Mary desperately searches for Sam. Where the hell did he go? Why did he abandon her like that? Less than ten minutes ago, they were making love and now this. How did her fate lead her here? Was she going to die? Were they all about to die a fiery, grisly death?
She eyes the terrorist, Abd al Bari. He’s got Sam’s gun gripped in his left hand, and in the other, a set of prayer beads. He’s nervous, agitated, his forehead covered with droplets of sweat. He’s reciting one prayer after another in Arabic. The people buckled in their seats all seem to be hanging on to their armrests for dear life. The plane trembles. The people tremble. The noise from the air rushing into the hole in the plane wall is deafening. It slaps her face, pounds against her eardrums. It steals her breath away. Still, she can make out the words of this terrorist’s prayers, even if she does not understand him.
But the question she has for him is this: What kind of God allows blowing up an airplane filled innocent people, young and old?
An evil God, she thinks to herself. A God she wants nothing to do with.
Out the corner of her eye, she spots Sam.
He’s hiding behind the lavatories that separate the rear economy class from forward economy. He’s trying to get her attention. She’s beginning to feel faint from the constant barrage of wind in her face, but she manages a nod and a wink. He gives her a hand signal that she interprets as “I’m going to crawl my way to the back of the plane.” Mary can’t be entirely sure what it is he’s trying to communicate to her, but when she sees him lower himself to the floor and begin to crawl along the starboard aisle, she knows she interpreted him correctly.
Suddenly, the freezing wind whipping against her face doesn’t matter. Suddenly, what she’s feeling is not so much relief, but a sense of empowerment. Sam is coming to the rescue. Sam is about to save the day. She sees that many of the people who are seated along the starboard aisle have spotted Sam. But they’re doing their best not to let on to his presence. That’s when Mary gets a full understanding of what it is Sam is trying to accomplish. He’s trying to outflank the terrorist. He’s going to wage a sneak attack.
She realizes then it’s the only possibility for saving the lives of hundreds.
Sam does his best to come up with a scenario that could neutralize Abd al Bari. Everything from extinguishing all the lights in the plane and attacking the terrorist in the pitch dark, to convincing the pilots to enter a vertical nosedive that would knock the terrorist off his feet. But in the first scenario, total blackness is an impossibility since the Airbus’s automatic emergency lighting systems would engage and cut through the darkness. A nosedive would also be out of the question since, according to Co-Pilot Brendon, the plane is already on the verge of disintegrating into a thousand little pieces (It’s also virtually impossible to override the computer program that would prevent an airliner from nosediving).
“There’s only one possibility for ending this stand-off,” Sam whispers to himself. “I have to attack the attacker. Do it when the entire cabin is illuminated. Then dispose of the bomb.”
Making his way along the starboard aisle from First Class to the forward economy section to the lavatory station, he hides from the terrorist’s view. Only when he’s sure it’s safe does he peak around the lavatory wall. What he observes is both frightening and encouraging. Frightening, because not only does Mary have a bomb strapped to her chest, but the frigid wind is pummeling her face. Already, her skin looks red from wind burn. Encouraging, because at present, Abd al Bari is engaged in deep prayer, his eyes closed.
Sam tries his best to grab Mary’s attention without actually shouting her name. She sees him. That’s when he issues her a hand signal. He’s trying to tell her he is about to make his way to the aircraft’s aft. From there, he will initiate a surprise attack on the terrorist. She nods at him like she gets it. With all forward-facing eyes of the passengers occupying the starboard rows locked on him, Sam presses an extended index finger against his mouth, as if to shush everyone. He then lowers himself down onto his chest and begins speed-crawling his way to the back galley.
Once inside the galley, he nods at the handful of flight attendants standing there, not knowing quite what to do, despite their extensive training in mid-flight emergencies like this one. They know who he is, and they are aware that he’s dead heading the flight. He imagines how grateful they must be that he just happens to be on the flight because without him they would be at the mercy of this madman. Despite the circumstances, Sam can’t help but laugh on the inside.
“Grateful dead heading,” he whispers to himself. “You can’t make this shit up.”
He comes around to the left, or port, side. The terrorist’s back is facing him. Even from the final row of seats, he can feel the cold wind gushing from the gaping hole in the fuselage. He can almost feel Mary’s pain. They’re not flying above the clouds anymore (Hell, they’re lucky to be flying at all at this point), so the forced air isn’t freezing. But it’s cold enough and strong enough to peel the epidermis from her face if she sits there much longer. What’s worse, it might even set off the pressure sensitive bomb.
The terrorist is praying. For Sam, it’s not a good sign. It’s like the son of a bitch has already convinced himself the plane is not flying to Yemen. That it’s incapable of flying to Yemen. That the only possibility now is for him to blow the plane up and send these “infidels” to hell, while he goes straight to heaven to receive his ninety virgins, or whatever the sick bastard believes.
Sam takes a slow step forward and another. He’s so close to the hole that the wind is buffeting him now. Abd al Bari turns suddenly. He spots Sam with wide eyes. He raises the semi-automatic, shoots. The bullet misses Sam but hits the aft wall that separates the cabin from the galley. Bari shoots again, and again, missing Sam every time. But the last bullet catches one of the windows. It blows out, creating a second hole in the plane wall.
The Airbus A330 drops, and rises, and drops again. It rolls left and rolls right. Passengers scream. Sam holds onto the seatbacks on both his flanks to remain upright. But the terrorist loses the gun. He drops onto the row of seats situated in the center of the cabin, drops right into the laps of the horrified passengers who occupy them. That’s Sam’s cue to subdue Abd al Bari.
He jumps on the terrorist, grabs him by both his wrists, heaves them around his lower back. At the same time, Sam plows his knee against the terrorist’s lower spine. The passengers trapped beneath the two fighting men scream. Bari shrieks and rears up quick with his right leg, nailing Sam in the crotch. The pain is so electric Sam releases the terrorist’s wrists and falls back into the aisle. He sees stars, and his midsection feels as though it’s been ripped open with a dull knife. The terrorist turns, slips off the passenger’s laps, raises up his shoe heel, kicks Sam in the face.
Now, Sam is not only in pain, but he’s about to pass out, his eyesight blacking out for split seconds at a time. The terrorist kicks him again, and again. Each time, Sam tries to avoid the kicks, but the pain in his groin is so intense he’s immobilized.
Then, as the plane regains level flight, Sam spots the semi-automatic. It’s somehow slid back out into the aisle. He knows some of the passengers can see the gun too, but they’re too afraid to move. Too petrified.
“Get up, Sam,” Mary insists. Her voice is weak and pain-filled, but Sam can still hear her loud and clear, even over the roar of the wind.
The pain in his mid-section is abating now. Enough for him to move again. Abd al Bari also spots the gun. Sam knows this because he sees the terrorist’s dark eyes shift focus from him to the floor. The terrorist lunges for the gun. But Sam beats him to the punch and thrusts his own arms out for the weapon. The sky marshal manages to grab hold of the gun just a split second before the terrorist drops onto his back, making it impossible for Sam to take a shot. But what he can do is swing the gun barrel over his shoulder. It’s exactly what he does, connecting with the terrorist’s skull.
Sam feels the gun's metal connecting with hard bone. He feels it split the skull. The terrorist rears back, screaming.
“Allah Akbar!” he screams. “Allah Akbar!”
He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out the remote-control device, presses a button and smiles.
“Now, you will all die in the name of Allah.”
Blood is pouring down the terrorist’s face. It’s seeping onto his smiling lips.
Sam takes aim.
“You hateful son of a bitch,” he says.
He shoots.