Cloudburst (27 page)

Things would move more smoothly now that Indar had a task to keep him occupied. Muhadesh was certain that he would attack the chore with fervor, and equally sure that he would trip over his own ineptitude at every opportunity. It would not matter. That realization saddened Muhadesh, and that surprised him.

The time for the first step had come. He went to his drawer, the one with the lock. Inside were the tools he would need. His coat was on the chair back. Muhadesh left it there, then opened the desk drawer. Two of the items were identical, and he took both, bending to put them in the left side pocket. They sounded a metallic clinging as they dropped in. The other item he took more care with.

It was black, and reflected no light in the sun gleaming through the window. He checked the magazine, ejecting it for inspection, then reinserted it. Next he checked the silencer for alignment, opening the slide to allow light through the barrel and staring through it from the business end of the silenced .22 caliber Beretta. Everything was right with it. He made sure the safety was on before placing it in the holster sewn inside of the coat.

After lunch, he decided. Indar would be well into his duties, leaving Muhadesh free to visit the airport once again.

Los Angeles

Jerry mulled over the plan silently.

“Chicago’s ready to go,” Art said. Eddie sat quietly.

“If they get the number, and we get the location, then how do you want to handle it?” Jerry Donovan liked things laid out fully before moving on any potential suspect.

“Full surveillance, to start,” Art began. “I’ll put four or five teams on Jackson. Every move he makes we’ll know. Then, when he’s vulnerable, we’ll take him.”

Donovan became the inquisitor. He considered it a part of his job. “How many total?”

“Eight or ten,” Art replied. He looked to Eddie for confirmation.

“That should do it,” Eddie agreed.

Again Donovan analyzed it. He noted that Art was crisp and confident, but almost too awake. The plan, however, was sound. If the Chicago end of it came through, then the West Coast part would probably come off well. “It sounds good by me.” He checked the time: 3:20 A.M. There was something he had to do. “Ed, could you excuse us.”

The request was heeded. It wasn’t uncommon for confidential conversations to spring up with no warning. Eddie did notice something in Jerry’s eyes, though. He couldn’t peg it, but it worried him enough to notice.

“Art,” Donovan began, sounding more businesslike than a minute before, “how are you feeling?”

The question surprised Art, visibly. “What?”

“How do you feel? I mean, you’ve had what?…three hours’ sleep in the past day?”

“A little more than that. What are you getting at, Jerry?”

The senior agent wasn’t known for mincing words. “Art, you’ve got a weak ticker—that’s no secret. You’ve been getting help, and that’s great, but…Art…I can see it in you. You’re tired.”

“We’re all tired,” Art answered, mildly scoffing at the comments.

“Not like you. I’m not talking about tired because of no sleep: It’s more. It’s inside, Art. I know it. You know it.” Donovan sought his answer with his eyes for a moment. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong,” Art lied. He was angry, not at Jerry—he was only doing his job—but at himself. He had let it show. But he couldn’t let on that it was real. Not now. He wanted this one. He wanted Jackson.

Donovan heard the words, but the feeling wasn’t in them. “If that’s what you say, that’s what you say. I have to take it as gospel.”

“You can relieve me,” Art said, regretting it instantly. It was a challenge to Jerry, and it confirmed what his superior had feared.

“No, Art, I can’t. I’ve got nothing concrete. If I did… I don’t know.” He looked away for the first time. He had tried. “Just watch it, okay? Don’t push yourself…”

“Over the edge?” Art finished the statement.

Donovan said nothing more. Art watched him leave, trying to forget the whole exchange immediately by focusing on the matters at hand.

Eleven

FIRST BLOOD

Flight 422

Captain Hendrickson sat once again in the seat. It had been an upright bed for him, as well as his work chair. It was not meant to be the former. Flight seats, however comfortable during hours aloft, were not designed for sleeping. His neck ached and his shoulders had a sharp, pulsing pain running the length of each blade. Discomfort was shaping up to be the norm for this journey. Even going to the head was a luxury, considering how long his bladder had been full. The same went for Buzz, who was finally enjoying the same relief.

The quiet one, the one the leader called Abu, was with the captain. Hendrickson thought there were four of them, though only three had been seen. Another was referred to often by the others. Thoughts of overpowering the one with him were ridiculous, the captain told himself. He could plan it, though, an act that at least gave him a sense of power.

For the hijackers there would always be a feeling of fear. They would constantly have to be on guard. The captain thought that was a laugh, that this whole thing might give the hijackers ulcers.

In the end, though, he felt more helpless than anything. This was
his
aircraft, and these were
his
passengers. He was responsible for each and every one of them. It made him sick to know that the best he could do at the moment was nothing.

Buzz returned, looking somewhat refreshed. The water on his collar showed that he had splashed himself. With him was the big hijacker, the brute. None of them had been overtly violent yet, but this one had it in him. Hendrickson could tell by the eyes. They had a wild quality.

Abu exchanged a few words with Wael before leaving the flight deck. Buzz returned to his seat. Its cushion was still wet with perspiration.

“I think we’re leaving soon.” Buzz shifted in the warm seat. His back still felt prickly.

“When?”

“I don’t know. I heard them talking outside the head. My Arabic is pretty damn limited.” Buzz laughed.

Wael cast an angry look at the jovial Americans. He could not understand their words. What was it that made them laugh? he was thinking. They should be afraid.

“I don’t think Kong here can understand us,” Buzz said in his best deadpan. The lack of reaction confirmed his suspicion.

“I think you’re right.” The captain checked his AC system readings. Power was still coming from the GPU, which had been changed three times so far. Each truck-mounted generator could work only so long before servicing was needed. At least they had power, and the luxuries and necessities that it allowed. Some hijackers had ruled under harsh and nearly unbearable conditions, not allowing any power to be supplied once the aircraft’s built-in APU had exhausted its oil source. Maybe these ‘tough guys’ liked their comforts, the captain thought.

“At least we’ll be doing something besides just sitting here,” Buzz commented.

“Earn our pay.”

Buzz nodded, instinctively putting his harness on, but letting it hang loose. Both men turned when the door opened. The head terrorist, the one the others called Mohammed, came in. His clothing was different from before. He now looked the same as the others: green fatigues. The Mini-Uzi hung from his shoulder.

“Get ready to fly.” Hadad motioned to the control panel. Its alien markings and devices did not interest him. “We leave in thirty minutes.”

“I’ll need to check the exterior of my aircraft.”

Hadad brought the small submachine gun up in his right hand, pointing at the captain. It looked almost like a toy.

“You do not need to,” Hadad enunciated slowly. “And you will not. Your tricks will not fool me.”

Captain Hendrickson half stood, leaning awkwardly on the armrest, his body twisted to face the hijacker. “Listen, if you want this aircraft to fly safely, then either I or my first officer must inspect the undercarriage and exterior. This runway is not the best in the world, so I have no idea what was kicked up when we landed. Do you understand?”

“Do
I
understand?” Hadad smiled, his head tilting quizzically. The barrel came up roughly in the soft flesh where jaw met neck. “I think you do not understand, Cap-tan.” He mockingly emphasized the rank. “You will fly this plane and you will do it without going outside to perform your trickery. The plane is fine.”

“I am not tryi—” The Uzi pressed harder. Hendrickson was sure he could feel the barrel in the back of his mouth.

“Shut up! I am talking, and I am tired of your defiance!” Hadad screamed. “You have done nothing but defy my orders! You will learn to do as you are told!”

“Raghead asshole!” Buzz reached for the Uzi pointing at him, but missed, grabbing Wael’s web belt instead.

Hadad saw out of the comer of his eye Wael’s weapon come back in preparation to strike the co-pilot.

“Wael!” Hadad’s strong grip locked on his comrade’s arm, holding it back like a coiled snake.

Buzz glared at the wild eyes staring down at him. He felt the hot breath of his would-be attacker expelling from the flared nostrils. It smelled sweet and spiced, maybe from the food they brought on board. Wael lowered the Uzi cautiously. Buzz released his hold in a quick motion, holding his hands open as if gesturing surrender.

Hadad turned back to the captain. The barrel was still rammed straight up, the gun held tightly in his left hand. Hendrickson’s head was tilted back by the pressure, his eyes somewhat downcast to look directly at his tormentor. “You must learn, Cap-tan.
And
your number two.
I
am in command…total command. This is
my
plane. You, your number two, all the passengers will die if I decide it is to be. You no longer have any power.” His voice eased as he drew back. “Does it trouble you that a lowly Palestinian now rules over your domain? Ah! Of course it does, Cap-tan. You would kill me without a thought, so be assured that I will do the same. Now, you will learn that this is true, and when I am finished I will ask, ‘Do you understand?’ “ The Uzi was withdrawn. “Sit and watch.”

The captain sank into his seat, never letting his eyes leave Hadad. Buzz turned back to his console; he could no longer control himself while looking at the pirates.

There was a rapid burst of commands in Arabic from Hadad. Wael gave the pilots a departing look, removed a grenade from his webbing, and disappeared through the door.

Captain Hendrickson watched the head terrorist as a crooked smile came from one side of his mouth.

*  *  *

Below, the passenger deck instantly was filled with the noise coming from the forward cabin. Wael bounded down the stairs from the lounge and trotted down the left-side aisle, screaming in his native language. The sound, a pulsing wail, was a tirade of gibberish to nearly all of the passengers, but frightening still.

Abu ran forward from the aft cabin to meet Wael. The huge terrorist was waving his Uzi in one hand and displaying a pinless grenade in the other. Those with aisle seats leaned away from the ranting giant. The two terrorists exchanged a few sentences before Wael moved forward again, taunting the hostages. Abu followed closely. From the rear Abdul walked slowly, almost casually, chewing a mouthful of dates. He, too, pulled the pin from a grenade and held it above his head for all to see.

Abu watched as the wild man erupted from his comrade.

His sub-machine gun occasionally pointed at a single target, usually a woman, who would begin to cry. Wael thought that it was great fun to frighten the Americans. It was so easy. They cringed at the sight of the massive, dark figure standing over them. A few times he would hold the grenade inches from a terrified face and berate the person with invectives they could not understand. Some were stoic and stubborn. Wael could see those and avoided them—he was going for an effect. One elderly man protested when his wife was the recipient of Wael’s furor. The metal stock of his Uzi smashed dead center on the man’s face, breaking the nose and sending him backward into his seat where his wife shielded him with her body.

A few rows forward Wael stopped and called for Abu. His eyes were fixed on a man in the center seat on the left.

“You.” Abu pointed to the man. “Are you alone?”

Uncertainty as to whether or not he should answer kept him silent.

“You are alone! You are! Hands on your head—now!” The hands came up, and the chosen one looked to those next to him, but they just looked away. “Get up! Get up!” Abu kept the Uzi leveled at the man as he slowly rose. His light blue shirt was untucked and wrinkled, and his shaggy hair was obviously only hand-combed. He still spoke nothing as he squeezed past a bespectacled young lady whose hands covered her mouth.

“Move forward. Up the stairs.” The gun directed him with forceful jabs in the back. Wael followed, leaving Abdul to watch the hostages. He stood by the forward galley. It gave him a good vantage point from which to survey the front section and all the way to the rear of the aircraft, down the left aisle.

*  *  *

The door to the cockpit opened. Hadad held it back so the pilots could see into the lounge. Buzz saw the man standing a few feet from the door. His hands were atop his head, and his feet were slightly parted. He was young, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four. Probably one of the thousands of grad students from America who ventured to Europe each summer. Just a kid.

Captain Hendrickson looked away from the confused young man.
A sacrifice, then. That’s the lesson.
He looked up again to Hadad. “Don’t.” It was said as .a wishful command. He knew nothing else to say.

“Watch and learn, Cap-tan.” Hadad clicked the selector switch on his Uzi to single shot. The safety was already off. With one hand he aimed at the center of the man’s chest and fired a single 9mm round, propelling his upper body backward. His hands came down from his head as he fell, but never made it to a position to break the fall. Unconsciousness enveloped him before his body hit the floor. He lay with his legs apart and arms outstretched to each side. Two streams of blood came from the wound, one on each side of the chest, turning the brown carpet a darker shade. The eyes were open but lifeless. They stared at the ceiling with an expression of confusion still on the face.