ALL ACTION THRILLER BOXSET: THREE MURRAY MCDONALD STANDALONE THRILLERS

by Murray Mcdonald

  “Not one. So, I called him back and asked the question, and you’ll never guess what he said.”

  “You’re right, I won’t. So tell me!” Russell wasn’t a guessing type of President.

  “What did they have to moan about? Their planes were all chartered. They were going to make a killing.”

  “Who to?” demanded Russell, sitting up straight in shock at the news.

  “Us.”

  “Us?”

  “As far as he was aware, it was some top secret government thing, and we’ve hired all of his planes and used this solar flare nonsense as a cover.”

  “What?”

  “Yep, and he’s over the moon. Reckons that the profits they’ll make in the next four days, will sort out a number of long term issues they’ve had.”

  “I’ll contact Defense and see if they know anything about it, but I’m sure they would have told me!” said the President, still coming to terms with the news. Although the more he thought about it, the more one thing came to mind, but there was no way that they were linked. Shutting down the world’s airline industry was not within their power, surely.

  The Secretary of Transportation got up and walked towards the door. His bit was done, it was the President’s problem now.

  “Oh, how was Ben?” The President asked as an after-thought.

  “Fine, you know Ben, always in a rush”

  “Where’s he off to that El Al couldn’t take him?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t for him. It was two seats from Paris to New York.”

  Russell couldn’t believe his luck, instantly making the link. One of those seats would be Sam Baker’s. They had him trapped. He called Johnson. Surely even he, could manage to capture an unarmed man on an aircraft.

  Chapter 61

  Ben rushed into the meeting. Of all the meetings he had in his diary, this was the one that he’d never failed to attend, and the one he prayed would deliver more than any other. The heads of pretty much every security, police, and defense service awaited his arrival.

  “Well?” he asked, repeating the same question he’d asked every morning and evening as these meetings had taken place.

  “No news,” was the subdued response.

  There were now only five days until Yom Kippur. Five days, until four nuclear weapons would devastate the land of Israel. “Any news on the American one?” he asked again, as he had for every previous meeting.

  “Nothing,” offered David Hirsch, the Defense Minister, without hope.

  “We have every satellite the Americans have and every one of their military vessels are checking every ship they can see, but nothing. Maybe, it’s already there.”

  “What about Marseille?”

  “What about it?” asked Hirsch.

  “Any boats leaving there bound for America?”

  “We’ve checked them all. They were either going to Africa, staying in Europe, heading to the Far East or South America, and we even checked them to make sure they were on course and they are. No boat that is on its way to America has the weapon. It must be a hoax.”

  “Well, if it is, the joke is on us. They’ll be five explosions, not four!” exclaimed Ben. “Sorry, what was that?” asked Ben, not quite catching what one of the analysts had whispered to a colleague under his breath.

  “Apologies, Mr. Meir. I spoke out of turn,” said the analyst, by way of apology.

  “No, please, if you have information, you must share it. Please stand up and enlighten us with whatever you deem so relevant.” Ben was in a particularly foul mood.

  The young analyst stood up and when Hirsch spotted who Ben was picking on, he immediately tried to stop him.

  “Ben, if you don’t mind, I’ll deal with this less publicly.”

  “No David, the young man has something to say!” He was not in the mood to be stopped.

  “Sorry, please, also give us your credentials,” ordered Ben, keen to see why the young man felt it appropriate to make secret remarks.

  David Hirsch sunk further in his seat. Adding the young man’s credentials was just going to exacerbate the disaster.

  The young man could hardly be heard as he stammered, “I work for the Defense Department in the nuclear capability team.”

  “Ben,” interrupted David Hirsch, the young man’s ultimate boss. “I really must insist that you let me deal with this.”

  “No, carry on,” ordered Ben firmly.

  “My specialty is the likely scenarios and long term impact of nuclear weapons.”

  “Oh, okay. So I can certainly understand why you’re here. Now, what was so important you had to share it with your colleague but not the rest of us?” pushed Ben.

  “I simply said that whether it’s four or five was irrelevant. Israel’s fucked either way.”

  Ben looked at the young analyst, somewhat surprised at his tone and language.

  “Sorry, that was what I said, verbatim, Mr. Meir. I mean no disrespect,” added the analyst noting Ben’s disapproval.

  Ben looked at David. Nothing of this magnitude had ever been relayed to him. Israel being fucked, seemed to be a fairly explicit and certainly far worse situation than the destruction of part of four cities that had previously been cited.

  “What exactly do you mean by ‘fucked’, young man?” asked Ben, having calmed down and curious to hear a less edited version of the potential impact.

  “With the input of Professor Ilya Kielson, the Soviet scientist, we should assume two things. The nukes are around the 100 kiloton range and will be extremely efficient. He would, I assume, also have advised the Palestinians of placement to ensure maximum damage and impact.”

  “Go on,” prompted Ben.

  “With this scenario, the projections would obliterate four major cities, wiping out pretty much all of their inhabitants.”

  “Yes.” Ben was aware of this. “But Israel is much larger than four cities, young man.”

  “Sorry, I’m not finished. The radiation and thermal effects would be devastating to a significantly greater area and ultimately, I would anticipate that Israel, the West Bank and Gaza would pretty much be unlivable for the next fifty years. I would include a large area of our neighbors’ territories in that category also.”

  “Jerusalem?”

  “Wasteland, a radioactive nightmare!” The young analyst was on a roll.

  Ben Meir, not for the first time, was hoping his heart would keep going. The stress was going to kill him. They had to find those weapons. Ararat depended on Jerusalem.

  Chapter 62

  Sam thought he could get used to this as he pressed the button and for the first time in his life, actually felt comfortable aboard a plane. Two minutes after the stewardess had put out the fasten seat belt signs, he was sleeping soundly. Seven hours and almost 3,000 miles later, he woke up, feeling refreshed and energized for the full day that lay ahead. The electronic map told him there was just about an hour to JFK.

  He turned to Rebecca and all the pleasant thoughts that had been swirling in his mind stopped. Her face was one of sheer panic and coming from a woman who had faced what she had, he knew something was very wrong.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking deeply into her eyes.

  “I think Ben’s screwed us and most certainly you,” she whispered, and quickly hissed. “Don’t turn around.”

  “You’ve just had a bad dream. We’re in a plane, nobody can touch us up here. Nobody even knows who we are.”

  She shook her head firmly. “No, I haven’t slept a wink. Two hours ago, the man one seat behind and over to your right was called to the cockpit door and handed the phone by the stewardess. He hasn’t stopped checking on us since then. So, just make it look like we’re talking normally, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Sam, looking calmly into her eyes.

  “I can only assume he’s the Sky Marshall. He’s probably been told to assist when we land.”

  “Okay, I’m going to take a casual look, don’t worry,” instructed Sam as he yawned an
d nodded to the passenger across the aisle from him. A quick look behind confirmed Rebecca’s worst thoughts. The bulge in his otherwise perfect suit trousers gave him away. The right leg snagged at the sock line, giving away the pistol that would resolve any potential hijackings.

  “Yep, and he’s good,” confirmed Sam. “Caught me looking!”

  “Shit, we’re screwed,” said Rebecca, feeling caught in a guided missile heading straight to Sam’s assassins.

  Sam considered all the options, which amounted to pretty much none. The cockpit door was locked and would never be opened. He could HALO and HAHO, basically parachute from inner space, either quickly or slowly, but that tended to require a parachute which commercial airliners did not carry. Sam didn’t want to get into the whole argument about why somebody had decided to put lifejackets on board a plane instead of parachutes. He’d argue that point when he had more time.

  After thinking through the options, he was coming down on the side of Rebecca. However, Sam was not a person to get screwed. He preferred to be the screwer.

  “I’m just going to go to the restroom,” he said as he kissed her on the cheek and walked the few feet to the restroom. Closing and locking the door, he waited three seconds before very carefully removing the lock. He then opened the door and charged. As expected, the Marshall had relaxed slightly, assuming Sam would be at least a couple of minutes. With the Marshall’s guard down, Sam launched himself at him and stopped the Marshall’s hand from reaching for the gun. Sam had ended up almost sitting on the man’s lap as screams echoed down the plane, Rebecca’s voice pierced through them all, telling everyone to “get the fuck down!”

  Meanwhile, Sam, with his right hand clamped around the Marshall right wrist and taking a number of small punches to the ribs from the Marshall’s left, swung his left elbow round and crashed it into the Marshall’s temple. The Marshall was dazed and his right hand relaxed. Sam grabbed the pistol just as three would-be heroes came crashing towards him.

  Sam jumped and missed being washing-lined by a fraction of an inch. Sam stepped back a few feet and leveled the Sig Sauer P229 at the three heroes.

  “Guys, I’m on your side!” he shouted. “I’ve just got a few little problems I need to resolve, but trust me, nobody will get hurt.”

  The Marshall struggled to his feet and tried to calm the other passengers down. He knew what could happen if Sam put a bullet through the skin of the plane at 37,000 ft. He was trained incessantly not to, for exactly those reasons.

  “Guys, I am a Federal Marshall. I will deal with this. Please step back.”

  The youngest of the three was having none of it. “I’ve got two young babies on this plane, and no Al Qaeda fucker is going to fly them into a building.”

  Sam turned to Rebecca. “Do I look like an Al Qaeda terrorist?” he asked.

  “No,” she answered honestly.

  “What do you think?” Sam asked an elderly lady sitting on the left hand seat.

  “Hmmm, no,” she stammered, frightened out of her wits.

  He could see that the young man was willing to give his own life for his children, which was very admirable, and extremely hard to rationalize with.

  “Tell him,” instructed Sam to the Marshall.

  The three heroes looked at the Marshall.

  “Tell him what?” asked the Marshall, bemused.

  “What you were told about me?”

  “I’m trying to calm them down!” he pleaded.

  “Exactly. Tell them that I’m not a terrorist.”

  “I can’t because that’s what they told me.”

  “They said I’m a terrorist?” asked Sam. Somehow, that made everything even worse, to be branded a terrorist, by the very country he had shed blood for.

  The young father was getting ready to move. Four men, one gun, and very little room. Sam’s odds were worsening by the minute.

  Rebecca moved towards the men that were now closing in on Sam. She pushed past the two at the rear and coming up behind the young father, she delivered a devastating kick to his manhood. The young father crumpled and fell to the floor. She held her FBI badge high in the air.

  “Right, you two,” she barked. “Take him back to his seat before he loses the ability to have any more kids. You two, then go back to your seats, and you,” she said, pointing to the Marshall. “Sit on the floor, right there!”

  “Now everybody, just calm down!” she shouted. Somebody had taken charge who didn’t have a gun and it had worked.

  “Now what?” she whispered back to Sam, who stood between her and the cockpit door.

  Sam picked up the intercom and hit the button to speak to the flight deck.

  “Captain?”

  “Yes? What do you want?” he barked.

  “Firstly, to promise you that absolutely no harm will come to anyone aboard this plane, as long as you do me one little favor.”

  “I’m sorry, that’s not possible,” he replied firmly.

  “Let me tell you what it is, before you get all worked up.”

  “I’m sorry, I will not negotiate with you. That is my final word.”

  Sam told him what he wanted in any event, and left it for the Captain to decide.

  Chapter 63

  CIA Director Allan Johnson had taken the rather unorthodox act of leading the capture of a terrorist fugitive at JFK. He’d had to twist a number of arms and would be repaying favors for a number of years, but he was going to end this bullshit, personally. As far as he was concerned, this would pretty much seal the VP position, not that there should have been any doubt. The evidence was all still in his hands, including a recording of President Andrew Russell, then VP, instructing him very clearly, that the President had to go. However, Allan wanted the job on merit, and not by using underhanded methods.

  He had gotten word through to the Sky Marshall that a terrorist was on board. Although it was not expected that the terrorist had planned anything on the plane, the Marshall should take extreme care and under no circumstances approach him or alert him to his presence. The terrorist would be arrested at JFK. The Marshall’s job was to protect the passengers, keeping them onboard when the terrorist was taken down. The flight was scheduled to arrive at Terminal 8, and Johnson had all but shut it down. The last few stragglers were disappearing as the area was cleared and flights were reassigned to other terminals.

  Johnson was taking no chances. Twenty men were in the terminal with him, while another twenty surrounded the parking area below. All were dressed as airport crew and should not rouse suspicion as the plane completed its taxi and the passengers disembarked. He had him.

  The tower had allocated a single air traffic controller to that one flight and had, as requested, plugged the controller into the CIA comms system. Although they could hear him, Johnson had ensured that he could not hear them. Every member of Johnson’s team knew exactly what was happening at any given time.

  “American Heavy 45, please come left, to heading 245 and drop to 2,000 feet.”

  Johnson knew that meant they were just minutes from landing.

  ***

  On board American Airlines flight 45, Sam had been praying for the Captain to do the right thing. So far, he had acceded to not radioing in what had happened on board the flight, and been assured by the stewardess that Sam, as promised, had let the Sky Marshall take his seat again. No passengers were injured and no other demands were being made. Just the one favor, as requested.

  As the Captain began his final procedures, Sam gave it another try. Of course, he wouldn’t shoot the Sky Marshall. The Captain had obviously got his measure and realized that he wasn’t a cold blooded killer. Well, certainly not of innocent bystanders at least, thought Sam.

  If they landed at JFK, he was dead. He had a gun, but Johnson would ensure a very large welcoming committee and Sam knew, there would be no qualms when it came to collateral. As long as Johnson got his target, collateral was exactly that, collateral.

  Sam lifted the intercom again and pleaded
with the Captain. He could hear the co-pilot in the background being given the instructions for final approach. On hearing the two-feet call, he gave up.

  “These things I do, so that others may live,” he muttered in acceptance of his fate.

  “Sorry?” said the Captain.

  “Nothing, just an old motto,” said Sam, not wanting to repeat it. He hadn’t even realized he had said it out loud.

  “Just hold on a second. Mark?” The captain stopped the co-pilot from responding to the last call.

  “Were you a PJ?”

  “Yes, Sir,” responded Sam automatically on hearing the Captain refer to his old unit.

  “Well, why in the hell didn’t you say, son? You guys pulled me out of a very tricky situation in Iraq many years ago. A slight detour is the least I could do. Take your seat, son, this may get a little bumpy.”

  ***

  “JFK, this is American Heavy 45, we have a problem. We cannot make the turn as requested, believe we have a fault with the rudder.”

  “Roger that American 45, can you maneuver at all?”

  “JFK, yes, can turn to right. Repeat, we can move to the right.”

  As Johnson wondered what was going on, the tower was pulling charts and looking at options. The Air Traffic Control Director pointed wildly at the chart as the controller calmly relayed his suggestion.

  “American Heavy 45, a slight right turn could land you at LaGuardia, do you think that is possible?”

  “Confirm possible, as long as we get a direct landing, we will not be able to maneuver once on course.”

  “Of course. We’re contacting LaGuardia now and informing them of the emergency.”

  “Thank you.”

  Johnson was apoplectic and was furious at himself for only having one-way comms. He had been screaming at the tower until he realized they couldn’t hear him.

  “Shit! How long to get to LaGuardia?!”

  “Thirty minutes by car and probably ten by helicopter, but they’ll shut the airport down with an emergency,” responded one of the CIA hit squad.