Twister cr-5

by Chris Ryan

  The hijacker's voice was flat and emotionless now. Ben thought he could sense a tone of determination. In the cabin, the silence had turned into a hum of curious voices. There was still an atmosphere of thick fear, but the hijacker had certainly got their attention. Ben turned to Angelo. His Italian friend's face was expressionless as he continued to listen to the words coming over the intercom.

  'I myself witnessed a father carrying the body of his daughter out of their house. She was killed by the machines of the men who thoughtlessly ravaged our island in their search for oil. The world did not hear about the little girl's death, but what we will do today will set that right. Today we will avenge the death of an innocent. Today my people will stand up to the invaders.'

  As he spoke, the hijacker's expressionless voice became almost excited. Ben didn't know what their enemy looked like, but in his head he pictured a face that was beaming fanatically.

  'We are headed towards the southern tip of Florida,' the hijacker continued, his voice slightly calmer now. 'The oil company that did us this injustice owns a large refinery there. This plane will act like a noble bullet. When it crashes into the refinery, the whole world will learn of the evils of the men who kill our children.'

  It was the word 'crash' that did it, that sent the panic of the cabin into overdrive. Ben's ears were filled once more with the sound of people screaming, and he didn't blame them. He felt like screaming too. A deathly chill was running through his veins and it was all he could do to stop himself from collapsing, sick with fear. He grabbed onto the back of the nearest seat.

  'I estimate that we are half an hour away from our target.' Ben had to strain now to hear the hijacker's voice above the noise of the cabin. 'I do not intend to speak to you again, but I suggest you use the time to consider the evils the Western world has inflicted upon us, and the part you have played in it.'

  And then, as suddenly as it had started, the crackle of the intercom disappeared.

  The air-traffic control tower of Miami International Airport throbbed with activity.

  The hurricane in the Caribbean Sea had come from nowhere and it was moving fast — a freak of nature that was as unpredictable as it was unexpected. Already it had hit the Cayman Islands, leaving a trail of unbelievable devastation in its wake, and they'd nearly lost a 747 that had strayed too close to the headwinds. All the controllers in the control tower had sweat on their brows as they stared at their bank of computer screens, intently watching the flight paths of the planes that were being diverted round the area. Each aircraft on the screen was accompanied by a string of information — the flight number, the type of plane, its altitude and direction. It was a lot to take in, and you needed your wits about you.

  Jack Simpson was twenty-five years old and he hadn't been in the job long. Not long enough to feel entirely confident. But as he spoke to the pilots he was guiding into the area, he did his best not to let any nervousness show in his voice. He knew that was the last thing pilots wanted to hear, especially in a difficult, high-traffic situation like this. And so he kept his voice calm as five passenger jets circled in a holding pattern to the east of Miami, and a good many more approached across his screen.

  'Hurricane's heading north!' he heard someone in the room shout. There was a murmur among everyone there. They all knew what that meant: it was heading their way. Jack did his best not to think about his mother, living alone in a retirement village on the coast. She'd been battered by enough high winds in the past few years. If this one didn't break up before it hit land, she'd be battered by another. Jack wasn't sure she had it in her. He winced as he tried to put that thought from his head. He had to concentrate on the job in hand, and that job was to make sure these planes landed safely.

  As Jack stared at the screen, however, something caught his attention. A flashing light on the screen — one of the aircraft. His eyebrows crumpled as he looked at it: the plane seemed to be losing height. And fast.

  'You see that, Jack?' his colleague sitting next to him asked tensely.

  'Yeah,' Jack replied. 'I see it.'

  And then, suddenly, the aircraft appeared to stop losing height and to start climbing again.

  The two air-traffic controllers glanced at each other, worried looks on their faces. 'Better make contact,' Jack said, and his colleague nodded.

  Jack checked the flight number of the aircraft — GXR1689 from Grand Cayman to Miami International — and the frequency of its communication system. Within seconds he was trying to get through to the plane's pilot.

  'Flight GXR1689, this is Miami International. Do you read me? Over.'

  Jack waited for a reply. There was none. Just an empty crackle. He cast his colleague another worried look. 'Flight GXR1689, this is Miami International. Do you read me? Over.'

  Nothing.

  Jack took a deep breath. Total radio silence from an approaching civilian aircraft. This was the sort of thing that only happened in training exercises. But this was no exercise. Something was going on with this plane. It could be in trouble. Or it could be about to cause trouble. Either way, if there was no response from the cockpit, there was only one course of action.

  Jack knew what to do. He knew he had to raise the alarm.

  He picked up a telephone handset. 'Inform the Department of Homeland Security,' he said curtly. 'We've got a Code Red.'

  Ben felt like he was frozen to the spot. The sight of the bodyguard's dead body did not affect him now; all the emotions he might have felt had been replaced with blind dread. It took a supreme effort for him to turn to look at Angelo. When he did, he received quite a shock. His friend's tortured face spoke of a million different emotions, none of them good. Between gritted teeth, the Italian boy spoke. 'Ben,' he hissed. 'I need to talk to you. Now!'

  Ben nodded. The two of them headed back to their seats, fighting their way through a scramble of people trying to look at Brad's corpse. Once they were sitting down again, Angelo spoke in a hushed, urgent whisper.

  'I told you,' he said. 'I told you it was my fault.'

  Ben looked at him in confusion. 'Your fault? What do you mean, it's your fault?'

  'My father,' Angelo insisted. 'The oil refinery the hijacker was talking about — my father owns it. That's why they have chosen this plane.'

  Ben stared at his friend. 'You know what?' he breathed. 'This is turning into a really bad day.' He took a deep breath and furrowed his brow. 'But it still doesn't make sense. How did they know you'd be on this flight?'

  Angelo shrugged impatiently. 'Non so. I don't know. How does anyone know anything?' he demanded. 'Maybe they have been watching me. Following me.'

  'Or maybe,' Ben replied slowly, 'it's just a coincidence.'

  Angelo snorted. 'Some coincidence. But listen, you can't tell anyone, OK? If the people on the plane find out, who knows what they'll do to me?'

  Ben nodded. Angelo was right. The people around them were panicking. The chances of them acting rationally and sensibly were small.

  He glanced up the aisle to where a small group had congregated around Brad's dead body. They seemed to be arguing about something. Ben turned back to Angelo. 'To be honest,' he said, 'if we don't do something quick, it's not going to matter who your dad is — we're all going to be history in half an hour anyway.'

  'But what can we do?' Angelo asked in panic, his voice wavering. 'He's got a gun… he's locked in there… he's—'

  'Calm down, Angelo!' Ben hissed. 'Just calm down, all right? Let me think.'

  Ben fell silent and tried to work his way through their options. It didn't help that Angelo was looking at him, his eyes wide with terror and his body shaking. And it didn't help, either, that Ben's mind didn't want to work. It was frozen by fear.

  He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate.

  There had to be a way out of this.

  There had to be.

  'Flight GXR1689, this is Miami International. Do you read me? Over.'

  The hijacker stared at the radio. His lip curled. For a
brief moment he thought about answering the call, but he quickly decided not to.

  'Flight GXR1689, this is Miami International. Do you read me? Over.'

  He stared resolutely at the instruments in front of him. Inwardly, he cursed. He had hoped to be able to get closer to the target before they contacted him. Now the alert would have been raised. There was a good chance that the military would be called in, and that before long he'd have US attack planes flying alongside him. The moment he started going off course, and if they couldn't identify the nature of the threat, they'd shoot him down. But maybe, just maybe, if he increased his airspeed and headed straight for the refinery now, he'd have a chance.

  Decision made. He altered the throttle setting and reduced the drag on the wings. He watched in satisfaction as the instruments before him showed a substantial increase in velocity, and then he manoeuvred the control stick to head towards the coordinates he wanted.

  Not long now, he told himself calmly.

  Just hold your nerve and it won't be long now.

  Ben opened his eyes suddenly. There had been a lurch in the aircraft's movements, as though they had suddenly increased their speed. Angelo had clearly noticed it too: his face had gone from pale to ghostly white.

  Further up the aisle, the voices of the group of people standing around Brad's body had grown louder. Ben stood up. 'Let's find out what's happening,' he said. 'See if anyone else has any bright ideas.' They stepped hurriedly into the aisle.

  Two passengers, both men, were arguing. They were both tall and broad-shouldered, with bulging stomachs and American accents, though one was a good deal older than the other. They were both sweating profusely. 'He must have been in the hold,' the older man said. 'He must have been. How else could he get into the cockpit?'

  'He can't have been,' the other one replied. 'The hold's depressurized. Takeoff would have killed him.'

  'Not necessarily,' Ben interrupted, remembering something he'd learned at school. 'Aircraft holds are often pressurized. The only problem would have been the cold. It'll be freezing down there.'

  The two men looked at him and blinked, as if surprised that someone as young as Ben might know more than them. 'Whatever, kid,' the younger man said dismissively. 'Bottom line is we're done for. This nutcase is taking the plane down, and we're going with him.'

  The group fell silent. Some of them nodded their heads in agreement.

  'So that's it, is it?' Ben demanded. 'We just sit here and let it happen?'

  'None of us want to, son,' the older of the two men told him. 'But it doesn't look to us like we've got a whole load of options. Try and break through to the cockpit and we get shot; go through the hold and we freeze to death, and if we don't we still get shot.'

  Ben looked at them each in turn, amazed that they seemed to have given up so quickly. 'But — we've got to do something,' he announced. 'If we're all going to die anyway, surely anything's worth a try.' He realized he was shouting slightly. 'Come on — better for one of us to get shot than for all of us to burn to death in some oil refinery!'

  'Look, son,' the older man continued. 'You're scared, and that's OK. But unless you've got any better ideas, the best thing we can all do is keep calm.'

  Better ideas? Ben took a deep breath and looked around. Everyone's eyes seemed to be on him now, and he sensed that they were all waiting for him to come up with something. As he looked around, his eyes fell on the damaged corpse of Angelo's bodyguard, lying motionless in a pool of his own blood.

  The man had asked for better ideas, and Ben realized that he was talking to him again in a somewhat hysterical voice. 'So have you, son? Have you?'

  Ben looked up at him and a whisper of a smile played across his lips.

  'Actually,' he said quietly, stepping forward towards Brad's body, 'I have.'

  Chapter Five

  Everyone went quiet, waiting for Ben to explain.

  'Look,' he said, slightly breathlessly. 'The hijacker is obviously worried that we'll be able to break the door in if we try. That's why he shot Brad. So it's obvious, isn't it? Either we do break the door down, or we get him to open it himself.'

  'But he's got a gun,' one of the group said, as though speaking to someone of below normal intelligence.

  'Yeah, but Brad's got a bulletproof vest.'

  'And that did him a lot of good,' the older man said, not hiding the scorn in his voice. 'Look, kid, if you haven't got anything sensible to add—' 'Wait,' Ben said impatiently. 'Think about it. If we barge the door again and the hijacker opens up to shoot, what part of the body is he going to go for?'

  The group looked at each other, like a bunch of children in a classroom who weren't sure they knew the answer to a teacher's question. The voice that finally replied came from behind Ben.

  'The head,' it said, clearly and confidently.

  Ben spun round and he sensed everyone else in the group looking at this newcomer. The man standing behind them was tall and well tanned with dark, slicked-back hair. He looked South American maybe, and his accent was American too.

  'Exactly,' Ben replied. 'So we need to remove the bulletproof vest and whoever barges the door has to hold it in front of their face.'

  Another silence. A long one.

  'You're mad,' a woman said, and there was a murmur of agreement.

  Ben felt himself getting angry. 'Well, has anyone got any better ideas? Or shall we just sit around and wait to be blown up?'

  More silence. And then the older man spoke. 'It's got to be worth a try,' he murmured.

  'Yeah,' someone else agreed. 'It's not like we've got many options.'

  'I think it's a very good idea,' the newcomer said firmly. He stepped forward and offered Ben his hand. 'My name's Danny.'

  Ben shook his hand briefly. 'I'm Ben.'

  'So who's going to perform this act of bravery then, Ben?'

  None of the older people answered, but that was OK. Ben had it all worked out. 'It makes sense for the smallest person to do it,' he said. 'That way the bulletproof vest will cover more of their body when they hold it up.' He looked around. He was quite a bit smaller than all the other adults. 'I'll do it,' he said firmly.

  'And what happens,' Danny asked, 'if we overcome the hijacker? Does anyone here know how to fly a plane?'

  Again, silence.

  'Well, actually,' Ben said quietly, 'I kind of do. I mean, not a real plane like this, but I've flown a microlight before. I reckon I can keep it steady at least, and if we can get radio contact with Miami, maybe they can talk me through it, guide us down.' He glanced at everyone. They were all looking at him expectantly. 'Come on,' Ben said brusquely. 'We need to roll Brad's body over, unstrap the vest.'

  It was Danny who bent down to help him. The bodyguard was quite a weight, and they really had to put their back into turning him over. As they did so, Ben tried not to look at the messed-up remains of his head. Danny ripped Brad's shirt open. Sure enough, beneath the torn material was a thick black bulletproof vest. The buckles were tight — they hurt Ben's fingers as he grappled with them — but a minute or so later they had undone the vest and rolled Brad back over. Ben moved his arms out so that they could take it off more easily.

  When he stood up, he had the bulletproof vest in his hands. He was just holding it up in front of his body when he heard Angelo speak.

  'Ben,' the Italian boy said firmly. 'Dammelo. Give it to me.'

  Ben blinked.

  'I mean it, Ben. I'm slightly smaller than you, and if this goes according to plan, you don't want to be fighting the hijacker when you should be getting to the controls of the cockpit. And anyway, this should be my job.'

  'Why?' a woman's voice asked.

  Angelo didn't reply. He just stared meaningfully at Ben, who nodded slowly and handed the vest over to Angelo.

  'All right, Angelo,' he said softly. 'If that's what you want.'

  The two of them turned to look at the cockpit door. Ben couldn't help noticing that everyone had got out of their way and had retreated
to the safety of their seats. Only Danny was standing with them.

  Ben took a deep breath. Now was the time. The safety of everyone on the plane was up to them.

  The two striker aircraft — Lockheed Martin F-35 Lightning IIs — had taken off from Key West Naval Air Station within minutes of the Code Red being raised. They roared from their island base out over the sea before making a sharp turn and heading through the clear sky up towards their target. Each of the aircraft carried easily enough weaponry to take down a civilian plane in mid-air, and both of them were flown by experienced pilots. Pilots who had been in war zones. Pilots who weren't afraid to carry out difficult orders if the chain of command made them.

  The two F-35s appeared immediately on Jack Simpson's air-traffic control screen. These military aircraft were a different colour to the civilian planes that filled his screen. They moved faster too. Much faster. It was difficult to estimate these things, but Jack reckoned it wouldn't be more than ten minutes before they caught up with the rogue plane. What happened then would be anyone's guess. He felt his sweat seeping through all the pores of his skin as he tried to keep tabs on all the other air traffic and do his bit to guide them in safely. But it wasn't easy to concentrate when things were going so wrong up there. He wanted to close his eyes and pray for the poor passengers on the plane whose lives were hanging by a thread. But closing his eyes wouldn't have been sensible at all.

  'Weird kind of day,' Jack's colleague observed. The guy's voice was tense.

  'You can say that again,' Jack replied.

  A pause as they both looked at their screens.

  'They're calling it Hurricane Jasmine,' Jack's colleague continued.

  'Pretty name,' Jack said.

  'Not such a pretty storm.'

  A voice shouted in the background. 'Listen up, everyone. All Florida airports to be closed to incoming traffic. Hurricane's moving quickly and unpredictably. Divert everything up north to Atlanta or Cincinnati.'