Price For A Patriot

by F. Denis King

  “Romeo, you are so full of yourself. Your ‘gift’ may be a one-way ride to the slammer. I guess we’ll find out soon enough. There is no way the Captain is going to press on to San Fran with a passenger hanging out the window. So be ready for an emergency landing.”

  “I was born ready.”

  19

  Damsel In Distress; Mission Impossible

  Daniel had been seated on the floor of mid-cargo with his back resting against the forward bulkhead when it happened. The cargo hold filled with smoke but there was no smell of fire, and suddenly he toppled onto his side and slid in the fog, with packs of Coors pressing from behind. He heard the oxygen bottle skid and clatter ahead, across the floor, to slam into the fuselage. No harm was done. The fog quickly dissipated but the deck remained angled. In the confusion, he had heard a woman scream, but nothing since. “A window blew out…” Harold said.

  Daniel sucked from the oxygen mask and crawled into the galley to investigate. Kerrie Lettieri was unconscious, and pinned to the elevator door by a toppled cart. Overhead, oxygen masks dangled uselessly out of reach. He pushed the cart aside and shared his oxygen until she regained consciousness.

  “Hi,” he said to the awakening Attendant. “I hope you’re not seriously injured.”

  “Thanks,” she groaned. “Who are you? How did you get here? How did I get here? What’s going on? And, yes, I am injured. My shoulder hurts like crazy.”

  “Where shall I start?” Daniel smiled. “My name is Daniel. We had a window blow out, and that cart flattened you when the airplane dove for a lower altitude. I found you pinned under it. You’ve been breathing my oxygen for the last few minutes.”

  “Your oxygen?”

  “Yes, I brought it with me.”

  “Why? You look healthy enough.”

  “I’m a stowaway and stowaways never know when they’ll need a breath of air.”

  “You’re joking while I’m suffering. Is that the therapy of distraction? If so, it isn’t working. My shoulder is on fire.”

  “At least you’re conscious and coherent.”

  “Thanks to you and your oxygen, wherever you found it. I couldn’t afford to lose any brain cells.”

  Daniel laughed. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

  I remember napkins and swizzle sticks floating in the air just after I released the parking brake on the cart. The deck tilted and I lost my balance. If my feet hit the floor before my shoulder struck the P-Lift, I’d be surprised. I have the impression I was looking at my shoelaces just as the cart rammed into me. Then it was lights out, I guess. I’m pleased to see the cart is not embedded in me.”

  “It was, but I pulled it out and saved your life. No biggie. Captain Marvel saves at least one damsel-in-distress per day. Happy to help.”

  “I guess that makes you my hero, Daniel, or do you prefer to be called Captain Daniel Marvel?”

  “Daniel will do nicely, thank you. Now shall we take a look at that shoulder?”

  “What, are you a doctor too?”

  “Better than that, I’m a lowly paid paramedic. You have a broken collarbone, young lady, and if you let me help, I know I can take some of that pain away. First, we have to get you on your feet.”

  “Okay, Sir Galahad, haul away.”

  A pain-ridden minute later Kerrie was on her feet, holding her left elbow with her right hand and Daniel was searching for an ace bandage in the galley’s medical kit. Skillfully and gently he immobilized Kerrie’s left arm by strapping it to her chest.

  “There, that should make things better for awhile.”

  “It already has. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Tradition has it, that as your hero, you must grant me one wish.”

  “Okayyy,” she said, dragging the word out suspiciously. “Wish away.”

  “Don’t blow the whistle on me. Let me return to my hiding place in cargo.”

  “Are you serious? You really are a stowaway?”

  “Yes, cross my heart.”

  “How exciting! You’re my first stowaway ever. My lips are sealed.”

  “I was born ready,” was what Daniel had said, but here he stood thinking of Kerrie when he should be making sure he actually was ready, whether he was born that way or not. He pushed his thoughts of the Flight Attendant aside, and examined the stack of Coors. To his shock and dismay he counted four packs of fifties and four packs of twenties. He checked again with the same result, and still had doubts. He made a final count. The fifth pack of fifties had somehow been switched with a twenty. He had searched long and hard for that fifth cash pack. The shipment was almost entirely twenties, but he had found five fifties in the cargo net, of that he was certain. Five of one and three of the other would leave him forty thousand short of five million, but he could raise the difference, and there was no time to reach the yellow luggage anyway. Movement of the Coors below the passenger deck had been more tiring and time consuming than planned. Phil had seen the yellow bags ride the conveyor to bulk cargo and relayed that information, but Daniel had found no hatchway giving access to that compartment. With only four fifties, he was five hundred and twenty thousand short of his goal, and there was no way to raise that kind of money. He had to go back.

  “Harold, come in, over.”

  “Go ahead, Daniel. What’s up?”

  “I have to go back. I’m short. Somehow I screwed up.”

  “Sorry, pal. The good news is we’re unpressurized. You can move now just the way you would on the ground. No word yet as to where the Captain plans to land. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Daniel picked up a pack of Coors, made certain it was twenties, and headed aft.

  Mission Impossible

  “Ten thousand won’t clear those peaks ahead,” Murphy said. “Any suggestions?”

  “Stay VFR; remain silent. We’re landing at Gunnison.”

  “Gunnison?” Murphy said, asking the same question written on Greg’s face. “We can’t land at Gunnison. We’re too heavy.”

  “Dump fuel; do what you must. This DC-10 is landing at Gunnison.”

  Greg said, “We don’t carry the approach plates for Gunnison because it isn’t authorized for landing a DC-10.”

  “Use mine,” Milo said, handing Greg what he needed. “I suggest you review them.”

  Charlie got the nod from the Captain and began dumping fuel. As hundreds of gallons surged from the tips of the wings, he monitored the fuel gauges to keep the fuel in balance.

  Captain Murphy returned the approach and landing plates to Greg after reviewing them, saying, “The runway elevation is higher than Mexico City, and the runway is shorter. There’s also a limitation you might have missed. The runway weight limit for aircraft with double tandem wheels is only two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. We weigh that bone dry. Because of trees and a short threshold, final approach is steeper than normal. All these things add up and I’m telling you, we cannot land the DC-10 and stop on that runway.”

  “Captain, consider me to be your priest. I am giving you the dispensation you seek and my authority flows from the barrel of this gun. Any arguments, any rebellion, will result in dire consequences for this man. He will be the first to die.” He tapped the barrel convincingly on the back of Charlie’s head.

  Milo was getting agitated. His nerves were fraying and Murphy recognized it. He had seen it before. His wingman slowly came apart under the stress of facing the flak and SAMs over Hanoi every day, and this hijacker was unraveling the same way. It was the uncertainty; it was the danger; it was the do or die mentality.

  “At the offset point from Blue Mesa, enter holding as indicated on the approach plate, Captain.”

  Murphy engaged altitude hold and ordered Greg to slow and enter the holding pattern as directed. Two minutes later, Greg entered the hold turning to a downwind heading. Charlie, noting the holding patte
rn entry, turned quickly to his right to shut off the fuel dump. Milo reacted to the sudden movement and bashed the heel of the pistol into Charlie’s right temple. Blood gushed from the laceration as Charlie’s head recoiled to smash into the panel of switches on his left. Stunned, but still conscious, he hung in the straps of his harness.

  Murphy had twisted slightly in his seat to better see the hijacker and to address him when Charlie went down. “Hey! Why the hell did you do that? He’s doing his job. We can’t fly into our own fuel dump. You said enter a hold and we were still dumping. Damn it, leave him alone, and turn off those dump switches.”

  “Captain, turn around. Don’t interfere. This is my ship and my crew. If I want to shoot my engineer, I will. He’s lucky I didn’t. Now, Mister Engineer… the switches.”

  Murphy turned as ordered and felt the impact of the gun tapping a forceful reminder on his head. Charlie was a former Navy carrier pilot and veteran of many tense situations but none quite like this. Murphy reassured himself that Charlie would be okay, and set his mind to the impossible task at hand.

  Denver Center made repeated calls to Global Six Twenty when it failed to stop its descent at sixteen thousand, but it had been silent for the past five minutes. Murphy was certain that Denver Center had lost radio and radar contact with them, and was just as certain that was the hijacker’s intent. Center did think they had a downed aircraft, and a harried supervisor at Denver Center notified Washington.

  “We have an aircraft down. Global 620, direct Salt Lake, en route San Francisco, initiated emergency descent from flight level three five zero to one six thousand. Last comm was at 0157 Zulu. Radar coverage lost at 0201Z as aircraft descended below one-two thousand. Search and rescue have been notified.”

  Data recorders in Denver and Washington whirred to life retrieving all radar returns from Global 620, complete with time, heading, altitude and rate of descent, and fed them into a computer whose program would extrapolate a likely impact point. That point, complete with latitude and longitude, flashed on the screen in Denver, and in Washington a half continent away. It was impressive technology, but, of course, it was flawed.

  Milo checked his watch. “Gentlemen, official sunset will be at seven forty-seven this evening. The field will be closed in thirty minutes. Don’t worry about other traffic; I’m sure you’ll have the place to yourselves. Begin the approach.”

  The pilots discussed the approach procedures and monitored 122.7, the Unicom frequency. They were not allowed to announce their presence, only to listen for others. Hopefully there were no other aircraft in the vicinity, because flying in unannounced was as crazy as landing heavy on a short runway in the mountains. Their arrival would be a nasty surprise to any arriving or departing aircraft.

  Unbeknownst to the Captain and First Officer, Charlie had been able to do what they could not. He communicated their situation to the company soon after Milo thought he had achieved radio silence.

  During the explosive decompression procedure, Charlie increased the volume of the overhead cockpit speakers, eliminating the need for headphones while oxygen masks were worn. He also switched off the nearby number-one radio at Milo’s position. Milo believed he was listening to both radios, but he wasn’t. He heard communication on the number-two radio, the communication with Center, and between the pilots who had switched interphone on. He heard nothing from the engineer, and nothing on the number-one radio.

  To avoid the confusion of listening to two different frequencies at the same time, only the engineer maintained a listening watch on both radios. If he received a call on number-one, he could silence number-two. A corporation known as San Francisco AIRINC monitored the frequency set on the number-one radio, and provided a comm link between an aircraft and its company via radio relay or phone patch. Charlie had not toggled his interphone to on, as had the pilots, so when he spoke inside his mask, no one in the cockpit heard him, but everyone on the AIRINC frequency did.

  “This is San Francisco AIRINC, go ahead.”

  “Global 620 is being hijacked,” Charlie whispered into his mask.

  “Say again, you are one by five.” (This was aviator lingo, an assessment of volume and clarity on a scale from one to five. AIRINC was telling Charlie he was almost inaudible but clear).

  “Global six-twenty, hijack.”

  “Global 620 confirm you are being hijacked?”

  “Affirmative.”

  At ten thousand feet, Milo removed his mask and ordered the crew to do the same. He tapped Charlie’s head with the barrel for compliance. Oxygen was no longer required and the mask was annoying. Masks were returned to their holders, and switches were toggled from mask to boom. Charlie’s hand held microphone was draped across his legs beneath the table. With his right thumb he held the transmit button down and angled the mike toward the pilots. With his back to the intruder, the microphone wasn’t seen. But, Milo noticed the cord. It was stretched beneath the engineer’s table and across the engineer’s leg. He saw the empty microphone holder.

  “You miserable cretin!” Milo screamed.

  Jim and Greg both turned in surprise at the outburst just as Milo smashed the barrel of his gun into Charlie’s head, knocking him senseless. He slumped in his chair. His arms fell to his sides and his thumb fell away from the transmit button he had been holding. The microphone fell from his grasp, slid off his legs, and yo-yoed on its coiled cord, to the right of his chair. Frantically, Milo swiveled to look at the radio switches above him, at the switches he had set to monitor both radios.

  Milo screamed, “You sneaky bastard!” and smashed the Drotik a third time into Charlie’s head. Shoulder straps still held Charlie in his seat, but his head lolled to his chest and blood flowed freely across his cheek to drop onto the cockpit floor. Milo was enraged. It was the worst possible moment for Carson Brock to assert himself.

  Throwing off his seat belt, Carson Brock charged forward toward the cockpit. Knowing his intent, Megan ordered, “Sir, you can’t go in there,” as she unstrapped from her jump seat to block his way.

  Carson broke stride only briefly to say, “The hell I can’t! I want to know what the hell is going on, and that uncommunicative son-of-a-bitch you call Captain will damn well tell me.” He shoved Megan aside; her ankle twisted and she fell to the floor. He reached the cockpit and, at a point head high on the door, slammed the fleshy bottom of his balled fist into the door, once, twice. Milo pivoted toward the door and fired three rounds. Jim and Greg, concentrating on the approach, flinched as if slapped in surprised reaction to the deafening roar of gunfire within their confined workspace. Milo, unfazed, turned his attention back to the pilots as if nothing had happened.

  Carson Brock had made his last speech and final demand. His arm was swinging downward to hammer the door a third time, when the three slugs from Milo’s gun stitched a line from his throat to his heart. He was dead before his brain could process the information. He took a step backward and his falling fist missed the door, then two more shuffle steps before he pitched backward, landing on the floor in a sitting position as one might drop on a trampoline. His arms hung limply at his sides; his legs stretched out in front of him. A brief, puzzled look on his face vanished; his eyes emptied. Slowly his torso twisted and Mr. Carson Brock toppled onto his right shoulder and face. It was a contorted position that the non-athletic man could not have managed in life.

  Megan was just getting to her feet when Carson fell. She limped toward him and knelt beside him as her co-worker, Colleen, rushed to her side. Together they pushed his left shoulder backward, rolling his upper body to rest against the service cart. “My God,” she mouthed to Colleen, “Captain Murphy has killed Mr. Brock.” She turned her head toward the cockpit door and saw the splintered holes. Had Jim gone mad?

  “Maybe someone else is in the cockpit,” Colleen suggested.

  “Who? How?” Megan said in a manner rejecting that suggestion.

 
“I think it’s the man in 1F.”

  “Mr. Stefanich? Isn’t he in his seat?”

  “No. I thought he might be sick. He was in the lav a long time, but when I checked, the lav was empty. I didn’t think about the cockpit. I assumed he walked to the back to stretch or see a friend.” With quivering lips, Colleen looked imploringly at Megan for forgiveness. “Now, Mr. Brock is dead. Oh, Megan, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault.”

  “Don’t be silly, Colleen. It is not your fault.” Grasping Colleen’s shoulders with both hands, Megan emphatically added, “Now listen to me; you have to keep it together; I can’t have you falling apart on me.”

  Colleen sniffed and nodded her understanding.

  “If Stefanich is up there, how did he gain access?”

  “With my key,” Colleen whispered as she began to sob.

  “You gave him your key? Why would you do that?”

  “I didn’t, but I left it on the cart and…”

  Megan placed her hand over Colleen’s mouth. “Okay. That was a foolish mistake, but it wouldn’t have mattered. He had a gun, and he could take your key any time he wanted. What he gained was time. I don’t know if his presence in the cockpit is related to the decompression but it’s too coincidental not to be connected. He may have sleepers in the cabin who are lying low thinking they’re undiscovered. Let them think that. We have two couriers on board. They’re probably armed, don’t you think? They need to know. I’ll write warning notes while you make a phone call on your credit card. Can you do that?”

  Colleen nodded nervously saying, “Who do I call? I never used one before. Is it complicated?”

  “Try 911 first, and maybe you won’t need a credit card. If that fails, call your supervisor or Global reservations. It really doesn’t matter, Colleen. Just tell someone we’ve been hijacked. Now, go.”

  Megan grabbed a pen and napkins. On one she wrote, “Mr. Rotz, the message you asked me to deliver was not sent. Suspect hijacker is in cockpit. Is he alone? You are not. Secret Service Agent seat 39J.” As she straightened, Colleen returned.