"Who else?" she asked.
Charley shouted through the cockpit door, "I'm on the intercom!" He picked up the microphone and said, "This is Charley Dey, I'm the Air Marshal team leader. What's your situation?"
"The pilot got two in the side, he's on the floor. I've squawked 7600, we're going down to 10,000. What the hell is going on out there?" Walker Hilton said. His voice was firm. Charley could tell it cost him.
"Standby," Charley said. "Give me the first aid kit," he said to Joan. He banged on the door and said, "Here's the first aid kit. Patch up the pilot as best you can." The flight engineer cracked the door and took the kit in. He saw the carnage outside the door and slammed it quickly shut.
"It's a fucking slaughterhouse out there," the engineer choked. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the first aid kit. "There's bodies all over the place."
Charley's lips were drawn into a thin, cold white line. Joan moved among the bodies of the terrorists, collecting guns and a hand grenade. She paused above the two Business passengers, frozen in fear on the floor, their hands cuffed behind them.
"You'll be safe," Joan said. "You're going to have to stay put." She frisked the two of them quickly, then searched through their carry-on bags. "They don't have anything, Charley," she said.
Hilton's voice came over the intercom. "Do you own this plane or what, Dey? What is going on?"
"Stand-by," Charley said. He flipped the intercom dial. "Bravo, Bravo, this is Alpha 1, status."
In the galley below the stairwell, Gamal Ayoush and his partner looked at each other. Ayoush gestured with his thumb towards the upstairs cabin.
"Charley, Charley, this is Alpha 1," Charley said again. He flipped the dial again. "Delta, Delta, this is Alpha 1, status."
There was only the rush of static over the intercom. Through the floorboards and the noise and vibration of the plane, Charley heard the screams below.
***
The terrorists in the rear of the aircraft were in a frenzy, striking out at the passengers and shouting at them to be quiet. They attempted to get the intercom working, but they were unable to make it sound throughout the whole aircraft from their location. Butch peered out from around the edge of the galley bulkhead, proned out and his pistol lined up. On the other side of the galley, Steve was proned out as well. "No shot," Stevey said.
"No shot," Butch said.
***
Fifteen yards away from Butch and Steve, Stacy heard the intercom buzzing in her galley. "Refresh me on making this thing work only upstairs, girls," Stacy said. "There's somebody up there I need to talk to."
***
Karen was frozen in her seat with the rest of the remaining first class passengers. She couldn't look at Harold's body, slumped in his seat, a pool of blood clotting in his lap. One of his Walkman ear pieces was still in place. She snatched a quick look behind her, before the terrorist watching her could strike her, and saw Shirleen's body laying in the aisle.
"There are still some alive in the back!" Gamal Ayoush said. His heart was racing. Did he own the aircraft or not? He pressed the button on the intercom for the cockpit and said, "Rafiz? Rafiz, is that you?"
Upstairs, Charley cracked the cockpit door and said, "Don't answer. Don't answer to anyone. Just stay on the radio with the center."
"Rafiz? Rafiz is that you?" the intercom crackled. There was silence for a moment, and then the voice on the intercom said, "Is this Mr. Dey or Mr. Nelson?"
***
Mary Franken told her story of how her boyfriend, an Israeli paratrooper, worked for the Mossad, and had given her some packages for Abraham Rosenbaum, how it was supposed to be money for Israeli undercovers in Washington DC.
"But of course," Eli Cohen said. "How could you not believe that?" he said, his sarcasm lost on her.
Jed Loveless called from the consulate; he was staying put in the SCIF and developing the big picture. His STU and secure fax were both ringing off the hook with demands for information.
"There a place for us in this, Jed?" John Bolen asked.
"You won't be doing any aircraft recovery, if that's what you're thinking. It's bad up there, from what we're getting. Put your guys together and see what we can find out about where this Rosenbaum character's back ups are, and this Mary Franken's boyfriend. There may be some door kicking yet to come. Just stand by."
"What about the deal with the Israelis?" John asked.
"This line is nonsecure. But that will be a no-go. We want this boy. Understand? We want this boy."
"Roger that." John hung up the phone and looked into the room where Eli Cohen was trying to engage Rosenbaum in conversation.
Ahmad Ajai had shut down; his operation was launched. He considered himself as good as dead, now; he looked for someway to take himself out of the equation honorably. He had no illusions about what would happen if the Israelis took him out of here. They would sweat him with no mercy, and eventually, they would find the place in him that would break. The Americans might be better. The indignity of a trial would be preferable to the prolonged torture he would receive from the Israelis. And given enough time, who knows? If the operation was a success, perhaps he could be a bargaining chip in the negotiations.
***
Gamal Ayoush was wild eyed with anger and frustration. There was no reply from the upstairs cabin, which told him his people didn't have the cockpit secured or that they were all be dead. Possibly the air marshals were all dead, too; but he didn't know and couldn't afford to send someone up to see without knowing more. At least some of his people were dead; there were air marshals barricaded in the coach galleys. Some of his people were in the rear of the aircraft, taking control and dominating the passengers. That was good, but what about the others? How many air marshals were left? Where were they?
"Your marshals are dead. There are none of them left alive," Ayoush said into the intercom. "Surrender now, or we will start killing the passengers. There are 350 passengers on this aircraft, do you hear me? We have that many bullets." There was silence on the intercom, only the rush of static. "It will do you no good to land an aircraft full of dead passengers. It's in the interest of their survival that you surrender now. Your team mates are all dead. You are the only ones left alive. Don't waste your life and the lives of the others. Come down, now."
Ayoush listened impatiently for a reply. Despite the careful coaching by Ahmad Ajai, he wanted to scream out defiance and charge up those stairs; that was all that stood before him and success. The cockpit was key. It was important to give the marshals the right kind of consideration. They would be unable to do their job from up there. They would be unable to protect the passengers and Ahmad Ajai believed they would give themselves up before they would allow the slaughter of innocents.
The intercom panel lights lit up in front of Charley. He flipped to the cockpit spare and heard the co-pilot.
"What are you going to do?" Hilton hissed. "We can't let them just start killing passengers. They'll slaughter them! Look, just talk to them and find out what they want, maybe we can get the plane down someplace. We don't want to lose any more lives than we have already."
Charley said, "I hear you. You're going to have to trust me to handle this."
"I'm the pilot in command, and I'm telling you, I'm not going to let them slaughter passengers! Do what they want us to do, tell them I'll take them where they want to go, but do your job! You're supposed to save lives."
"What makes you think they're not going to kill people anyway?"
Hilton was silent.
Charley flipped the intercom switch back to the first class galley. "Who am I speaking to?" he said. "What shall I call you?"
"My name is Gamal," said Ayoush. "To whom am I speaking?"
"My name is Dey. I'm the air marshal team leader."
Ayoush's face twisted in concentration. The front cabin, at least, was silent for now, allowing him to focus on drawing everything he could out of that voice. This was the real leader; the one who was the most dange
rous. He must have killed all of Ayoush's people if he was in control of the intercom.
"You will surrender now, Dey. Throw your weapons down the stairwell and then come down. You will not be harmed. We have no desire to harm anyone unnecessarily. Do not make it necessary for us to harm anyone."
"It's a little premature for us to be doing that. What do you want? Where do you want to go? Why are you doing this?"
Ayoush laughed. The carefully scripted and rehearsed negotiation strategy was forgotten in a rush of emotion that might have been controlled if Ahmad Ajai had been there to bridle him.
"I want you to come down now, Dey! That's what I want! I want the last of the Air Marshals down here so you can look at the plane we have taken. I am doing this because it is time that you Americans understand that you can no longer abuse and insult the faith of the Prophet, that there is a cost to be paid and you will pay it as others have!" Ayoush's face was knotted with emotion. The veins roping his brow throbbed. He was screaming, and his voice carried over the whimpers and cries of the frightened passengers.
Stacy heard him from where she was wedged down behind the cover of a meal cart in the galley. She had both the flight attendants crawl in to the tiny space where the meal cart went into the service counter, to keep them out of the way and to take advantage of what little cover there was.
"Fucking nutcase," she muttered. She reached up and hit the intercom call button for the upstairs galley.
Charley saw the light come on. "I have to think about what you said," Charley said carefully. "I hear you Gamal. Let me think for a few moments."
"You have run out of time! I want you and your people down here now or I start to kill passengers. I will stack their bodies in the aisles for everyone to see. We'll blow this plane apart before we will let you take it back, Dey!" Ayoush was spitting, livid with his internalized rage.
"Okay, okay, let me think, Gamal," Charley said, pitching his voice low in a kinesic technique to calm the hijacker. "Let me discuss this with the pilot. We need some assurances from you, an act of faith. Give us a moment."
Charley switched the intercom over to the third galley light.
"...anybody there? Upstairs galley, is anyone there? This is Charley 3, Charley 3 looking for Alpha."
"Charley 3, Alpha 1," Charley said.
"Roger, Alpha, listen up. 3 is set and clear, all others down. Unknown number of Delta to the rear, in galley, probable injuries, no comms. Two tangos positive forward, possible others; two tangos back of the bus, possible others. Two tangos down, my sector, one down positive in Delta, possibly others. What do you want me to do?"
"Stand by and hold, we're working on something," Charley said. There was no easy way down to the first class cabin. The stairs were the primary access point. He could tear out the back panel wall of the upstairs bubble and gain access to the interior structure of the aircraft; there was an I-beam that ran the length of the aircraft, like a spine, that was big enough to walk along. The ceiling panels and overhead compartments of the main cabin were suspended from the I-beam. He could drop down from that, but it would still place him aft of the first class cabin, which meant he would have to drop down into unsecured seating, and then charge up the aisle into the terrorist held strong point. He could do it, if he had Stacy to back him up in case he went down. It wasn't a strong option. That would leave only Joan holding the cockpit door. One marshal could hold the stairwell, but then the entire security of the aircraft rested on that one marshal. If she fell, then the cockpit fell, and the fight was over.
The speaker sputtered again with the voice of Gamal Ayoush.
"You've had enough time, Dey! You are not taking us seriously enough. We are going to kill a passenger now if you do not come down. Right now!"
Ayoush turned away from the speaker and told his back-up, "Take one. The woman. Stand her up in front of the other passengers and shoot her."
The silent hijacker grabbed Karen by the hair and pulled her up out of her seat, pressed the gun to her head, and walked her into the aisle.
"You passengers! Watch this! This is because the air marshals will not surrender! Because of them this woman must suffer!" Ayoush shouted from behind cover. His silent partner held Karen by the hair with his left hand. He raised the pistol in his right hand so the passengers could see the whole thing. A young man in the front of coach murmured, "Oh, sweet Jesus, be good to us."
***
Steve Paulson stood braced against the bulkhead wall. Butch had his back pressed against his, his weapon covering back to the rear of the aircraft, where the two barricaded terrorists had stacked passengers into the aisle as a human barrier. Steve's pistol sights were in perfect alignment on the head of the terrorist 25 yards away. He took a deep breath, relaxed, and took up the slack of his cocked pistol's trigger.
"Remember what to do, Karen," Stevey murmured.
Karen trembled like a leaf. Her damp skirt clung to her. When the pistol come to her head, she sank to her knees, dragging the terrorist forward.
His sights locked on the exposed face of the hijacker, Steve pressed his trigger and called his shot. "Center punch," he murmured, watching the front sight track back from the recoil.
The terrorist shooter's head snapped back. It wasn't quite a center punch; Steve's shot, aimed for the mouth and through that into the brain stem, caught the hijacker at an angle, breaking the jaw and nicking an artery. The man spun around and clapped his hands to his face as he fell. Karen fell forward and fumbled for her pistol. Ayoush stepped out from behind the bulkhead, his Makarov in his hand. Karen spun onto her back and fired her Sig, putting five rapid shots into the center of Ayoush's chest. He stumbled backwards and fell. Karen scrambled to her feet, coming into Steve's sight picture ass he eased off the trigger. Her fear turned to rage as she stood over the man who had been about to kill her. She did as she was trained to do: she put two shots in his head and made sure she saw his brains before she moved on. She braced herself in the forward right door well where she controlled access to the stairwell.
"Bravo 2, set and cleared," she shouted up the stair well.
***
In the rear of the aircraft, the two remaining terrorists looked to each other. One pulled out his carry-on bag and pulled out two identical radios. After opening the back of one, he set it aside. The other he opened and crossed two wires, then attached an additional battery pack. He set the first radio into the bag, along with two of the Johnny Walker bottles and wrapped the bundle in tape. He carefully arrayed small blocks of plastic Semtex explosive around the bundle and pressed the radio into the plastic. He stuck a piece of tape over the on/off switch, securing it in the off position.
The other radio he picked up, turned on, then spun the dial all the way to the end of the selector. He heard a steady, beep beep beep tone from the small speaker. He nodded with satisfaction and turned the radio off.
"It is ready," he said to his partner.
They were the two most serious and hardened products of the training camps: they had been blooded many times on raids into Israel as well as on covert operations abroad, where they had assassinated those the Imam had designated as enemies of the state. They'd been brought onto this team specifically for the fail-safe function they provided. They were motivated and hardened enough to fight to the death, dedicated enough to detonate the bomb that would tumble the airliner out of the sky.
***
FRANKFURT, GERMANY:
John Bolen and five of his shooters moved quietly up the apartment building's concrete stairwell, in the wake of the GSG-9 assault team. The elite German Police Commandos moved stair by stair, covering each other with their MP-5s, the point man with a P-7M13 9mm handgun and a mirror to check the corners, the tail gunner with a Benelli Super-90 assault shotgun. The assault team paused outside an apartment door, and there was a quiet murmured conference over their throat mikes with the snipers and back-up elements outside the building that covered all possible escape routes. The point man pressed a car
dboard target silhouette on which a shaped charge of plastic explosive had been laid against the door. He stepped back, twisted the ignition pencil fuse, and crouched down. Three seconds later the cutting charge punched out a silhouette in the wooden door, a flash bang grenade followed it, detonating with a boom that shook the building, and the point man was through, followed by the rest of the assault element.
"Clear, clear, clear," came the commands, and John and his team followed through the door, where 'Emmanueal' was pinned to the floor, a heavy German boot pressed in his back while he was flex-cuffed. The follow on Intel crew came up the stairs to ransack the apartment for information.
"Hey, before you go, I want to see something," Rhino said. He pulled a Benchmade Brend II fighting folder out of his pocket and leaned over "Emmanueal", who wore only briefs. He set his knife next to the man's penis, and slit the shorts open. The terrorist thrashed around and one of the Germans asked, "Are you trying to cut his dick off?"
"No," Rhino said. "Just curious if he was circumcised or not. Don't understand how a good-looking American woman could sleep with this guy and not figure out he wasn't Jewish."
"In a battle of wits, she'd be unarmed," John Bolen said wryly. "Look, he fucking wet himself."
Rhino put his knife away and slung his MP-5. "Came to shit and only farted. Let's go, boss, before I kill this fucker. I was really looking forward to killing somebody today."
***
Eli Cohen held the bottle of confiscated Johnny Walker he had taken away from Ahmad Ajai.
"All of this political posturing makes me thirsty, Jed Loveless. Shall we have a drink while we wait? We can drink to the courage of your air marshals, who are dying because of things this man knows. We can drink while he sits there mocking us for what we don't know," Cohen said bitterly. "Your government argues with my government and we both argue with the Germans while lives are at stake. So why not drink?"
Jed looked at him silently. Cohen cracked the seal and opened the bottle. He sniffed it and said, "This is not whiskey."
***
Air Marshals Page 31