by Adam Hall
Procedures.
Three of the nitrogen tetraoxide cylinders were stowed vertically just aft of the galley and secured with straps, and I loosened a buckle by one notch and pulled a cylinder away from the others and let it fall back. It had the deep musical sound of a. bell.
Did it again.
Remember the orders, don't knock these things around. He'd been the leader of the work group, the jeep's driver. Knock two of these together a bit too hard and we're goners, kerbooom, so for Christ's sake be careful.
Did it again.
Boom…
This was all right, I wasn't knocking them about.
There was a shipping label on the loose cylinder, half torn away, printed in French. It had been shipped – they had all, then, presumably, been shipped – out of Libya.
It's believed that Dieter Klaus has the substantial backing of Col. Moammar Gadhafi. It had been in my Berlin briefing.
Boom…
The voice of one of the pilots cut through the rushing of the jets. He was telling his friend, I would have thought, that he was going to take a look: there was some cargo shifting, so forth.
Boom…
I saw his shadow now, moving across the wall of the cabin on the other side. I let the cylinder fall back again and backed away, staying close to the galley bulkhead. The Iranian reached the three cylinders, and saw what the trouble was.
I searched him and found a gun and emptied the chamber and dropped the bullets into the trash container in the galley and put the gun into the refrigerator. The edge of my right hand was throbbing but that was normal: the strike had needed great speed and great force so that he didn't have time to cry out. He'd started falling towards the cylinders and I'd steered him away and let his body down gently, then dragged it behind the galley bulkhead.
Then I straightened up and tightened the buckle on the strap securing the cylinders and went forward onto the flight deck.
The pilot said something, asking what the problem was, I suppose, and I didn't answer so he looked up and his face opened in surprise and he brought his right arm across his body and I waited until the gun was in his hand and then broke his wrist and worked on the gun and threw the bullets into the cabin and shoved the gun into my coat, bugger was throwing up for Christ's sake, the bugger was lolling over the control column with his face white, all right, there's a lot of pain with a broken wrist but you don't have to go into histrionics, do you, and I told him in French:
'Get that control column, watch what you're fucking well doing!'
A lot of anger coming out, it had been suppressed for a long time now, and there was some fear in it, I knew that, because the chances of getting out of this thing alive were so terribly thin.
I pulled him upright, slapped his face, got him more or less conscious again, I suppose he'd got a low pain threshold, some of us are like that, it's a matter of sensitive nerves, but I didn't want him messing about when he was meant to be flying a jumbo load of explosives through the dark.
I said in English: 'What's our destination?'
He looked at me with his eyes trying to focus. 'Come on, for Christ's sake! What's your target?'
There was 15° north of west on the compass but that didn't tell me enough.
He shook his head.
It looked all right. I was going to use a lot of English in a minute or two when I hit the radio, and I didn't want him to understand.
In French: 'Where are we heading? Wipe your mouth, for God's sake, get a handkerchief. What is our destination?'
He wasn't quite with me yet, kept looking behind him into the cabin. 'Where is Hassan?' he asked me.
I reached and slid the door shut without taking my eyes off him. If I told him I'd killed his friend he'd go crazy and try something and I didn't want any milling about, we could break an instrument, kick a control out of whack. I wanted, in any case, his cooperation.
I didn't think I'd get it.
'What is our destination?'
He glanced down and across, wasn't fast enough mentally yet to stop himself, and I saw the briefcase on the co-pilot's seat and picked it up. Then I looked into his eyes and said quietly, 'Khatami, if you give me any trouble,- I'm going to kill you. Do you understand that?'
He watched me, some anger of his own coming into him now as he thought of his friend.
'Did you kill Hassan? he asked me.
'As long as you understand, Khatami.'
'You are a pilot?'
'Yes.'
'You fly these planes?'
'Yes.'
Otherwise I couldn't kill him and he knew that.
He wasn't a small man; he looked strong, fit, probably did a lot of aerobics, athletics, to keep in shape doing a sedentary job. But he was an airline pilot, and hadn't undergone any special training, or he wouldn't have let me take his gun away. And the difference between any given athlete, however strong, and an agent who has been trained for years at Norfolk and by exhaustive experience in the field is immeasurable, when it comes to effective close-combat techniques. This man was also in a lot of pain, his face still bloodless, and I didn't think I'd have to work on him again until he started feeling better.
He began wiping himself down with his handkerchief and I moved behind him and sank onto my haunches, facing his seat with my back to the bulkhead, where a cup of coffee had been spilled, splashing against the vinyl, the empty cup smashed on the floor, this was when the two hijackers had pushed their way onto the flight deck past the stewardess, she'd been bringing a fresh cup for one of the crew.
A teddy bear on the floor, a lipstick and a smashed cup, the small signs of great crisis, of the process of an act of inhumanity.
If Khatami moved, I would see it in the periphery of my vision field.
I took out the first sheet from the briefcase and let my eyes make leaps across the paragraphs to get the gist. The first of them were in French and one pulled me up short.
… You will insist that you have a fire in the cabin and that you cannot risk going on to Dulles International. Remind Air Traffic Control that you have a full complement of passengers and that you must get them onto the ground as soon as possible and regardless of all other considerations…
There were three more paragraphs in Farsi and some figures that looked like radio call signs. I took out the second sheet.
It was a map for airline pilots: Washington DC (VA). Washington National, River Visual Approach for Runway 18.
I began taking slow breaths. The image of Khatami's seat had moved, the whole silhouette had moved against the lights of the instrument panel. I didn't want any more of that bloody dizziness at a time like this, I couldn't afford the luxury, nobody could afford it, the President of the United States couldn't afford it, I knew that now.
You will make your approach to Runway 18 from the north-west, following the lights and landmarks of the Potomac River. You should pick up the river just after passing through 10 DME 6 at 3000 feet. The American Legion Memorial Bridge will be on your right. You will pick up the lights of the Chain Bridge just after 10 DME 6 and you should now be down to 1800 feet.
I felt the vibration of the bulkhead against my shoulder-blades, could smell the stale coffee that had been spilled, and Khatami's vomit. The lights and the LEDs shimmered below the darkness of the windscreen, some of them steady, some of them flashing red, green, amber, white. I had to look away from them; they were starting to swing a little in front of my eyes.
Never neglect concussion. It was in the medical section of the Manual at the Bureau, and Doc Dibenidetto can be trusted to know whereof he speaks. It had happened in the underground garage at Tegel Airport, and pitching out of the limousine in Algiers had aggravated things.
Slow breaths.
And make haste, great haste now.
The Georgetown Reservoir will be coming up on your left and you should now be down to 1200 feet. At this point you should request confirmation of your permission to make an emergency landing from ATC, so as to reassur
e them that your situation is genuine. You should be through the 3 DME 6 and over Key Bridge at 900 feet. Continue your approach above Roosevelt Bridge and Arlington Memorial Bridge as scheduled, with the Washington Monument now on your left. At this point you will break off your approach path and make a 70 ° turn to line up with the White House and complete your run in to the target.
The lights swinging at the edge of the vision field, around the edges of the map, the rush of the jets diminishing a little.
I waited, had to wait, until I thought I could get onto my feet and stay there. I think it took only a few seconds, and when I finally managed it I had the feeling I should have waited longer, not rushed it.
'Khatami,' I said, 'get on the floor.'
He looked up at me, down at the map in my hand.
There wasn't any point in talking to him about this. I hadn't got a gun that I could have pressed to the back of his neck while I told him where to fly this thing, where not to fly it, but I had enough stamina left to kill him if I had to. But he was beyond threats to his life: he'd already surrendered it to Allah, and nothing could touch him now. This is the strongest weapon of the kamikaze: he's got nothing to lose, nothing you can threaten to take away from him.
He was still looking up at me, Khatami.
'You killed Hassan,' he said.
'Down on the floor! Face down on the floor – move!'
He held my eyes for a moment and then dropped from his seat and lay prone, I think because he'd seen I was ready to kill him if he didn't obey, and that would mean he'd have no chances left of overcoming me if he could. That was all he wanted to live for: my death and his final run in to the target.
I put my foot on his neck so that I'd feel any movement, any attempt to get up. Then I hit the speaker switch of the radio so that I wouldn't have to reach for the head-set, and raised the board for Solitaire in the Signals room in London.
'Can you hear me?'
Yes-yes.
The voice-activated tapes would be starting to roll.
'I am on board Pan American Flight 907.'
Croder would be there, Chief of Signals. During the end-phase of a mission he will never leave the Signals room. Sometimes a camp bed is brought in there for him.
We have that.
I felt a chill: I'd paused longer than I'd thought, and they were having to prompt me.
The radio display was blurring, clearing again, blurring. I'd got up too soon, off the floor too soon, pushing it, this was pushing things, no good, this was dangerous.
Said, I said: My position is west of the Moroccan coast and south – south-east of the Azores.
We have that.
Oh Jesus Christ, this wasn't – I wasn't doing this fast enough 'Listen – this aircraft must not be allowed -must not be allowed -'
Lights went out, the lights of the display went out, dark now, not the lights, my eyelids closing, that was it, have to open them, open them – This aircraft must not be allowed -'
The lights swung in an arc and a flash of pain shot into my right shoulder as I crashed down on it.
Chapter 24: FIREBALL
In the dream I heard a voice.
It was screaming at me.
Heat in my shoulder, white heat. It didn't bother me. I listened to the dream, because that was all it was, a voice. It was screaming at me, but I didn't understand the words.
I went on pushing.
The lights were beautiful, circling above my head, red, green, amber, white, circling around the starfields in the windscreen, went on pushing, running down my arm, there was something running down my arm – Oh mother of God this is -
Screaming at me about Hassan, I could hear the name Hassan.
I pushed harder. I wasn't going to let him do this. He had a knife, a long knife with red on the blade.
Come in, please. Come in.
That was in English.
London.
Hassan, Khatami was screaming, then he seemed to remember and switched to French – You killed Hassan… and went on screaming, something about Le Grand Satan, he would die, the Great Satan, yes, a 70° turn from the river – Jesus Christ I've got to -
Pushed very hard, but my hand was slipping because of the blood, it was dripping against my face.
Come in, please, come in.
London, waiting.
I had things to tell London, very important things: This aircraft must not be allowed to approach the eastern seaboard of the United States. It must not be allowed to approach land at all.
Tried – tried to shout it out so they'd hear, nothing happened.
His face was above me, Khatami's, dark, enraged, in the centre of the swirling vortex of lights, one clear thought burning in my head, one clear thought, If I don't tell London, this whole bloody thing is going to hit the target, the one thought burning in my head.
Come in, please. Come in.
Calm – his voice sounded very calm, but they knew what was going on, they could hear this bastard screaming, could understand his French.
Come in, please.
Blood in one of my eyes.
You killed my brother Hassan.
Tried shouting again and got a word or two out but then the blood was in my mouth and I began choking on it and that was going to make things worse so I pushed very hard indeed and felt his arm swing away as I twisted from under him, choking, choking for breath and hanging there like a bloody dog but the adrenalin was firing the muscles and I reared and smashed my head into his face and the screaming stopped, felt for his knife hand and reached it and got my feet braced against the bulkhead and lurched forward, lunged forward and smashed my head into him again and did it again and turned the knife, turned it, pushing it through the dark, the red roaring dark, pushing it into the softness, deeper and deeper, pushed it as far as the hilt, coughing up the blood that had got into my mouth, choking for breath but it had stopped, the screaming had stopped and I lurched forward again and hit the bulkhead near the radio console and heard something break, a panel, making a brittle sound but it seemed all right because they were talking again.
Come in, please. Come in.
Choking, still, but I could breathe now, things much, things much better, he wasn't moving, I could see him with one eye, the knife sticking up like a bloodied erection, went on choking again and got the last of it out of my throat, leaned against the console, the sweetness of air in my lungs.
Come in -
'Listen – this is – this is my situation.'
No need to tell them now that this aircraft must not be allowed, so forth, because this aircraft wasn't going anywhere after all, he was dead, I believed, Khatami, or if he wasn't dead he wouldn't be able to get at the controls again, there was a lot of blood coming out of his groin, creeping towards the smashed coffee cup that was lying there on the floor, I did some more coughing and it helped.
'This aircraft is loaded with explosive but I am in control.' Odd, an odd way to put things, in control of what exactly, a flying coffin, yes. 'What I mean is, I'm going to have to ditch, and blow it all up, you got that, have you got -'
Yes, we have that. Then another voice came on, and I recognised Shatner. Control. Let me have your position.
My left eye was streaming with tears and the blood was getting washed away, but I couldn't see the instrument display very clearly yet. 'I can't tell you. Not accurately. West of the Moroccan coast, south-east of the Azores, possibly more like due south by now -' broke off to do some more coughing, but things were much better now and I could breathe quite well between bouts. It was my wrist, where the blood had come from, he'd sliced a vein. 'The target was the White House, but listen, the passengers of Flight 907 are being held in the Sahara desert and this is their position:, 26°03' north by 02°01' west. Need to get them out of there. Terrorists guarding them with assault rifles, need to be careful.'
Gave myself a short rest, needed more air in my lungs, they felt constricted. But the tapes were running in London and there'd be signals goi
ng out already to alert people – the British Ambassador in Algiers and through him the Algerian Air Force and Army Desert Reconnaissance, GSG- 9 in Germany because Klaus was out there – 'Listen,' I said, 'Dieter Klaus may still be there when the rescue aircraft reach those people or he may fly out before they arrive. If he's still there, I advise the use of utmost caution. He is vicious, ruthless and determined, and I suggest they shoot him on sight, have you got – have you -'
I have that, Shatner said. That position you gave me – is it an airfield?
I told him it was a dry lake bed, had a flarepath, told him its distance from the nearest town, Adrar, gave him the whole thing while the starfields crept across the dark of the windscreen as we headed west through the night, I was beginning to feel lonely.
Are there other aircraft there in the desert?
Said yes. Told him what kind they were. I knew now from what I'd found in the briefcase why Klaus hadn't used a cargo plane for this operation: Washington National wouldn't have let it land there. They would have told it to go the extra distance into Dulles. But a Pan Am carrier with a full complement of passengers would make a difference: the potential loss of life would have been far greater if the situation had been genuine.
Beginning to feel lonely, yes. The night-black ocean was below me, its crests touched with silver by the moon. This huge aircraft was like a mote of dust compared with the vastness of the Atlantic. I'd thought, when I'd made the drop into the Sahara, that it was like going down into an ocean, but that had been an illusion. This time it was real.
When you can give us your exact position, do that.
I leaned away from the console, overdid things and lost my balance and had to throw out a hand to save myself. I think I stayed like that, swaying on my feet, for a long time, quite a few seconds.
What is your condition?
'I'm. trying to see. Give me a -'
– Your condition. How much strength have you got left?
'Oh. Enough to ditch this thing, I mean it can do that for itself, but I've got to get it off auto-pilot and then we've got to steer clear of the Azores and the African land-mass. I don't -'