by Trevor Hoyle
Sarah had wrapped her daughter in a blanket and was cradling her in one arm. Mercifully, the girl had drifted off into a shallow sleep, which every so often was broken by a convulsive shudder and a dry sob. In the aisle seat next to Sarah, the leather bag was a black ominous bulk, her arm resting across it because the handcuffs confined it to this one position. Another shuddering spasm jerked through Daniella, and her mother hugged her tighter.
There was a party going on in the forward compartment. At gunpoint the steward broke open a catering pack of Carlsberg Export, and everyone, with the exception of Senator Cobb, was made to drink, whether they wanted to or not. The man in the blue work shirt insisted on it. He seemed to be in high spirits.
‘Come on, blondie, tip it down,’ he told the stewardess, who was holding a can of beer but not drinking. And, as she raised it reluctantly to her mouth, he whacked the underside of the can with the gun barrel so that beer foamed out and splashed over her face. Blood streamed from her lip where it had been split by the metal tab.
He ogled her wet blouse, which was clinging to the faint outline of her bra. ‘You an’ me get it together later, huh? Let old Frankie boy show you the way.’ He did a bump and grind in front of her. ‘Jigga-jigga-jigga-jigga-jigga.’
The captain hid his expression while he drank, his hand wrapped around the beer can, almost crushing it. He glanced stony-faced at the flight engineer, and as he did so a movement in the corner caught his eye.
Senator Cobb had worked his hands free of the tape and was on his feet. He ripped the insulation tape from his mouth, and it flapped about, stuck to his fingers, as he charged forward.
‘No deals with these scumbags!’
The man in the blue work shirt didn’t have time to turn before there was an arm round his neck trying to tear his head off.
‘No deals, you hear me, captain?’ The senator’s voice was a hoarse screech. ‘I’m ordering you to land this airplane on US territory. We don’t do deals with chicken-livered terrorist bastards – never. We don’t give in, hear me? Do it! Land the plane! Do as I say!’
The man in the blue work shirt, choking in the powerful grip, was almost on his knees. The machine pistol dangled from his hand. He reached up to claw the arm from his throat and dropped the remote-control device on the floor.
Instinctively – as if it was the device itself that was about to explode – everyone threw up their hands and scattered out of the way. All but Senator Cobb, purple in the face, who wouldn’t let go. He carried on choking the life out of the man.
Moving to one side, young Clint raised the powerful handgun. He lined up to get a clear aim of Senator Cobb’s white-haired head. The steward lashed out, and the gunman went skidding on the slimy floor, his legs shooting out from under him.
It suddenly seemed as if the cramped compartment was filled with more bodies than it could hold. The senator was yelling at the top of his lungs, shouting for help, mingling with the screams of the blonde stewardess, hands pressed to her face with blood pouring through her fingers.
The steward looked around frantically. The device was somewhere on the floor, but he couldn’t see it. He dropped to his knees, searching desperately among the confusion of feet and legs, his hands smeared with blood. He winced as a shoe struck his wrist on the point of the bone. He lowered his head almost to the floor. And there it was. The remote-control device. Lying face down near the senator’s scuffling foot. The steward’s arm went out at full stretch, and as he strained forward, hand splayed to grasp hold of it, a heel came down and crunched the plastic case.
The 747 staggered.
Then it lurched to the left.
The sensation inside the forward compartment was of the floor coming up to meet them with terrific, bone-jarring force, like being in an elevator that had come to a dead stop.
The green curtain streamed out horizontally in a sudden howling wind that sucked it into the first-class cabin. Then everything tilted steeply as the nose dropped and the jumbo fell, engines screaming.
The steward climbed up the floor, struggling to free himself from the tangle of bodies. He managed to grip the frame of the doorway and haul himself forward. Above his head, the curtain rippled and cracked like a green flag in a gale.
Inside the cabin, rows of oxygen masks dangled on white plastic tubes, like undersea creatures swaying in the current. In the split-second catastrophe of the blast there hadn’t been time to use them. The air was thin and cold as if it had blown straight off a mountain top. The steward gulped at it, whirling black spots before his eyes, his lungs starved of oxygen.
Then he had to hold on tight. The howling wind snatched at him as the pressurised air evacuated from the cabin. It tried to drag him towards the space that had been three rows of seats, towards the hole of torn metal ripped in the side of the aircraft. Someone was waving to him. It was an arm in a sleeve of dark-blue silk – just the arm, severed at the shoulder, caught on a shiny sliver of metal – waving, waving.
Now he can relax. Really relax. Those 2,000 volts casting a blight over his future are a thing of the past. It’s what he knew all along deep down in his gut, Kersh realises. Stick with it, buddy, and it comes out right in the end. Never give in.
That could be his personal motto, Kersh thinks. Never Give In. Not forgetting, of course, the great Frank’s ‘I Did It My Way’. That too was his own personal philosophy. He’d always been proud of the fact they shared the same first name. Seemed kind of a lucky charm, two very similar guys with the same name, battling against the odds and winning through – like twins, maybe, or soul mates.
Feeling so good he doesn’t even need a drink right this minute, Kersh steps on to the balcony. Same old moon stuck to the sky. That’s just how he likes it. He gives the moon a wink for good luck: as long as you’re up there, I’m down here. Everything’s jake. He wonders idly if he could get old Frank up here with him for a chat. They had so much in common, it might be fun. Crack open a bottle of wine (the red Italian stuff) and chew the fat. Talk over the good old days, a couple of seasoned campaigners who’d lived through some tough times and made it to the top, despite the odds stacked against them. He’d enjoy that, Kersh thinks, and he’d bet Frank would too.
They’d become the best of buddies. Kersh can see it now. Frank sprawled on the white couch, twirling a glass of wine, asking Kersh’s opinion on his songs. And Kersh would tell him. Straight out, no bullshit. Frank would listen and nod, taking it all in, because he respected Kersh’s opinion, knowing also that Kersh wasn’t in the least put out because Frank was a big-shot movie and recording star. That’s how Kersh was – talk to Frankie boy the same way he’d talk to anybody. Yeah, Frank would respect that.
He grips the metal rail, cool to the touch, and gazes out at the city. His city. Cawdor’s wife and brat are down there somewhere. They’re down there for the simple reason that he, Kersh, wills it so. It had been a gamble, sure enough, confronting Cawdor like that. It could have turned out different. How different Kersh isn’t clear about. Suppose Cawdor had gotten hold of the machine pistol and shot him, instead of the other way round? Would he now be dead and Cawdor alive? But, if he had died back there on the 747, Cawdor and his family and all the rest of them would have ceased to exist. Because they were living in Kersh’s world, the one he had created. The Messengers had given him that power, and in return they were given the world they wanted. That was the deal. And now, with Cawdor out of the way, they were free to go right ahead and spread the Message around the world.
Kersh gives a sudden grin as something strikes him. What happened on the airplane had to happen. It couldn’t have been otherwise. Cawdor, poor sap, was going through the motions, jumping through the same hoops because he was playing the game with Kersh’s rigged deck. There was no way Cawdor could possibly win. No way he could have stopped Kersh having that little bit of fun with his teenage daughter. In fact, now he comes to think about it, Kersh realises, he can have a little bit more fun with her. Hell, a lot more fun. All
he has to do is tell that foul scumbag, Baby Sam, to get her up here to the penthouse. Whenever he feels like it. And why not that stuck-up bitch of a wife as well? He can shaft the both of them together. Three in a bed. If he’s in a generous mood (which he is right this minute) he can let Baby Sam sit and watch.
Better yet, Kersh thinks (another fucking brainwave!) he can sit and watch while Baby Sam gets it on with the two of them. The little runt would go apeshit at the chance. Jesus, where do these brilliant ideas keep coming from? They just pop into his head from out of nowhere. He’s a genius, that’s for definite.
Of course that’s why the Messengers picked him in the first place. They must have known he was one cool dude fizzing with ideas. Or it was a damn lucky guess. But for him, Kersh knows, their asses would really be in the blender. Cawdor was just starting to latch on. He kept on getting the odd peek at things but never got the whole picture. On the airplane, for instance. The way Cawdor was looking at him, Kersh would have taken long odds that the guy kind of half-recognised him. Which meant that Cawdor must have remembered him from somewhere previously. That somewhere else had to be here – in the tower penthouse – because he hadn’t stirred out of the place.
Mentally, Kersh wipes his brow. It had been that close. Because Cawdor must have somehow got a glimpse of him right here on this balcony. He doesn’t know how this is possible. Unless Cawdor had more tricks up his sleeve than Kersh gave him credit for.
For a second he feels a clutch of panic at his throat. But it’s gone as fast as it came. Cawdor’s all washed up. He got that way the moment Kersh pumped six slugs into him and had him tossed into the cargo bay. Goodbye and amen, fella.
Kersh winks again at his old friend the moon and strolls back inside. He’s in a good frame of mind, and this makes him feel hungry. In the kitchen he whistles a jaunty ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ as he prepares a monster double cheeseburger with all the trimmings and a pickle on the side. From the fridge he takes a can of Bud and a couple of Twinkies. He can’t remember the last time he ate. It must have been some while ago because he’s ravenous. Mouth bulging, a smear of ketchup on his chin, he takes his meal into the living area and settles down on the long, curved, white sofa.
Above him, the glass ceiling gives a view of the stars. The rosy glow of the lamps dotted here and there makes him feel comfy and secure. Kersh takes a big bite, munches slowly, and swills it down with a long draught of ice-cold Bud.
Life sure is sweet, he thinks. Couldn’t be better. And the beauty of it is, it’s never gonna change. Nothing will ever change. No sickness or disease, and no old age. He doesn’t even need a haircut – never will. The lack of a heartbeat panicked him at first, but now he can live with it, no sweat. Fact is, he’s come to realise, another heartbeat is the last thing he wants. He’s existing in between heartbeats, and the next one could be his last. Kersh smiles to himself because it strikes him as funny. Whereas every person lives in mortal dread of their heart stopping, Kersh doesn’t want his to start. Just keep on doing what you’re doing, he tells it, which is nothing. This really tickles him and he guffaws, spraying out bits of mushy cheeseburger on to the carpet.
Hot damn, Kersh chuckles, he’s A1 copper-bottomed fireproof.
Because how can you kill somebody who doesn’t have a heartbeat to begin with? Simple answer is you can’t. You can’t take away something he doesn’t have, because it isn’t there to be taken away. So stands to reason you can’t threaten old Frankie Kersh with destruction. He’s gone beyond that. He is, in fact, fucking indestructible.
Kersh stuffs in the last of the cheeseburger and, munches it through a broad grin.
Kersh the Indestructible. He likes the sound of that.
PART THREE
LOST ZONE
What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
TS Eliot
‘Little Gidding’, Four Quartets
GHOST IN THE MACHINE
1
Doctor Straus said, ‘Two still in there we can’t get at. I conferred with my colleagues here, and with Doctor Bleckard at the Cornell School of Medicine, and the concensus is we leave them be. Safer that way.’
‘Two?’ Gil Gribble’s face was a study in anxiety mingled with plain bewilderment. ‘How many times was he shot, for chrissakes?’
‘Six bullets penetrated altogether.’ Doctor Straus puffed smoke from a curly pipe. Tall and lanky, with thinning silvery hair, he spoke in a staccato fashion, his Adam’s apple jerking like a yo-yo on a piece of elastic. ‘Left shoulder, left hand, both of which made exit wounds. Two in the lower abdomen, which have been removed. And the two we prefer to leave alone. One in the lower left chest cavity; the other lodged close to the spinal column. Doctor Bleckard advises most strongly against surgery. We could damage a vital organ. Even more serious, in the case of the spinal column a dislocation to the mid-thoracic region might easily cause paralysis.’ He leant forward, both elbows on the desk, and gave a slight shake of the head. ‘In other words, do more harm than good.’
‘He can recover with two slugs inside of him?’ Gribble asked, his voice squeaky with disbelief.
‘No reason why not.’ Doctor Straus was very matter of fact about it. ‘If there is no disruption of vital function – and in particular the sheath of the central nervous system is intact – his chances are excellent. You’d be surprised, Mr Gribble, at the number of people walking around with quite large foreign bodies inside them – some they’re not even aware of.’
‘OK if I see him?’ Gribble asked.
‘No reason not to. But I’m afraid that’s all you can do at present – see him, I mean. Apart from his physical injuries, your friend is in a state of traumatised shock. The condition is very like that of a coma. Mind and body shut up shop, so to speak, to allow a period of recuperation and recovery.’ Doctor Straus set his pipe down in an ashtray and heaved his lanky frame up from the leather chair. ‘Come, I’ll take you along.’
They went up three floors in the elevator to the ninth floor of Mount Sinai Hospital, where the intensive-care recovery unit was situated to lessen the constant roar of noise from Fifth Avenue and 100th Street. Gil Gribble was in a state of shock himself. He had been for three days past, ever since the news bulletins had reported the emergency landing of the crippled 747 at a US Navy air base north of Jacksonville, right on the Florida–Georgia state line. It was the first officer and copilot, Greg Richards, who was the hero of the hour. Due to his reducing altitude after the hijack occurred, the aircraft had been under 15,000 feet at the moment of the explosion, and this fact alone had averted a major disaster and the loss of over 300 lives. Luckily, all four engines had retained full power, which enabled Richards to swing the 747 due west and make landfall in under thirty minutes. The O’Neil Naval Air Station was the nearest landing strip long enough to take the 747, and with great skill he had brought her down safely, with only a burst tyre, which observers said was nothing short of a minor miracle in light of the bizarre weather conditions prevailing at the time.
Flying conditions had been perfect, which was what made the circumstances so bizarre.
Because, as it loomed out of the night, the entire base saw that the aircraft was sheathed in blue static lightning. It was as if, some reported, the 747 was encased in a kind of force field. Nobody could explain it. Even experienced Naval pilots on the base, familiar with chain-ball lightning at high altitude, admitted they’d never seen anything like it.
The emergency services had responded by encircling the 747 and spraying it from nose to tail in foam. Confusion had followed, as many of the passengers, believing the airplane to be on fire, had leapt out on to the runway through the shattered fuselage, not waiting for the deployment of the escape chute. As well as suffering shock and hypothermia from the flight, over a dozen of them had an assortment of broken limbs, and three had died as a result of fractured skulls.
In the pandemonium, the security forces had been unable
to seal off the area effectively. There were bodies everywhere, people lying around screaming in agony, and in helping the injured it had been impossible to make any distinction between passengers and hijackers. It was even speculated that the hijackers had been aided in their escape by feigning injury and being taken by ambulance to the local hospital. By the time the captain and flight crew were able to provide an accurate description and an identity check was carried out, not one of the three, possibly four, hijackers had been detained or accounted for. It took an hour and twenty minutes after the emergency landing before a tight security clampdown was imposed on the base – which was an hour and twenty minutes too late.
It had been Don Carlson who had saved Gribble a trip south. Gribble had been on the point of flying down to Jacksonville when Jeff’s partner at UltraCast had called to say he had arranged a private air charter to transfer Cawdor to Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. There they had some of the top surgeons in the country, and Don Carlson had already spoken with Doctor Theodore Straus, the senior consultant, who had agreed to take personal charge of the case.
In one sense, purely selfish, it came as a relief to Gil Gribble to learn that his friend was in a coma. He had dreaded breaking the news (should Cawdor not be aware of it already) about what had happened to Sarah and Daniella. Their terrible fate in the context of Cawdor’s own incredible survival, it seemed to Gribble, was like a monstrous black joke played by an evil deity. Sooner or later, of course, Cawdor would have to learn of it, but for the moment, thank God, he had been spared the agony, and so had Gribble; he much preferred later to sooner.
‘Are you a work colleague of his?’ Doctor Straus inquired. They were walking along a corridor with a green rubbery floor which was oddly yielding underfoot. The rooms on either side had observation windows set in the walls. Some of the Venetian blinds were partly open so that Gribble got glimpses, like a running tableau, of shadowy rooms and patients in various stages of nursing care. Most were sleeping, or comatose, he wasn’t sure which.