by Mainak Dhar
The old soldier hit the floor.
People around me began screaming and wailing. Aman, already terrified, began bawling, and I took him from Zoya, holding him tight to my chest, murmuring to him that things would be okay. That he would be safe. Zoya was clinging on to me now. I had witnessed just how brave she could be, even when faced with near certain death, so I knew that she didn’t scare easy. However, being stuck at 30,000 feet in the sky dependent on the whims of murderous gunmen and with no apparent escape routes can terrify anyone. The man who had fired the shot stood in front of me and shouted to be heard above the screaming passengers.
‘Quiet. Quiet or I shoot another one of you.’
He waited as people started to obey him, though subdued sobbing could still be heard in the cabin.
‘Much better. This plane is now under the control of the warriors of Daesh. As long as you cooperate, none of you will be hurt.’
He brandished his gun. ‘These may look like toy guns, but as you have all seen, they fire and kill like just any other gun, so don’t try and be a hero. Pull all the shades down, put on your seat belts and keep quiet.’
I was watching the man as he spoke. He was of medium built, perhaps no more than five feet eight inches, looked Middle Eastern and was trim and athletic in a way that most young businessmen are not. He spoke English, which had hardly any trace of an accent, so he had either lived in the West a lot or had been educated there.
I recalled what I had read of the 9/11 hijackers. Most were not crazed, uneducated jihadis, but educated young men who followed outwardly western lifestyles, including girlfriends and partying. The man had claimed to represent Daesh, the organisation the media had made more familiar in our living rooms as ISIS or the Islamic State. I had left the game before Daesh began dominating the headlines, but I had tangoed with the best of jihadis in Kashmir, men trained in the Middle East, Chechnya and other hellholes where they had perfected their craft. The sort of men who had later flocked to ISIS in Iraq and Syria. They were well-trained, brutal and fanatical, but 3-D printed guns designed to defeat the so-called security our governments try and provide us at airports? This meant a far more sophisticated and organised operation than just a bunch of jihadis out to get martyrdom.
The man looked at me and nodded. ‘Pick that body up and put it at the back of the plane. We still have hours to go.’
I handed Aman to Zoya and got up.
As I stood to my full height and looked down at him, I could see him sizing me up, perhaps the way that I had appraised him. He knew that I had over six inches of height over him and as I clenched my right fist, he saw the corded muscles in my forearm.
‘Like I said before, don’t try to be a hero. You saw what happened to the old man.’
I grabbed Larry Murphy’s body and pulled it towards the back, putting the body in a toilet at the tail of the plane, covering it with a blanket. The poor man had died because he had tried to do the right thing, to try and live by the code of the warrior he had lived by for all his life. A code that I had sworn by as well – to defend those who could not defend themselves, to not stand back when I saw a threat to my people or nation.
Could I have done something? Had I been too slow? Had being a father and a husband made me weak? Was I in some way responsible for this old soldier’s death?
I had no answers to those questions, and I knew that there was little to be gained by second guessing what was done. I had to focus on the present. The threat at hand.
I closed my eyes as I made him a silent promise, from one soldier to another.
‘You have not died in vain, sir. I won’t let these bastards win.’
***
‘Aadi, what do they want? They haven’t said anything for a while now.’
Zoya had her head pressed into my chest. And, Aman, blessed with the inability to fully grasp the danger we were in, was now fast asleep. We were over three hours into our flight. If we had stayed on our original flight path to Paris, we would be nearing the Middle East.
The two hijackers I had seen so far were in our cabin, pacing up and down the aisles, guns in hand, making sure that everyone had their windows down and that nobody was turning on their in-flight entertainment systems.
Smart of them. One glance at the flight map on the entertainment system would have let us know where we were heading. Keeping the shades down likewise meant that we could not hazard a guess as to where we were based on glimpses of the terrain that could be had from the sky.
It was now well past four in the morning Indian time and some of the passengers, unable to take the stress and fatigue any longer, had just fallen asleep. Most, however, were wide awake, looking at the two men, cowering as they would pass up and down the aisle, wondering what came next. The two men had shocked the passengers into submission with their early act of violence and a part of me wondered if they would have made an example of someone else if Murphy had not got up. Perhaps, their plan had always been a deadly demonstration of their intent to ensure that the passengers didn’t resist. With the Business Class cabin still curtained off, we were also in the dark about who else was out there and how many, though the smell told me that there would be more bodies and not just in that section of the plane, before this was done.
‘Aadi, I need to use the bathroom.’
I got up, keeping my hands well over my head, in plain sight, and addressed the hijacker closest to me, the man with the beard – the one who had shot Murphy.
‘My wife needs to go to the bathroom. I’m sure others do too. Can you please let people to use the bathrooms?’
He looked at me, and then at Zoya.
I didn’t like the look he gave her. A long, appraising stare, which started with her face and then worked its way down her body. Zoya must have sensed it as well, as she pulled her jacket around herself and I felt her grip tighten on my shirt.
‘I’ll take her to the bathroom,’ he said, and waved the gun at us, signaling Zoya to come with him.
I shifted subtly to put myself between them. ‘I come with her.’
He walked towards me, gun pointed at my face. But I refused to back down.
‘You sit here. She comes with me.’
This time, it was Zoya who spoke. My heart swelled with pride at the strength and defiance in her voice. She had always had a spirit and strength, which had attracted me to her as much as her looks had; and, she was showing it now.
‘No. I’m not going anywhere with you. I go with my husband.’
I kept my eyes on him as he walked closer, his finger going towards the trigger.
I got a closer look at the gun. A small pistol, perhaps with a single chamber. Like I had surmised, a 3-D printed one with plastic components to avoid airport security. No more than a .22 caliber. At close range, a head shot would certainly kill me, but anything else and I could still kill the bastard before his buddy shot me. Either way, I would die and would not be in a position to protect Zoya for long, but there was no way that this asshole was going to rape or molest her with me just sitting there in silence.
As he reached out for Zoya with his left hand and I grabbed his wrist, twisting it just enough to let him know that I knew what I was doing. A little more pressure, a snap of my wrist, and he wouldn’t be reaching for the TV remote with his left hand for quite some time. He brought his pistol up to smash it into my head.
Idiot.
The man should have just shot me. I began to rear back, already planning it out in my head. I would smash my head into his chin, grab his gun as I finished my move. I had only one shot that I could count on, as I had no idea where he kept his spare ammunition. So, I would shoot his friend first and then finish him with my hands. After that, who knew? Likely his buddies would come in from the Business Class and shoot me. But what if there were only these two? Could I end to it all right now?
I was about to lunge forward, when I heard the curtains separating us from Business Class part and an older man walked in.
This man h
ad his grey hair combed back, revealing a slightly receding hairline, a salt and pepper beard on his trim face, wearing thick glasses and a crumpled suit. There were two more men flanking him, both carrying white pistols. The hijacker in front of me straightened, as if coming to attention.
So, this was the boss. So, the two men we had encountered were just the muscle.
The man spoke in a soft voice, with a slight accent that rounded off many of the syllables.
‘Why are you causing anxiety to them? You’ve already deviated from plan by shooting that old man. Take your position and do the job you were assigned.’
The hijacker, suitably chastised, turned away, but not before giving me a murderous look.
The older man turned to me. ‘She can go to the toilet. Let her use the one in Business Class. Please, ma’am, go on. Nobody will hurt you.’
Zoya went and I waited anxiously for her to come back.
When she did, I could see tears streaming down her face.
‘Aadi, there are bodies out there in Business Class. The pilots. They’re dead.’
The older man smiled at me. This had not been an act of courtesy, but a demonstration of who held the cards and how futile resistance was.
Some of the nearby passengers picked up on Zoya’s words and the news rippled through the cabin.
The older man walked towards me, and while he was shorter than me, he seemed to be in pretty good shape. Only a slight paunch detracted from an otherwise fit body. I could see that he was used to commanding men by the way he looked at me almost dismissively.
I had seen that attitude before – in bad staff officers. Had our man served somewhere in uniform? Many jihadis were former soldiers, so perhaps our neighbourhood hijacker had been an officer in some Middle Eastern shithole somewhere?
My brain was ticking, process the additional information, trying to piece the puzzle together. But there were still too many variables missing, the most important of all was what did these men want and how did a plane taking off from Mumbai fit into that equation.
‘Sit down. We will land soon.’
He turned and spoke to the hijacker, who had confronted me. ‘Make sure everyone has seat belts on and the windows remain down. Anyone doesn’t comply, shoot them in the head. This time, I am authorising direct action, but remember to stay within those orders.’
That was clearly for the benefit of the passengers, but when he spoke to the other, clean-shaven hijacker in Economy Class, who had come close to our row now, I began to wonder again just who these men were.
‘Get some coffee from up front. The boys brewed some and a cup of joe will help keep you awake.’
As the hijacker went up to Business Class, I looked at the bearded man standing a few feet away from me. Things just weren’t adding up. If these were ISIS terrorists, why were they speaking to each other in English? Also, why were the using an expression for coffee that I’d only heard Americans, especially US army personnel, use before?
I felt the plane bank. The older man took the seat behind me and the two hijackers who had come in from Business Class stood near the cabin entrance, holding onto the sides for support. An unfamiliar male voice, certainly not the woman captain, who had greeted us cheerfully when we had boarded the flight on the FAS, spoke out over the flight announcement system.
‘Stay seated. This will not be an easy landing, so for your own safety keep your seat belts on and brace for a crash.’
I took Aman out of the bassinet and clutched him. Due to lack of a proper infant restraint belt, I tried my best to hold Aman close to my chest with my arm and got into the brace position. Zoya was clinging to my other arm, as she too got into position.
We huddled together as the plane dove down, descending much faster than I had ever felt a passenger jet do. After a few gut-wrenching moments, it stabilised into a more steady descent. We heard the landing gear come down. We heard a crunching sound, as the plane seemed to tilt to one side and threatened to go into an uncontrollable spin and then it regained its forward momentum. I had landed in military transport planes on remote airbases, but this was by far the worst landing I had ever endured. Either we had landed on a truly messed up airstrip, not really meant for such a large airliner or the man flying the plane needed to have his license revoked, if he had one to begin with.
Several passengers threw up around us, and many of the kids were crying. Aman had woken up by now and was looking at me, as though wondering what was going on. The plane seemed to skip over an uneven strip of land for some more time, literally bouncing back in the air a couple of times before coming to a stop.
The leader of the hijackers, who had taken the empty seat behind me, got up and walked to the front of the cabin and turned to face us.
‘Thank you for cooperating. We are glad we were able to avoid any further unnecessary bloodshed. We do not wish to harm you as long as our demands are met, so please keep complying with the instructions my men and I give you.’
The bearded man was growling at a passenger and their leader spoke to him, chiding him again.
Clearly that guy had aggression and obedience issues in addition to being a lecherous bastard.
‘What’s wrong now?’
He replied almost sheepishly. ‘This lady here was trying to look at the screen in the seat. She says she wanted to know where we are.’
The older man smiled and then began to laugh, though what he found so funny was beyond me.
‘Well now, there is really no point hiding where we are, is it? They may as well know where their unplanned trip has brought them.’
As many people began to fiddle with the screens in front of them, he satisfied everyone’s curiosity by clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Nangarhar Province in Afghanistan.’
Two
The words fell like a hammer blow on everyone.
Being in a plane that had been hijacked was bad enough, but to know that we had come down in some remote area in Afghanistan that most people on the flight had never even heard of was far worse. The older man was now standing just a few feet away from where I sat, looking down at me, still smiling, his eyes appraising.
Then, I saw something catch his eye and the smile disappear. I followed his gaze and across the aisle, two rows back, there was a badly overweight man who seemed to be fiddling with his mobile phone, trying to conceal it under the folds of his shirt. I prayed the idiot wouldn’t get himself killed.
I saw the leader of the hijackers walk up to him and pat him on the back.
For the benefit of all the passengers, the man spoke loudly, ‘Go on. Use your phones. I’m not sure how good the connectivity is. Make your calls, take photos, post them on social media if you do happen to get through. Do what you want. And, open the window shades, so you can see where we are. We have reached our destination, ladies and gentlemen, and have nothing to hide anymore. Let the world see our legitimate demands and our struggle for freedom.’
He nodded and all the hijackers trooped into the Business Class. Soon the passengers sitting there were sent back to Economy along with all the air hostesses and stewards. One of passengers sent back caught my eye. A young woman with a scarf covering her head and face. It was hard to tell how old she was, but she seemed young enough, and with a striking face that I was sure I had seen somewhere before. A movie star? A singer? Perhaps, I had seen her on TV or the Net? Nowadays it was hard to keep track of who was a celebrity or not – with social media, everyone seemed to be guaranteed their share of a few seconds of celebrity-hood. As she came closer, she sensed me staring, and covered her face even more and walked to the back of the plane.
As more passengers came in, I saw that a couple of them had blood on their clothes, and one of the passengers, a black man, had blood streaming down his face from a gash on his forehead. He was tall, well built, and looked like he could take care of himself. He had obviously tried to resist, and I hoped he could tell me more of what
had happened to our flight since the hijacking had first unfolded in Business Class. As he passed me, I stood up.
‘Let me get you something for your head. I saw a first aid kit back there near the bathroom,’ I said.
As we reached the back, I got a cotton ball from the first aid box and cleaned up the man’s wound. It was over two inches long and would need stitches at some point in time, but I would do the best I could for now.
‘What happened up there?’
He winced in pain, as I applied some antibiotic lotion and then replied. ‘They were all sitting there like normal passengers. Then the older dude got up and said something about the seven have arisen or something like that. At first, I thought he had lost his mind. Then, they got to work. They were fast and professional. Well trained, and perhaps had rehearsed this many times. An air hostess had just come out of the cockpit and three of them rushed the cockpit. I didn’t hear shots, so they must have used knives or something, but the pilots’ bodies were thrown out and two of them stayed in the cockpit and locked the door. I guess you know what happened next.’
‘What happened to you?’
He smiled ruefully. ‘The air hostess they rushed tried to put up a fight and they pistol whipped her. I tried to help. They hit me and had a gun pointed in my face soon enough. I wish I had thought to have done more, but it was over really fast and there was no point in getting shot.’
‘Lucky you didn’t get shot.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first time, but it’s never fun.’
When I looked at him questioningly, he grinned, confirming that he wasn’t a regular passenger. Normal, terrified hostages didn’t comment on the training levels of their hijackers.
‘Was in the Marines. Fought in Iraq, in that hellhole, Fallujah. Name’s Captain Wilson Smith. Now work with a private security company. Was in Mumbai doing some consulting work for the Airport Authority.’
