“Upstairs,” Hyte repeated. He led the group to the waiting elevator while thinking how nice it would be if this one followed training scenarios. It would also be a first.
