passenger across the aisle from him. A quick look behind confirmed Rebecca’s worst thoughts. The bulge in his otherwise perfect suit trouser 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 nip 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 reaching for the gun. Sam had ended up almost sitting on the man’s lap as screams echoed down the plane, Rebecca’s voice piercing 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 have a go 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, 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 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 from 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 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 it’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 had 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 in 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 the terrorist planned anything on the plane, he should take extreme care and under no circumstances approach him or alert him to his presence. He 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 within 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 one 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 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 he wasn’t a cold blooded killer. Well, certainly not
