Skyjack: A Kidnap-And-Ransom Thriller

by K. J. Howe

  Laverdeen banged on the cockpit door again, hard. Several passengers craned their necks, trying to see what was going on. After all, pilots were supposed to be inside the cockpit. The Asian woman still casually flipped through her magazine.

  Laverdeen pounded hard again.

  Suddenly the world tilted upward, the plane’s nose pitching skyward sharply, engines spooling to an angry whine. Thea crashed backward into the first row of seats. Bracing herself on a seat back, she tried to stabilize her footing.

  Too late. The plane did a snap roll, the right wing pivoting toward the sky, the left one toward the ground. It felt like a ninety-degree bank, though Thea knew that was impossible—a bank that steep would exert enough g-force on the plane to start tearing it apart in midair.

  A steel coffeepot flew through the forward galley and crashed into the lavatory door. Screams reverberated throughout the cabin. Thea groped at the overhead compartment, her fingers connecting with the latch. She clung to it, but as it took her weight, the latch popped open. She flopped backward, then kipped herself forward, releasing the bin door and grabbing the inside lip with both hands. With the increased g-forces, her forearms ached from the effort and her body felt much heavier than normal, swinging back and forth like that of a rock climber hanging from a dangerous precipice.

  The lights flickered—off, on, off, on—the world reduced to snapshots. Laverdeen crashed against an emergency exit. Blood oozed from a gash on his head. He clung to the galley’s ledge, mouth twisted in agony. She looked back for a glimpse of the boys, but to no avail—the angle wasn’t right.

  Movement caught her eye. The heart attack victim’s body smashed against the cabin’s overhead compartment, then hovered in midair, limbs loose and flailing like those of a scarecrow in a high wind. Seconds later, the corpse dropped into the lap of the man wearing the fedora. He thrust the body into the aisle, disentangling himself in a panic.

  The plane continued flying on its side. With her entire body weight dangling by her fingertips, Thea wasn’t sure how much longer she could hold on. She stole a quick glance at a nearby chair’s TV screen: still at 37,000 feet. She peered through the windows directly below, then wished she hadn’t. The earth stared back at her. She felt disoriented, nauseated.

  Before she could adjust her grip, the pilot rolled right, then yanked the nose skyward again. Both engines howled. A beverage cart bounced off the bulkhead and smashed painfully into her legs. Her left hand slipped off the lip of the overhead bin.

  Without warning, the captain snap-rolled the aircraft 180 degrees to the right, jabbing the left wing skyward. The move threw frightened, screeching passengers against their seatmates. Everything that had been pointed up was now down, and carry-on bags, jackets, and other debris began flying around the cabin. Her grip failed. She crashed into the front-row seats, an armrest sucker punching her in the solar plexus. All the air evacuated her lungs. She clung to the armrest, praying for the aerobatics to stop as she gasped for oxygen.

  Suddenly, the plane rolled back to wings-level. She inhaled a few shallow breaths, recovering her equilibrium. Seconds felt like hours as she waited for the next move from the pilot. But the plane remained level, stable. She steadied herself on the aisle seat. Laverdeen staggered toward her, a towel from the galley pressed against his bloody temple.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Just a little dizzy.”

  “We need to get into that cockpit and find out what the hell is going on with the pilot. I’ll be right back.”

  She headed down the aisle, grateful the boys were in their seats, unharmed. Bernard and Madeira were strapping the heart-attack victim’s battered body into an empty rear seat. It was too late to save him, but maybe the rest of them could find a way out of this insanity.

  Ayan and Jabari huddled together, arms wrapped around each other. So much for their first flight being uneventful. She rummaged in her SINK for her satphone.

  “Some ride, huh?” She tried to smile.

  “The airplane went like this . . .” Jabari held out a hand and tilted it so that his thumb and pinky were north and south.

  “You looked like a monkey hanging from a tree.” Ayan’s eyes were saucers, big and round.

  She smiled as she looked them over. Thankfully, not a mark on them. “I’m proud of you both for being so brave.” She strode toward the flight deck.

  The man with the wire-rimmed glasses and bow tie grabbed her arm. “What’s going on up there? Have we been hijacked?”

  “We’re handling the situation. Stay belted in.”

  Rejoining Laverdeen, she glanced at her watch, calculating their approximate location. The trip from Nairobi to London was over four thousand miles. “We’re over the Sudan, correct?”

  The copilot nodded, wincing. She hoped he didn’t have a concussion. If they could get back inside the flight deck, he’d have to fly the plane.

  She dialed the familiar number on her satphone. It rang several times, then bumped to voice mail. Dammit. “Rif, bit of a situation on board. Possible 7500,” she said, using the code for hijacks. “We’re over the Sudan right now. Call me.” She hung up, wishing Rif was there with her—he could fly just about any aircraft in the world.

  Air traffic control would be in Khartoum. Dialing the operator, she asked to be patched through to the closest control tower. Within thirty seconds, a man with a British accent answered.

  “This is Thea Paris from Quantum International Security calling from Flight 855 on a BBJ 737.” The TV screen on the nearest seat provided the flight details, which she relayed to the operator. “I’m with copilot Laverdeen, who has been locked out of the cockpit. Captain Rivers isn’t responding. Could be a 7500. Any chance you could patch us in to Guard?” Usually most planes had Guard, the emergency frequency, set as their second channel option.

  “Give me a moment.”

  While air traffic control located them on their system, she placed her hand over the phone. “What else do you know about Rivers?”

  Laverdeen shrugged. “Divorced, fanatical soccer fan, drinks tons of coffee—he’s not much of a conversationalist.”

  “Kids?”

  “Not sure.”

  “Political leanings?”

  “Sorry, I don’t know him that well. We sit together for hours, but we don’t say a whole hell of a lot.”

  “We know he has a temper,” Thea said.

  Air traffic control came back on the line. “Patching you in now. I’ll alert the authorities about the possible 7500.”

  Because of their location, she wasn’t optimistic they’d get much assistance. But that was probably part of the hijacker’s strategy. She wasn’t even sure the Sudanese had an emergency action plan for skyjackings.

  A series of clicks sounded. “Ms. Paris, you have been patched in to Guard on Flight 855.”

  “Captain Rivers, this is Thea Paris, one of your passengers. Could you let me know you’re okay?”

  Silence.

  “We have a medical emergency back here. One of the passengers is having a heart attack.” The pilot didn’t need to know the man had already died. Maybe she could appeal to his humanitarian side. “We need to land at the closest airport for medical intervention.”

  She waited. No response.

  Time for a more direct approach. She covered the phone with her hand and thrust it toward the copilot. “Keep trying, but stay calm. We don’t need another aerobatics display.”

  She passed Laverdeen the satphone and headed for the rear of the plane, waving to the boys as she walked past.

  Reaching the rear galley, she interrupted Madeira as she was cleaning up the mess caused by the pilot’s maneuvers. “You have an IV bag and a fire extinguisher?” Thea’s ears popped. They were descending.

  “Yes, right here.” Madeira reached into the cabinet. “What’s Captain Rivers up to?” Her mask of professionalism was beginning to crack.

  “I’m trying to find out.”

  “Let me know what I c
an do to help.” She passed Thea the IV bag and a red fire extinguisher.

  “Keep the crew’s oxygen close at hand. He’s descending—tough to predict what he’ll do next.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “You have any gloves?”

  “Only oven mitts,” Madeira said.

  “Perfect.”

  She strode up the aisle, Madeira on her heels. Opening the overhead compartment above her seat, she grabbed her SINK bag again and headed for the front. Laverdeen leaned against the bulkhead, still on the phone with Rivers. “Let’s talk Premier League Championships, then . . .” His voice was calm, level. Impressive, given the circumstances. At her questioning look, he shook his head.

  The nearest screen’s flight data reported they were at 24,000 feet. Why was Rivers descending? Was he planning to land somewhere?

  She leaned back and whispered to Madeira. “See if you can engage the captain in conversation. So far we’ve been given the silent treatment. Just keep it low key, no accusations, and take the phone to the rear.”

  She shrugged. “I’ll give it a try.”

  Laverdeen handed the satphone to Madeira. The flight attendant left the galley area.

  “We need to get inside now,” she told Laverdeen. Opening her SINK, she retrieved the detonator she kept hidden inside one of her glass ampules of insulin and the cylindrical plastic booster hidden underneath some tampons. Her fingers wrapped around the shock tubing, which looked like a set of brightly colored earphones she kept in an Apple case. The three-layer hollow plastic tube had an inner layer of a reactive explosive compound that could deliver a firing impulse to the detonator.

  The copilot studied the items she’d collected. “What are you doing?”

  “Creating an alternative form of ingress.” The cockpit door was reinforced, but the bathroom wall connected to the cockpit was not.

  “You could blow a hole in the fuselage.” Laverdeen’s voice was tight.

  “Or knock Rivers unconscious. But we’re out of options. Just get ready to rush in and grab the controls.”

  She duct-taped the booster and detonator to the wall connecting the lavatory to the cockpit, then placed the IV bag over it. Water was an excellent dampener for explosions, so the IV bag would protect the passengers and direct the concussive force into the cockpit. To protect the outer wall of the plane, she propped up two carry-on bags near the toilet.

  Satisfied, she glanced up at Laverdeen.

  He still looked panicked. “One more try on the phone?” he suggested.

  Her ears popped again. “We need to do this now.” Connecting the shock tube to the detonator, she lengthened the cord, attached the trigger to the shock tubing, and positioned herself behind the sturdy bulkhead. The fire extinguisher sat beside her. She hoped she wouldn’t need it.

  She glanced back to see most of the passengers staring at them. The man wearing seersucker pants and a panama hat sat in the third-row aisle seat, too close for his safety.

  “I need you to move back a few rows, sir.”

  He looked at her, indignant. “I paid a lot of money for this ticket; I should be able to sit where I want.”

  “Okay, then consider the upcoming fireworks part of the pampering.”

  The man unstrapped his seat belt and hurried to the rear.

  She turned to Laverdeen. “Head for the back. We can’t risk you getting hurt.”

  “You sure this will work?”

  “If you have a better idea . . .”

  “I’ll be in the other washroom.” Laverdeen gave her a half smile and strode down the aisle.

  The plane descended at a brisk pace. They had reached 15,000 feet.

  Thea protected herself behind the bulkhead and took a sharp breath. She pressed the trigger and covered her ears.

  Microseconds ticked by in slow motion.

  A loud blast erupted from the cockpit area. The concussive force crashed over her on its way down the length of the cabin. Screams filled the air. Thea shook off the aftereffects of the explosion and headed toward the cockpit, Laverdeen rushing up the aisle behind her. Pieces of the cockpit wall littered the floor. Shrapnel had embedded itself in the fiberglass bulkhead. Dust sifted through the air.

  The makeshift bomb had done its job, and the fuselage was still intact.

  Oven mitts on to protect her hands, she pushed through what was left of the bathroom door. Through the ragged hole in the wall, she had a view into the cockpit. Captain Rivers was conscious and in full control of the descending plane. A small piece of debris was lodged in his right shoulder, and the wound was bleeding, but he seemed more or less okay otherwise. One hand manipulated the controls as he gingerly probed the shrapnel in his shoulder with the other.

  The first and only instance of a hijacking being foiled while the plane was in flight happened in 1996, when officers of an Austrian special-ops unit known as EKO Cobra saved a prisoner transport bound for Lagos from being diverted by a knife-wielding passenger.

  With a little luck, Thea thought, maybe this will be the second ever.

  Chapter 4

  Innsbruck, Austria

  Johann Dietrich’s gangly legs pumped up and down like pistons, knees shooting up toward his ears and falling back down again, skis bouncing off the moguls. The sunlight danced on the snow with almost blinding intensity. Fresh powder blew by his goggles in a mist of white, and the wind screeched in his ears like a train whistle. Breath shallow and sharp, he bulleted down the mountain face, his focus on the mounds of snow, on hitting the sweet spots again and again.

  Nothing invigorated him more than taking the zipper line down the ominous peak. The exhilaration helped him forget about his Marfan syndrome and its impact on his life—mild scoliosis, a sunken chest, poor eyesight, and a frame that was so tall and thin that he attracted attention everywhere he went. Today, on his birthday, he wanted to feel normal, to put all that aside. And he couldn’t imagine a better way to celebrate than skiing, which he had always loved—except for the fact that all his classmates were also on the slopes.

  He tucked his poles into his sides and flew down the mountain. Sensationell. All worries about his physical and social awkwardness vacated his mind. The double black diamond run dominated every thought—until he pulled up in a spray of snow at the base of the mountain, right in front of some of his schoolmates.

  “Look, guys, it’s Slender Man,” David Taddington said, a smirk on his fine-boned face. “Watch out, kids, you’re in danger of being taken.”

  His classmates laughed. David, the son of an American pharmaceutical tycoon, took great delight in persecuting him at every opportunity. Johann studied hard, got good grades, and tried to remain invisible.

  Easier said than done at six feet, five inches and 160 pounds.

  Vater had sent him to the Habsburg yellow building on Moosstraße called the American International School, formally Salzburg International Preparatory School. Although Austrian by birth, his father was a diehard Americanophile and felt that his only son mingling with wealthy children from the land of burgers and fries would lead to good connections.

  Johann hadn’t made a friend yet.

  Without saying a word, he stabbed his poles into the ground and skied toward the chairlift, dusting off the snow and the smirks of David and his friends. Normally he would have stood up for himself somehow—Vater would have insisted—but, given recent events, he just didn’t have any fight in him.

  It’d been an emotional ten days for all Austrians following the country’s deadliest-ever terrorist attack at Schönbrunn Palace, a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Five suicide bombers armed with automatic weapons had stormed the castle and detonated their IEDs within its walls, destroying much of the structure and leaving 842 dead, including themselves and one of his father’s closest employees. They’d attended the man’s funeral a few days ago, witnessing the crushing impact on his widow and two sons. An intense manhunt was under way for a sixth attacker, who’d disappeared using the famed
maze and labyrinth on the property.

  It made Johann sad, all this death and hatred. And it worried him that there were moments when he wished he’d been one of the victims.

  He queued up for the high-speed quad lift and patiently waited his turn for another chance to escape from school trip hell. The brave part of him wished he’d had the guts to challenge David to a race down the mountain.

  He was pushing himself forward in the lift line when the slim girl standing in front of him, bundled from head to toe in a white down snowsuit that made her look like the Michelin Man, stumbled, tripping on her skis. Definitely a newbie. She scrambled to reach the red line for the chairlift, almost toppling over. Two other skiers held back, so the operator waved Johann forward with a gruff, “Beeile dich, sonst verpaßt du es.”

  He skied forward and helped the girl before the lift chair swung around behind them. She fell backward and plopped down. Hopping onto the chair, he lowered the bar over both of them. A quick glance at his companion revealed a blue hijab tucked neatly underneath the hood of her white suit.

  Fatima Abboud, from his math class. He hadn’t recognized her at first. Fatima was from the United Arab Emirates, her huge chocolate-colored eyes surrounded by long, dark eyelashes. Since math came easily to him, he had plenty of time in class to stare at her while the teacher droned on about precalculus.

  But he’d never spoken to her before.

  She smiled. “You’re Johann, right?”

  He nodded, not trusting himself to talk.

  “You sure can ski. Any tips? Where I come from, there isn’t a lot of snow.”

  “Thanks. I’ve been on the slopes since I was four.”

  “You make it look easy. I get going too fast and fall.”

  “Just snowplow to slow down, like this.” He pointed the tips of his skis inward, feeling a little more comfortable now.

  “The chairlift terrifies me. I couldn’t sleep last night, thinking about ski day.”