by Doug Beason
“I will try. Maybe I’ll let you try it right before the President, so you can tell me what you think about it.”
“You don’t say. Well, hot diggity dog. You’ve got yourself a deal.” He slapped Hujr on the back. “Get to work then, Yoli-san.” He motioned for him to hurry into the plane.
Hujr’s grin stiffened as he entered Air Force One. “I will.” naive yankee, he thought. When the marine attached the Japanese honorific to Hujr’s assumed Filipino name, it was a dead giveaway that the marine lumped all foreigners in the same pot. It only stirred the tumult raging in Hujr’s stomach, intensifying his desire to accomplish his mission.
“We’re ready, Mr. President.”
“Eh?”
“The plane, Mr. President. Air Force One has received clearance to take off.” The aide stepped back from the table.
“Oh, of course.” President Montoya leaned forward in his seat and clasped his hands. He directed his remarks to the gray-haired gentleman sitting across from him. “President Akulov, I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’m afraid I’ve got to go. Schedule and all that to keep up with.”
The Russian President showed strong, evenly spaced teeth. “Mustn’t keep the Israelis waiting, either. I don’t want to be out of their favor any more than I am. But at least these talks are helping. Perhaps we can wrap this up soon.”
The President of the United States nodded knowingly. Tensions between Russia, Iran and Israel had never totally relaxed, and anything that might be construed as a diplomatic faux pas had to be avoided. Montoya pushed himself up, and the rest of the room followed as if on cue. They brushed past the reporters and lesser dignitaries who clamored around the two leaders as they were ushered into a chauffeured car.
Arriving at the airport, they clasped hands. Montoya said, “Thank you, Mr. President,” and strode up the ladder.
He turned and waved to the crowd—mostly U.S. Embassy personnel and their families—who gathered to bid him farewell in the late-afternoon drizzle. Montoya waved one last time at the top of the stairs before entering the plane.
The President nodded to the two stewards on his way to his chamber. “Two Tecate, and wait about an hour before you bring me dinner.”
“Yes, sir.” Hujr jerked his head at Du’Ali. The two melted from Montoya’s path.
Montoya struggled with his overcoat as he walked down the aisle. Amador Trujillo helped remove the garment from the President’s back and followed him to the rear of the plane. Trujillo asked, “Well, what do you think. How did it go?”
Montoya shrugged, his back still to Trujillo. “Who knows? Akulov seemed open enough. He could see my point, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with signing that white paper.”
“Hmmm.”
They reached Montoya’s chamber. Almost immediately, Hujr appeared at the door carrying a tray. Trujillo motioned to the steward to place the tray on the table. Two iced mugs of beer with salt around the rims sat on the tray. As Hujr backed out of the room and shut the door Trujillo squeezed a lime into one of the beers and handed it to Montoya. “You were saying…?”
Montoya nodded and took a sip. “Thanks.” He flopped down on the chair and buckled in. Trujillo glanced around and found a seat facing the President.
Montoya took another sip and said, “I just don’t know. It could really go either way. If that son-of-a-bitch Akulov decides to go ahead with his original proposal, we are out of luck. It will upset Israel to no end, and will ruin any progress we’ve made.
“But if he decides to go with our proposal, that’ll put their military shipments to Iran on the back burner for a while. So it’s all up to him—the ball’s in his court.”
“Did he let you know any sort of timetable?”
Montoya said flatly, “None. And I wouldn’t wait for him to decide on one, either. I think he’s made up his mind and is just not telling anyone.”
Trujillo emitted a low whistle. They stopped talking as the plane’s engines roared in the background. The President’s chamber was insulated for sound, but the noise from the jet’s takeoff still bore into the room.
The noise abated after a few moments, leaving Montoya alone in his thoughts. Everything seemed to be going sour this trip, and even his downhome friendliness, which usually worked with international officials, had failed to change the Russian’s mind.
Trujillo killed his beer and looked at Montoya. “Ready for another?”
“Yes, please. Go ahead and ring for another round.”
Trujillo moved to the intercom as Montoya sank back in his chair and studied notes from the meeting with Akulov.
As Trujillo rang for the beverage Montoya hoped the flight would go smoothly. One more beer ought to do it for him. Actually, a six-pack would do the job, but that was another thing about being the President. The fish-bowl he lived in was so damned transparent, he couldn’t take a leak without someone noticing. Last time he had been good and drunk was when he was governor and Trujillo was working as the Attorney General. It was almost expected of him to party, and party hard, back in Santa Fe. Sometimes he wondered why he had ever left New Mexico.
220 Nautical Miles Due West of Ankara, Turkey
The sun was just setting, and the horizon glowed on the right side of the aircraft. The long day had taken its toll, and one by one the White House staff and members of the presidential press corps drifted off to sleep or quietly argued the day’s doings over an after-dinner drink.
With the evening meal served and the silver and dishes stowed, Hujr slipped to the rear of the aircraft, carrying a cloth-covered vat. Under the towel he carried a newly sharpened kitchen knife. As he approached the President’s chamber he nodded to a Secret Service agent, still wearing his ubiquitous sunglasses; the agent stared through mirrored frames.
Marine Sergeant Clements sat behind the agent, his weapon stowed and locked into place in a rifle setting to the left of the President’s door. A small steward’s station was to the right; facilities for a wet bar were there, along with cabinets and drawers that could be used for food storage. Hujr moved into the cubbyhole and placed the vat he carried to the rear, out of sight of the cabin. With his back turned, he wrapped his hand and the knife with a towel, then stepped back out into the cabin. He motioned with his free hand and brought the marine to his feet.
Clements blinked the sleep away. “What’s up?”
“You wanted a taste of the nachos before I took them in to the President.”
Clements looked around and motioned with his eyes to the agent.
Hujr’s eyes widened at the sergeant’s motion; Hujr hadn’t planned on dealing with two of them.
The Secret Service agent stood and approached.
Clements nodded to the vat and spoke quietly. “Aquinaldo has some nachos he picked up at the commissary. Want to give them a try?”
Hujr thought fast and fought down his emotions. He directed a question to the agent. “If you are both going to try this, I will need some more chips. Could you bring some back from the other steward?” He had to get rid of the marine first—the sergeant was the taller of the two by a foot and would prove the most difficult to get past; he’d take care of the agent afterward.
“I’ll get them.” Clements twisted past the two.
Hujr smiled nervously at the agent. Ifrit! He’d have to do the best he could.
The agent spoke up. “I’ve always liked nachos. We don’t make them so hot as what the President likes though. What did you put on them?”
Hujr wet his lips as he tried to think fast. “Oh, I use my own special mixture: uh, tomatoes, lettuce, sour cream, jalapeños …”
The agent took off his glasses. “That sounds good; let me try it.”
He brushed forward. Hujr stepped out of his way as the agent forced his way into the cubbyhole. Once the agent was inside, Hujr moved quickly behind him. The agent turned and scanned the counter. “Where did you say it was?”
“There, up above.” As Hujr pointed the agent turned his back.
Hujr whipped the knife from his towel, brought the blade over the agent’s head, and pulled back as hard as he could.
The man struggled briefly, but Hujr kept pulling back on the knife, keeping the agent from crying out. Hujr twisted the kitchen knife with his right hand as it dug into the agent’s throat. The agent fought back only sporadically as his life drained away. Finally, the agent’s head gave a crack as Hujr jerked the skull at an impossible angle. Hujr forced the knife up and down in vigorous strokes until the body sagged in his arms.
Hujr kicked open a food cabinet and stuffed the agent inside. A pool of blood spotted the floor. Hujr wiped the blood up with a towel and straightened the tiny cubbyhole.
He poked his head out into the aisle. Clements ambled down toward the back with a bag of chips. Hujr saw Du’Ali slip from the stewards’ station and knock lightly on the cockpit door. Everything was going as planned. And if he could get the marine into the cubbyhole, he shouldn’t have any trouble getting to the President.
The remaining Secret Service agents wouldn’t make any difference; it was the first fifteen seconds that counted—if he could get to Montoya before anyone cried out.
Clements stuck his head into the chamber. “Here are the chips. Now where’s the hot stuff?” He looked around. “Where’d Sam go?”
Hujr tried to keep his voice from showing emotion. “He went to the toilet.”
“Well, I guess that leaves more for us. Where’s the nachos?” He moved toward the back as he spotted the vat. “Hey, now, how are you supposed to do this?” He turned around just as Hujr withdrew his knife.
Clements spotted the knife and lashed out with his foot at the knife. “You damned flip—”
Hujr sidestepped the kick and coolly dove at the marine, ducking a roundhouse from Clement’s right. The knife found its way to the windpipe. Hujr twisted the knife deep as the marine held him at arm’s length; gurgling sounds came from the man’s throat. Slowly, the marine’s grip loosened, and Clements slid to the floor.
The whole incident had taken less than ten seconds, but Hujr breathed as if he were finishing a marathon. Gasping for breath, he peeked out to the aisle. Despite the marine’s cry, the episode had gone unnoticed.
Now the adrenaline started to flow. He felt the first rush of the hormone as he turned back for the vat. Killing the Secret Service agent and the marine had pumped him up. The prospect of actually pulling off this coup drove his body into high gear. It was the one thing that he had slept, dreamed, and trained for over the past three months.
Throwing away the towel covering the “nachos,” Hujr grasped the vat of plastique, pushed two electrodes into the soft explosive, and checked the warning light on the battery. A green light from the unit blinked up at him—the vat was almost ready to explode. With his right hand he closed a spring handgrip switch, arming the bomb. He swung the apparatus into the aisle.
The door was not locked; it opened at his touch. President Montoya scowled up at him as he entered. Two empty beer mugs framed his features. The President put down a paper and said, “I know you’re new to this, Mr. Aquinaldo, but you’ve got to learn how to knock. You’re interrupting me. Now what is it?”
Hujr moved into the room, keeping silent. Montoya stared up at him. The dark hair and brown eyes, Mexican-American features that Hujr had grown to loath, stood for everything he had pledged to tear down. Hujr almost got cold feet, but the reality—his training and the drive to finish—brought him around.
Hujr quickly closed the door behind him, locking it. “Quiet, ifrit! Listen to me.”
Montoya calmly reached under his desk to push an alarm. Hujr leapt forward and kicked the wooden desk with his foot, slamming Montoya backward. Instantly, the confidence the President had carried was replaced by a look of terror.
Hujr held up his hand with the switch and hissed. “Do not try it again, if you want to live. Do you understand?” Montoya remained motionless. “Yes or no? Quickly—tell me.” Hujr lashed out with his foot and sent the desk flying backward, again ramming Montoya against the wall.
“All right, dammit!” Tiny beads of sweat appeared on Montoya’s face. He licked dry lips. “What do you want?”
Hujr moved to the desk and ripped two tiny wires from underneath the drawer, disarming the alarm. He motioned with his head to the vat he held. “Listen and understand. I will only tell you once. If you do not comprehend what I am saying, interrupt me. Otherwise, just nod your head. Understand?”
Montoya’s head bobbed up and down.
“Good. I have five kilograms of plastic explosive, ready to detonate and destroy this plane. See this switch?” Hujr held up his right hand, gasping a spring handgrip with a wire running to the vat. Montoya nodded vigorously. “All I have to do is release this switch and the plane explodes. If that happens, everyone on it dies, you and me included.
“This trigger is armed. If I’m killed, the bomb will explode. The trigger is called a deadman switch, for even if you somehow manage to kill me, the device will still explode. And you will die if I die. Do you understand?”
Once more Montoya nodded, but this time it took an effort. Hujr relaxed slightly. Montoya knew now that he was serious—and that had been the most critical part. Now that the President understood that everyone on the plane might die, all he had to do was give the orders from here on out.
Hujr backed up, set the vat on the floor, and, with one hand still grasping the deadman switch, moved a chair in front of the door. Keeping his eyes glued to the President, he managed to push the couch with his right foot to reinforce the chair.
Hujr moved away from the front of the desk and sat to Montoya’s right. “Mr. President, I am prepared to die if you do not follow my orders. My life is worthless to me. I will only achieve a higher glory if I die bringing you to your death. So do not try to talk me out of it, and only do as I say.
“First, you will contact the cockpit and forbid anyone to enter this chamber. If they try to enter, you will die. You will order them not to use the radio, or any other emergency device, to broadcast outside of this plane what I have done. Tell them now. Remember, if you say one wrong word, you will die.”
Montoya reached for the intercom. His hand moved slowly across the desk to where he flicked on the instrument. “Colonel McGirney, this is the President.”
The pilot sounded tired. “Mr. President, we already know the situation—we’ve been waiting for your call. One of the stewards killed the flight engineer and has taken command of the cockpit. What are your orders, sir?”
Montoya looked up at Hujr, wide-eyed. “You didn’t say there would be anyone killed!”
Hujr stared him down and barely moved the deadman switch. “Remember your directions, Mr. President. I am not playing a game.”
Montoya drew in several breaths. He turned his attention back to the intercom. “Inform the rest of the plane not to try to contact me, Colonel. The steward that is holding me has a bomb—a very big one—and will blow up the plane without hesitation if anyone tries to get into my chamber. I am well, so do not—do not—try anything out of the ordinary. And maintain radio silence. No exceptions.”
“Very well, sir.”
Within seconds, Colonel McGirney’s muffled voice could be heard through the chamber walls, transmitting the President’s orders via the onboard intercom.
The intercom on Montoya’s desk crackled back to life. “Done, sir.”
“Stand by, Colonel.” Montoya flicked off the intercom. A slight bit of color began to creep back into his cheeks, almost as though the initial shock of the hijacking had abated. Montoya’s voice was level as he spoke. “All right, your announcement has been made. Now what do you want me to do?”
Hujr grew suddenly alert, catching the subtle change in Montoya’s voice. He had to act now. He had to put down any thoughts the President might be having of trying to circumvent Hujr’s plan. Hujr jumped up with the bomb and backhanded Montoya across the desk. “I said no speaking. Move away from the desk.”
Hujr toed the President. “Once more. You will speak only if you do not understand me. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
Hujr kicked the President on the cheek—not hard enough to cause permanent damage, but well-placed, so that Montoya’s cheek oozed blood.
“I said, is that clear?”
This time Montoya only nodded. Saliva and snot mixed with Montoya’s blood on the carpet; the blue Presidential seal soaked up the fluids.
Hujr allowed Montoya a few moments to think about the threat, then prodded him once more with his toe. “Get back to your desk.”
Montoya pushed himself up and staggered, holding a hand to his cheek. When he sat, Hujr stared at him stonily. “Inform the captain once more of the warning I gave not to attempt to break into the chamber. Anything else they try—such as a rapid decompression, a sudden dive, or firing bullets through the bulkhead—will only gain them death. Furthermore, they are to turn off all running lights, identification signals, and electronic gear. The steward in the cockpit will verify what they have done.”
Montoya did as he was told. He remained silent after speaking to Colonel McGirney. Du’Ali verified the pilot had followed the President’s orders, and Air Force One was cut-off from the outside world.
Hujr allowed a smile to grow over his face. “Very good, Mr. President. I think we can have a working relationship. Now, instruct the captain to fly in the following heading.” He reeled off a series of numbers. “He must fly directly in that heading, disregarding any airspace violations he may expect to encounter.” Hujr consulted the wall clock. “But he will not have any, at least not any unexpected ones. Have him change course immediately. Once again, the steward in the cockpit will acknowledge that your pilot is following my directions. If he does not obey your orders, you will die. Now tell him.”
