by Joe Nobody
Their reactions had stunned the recently arrived Muslim youth.
Anger, threats, and isolation summed up those early experiences, it soon dawning on the confused exchange student that he should keep his opinions and beliefs to himself. But wasn’t a forced silence more restrictive than any aspect of Sharia?
His teachers back in Egypt had tried to warn Mudar. They had repeatedly stated that Western society was beyond redemption, corrupted to the point where only force and violence could salvage the cesspool of humanity that was the West.
Allah, in his greatness, had blessed America and Europe with unequaled natural resources and allowed their rise to global dominance, they said. Satan had corrupted legions of their souls. Jihad was the only way to turn the tide.
Such wisdom had been reinforced yesterday in Arkansas. It was a pity that the training had been cut short, but Mudar felt prepared.
As a younger man in Egypt, he hadn’t believed the West was such a monster. His parents were moderate, well off by Egyptian standards, and he had been raised in an environment that instilled tolerance and expanded thinking.
But living in America, the Arab Spring, the political turmoil back in Cairo, and the rise of ISIS had transformed Mudar at his very core.
For the first time since entering the airport, Mudar violated his training. There were to be three of them on the flight, two other believers who were willing to sacrifice their lives for the cause.
The instructor in Arkansas had warned Mudar not to look around as if he were waiting for someone. The master had been insistent that he maintain the façade of a lone traveler. “Don’t make eye contact with anyone, or scan the passengers nervously,” he had preached. “When the time comes, the other believers will make themselves known to you.”
But the young terrorist couldn’t help it. The shootout yesterday had rattled his confidence. Had the others made it out?
The mission would be extremely difficult to accomplish if any of the others were detained, impossible if the authorities learned of their plot. Were his comrades here? Had they made it through security? Would he have back up?
According to the plan, any two of them should be able to take over the aircraft. Each member of the cell had been cross-trained with all of the necessary skills. But Mudar had his doubts about the reality of that strategy. It would be so much easier if he had the support of others. He said a silent prayer for strength and fortitude.
Casually glancing around the boarding area, Mudar tried to maintain innocent curiosity as he studied the arriving travelers.
One couple drew his attention away from worrying about his co-conspirators.
The man was older, once tall but now hunched over with the burden of age and requiring a cane to walk. On his arm was a younger woman, obviously a trophy wife in her short skirt and heavy makeup.
Mudar felt a stirring in his loin as he gawked at the woman’s legs, the public display of her body both intriguing and disgusting at the same time.
Embarrassed by his reaction and lack of focus, Mudar looked away before realizing his prayer had just been answered. The couple’s arrival was a sign, a message from Allah that his cause was just.
The woman was a whore. Her painted face, exposed thighs, and barely concealed breasts an icon of the West’s decadence. The fact that she had sold herself into the arms of a man old enough to be her grandfather merely reaffirmed what the young Arab already believed.
Right before him, flaunting her sins for all to see, was the summation of all that was wrong with the enemies of Allah. No one seemed to notice or care about the temptress and how she was polluting every young man’s mind with her shameless exposure. Yet, if her display motivated a man to take her by force, all blame would be laid at his feet. According to Western law, it wouldn’t matter that she had advertised, begging for the violation.
Why hadn’t the security interrogators cared about the moral crime she displayed? Why didn’t anyone protest the temptation and ethical terrorism propagated by this prostitute and her demonic benefactor? It was sickening.
After an internal struggle, Mudar finally managed to draw inspiration from the couple’s presence. It reaffirmed his commitment. It was up to him and the other believers to turn the tide of Satan’s horde. It was a cause worth dying for.
The young woman guided her older companion to a nearby seat, seemingly concerned about his comfort and well-being. “You’re a good whore,” Mudar whispered. “You know where the money comes from.”
“Daddy, I’m going to go to the ladies room. I’ll be right back. Don’t you wander off now… or get on the airplane without me – hear?” the woman said in a voice loud enough for older ears.
Instead of reconsidering his initial impression, Mudar was outraged even further by the new revelation. “A father would willingly allow his daughter in public dressed like that?” he whispered. What kind of man would permit his own flesh and blood to parade her body in front of strangers in such a way? Is there no end to the corrosion of the West? What kind of woman would embarrass her father like that?
Mudar’s mental triad was interrupted by a female voice sounding from the ceiling, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are now ready to board Flight 443 for Chicago. We’ll begin with our first class passengers and those traveling with small children. Please have your boarding pass available as you approach the jet-way. Thank you.”
Zach and Sam waited until the summons, “Those who need a little extra time in boarding,” broadcast over the loudspeaker.
Pretending to shake off Sam’s offer to help, he feigned a reasonable trembling of his cane-arm and managed to stand on his own.
Debuting at one of Zach’s rare social gatherings, the old-timer’s disguise had originated as a Halloween hoax. Cheyenne’s clever makeup job, combined with a visit to a costume shop in El Paso had resulted in her boyfriend’s believable transformation into a very elderly gent. After the rangers uncovered the hijacking threat, the charade hadn’t been difficult to recreate.
The two rangers boarded at a hobbling pace, their intentionally designated seats at the rear of the aircraft allowing for an extended cabin view. Sam pined for the window seat.
“Besides, Dad, you need to sit on the aisle in case nature calls. You know, there’s not always a lot of warning,” she chided gently, her voice dripping with concern.
“Thanks,” Zach grumbled, annoyed that Sam was having way too much fun with his get-up.
Not to be outdone, Zach nodded toward his partner’s skirt. In a whisper, he commented, “I said you should look like a loving young daughter, not a high fashion model. What’s up with the hem?”
Sam flushed red, but only for a moment. “I can’t help it. It’s the only skirt I had clean on such short notice.”
“Short and notice are the right words. It’s very short, young lady, and everyone has noticed.”
Waving him off, she replied under her breath, “Just keep your eyes on the passengers, old timer. We can’t let this plane get hijacked just because your Neanderthal brain keeps trying to peek up my skirt.”
“I’m not even going to ask where you have your gun. You did bring a gun… didn’t you?”
Their banter was interrupted by the announcement of general boarding, the aisle soon filled with the bustle of travelers lifting bags into the overhead bins and squeezing into their seats. Zach pretended to be taking a nap, his squinting eyes carefully studying each and every passenger.
Sam was busy with her makeup mirror, using the device as a front while scanning their surroundings and looking for any clue or sign.
Before long, the plane was backing out of the gate, the automated safety message informing all interested parties the location of the floatation devices and the exit doors. Zach hoped none of the above would be needed.
They achieved wheels-up on schedule, the ranger’s ears popping as the aircraft began a slow, banking turn toward the north.
“There will be some signal or communication between them,” Zach informed
his partner. “They’ll wait until we’re at a safe cruising altitude and make their move.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, as soon as the captain turns off the seatbelt sign, your flight crew will be coming down the aisles with beverages and snacks. We offer soft drinks, water, and a variety of juices, and of course, alcoholic refreshments. We accept airline vouchers and cash. Small bills are always appreciated. Thank you for flying with us today.”
That was the signal Mudar had been waiting for.
A few moments later, a chime sounded indicating that it was now safe for passengers to visit the toilets. Mudar wasted no time heading for the back of the plane.
It was with great relief that he spied two other men rise in unison, both faces familiar as fellow students from the Arkansas farmhouse. They had made it! He wasn’t alone.
With his book bag in tow, Mudar entered and locked the tiny bathroom’s door.
Chiding himself over his nervous, shaking fingers, he began assembling his weapon.
He retrieved the first item from his shirt pocket, a common ballpoint pen that produced a steady stream of blue ink. Mudar unscrewed the sections, removing the cartridge, spring, and clicking mechanism. Remaining was a steel pistol barrel, complete with grooves and even a primitive sighting post.
Next were the components to construct the weapon’s frame, all cleverly crafted using a 3D printer and industrial polymers.
Using a section of his cell phone case, two buckles from his carry-on bag, and the frame from his sunglasses, Mudar began assembling the weapon’s body.
The spring from his ink pen was repurposed as part of the trigger.
Sneaking aboard the ammunition had required the most creativity. While the pistol was never intended to fire more than 10 rounds, smuggling even a minimal number of bullets onto the aircraft was a challenge.
Removing his shoes, Mudar strained with a familiar, twisting motion to remove the heels, each cavity revealing five bullets embedded within, each projectile composed of super-hard plastic to avoid x-ray identification. Even the ammo was custom made, a small amount of homemade explosive being used instead of smokeless powder in order to confuse canine noses.
Despite having practiced the assembly process over a dozen times, he fumbled with anxious hands that didn’t want to cooperate. He finally succeeded, chambering a round and checking the primitive action.
He tucked the weapon into his jacket pocket and then gathered the leftover items into his book bag. A quick flush, running of the sink water, and a deep breath had him reaching for the door.
Both of his teammates were already trekking up the aisle, sidestepping other passengers who needed to use the facilities or retrieve items from the overhead compartments.
Mudar did the same, making his way toward the front of the aircraft, his heart pounding in his pressure-clogged ears.
The stewardess appeared right on schedule, pushing the metal drink cart into the first class section.
After exchanging a visual confirmation with the other two, Mudar pulled his pistol and fired a thunderous round into the metal side of the drink cart. “Everyone get down! Everyone in their seats!” he screamed, waving the pistol around. “This airplane now belongs to the Islamic State!”
All three of the terrorists were now brandishing weapons, shouting at the top of the lungs, partly to gain control, mostly to overcome the screaming bedlam and terrified passengers.
Up and down the aisle they rushed, pointing their pistols at anyone and everyone, barking orders and generally appearing to be insane. For the first few moments, it was absolute mayhem onboard Flight 443.
“I want the male passengers in the back, the females in front,” Mudar shouted. “Move! Move! Move!”
It took a few moments for the hijacker’s command to be digested by the frightened passengers. Far too slowly for the terrorist’s liking, men began moving toward the rear of the plane, motivated by threats and the occasional shove.
At the same time, the females were herded toward first class.
“Ready when you are,” Sam whispered, reaching for her purse and the .45 stashed there.
“Not yet,” Zach replied. “We need to know what they’re up to, and they have been trained to clam up if they are taken into custody. What’s their target? How do they plan to pull this off? Remember, they’re not going anywhere. We’ve got plenty of time. As long as they don’t make it into the cockpit or start executing passengers, we can be patient and learn.”
Before Sam could reply, one of the terrorists was screaming for her to get up front with the others. She nodded meekly, climbing over her pretend father and scrambling up the aisle as ordered.
Zach soon found himself surrounded by the other male travelers, one of the hijackers standing guard.
After separating their captives, two of the radicals made for the front of the plane, each producing a plastic tube of some substance. Sam, huddling nearby with the other women, could hear them talking.
“The acid will take a few minutes to eat through the cockpit door. If the pilots don’t surrender the plane, we will kill them and make our demands known.”
That answers that question, Sam thought. Clever… very clever. I wish I could get a message to Zach.
In the rear, Zach had his own issue. Surrounded by the flight’s male passengers, he detected the early signs of an uprising as his co-hostages murmured among themselves.
“This is Texas, by gawd, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here and let these assholes crash this aircraft into some building. We can take ’em,” declared one boisterous man in front of the ranger.
“We’re going to die anyway,” chimed in another. “Why not go down fighting?”
“You’ll do nothing,” Zach said, his voice louder than intended. “There are Texas Rangers on this plane, and we’ll handle it. While I appreciate the bravado, we need to know what these men have planned before we take them down.”
His statement caused several of the other men to stare at Zach, some still fooled by his disguise. Everyone glancing at the “old fossil” drew the attention of the rear-most terrorist.
“What is going on here?” he shouted, walking down the aisle. “No talking! I will kill the next man who utters a single word.”
He then was standing beside Zach, glaring down with pure hatred in his eyes. “What is your problem?” he snarled, holding his weapon next to Zach’s temple. “Answer me… immediately… or I’ll drag your whore daughter back here and make you watch as I rape and then kill her.”
“My chest hurts,” Zach said weakly, grasping at his sternum. “My daughter has my medication. I need her.”
“Too bad,” he coldly replied. “You deserve to burn in hell anyway. Any man that lets his daughter dress like a common prostitute will roast on Satan’s spit. I’ll enjoy watching you die.”
When the hijacker moved to pivot, Zach’s cane rose like a striking rattlesnake. The tip touched the terrorist’s back, and a cracking, sizzle sounded as the stun gun launched a river of high voltage through Mudar’s spine.
For a suspended moment, the gunman’s back arched in throbbing agony, and his body vibrated with the current. Then, he collapsed like a sack of potatoes dropping to the floor.
“Move his body quickly,” Zach snapped at the other passengers. “Hide him in the toilet and barricade the door. I’m going up front to deal with the other two.”
After bending to retrieve the terrorist’s weapon, Zach stepped over the prone body and then resumed his acting role.
Hunched over and relying on his brace, Zach shuffled toward the front of the aircraft. His right hand, partially obscured by his jacket, seemed to be clutching his chest. In reality, it held a .45 caliber automatic.
The remaining two terrorists were busy with their acid concoction and didn’t notice Zach until he had reached the first class cabin.
“What are you doing?” screamed one hijacker. “Get back to the rear of the plane immediately!”
“My heart,”
Zach pleaded with a gasp, taking another step while still holding his chest. “I’m having a coronary… my daughter has my pills.”
“Get back!” shouted the man, reaching for the pistol in his belt.
Zach dropped to his knees, an Academy Award winning grimace of pain on his face.
Swinging his firearm toward the kneeling Texan, the fanatic managed a single step when a deafening shot reverberated through the cabin. Before Sam’s ejected brass made contact with the carpet, a second blast tore through the confined space, the 230-grain bullet striking the remaining hijacker on the bridge of his nose.
A stabbing, tearing pain in his jaw brought Mudar to the surface of consciousness. He tried to raise his arm to rub his aching cheek, but either his body wouldn’t respond, or the limb was restrained.
A few moments later, his blurry vision began to clear, and he found that he was completely immobilized, arms, legs, torso, and even his head tightly strapped to some sort of table.
The throbbing in his chin was caused by the insertion of a dam into his oral cavity, the steel and rubber device forcing his mouth completely open.
Unable to turn his head or move any part of his body, Mudar began to panic, his body thrashing against the thick leather straps that bound him so tightly.
“Settle down,” a female voice from behind him commanded. “You’re not going to escape, so if I were you, I’d conserve as much energy as possible. You’re going to need it.”
The mere presence of another person in the room served to quiet the terrorist, the events of the flight creeping back into his memory.
A million questions flooded Mudar’s mind, his brain still reeling from the gap in time and space. The last thing he could remember was the airplane, cursing the old geezer having a heart attack.
Movement distracted the horror building in his mind, a woman appearing directly in front of him. It was the whore-daughter! What was she doing here? Where was he?
Sam sensed the captive’s confusion. “Your hijack attempt failed, Mudar. You were rendered unconscious, and your friends are dead. The pilots landed the plane in Dallas, which is where you are now.”