by David Wind
Hyte thought about his teacher at the government counter-terrorist training center outside of DC. The man had summed up what everyone knew but didn’t want to say. “No two hijackings are alike, no matter how similar they are in appearance. When you’re involved in a hijacking, pray for a lunatic after money, not a political idealist. A self-serving hijacking—one for monetary gain— can be handled with more ease than the politically motivated. You can deal with a true criminal; you can’t with a terrorist. Just remember that the methods we’ve taught you are the best available. Don’t accept them as gospel. Your mind is the best tool you have.”
But to use that tool, Hyte reminded himself, I have to know what kind of hijacking I’m dealing with.
The elevator stopped and the door hissed open, revealing a windowed room dominated by electronic tracking equipment. Sy Cohen was standing at a supervisor’s desk, talking on the phone. Cohen’s short-cropped gray hair and narrowed eyes accented his tense features.
Hyte started toward him. The sergeant hung up and turned. When Cohen’s eyes met his, Hyte’s apprehension increased.
“Ray,” Cohen said, cocking a thumb toward the phone. “That was Tangier. They found two maintenance workers dead, throats cut. At first, they thought it was some sort of vendetta, but the dead men were the ones assigned to service Flight 88. The Tangier authorities have no doubt it’s terrorists who’ve hijacked the plane.”
“Shit!” Hyte said. He had his answer. The hijacking was political.
Chapter Five
Mohamad picked up the intercom and held it to Joan Bidding’s mouth. “You will ask for Dr. Schmidt to come into the first-class section. Make the announcement in a normal manner.”
Joan’s eyes flicked to Haller, who nodded. “Would Dr. Schmidt please come to the first class section? Your medical assistance is required.”
Mohamad knew that everyone in coach would watch a man carrying a large attaché case leave his seat and go forward. They would wonder who was sick, raising no sense of danger. Because the success of his plan required having the third of his four men in first class, he had to make the first-class passengers aware of their situation—but only the first-class passengers, and under controlled circumstances.
“Captain, keep to the same flight pattern we have been following. Khamil, if the captain does anything except fly the plane, kill him.”
Mohamad pushed Joan Bidding into the curtained-off area outside the flight deck. “You will go ahead of me. You will inform the first-class passengers of the situation. They are to remain calm and in their seats.”
While unable to rid herself of the knot of fear in her stomach, her initial numbness was receding. Swallowing hard, she parted the curtain. At almost the same moment, a man stepped through the curtain separating first class from coach. Her first instinct was to warn him of the danger. Then her eyes fell on the weapon he was holding.
She thought of her husband and sons. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention.” She moistened her lips. “P-please, do nothing. The plane has been hijacked. We…we will not be harmed if you remain calm.”
Disbelief was the most prevalent expression. The red head in seat 3B, Michael Barnes, started to rise. “Who the hell—”
Mohamad pointed the machine pistol at him. “Do not be stupid. All of you look behind you.”
Mesmerized, they turned as one. Standing in the aisle, his back to the curtain, was the man with the Uzi. His face was blank. The barrel of his weapon swept over the passengers.
“That attachment on the front of the Uzi is a silencer. No one in the rear section of the plane will hear the weapon. For your edification, Abdul is a fine marksman. He does not miss.”
Mohamad paused. He smiled. “Your own lives and those of the other passengers depend on your silence.” A low whimpering came from his left. He looked down at Cristobal Helenez. “Tell your wife to be quiet.”
Helenez drew his wife close, holding her face to his chest to quiet her. Mohamad looked at the other passengers. The overriding expression on most faces was fear. Yet on some, hostility grew. When his eyes settled on J. Milton Prestone, he saw open rage. That was expected. The little girl was cowering against the window.
“Please stay seated. Do not remove your seatbelts. I would not want Abdul to have to kill anyone.” Mohamad started to turn, drawing the still trembling Joan Bidding with him. His body was tense, his senses alert. From behind came the low snick of a seatbelt opening. The scratch of a shoe on carpet followed.
Mohamad spun. His gun hand arched out, the heavy metal of the pistol struck quickly and accurately. Ex-army colonel and former United States senator J. Milton Prestone collapsed a foot from the terrorist.
Mohamad ignored the unconscious man. “Do not make the same mistake. The penalty will be even more severe. Look at that child!” he ordered, pointing the machine pistol at seven-year-old Lea D’Anjine. “Her life is in your hands. She dies if you do anything other than what we tell you to do.”
<><><>
Hyte and his team had taken over airport control, which now handled all contact with Flight 88 on a restricted frequency. Atkins and Moran manned telephones; Harvey Bennet leaned casually against the wall, awaiting his instructions. Detective Sergeant Simon Cohen stood next to the radioman, waiting for the plane to contact them.
Hyte looked up from the passenger list. “How much fuel do they have left?”
“Twenty minutes,” the operator answered immediately.
“Are all runways cleared?”
“The last plane just took off,” Koenig said.
Hyte turned to see a tall man enter the control room and come toward him. “I’m Arnel. FBI.” He wore the regulation three-piece suit. His face was classic Government Issue.
Hyte, aware of the conflicts created by the last joint operation between the Bureau and the Department, shook Arnel’s hand.
“Ray Hyte, NYPD hostage negotiations. I believe we’ll be handling things here. No problem with that?”
Hyte noted the agent’s sardonic smile. “Seeing as you’re first on the scene, I was told to offer whatever assistance I could. I’m also acting as liaison with Immigration and Naturalization. Their two senior officers are unavailable.”
“Do you know who took that plane?”
“We believe it’s a PLO operation, but we have no confirmation.”
“Christ! What about the government counter-terrorist strike force?”
“They’re on classified maneuvers, I don’t know if they will make it back in time. But we’ve got another problem,” Arnel said.
“Which is?”
“Former Senator J. Milton Prestone is on board.”
Hyte looked at the list in his hand. His eyes stopped at the name. He spun to the detective lolling against the wall. “No press!” he ordered. “And I don’t give a damn who tries to countermand that.”
“Too late,” Atkins said. “There’s already two news teams downstairs, and there’s a whole bunch more on their way.”
“Jesus, they’re getting fast. Okay. Nothing is to be said to them yet, nothing.” Hyte closed his eyes. Concentrate. Go by the book. “Let’s get the plane down.”
“Ray,” Sy Cohen called, “the hijacker identified himself as Rashid Mohamad.”
“Alias James Westerwood,” Arnel said quickly. “He’s famous. A graduate of Oxford, he holds an engineering degree from Stanford. A fanatic who, in the last seven years has killed two hundred people. He’s a member of a militant faction of the PLO that split from Arafat because they believe Arafat’s too soft.”
Hyte stared out the window, chewing on the agent’s information. “If this Rashid Mohamad is so fucking smart, what the hell is he doing here? He has to know we can’t let him get away,-not after the last few hijackings.”
“I guess that’s what we’re going to find out,” the fed responded.
Hyte turned to Sy Cohen. “You go with the fuel truck.”
When the sergeant left, Hyte nodded to the radi
o operator. “Get me Mohamad.”
<><><>
“Come in Trans Air Flight 88, this is Airport Control, over.”
Haller turned to Mohamad. “We’re down to fifteen minutes of fuel.”
“You may respond,” Mohamad said.
“Control this is Trans Air 88, over.”
“Trans Air 88 you are cleared for landing. All runways are unoccupied.”
Mohamad spoke before Haller could. “If, when we land, I see any movement, people will die.”
“The airport is closed. The runways are shut down,” the radio operator reaffirmed.
Mohamad nodded to Haller. “Proceed with landing instructions.”
“Shall I make the landing announcement now?”
“Very carefully, Captain,” Mohamad said.
His voice steady, Haller announced what the terrorist rehearsed with him five minutes earlier.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Haller. We are cleared for landing. We’re sorry for the delay. At this time, I would also like to ask for your further cooperation. One of our passengers has suffered what appears to be a heart attack. A doctor is with him now. An ambulance will meet the plane on the runway. Until the passenger is off the plane, please remain in your seat with your seatbelt fastened. We will be moving the plane again. Thank you for your patience.”
“Good,” the terrorist said.
The 727 touched down eight minutes later. In coach, the man who had used the lavatory earlier unfastened his seatbelt and stood. The passenger next to him glared.
He returned the look with a smile and went into the galley. The three stewardesses in their jump seats told him to return to his seat.
Ignoring them, he opened his attaché case and withdrew the Uzi. He held a finger to his lips. It was warning enough.
When the plane came to a stop, far out on the runway, he stepped into the aisle as, overhead, the P.A. system came to life.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is not the captain. Please remain calm. This plane is now in the control of the Palestinian Liberation Organization. If you want to remain alive, do nothing. If you think this is a hoax, look around.”
Seventy-seven passengers and five stewardesses found themselves staring at two men armed with machine guns. Several women screamed. Their seatmates silenced them. No one left his seat.
In first class, Mohamad had shifted the passengers into the first three rows. All except Lea D’Anjine, who was in the fifth row, where the terrorist had belted her into the seat. Of all the passengers, only J. Milton Prestone was not conscious. He lay across the first two seats, his hands tied.
Khamil Fasil stood guard over them. His eyes were never still. He held the machine pistol at the ready.
<><><>
“They’re down and taxiing,” the radio operator reported.
Hyte watched out the window. Arnel stood next to him.
“The commissioner wants to know what’s happening,” called Junior Atkins, covering the mouthpiece of the phone with his hand.
“Tell him,” Hyte snapped, annoyance thickening his voice. He wasn’t ready to speak with the brass; he needed his mind free for what was ahead.
“Trans Air Flight 88, proceed to runway Delta Seven East. The fuel truck is waiting.”
The terrorist’s voice came over the central speaker. His words were precise, his diction flawless. “We will proceed to a place I choose. You will send out the fuel truck. Send only two men. The truck will circle the plane at a distance of one hundred feet. The cab light must be on. The truck will stop one hundred feet in front of the plane. The men will get out, undress to show they are unarmed, and stay undressed. I will then call you to send them to refuel the plane.”
Hyte watched the silver and red plane. It moved slowly, its flight lights blinking. It stopped in the intersection of the three runways directly in view of the tower.
“Send the truck,” said the terrorist.
Hyte spoke into a walkie-talkie. He relayed the instructions to Sy Cohen, who was waiting in the truck.
Two minutes later the truck reached the plane, circled it, and stopped a hundred feet away. The two men got out, removed their coveralls, and stood in the truck’s headlights wearing only shoes, socks, and underwear.
Moran chuckled. “Sy looks good in boxer shorts.”
“Shut up,” Hyte snapped. The detective did.
“Commence fueling,” the terrorist ordered. His voice echoed through the speakers.
The radio operator started to speak. Hyte stopped him and took the microphone. It was time to set the tone for what would follow. “This is Lieutenant Hyte of the New York Police Department. Refueling will not, I repeat, will not take place unless you release the hostages.”
“Fuel the plane or someone will die,” Mohamad replied.
“Give us the hostages.” Hyte’s nerves tightened. He knew that this opening gambit was only the first in a series of strategic plays for leverage. He and the hijacker would jockey for position. Bluff and sternness before give and take was the methodology. He had to find out what the hijackers wanted. The demands would contain information he needed to learn how far he could push them. It was a dangerous but essential move. Everyone trained in hostage negotiations accepted the theory.
Mohamad spoke in a bored voice. “Until now, no one has been killed. You will begin refueling in one minute. If you delay, you will cause the first death. And then one passenger will die for each minute the fuel truck sits idle.”
“That means your own death, too,” Hyte said.
“We are prepared for that.”
It was said so simply that Hyte didn’t like it. He glanced at Arnel, one eyebrow cocked. The Fed’s expression confirmed the terrorist’s statement. “You don’t have to die,” Hyte told the terrorist.
“Thirty seconds.”
Something was wrong. The hijacker should be spouting organizational dogma and making demands, not calmly ticking off the time. “Let’s talk.” Hyte’s eyes locked on the second hand of his watch. His counter offer was to make the man think he would get what he wanted, whatever it might be.
“We have been talking. Apparently, you have not been listening. Listen…carefully.... Now!”
A gunshot. Hyte blanched. He heard screams. Bluff, he told himself. That, too, was part of negotiations. When you couldn’t see what was happening, anything said could be a lie.
“Watch!” Mohamad ordered.
Everyone in the control room stared out at the plane. The forward cabin door opened. A body tumbled out of the plane. Although no sound could reach the men in the control room, everyone was sure he heard the thud of the body when it struck the tarmac.
Swallowing quickly, Hyte closed his eyes. “Fuel the fucking plane.”
Chapter Six
Shortly after fueling the plane, the Trans Air executive arrived and introduced himself to Hyte as Mark Stubbin.
“The dead man was the flight engineer,” Cohen told Hyte after the lieutenant and Stubbin shook hands.
“His name was Alan Reynolds,” Stubbin said. “He is— was—married. Has three children.”
Hyte looked at Arnel. “What do you think about this Rashid Mohamad?”
“Only that he’s one of their best. He’s hard to find, even harder to catch, and he’s a master strategist.”
Frustration laced Hyte’s thoughts. His sense of unease was growing. The hijacking of Flight 88 was not following any regular pattern. Although no two hijackings were ever truly alike, they usually had, by necessity, certain points of similarity. By this time, the hijacker should have made his demands and spouted his rhetoric. Why hadn’t he?
Hyte had to penetrate the enigma that the hijacker had set before him; Rashid Mohamad was the center of the puzzle. “What the hell is he doing here? He’s got to know that he’s a dead man.”
“We’ve never been able to understand the psychological makeup of a terrorist with any degree of accuracy,” Arnel said. “The closest we can come is that a terrorist has
already accepted death. Look at that Egyptian foul-up in Malta, or the Pakistani hijacking where they tried to take out everyone. Who knows what motivates someone to kill and then let themselves be killed?”
Hyte didn’t want to think about either incident. Too many people besides terrorists had died. “Mr. Stubbin, what’s the pilot like?”
The airline executive shrugged. “A good man. This was to be his last flight. He’s retiring.”
“No. His background. Does he have a cool head? Is he a strong man, physically? Mentally?”
“Haller’s been with us for a long time. He’s one of the best pilots in our fleet. He was a highly decorated jet pilot in the early sixties, in Southeast Asia.”
Cool head, Hyte decided, but getting on in years. He pushed his mind into gear.
When he had accepted the offer to train as a hostage negotiator, it was to be separate from his duties as a precinct detective. He had seen too many people die or get hurt before stopping their attacker. His hostage work was, he could admit in the sanctity of his mind, his personal act of contrition to those who had died.
“Hyte?” came Mohammad’s voice, interrupting his reverie.
Hyte went to the console. “Here.”
“We have a list of requests.”
“Requests?” Hyte echoed sarcastically, mentally ticking off his negotiation tactics list, now that Mohamad seemed ready to talk. The demands were always first, after the fuel. Additionally, he had gained another piece of information. Mohamad had said we, not I.
“When our requests are met, we will release the passengers and crew. We, the revolutionary arm of the legal government of Palestine, ask for the following.”
Cohen held a small tape recorder near the speaker. “First, we must have the release of our five brothers now held by your government in Ossining Prison. Second, five million dollars in cash—one million dollars for each of our brothers—is to be delivered to the plane. Third, the United States must publicly acknowledge the existence of the Palestinian cause, the Palestine Liberation Organization, and must pursue an active dialogue with a PLO representative. Fourth, the government of the United States must grant our five brothers amnesty and give myself and my three comrades amnesty.”
