Sky Ship

by P McAuley, Robert

  Jennifer was doing her best to navigate the starboard walkway. “Boy,” she said as she looked at her low heels, “really wish I had my Dockers on.” She suddenly tripped on a dead crewman and almost lost it. “Got to keep my head. Got to remember the girls are expecting me home.” She stepped over the dead body while trying not to look at him. She continued along, cautiously.

  Dan is now a man possessed. He is now at the end of the eight hundred foot long, center walkway. He is bleeding from his cut hand and at least once almost drops his large wrench. He looked at the stairs that go from the center walkway down to the Auxiliary Control Room in the bottom of the airship’s tail. “Hope there’s no surprise waiting for me down there.” He gripped the wrench tight and slowly walked down the inclined stairway towards the backup control room. He reached the platform at the bottom of the tail section and saw the door to the room was open an inch or more and he peeked in. It looked empty so he pushed the door open slowly and held the wrench ready to use as a weapon. He checked the room out in a glance.

  It was only eight feet wide at this section of the tail. It was located in the airship’s unmoving rudder. The attached rudder controlled the direction the ship flew in. There's a small window, a table with a computer/intercom on it; another table; two bunks; bolted down stools, lockers and a ladder against the back wall.

  “Damn! Empty.” Dan looked at the intercom and quickly went to press the button marked “CONTROL ROOM.” when he suddenly stopped.

  He turned to look at something on the other table. He walked over to it and picked it up: an unopened deck of cards. He shook his head as he thought, Not like those guys to not be playing already. Something’s wrong. He walked to the door, opened it a crack then slowly went back up the inclined stairway to the center walkway. He suddenly heard someone coming and barely made it to a crosswalk to hide and listen. He realized his police training had kicked in. “Follow it, Dan, just follow it.” He said to himself.

  Dan couldn’t see the man, but the voice had an accent he couldn’t place.

  It was Hadi speaking to Hamadan and Arif. “Come on. The colonel wants everyone up forward except Said.”

  Dan took a quick peek out and spotted Hamadan and Arif walking away. He pulled his head back fast as it started coming together. Damn! he thought as he squeezed his eyes closed, One of those guys has an Uzi and I think I saw a 9mm pistol in the other guy’s hand. He pressed his hand against his forehead. What the hell is going on here? He slid down and rested his back against the aluminum girder. “Jenn, Oh, please be all right baby.”

  Unknown to Dan, Jennifer is watching the terrorists from the starboard walkway as they walked back to the passenger’s lounge.

  Dan made his way back to the safest place he knew for sure, the rear Auxiliary Control room. He paced back and forth, then suddenly stopped and slammed a fist into the metal door of a locker. “Damn! Why didn't I fly north for help? Oh, God . . . Jennifer, please be alive . . . Please be alive.”

  He paced again as he rubbed his hand. “Okay, think, McKee, think. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and start thinking like you were trained to do.” He stopped his pacing and looked at his battered hand. “First off, open the first-aid kit in the locker and bandage this mess up. It’s not going to do anyone any good if you bleed to death. Now, let’s take control.”

  He opened the lockers and rummaged through them. A batch of magazines fell to the floor. He found a pair of coveralls and a pair of short-range walkie-talkies. He opened a first-aid kit and bandaged up his hand. He found a bag of M&Ms and ate half then stuffed the rest in the pocket of the coveralls he put on. He looked in the small mirror in a locker and as he pushed back his hair said, “Time for a patrol, Officer Dan McKee.”

  The ship droned along and all’s quiet. The passengers are in eight of the rooms, four to a side of the hallway. Two guards are posted in the hallway between them at all times.

  Some terrorists keep a lookout for ships or aircraft while others are having a snack. Colonel Aziz pushed chips and cards off a card table, and spread a map out on it.

  Hadi Bakr took this moment to approach him. Hadi spoke with reverence in his voice, but his words bit into the colonel’s pride. “Colonel, may I speak bluntly with you?”

  Aziz doesn’t even look up at his underling, “Speak.”

  “Thank you my colonel. As we all know, your brother, General Aziz, is, of course, our superior.” He hesitated a moment to let this sting linger a bit before he continued. “I am concerned that you mentioned the Republic of Irajh, since the General ordered us not to identify ourselves to the passengers. I am sorry my words are so blunt. My only concern is for the success of our mission.’

  Aziz does a slow turn to his subordinate. ”Now I will speak bluntly: Everything about the flight must appear normal, in case we come under observation. The passengers feel less threatened, believing they have accurate information, and are, therefore, less likely to try something stupid . . . ” Colonel Aziz stepped up close to Hadi. “Remember this, Hadi: My brother Nuri is a strategist, not a warrior. He hides under the water and waits; I take men into battle. It has always been this way: My brother sharpened his schemes; I sharpened my axe.” He dismissed Hadi by turning back to the map.

  An unmarked submarine cruised under the ocean. It is an old Russian-built Kilo Class non-nuclear submarine, not as fast as a nuke, but quieter. Inside are Irajhian crewmen manning its controls. The radioman turned and handed a runner a piece of paper and told him to take it to the captain. The man took it, went quickly down a tight hallway and rapped on the only room in the sub, besides the lavatory, that had a door: The captain’s quarters.

  “Enter!” said Captain Ghazi as he sat at his small desk writing in the ship’s log. The door opened and the runner passed him the communication from the radioman. The captain read it as the runner stood at attention. Ghazi crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket. “No answer,” he said as he dismissed the runner who saluted and left the tight room. Ghazi is a small, hungry looking man with a wisp of a mustache that he was embarrassed by. Most of his brothers and uncles were able to grow the thick, black mustaches that made his race so proud.

  A hand parted the small black curtain that shielded the room’s light from the bunk bed and a voice said to the captain, “Was it about the mission?”

  Ghazi faced the bunk bed and said, “No general, it was just a weather report we intercepted from a tanker in the area.”

  The curtain was pulled back and General Nuri Aziz sat up and stretched as well as he could in the confined space. He looked back at the captain and with a smile said, “Faisal, you could have been in charge of a mine-sweeping flotilla if you had wished. I have to believe there’s much more space available on one of those ships.” He hopped out of the bunk bed and Captain Ghazi had to grin at his choice of clothes, a red Nike running suit, white socks, and leather sandals. His military jacket - adorned with medals and ribbons - hung on a hook. He watched as General Nuri Aziz rubbed the stubble of his black beard. The general smiled and his dark good looks reminded Ghazi that his friend had everything that had escaped him in life.

  Aziz went to the small mahogany desk, opened a drawer and removed a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label Scotch. “Come, Faisal! Have a drink with me.” Nuri poured two drinks. Capt. Ghazi took his and sat back wearily on his seat. He felt slighted that he had to give up his quarters for the General, forcing him to bunk with his First Officer. I’m certain, he thought, that First Officer Habbad was upset with the sleeping arrangements too.

  Nuri pushed a button on a compact disc player and mid eastern music played. Nuri raised his glass. “To our success!”

  Ghazi raised his glass. “To our success!”

  They both took a sip. Captain Ghazi savored the smooth whiskey. He grinned at the general. “It seems you and I have been breaking rules since we were little boys, sneaking out of religious prayer meetings.”

  “Ha!” Nuri said as he poured another round of drinks, “R
eligion is boring; scotch is interesting - and scotch like this is the answer to prayer, no?” He laughed.

  Ghazi finished his second drink, put the glass down and with raised eyebrows said, “If this operation means I get to drink good scotch, it must be a good operation.”

  Aziz sat forward on the edge of the bunk bed, elbows on his knees as he swirled his glass. “'Good' is such a subjective term; 'rich' is more particular. How does that sound to you, my friend?”

  Now Ghazi sat forward, “Humph. I am a tired old sub commander whose pay is meager. Don't give me false dreams, Nuri.”

  “I do not, my friend. Why do you think I am on your submarine – because I like small spaces?” He reached into his jacket pocket and removed two cigars and passed one to the captain. “Cuban’s, and many more where they came from.” He lit both with a gold lighter bearing his country’s coat of arms. “Do you remember the cargo we had loaded at four in the morning the night before we left port, Faisal?”

  The captain grimaced, “Yes, we had to load it in that ungodly hour because that was when the American satellite had passed watching our every move. Yes, I remember.”

  “And do you recall how the army men handling the canister all wore masks?”

  “Yes, and I remember how fast they left after I signed for the delivery, and how the Colombian ministers never got out of their limo’s nor lowered the windows.”

  Nuri stretched again. “Have you no idea what it was all about, Faisal, or why I am here on this tiny boat?”

  The captain tried to hide his grimace. He shrugged his shoulders and blew out a long stream of smoke. “No, I presumed you are along to manage the sale of the nerve gas and the explosives to the Colombians.”

  “Ah, Faisal. There are no Colombians and there is no sale, it was a cover story. I am along to oversee the use of the nerve gas and the explosives.”

  Ghazi did a small choke on the cigar smoke as he sought the right words. “The-The use? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  General Aziz smiled knowing he had a captive audience as he poured two more scotches. He looked at his gold Rolex watch. ”Just a short time ago, my brother Abdul led a commando unit in hijacking an American luxury cruise zeppelin.”

  Ghazi gripped his glass as he stammered, “A-An American zeppelin?”

  “That's right, my friend. Tomorrow at dawn we will rendezvous with the zeppelin and transfer the nerve gas and the other weapons up to it.”

  Now Ghazi was fascinated. “Then what?”

  Nuri suddenly stood and his six-foot height seemed to fill the small cabin as he stretched his arms wide. “What then? Ha! The world's oil ministers OPEC - are meeting tomorrow in Miami Florida. My brother will use the zeppelin and the nerve gas to lead a suicide attack on OPEC.” Then with a hint of disappointment, sat back down as he continued. “My brother himself, however, will parachute out before the suicide squad attacks.”

  The captain is staring at the far wall and seeing nothing, “My God! A nerve gas attack on OPEC in America! But why, Nuri?”

  “For two years Faisal,” he said as he inhaled on his cigar, “our country has been secretly purchasing millions of barrels of oil through the black market and hoarding it in our vast deserts, with an eye toward someday off-setting OPEC's market standards and making huge profits. When the oil ministers are killed, we have people in position to blow up all of their oil refineries. Those countries will panic and rush to buy up all the oil they can get their greedy hands on. Irajh will be in a position to dictate the price of oil to the world. Our profits will be in the billions!”

  Capt. Ghazi gulped his drink as the general continued. “Irajhian nerve gas is the most deadly ever developed, but we lack the delivery systems which would allow us to wage war against the other oil-rich nations in our region. With the success of our mission, Irajh will become an oil super-power, with a rich war chest to purchase many missiles from North Korea and others for the delivery of our chemical weapons.” His eyes were glazed over as he finished.

  “Holy God.” Faisal finally said. “An attack in America. Will not the Americans discover who is behind it?”

  Aziz laughed. “But how can they when one hundred pounds of explosives are detonated on the zeppelin, moments after the gas attack? There will be no witnesses to point a finger at us.”

  Captain Ghazi got up and started pacing the cabin. “What about the dispersion effect of the gas?”

  “Simple. The full canisters of gas have a potential dispersion radius of seventy-five miles, under average atmospheric conditions.”

  Ghazi stopped and looked down at the general. Then, you are saying, the death toll in Miami could be . . . ?”

  Nuri shrugged his shoulders. “Eh, a quarter-million Americans. Maybe more, maybe less.”

  “Incredible... and Nuri, you are the master-mind of this- this devastation?”

  Nuri looked up with a beaming face at the captain. “I am, Faisal.” Then sarcastically, “Thanks to my brother and his elite commandos - who are so eager to die and go to heaven. I will be rewarded with fifty million dollars and made Chief of the National Military. I will be in a position to make you, my old friend, rich, as well. Perhaps even purchase a Russian nuclear submarine so you don’t have to sail in this leaky old sow. What do you say to that?”

  “My friend,” Faisal answered, “it is because of this leaky old sow that we could sneak past all the listening devices the Americans have placed on the ocean’s floor.”

  Nuri looked up at him perplexed, “How?”

  “These old Russian, battery powered U-boats are quieter than even the most modern nuclear submarine. And the Americans listening devices are built to detect Russian nuke boats. So, let us fill our purses now, for tomorrow we may be with the devil.”

  Nuri laughed and refilled the glasses. They drink as the submarine stealthy glides through the deep waters.

  Back in the airship, Jennifer looked for a safe place to hide. There had been so much activity by the terrorists in the center and front of the ship that she decided to stay as far to the rear as possible. Dan said he played cards with the guys somewhere back in the rear, she remembered as she searched for the room. When the center walkway came to an end, she saw the stairs going down and slowly went down them. Then she was in front of a door marked, AUXILLERY CONTROL ROOM. She trembled with fear as she put her hand on the knob and slowly turned it. The door clicked and she pushed it open ready to run the other way. No movement or sound so she looked in. Empty! Thank God, she thought as she went in. She looked about hopefully, but found nothing to help her. She picked up the cards on the table, perhaps sensing Dan's recent presence. She put them down and left the room. She went over to the port walkway and saw a spot behind some of the girders that were in shadow. She slid down to rest, her back against the wall between two girders. “I just have to close my eyes for a bit,” she said as she fell asleep.

  At the same time, Dan went to the end of the center walkway at the ship’s rear and took a short ladder down to the very bottom of the hull. He walked along the hull walkway as it curved down toward the ship’s belly. He came to a tool shed enclosed by cyclone fence walls and roof. He twisted the lock off with the wrench and went in. He saw a tank of acetylene gas and welding equipment besides other tools. He went back out to the hull walkway and continued toward the ship’s center. He reached the luggage compartment, which was also enclosed in cyclone fencing. After forcing the lock, Dan entered and checked the luggage and cargo. Suddenly, he slipped and grabbed the fence that formed the wall before he fell. He stopped and looked down and saw that he stood in a pool of blood. He looked up and, less than ten inches above his head lying on the cyclone fence that made the roof, was the dead body of Smitty.

  Dan jumped back instinctively, tumbling noisily into boxes. Then he heard someone coming. He stayed in the shadows and peeked through the roof. He saw a man carrying something toward the engine room. The man said something in Arabic, which Dan didn’t understand.

  Man
sur has a platter of food and as he kicked at the door, shouted, “Said! The food! Open the door and take the food.”

  Said opened the door and came out of the Engine Room. He took the food and said, “It’s about time. I haven’t eaten for hours. How’s it going up front?”

  Said nodded his head, “As planned. Just as planned. I’ve got to get back there now. Keep this door locked.”

  Dan watched the man walk back towards the front and the other close the door. He heard the lock fall in place. He slumped down on the floor. “Damn, it’s more than just some kook acting alone. There’s at least two of them and could be more. Gotta think before I do something stupid.” He started looking through the luggage for something useful. I don’t understand their language, he thought, but it’s the same dirt I saw on the streets of New York, a few baddies taking advantage of the unwary. After feeling about, he found a long, black case with a tag on it. This could be it, he thought as he read the tag. ‘Joan Young-Humphries - 17 Palm Lane - Miami, FL.’

  Dan pulled out the case and left the pen with the luggage.

  He gingerly walked back to the Auxiliary Control Room and after making sure he was alone, locked the door. He then opened the case and took out an archery bow, arrows, a quiver designed to buckle around one's waist, and fingerless gloves. He also found a strong target slingshot and a pouch of metal-jacketed balls. He put the pouch in his pocket. Lastly, he found a bag of resin and put it in his other pocket. He took the bow and aimed an arrow at the back wall of the room. Dan squinted and said, “Point . . . and . . . shoot.” He let fly. The arrow rocketed into the wall with tremendous force. “Wow! said Dan quite impressed. “Damn, Leon better be nice to her.” He put the bow down and went to the ship’s computer. It was designed to give a pilot controlling the ship from the rear, pertinent information for handling the ship. He typed in his password, XNYPD and entered it. The screen lit up and Dan pressed a button marked, SHIPS COMMAND STATUS and immediately it answered, COMMAND FROM MAIN STATION IN GONDOLA / AUX. COMMAND DENIED. He then typed in SHOW FLIGHT ON GPS. He got a map with the circuitous route that Sky Ship had planned to perform. A solid blue line, led by a tiny dirigible icon, indicated the progress of the flight - about 50 miles from Florida. “Mmm. Right on course,” he said.