The spoiler panels atop the wings automatically deployed, spoiling lift and adding weight to the wheels. The speed-brake lever slid rearward as if pulled by an invisible hand, one less thing for the pilots to do, but Greg verified it had happened. The nose gear tires followed the mains and slammed down as the elevator control was nudged forward and the aircraft stopped flying. Jim’s right hand swept the throttles rearward to idle, and reaching beyond them, seized the reverse levers. He yanked them upward to engage, and rearward to apply full reverse thrust. The wing and tail mounted engines responded, screaming as they strained to stop the forward motion.
“Brakes!” Jim yelled over the thunderous roar of the engines and Greg jumped on the binders, joining Jim in applying maximum foot pressure to the tops of the rudder pedals. With all the strength their combined legs could muster, they applied brake pressure. If a tire locked up, it would skid and blow, shred its rubber and slide uselessly on its rims. To prevent that, to maintain maximum rolling friction on each tire, independent sensors and tiny computers were employed on each of the eight main wheels. The aircraft trembled as brakes grabbed and released, pulsed and jerked, in response to computer commands generated by these sensors. It was everything the braking system could do to stop the forward momentum and the engines had already made their greatest contribution, growing less effective as airspeed diminished. A mile of concrete passed beneath the plane in seconds and then tenths of miles as the aircraft slowed, rolling ever more reluctantly but persistently forward.
Below Deck Before Landing
“Harold!” Daniel yelled. “What’s going on? I’m sliding downhill and the noise level has doubled.”
“I don’t know. We departed the holding pattern. The Flight Attendant said to prepare for an emergency landing. Everybody is bent forward like they’re trying to kiss their ass goodbye. I see the ground. We’re getting close. Better brace yourself.”
Twenty minutes earlier, Daniel had heard the sound of the gear doors opening and the gear dropping into the wind better than anyone else on board. Engine noise increased dramatically as thrust countered drag. The sound in the mechanical space was deafening. In the cockpit, just minutes ago, Greg made another callout, “One thousand feet.”
Daniel was exhausted and strained to open the hatchway to aft cargo. He dumped his Coors inside and crawled in after. He slid the Coors twenties across the slanted aluminum floor and dropped the pack into the cargo net about the time Greg called out, “… Fifty.” He crawled into the net; his timing was perfect. The aircraft hit hard, and the nose of the plane fell like a runaway elevator to slam into the pavement. That was a shock but only the first of many. The continuous, thunderous din of the center engine quieted for a second at touchdown as if catching its breath, before shouting its deafening message of resistance. Blistering exhaust gases, that once propelled the craft forward, were diverted, reversed, and now blew powerfully forward to impede what they had fashioned. The airframe shuddered and shook in protest as the engines bellowed. Were it not for the net that caught and cradled him, Daniel would have been the stone in the slingshot, flying fast and looking for something to hit.
He clutched the ropes of the cargo net in a death grip. His face showed the strain of the forces and sounds in play around him. A minute earlier he had been smiling, elated to have found the cash pack of fifties just inside the aft cargo bulkhead. Now he wore the expression of an earthquake survivor.
The Courier
Upon boarding, two hours and a lifetime ago, Dave Rotz had presented his credentials and a letter of introduction to the Captain of Global 620.
“Captain, I’m Dave Rotz, courier for Federal Armored Express. That letter pretty well covers it, but I know it gets busy up here at crunch time. There’s more to think about than my shipment, so forgive me for stating the obvious. If you find yourself headed for an alternate airport, I’d appreciate your giving my company, and me, a heads up. We’ll need to scramble for security on the other end.”
“Mr. Rotz you look like you could protect that shipment without a call for backup.”
“Surely you jest, Captain. Hell, they don’t issue me more than a clipboard and a pencil. I’m a companion, not a guard dog. I’m a gentle soul. One look at this pretty face and you know I don’t have an aggressive bone in my body.”
Jim, Greg, and Charlie joined Dave in a good laugh before the strapping courier left the cockpit for his seat in coach.
Throughout the excitement of the explosive decompression, Dave had been almost stoic, an island of calm in a turbulent sea. His concern heightened, however, when the aircraft entered a low altitude holding pattern over the mountains. Priority handling was “a given” in an emergency. There would be no delay and certainly no holding. Something was amiss, but until he heard gunfire minutes later he had not known just how perilous the situation was.
From his aisle seat, Dave had looked across two others toward the mountains below. The aircraft was banked to the left as it circled. Ahead, no one was standing; there was no hysteria. Some passengers were obviously praying, others sat in a daze. It was natural to look forward and to his left beyond the wing to the mountainous terrain below, many were doing that, but he was far more interested in what lay behind him and to his right rear but could not risk the exposure that twisting around would require. Curiosity killed the cat; a courier might fare no better. The flight attendants were probably belted in. The last one he had seen had handed him a pillow and a note scrawled on a napkin. The note had confirmed what he suspected, that the aircraft had been hijacked, but it also told him about the Secret Service Agent on board. He hadn’t known about the second high value shipment until then. In truth, Dave had been as unaware of the second shipment as Roth and Milo were of the first. For now, there was nothing to do but wait, but knowing a friendly shooter sat in 39J was very good news.
As the aircraft circled, the courier reflected on his earlier comments to the crew about his clipboard and pencil. It was true, of course, couriers were more companion than guard dog, more accountant than combatant, but Dave was no ordinary courier. A pencil in his hands was a deadly weapon. His hands alone were registered as such. Nonetheless the old maxim “never take a knife to a gun fight” still held true. He wished he was armed.
For the better part of his twenty year career in the Army, Dave had instructed Rangers in hand to hand combat and self defense against armed aggressors. In worldwide Armed Forces competition, he had never been beaten. He was a legend. Now, in the private sector and quite a few years older, Dave remained as physically intimidating as ever, but women always described him as gentle and charming. Megan had identified him in that way to the #7 Flight Attendant early in the flight. Brenda Lillis had come forward from her station in coach to peek at the passenger manifest.
“Who is the gorgeous hunk in 24C?” she had asked.
“His name is Dave Rotz. He’s a courier,” Megan answered.
“What’s he carrying?”
“He accompanies high dollar shipments for Federal Armored Express. That means we have money stored in the cargo hold, and, trust me Brenda, that’s all he’s interested in.”
“Ooh, a hunk with money! Is he married?”
“Eat your heart out, dreamer; he’s a devoted husband and father of eight children. Give it a rest.”
“You think?”
“Cool your jets girl; get back to work and leave that man alone.”
Fortunately, Brenda had ignored Megan’s advice and stopped at Dave’s seat to flirt at every opportunity. The last time was moments after he had received a pillow from her. Dave handed her his business card. He had scribbled a message on it to be delivered to Mick Roth in 39J.
The message read: “One dead. More? Gunman in cockpit. Accomplices? Unarmed—need weapon to cover your back. Hope you cover mine. 24C.”
Dave had pressed the card into Brenda’s palm and held her hand in his, and smiling sa
id in a hushed voice, “Don’t read this now, read it in private, and then deliver it. Okay? Now, I want you to laugh and playfully slap at me as though I was flirting outrageously. Will you do that, please?” He released her hand as if releasing a humming bird. He was gentle, and Brenda was a natural. She slapped playfully at his outstretched, imploring hand, “You, naughty boy! Mama told me about men like you, so don’t give me that line. I’ll bet you have a girl in every port.” She turned with a mischievous smile and marched away. In the lav, she read the note. She was disappointed it wasn’t an invitation to dinner, but smart enough to recognize the seriousness of the request. She emerged from the lav straightening her dress and moved down the aisle. Brenda stopped to comfort several passengers before leaning over Mick Roth and dropping the card in his lap before moving away.
Into The Overrun
End of runway markings passed beneath the fuselage just before the nose-gear left the paved surface and plowed through the softer overrun and onto a cleared but unprepared zone of rocks, small stone outcroppings, and decomposing granite. The nose wheel sank into the earth placing stress forces on the gear that the McDonald Douglas Corporation never intended it to bear. Design specifications were exceeded and when the gear failed it was sudden. There was no bending, no gradual giving way. It snapped like a dry stick, sheared off and fell away. The nose without support pitched forward.
Captain Murphy, still standing on the brakes, uttered, “Sweet Jesus,” as the cockpit fell and the nose cone plowed into the earth. When it did, the impact took the aircraft out of reverse as Murphy’s throttle hand moved forward.
Milo Stefanich had inexplicably released his seatbelt harness as the end of the runway neared. Perhaps he thought he could run away, who knows? But when the nose pitched downward, and the cockpit plunged ten feet, Milo was launched. He would have struck the glare shield or the windshield but for the collision with the Captain’s body. Jim Murphy was restrained by a locked shoulder harness and the blow to the base of his neck was a karate chop that would easily have snapped a less sturdy one. It was lights out. His body went limp and his feet fell from the tops of the rudder pedals to the floor, allowing a final surge before the aircraft came to rest.
Milo had ricocheted off the Captain losing his weapon when his hand struck the center console. The Drotik slid beneath the rudder pedals, out of sight as he pitched forward and tumbled across the console into the crevice between it and the copilot’s seat. Greg Fox shared Milo’s surprise. Seconds ago, Milo had been sitting behind the Captain, but now his head was adjacent to Greg’s left thigh and they were staring at each other. Greg grabbed Milo by the throat with his left hand and released his shoulder harness with his right. Twisting and leaning to his left, Greg then pressed both thumbs into Milo’s throat, but with Milo off to the side, Greg couldn’t get the leverage he needed to apply lethal force to the chokehold. He was strong but not strong enough. Milo’s neck was thick and muscled and pressing into it was like trying to compress a log. Hand strength wasn’t enough. As Milo struggled to rise, Greg abandoned choking to repeatedly punch Milo’s head and face, but pitched forward as they were, he was robbed of real striking power, restricted to a downward jab that did little damage and failed to prevent the former Spetznaz commander from gradually twisting his body toward Greg, forcing his left shoulder down, thus freeing his right arm to fight back. Charlie, the Flight Engineer, had been unconscious throughout the landing and his seat still faced the side panel, but on landing his body had twisted to the left and fallen sideways, toward Greg and the center console. His left-hand dangled a foot below his right. Only the loosened seat belt prevented him from spilling completely onto the floor and held him and his pencil suspended within Milo’s reach. Greg continued to batter the side of Milo’s now bloodied head but couldn’t prevent Milo from seizing that pencil and using it like a stiletto to kill him.
The Cabin Plows To A Stop (Minutes Earlier)
If Freddie Krueger with his bladed hands and evil smirk had jumped into the cabin, the screams would not have been louder or shriller than when the nose gear collapsed.
Megan, using the passenger address system, ordered an evacuation the moment the aircraft came to rest. Passengers were urged to use only the forward exits. Slides inflated as doors swung open, and the exodus began. The three hijackers in the cabin were as stunned and confused by the collapse of the nose gear as anyone, but they were disciplined soldiers, and without orders from Milo, they did not interfere with the evacuation.
The DC10 had knelt like a circus elephant and passengers slid down its trunk to safety. Thanks to the guidance and reassurance of the flight attendants, evacuation went smoothly. Instructions were followed and passengers funneled forward as if it were a practice drill.
Josef Alonovich was one of those who ignored the Flight Attendant’s instructions because he already had his orders. He scanned the crowd as the passengers moved hurriedly along both aisles, and stepped up onto a seat to get a better view. If he could spot the SS Agent he would take him out as previously sanctioned.
Dave Rotz also marched to his own drummer. He chose to quickly burrow to the rear during the confusion that followed the nosed gear collapse and just before evacuation was ordered. His objective was to find Mick Roth, and something with a trigger.
Harold stayed in his seat blithely explaining events to Daniel who while shaken was still in the game and on the move. Thanks to the collapse of the nose gear, returning to forward cargo was all downhill and a lot easier. “Are the Coors in the box?” Harold asked.
“I just crossed through the galley and I’m in forward cargo now. I’ll have it loaded in a few.”
“Roger that, passengers are evacuating forward and I better follow.”
Only Mrs. Wilson and Harold were still seated. Poor Mr. Wilson’s seatbelt was still loosely fastened but technically he wasn’t seated. Josef glimpsed the three holdouts through breaks in the stream of human lemmings coursing by. The man seated alone wore an earpiece and his lips were moving. Yes, Josef was certain. He had spotted the Secret Service Agent and he would take him out. He raised his 9mm Gyurza pistol and fired as a passenger stumbled into him. The shot ripped into the seatback to Harold’s left. Passengers screamed and cowered. Josef shoved the interfering passenger aside as Harold dived for the floor and crawled aft. Josef kicked other passengers aside and jumped across the aisle to the center section and ran across its five seat cushions to the opposite aisle where he could finish off his cowering prey. As he leapt down into the aisle on the far side of the cabin, Mick Roth fired once, a headshot. Josef’s upper body lifted and arched backward from the impact of the 357 hollow point bullet, and pitched, arms akimbo, downhill. Harold scrambled the remaining distance to the aft exit where Mick and Dave had taken cover.
“Take the slide; it’s safer out there,” Dave urged.
Harold muttered his thanks and then looked outside and down. Because of the attitude of the aircraft, the slide was nearly vertical. Harold wasn’t sure if it even reached the ground. “I can’t,” was all he had time to say before he was ejected, screaming all the way. Dave followed.
Cockpit Aftermath
Greg’s hands had gone limp and his body had pitched forward to rest on the control column. Milo’s head was well below his feet and he continued to struggle to free himself from the crevice.
“Son of a bitch!” he muttered through clinched teeth. He pushed Greg’s lifeless arm aside and grabbed his tie. Pulling downward with his right hand while pushing with his feet against Charlie, he raised his left shoulder and arm above the center console as he twisted his body counterclockwise. His left hand fell atop the throttle levers. He pushed down and away in an attempt to rise and the levers slid dutifully forward from idle thrust to full power. The aircraft bounced and bucked as it inched forward like a dull plow.
“Arrghh!” Milo growled as he struggled to support himself. From atop the center console, he reach
ed forward and pulled the throttles back to idle, but not knowing how to shut them off, ignored them. He surveyed the cockpit. He was, he saw, once again in complete control.
The copilot was no longer a threat and the engineer appeared lifeless. A ceiling panel laden with recording instruments and circuit breakers had broken loose and swung downward on its hinge with the force of a hammer. It was thought that Charlie Richmond had not recovered from Milo’s vicious blow, but perhaps he had. At some point he had released his shoulder harness, perhaps preparing to attack Milo, but his plan was aborted when a toggle switch on the runaway panel struck him on the temple and punctured his skull. His body had fallen sideways to the left and rotated counterclockwise in death putting his pocket and his pencil within Milo’s reach.
It was meant to be, Milo thought, again assessing the situation as military men are trained to do. He placed his fingers on Murphy’s neck, not to choke, but to feel the jugular for a pulse. He was alive but unconscious. Milo placed his index finger to Murphy’s temple and mouthed, “POW!” He lifted his hand as if it had recoiled, and blew nonexistent smoke from the tip of his finger. “I guess you were right, Captain, this was not a good place to land, and for you, today, it is not a good place to die. He saluted the figure hanging in his straps and climbed out of the cockpit.
25
Brandon Escapes, 28 Sep 1991
“Massoud,” the cook said, “In the Colonel’s absence, you are in charge. I am here to report that I received a call from the farm cooperative that supplies us with fruits and vegetables. The truck broke down, but it has been repaired. The delivery will be made, but it will be very late. It may even be after the household has retired for the evening, so I will make certain that you are disturbed as little as possible. I apologize for this unfortunate occurrence.”
Price For A Patriot Page 27