“Libya,” returned the man on her left in a dull tone of voice. “It’s on the other side of the world!”
“Should’ve been Cuba,” the first growled. “Would’ve been faster, cleaner.”
Wearily, Jordanna closed her eyes and withered into her seat. Libya. It was on the other side of the world. So far away from Patrick. So far away from everything she knew that was safe and predictable. God only knew what the Libyans would do with an American aircraft jammed with people! God only knew if they’d make it there in one piece!
Suddenly the world seemed a very bleak place with the only bright light shining from New York. Patrick would be there, waiting, worrying. But she’d be landing in Philadelphia, so close, so very close, then taking off again for Africa and a far and hostile land. What was in store for her – for the entire planeload of people – was unknown and therefore terrifying. Most terrifying of all was the thought that, should something go wrong, she might never see Patrick again.
PATRICK STOOD AT THE ARRIVAL GATE in a state of disbelief. “What did you say?”
“We don’t know when that flight will be in,” the young airline official repeated softly, apologetically. “It’s been hijacked.”
“Hijacked. You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
Patrick made a face. “Hijacked?”
“The plane should be landing in Philadelphia right about now. It’ll refuel there.”
“And then?”
The woman’s voice lowered. “They’ll go on to Libya.”
“Libya! This has to be a joke.”
The woman shook her head.
“You’re serious?” When she nodded, his heart skipped a beat. “Oh, my God!”
“I’m sorry, sir. We’re doing everything we can to try to talk the man out of it.”
Patrick’s eyes flashed. “How could something like this happen? I thought you people were so careful!”
“We are,” she replied as calmly as she could. “The captain says the man’s got an explosive hooked to his pacemaker.”
“Pacemaker!” Patrick cried, then dropped his voice an octave. “This is too much.”
“We had no way of knowing. Since the man couldn’t pass through the metal detectors, he was searched by hand. The pacemaker was an external one, secured near his waist. No one ever dreamed it wasn’t legitimate.”
“No one ever dreamed… .” Patrick muttered. “Damn it, my woman’s on that plane!”
The official tossed a pained glance toward the other people somberly clustered at the arrival gate. “They’ve got friends and relatives on it too. I’m sorry. I wish there were more I could say. There’s no reason to believe that the plane won’t land in Benghazi, drop the hijacker and then quickly return here. If you’d like to wait, we’ll fill you in on any news as we get it.”
“Wait. Uh, yes, I’ll wait.” His brow furrowed, then cleared as he tried to sort out his whirling thoughts. “How long? How long will it take to get to Benghazi and back?”
When she grew flustered, a male official stepped in. “The flying time one way is close to thirteen hours.”
“Thirteen hours! And they’ll have enough fuel?” He could just see the plane running out midway, and shuddered.
“It’ll be close, but they should be okay. If necessary they can land in Tripoli, but the hijacker insists on going to Benghazi. If the Libyans allow them to land and take right off again–”
“If,” Patrick interrupted in anger. “But if the Libyan government detains them… .”
The official shook his head once. “We have no reason to believe that the Libyans would detain them for any reason. Please, sir. There’s no cause for immediate alarm.”
“No cause? My God, man! This isn’t exactly your average flight!” He looked down, eyes terror filled. “Hijacked. It can’t be. Jordanna’s on that plane.” Suddenly he looked back up. “Maybe she’s not. She only got a seat at the last minute. Maybe it was overbooked… or she missed it.…”
“Her name?” Already the official was studying the clipboard before him.
“Kirkland,” Patrick stated, heart pounding. “Jordanna Kirkland.”
One page of names was studied, then turned. Patrick’s hopes rose. He didn’t care if she hadn’t called. Or maybe she had; he’d been out of the office since he received her first call and had wanted to get to the airport in plenty of time. He didn’t care if she’d have to take tomorrow’s flight after all. Just as long as she was safe.
But his hopes were shattered when the official pressed a finger midway down the second sheet of paper. “Jordanna Kirkland. Yes, I’m afraid she is on the flight.”
Patrick squeezed his eyes shut. The young woman came from behind the counter to gently take his elbow. “Why don’t you have a seat, sir? We’ll have coffee brought out in a little while. As soon as we hear anything, we’ll pass it on.”
Dumbly he looked at her, then followed her glance toward the others waiting in small, quiet groups. “Uh, yes. I think… I think I’ll just go stand by the window.”
“If there’s anything we can get you… .”
“Get me Jordanna,” he ordered. “Just get her back here safely.”
“We’ll do our best,” the woman offered softly, then left him to give her attention to another worried party that approached.
Patrick stared out the window for what seemed an eternity. Disbelief, shock, anger – each yielded in turn to the next. When at last he turned and took a seat, he was filled with an awful helplessness. And fear. So much could happen. A hijacker had to be crazy to begin with. What if he completely lost his mind midflight and detonated the explosive he carried? What if someone tried to tackle him and the explosive went off by accident? What if the Libyans detained both the plane and its crew. Torture? Mayhem? Or if they refused to grant the hijacker asylum and he went berserk there and then?
Beads of sweat covered Patrick’s brow. He mopped them with his forearm, then thrust his fingers through his hair. It was unreal! All of it! Jordanna was coming back to him, rushing back to him. She’d advanced her schedule, taken an earlier flight. For him. Guilt joined terror to consume him. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. Why couldn’t it have been he on that plane? Why Jordanna? Why now, just when things were looking so good for them?
Hours passed. The terminal slowly filled with anxious friends and relatives, silent in their vigil. Representatives of the media quietly worked the crowd, interviewing those who would speak, deftly bypassing others. Standing once more at the window with his back to the rest, Patrick waited angrily, almost daring someone from the press to approach him. He’d tell them what he thought, crude bastards. To shove a microphone at a person who was obviously in pain was low and dirty and heartless.
“Got someone on it too?”
Snapping his head to the side, Patrick found himself glaring at an elderly gentleman whose eyes were moist. Instantly contrite, he curbed his anger and nodded.
The man gripped the wood rail with gnarled hands that shook slightly. “My daughter’s on it. Didn’t even know it until my son-in-law had the good grace to call. We’re not close.” There was sadness in his broken voice and regret. “Heard about it on the eleven o’clock news. Never imagined she’d be aboard.”
“Did the news have anything to add that we don’t know?” Patrick asked as gently as he could, but there was an underlying urgency in his tone that he couldn’t hide. Despite hourly updates by airport personnel, real news had been scarce. The plane was indeed en route to Libya. Beyond that, nothing was known.
The old man shook his head. “Just mention of some of the passengers. A singer. Never heard of him. Couple of company presidents. Never heard of them either. Course, no one’s heard of my Jane.”
Patrick wondered if Jordanna’s name had been mentioned, but he didn’t ask. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was that the plane and its passengers should return intact. And soon.
In as blind
a daze as Patrick felt himself, the old man wandered off. A long table had been set up at one end of the room with sandwiches and hot drinks. The thought of food made Patrick sick. He wondered if Jordanna had eaten, wondered whether there’d be enough food and drink to sustain the passengers through their ordeal. He tried to remember what he’d read about other hijackings, but drew a blank. Slamming his fist upon the rail, he gritted his teeth against the pain. But the worst of the pain was inside, and it only grew as the long night wore on.
By dawn, he felt desolate. Slumped in a chair, he watched the sky pale. Around him, others shifted and fidgeted. Those who’d fallen asleep awoke with urgently whispered inquiries about news. Those who’d gone home for the night slowly trickled back.
Helping himself to a cup of hot coffee, Patrick wandered aimlessly about the room. He felt, in turn, like a caged animal, then a grateful hostage. Rubbing a hand to his shadowed jaw, he wondered if he should go home to shave and shower. But he didn’t want to go anywhere. Not while Jordanna was out there. Not while there might be news.
At nine in the morning, slouched once more in a seat, he was roused from his depression by a familiar voice.
“Pat! I just heard!” Andrew Harper, one of his partners and close friends, slipped breathlessly into the seat next to him. “I got here as soon as I could.”
“You heard?” Patrick echoed, numb.
“Read, actually. The newspaper.” He held a copy folded in his lap, but Patrick was too weary to reach for it.
“They mentioned her?”
“Yes. She’s one of several big names on the plane.”
Patrick thought of the old man who’d talked with him hours before. “They’re all big names, Andy. Every one of them–” he tossed his head toward the crowd behind him “–to these people here.”
Andrew looked appropriately chastised. Then he eyed his friend cautiously. “Is there any news? The paper simply said the plane was on its way to Libya.”
“It should be arriving within the hour.” Word had come through a few minutes before. “That’s all we know.”
“Well, at least that’s something. They’re getting there.”
Patrick shuddered and stared straight ahead. “Now we have to wonder what the Libyans will do with them. Once they land, they’ll probably sit on a runway sweltering in the heat. If the hijacker remains on board, they’ll be in continuing danger from him. If he gets off, they may be in danger from the Libyans.” Leaning forward, he knotted his hands together. “All we can do is to pray that the plane will be allowed to take off with everyone but the hijacker aboard.”
Andrew raised a hand to his friend’s shoulder. “It’ll get off okay. You’ll see.”
Patrick closed his eyes tightly. “I keep thinking of Entebbe. What those people went through–”
“That was a political thing, Pat. This is not. It’s one crazy man. The Libyans wouldn’t do anything to risk this country’s retaliation.”
Opening his eyes wide, Patrick sat back with a tired sigh. “I keep telling myself that but, damn it, it doesn’t help. Jordanna’s on that plane. If it weren’t for me, she’d have flown in safely this morning. If anything happens to her, I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself. Not to mention the idea of living without her–”
“Hell, Pat. Since when were you such a pessimist?”
Patrick looked at his friend then. “I’m talking reality.”
“You’re talking morbid. Hey, when was the last time you heard of an American plane being hijacked with anything happening to either its passengers or crew?” When Patrick thought for a minute, then shrugged, Andrew went on. “They’ll all be okay. Sure, maybe hot. Maybe tired and hungry and thirsty. But they’ll be okay. Got that?”
“I have your word?” Patrick asked, sarcasm in his arched brow.
Andrew simply sent him a chiding glance, then softened. “Is there anything I can do?” Pat shook his head. “I’ll cover you at the office. Any important meetings that can’t be postponed?”
Nothing was so important that it couldn’t be postponed. Not when Jordanna was in danger. Again he shook his head.
“You really should go home and change. You look awful.”
Pat was still shaking his head. “I can’t. Not yet, at least. Once we get word that the plane’s on the way home, I may leave for an hour.” He glanced at his watch. He’d calculated and recalculated all night. “In the most optimistic circumstances, they could be back tonight. Until I know something, anything, I’m staying here.”
“Want me to stop back later?”
Pat’s smile was sad but it held his appreciation. “No. Thanks anyway, Andy. I’ll just… sit here. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yup.”
But he began to wonder as the day dragged on. There was no news, other than that the plane had indeed landed in Benghazi. No word of a takeoff. No word of a seizure. Nothing. Patrick’s frustration was shared by the others standing watch. His worry was reflected on their faces, his sense of helplessness in the way they seemed to wander in aimless circles, sitting, only to stand and walk again.
When, at midafternoon, a reporter approached him, he was too tired to muster immediate fight.
“Excuse me,” the young woman said, “but aren’t you… you look very much like… .”
“I am,” he conceded, staring off toward the runways he’d already imprinted inch by inch on his mind.
“Do you have someone on this flight, Mr. Clayes?”
“Yes. My woman.”
The reporter began to write.
“Must you do that?” Patrick snapped, tossing a glance over his shoulder. “Have you made notes on each of these people and the names of those they’re waiting for?”
“Some,” the reporter returned calmly.
“And you’ve asked how they feel, whether they’re worried?”
“Logical questions, given the circumstances.”
“Doesn’t it occur to you that this is an invasion of privacy? That they may not want someone poking her nose in at such an awful time?”
“It’s news, Mr. Clayes. You should know that.”
“Oh, I know it, all right, which is why I always did avoid the press.” Standing, he thrust his fists into his pants pockets. “If you’ll excuse me.…” Without another word, he walked off.
It was shortly after five when a somber-faced airline representative announced that the plane had not yet left Libya. Renewed expressions of anxiety rippled through the air. Patrick stood stiffly while the representative explained that both the airline and the government were doing everything they could. Turning, head bowed, Patrick walked to the window once more.
How was Jordanna? She had to be exhausted. And frightened. If he thought the waiting hard, he could barely begin to imagine what she had to be going through. Nearly twenty-four hours – that was how long she’d been on the plane. If she was still on the plane. He shuddered when he thought of the alternatives, then tried to think more positively. Most likely there was some simply explained delay. But what? Red tape? Why hadn’t the plane taken off?
Dropping into a chair, Patrick realized that he was more bone tired than he’d ever been in his life. He felt as though he’d played three football games back-to-back and then had been forced to run around the entire field a dozen times. Moreover, those games had been Super Bowls and he’d blown each one.
Nothing, no, nothing could compare with the way he felt. Worried. Fearful. Empty. Alone. The others waiting so tensely in the terminal might have been some comfort; sharing the ordeal, there was a gentle bond between them. But he couldn’t share his thoughts with them, didn’t want to hear their tales of woe. Rather, he drew into himself and centered his thoughts on willing Jordanna safe and well.
Six o’clock became seven. The winter’s night had long since fallen. Seven became eight, then nine. The crowd thinned out again as some of its members went home for a few hours’ rest. Patrick dozed once or twi
ce in his seat, only to snap awake to a vision of an explosion or gunfire and screams. Andrew stopped by again and tried to persuade him to go home for a bit, but Patrick was adamant about not leaving until he heard something positive.
Finally, at three in the morning word came. With a ration of fuel, the plane had taken off from Benghazi and, after a stop in Gibraltar for food, drink and sufficient extra fuel to see it across the Atlantic, would be heading home. The words were sweet, bringing tears of anguished relief to all eyes in the room, including Patrick’s. Numb with fatigue, but elated by the promise of having Jordanna in his arms that night, he finally left the airport and went home.
By the time he returned, with several hours’ sleep, a shave, shower and fresh clothes to his credit, he felt almost human. Almost. The rest would come when Jordanna was back with him.
The atmosphere at the arrival gate was one of quiet excitement. With word from Gibraltar not only that the plane had left there on schedule but also that everyone aboard was well, if tired, the friends and relatives who waited in New York broke out in smiles from time to time. But an air of guardedness remained; not until the plane actually touched down would anyone fully rejoice.
As afternoon became evening, the crowd swelled. Joining those who had so faithfully kept the long vigil were other family members and friends. Moving from group to group in scavenger fashion were representatives from both the print and electronic media.
Patrick kept to himself for the most part, eyes glued to the sky. As the minutes passed, his excitement grew. The plane was due in at six. With a mere fifteen minutes to go, and the sun a faint memory in the west, he turned from the window to get a drink of water, only to stop, dead still and stare ahead. There, looking fresh and alert, chatting amiably with two reporters, was Peter Kirkland.
Patrick’s first response was to haul back and punch the man in the mouth. He’d come for the show, the bastard! He intended to cash in on Jordanna’s ordeal, to milk it for whatever publicity he could get!
Then Peter met his gaze with a message that was hard and direct. Patrick looked away, then back, then away again, deep in thought. When he looked back a final time, it was to calmly nod to Peter. Very deliberately he unclenched his hand and tucked it comfortably into the pocket of his slacks. Then, accepting the challenge Peter had issued, he went for his drink of water.
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