Carson Brock had been full of bonhomie, and Megan had laughed delightfully. With mock seriousness she said, “We can’t have that, now can we? I’ll be sure to keep an eye on it, Mr. Brock.” But the bitch hadn’t. She was like all the others, all talk and no action. Carson was a wealthy Texan born to privilege. He managed to get a degree from Texas Tech in Mining and Geology after six years of partying and the academic help of more studious fraternity brothers. Upon graduation, he joined his family’s oil and gas exploration company as a vice president and was now the president. He had offices in Midland and Fort Worth. Beatrice, his third wife, was a trophy blonde who turned heads but was also the prototype for stereotypical blonde jokes. She had scheduled elective surgery with a Manhattan plastic surgeon who was touted as the best of his breed. She was having a “minor procedure” performed in his office. That’s what the doctor called it, “a minor procedure.”
“Minor procedure, my ass,” Carson thought, “it’s serious business when someone sticks a vacuum cleaner under your skin, and where the hell is that Flight Attendant anyway, the lying little tart.” Carson was getting worked up. His glass had been empty for “five goddamned minutes,” and if Beatrice weren’t getting what little fat she has sucked out, he would be in the lap of luxury on his Gulfstream right now. Carson had forgotten the date of the Oil and Gas Convention in San Francisco and foolishly agreed to let Beatrice take his personal jet to New York. When he remembered, and tried to renege, she’d had a fit. She’d already invited friends to go shopping. So with one day notice, he’d had to pay damn near two thousand dollars for a ticket on a flight that left later than he wanted, and this was the service he got. Besides that, the damn plane was running a half hour late. He wouldn’t arrive in Frisco until 8 p.m.
Megan had been working the left aisle, his aisle, but for some stupid reason she was over on the right aisle helping another Flight Attendant solve a problem. “Well, I have a serious problem over here too,” he fumed. It was then that Carson saw the man in 1F rise and disappear behind the forward bulkhead. The seatbelt sign was still illuminated even though the patch of rough air that triggered it was far behind. The Captain must be as attentive as the stewardess, Carson was thinking. “What the hell, I’ll go wrestle the python, and get a drink on my way back.”
The right, forward lav was occupied, so Carson eased into the one on the left and slid the bolt closed. Across the way, Milo Stefanich flushed the toilet he hadn’t used and reached into the receptacle for used hand towels. The string he sought was quickly found. It was secured to the hinge at one end and to the trigger guard of a Drotik 5.45mm pistol at the other. He fished it out, checked the magazine and chambered a round before returning to the cabin. He noticed now, as he had before departure, the photograph of a handsome, muscular man holding a precious little girl. It lay atop the service cart that was parked out of sight on the cockpit side of the bulkhead. Milo had stopped earlier to compliment the flight attendant saying, “You have a lovely family…” He had paused and squinted at the name stitched in script on her topper before finishing his sentence, “Colleen.”
She smiled demurely and thanked him. Milo was alone now, as he knew he would be. He clutched the Lucite Square that held Colleen’s family captive and selected the key on its ring that was stamped Do Not Duplicate.
18
Milo In Command; Explosive Decompression
Colleen’s cockpit key turned easily in the lock and Milo stepped quietly inside. His trailing hand still gripped the doorknob that he now turned and pulled, silently closing the door behind him. The engineer, often said to be riding sidesaddle, wasn’t facing his panel. Charlie had swiveled his chair to face forward. Milo eased into the jumpseat behind the Captain and Charlie detected the motion in his peripheral vision. He whipped his head to the left and stared at the barrel of a gun.
“What the hell?”
Greg turned to look and words froze in his throat.
Charlie found his voice and announced Milo’s presence. “Captain, we have an intruder. He’s armed.”
Milo extended his arm and pressed the cold muzzle of the gun against Charlie’s forehead forcing him to raise his chin. Charlie looked beyond the blur of the gun to focus on the man who held it. Milo smiled and cocked his head, saying, “Is that it?”
“Captain?”
“I see him Charlie, be cool.” To Milo he said, “What do you want?”
“I want you to understand that I am rated on the DC-10. My ATP is current, and I know all the tricks. My presence is to remain a secret. Any deviation from this instruction will be dealt with harshly.” To Charlie he ordered, “Rotate your chair to face your panel,” and the pistol nudged compliance. Charlie obeyed and as he turned, the pistol described an arc from his forehead across his left ear to the back of his head. Tension mounted in the cockpit as Milo continued to forcefully press the muzzle of the gun into Charlie’s skull forcing him to bow. Charlie held his breath and said a silent prayer.
Captain Murphy broke the tension by saying, “You still haven’t said why you’re holding that gun. Who are you and what do you want?”
“Rule number two, Captain,” Milo answered as he backed away from the engineer, “I ask the questions, and I will give the orders. I am in command. You are not. Is that clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good. My name is of no importance to you. All I want from you is a little information, a smooth landing and a change of course.” With that, Milo handed Greg prepared typed instructions that Greg accepted and promptly passed to his Captain. Jim studied the routing before commenting.
“This northern route adds a hundred miles and twenty minutes to our flight plan. The jet stream…” Milo interrupted, “Did I ask for your opinion, Captain?” His words were filled with venom. “Just do it!”
A radio call was made to Air Traffic Control and the new route was approved after the Captain explained that his company was doing a cost analysis of various routes.
“Are you GPS equipped?” the Controller asked.
“I wish,” the Captain answered. “No, this bird has a Lindberg era nav system.”
The controller enjoyed the banter but responded professionally.
“Roger, Global Six Twenty, take up a heading of 3-3-0 degrees. Go direct to the Blue Mesa VOR when able.”
“Thank you, Albuquerque Center, three-three-zero and direct Blue Mesa when able,” Murphy said as he rolled in fifteen degrees of right bank.
Milo knew that an armed Secret Service agent was on board, but didn’t know where he was seated. He wanted the seat assignment. Questions to the Captain were followed by threats but Murphy coolly feigned ignorance. The shipment, he argued, was a last minute reassignment from a cancelled flight and advising him of a courier’s seat assignment was a courtesy, not a requirement. This had the ring of truth since Milo had also been reassigned and the Flight Attendant with a seating chart had not known his name. So be it. His men had their orders. They would remain anonymous until the adversary revealed himself or their mission was otherwise compromised.
Carson Brock stepped from the lavatory and stopped at the service cart just as Megan returned. “What does a man have to do to get a drink at this aviator’s bar?” Carson teased, again at his charming best.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Brock,” Megan pleaded as she elongated every syllable. “You must be as dry as a wadi. Let me fix that right now.”
“Bless you, my child,” Carson said with a flourish of his hand, “I now return to the sybaritic luxury of First Class a happy man.” Using the celery stalk as a swizzle stick, Carson stirred the “Stoly” vodka into the Mr. & Mrs. “T” mix and absently scanned the cabin. He didn’t notice that the man in 1F had not returned to his seat, and of course could not know that he never would. Milo had found a better seat, the elevated observer’s seat just aft of the Captain where he held a commanding view.
“Global 620 contact
Denver Center on 131.7.”
“Roger, Albuquerque, Denver on 131.7, thanks for the help.”
“Denver Center, Global 620.”
“Six Twenty, Denver, you are cleared Salt Lake City direct, flight plan route.”
Milo ordered Murphy to accept the clearance. Overhead, adjacent to the cockpit speakers, he toggled the number-one radio on, and adjusted his headset.
“Roger, Denver, direct Salt Lake, flight plan route.”
Milo said, “Copilot, keep one VOR tuned to Blue Mesa. At the fifty DME, notify me.”
Jim looked at his copilot who answered his gaze with a slight arch to his brow. The crew flew in silence until Greg announced, “We’re 50 east of Blue Mesa.”
“Excellent. Make a PA. Say something about the beautiful Rocky Mountains.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. The Captain doesn’t mind, do you Captain?”
Jim shook his head wondering what this all about.
When Josef Alonovich in coach heard the reference to the Rocky Mountains, he pulled a P9 Gyurza pistol from his seat-back pocket, one he had also extracted from a trash bin, and fired one round. It was a special 9mm magnum round with a tungsten core designed to defeat body armor, certainly adequate to penetrate glass.
Minutes earlier Carson Brock downed his fourth Bloody Mary. He was becoming loud and obnoxious and other passengers complained. When the in-flight movie title was announced, he protested bitterly that he’d already seen it and “it sucked.” The Flight Attendants classified him as a PITA, an acronym for pain-in-the-ass. Megan was an expert at handling PITAs. She knelt near Carson’s big wingtips and said reassuringly, “I agree with you, Mr. Brock, this movie isn’t worth your time. Would you like a magazine? I have Business Week and…”
“That’ll do.”
Megan pulled the Magazine from a stack she cradled in her arms and Carson took one look at the cover and barked, “My dentist has more recent issues,” and tossed it aside.
“Mr. Brock, please don’t upset the other passengers. Most of them don’t have your flying experience and might be nervous.” She smiled and touched his arm, stood, and walked away.
Carson Brock was certain she had the hots for him. She did have great legs and he noticed the buttons of her blouse were under some strain. Big knockers. What a tease she was. He knew he should have given her his card. Well, he could do that later.
Explosive Decompression
Josef Alonovich was stunned by the aftermath of his action. Leaning forward, he had aimed and fired one shot across the cabin. The bullet passed within inches of the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Wilson. Herbert, a retired schoolteacher, had a stern demeanor forged in the crucible of a hundred public school classrooms. Even now as he gazed through the Ben Franklin glasses perched on the tip of his nose he seemed ready to strike fear in some child’s heart. He had insisted on a window seat on the left side of the cabin and was disappointed when he discovered no argument was necessary. Mrs. Wilson, who never argued and who avoided any confrontation, sat dutifully beside him. Her left hand was resting on his right forearm as he read and she napped. Harold was seated a few rows behind them, out of sight. It had been a smooth and uneventful flight until the 9mm slug shattered the protective, inner plastic window a millisecond before exploding the thick glass window itself. The forces of Nature did the rest.
Pressurized cabin air, like flood waters breeching a dam, rushed through the window opening to the area of lesser pressure outside. Anything not nailed down was instantly airborne, propelled by hurricane force winds toward or through the portal. Anyone nearby who happened to be looking in Mr. Wilson’s direction saw him lead the way in a Superman pose, flying off to save the day. He had been adjusting his glasses with his left hand when the window on his left disappeared. His arm shot straight out and preceded his head out the window. Up, up, and away… His body stretched and tried to follow, but his loosely fastened seat belt gripped his lower legs and tethered him to his seat. The woman seated directly behind Herbert Wilson fainted a moment later when he knocked on her window from the outside as though he wanted to come back in. The fog of vapor and debris, that reduced visibility in the cabin, quickly cleared when pressure in the cabin equaled that of the great outdoors, and a rubber jungle of dangling yellow masks was revealed. A voice from the cockpit ordered everyone to pull down and use the oxygen masks. Most people did or had already done so, but not Mrs. Wilson. She stared with vacant uncomprehending eyes at her husband, the man other passengers would later refer to as “poor Mr. Wilson.”
In the cockpit, someone shouted, “Explosive decompression!” as dirt from the cockpit floor joined maps and papers in a floating fog of debris. Milo was disoriented. He was a spectator now, not a player. The pilots’ training asserted itself and for the moment, Milo was forgotten. Swift, practiced movements followed in rapid succession. Each pilot grasped a quick-donning mask, pulled it from its holder and in one fluid motion slipped it over his head to cover his face. Charlie spun his chair counterclockwise and reached in front of Milo to increase the volume on the overhead cockpit speakers before turning back to his panel where he switched from boom mike to mask mike as Captain Jim Murphy and Greg Fox had already done. They had selected the interphone-on position and everything they said was heard coming from the overhead speakers. Charlie did not make that selection. Jim Murphy grasped the three throttle levers and pulled them to idle while rolling into a 30-degree bank and nosing over. Greg reached for the glare shield and dialed in .84 Mach as a target speed, and 10,000 feet as a target altitude before making a distress call to Denver Center. Jim popped the speed brakes full open and pushed the control column forward. The nose of the aircraft obediently followed, turning and diving toward a sustainable altitude as quickly as possible. Charlie swung his chair clockwise to face the cockpit door and activated the backup release of cabin oxygen masks and announced to the Captain that they were deployed. Even an Indy pit crew would have been impressed had a stopwatch been running.
Milo had known what was about to happen and had pre-positioned his oxygen mask in his lap before telling Greg to make a PA. Nonetheless, he was so stunned by the event that he was the last man to don his mask. Over the cockpit speakers he could hear every word spoken beneath the masks and the raspy sound of oxygen inhaled. A Mayday call was repeated three times by one of the pilots, he couldn’t tell which, and Denver Center responded immediately.
“Global Six Twenty, what is the nature of your emergency?”
“Six Twenty, explosive decompression, descending to one zero thousand.”
“Roger, Global 620, the area is clear of traffic, descending to one zero thousand, minimum en route altitude your sector is one six thousand. Repeat, one six thousand. How copy?”
“Roger, Denver, we are out of Flight Level three five zero for one six thousand request vectors to Colorado Springs. CFR requested.”
“Roger, Global Six Twenty, when able, reverse course to one-one-five degrees, call level one-six thousand.”
The aircraft shuddered as it plunged steeply and noisily downward. Huge speed brake panels lifted vertically from the once smooth wing and destroyed lift. The turbulent flow of air spilling over them shook the airframe, but allowed Captain Murphy to achieve the maximum rate of descent. He held the airspeed at .84 Mach and transitioned to 320 knots indicated airspeed. The aircraft surrendered more than four miles of altitude in less than four minutes. The F/O called out, “Eighteen for sixteen,” and the Captain broke the rate of descent, ready to level at sixteen thousand feet.
Milo chose this moment to reassert his command. “Disregard ATC and continue your descent to ten thousand and roll out on a heading direct to Blue mesa VOR. Maintain radio silence, and turn your transponder off.
Agent Mick Roth, sitting in the rear of coach, thought he’d heard a gunshot and instinctively readied himself for action. But, in the pandemonium that followed, he w
as less certain a shot had been fired. Perhaps when a window fails structurally and catastrophically, it does so with the explosive sound of a handgun. He remained vigilant but relaxed, knowing his shipment would be safe until landing. The Captain must certainly be proceeding to an alternate airport, but would he remember to notify Federal Armored Express? When the plane leveled, Roth signaled a frightened Flight Attendant to come to him. She promised to relay his concern to the cockpit.
When the window exploded, Harold had been as stunned as any passenger on board with the probable exception of Mrs. Wilson. Passengers screamed, sobbed, or sat in a catatonic daze. Yellow masks swayed on plastic cords as the plane plunged and corkscrewed toward earth. Harold sat in a stupor. Daniel’s voice pierced his reverie.
“Harold, what the hell is going on?” There was a brief pause and an answer.
“Chaos. A window blew out and some poor guy tried to go with it. He’s dangling outside. It’s weird, man. I think we’re out of control. We’re falling. Don’t know. Maybe, this is it…”
“Hey! Snap out of it. Suck some oxygen and call me later.” When he did, Daniel answered his question. “Nah, I’m good. Nothing broken but it was a wild ride. An Attendant in the lower galley was less lucky. She suffered a broken collar bone.”
“How do you know that?”
“I set it.”
“You did what?”
“I set it. Don’t worry; she’s not going to blow the whistle on me. In fact, she promised to help me.”
“Why don’t I believe you, Stiles?”
“Because you never understood my way with women, Harold.”
Price For A Patriot Page 19