PART FOUR

 

CQB

 

FRANKFURT, GERMANY:

Ahmad Ajai's shooters filtered away along the exit routes they'd rehearsed for the last three weeks. They each took with them a single suitcase, packed with items carefully gathered by logistical cells, who'd been given clothing sizes and sent out to buy for people they would never see. Ahmad Ajai and Gamal Ayoush watched their people slip until only the two of them remained. Quietly, each with their own thoughts, they organized the safe house and went through each room to ensure that it had been properly sterilized. They changed into plain, good-quality dark suits, with carefully polished shoes. Ayoush packed a carry-on bag, while Ahmad Ajai carried only a slim leather briefcase.

"Well, my friend," Ahmad Ajai said. "Shall we go?"

"Yes," Gamal Ayoush said. His eyes were blazing. "Let us go quickly."

***

One of the privileges Lenny enjoyed because of his work record was his own locker. There weren't enough for each member of the work crew to have his own, so some shared. Only the favored few were given a private locker. Lenny was grateful for his. Each day, he brought in a heavy parcel in the bottom of his canvas carry-all and added it to a pile growing on the bottom of his locker, in the back under some clothes and work boots.

He checked his crew's work schedule. They were assigned the security go-over on an aircraft that had come in the night before and had already been cleaned. He was familiar with this plane and it's route: a Boeing 747-300, Frankfurt to Dulles Airport, Washington DC.

***

HD looked around his crowded hotel room. It was packed: he had all twelve of his team-mates and George Baumgarner as well squeezed in there. Harold felt that he should do a good team briefing, exercise some leadership, since this was probably the last time he'd ever be a team leader. The funny thing was he didn't feel that bad about it. He'd discovered the hard way that it was better to be an Indian than a Chief. He'd be lucky if he still had a job when he got back. He looked at Charley Dey and Don Nelson, who together leaned against the back wall, standing apart like they always did. He felt a flash of envy, of hatred, of self-pity, because while he would never admit it out loud, he knew he'd never have the respect they had, that he didn't measure up.

"Okay, people, listen up," HD said in a voice that sounded, even to him, sure and confident. "We're going home today on your basic milk run. We've got a repositioning flight from Frankfurt to Dulles, a 747-300. There's a schematic circulating there with the seat assignments marked out on it. While we'll be running this like a regular mission leg, there is no threat going out of here to the States, so we can take it a little easier than we might otherwise. I'm going to have Dyer, Ray, Stacy and Joan work the pax at the counter and observe screening, everybody else will spread out and work the terminal. There's been a lot of friendly surveillances running in there for the last two weeks, and nobody's seen anything, but we want to keep our eyes open anyway. Okay? Pretty much business as usual, except easier. Anybody got anything they want to add or got any questions about?"

The crew was silent. George Baumgarner shook his head no when HD looked at him.

"Then let's go," HD said with more enthusiasm than he felt. "Pair up by buddy teams, catch cabs, and we'll rally at the usual place in the terminal -- near the red Mercedes in the lobby."

***

The food service catering manager was furious. Two people called in sick today and only one had a replacement ready: a new woman who'd been on the job only three weeks. Her security check hadn't even come back yet -- it took sixty days for that to be done, during which they weren't supposed to work on the American carriers. But what was he supposed to do? He had meals to prepare and seal for put on board this aircraft, and a 747-300 seated over 300 people, all of whom needed a dinner, a snack, and a breakfast for the flight to the United States. So, swearing, he put her to loading the food carts with the prepared meals and put himself to work cooking in the kitchen. What could she fuck up loading carts?

***

John Bolen, Mad Max, Spider, Rhino and Warren were shooting the falling plates in the ISA operations center's basement shooting range. The metal plates were mounted on a spring loaded arm atop a metal rack. Whoever knocked the plates down the fastest won a dollar a plate as well as all the beer he could drink. Rhino was acing it so far; his average time for five plates, with a draw from concealment, was a near world class 3.2 seconds.

"You want to go down and see the marshal team off?" John asked as he stood to the line, his pistol concealed under his sweatshirt.

"Hell yeah," said Max. "I got to get that little Joan's phone number. I'm gonna use my government Diner's Club and buy me a ticket to visit that gal."

"Shut up, faggot," Rhino said. "We're shooting here." He held up an electronic PACT timer. At the beep, John drew his High Power and cleared the plates. "Not bad, boss," Rhino said. "You might beat a blind man if he wasn't practicing much."

"You get to drive, cockbreath," John said.

***

In Frankfurt's international arrival and departure terminal, not far from the counters where the American carriers have their operations, there is a roped off kiosk where the latest and most expensive Mercedes sedan was always displayed. The most recent one was a brilliant ruby red. Harold liked to use it as a rallying point, since it was an easily recognizable landmark and it was located near a good coffee stand -- an important consideration for the always sleep-deprived marshals. The DOMINANCE RAIN operators used it as a point of reference as well; they calibrated their expensive color video cameras on the brilliant red car while conducting surveillance.

John Bolen and Mad Max stood up on the mezzanine level overlooking the counter area; their back-ups wandered through the crowd below. John watched the first of the cabs arrive and the marshals begin to assemble loosely around the car.

"You know, if I wanted to whack these guys out, I'd plant a device in that car and command detonate it," Max said conversationally. "They too fucking lazy to rotate a rally point once in awhile, or what?"

John shrugged. "You've seen Dey and Nelson operate. If one of them was running this, they'd rotate it. It's just a milk run anyway. They're going home," John said with envy. He shook his head sorrowfully. "Back to Beirut for Johnny B and his merry band of outlaws."

"Look at the tits on that Joan," Max said, distracted. Joan was dressed for First Class, in a sheer white silk blouse, short black skirt and black hose, low heeled pumps. "Where does she hide her gun is what I'd like to know."

"Maybe you'll get a chance to find out," John said.

The DOMINANCE RAIN shooters watched Dyer, Ray, Stacy and Joan move away from the rest of their team and station themselves near the line of passengers forming up in front of the check-in counter. The counter screeners began to set up their little podiums and rope off the area. A few German police officers, MP-5 submachine guns slung at the ready, strolled over to watch. The other marshals checked in with HD, who stood next to the bright red Mercedes, and spread out around the counter area, forming an invisible screen around the passengers. They eyeballed anyone meeting the profile, looked for watchers, and several of them spotted Max and John looking down on them. Joan smiled and waved, and Max waved back.

"I'm gonna have that woman," Max said. "Let's go down."

"Not yet, buddy. Let's just watch for awhile. These guys are tired and their asses are dragging; they're not doing their best work."

Max nodded. That was obvious. The marshals had that look he'd seen on troops when they got right down to the end of a patrol or an operation, with base camp in sight. They just dropped their mindset as though they were already inside. It was a dangerous habit; they weren't safe yet, and a skilled attacker would take advantage of that. While Max had missed Viet Nam, he had been seconded to the SAS in Belfast. Under Lusty Wideman's wing, he had seen first hand the consequences of dropping your guard too soon. He'd been on the reaction patrol that responded when a brick from the Parachute Regiment, led by a very green lieutenant, had gone "admin" a block from their patrol base. They'd been cut to pieces within sight of their barracks and before the horrified eyes of their relief patrol. You never let down till you were safe behind your own lines with people you trusted walking the walls, watching your back.

***

Mary Franken walked by the air marshals when she went to work at the counter. She smiled appreciatively when Donald Gene looked her up and down. He was too blond for her, but she'd heard he was good. He'd worked his way through the girls at the counter over the years, and he was still on good terms with them, so he couldn't be too bad.

Her lover had given her the packages to deliver to his friend with explicit instructions to deliver it only to him. His friend would be on this flight to Dulles, the same one the air marshals were on.

"Well," she thought, "at least he'll be safe on this flight."

Mary situated herself behind the counter at a ticket station. She set out her ticket books and notepads, and logged onto the computer. When she was ready, she flipped the CLOSED sign up and said to HD, "Are you next in line?"

***

Joan was getting good at surveillance. She used her good looks to her advantage, strolling back and forth, appearing to study the women for their clothing and the men for their looks. At twenty-five, she was just discovering how devastating a weapon her young sexuality could be, and she was enjoying it. Her fling with Jon had been amusing during training, and while she still liked him, around men like Don and Charley, Butch and Steve, she saw his boyishness and immaturity. The older men appealed to her more.

Many of the men lining up to check in noticed her. There were a lot of them. This would be a full flight. There were many service families, young men and women with babies, the girls barely Joan's age, if that, the young men muscled and short-haired, in Levi's, t-shirts and baseball caps. There were quite a few Germans taking advantage of the strong deutschemark and the low off-season fares to make a trip to Washington DC.

One man watched her closely. She smiled at him, and slowed down to get a better look. He was young and athletic, middle eastern, well dressed in a dark business suit. He looked away when she slowed down. Probably a religious type or shy, she thought, as she continued working her way down the line. She filed his face away for future reference, even though she would probably miss him in the crowded airplane.

Stacy worked the other end of the counter. The line was forming up. Passengers kicked their bags along the tiled floor between the roped poles up to the wooden lecterns where blazer clad security personnel checked their passports and asked them: Is this your bag? Did you pack it yourself? Does it contain any electronic devices? Has this bag been in your constant control since you packed it? The questions were designed to detect any bombing by proxy candidates, a particularly ruthless innovation of the Islamic extremists, who had several times persuaded an innocent passenger to carry a package that turned out to be a bomb.

Butch and Steve leaned against a wall and watched the line that snaked in and out of the roped poles.

"Stacy," Butch called. "Just say it, Stacy."

Stacy held up her middle finger.

"C'mon, Stacy," Butch pleaded.

Stacy put her hand on her hip, ala Mae West, dropped her voice and said, "Just do me, baby."

Butch and Steve broke into laughter, as did several of the passengers who had watched the exchange. Stacy looked over her shoulder at the passengers and winked, and went on her way. One of the passengers who'd laughed stared at her hips as she walked away. He was Lebanese, from Beirut, like several of the other hijackers, and he was old enough to remember Beirut as a more peaceful place. He'd been a man of leisure then, sometimes, and he'd enjoyed sex with black women. It had been a long time since he had had a woman. He wondered what she would be like.

***

Rhino McGee was working the terminal solo, as he preferred to. Spider was a great partner, though Rhino would never admit it to him, but Rhino had the solitary traits that made him the master sniper he was. Rhino had grown up in a little mountain town near the border of Pennsylvania and Kentucky. His first love was wandering the woods alone, which made him the perfect RECONDO in the 82d Airborne, Ranger Instructor, and then DELTA shooter. There was little difference, in his mind, between working in the woods or working in the city, except for all these civilians uglying up the AO. He looked for the angles of fire, watched the doors, looked for the tells of people not used to carrying concealed guns. This profiling thing the marshals did, now that was a useful skill: look for people with certain characteristics, ask them questions, observe the kinesic response -- that worked. It was tough applying it in a crowd, where you had to go on more subtle non-verbal communications: a tenseness, furtiveness and glancing around, overreaction to stimuli, a gut level intuition that somebody was wrong. Not that it wasn't just as effective as any brain storming intellectual shit; it was just harder to explain to a shooting committee when you whacked the fuck. Rhino laughed at that thought. Several passengers moved out of his way. One old guy looked at him hard for a second, then looked away. Rhino slowed down, then turned away to hide his interest in the older man in the good business suit. He looked into the plate glass of a travel toiletries shop, and saw the man in the reflecting glass watching him. The older man turned away as soon as he noticed Rhino watching him. Rhino moved briskly away, ignoring the man. He found Spider in front of the book stall flipping through a book on astrology.

"Hey," Spider said, without looking up. "You're a Taurus, that's the bull. I'm a Cancer, or a Moon Child, that's the crab."

"Moon Child is right. I got a hinky one over here. You got the laptop?" Rhino was referring to the portable Macintosh Powerbook computer Spider carried in the student's day pack slung over his shoulder. The computer held a digitized database of photographs and fingerprints of known terrorists and terrorist suspects. Combined with a small scanner that plugged into it, it gave a special operations cell the opportunity to make positive identification on terrorists through fingerprints, photographs, or, by hooking up a video camera, live footage. Rhino and Spider had used the system before when they had killed a Red Brigades bomber. Rhino took the dead man's fingerprints, put them into the scanner, and got immediate confirmation from the database. He took a photograph to be downloaded through a small digital camera into the database as well.

"Yep. Never far from it. It's got my thesis on it." The idiosyncratic Spider was completing a Master's in International Relations through Georgetown University's Extension Program.

"Quit dicking me around. I want to check somebody out who's in line."

The two of them went into the crowded open seating area and sat down. Spider powered up the laptop. He went unnoticed in the crowd, where several businessmen worked on similar looking machines.

"Do a sort by age, 35+, male," Rhino said.

Spider's fingers danced on the keyboard. A graduate of the Special Forces Medical Course, he was a fully qualified physician's assistant as well as the team computer expert and hacker. "I've got over a hundred in that category, even in the short database we got going for this, Rhino. Narrow it down."

"40+, male, leader profile," Rhino added on a hunch.

Five names came up in a listing.

"Punch up photos." The disk drive hummed, and the first photo came up on the color screen. "No," Rhino said. "No. No. Wait, who is this one?"

Spider looked up at Rhino with hunter's eyes. "Ahmad Ajai. Is this the one?"

"It sure looks like him. Let's get the boys and go get a closer look."

"Roger that." Spider slammed the lid shut on his laptop and slid it into his day pack. "Let's go."

***

Charley was tired. He was grateful now for the opportunity to be just another gunfighter. He watched HD hustle around, keep track of everybody, pass around tickets, all while trying to look as though he wasn't doing what he was doing. There was the usual bottleneck at the check-in screening podium when someone didn't answer a question properly or when a bag had to be opened. The supervisor was aware of the air marshals watching him, so without pushing the screeners too much, he tried to keep things moving. The supervisor nodded at Charley, who nodded back in sympathy. It was a tough job, tougher than most people realized, doing the passenger interview and screening. The US carriers had copied the technique from the Israelis, who in their enterprising fashion had set up a number of airline security companies to market their expertise. Several of the companies were run by former El Al air marshals -- which meant they fronted for the Mossad.

"Hey," Don said. He pressed a large cup of coffee into Charley's hand. "Here. Walk with me, man. Let's get some blood stirring."

"Thanks, Donnie," Charley said gratefully. He sipped at the hot coffee, and followed his partner through the crowd, careful not to bump into anyone.

"We're really slipping, buddy," Don said conversationally. "I think we might be the only ones working today. Everybody's ass is dragging. I know we got eyes on us, but there's still no excuse for going admin."

Charley shrugged, and then caught himself. He was tired, tired of the whole damn thing. This mission had made him realize just how little he was getting out of this job anymore. "You're right as usual, Donnie. You're right. Let's circulate around and kick a few of these dragging asses."

"Now you're talking," Don said. "That's my Charley boy, you betcha, ahuh, ahuh, that's the way I like it, ahuh, ahuh." He shuffled along like he was on a disco floor.

"You're out of control, Donnie," Charley said, his humor restored. "Completely out of control."

***

Lenny Amirkhas stood out on the airfield and looked down the row of parked planes to the big 747. A baggage handler, a man he'd introduced to the others as his cousin, stood next to him with a suitcase in his hand. The bag was tagged with a bright DCA label, which stood for Dulles International Airport. Lenny nodded to the man and said, "I will meet you later." The other man nodded, put the bag on the back of his baggage cart, and drove away.

Lenny went back into the cleaning crew office where his co-workers lounged around. The supervisor was gone.

"I think we should get up to the plane and do the walk through now. My cousin tells me they are ahead of schedule. Perhaps we can be done earlier, what do you think?" Lenny asked.

"I think getting through early sounds good to me," one of the others said, getting up. "Let's get it done and surprise the boss, eh?"

Lenny lagged behind. "I'll be right there, I want a windbreaker," he called.

"We don't want you breaking any wind!" shouted one, to the amusement of the crew. Lenny laughed obediently, then knelt quickly at his locker and pulled several flat, heavy packages out and stuffed them into a canvas vest he wore beneath his blue coveralls. He jogged after the others to catch up.

***

Harold had all the tickets. He'd put himself in First Class, with Karen and Shirleen. Nelson, Dey and Slice he stuck upstairs in Business, right outside the cockpit door. Stacy, Ray and Dyer went into the lower floor Business, while Butch, Steve and Jon went into coach. He told Shirleen to gather up all the marshals and he went to go find George Baumgarner, who he found leaning against a pillar, smoking a cigarette.

"You ready to go?" Baumgarner said.

"Yeah, I've got the tickets. We setting up in the regular place?"

"No, I've got you in the crew operations area across the hall. Get your people together and we'll go."

HD looked back and saw Shirleen leading the marshals towards them. They all fell in behind George and followed him through a side door and down into the bowels of the airport.

***

Gamal Ayoush watched the marshals go. For him and some of the others, it was their first opportunity to see in the flesh the people they had come to kill. He saw Nelson and Dey and knew them to be formidable. There were some passengers they would have to deal with harshly: some American servicemen, easily identified by their short hair and military bearing. Many were traveling with their families, which gave him an easy lever by which to move them. Ayoush felt the rush of exhilaration he had been holding back; he knew they were going to be successful. The marshals were careless in their fatigue. While they appeared to be profiling the crowd, not once had they been drawn to him. Most of the hijackers were through screening. One had had his bag opened to display a radio with the batteries out. With the right passports and the right answers to the questions, they passed easily through the first part of the multi-layered screening process.

Things were going well.

Ayoush looked back in line for Ahmad Ajai, who stared back at him impassively, then broke eye contact. Ayoush turned and looked forward at the counter, where Mary Franken was working her way through a pile of computer print-out and manifests.

***

"Have you seen him?" Spider snapped at Rhino. "Where the fuck is he?"

The two men hurried through the crowd, looking for John Bolen up on his perch on the mezzanine.

"Call him on the fucking cellular," Rhino said.

Spider stopped, pulled a cellular phone out of his bag, and punched a speed dial number. The phone buzzed and John answered.

"Hello?"

"Boss, this is Spider. We have a possible sighting, meet to confirm at RP 1."

"Roger, out," came the terse reply, and then a dial tone.

RP 1 was a set of chairs in front of the EL Al counter, near a video monitor displaying directions and maps of the terminal. A pre-designated Rally Point, it gave an easily identifiable location to move to or from during a surveillance. John and Max were already there, leaving Warren on overwatch up on the mezzanine.

"What have you got?" John said.

"I think this guy Ahmad Ajai is in line for the marshal flight," Rhino said. "He sure looks like the database photo, and he feels funny."

"Where is he in line?" John said.

"Come with me. The rest of you hang back," Rhino said.

John followed Rhino around the corner where the Delta ticket counters were. They strolled along like other passengers, seemingly at ease.

"There, at the counter right now," Rhino said.

John saw only the back of the man's head. He was dressed in a good black suit and carried a briefcase. The man's checked bag was already tagged and the check-in agent lifted it onto the conveyor belt. John angled through the crowd till he could get a good look at the man's face. The man was clean shaven and wearing plain glasses. He certainly looked like the photos, but there is a lot of similarity between middle eastern men in their forties -- especially from a distance.

"I'm not sure. Let's check that photo again. You keep an eye on him. It looks as though he's about to move out." John said. He hurried back to where Spider and Max stood by. "Max, go back up Rhino. Spider, crank up that picture for me again."

Spider pulled out the laptop, opened the lid, and hit a button to wake the machine. Nothing happened.

"What the fuck?" Spider swore. He stabbed the keyboard several times, then hit the power button. The screen remained dark. He pushed the restart button but the screen still remained dark. "The battery must be dead," he said, pulling his pack off. "Let me get the damn adapter out."

"Don't you got a back up battery?" John snapped.

"Yeah, I got one, hold on, where is the goddamn power adapter!" Spider hissed in frustration. He pulled out a power adapter and cord. "Now I got to find a plug," he muttered, looking around.

"You need a European prong adapter, Spider!" John said. "You're not going to plug anything in without that."

Spider looked at the American style plug dangling from his power cord. "I'll go get one at the travel store," he muttered, his face flushed red. "I'm sorry, boss. Christ I'm sorry.

"Just get it done!" John said. He swore as Spider took off for the travel store. It was these little things that fucked up the best operations -- a glitch in a computer battery locking up the keyboard, a forgotten power adapter. Max came to the corner and signaled to him, and John sighed in acceptance of the fact that everything was going to shit.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Target's moving," Max said tersely. "Rhino's on him. Can you get George up here to find out where the guy is sitting?"

"I'll do it myself," John said. "Find Spider and get that damn computer back up. We need to look at the picture to be sure." John strode directly to the counter and asked the ticket agent, "That man who just checked in? The older gentleman with the dark suit, what was his name?"

Mary Franken looked at John suspiciously. "Who are you, sir?"

"I work with George Baumgarner, at the embassy."

"Could I see some ID?"

"Sure," John pulled out his Department of Defense ID, which identified the bearer as a special security consultant for the Department of Defense.

"And you work with George?" Mary asked.

"Yes, please, it's important that I know that man's name." John said.

"Abraham Rosenbaum," Mary Franken said reluctantly. "Seat 11B, in business. Traveling on an Israeli passport."

"Israeli?" John said.

***

Federal Air Marshal Unit 10 (Augmented) slouched in a storage room converted to office space in the crew operations center. The marshals showed every bit of their exhaustion after almost six weeks of daily tension and grueling travel. It showed in their bonelessness when they slumped into the available chairs, the glazed eyes, the pale complexions, the silence where the normal kibitzing would be on a routine flight going home.

They were beat and they had an eight hour flight ahead of them.

Harold didn't even try to motivate them. He just sat and stared into a bottle of mineral water he had gotten from the machine in the hall way. The rest of the marshals ignored him. George Baumgarner shook his head and said to Donald Gene and Charley, "You guys want to step outside for a smoke?"

"Sure," Don said. "Anything's better than sitting around in this fucking funeral parlor. Hey people!" he shouted. "We're going home! Wake up!"

No one said anything.

The three men stepped outside into the hall and then down the corridor to a door that opened out onto the tarmac. George lit up his and Don's cigarettes.

"That's a sorry looking bunch in there," George observed.

"It's a good thing we're getting out of here now," Charley said.

"No shit," George said. His pocket cellular phone buzzed. He pulled out the Motorola flip phone and held it to his ear. "Hello?" George listened for a few minutes, then snapped it shut. "I got to go upstairs. I'll be back."

"What's up?" Don asked.

"It's John Bolen. They got a suspicious pax. Nothing definite. I'll check it out and let you know what I find out." George bent his angular frame forward and walked off.

"Simply delightful," Donald Gene said.

"I just want to get the fuck out of here," Charley said bitterly.

***

"There's a few stragglers, but right now we've got about 90% of the pax checked in. Most of them are through screening and in the departure area or duty free," the ticketing supervisor told George. "It's going to be heavy today. Lots of people taking advantage of the promotion prices to the states."

"Where's the woman who checked this guy in?" George said, glancing at John Bolen.

The supervisor looked over his shoulder at the counter. "Mary? She's probably headed down to the gate, or else taking a break. She came in on her own today, swapped some time with one of the other girls."

George thought for a minute, then said to John, "Your guy sure?"

"No," John said. "It wasn't a good look, and the picture we have is an enhancement of another one. The quality's not great."

"Let's find her and have her take a look. While we're doing that I'll ask the El Al station manager to do a quick run on the guy's passport number," George said. "Larry?" he said to the ticketing supervisor. "See if you can find this Mary Franken for me, will you?"

"Sure, George," Larry said.

"That's a good idea," John said. "It's probably nothing, but it won't hurt to be sure."

"Yeah, the El Al guys are okay...for a bunch of murdering Mossad guys."

"They can keep murdering those fucks all they want, and I'll keep buying them drinks," John said.

"Amen," George said.

***

At the departure gate, the over three hundred passengers for Flight 107 to Washington-Dulles filled every available seat and spilled over into the next waiting area and the corridors between. Ahmad Ajai and his fourteen hijackers were spread out, invisible to the other passengers, yet connected to each other like the knots in a large, deadly net. While they were too well trained to constantly look at each other, or bunch up together, their isolation time together had established an eerie sort of rapport, common among people who lived and worked in close contact under stress. They'd often shift in their seats at the same time, stand up, glance away from each other. It would be clear to on-lookers that there was something about them, if they were all together, but spread out in the crowd, they were just faces: faces buried in books and magazines, people watching, aimlessly wandering, the faces of people everywhere waiting for a plane, minds everywhere else, maybe some of them wondering and apprehensive about the flight to come, others looking forward to it, some uncaring, some haunted by dark doubts, others thinking of blood, others wondering what movie was going to be shown.

Faces in the crowd: an attractive, muscular young woman, a student by the looks of her in her jeans, sweatshirt and book bag over one shoulder; if you were to dress her in a chic black dress and hose, she would look very much like a woman who flew in First Class to Istanbul with Harold and Dyer; an intense looking student who shifted in his seat and, after looking around, tugged at something beneath his shirt; two men, one middle aged, the other older, well dressed in business suits, speaking to each other for a moment and then going their separate ways; another man standing alone, watching a young American couple's children playing unconcerned at the feet of the parents, the man thinking of his own children, long dead; a man and a woman, a prosperous young couple traveling together, but nervous and tense with each other -- perhaps they had been fighting, and this vacation was a chance for them to make up with each other; and so it went, the faces in the crowd, the faces in the crowd, the happy and the sad, the players and the played, the murderers and the victims to come.

***

"Passenger Abraham Rosenbaum, Passenger Rosenbaum, please come to the ticket podium please."

Ahmad Ajai looked up from his magazine. He pushed himself out of his seat and walked briskly to the ticket podium.

"Hello, Mr. Rosenbaum. I have something here for you," Mary Franken said. She handed him a duty-free bag. Several presentation boxes of Johnny Walker whiskey protruded from the top of the heavy bag. "I believe you overlooked this," she said, smiling nervously. "I know my friend would want you to have this."

"Thank you, young lady," Ahmad Ajai said with great courtesy. "I thank you, and others would thank you if they could."

Mary pressed her hands together like a proud schoolgirl. "I'm just glad to help."

Ahmad Ajai nodded and went back to his seat.

"Who was that, Mary?" one of the other ticket agents asked.

"A friend of mine," Mary said off handedly. "I'll see you later."

"Bye."

The counter phone rang and the ticket agent picked it up. "Hello?" she said. "No, Mary just left, I think she's on a break. No, I don't know where she went, you might try down in the lunchroom or the employee cafeteria. If I see her, I'll tell her you're looking for her, Larry. Okay. Bye." She hung up the phone. Mary was sure popular today.

***

"Crew bus is here," Don announced. "Let's get gone. If that's all right with you, Harold," he added sarcastically.

HD ignored him and brushed past him to get to the bus. Everyone else filed along behind.

"This is a sorry ass bunch," Stacy said on her way out the door. "May as well ride in the goddamn baggage compartment for all the good we're going to do."

***

Eli Cohen was short and stocky and tan, with brown hair poorly cut and an irreverent grin. He was supposedly the security director for the El Al Airlines station, but the players knew him as a particularly ruthless 'katsa' or Israeli intelligence officer. Cohen had started in the business with the General Staff Command's Sayaret Maktal commandos. He went from there to the Mossad training course, where after graduating at the top of the class he had been assigned to the 'kidon' or bayonet units. The kidon represented the long arm of Israeli justice; they were the "wet workers", the state sponsored assassination teams who struck out at the enemies of Israel and the murderers of Jews. After a long and very wet career, he was assigned as the security director for El Al's Frankfurt station, where under thin cover he coordinated the Mossad paramilitary operations in Europe. He was a fierce whiskey drinker, a prodigious lover of women, a formidable poker player and absolutely deadly at hand to hand combat.

John Bolen liked him just fine.

"Of course we poor Israelis will be glad to lend the last remaining superpower what feeble assistance we can," Cohen said, grinning at George Baumgarner. "We know that America would never stoop to spying on her loyal ally in the Middle East and tap her sovereign internal files so that she might check her own goddamn passport files. What is this, George, you have no telephone working? What awful trade craft you practice!"

Cohen lounged with his feet up on his desk in his disorganized office. His beautiful secretary sat outside the door, smiling in at him over her cup of coffee. Cohen was notorious for his 'nooners', which he took all over the airport. He had been discovered with his secretary several times: in offices, lounges, once on a pile of unclaimed baggage. Bolen grinned at him, having heard many stories of the man.

"And you, Mr. John Bolen of ISA, you can't check out a poor Israeli passport without having to compromise your operational security? Tsk, tsk, I thought better of the man who tended to that nasty business with the Red Brigades!" Cohen grinned even larger as he dropped that classified tidbit.

John recovered quickly. "I heard you were low on Johnny Walker, Eli, and I thought I'd give you the opportunity to earn some in a honorable fashion instead of stealing it off the flight attendants."

"Now, you show your stuff, Mr. Bolen. You have potential! My compliments to Mr. Loveless on the selection of his protégés! Give me this name and passport number, and I will see what I can do for you!" Cohen dropped his feet to the floor so hard that his secretary peered in.

"Is everything all right, Eli?" she asked sweetly.

"It's fine, little dove. It's fine. Go, make yourself beautiful for me."

"You don't know Donald Gene Nelson by any chance, do you?" John asked.

"I know the man well. He stole my first secretary from me and I have never forgiven him."

"That's Donald Gene."

"Let's see, Abraham Rosenbaum, that's a good Jewish name," Cohen mused. He pulled the keyboard of his desktop computer to him, typed in a password at the prompt, then entered the name and the passport number into the computer. "This should take a moment only," he said. He tapped his fingers, then sat up right. "Are you sure of this number?" he said tersely.

"Yeah, that's what she got off him. Why?" George asked.

Cohen ignored him, punched in a different sequence, and watched as a photograph assembled itself on his monitor. He spun the monitor around to face George and John. "This look anything like your player?" he said.

The photograph was of a much older man than had been described, balding, with pure white hair.

"Not what we got," John said.

"I'd be surprised if it was," Cohen said. He opened a drawer and pulled out a Browning High Power pistol. "This concerns the State of Israel, now."

"What are you talking about?" John said.

Cohen stood up and stuffed the High Power into the front of his pants and pulled his shirt over it. "Rosenbaum's been dead for five years, victim of a bombing in Tel Aviv. So's his passport."

***

"There is no threat to this flight," Harold said to the assembled cabin and flight crew in the first class section. "This is just a routine repositioning flight for us. As you may already know, we have been working here, some of us, for the last six weeks. We're going home now. Our replacement team is on it's way over. There's nothing to worry about. Most of you have flown with us before, so you know the drill: treat us just like any other passengers. You can offer us liquor but we'll refuse; don't block us in with the meal carts; if you see anything going on you feel we should know about, please find one of us and let us know. I'll be up in first class, and there will be several marshals upstairs outside the cockpit door. Feel free to speak to any of us."

"You sure you're going to be awake? You look like ten miles of rough road," drawled one of the flight attendants in a honey-thick Georgian accent.

"Yes," Harold said snappishly. "I'll be awake. You don't need to worry about that."

Don winked at the buxom southerner. "If I fall asleep, I want you to wake me up, honey child."

She grinned and licked her lips. "You're old enough to be my daddy, Mr. Air Marshal."

"Girl, have some self-respect. The way that boy gets around, he might be your daddy," Stacy said. "Let's get this airplane going! Stacy needs to get home!"

***

Lenny Amirkahs looked up at the massive 747. From a distance it was easy to overlook how huge the plane was; when you stood beneath one and saw the massive bulk of it, it seemed a miracle that it could lift into the sky. He and the rest of his crew had already swept quickly through the plane, double checking for cleaning and doing the redundant security sweep required by the special security measures. He concealed the packages he brought on board with him under the seats on the list he'd been given. They were carefully tucked away behind the life jackets in the pockets underneath the seats. He had seen his "cousin" load the suitcase onto the baggage belt, and had seen the suitcase go into the belly of the aircraft. His job was done.

The rest of the crew joked as they straggled along the tarmac back towards the break room.

"A good thing we did that check early," one of the cleaners said. "They have those damn US air marshals on board. They always check for security more on those flights."

"Really?" Lenny said.

***

"We're short meals again," Kirsten snapped. She was the lead flight attendant, a short intense brunette from Cleveland, Ohio.

"They're coming," one of the flight attendants said. "Here's the truck now."

"Someday they'll have everything set up when we get on board, and I won't know what the hell to do," Kirsten said. She watched the catering truck back up beneath the right forward door. The truck's extension bed rose up on lifters level to the door. She popped open the galley door and said to the caterers, "It's about time!"

A young woman pushed a meal cart off the truck-bed and into the door. The cart clipped Kirsten's leg. "Hey, watch it!" Kirsten snapped. "Don't you know what you're doing?"

"I am sorry," the woman said. "I'm new today, just filling in."

"Well, watch it," Kirsten said. "Here let me get that." She began steering the cart into the slot it belonged to in the galley.

"I need the toilet," the woman said.

"Oh for Christ's sake!" Kirsten said. "Around the corner." The woman caterer brushed by her. "She's probably never seen an airplane lav before," she said to the flight attendant helping her. "C'mon, let's get this loaded."

Inside the lavatory, the woman knelt and opened up the cabinet where the trash bin sat. She pulled out the trash bin, and in the small nook behind it, set two small packages she'd concealed in her pants. She replaced the bin, flushed the toilet, and walked out.

"Very nice," she said.

"If you're done touring, maybe you can take these carts out. Think you can handle that?" Kirsten said.

The woman pushed the carts out onto the gantry, and the lift descended into the truck bed.

"We're getting a real poor start," Kirsten said. "I'll be ready for this flight to be over."

***

"So he may be on the plane already?" Cohen said.

"We've got passengers loading right now. We can go on board and take him off. I'll have to get the Polizei up there right now," George said.

"Why bother?" Cohen said. "We are three, we can get an air carrier representative to go with us, say that there is a question about his ticket, take him off...then we can get the Polizei involved if we need to."

"Roger that," John said. He waved for his shooters to fall in on him.

"This is not fucking Beirut, this is Frankfurt, and we're not crashing onboard with a bunch of gunfighters to take this guy off the plane. I'll call the Polizei to meet us at the gate." George pulled out his cellular phone and hit a speed dial. "Dieter, this is George. Get a couple of Polizei to meet us at Gate 52C. Right." He closed the phone and hurried. "They're going to push back in a minute. Come this way," he said, ducking through a side door. "We can get around the screening checkpoint this way."

"Ah, this is just like the old days," Eli Cohen said, hurrying behind. "So, John Bolen, do you play poker?"

***

Karen worked the door by herself. Harold was supposed to back her up, but he'd already sat down, kicked off his shoes and had the flight attendant bring him a glass of orange juice. Dyer Shaw sneered at her from his seat in Business. Ray Rydell, who sat across the aisle, stood up, shaking his head in disgust. He brushed past Karen and said, "I've got your back, Karen." She nodded gratefully. Ray stepped through the galley and to the far side of the aircraft and leaned against the bulkhead where he could watch the passengers enter. Karen was more tired than she could remember ever being in her life. The fatigue of a marshal mission was a cumulative one; the long hours, the stress of traveling and maintaining the edge, disrupted sleep patterns, the interpersonal tensions. She took a deep breath and held it for a few heartbeats to clear her head.

***

Ahmad Ajai walked down the aisle in coach, handing a few select passengers each a presentation carton of Johnny Walker.

"Hey, if you're giving those away..." said a young soldier, grinning up from his coach seat.

"I'm sorry," Ahmad Ajai said, smiling. "I have only enough for my friends."

He returned to his Business seat and set the carry-on bag with its single remaining Johnny Walker bottle beneath the seat in front of him. He fastened his seatbelt loosely around him. The other passengers were doing likewise, settling in comfortably, putting away bags. The flight attendants moved from seat to seat checking seatbelts and closing overhead compartments. The front passenger loading door was still open; a passenger service representative stood beside it with a long, curling sheaf of computer printout, the passenger manifest, in her hand. The Business Section was full. Ajai looked up at a disturbance in the passenger door, and saw George Baumgarner, the airport security liaison, two men he didn't know, and two German Polizei. Ahmad Ajai stiffened, then forced himself to relax. He had prepared for this contingency. The men came down the aisle towards him. Several of his hijackers shifted in their seats, and he prayed with all his might that they would stick to the discipline he had instilled in them for just this scenario.

One of the men, a tough looking young American in a leather jacket, was on the far aisle across from him, while Baumgarner and the other man, led by the Polizei, came up the aisle directly to him.

"Excuse me, Mr. Rosenbaum?" Baumgarner said to Ahmad Ajai. "There's a problem with your ticket, I'm going to have to ask you to come with me."

"Certainly," Ahmad Ajai said calmly. "Is there a need for the police?"

"No, it's just procedure, Mr. Rosenbaum," George said. "Please come with me. Is this your bag?" he asked, pulling down the slim briefcase.

"Yes," said Ahmad Ajai.

The other man reached down and took the duty-free bag and peered in.

"You have good taste in whiskey," Eli Cohen said, noting the tension in the man when he heard the Israeli accent.

The armed men moved in around Ahmad Ajai and hustled him off the aircraft.

"We already got his bag pulled," George said to the lead flight attendant. "Tell the captain we're sorry for the delay, and he can push back now." George brushed by Karen with a wink, and stopped for a moment to speak to Harold, who had gotten up when he heard George behind him.

"We've got somebody with a bad passport," George said. "No positive ID yet, but it might be one of the players who've been working you guys. If we get something hot, we'll radio it to the pilot and have him relay it to you. You do your job, you hear me, Harold?"

"You don't have to tell me that, Baumgarner," Harold said, his voice full of resentment. "We've got things covered."

"Then get gone," George said. He turned away and followed the others off the aircraft.

"You don't want to double check the pax, maybe pull the bags?" Eli Cohen asked.

"No need, we've had special measures on. Everybody went through screening. That plane is as good to go as we can make it."

"I'm glad you are so confident," Cohen said. He patted Ahmad Ajai on the shoulder, feeling the tension in the man. "So, Mr. Rosenbaum, where in Tel Aviv do you live?"

"Actually, I live in Haifa."

Cohen laughed merrily. "Oh, silly me. I must have gotten that confused."

***

Gamal Ayoush watched with barely concealed rage as Ahmad Ajai was taken off the airplane. Ajai had warned him of this. Ajai was the only one known to the Western intelligence services, and the possibility existed that he might be identified by someone. So now Ayoush was in charge. Several of his fighters nodded in his direction. He broke eye contact with them and stared straight ahead. He'd have to pay careful attention now. Once the plane was in the air he would make sure there was no turning back. Ahmad Ajai could hold out; the Americans and the Germans would not torture him. It would take them hours to determine who he actually was, if in fact they could. That would be enough time.

***

Kirsten looked up as a handsome Arab man in his thirties poked his head into the galley.

"You'll have to return to your seat, sir. We're about to push back," she said.

"Sure," the man said with a friendly smile. He held out the picture ID of a captain with Saudi Royal Airlines. "I'd like to pay my respects to the captain. I fly 747s too."

"I'm sure that after take-off the captain will be glad to speak to you, sir. But I'll have to ask you to return to your seat. We're running a little late, and as you know, that departure time is important." Kirsten smiled sweetly.

"Of course. Please let the captain know that I'll come by to pay my respects once we're airborne and at our cruising altitude. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Kirsten said. After he had gone, she said to the other flight attendant, "He was nice. Not your normal sky-god captain."

"Not his airplane," the other said. "He's probably just as big an egotistic prick as any other on his own plane."

The women laughed.

The pilot returned to his seat in First Class next to HD. He nodded to HD, who had his earphones for his Walkman plugged in. The country music he had playing was loud enough for the pilot to hear. The pilot was in a good position. He and the men behind him would seize the First Class section at the base of the stairs that led up to the cockpit and the Business Section. He had flown Air Iran 747 cargo planes before -- they were similar to the C-130s he'd flown for the Iranian Air Force.

He stretched out his legs and made sure his seat belt was fastened. He prayed silently not to give himself away, and mentally rehearsed the movements he needed to kill this air marshal beside him.

***

Upstairs Don and Charley and Joan settled into the Business Class seats right outside the cockpit. There were sixteen seats up stairs: four rows of two seats on each side of the aisle, a small galley, a lavatory right outside the cockpit door and the cockpit itself. The stair well from below wound around and came up into the aisle across from the small galley. Don sat in the front most seat on the left side, where he watched the stairs and the cockpit door. Charley sat across the aisle and one seat back of him, Joan on the same side as Don, all the way in the rear, her back against the wall. They all had passengers seated around them. There were five empty seats.

The flight attendant checked everyone's seat belts. She caught herself as the plane lurched, then began to roll smoothly away with a ponderous grace. The plane pushed back from the gate and then taxied directly to the runway. The six terrorists upstairs peered out the small windows at the runway passing beneath them.

***

In First Class four terrorists tried to get comfortable in their seats. HD was engrossed in Waylon Jennings's latest tunes, oblivious to everything else around him. Karen was tense and sick from cumulative fatigue. The slow, steady acceleration down the runway pressed her gently back into her seat. She felt the lift in her stomach that meant wheels up. She looked past the man sitting beside her out the window. The man, dark-complected with a heavy five o'clock shadow, seemed distracted.

"This plane sure is quiet on take off, isn't it?" Karen said to make conversation.

The man looked at her and shrugged. He turned away and stared out the window.

***

The Polizei interrogation room was crowded with George Baumgarner, John Bolen, Eli Cohen, the Delta station manager and a full contingent of German BND plainclothes officers from the counter-terrorism unit. The man they called Mr. Rosenbaum sat quietly at the table in the center of the room, his hands crossed, his feet flat on the floor.

"There must be a mistake," Ahmad Ajai said in a reasonable voice. "Some kind of mix-up with the record. Obviously I am not dead."

"Not yet. But the day is young," Eli Cohen said coldly. "The Abraham Rosenbaum whose passport you carry, cleverly altered, by the way, has been dead since a cowardly fuck of a bomber killed him at a bus stop in Tel Aviv. Your photograph was inserted into the passport by someone who is very good indeed at that sort of work. That's not cheap or easy to come by. So why don't you save yourself grief? Surely there is a simple explanation, yes?"

"How long for the prints?" George asked.

The BND officer in charge, Gunther Dieckschau, growled in his gravely voice, "Soon, George."

John Bolen said, "We had them couriered down to the embassy. The Bureau liaison there is sending them electronically to DC." He didn't mention that a matching set was going to the CIA Counter-Terrorist Unit, who maintained their own off-line database of fingerprints. John and his shooters had added fingerprints to that data base: off dead terrorists for cross reference to open incidents as well as off suspects in operations still running.

"Not long for us," Eli said.

Ahmad Ajai stared at the table in front of him and smiled calmly, a way he felt not at all. He knew he was done, but he still hoped for the success of his operation. The plane was in the air now, and things would begin to pick up momentum the way a stone gathers speed on its long fall from the mountain to the valley below.

"May I have a cup of coffee?" Ahmad Ajai asked politely.

***

ON BOARD DELTA FLIGHT #107, FRANKFURT TO DULLES:

The fourteen remaining hijackers ran through their mental checklists. They checked their identical CASIO plastic watches, coordinated with a time hack and an alarm set to alert them at the proper time. On the screens that dropped from the bulkheads a movie told them of the aircraft safety features.

The air marshals watched the safety movie as they had time and time again. The more conscientious marshals checked out the passengers in their assigned sectors. Stacy looked forward from her seat in the front of Coach to where Shirleen was sitting in the rear of Business. Shirleen looked back, caught her eye and winked. Young Ray worked several seats ahead of Shirleen. Stacy could just see the back of his head as he scanned his assigned seats.

"What a job," Stacy thought. "I got to get into a different line of work." She pulled out a copy of Elle from her carry-on and flipped through the pages.

Two rows behind her, the man from Beirut watched her, as he had watched her do her Mae West routine in the terminal. His elbow pressed the length of his body-heat warmed plastic knife tight against his rib cage.

***

FRANKFURT, GERMANY:

"I think we have met someplace before. What do you think?" Eli Cohen asked Ahmad Ajai. "Don't we seem familiar to one another?"

"I don't believe so," Ahmad Ajai said.

"I think I may have fucked your mother," Eli said.

Gunther the BND man stepped forward hastily and said, "Traveling on a false passport is an offense in the Republic of Germany, sir. You would be advised to cooperate with us."

"There has been a mistake, as I have said so many times before," Ajai said.

"Do we have anything back yet?" John said sharply.

Cohen looked at him and smiled.

"Nothing yet," George said.

***

ON BOARD DELTA FLIGHT #107, FRANKFURT TO DULLES:

The seat belt sign was off. Over the intercom the captain informed the passengers that while it was safe to move about the cabin, it was recommended that they remain in their seats with their seatbelts fastened. There was the collective relaxation that comes on a plane after take-off and then the usual rush for the lavatories. Some people rummaged in their carry-on bags, some tended to crying children. Others slid their hands under their seats, into the slot where the life vest was stored, and felt for a flat package hidden behind the life vest. Others moved quickly, rudely so, to the lavatories, where they locked the door, knelt and removed the trash bin, and took out the package concealed there. Those passengers would only occupy the lavatory long enough to inventory the contents of their packages: a Makarov 9mm pistol, three magazines with 8 rounds each, a bundle of plastic flexicuffs, a Soviet fragmentation grenade. Those weapons were carefully concealed about their persons. The grenades were cautiously buried in a carry on bag, a toilet kit, or a purse.

The terrorists who'd received a bottle of Johnny Walker from Ahmad Ajai made their way, one at a time, to a lavatory where they opened the presentation carton, took out the bottle, and unscrewed the false bottom. Carefully packed inside were wire, blasting caps, and small cubes of plastic explosive. The bottles themselves were full of a dense liquid explosive, whose amber color was hidden by the glass. Picatinny Liquid Explosive, originally developed by the US Army Ordnance Corps at the Picatinny Arsenal for use in bangalore torpedoes to clear mine fields, made an excellent booster charge for high explosives. Combined with a kicker charge of Semtex or some other high order explosive, the Picatinny Liquid Explosive made a massive explosion. The North Korean Special Forces had trained the bombers of HizbAllah on that particular combination, which worked well on aircraft. The kicker charge could be hidden inside of a small radio, with a detonator and a small charge of plastic explosive, the radio inside of a carry-on next to a sealed bottle of what appeared to be liquor, but was actually liquid explosive. Such a combination had taken a Korean Air Liner 767 completely apart in mid-air between Tokyo and Seoul, in a bombing operation carefully orchestrated by the NKSF. With appropriate wiring through the aircraft electrical system into the call buttons at each seat that activated a switch in the galleys, explosives could be wired in train throughout the aircraft and be detonated by pushing a call button. The charges were deadly devices designed to kill the hostage rescue teams that would have to come through the doors in any rescue attempt.

Ahmad Ajai had planned for that contingency as well.

The armed hijackers returned to their seats. They took advantage of the opportunity to locate the known and suspected air marshals in each of the sectors. There were some passengers that might pose difficulties: soldiers, young athletic men, panicked mothers. The techniques for dealing with them were simple and familiar to all of the HizbAllah team: immediate, ruthless violence to cow and terrify them. Move the passengers into a position where they can be controlled, like cattle in a pen, and select some for random slaughter to maintain the terror.

There was no shortage of bodies. They had over 300.

***

"I wish these people would just stay in their seats," Kirsten muttered as she loaded her meal cart.

"Never happen, Kirsten," the other flight attendant said.

To a flight attendant, the perfect passenger was one that stayed in his seat, never complained, never pushed the call button, never said a word, and thanked the flight crew when they filed obediently off the plane. They were hustling to get the dinner meal service out, which took about forty minutes to get everyone served. Then they could start the movie, shut down the lights, and enjoy a little peace and quiet until it was time to wake the passengers up for breakfast.

"What's the movie?" the other flight attendant asked.

"I'm putting in Airplane," Kirsten said. "Let them suffer through that."

"Oh, Jesus, Kirsten," the other said in disgust.

Kirsten laughed nastily. "If Kirsten has to suffer, everybody suffers."

***

In their fourteen weeks of training, air marshals are taught the psychology of hijackers and what was known of past hijacking operations, all with the intention of enabling them to determine when an attack was most likely to occur. Like most tactical training, this method relies on detailed case studies of what has gone before to determine what might come about next. The problem with relying on a study of past operations is that it isn't always the best way to teach creative problem solving. The formula goes something like this: In the past x happened, and in hindsight, y is the best counter, and in the instances where y was applied, z was the outcome. For instance, most hijackers acted shortly after take off. The reason for this was that the hijackers were young and inexperienced men under the influence of adrenaline and often drugs, who had neither the training nor the self-discipline to wait longer. They were taking smaller, single aisle planes with a limited fuel supply on relatively short routes, so the earlier they took the plane, the more fuel they had for maneuvering and flight time. So historically the most dangerous time was during and immediately after take-off.

That changed when a Syrian doctor and a HizbAllah interrogator took four months with Bucknell Leigh. In the Kuwaiti hijacking, the hijackers waited till after the meal was served before they moved; instead of standing up and announcing themselves, as the marshals were trained to believe and were trained to deal with, they moved quietly and calmly into positions of control and only announced themselves when they were already holding the critical points of the aircraft. The violence began when the air marshals were assassinated in their seats and the hijackers killed several hostages, among them a child, to demonstrate their control and to cow the passengers into compliance.

There are many advantages to waiting, as any master of the ambush will tell you. The longer the time in which nothing happens, the less the mind of the target is willing to accept that something is going to happen. Add a meal, darkness and the cumulative fatigue of flying -- especially pronounced in this team of air marshals, as the desired outcome of a carefully planned and brilliantly executed deception plan -- and the advantages are heavily weighted on the side of the attacker.

Gamal Ayoush reminded himself of this over and over. Despite his long training and practice, and the mild sedative he'd taken upon boarding, he still sweated and his heart pounded with adrenaline. He forced his mind into the rhythmic, calming ritual of prayer, his breath falling into a measured cadence with the litany from the Koran he recited silently. He stood for a walk, his partially eaten meal pushed aside. He squeezed by the flight attendant without a word, pressing close to the seats to avoid brushing the pistol buried in the front of his jockey shorts against the woman. He took deep breaths as he walked to the rear of the business section and looked out over the sea of faces in the back of the 747. It truly was impressive just how many people were packed into this plane, seats eight across in the center, three or four on either side of the aisle, stretching back almost the length of a soccer field. He picked out faces: two of his team members, staring back at him; a young mother, breast-feeding; two young soldiers, one in a cowboy hat, playing cards on a seat back meal tray set down between them; a fat old woman in a black dress talking with her bone thin husband. Ayoush looked away; this was hard for him. Despite their long training for this mission, it was difficult to maintain the composure and the distance necessary to do what needed to be done here. He must not fail, though. Even now Ahmad Ajai may be tortured, forced to tell what he knew of the operation, and if that information went to the pilot, they would have to launch prematurely. Timing was critical. They wanted to be close to that point on the pilot's course where he had just enough fuel to turn back or to go forward before they launched. He checked his plastic CASIO watch. Soon, he thought. Soon.

***

Steve Paulson stayed switched on. The flight attendants gave him a wide berth. His intensity frightened them. He sat squarely in his seat, his feet planted on the floor, back straight, his head making a metronome like sweep of his zone, watching the passengers who came down the aisle towards him, turning in anticipation as people came up from behind him. He made his patrol at thirty minute intervals, sometimes more often, depending on how stiff he got from sitting. As a senior marshal, he could have protested being seated in the back of coach, but he didn't mind -- this was where the action was. Most hijackings originated in the coach section, close to a lavatory, which provided the privacy necessary to prepare weapons or to recover them. Butch wasn't quite as content. This trip had taken a lot out of him. He was wedged in beside a family with three kids on his left. Across the aisle an enormously fat man took up both of the seats, and was constantly up and down, back and forth to the lavatory. I'm too old for this shit should be the motto for this trip, Butch thought ruefully. He twisted in his seat and tried to get some blood back into his legs. He looked at young Jon, who was having a hard time staying awake: his head was bobbing and jerking like a punch drunk fighter's.

Three rows in front of Jon, a man sat twisted sideways in his seat. The seat next to him was vacant, which let him stretch his legs out and prop his back against the bulkhead. The hijacker studied the three air marshals carefully, calculating the necessary angles of fire to engage them from where he sat in support of his partner on the other side of the aircraft.

"Chicken or beef?" the flight attendant asked, as she locked the wheels on her meal cart.

"Nothing for me, thank you," the terrorist said politely. He prided himself on his English; he'd studied engineering in the United States during the Seventies, one of the wave of intelligence officers and military personnel the Iranian government had sent over to train in the best schools in America.

"Got any chicken left?" Jon said. The prospect of food woke him up.

"Sure do," the flight attendant said, handing him a tray. She thought he was cute, even though he was very young. The marshals were getting younger and younger and that made her nervous. She had a friend who'd been a flight attendant on the TWA 847 hijacking. The stories her friend told her about that made her grateful for the marshals on board. At the same time she was skeptical about some of these young kids. That girl up in first class, for instance -- she was younger than some of the flight attendants she'd trained in the last year, and most of those girls didn't have sense enough to come in out of the rain, much less deal with a hijacking. But they have to start someplace, she thought. They couldn't all be like Don Nelson.

***

The cute little southern flight attendant, Charlene, was working the upstairs Business Section by herself, and Donald Gene loved every minute of it.

"Now, lil darling, are we gonna have us some down home southern style cooking up here? I'm hoping to have me some potatoes and some of that red eye gravy from you, you hear?" he said, in a broad parody of a southern accent.

"Don't you go making fun of me," Charlene scolded him. "I won't stand for it. I heard all about you!"

One of the passengers laughed. "You must fly a lot," he said to Don.

"Oh, too damn much," Don said. "I keep telling the company to keep me home, but I go through too many secretaries unless I'm out in the field."

"What sort of business are you in?"

"Insurance," Don said. "I specialize in life expectancies."

The man shifted forward, interested. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah," Don said easily, to Charley's amusement. "Risk assessment, lifestyle analysis, all that. It's really boring, actually, but I get to fly around, interview people. I do a lot of stuff with expatriate Americans."

"That makes sense."

"Yourself?"

"Oh, just a vacation. I was stationed over here in the seventies and made some friends in Heidelburg. I got a good fare, so I decided to visit."

Don nodded as Charlene set a meal down in front of him.

"Every bite! And not a word out of you!" Charlene said, enjoying her role.

"Yes, ma'am," Donald said. He took a bite out of the steaming chicken and rolled his eyes. "Just like my momma used to make!"

Charley smiled gratefully when Charlene set his plate down. He unsnapped his seat belt, and cut into the chicken. The passenger next to him, silent for the first hour, finally spoke to say "Thank you," to the flight attendant. Charley smiled and nodded to the man, and continued to eat his meal. The man seemed tense, but Charley often got that from men seated close to him; they were often intimidated. Charley had his antenna up, but he was blunted by fatigue. Behind him, Joan noticed how the two passengers seated in front of her would often look at each other, but not say anything. They watched Charley, though. Sometimes passengers would ask a marshal if they were an air marshal; the standard response was "I don't know what you're talking about." Armed and dangerous people gave off a certain vibe and marshals weren't the only people to notice that. Joan had learned to look for it herself. She was tired to the point of second-guessing herself, though; after six weeks of sensing something and having it turn out to be nothing, she'd gotten to the point where she doubted her instincts.

One of the two passengers she was watching got up and went forward into the lavatory. He came out a while later and reseated himself next to the woman passenger. When he sat down, the man looked over his shoulder at Joan, then turned away and slouched down in his seat. He rummaged around in the back seat flap, pulled out a magazine, fumbled with something and handed the magazine to the woman next to him. She too looked over at Joan, and then away.

Charley felt the strange tension as well. He caught the man beside him staring. He lifted his meal tray up, stood up, then lowered the tray back down. He went forward to the lavatory and stepped inside. Everything looked to be in order; this lavatory, like the others, had been the subject of a redundant security search by the ground crew and a spot check by the marshals when they boarded. Charley ran the water as though he were washing his hands, then stepped back out. He stood and stretched, and took the time to look each passenger in the eye before he returned to his seat. There was something...it might be that these passengers had made him and Don as marshals, or maybe it was just Charley giving off hostile vibes. It bothered him that he wasn't more concerned about it. That sense had been growing in him this whole mission, his lack of concern about the job. It was time to hang this stuff up and find something else to do. Training had suited him just fine. Maybe he could go back to that, or if the bureaucrats like Dinkey stood in his way, just quit and put in for a job down at FLETC teaching firearms or defensive tactics. Charley yawned. "How about a little more coffee, Charlene?" he asked.

"You sleepy already?" Charlene said.

"Yep," Charley said. "I sure am."

***

"When do you think I might speak to the captain?" the polite 747 pilot from Royal Saudi asked Kirsten.

"I spoke to him, sir, and he says that he's sorry, but because of security he can't let you come up into the cockpit. He said he'll come down here to visit with you during the movie, or just after. Is that all right?" Kirsten smiled her professional smile at him.

"Please tell him I understand, of course. Later will be fine. Thank you for asking."

"You're welcome."

Kirsten went back into the galley and joined her partner. "That is the most polite pilot I have ever met."

"Must not be a pilot, then," her partner joked.

"Yeah, that must be it," Kirsten cracked. "He just stole the ID, right?"

***

FRANKFURT, GERMANY:

Eli Cohen drew John Bolen to one side. "We have a problem. We have three governments competing here: the Germans, the Israeli, and the US. I think we need to straighten things out to go faster."

It had already been 2 1/2 hours, and the record search went on with no results.

"What are you proposing?" John said.

"I am proposing that the Germans turn him over to us for prosecution for falsifying an Israeli passport."

"They're not going to go for that. It happened on German soil."

"According to his flight itineraries and his documentation -- which we know is bogus -- he is in transit from Israel. I can declare the whole thing a mistake and have him shipped back to Tel Aviv to have it straightened out. Once we have him in our custody, you and I, we understand how to expedite things. I have a feeling about this one. He is way too disciplined." Eli Cohen had the hunter's look, a hungry viciousness that warmed John Bolen's heart.

"Sounds good to me," he said. "Let's do it."

Cohen turned and went to Gunther. "Gunther, it seems we may have a misunderstanding here."

While Cohen was talking to Gunther, John asked George, "Has anybody found that Mary Franken yet?"

"It seems she's left the airport, and is on her way home."

"I'm sending the boys to bring her in."

"Tell them to ask her to come in, not to bag and tag her, okay, John?" George pleaded. "Jesus, you're king of the cowboys. What has Jed got to say about all this? "

"He's on his way."

***

DELTA FLIGHT #107, FRANKFURT TO DULLES:

The flight attendants picked up the last of the meal trays, and prowled the aisles, coffee decanters in each hand, refilling cups, chatting to families, smiling at children. In each seating section a flight attendant fumbled with the movie screen and lowered it into place, making sure it was properly fastened. With luck, 95% of the passengers would be in their seats, either watching the movie or sleeping.

The lights went out through cabin, and the window shades were drawn down to block out the lingering light of dusk as the plane sped west across the Atlantic. The video tape sputtered along in it's player, then began to track into the opening credits of the movie. Most of the cabin overhead lights were off. A few insomniac movie haters would read, their overhead light a lonely beacon in the dark; the air marshals would be reading, prowling the aisles restlessly, watching the movie or listening to music. It was the sleepy time on board Flight 107; the rhythm of the flight, the passengers and the crew, fell into the easy drone of the middle of their passage, far above the whispering waters below them. It was the middle of the night, the witching hour, although the watches on board the aircraft didn't reflect that. Fourteen Casio sports watches with built in dual timers began to beep sharply.

It was the countdown.

Ahmad Ajai's crew of hijackers began to make ready. They were able to ride the rush of adrenaline, shake off the cloud of tension, of sweaty clothes and running armpits from over three hours of sitting, smiling, and waiting. Their hands shook when they checked their knives, pressed their hands against their weapons, as they stood up and went into the lavatory to make sure, one last time, that the pistols were loaded, the pins straightened in the hand grenades, the blasting caps separate from the explosive blocks, that they were ready.

***

In Business, Dyer Shaw was already asleep. He made no pretense of being involved in the job. As far as he was concerned, his career was over with the Marshals. He had nothing to lose. Across the aisle from him, a man studied the pulse in the hollow of Dyer's neck.

Ray Rydell struggled to stay awake. His head bobbed and he thought about getting out of his seat and walking around to get some air. The combination of fatigue, a heavy meal, and the dark was deadly; he could barely keep his eyes open. He unsnapped his seat belt and stretched his arms up in his seat.

Stacy Bagley flipped savagely through the pages of yet another magazine. She was too wired to relax, jittery from too much coffee and the cumulative tension of this trip. The seat beside her was empty, fortunately; she had a place to park her growing stack of magazines.

HD reclined in his First Class seat, his earphones plugged firmly in, the comforting tunes of Willie Nelson in his ears, his eyes closed as he drummed his fingers on the armchair. Next to him, the man who claimed to be a pilot for Royal Saudi stared openly at him. The pilot's watch beeped once again, as did the man behind him. The pilot unsnapped his seat belt.

In the coach section, a woman prowled up and down the aisle, an aircraft schematic folded into a tiny square in her fist, looking for the seats the air marshals were in.

Upstairs in Business, Donald Gene and Charlene were chatting. Charley was tense. The way some of the passengers looked at him gave him a strange feeling. Restless, he'd gotten up several times; there was little room to walk upstairs. Joan picked up on Charley's tension. She kept looking at the passengers, who kept staring at her. It was very strange.

***

The terrorist pilot got up out of his seat. HD didn't stir. The pilot brushed past Karen, who looked up, then back down at her book. He paused at the base of the stairs, caught the eye of the man sitting behind Harold, nodded, and started up the stairs.

In the dark, a man slipped into the seat behind Dyer Shaw. He cupped a hand over Dyer's mouth and stabbed an ice-pick into the base of his skull. He twisted the ice-pick, destroying the medulla oblongata and killing Dyer in a heartbeat.

Ray Rydell stood in the rear of his section beside the curtained galley. A hijacker grabbed his right hand. Ray went to pull away, and another man stabbed into his throat from the side, ripping forward, cutting both carotids, the jugular and severing the trachea. Ray blinked and fell through the curtains into the galley, where a flight attendant was propped over the drainage, the flow from her cut throat filling the sink.

Shirleen Walker was thinking about her baby son when the woman behind her stabbed down, missing her subclavian artery and gouging down her breast. Shirleen screamed, clutched at her breast with one hand, and lashed out with her other. The woman terrorist cursed, dropped her knife and pulled her Makarov, put the gun to Shirleen's head and pulled the trigger twice.

The passengers began to scream when they saw the flash and heard the sharp double bang.

Stacy Bagley jumped in her seat at the sound of the gunshots. She whirled to the left up out of her seat, when her face ran into a pistol. The smiling Lebanese man stared her right in the eye and said, "Just do me?"

Jon turned quickly and caught the downward arcing plastic knife in the muscle of his left arm. He rose up out of his seat, kicking out at the man slashing at him. Butch rose up and put his Sig to the terrorist's head and pulled the trigger and put the hijacker's brains on the bulkhead. He turned and saw two other men rushing him, their handguns extended.

The man behind HD looped a coil of wire around his neck and yanked him up in the seat. His partner pressed a gun to HD's neck and pulled the trigger. The shooter turned to face the rest of the first class cabin and said, "No one move. No one move at all."

Karen watched HD die and her bladder cut loose. Her hands came up with the rest of the passengers.

***

The pilot came up the stairs and entered the lavatory beside the cockpit. Charley tensed, and Don stood up as though stretching. Don moved forward and one of the men behind him stood up and came forward as well. Joan leaned forward in her seat, and so she missed the woman across the aisle from her drawing her knife. Charley looked over his shoulder, back at Joan. The man next to him clutched Charley's gun hand. Charley turned back in surprise and wrenched his hand free, back knuckling the terrorist in the face and rocking him backwards. The man across the aisle from Charley lunged at him. Charley caught him by the top of his head and his chin and arced his hands powerfully in a counter-clockwise motion, as though he were spinning the wheel of a car, and broke the man's neck. Charley spun up out of his seat, following the motion and drew his weapon. He put three tightly bunched holes on the nose of the man who had tried to grab his hand.

Joan looked and saw the knife coming at her face. She deflected it into her chest, where the blade dug, without cutting, into her body armor. "Knife!" she shouted, slamming the heel of her palm into the other woman's elbow. Joan followed up with a fist into the woman's face, rocking the terrorist back into her seat. Joan punched the woman twice more, drew her pistol and shot the woman in the head. The terrorist convulsed and went limp. Joan automatically cleared the pistol of blow back before she was snatched by the back of her blouse by the other woman terrorist, who'd been sitting behind Don. Joan spun and emptied her pistol into the woman.

Don turned when he heard Joan and saw the Makarov coming up in his neighbor's hand. Don snatched the gun hand in a crocodile grip, wrenching the gun forward and then back, breaking off the terrorist's trigger finger and leaving it dangling. Don pressed the pistol into the man's chest and fired until the weapon jammed on blown back flesh. The lavatory door swung open behind him and the terrorist pilot stepped out and fired his Makarov into Don's back. The bullets seared like a hot poker punching into him. Don dropped the Makarov and drew his Sig, turning as he did, noting with one part of his brain how he was slowing down. He saw the flash of the Makarov and felt more punches in his chest, but he found his front sight and pinned it to the chest of the man shooting at him, below the gun, not at the gun, he reminded himself, and pulled the trigger till the slide locked back. He saw the man fall and saw two holes in the cockpit door, before he looked down at himself and thought, "I'm shot full of fucking holes. I guess it's time for me to fall down now." He fell to his knees and then onto his face, like a man prostrating himself for prayer.

***

Captain Reins jumped in his seat when he heard the gunshots just outside the door. He had just enough time, a few heartbeats while the battle went down, to say, "What the fuck was that?" before two Winchester Silvertips punched through the thin plastic laminate of the cockpit door and buried themselves in his side. He screamed and thrashed against the straps holding him in place, his arms striking out at the control yoke and the auto pilot. His co-pilot looked up as the horizon began to tilt in front of his eyes.

The screams began individually, and then joined into an unholy chorus in the packed coach section, as the plane began to tilt.

***

Stacy looked at the gun in her face and raised her hands. When the man smiled, she snatched the gun and pressed it into his chest. She couldn't get the barrel into his chest, so she slammed the top of her head onto the bridge of his nose, twice, then pinned the gun against him where he couldn't point it at her and slammed her knee repeatedly into his groin.

"C'mon, think you're bad! I'm gonna kill your shit fuck ass, motherfucker!" Stacy screamed, punctuating her words with powerhouse drives of her knee into the man's groin. He was pinned against the seat and couldn't move. His grip loosened on the pistol. Stacy shoved it into his crotch and pulled the trigger. When he screamed and dropped to the floor, she drew her Sig and executed him. "Do me, motherfucker? I do you, bitch!" she snarled. She tucked the Makarov in her blouse top, took a two handed grip on her pistol and charged forward into the galley. The terrorist holding the flight attendants at gun point jumped as Stacy rushed through the curtains, her Sig blazing, the brass clattering to the floor around her as she closed to contact range with the man, emptying her pistol in an arc starting at his chest and ending in his face. She dropped the magazine and speed loaded another, grabbed the dead man by his hair and flung him to the floor.

"Better get down on the floor, girls, because I am motherfucking pissed!" Stacy shouted. "Everybody get down! Get down! Police! I'm a police officer! Get down!"

***

Steve Paulson stood as calmly as if he were at the barricade on the range. He was wedged in behind the lavatory, ignoring the bullets smacking inches away from his face. He found his front sight, acquired his sight picture, pressed his trigger, and moved onto the next sight picture, putting a round each into the two terrorists firing wildly at him, then returning to put another round into each one, until they fell out of his sight picture. He pulled the partially expended magazine out and replaced it with a full one, tucking the partially expended magazine into a front pocket where he wouldn't get it confused with the remaining full one. He stepped quickly through the galley, where the flight attendants cowered on the floor, to the other aisle, where Butch and Jon struggled in the aisle.

***

Butch rushed the two terrorists, punching his Sig into one 's chest and grabbing the other's hand. He got a shot off into the terrorist's chest and his Sig jammed. The wounded man stumbled against him, and Butch struggled to hold the other man's gun hand. Butch felt a hand on his shoulder and then a Sig appeared inches from his eyes. He felt the blast of the gun-shot flash on his face and in his eyes. He reeled back, blinking, and brought his hands to his face. "I can't see," he shouted. He felt himself pulled backward. He fell and was dragged the last few feet to the center galley.

"Is he hit? Is he hit?" Steve Paulson said.

"No, no, I'm blind, I can't see," Butch said.

"Fuck, fuck fuck!" Jon shouted.

***

Co-Pilot Walker Hilton grabbed the yoke, stabilized the plane, and turned to the flight engineer. "Find out what the fuck is going on!"

"We're getting hijacked, you fucking idiot!" the terrified flight engineer shouted.

The captain screamed, "I've been shot, oh Jesus, I've been shot, somebody help me!"

Hilton grabbed the yoke firmly. He reached out and hit the radio transponder and switched the frequency to 7600. He put the plane into a nose-dive descent and hit the landing gear switch simultaneously.

***

WASHINGTON, DC:

Hunched over his console in the Washington DC En-Route Traffic Control Center, a controller watched the sudden drop in altitude of Flight 107 and the transponder beacon blinking 7600.

"Oh shit," the controller said, as he thumbed through his procedures manual. "Jerry!" he called to his supervisor. "We got a hijacking alert!"

"Verify," the supervisor said, rolling his chair to the console.

"Flight 107, this is Washington Center, confirm 7600, over," the controller said tersely into his mouthpiece.

First Officer Hilton's cracked voice came back. "Confirm, confirm, Washington Center, confirm 7600, Air Marshals on board, the pilot has been shot, we are descending to 10,000 feet priority."

Within minutes, a Flash priority message went out to key locations: the FAA Command Center, the Special Operations Command, the FBI and the other members of the intelligence community, including the CIA Counter-Terrorism unit, the White House and the Secretary of Transportation.

In the FAA Command Center, Megan Reilly said, quietly and formally, to Simon Dinkey, "We have a hijacking alert on-board a FAM flight."

***

FRANKFURT, GERMANY:

"I don't understand what I'm doing here," Mary Franken said nervously. She looked at her boss, the station manager, George Baumgarner, several big and very tough looking guys, including the two who'd picked her up at her apartment, and the guy from the El Al station, the funny one, Eli Cohen.

"Mary, do you know this man?" George asked, drawing her forward and letting her see Abraham Rosenbaum sitting in a chair in the next room. She drew back.

"Uhh, no, I don't think so, I mean maybe, wasn't he a passenger?"

"Yeah," John Bolen said. "He was the guy I asked you about. You remember me, don't you, Mary?"

"Yes, I remember," Mary said. She was badly frightened now. What was this about?

"Tony, George, I have to speak to you," the assistant station manager, Susan Brown, called from the doorway. "Right now."

"What's wrong?" Tony, the station manager said.

"We have a hijacking alert from 107," Susan said. "The pilot's been shot."

"Goddamn!" George whirled around and came back into the office. "Mary, the flight this guy was supposed to be on has just squawked 7600 and is descending to 10,000 feet. The pilot has been shot. We believe this guy has something to do with it and we want to know everything you know about him, right now! There are people dying and you may be involved!"

"But he's an Israeli!" Mary protested. "Emmanuel told me so! They both work for the Mossad!"

"What?" Eli Cohen said, as everyone looked at him.

***

FORT BRAGG, NORTH CAROLINA:

In the facility known as "the Ranch" in the community, the Delta Force Intelligence Center has instantaneous communications with all key elements of the US government, including the FAA. The watch officer pulled off the curled computer print-out and turned to the NCO working with him.

"Let B Squadron know. We have a hijacking of a US air carrier in international airspace. The aircraft has air marshals on board," he said. "This is real world, not a drill."

Within minutes, the intelligence unit pulled up schematics of the aircraft in question, the flight plan, passenger manifests, and a breakdown of the air marshal team on-board.

"They got Donald Gene Nelson and Charley Dey on that team," Master Sergeant Jim "Moonbuzzard" O'Dell said. "Whatever the fuck is going on, it's gonna be bloody. Those are some serious shooters."

***

DELTA FLIGHT #107, FRANKFURT TO DULLES:

Total pandemonium reigned in the main cabin of the 747. Passengers screamed, children wept in terror, the flight attendants shouted for everyone to stay in their seats. Contradictory commands came from different parts of the aircraft. In First Class and the front of Business, the terrorists held the cabin and the base of the stairs from behind good cover. The hijackers shouted for everyone to stay down. Wedged into the galley at the rear of Business with two terrified flight attendants, Stacy Bagley fell silent when she heard the voices from the front. In the aircraft's rearmost galley, with the whole passenger load in front of them, two terrorists pistol whipped a man to his knees and shouted for the passengers to stay in their seats and raise their hands. In the galley one seating section in front of those terrorists, Steve, Butch and Jon looked at each other.

***

Upstairs, outside the cockpit door, the two real passengers were face down, cowering on the floor between their seats. Don Nelson tried to push himself up, muttering in a weak and liquid voice, "C'mon, SEAL, move your fucking ass, c'mon, SEAL..."

Joan speedcuffed the two passengers with plastic flex cuffs, then limped forward to Don. Charley had his back wedged against the cockpit door, covering the stairwell.

"Get the first aid kit!" Joan shouted at Charlene, who was balled up in the corner of the galley. Charlene scrambled to her feet, her eyes streaming, and pulled the first aid kit down from the galley wall and handed it to Joan.

"Hey, Joanie," Don said, his words slurred.

"Don't talk, Don. Don't move," Joan said, tucking her pistol into her holster and ripping open the first aid kit. She tore open his shirt, and saw the holes in his chest, turned him on his side and saw only the entrance wounds from the first shots fired into his back.

"You got great tits, you know, Joanie?" Don croaked. "Too bad we never got to go swimming," he rambled. His face got sad. "Don't go, Joan," he said, almost-mockingly. "Don't go. Just hold me, Joan..."

Joan ripped open the pressure dressings and started to stuff them into his wounds when she felt him slip away.

"NO, goddammit, Don!" she said. She started on his chest with compressions for CPR. "Charley, help me!" she said.

"He's gone, Joan," Charley Dey said in a cold voice. "He's gone."

Joan reached out and closed the SEAL's eyes. She took his pistol and pulled the spare ammo off his belt. She reloaded her pistol and stood up.

"Who else?" she asked.

Charley shouted through the cockpit door, "I'm on the intercom!" He picked up the microphone and said, "This is Charley Dey, I'm the Air Marshal team leader. What's your situation?"

"The pilot got two in the side, he's on the floor. I've squawked 7600, we're going down to 10,000. What the hell is going on out there?" Walker Hilton said. His voice was firm. Charley could tell it cost him.

"Standby," Charley said. "Give me the first aid kit," he said to Joan. He banged on the door and said, "Here's the first aid kit. Patch up the pilot as best you can." The flight engineer cracked the door and took the kit in. He saw the carnage outside the door and slammed it quickly shut.

"It's a fucking slaughterhouse out there," the engineer choked. His hands trembled as he fumbled with the first aid kit. "There's bodies all over the place."

Charley's lips were drawn into a thin, cold white line. Joan moved among the bodies of the terrorists, collecting guns and a hand grenade. She paused above the two Business passengers, frozen in fear on the floor, their hands cuffed behind them.

"You'll be safe," Joan said. "You're going to have to stay put." She frisked the two of them quickly, then searched through their carry-on bags. "They don't have anything, Charley," she said.

Hilton's voice came over the intercom. "Do you own this plane or what, Dey? What is going on?"

"Stand-by," Charley said. He flipped the intercom dial. "Bravo, Bravo, this is Alpha 1, status."

In the galley below the stairwell, Gamal Ayoush and his partner looked at each other. Ayoush gestured with his thumb towards the upstairs cabin.

"Charley, Charley, this is Alpha 1," Charley said again. He flipped the dial again. "Delta, Delta, this is Alpha 1, status."

There was only the rush of static over the intercom. Through the floorboards and the noise and vibration of the plane, Charley heard the screams below.

***

The terrorists in the rear of the aircraft were in a frenzy, striking out at the passengers and shouting at them to be quiet. They attempted to get the intercom working, but they were unable to make it sound throughout the whole aircraft from their location. Butch peered out from around the edge of the galley bulkhead, proned out and his pistol lined up. On the other side of the galley, Steve was proned out as well. "No shot," Stevey said.

"No shot," Butch said.

***

Fifteen yards away from Butch and Steve, Stacy heard the intercom buzzing in her galley. "Refresh me on making this thing work only upstairs, girls," Stacy said. "There's somebody up there I need to talk to."

***

Karen was frozen in her seat with the rest of the remaining first class passengers. She couldn't look at Harold's body, slumped in his seat, a pool of blood clotting in his lap. One of his Walkman ear pieces was still in place. She snatched a quick look behind her, before the terrorist watching her could strike her, and saw Shirleen's body laying in the aisle.

"There are still some alive in the back!" Gamal Ayoush said. His heart was racing. Did he own the aircraft or not? He pressed the button on the intercom for the cockpit and said, "Rafiz? Rafiz, is that you?"

Upstairs, Charley cracked the cockpit door and said, "Don't answer. Don't answer to anyone. Just stay on the radio with the center."

"Rafiz? Rafiz is that you?" the intercom crackled. There was silence for a moment, and then the voice on the intercom said, "Is this Mr. Dey or Mr. Nelson?"

***

Mary Franken told her story of how her boyfriend, an Israeli paratrooper, worked for the Mossad, and had given her some packages for Abraham Rosenbaum, how it was supposed to be money for Israeli undercovers in Washington DC.

"But of course," Eli Cohen said. "How could you not believe that?" he said, his sarcasm lost on her.

Jed Loveless called from the consulate; he was staying put in the SCIF and developing the big picture. His STU and secure fax were both ringing off the hook with demands for information.

"There a place for us in this, Jed?" John Bolen asked.

"You won't be doing any aircraft recovery, if that's what you're thinking. It's bad up there, from what we're getting. Put your guys together and see what we can find out about where this Rosenbaum character's back ups are, and this Mary Franken's boyfriend. There may be some door kicking yet to come. Just stand by."

"What about the deal with the Israelis?" John asked.

"This line is nonsecure. But that will be a no-go. We want this boy. Understand? We want this boy."

"Roger that." John hung up the phone and looked into the room where Eli Cohen was trying to engage Rosenbaum in conversation.

Ahmad Ajai had shut down; his operation was launched. He considered himself as good as dead, now; he looked for someway to take himself out of the equation honorably. He had no illusions about what would happen if the Israelis took him out of here. They would sweat him with no mercy, and eventually, they would find the place in him that would break. The Americans might be better. The indignity of a trial would be preferable to the prolonged torture he would receive from the Israelis. And given enough time, who knows? If the operation was a success, perhaps he could be a bargaining chip in the negotiations.

***

Gamal Ayoush was wild eyed with anger and frustration. There was no reply from the upstairs cabin, which told him his people didn't have the cockpit secured or that they were all be dead. Possibly the air marshals were all dead, too; but he didn't know and couldn't afford to send someone up to see without knowing more. At least some of his people were dead; there were air marshals barricaded in the coach galleys. Some of his people were in the rear of the aircraft, taking control and dominating the passengers. That was good, but what about the others? How many air marshals were left? Where were they?

"Your marshals are dead. There are none of them left alive," Ayoush said into the intercom. "Surrender now, or we will start killing the passengers. There are 350 passengers on this aircraft, do you hear me? We have that many bullets." There was silence on the intercom, only the rush of static. "It will do you no good to land an aircraft full of dead passengers. It's in the interest of their survival that you surrender now. Your team mates are all dead. You are the only ones left alive. Don't waste your life and the lives of the others. Come down, now."

Ayoush listened impatiently for a reply. Despite the careful coaching by Ahmad Ajai, he wanted to scream out defiance and charge up those stairs; that was all that stood before him and success. The cockpit was key. It was important to give the marshals the right kind of consideration. They would be unable to do their job from up there. They would be unable to protect the passengers and Ahmad Ajai believed they would give themselves up before they would allow the slaughter of innocents.

The intercom panel lights lit up in front of Charley. He flipped to the cockpit spare and heard the co-pilot.

"What are you going to do?" Hilton hissed. "We can't let them just start killing passengers. They'll slaughter them! Look, just talk to them and find out what they want, maybe we can get the plane down someplace. We don't want to lose any more lives than we have already."

Charley said, "I hear you. You're going to have to trust me to handle this."

"I'm the pilot in command, and I'm telling you, I'm not going to let them slaughter passengers! Do what they want us to do, tell them I'll take them where they want to go, but do your job! You're supposed to save lives."

"What makes you think they're not going to kill people anyway?"

Hilton was silent.

Charley flipped the intercom switch back to the first class galley. "Who am I speaking to?" he said. "What shall I call you?"

"My name is Gamal," said Ayoush. "To whom am I speaking?"

"My name is Dey. I'm the air marshal team leader."

Ayoush's face twisted in concentration. The front cabin, at least, was silent for now, allowing him to focus on drawing everything he could out of that voice. This was the real leader; the one who was the most dangerous. He must have killed all of Ayoush's people if he was in control of the intercom.

"You will surrender now, Dey. Throw your weapons down the stairwell and then come down. You will not be harmed. We have no desire to harm anyone unnecessarily. Do not make it necessary for us to harm anyone."

"It's a little premature for us to be doing that. What do you want? Where do you want to go? Why are you doing this?"

Ayoush laughed. The carefully scripted and rehearsed negotiation strategy was forgotten in a rush of emotion that might have been controlled if Ahmad Ajai had been there to bridle him.

"I want you to come down now, Dey! That's what I want! I want the last of the Air Marshals down here so you can look at the plane we have taken. I am doing this because it is time that you Americans understand that you can no longer abuse and insult the faith of the Prophet, that there is a cost to be paid and you will pay it as others have!" Ayoush's face was knotted with emotion. The veins roping his brow throbbed. He was screaming, and his voice carried over the whimpers and cries of the frightened passengers.

Stacy heard him from where she was wedged down behind the cover of a meal cart in the galley. She had both the flight attendants crawl in to the tiny space where the meal cart went into the service counter, to keep them out of the way and to take advantage of what little cover there was.

"Fucking nutcase," she muttered. She reached up and hit the intercom call button for the upstairs galley.

Charley saw the light come on. "I have to think about what you said," Charley said carefully. "I hear you Gamal. Let me think for a few moments."

"You have run out of time! I want you and your people down here now or I start to kill passengers. I will stack their bodies in the aisles for everyone to see. We'll blow this plane apart before we will let you take it back, Dey!" Ayoush was spitting, livid with his internalized rage.

"Okay, okay, let me think, Gamal," Charley said, pitching his voice low in a kinesic technique to calm the hijacker. "Let me discuss this with the pilot. We need some assurances from you, an act of faith. Give us a moment."

Charley switched the intercom over to the third galley light.

"...anybody there? Upstairs galley, is anyone there? This is Charley 3, Charley 3 looking for Alpha."

"Charley 3, Alpha 1," Charley said.

"Roger, Alpha, listen up. 3 is set and clear, all others down. Unknown number of Delta to the rear, in galley, probable injuries, no comms. Two tangos positive forward, possible others; two tangos back of the bus, possible others. Two tangos down, my sector, one down positive in Delta, possibly others. What do you want me to do?"

"Stand by and hold, we're working on something," Charley said. There was no easy way down to the first class cabin. The stairs were the primary access point. He could tear out the back panel wall of the upstairs bubble and gain access to the interior structure of the aircraft; there was an I-beam that ran the length of the aircraft, like a spine, that was big enough to walk along. The ceiling panels and overhead compartments of the main cabin were suspended from the I-beam. He could drop down from that, but it would still place him aft of the first class cabin, which meant he would have to drop down into unsecured seating, and then charge up the aisle into the terrorist held strong point. He could do it, if he had Stacy to back him up in case he went down. It wasn't a strong option. That would leave only Joan holding the cockpit door. One marshal could hold the stairwell, but then the entire security of the aircraft rested on that one marshal. If she fell, then the cockpit fell, and the fight was over.

The speaker sputtered again with the voice of Gamal Ayoush.

"You've had enough time, Dey! You are not taking us seriously enough. We are going to kill a passenger now if you do not come down. Right now!"

Ayoush turned away from the speaker and told his back-up, "Take one. The woman. Stand her up in front of the other passengers and shoot her."

The silent hijacker grabbed Karen by the hair and pulled her up out of her seat, pressed the gun to her head, and walked her into the aisle.

"You passengers! Watch this! This is because the air marshals will not surrender! Because of them this woman must suffer!" Ayoush shouted from behind cover. His silent partner held Karen by the hair with his left hand. He raised the pistol in his right hand so the passengers could see the whole thing. A young man in the front of coach murmured, "Oh, sweet Jesus, be good to us."

***

Steve Paulson stood braced against the bulkhead wall. Butch had his back pressed against his, his weapon covering back to the rear of the aircraft, where the two barricaded terrorists had stacked passengers into the aisle as a human barrier. Steve's pistol sights were in perfect alignment on the head of the terrorist 25 yards away. He took a deep breath, relaxed, and took up the slack of his cocked pistol's trigger.

"Remember what to do, Karen," Stevey murmured.

Karen trembled like a leaf. Her damp skirt clung to her. When the pistol come to her head, she sank to her knees, dragging the terrorist forward.

His sights locked on the exposed face of the hijacker, Steve pressed his trigger and called his shot. "Center punch," he murmured, watching the front sight track back from the recoil.

The terrorist shooter's head snapped back. It wasn't quite a center punch; Steve's shot, aimed for the mouth and through that into the brain stem, caught the hijacker at an angle, breaking the jaw and nicking an artery. The man spun around and clapped his hands to his face as he fell. Karen fell forward and fumbled for her pistol. Ayoush stepped out from behind the bulkhead, his Makarov in his hand. Karen spun onto her back and fired her Sig, putting five rapid shots into the center of Ayoush's chest. He stumbled backwards and fell. Karen scrambled to her feet, coming into Steve's sight picture ass he eased off the trigger. Her fear turned to rage as she stood over the man who had been about to kill her. She did as she was trained to do: she put two shots in his head and made sure she saw his brains before she moved on. She braced herself in the forward right door well where she controlled access to the stairwell.

"Bravo 2, set and cleared," she shouted up the stair well.

***

In the rear of the aircraft, the two remaining terrorists looked to each other. One pulled out his carry-on bag and pulled out two identical radios. After opening the back of one, he set it aside. The other he opened and crossed two wires, then attached an additional battery pack. He set the first radio into the bag, along with two of the Johnny Walker bottles and wrapped the bundle in tape. He carefully arrayed small blocks of plastic Semtex explosive around the bundle and pressed the radio into the plastic. He stuck a piece of tape over the on/off switch, securing it in the off position.

The other radio he picked up, turned on, then spun the dial all the way to the end of the selector. He heard a steady, beep beep beep tone from the small speaker. He nodded with satisfaction and turned the radio off.

"It is ready," he said to his partner.

They were the two most serious and hardened products of the training camps: they had been blooded many times on raids into Israel as well as on covert operations abroad, where they had assassinated those the Imam had designated as enemies of the state. They'd been brought onto this team specifically for the fail-safe function they provided. They were motivated and hardened enough to fight to the death, dedicated enough to detonate the bomb that would tumble the airliner out of the sky.

***

FRANKFURT, GERMANY:

John Bolen and five of his shooters moved quietly up the apartment building's concrete stairwell, in the wake of the GSG-9 assault team. The elite German Police Commandos moved stair by stair, covering each other with their MP-5s, the point man with a P-7M13 9mm handgun and a mirror to check the corners, the tail gunner with a Benelli Super-90 assault shotgun. The assault team paused outside an apartment door, and there was a quiet murmured conference over their throat mikes with the snipers and back-up elements outside the building that covered all possible escape routes. The point man pressed a cardboard target silhouette on which a shaped charge of plastic explosive had been laid against the door. He stepped back, twisted the ignition pencil fuse, and crouched down. Three seconds later the cutting charge punched out a silhouette in the wooden door, a flash bang grenade followed it, detonating with a boom that shook the building, and the point man was through, followed by the rest of the assault element.

"Clear, clear, clear," came the commands, and John and his team followed through the door, where 'Emmanueal' was pinned to the floor, a heavy German boot pressed in his back while he was flex-cuffed. The follow on Intel crew came up the stairs to ransack the apartment for information.

"Hey, before you go, I want to see something," Rhino said. He pulled a Benchmade Brend II fighting folder out of his pocket and leaned over "Emmanueal", who wore only briefs. He set his knife next to the man's penis, and slit the shorts open. The terrorist thrashed around and one of the Germans asked, "Are you trying to cut his dick off?"

"No," Rhino said. "Just curious if he was circumcised or not. Don't understand how a good-looking American woman could sleep with this guy and not figure out he wasn't Jewish."

"In a battle of wits, she'd be unarmed," John Bolen said wryly. "Look, he fucking wet himself."

Rhino put his knife away and slung his MP-5. "Came to shit and only farted. Let's go, boss, before I kill this fucker. I was really looking forward to killing somebody today."

***

Eli Cohen held the bottle of confiscated Johnny Walker he had taken away from Ahmad Ajai.

"All of this political posturing makes me thirsty, Jed Loveless. Shall we have a drink while we wait? We can drink to the courage of your air marshals, who are dying because of things this man knows. We can drink while he sits there mocking us for what we don't know," Cohen said bitterly. "Your government argues with my government and we both argue with the Germans while lives are at stake. So why not drink?"

Jed looked at him silently. Cohen cracked the seal and opened the bottle. He sniffed it and said, "This is not whiskey."

***

DELTA FLIGHT #107, FRANKFURT TO DULLES:

Charley pried out the access panel on the back wall of the cabin with his knife. He'd cut away the carpeted exterior to expose the plastic panel, and managed to get the point of his Spyderco knife under it. He bent the blade almost double before he got enough of the panel out where he could get his fingers on it.

"Charley, the pilot wants to talk to you," Joan said from her position at the cockpit door.

Charley turned away and went back to the cockpit. The pilot was propped up in the galley, Charlene tending to him. He opened the cockpit door and Walker Hilton looked up.

"I just got a message from Frankfurt. They caught one of the hijackers before he got on. He was carrying a Johnny Walker bottle full of liquid explosive. He had a couple of them when he got on, but there was only one in the bag when they took him off."

Charley got on the intercom with Stacy. "Charley 3, this is Alpha 1. Are there any full size liquor bottles or bottles of any kind around any of the down tangos?"

"Negative, Alpha 1."

Charley switched over to the First Class cabin. "Bravo 2, this is Alpha 1. Are there any full size bottles of any kind around any of the downed tangos?"

Karen knelt, keeping her weapon pointed down the length of the aircraft. She poked open the carry-on bag that had been at Ayoush's feet when she had put him down. Inside were a bottle of Johnny Walker, a radio, and two small blocks of plastic explosive.

"Alpha 1, this is Bravo 2. I do have that, it requires BD, I say again, Bravo Delta is what it requires."

BD meant bomb disposal. She had explosives down stairs.

"Do a survey, Bravo 2. Is it active? Can you tell?"

"Negative, Alpha 1. Doesn't appear to be fused, but I can't tell."

Charley cursed. All of the in-crew explosives expertise was up here with him and Don. He didn't look over at the figure laid out in the first seats, a blanket draped over him.

***

"What are they doing back there?" Jon asked.

"They've got passengers laying in the aisles, stacked on each other. They've got meal carts on both sides of the galley blocking off the aisles. There's one shooter on each aisle. They keep peeking out, looking for us. They're not saying much now. Every once in a while, they'll scream out at the passengers not to move," Butch said. His eyes were still red and streaming from the muzzle flash of Steve's gun going off beside his face. "How's your arm?"

"I'll be okay." Jon wound a dishtowel tighter around the gash in his arm and rubbed at the growing welt on his head.

"They're working on something there," Stevey said tersely. "They might try to get up the I-beam to the cockpit. You can get up there from the back, where they store the big life rafts."

"Well, what do you want to do about it?" Butch said. "We can't rush down the aisles. They've got it barricaded, and we've got 75-100 passengers between us and them."

"Can we get down into the crawl space from here?" Steve asked.

"I don't think so. I think the main fuel tanks separate the crawl space back here. Besides, the access panel is in the aisle."

"Think we could low crawl to it?"

"We're not going to chance that, Steve," Butch said firmly. "None of us can cover whoever is going to crawl to the panel. No way. It won't help to get one of us killed without taking those guys out."

***

Geordie Griffin was from Alabama and a career Army man like his father before him. He didn't have a family yet, but he hoped to some day. The instincts of a father ran strong in him, and it enraged him to be sitting here helpless among the other terrified passengers, while children wept pitifully and without hope a few aisles away. He'd become a soldier to protect his country and to him that was a personal issue: it meant women and children and them that couldn't help themselves and right now that meant everybody. He could see from his seat that some of them air marshals he'd heard about were barricaded in the forward galley, and he'd seen the terrorists building them a little bunker back there, stacking up folks like sandbags in the aisle. They hadn't called him out, which was probably for the best, because he'd have fought them for sure. Some of the passengers cursed the air marshals for their cowardice, barricading themselves up while leaving the passengers back here with these terrorists. Geordie, while he was an artillery man, knew enough about basic infantry tactics to see that the smart thing was to hole up in those strong points -- neither side could venture out to do too much damage. There was no way to rush the terrorists without having to run down the aisle right into their guns. Geordie saw the air marshals peeking out, sizing up their chances, but so far they hadn't gone for it. But Geordie had a chance...he was sitting right in the middle of the middle row of seats, his hands resting on the back of the chair in front of him like everybody else. But them terrorists couldn't hardly see past where they were hiding back behind the corner. He'd tested it a couple of times by peeking back and dropping his hands. They couldn't see him. He held his fingers to his lips to the passengers beside him, then quickly turned round in his seat and slipped over the back, into the empty row of seats behind him. Geordie crouched on the floor. He heard the panicked breathing of the people stacked up in the aisles.

"Shush," he whispered, to one wide-eyed young girl face down in the aisle. "Don't you say a word, now."

He slid over another row of seats, getting closer to the back bulkhead wall.

***

WASHINGTON, DC:

"They're about 45 minutes out," Simon Dinkey said to General Stone. "We have the FBI Hostage Rescue Team standing by, with DELTA FORCE in reserve and assistance."

General Stone nodded. "I want you out there on the tarmac, Simon. You're going to be my eyes and ears. Take one of the Airway Facilities technicians with you to keep the radios up. I do not want you out of contact with me. Clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Move out."

Simon marched out of the Command Center, Mike Crock and an Airway Facilities technician following behind. He had a vehicle waiting to take him to Dulles, where the Agent in Charge of the FBI's elite Hostage Rescue Team waited with his aircraft recovery assault team. The Delta commander would be there as well, eager to work his troops in. The eyes of the White House were on this operation, as were the television cameras of every major network and most of the minors.

Simon was looking forward to his part in things.

***

DELTA FLIGHT #107, FRANKFURT TO DULLES:

Charley Dey inched his way along the shuddering I-beam that ran the length of the 747. Wires, cables, stringers and girders running from and around the I-beam made his progress slow, as was the need to maintain quiet. The suspended ceiling of the main cabin was just below his feet, and he could hear fragments of voices, some high with fear, some with pain, crying out below him. It enraged him that people in his charge would be crying out like that. He fought to keep his rage focused, to concentrate on the task at hand, to find that cold place inside the rage that would enable him to do one thing at a time in the proper sequence. Like to get around this cable bundle, to keep his balance on the I-beam, just like the log in the water challenge at Ranger school, to remember where he was in relation to the cabin below. Somewhere beneath him, Stacy Bagley stood by herself, watching over the frightened passengers, calling out to them and keeping them calm and in their seats; somewhere Steve and Butch and Jon were crouched in a galley without communications.

He slowed to a crawl, straining, his ears tuned to catch what he could through the groan of the engines and the squeaking of the airframe around him as it labored through the thick air at 10,000 feet. Somewhere beneath him were two dangerous armed men -- men who had probably surrounded themselves with explosives. Charley inched along on his belly, as slowly and as cautiously as the young man he'd been in Viet Nam had over the rice paddy dikes. Just past the bulk of the life raft bundles was the stairwell that dropped down into the rearmost galley. Charley froze there and listened.

***

Geordie Griffin was curled up on the floor between the rows of seats, doing his best imitation of a field mouse on hawk day. The passengers laid out on the floor could see him. He pleaded silently with them to be quiet and not to look at him. The two remaining terrorists screamed out their demands from behind their human barriers.

"Air marshals! Throw down your weapons and come out! We will kill these passengers one at a time!" one of them shouted. He was shouting as much to give them time as to confuse the marshals; the two knew they had little or no chance of recovering the aircraft from their current location. They didn't know about the hidden structure of the aircraft that might have enabled them to make their way to the cockpit without fighting down the aisles. While they could kill passengers until they ran out of ammunition, it would be the best resolution to ensure that all of the Americans and the remaining air marshals joined them in their martyrdom. It was best now to keep the marshals unsure about their objectives until the plane was within sight of the airport and on descent, when the eyes of the world and every major news network would be on them.

Geordie knew none of this. He knew that if he could get across five more rows of seats, he'd be right up against the bulkhead, and he could inch along and snatch one of those rag heads the next time he stuck his beak out to snap at those helpless people laid out on the aisle. Geordie had learned hand to hand combat in basic training, but it was nothing compared to the learning he'd gotten growing up poor in a tough town. He'd been handed a whip-ass sandwich from time to time and handed out a few himself. He figured a fighting Alabama man was something that rag head wouldn't be used to nohow.

He curled up and cultivated patience, just like waiting in a deer stand.

***

"What the fuck is that civilian doing?" Butch said.

"He's going to try to take out one of the terrs," Stevey said. "He's been making his way back over the seats for the last fifteen minutes. Not a bad way to go, either...he's almost there."

"He's going to get killed."

"Maybe. And maybe he'll draw one of those fuckers out where I can hit him and we can get down there before they hurt anybody else."

"I could make my way over these seats forward to where Stacy's at," Jon ventured.

"No," Butch said flatly. "We can't cover you without exposing ourselves, and you don't know that all the bad guys are down. There could be one in the seats who'll pop you or stick you with one of those goddamn plastic razors and then he'll have your gun. Just stay put. Somebody is directing things and I'll bet it's Charley or Don. Just chill out and be ready to move when we have to. We can't be too far out from the mainland. We might be going into Canada for all we know."

***

"He said to tell you to remember what he said about aerial envelopment, Stacy," Joan said into the intercom. "He said you'd know what that meant."

Stacy looked up at the suspended ceiling. "Yeah, I know what that means." She turned down the intercom. "Sweet Jesus come a flying, cause the warrior angel will descend," she murmured a prayer she remembered from her girlhood. "You be careful, homeboy," she whispered.

***

"We can't be too far out now," Farouk Hamas said to his partner. He looked at his Casio watch. "He must be on approach."

He checked and rechecked the arming package for the explosives bundled into his carry-on. The other radio, with its extra battery pack, was set carefully off to one side, the volume turned so that he could hear the steady beep coming from it. A simple push button, obviously added to the radio, protruded from one side. Farouk bowed his head and murmured a prayer from the Koran. He prayed for his soul and those of the other warriors of Islam who had died and would die today.

His partner watched the huddled backs of the passengers over the sights of his Makarov. Two hand grenades were stuffed into the pockets of his baggy slacks, ready to go into the aisles if the air marshals were foolish enough to try and charge them. He saw a sliver of head poking out of the galley two sections up where the remaining air marshals were barricaded. He pulled back; the shooting ability of these marshals was formidable.

Farouk stood up and took his place on the opposite side of the galley. His partner dropped back, shook the tension out of his arms, and bowed his head in prayer.

On the other side of the bulkhead, Geordie Griffin flattened himself and inched toward the pistol and the hands protruding past the bulkhead.

***

Crouched above the rearmost galley in the crawl space behind the life rafts, Charley Dey examined the lowering mechanism for the stairs and ceiling hatch. The hatch was designed to be opened from the other side to lower the stairs and access the packed life rafts. There was a storage area up here for napkins and other galley incidentals. He could open the hatch without too much noise, but as soon as it dropped the stairs would deploy downwards, blocking an immediate clear shot. It would prevent him from getting down without being shot and give the terrorists the opportunity to detonate their explosives. He peered at the panels surrounding the hatch. At least one was a suspended roof panel. He probed the edge of it gingerly. He could lift it up, if it wasn't fastened down on the far side of the panel, where he couldn't reach it.

***

DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT:

"What is the situation?" Simon Dinkey demanded. "Let me speak to the Air Marshal team leader!"

He snapped into the microphone as though he were dressing down a young lieutenant. Bob Tallbert, the Agent in Charge of the Hostage Rescue Team, looked at his counterpart from Delta, Colonel Bob Young, and shook his head negatively. Young nodded in agreement and pursed his lips in distaste.

"The team leader is busy. I am the Pilot In Command. Who the fuck are you? Put the controller back on, I've got an aircraft to land." Hilton's anger was clear.

Dinkey blinked. "I'm Simon Dinkey and I'm the Administrator's representative and...."
"Get off the air, Dinkey, we have an aircraft to land," the tower chief said as he took the microphone out of Dinkey's hand.

"We need a situation report!" Dinkey protested.

The tower chief ignored him. "107, this is Washington Center, you are cleared for approach, Runway 17, 17 is cleared for your approach."

"Roger, Washington Center, 17 is cleared for approach." There was a pause. "I'm putting one of the air marshals on."

Joan Slyce's voice came over the speaker. "Ground force command, this is Federal Air Marshal Unit 10, Alpha-3 on the deck. I authenticate charley alpha tango echo, charley alpha tango echo. This transmission is not secure, not secure. We have hostiles barricaded in the rear of the aircraft, we have echo x-ray papa unsecured in the cabin, unknown number of possible hostiles in among passengers. Flight deck, upper cabin, first class, first cabin of business secured, all else not secure, not secure."

"What is echo x-ray papa?" Tallbert demanded of Dinkey.

"I don't know," Dinkey said, reaching for the mike. Mike Crock snatched it before Dinkey could take it..

"It means they have unsecured explosives in the cabin," Crock said. He held the mike and said, "Alpha-3, Alpha 3, give locations of friendlies."

"Negative," Joan replied. "This transmission is not secure, not secure."

"Goddamnit," Dinkey snapped. "Give me that microphone."

"She can't say anything because however many terrorists are left can monitor her transmissions. She's trying to deny any information to who ever is left," Tallbert said. "I thought you knew what the fuck this was about, Dinkey?"

"I'll remind you that the FAA is in control of this aircraft, Special Agent Tallbert, until we turn over control, and..." Dinkey began.

"I'll take care of that right fucking now," Tallbert said. He took out a cellular phone and hit the speed dial. "Sir, this is Tallbert. I want handover right now. Yes, sir. Colonel Young is right here, sir. Yes, sir. Here, tell it to Mr. Dinkey." He handed the cellular phone to Dinkey.

The Director of the FBI said, "I'm sitting here with the Administrator, Mr. Dinkey. He has turned control of the aircraft over to us as soon as the wheels touch down and Air Traffic has done their job. Would you like to speak to him?"

"That won't be necessary," Dinkey said stiffly. He handed back the cellular phone to Tallbert.

Tallbert tucked it away and said to Young, "It's time for the Bob and Bob show."

Colonel Young's face was drawn into a fierce mask. "Let's go. Thank you for your assistance, and we'll maintain open comms," he said to the tower chief, pointedly ignoring Dinkey. "Let's go hunting," he said to Tallbert.

***

DELTA FLIGHT #107, FRANKFURT TO DULLES:

"You got him, Stevey?" Butch asked.

"Yeah, I got him," Steve said tersely. He focused in on his front sight, where Farouk's hand, weapon, and a slice of his face were visible past the galley bulkhead. The civilian who'd worked his way back to the bulkhead was inching up on that gun. The other terrorist was out of sight.

"He's going for it," Butch said. "He's gonna go for it."

***

"How much longer?" Joan asked the pilot.

"We should be on the ground in fifteen minutes," Walker said. "Where's your boss?"

"Taking care of business," Joan said. She looked over the bloody wreckage in the upper cabin, and the gaping hole in the back bulkhead that led into the support structure. "I hope."

***

Geordie took a deep breath and lunged for the pistol sticking out past the edge of the bulkhead. He grabbed it and yanked back, slamming the weapon and the terrorist's hand against the bulkhead. He struggled to keep control of the barrel, to keep it pointing up, away from the passengers, and succeeded so that when the weapon went off the bullet went into the ceiling.

The round punched through the ceiling panel forward of Charley and continued to punch a hole in the skin of the aircraft. Startled by the shot, Charley slipped off the I-beam and landed with all his 190 pounds on the thin fiber of the ceiling panel. The panel buckled and gave way beneath him. Charley fell feet first into the galley space, right on top of Farouk's partner. Charley dropped his Sig in an attempt to catch himself, and found himself wedged between the metal counter in the galley and the wildly struggling terrorists.

Charley kicked the terr away from him. He got his feet underneath him and charged the man, grabbing his gun hand and deflecting it down. The gun went off and Charley felt the punch, like a stab of steel rebar, in his Second Chance body armor. He held onto the gun and tried to turn the barrel into his opponent's chest. The terrorist's lips were skinned back from his teeth. He looked like a vicious lean faced rat with sweat matting his hair to his forehead. Charley brought his head down on the man's nose, breaking it. He slammed it down again and felt the man's grip on his pistol loosen. Charley went for the weapon strip and felt the pistol fall away. He slammed his elbow repeatedly into the terrorist's face and slammed his forearm into the side of the neck, trying for a brachial nerve stun. The terrorist stomped down onto Charley's foot, then drove his knee up, missing his groin but catching his ribs. The knee came up again, and Charley drove his thumb into his opponent's eye. The man bit Charley's hand, and Charley shoved his fingers into the man's mouth, between his gums and his mouth and ripped up. The terrorist's hand came up and Charley grabbed the man's face and armbarred him around into a figure 4 choke, then into a neck break as he threw his weight forward and back. He heard the vertebrae go and he twisted the neck hard to the left to be sure, before he let the terrorist drop.

Geordie Griffin had his hands full. His terrorist turned out to be about the same size as him, 165 pounds and full of fight. The gun had gone off twice, and then somebody had jumped right down out of the goddamn ceiling and scared the shit out of both of them. It was right about then that Geordie lost track of the gun and so did his terrorist, who lost interest in Geordie, and seemed intent on getting to something down under the counter. Whatever it was, it wasn't good, so Geordie whaled into that boy like his momma had wailed into her area rug. Geordie caught a finger in the eye, and returned the favor with a hooking punch to the floating ribs, which doubled the hijacker over and bounced him off the back counter of the galley and onto the floor.

"No!" Geordie heard. He looked and it was the guy who had fallen through the ceiling, lunging at the terrorist Geordie had knocked down. The terrorist held a book sized portable radio in his hand, and pushed a button on its side.

***

"There's somebody else back there fighting!" Butch said.

"I can't get a shot unless the civilian rolls free," Steve snapped. He blinked the sweat out of his face. The plane was descending rapidly. He heard the change in the tenor of the engines.

The pilot's voice came over the intercom. "Stand-by for landing, fasten your seat belts, fasten your seat-belts, standby by for landing."

The flight attendants looked at each other and hurried to buckle themselves in. Several of them chose to brace themselves in the doorwells or on the galley floors rather than to cross the free fire zone of the aisles.

"We're going in!" one of them shouted.

***

A loud burst of static came over the radio as Walker Hilton lined his aircraft up for his final approach. "What the fuck is that?" he said.

***

DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT:

Simon Dinkey stood in front of a bank of cameras. CNN was in the forefront. Behind him the runway was lined with the blinking lights of emergency equipment. The camera men scuttled to frame Dinkey with the ponderous approach of Flight 107 in the background as it descended onto the runway.

"Behind me you can see Flight 107 coming in, safe in the custody of US Federal Air Marshals, who have prevented a mid-air hijacking attempt by as yet unknown perpetrators..." Simon began, brushing his carefully styled hair back.

There was a boom, audible over all the other background noise, and the eyes of the world saw a fireball burst from the rear left side of the 747.

***

FRANKFURT, GERMANY:

"You cock sucker," George Baumgarner said to Ahmad Ajai. He lunged across the table at the Iranian and struck him several times before the German police pulled him away.

On the CNN broadcast, the rest of the shocked men in the interrogation room saw the 747 wobble and the wings begin to yaw.

***

DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT:

When Farouk Hamas pressed the button, the steady beep became a single sharp tone as a radio signal boosted by the extra battery packs went to the activated receiver in the suitcase bomb packed into the baggage hold. Planted there in Frankfurt as a fail-safe device, the bomb, containing almost two pounds of military explosive, detonated perfectly. It shattered the aluminum baggage container, which channeled the blast and blew out the compartment door and much of the surrounding aluminum skin, laying bare the stringers and runners of the airframe. Baggage and pieces of aircraft blew out into the sky. If the plane had been at altitude, where explosive decompression and greater speeds would have been factors, the rush of air past the exposed airframe would have ripped the plane apart. But since it was lower and slower, the damage, while considerable, was limited to the baggage compartment and a relatively small surface area and had little impact on its air worthiness.

***

Walker Hilton felt the plane shudder under his hands and the thump that rose from the floorboards. He focused on the runway coming up beneath him and the lights of the emergency equipment ahead. A whole series of lights flashed into life on his panel; the one that scared him was the one that said "Fire in Baggage Hold." He kept the nose up and felt the sudden thump as the plane bounced once, twice, then settled in on its huge tires as he threw the engines into reverse and dropped the flaps full.

"Dulles Tower, this is 107, I have fire warning in Baggage compartment, I say again, I have fire warning in baggage compartment," Walker snapped into his microphone.

***

Charley felt the thump under his feet and knew then that something had gone. He snatched the radio away from the grinning Farouk, who caught a kick in the side from the enraged Geordie.

"Did he just blow us up?" Geordie demanded.

The plane shifted underneath their feet and the two men stumbled into each other as Farouk grabbed the counter to hold himself.

"We are all going to die!" Farouk shouted.

Steve Paulson braced himself with one hand in the forward galley as he felt the plane shift. His Sig was locked to the bulkhead wall as though it were clamped. Farouk was clear and Stevey double-tapped him twice in the chest from 30 yards away.

"You first," Steve said as the plane thumped down and he lost his balance, falling backward.

***

"Who's shooting, goddamnit!" Geordie shouted from the floor. Farouk slumped down, clutching his hands to his torso, two bloody holes six inches apart in his chest.

"Don't let him get his hands onto anything," Charley said.

All their weight shifted forward as the plane went into reverse and full brake. Charley stayed on the floor and curled himself around the carry-on bag the terrorist had been struggling to get to. He opened it up and saw the bundles of explosives inside, with another radio set on top. Charley grabbed the carry-on and stuffed it beneath him as he crawled on all fours to the left rear door.

"What are you doing?" Geordie shouted over the screams of the passengers. He looked forward, and saw smoke coming up through the floor. "The fucking plane is on fire!"

Charley crawled into the door well. He hit the buttons that opened the door and activated the slide. The door swung out and then slammed to the rear. A cloud of smoke sucked in. Charley pushed the carry-on bag out the rear door.

***

Bob Tallbert had his HRT shooters arrayed alongside and inside the emergency vehicles, backed up by Bob Young's eager Delta commandos. The fire chief stood on the running board of his vehicle with Tallbert.

"They've set the goddamn plane on fire!" the chief shouted. "The pilot is gonna stop it right there. We've got to get those people out, Tallbert!"

"We'll cover your people, but we're going to have to treat the pax like hostiles till we've got them cleared," Tallbert said. He issued terse commands through his throat mike, turned and pointed at Young, doubled his fist and pumped it twice. "C'mon, chief!" Tallbert roared, the fight in him. He slung his MP-5 at the ready. "Let's go save some lives!"

The emergency vehicles pulled out and raced along side the wounded 747. Billowing smoke and a few early flickers of flame started up out of the baggage compartment and the gaping hole around it. As the plane slowed, the left rearmost passenger door popped open and something fell out.

"Are they jumping out of the damn plane?" Tallbert asked.

"I don't know. Did anyone see if that was a passenger jumping out of the open door?" the Chief shouted into his handset.

The explosive package Charley pushed out the door detonated about twenty five yards from a racing firetruck laden with fireman, rescue personnel, and a handful of Delta commandos. The concussion collapsed the windshield of the firetruck and the panicked driver drove the vehicle off the runway into the grassy drainage where it tipped over on its side, spilling equipment and injured men.

"Delta 6, Delta 6, this is Assault 2, we're taking fire from the rear of the aircraft! They're throwing satchel charges at the emergency vehicles, we've lost one vehicle!" came the transmission from Tallbert's handset.

Tallbert snapped into his handset. "Scout snipers, scout snipers this is Hurt 6, Hurt 6, glass and confirm open door, glass and confirm last report of terrorists throwing satchel charges."

"Do we have a green light to engage on confirmation?" came a reply from one of his snipers.

"Roger, green light on confirmation, green light on confirmation, all guns are go."

On the terminal rooftop, across the hoods of vehicles, and in grassy hides around the designated aircraft stop point, the best snipers in the world trained their high-powered scopes and rifles on the open rear door of the 747.

***

The plane slowed to a halt. Walker Hilton looked at the board and saw more fire warning lights starting to light up.

"We're going to have to evacuate right now," he said to the flight engineer.

"I can't get off this fucking plane fast enough," the flight engineer said.

"We've got passengers to get off! Get yourself together!"

The flight engineer struggled with himself. "We can get these people out, but we have to get out quick, Walker. We don't have much time."

The co-pilot hit the switches to put on the intercom. "Ladies and gentleman, remain calm. Flight attendants, man your doors for immediate evacuation. Man your doors for immediate evacuation."

The passengers were screaming in the back of the plane. The loudest cries came from the section filling up with smoke, where they could feel the floor heating up beneath their feet.

"Mommy, mommy we're going to burn!" screamed a little girl.

"Listen up people, nobody's gonna burn, stay calm," said Geordie Griffin, starting down the aisle. "We're going to get out on the right side of the aircraft, that's your right, no, your other right, fella, let's go, get these women and children over there." He stooped and picked up the frightened girl who had seen him first climb over the seat backs. "Miss, you need to get right over there by that door, here, take this here baby with you while I get her mama out." He handed the young woman the screaming little girl, then lifted the mother, frozen with fear, out of her seat and carried her across the empty seats to the far aisle. Charley Dey yanked on the manual controls and opened the door. The slide exploded outwards.

"You!" Charley grabbed a young soldier. "Out the door first, soldier, get to the bottom and help the rest out!" He threw the man into the door. The young soldier slid to the bottom, turned and yelled, "C'mon!"

***

"They're evacuating the aircraft," Tallbert snapped into his throat mike. "Perimeter 1 and 2, set up initial perimeter; Perimeter 3 and 4, establish hostage processing point, co-locate with medical triage unit, any serious casualties to be examined for weapons and explosives; Support 1, deploy uniforms to medical reception facility to secure all wounded pax; Scout Snipers, give me confirmation on hostile movement in rear doors."

John Onofrey, brother to Mad Max Onofrey of ISA, was one of Delta's premier snipers. He was bellied up behind his .300 Winchester Magnum, a custom rifle built on a Sako action in a MacMillan kevlar stock and a stainless steel Douglas custom bull barrel, with a 6x24 Kahles scope. The stock was cemented to his cheek, his eye the exact offset necessary for his parallax. The cross hairs were dead center on Charley Dey's back.

"I do not have hostile confirmation, Hurt 6, I say again, I have acquired a possible target, but I do not have hostile confirmation. It looks as though he's helping the pax out the door. No hostile confirmation. There are at least two bodies in the back on the floor, and one man helping pax out the far door. This is Scout Sniper 4, out," Onofrey whispered into his throat mike.

Tallbert watched as his hand picked agents, backed up by teams of black clad Delta commandos, wove in and out of the rescue personnel, racing towards the plane and the first passengers sliding down the escape chutes. He looked up, and saw the doors pop on the upper flight deck, and a ladder come down from the cockpit. The escape chute popped open on the upper passenger deck and a woman stuck her head out and saw the fire on that side of the aircraft. She disappeared back in.

"Command and control, this is Hurt 6. We've got movement on the upper deck as well. Scout snipers, give me some intel."

Martin Thomas, an HRT sniper folded over the hood of an unmarked squad, glassed the door. "One female up and mobile..two females and one male, operating the opposite side escape chute, one female assisting the other female and the male out the chute...smoke obscuring...appears to be a flight crew member and the female assisting another flight crew member out the slide..."

On the other side of the aircraft, another scout sniper confirmed. "Roger on that last, wounded personnel upstairs being off loaded, rescue personnel are moving up the wing to them now. The female is going back in."

***

Joan went back into the upstairs cabin after seeing the two passengers down the slide. "Out, now!" she shouted at Walker and the flight engineer. The flight engineer needed no further urging; he was out the door and down the slide onto the wing, where rescue personnel picked him up. Two black-clad HRT shooters appeared in the open escape door.

"Come out now!" the first HRT called to Joan.

"No! I don't leave my dead!" Joan shouted. She grabbed the heavy weight of Donald Gene Nelson under his arms and dragged him to the door.

"Who is that?" the HRT said. "He's dead."

"My partner," Joan said, out of breath.

The two HRT shooters looked at each other, then slung their guns.

"Let us help you, marshal," the first one said.

***

It seemed like the stream of bodies never ended. There was always another one to take the place of the next going out the door. Charley and Geordie handed the passengers out, the flight attendants herding them along to each door. The smoke was whirling up thickly now, and fire trucks were outside directing spray, chemicals and water, onto the blazing baggage compartment. Charley saw a black balaclavaed head, then the sub-machine gun and the torso of a shooter come wiggling through one of the left side forward doors, forward of the blaze, followed by several more. Two of them split off and sprinted down the aisle and came in the back of the galley, pausing over the two dead terrorists.

Charley shouted at them. "Charley Dey, Alpha-1! You got comms with the ground?"

"Confirm Dey in right rear door," the first shooter said. "I'm HRT, Dey."

"I don't need shooters right now. I need somebody to get these people off."

"Roger that," the HRT said. "Hurt 6, this is Assault 2 Alpha, status on fire, over." The black clad man nodded his head, listening intently. "Roger Hurt 6. Dey, the boss says the hell with the crime scene, get the bodies off. We're supposed to watch your back till everybody's clear and then carry you out if we have to."

Charley stepped aside and let the other HRT step in and start handing people out. "What about the rest of my people? I've got one upstairs, one in first class, one in business and a couple in the first part of coach."

"The one upstairs and her partner are clear," the HRT said.

"What partner?"

"She wouldn't leave without her partner. He didn't make it."

"He was dead when we landed."

"Yeah. She said she wasn't going to leave her dead. My boys helped her take him out of there."

"Thanks," Charley said. "Thank you very much. What about the others?"

"Not clear. They're working doors, according to our snipers. Which one of these two," he gestured at the bodies, "was throwing satchel charges out the door?"

"It wasn't a satchel charge. It was an explosives package meant to go off in here and kill us. I put it out the door."

"That charge took out an emergency vehicle...hurt some people."

"Anybody killed?"

"Not yet."

"Had to be done...it would have taken the back of this plane off."

"Shit. Yeah. Let's get out of here, Dey -- it's getting too damn hot."

***

Butch and Jon worked the escape doors, with Steve hanging back to cover them in case any remaining terrorists charged out of the herd of escaping passengers. Four HRT shooters burst down the aisle behind Steve, MP-5s drawn down on him.

"Put the weapon down!" one shouted.

Steve opened his fingers, leaving his thumb and forefinger on the weapon. "Federal Air Marshal, Paulson, Delta 1, authenticate charley alpha tango echo, what do you want me to do?"

"Set the weapon down, Paulson! Interlock your fingers and step back!"

Jon turned and said, "He's a fucking marshal!"

An HRT drew down on Jon. "We don't know that yet. Stay where you are. Keep your hands in sight."

"Jon! Don't do anything stupid!" Steve and Butch spoke simultaneously.

"Sorry, Jon," the HRT said. "We got do it this way."

"Cred and ID in my left inner pocket," Steve intoned.

An HRT reached into Steve's jacket and pulled out the folding ID case, nodded. "Sorry, Steve." He bent and handed him back the Sig. "Here you go, marshal."

***

Karen and Kirsten, the lead flight attendant, handed the people out the front passenger loading doors. Four big HRT shooters came up a stair ladder and into the first class cabin.

"First class secure, stairwell secure!" one shouted.

"Where's the air marshal?" another said.

"Right here," Karen said.

The senior FBI agent looked at the small blond woman, her dress stained with blood and urine, deep lines drawn in her white face. "You're the marshal?" he said.

"You goddamn right she is, motherfucker," Stacy Bagley said from behind him.

***

"Get everybody off that airplane now!" Bob Tallbert said. "There's unsecured explosives onboard. I want everybody off, I don't care if they've almost got the fire contained. I don't want anyone within 100 yards of that aircraft except for fire personnel! Get them clear, now!"

"What about the crime scene, boss?" said the voice of Assault 2 Alpha in Tallbert's earpiece.

"We'll worry about the crime scene once we've got the souls clear, 2 Alpha. I want the live ones first."

"Roger that, boss. 2 Alpha clear."

***

Stacy Bagley limped across the grassy median to where Joan Slyce sat, a medic hovering over her. Beside her, a sheet covered Donald Gene's body. Stacy said, "How you making it, friend girl?"

"I'm making it, Stacy. Have you seen Charley?"

"He's coming. He was the last out. He was throwing passengers out the door till the HRT threw him out."

"Karen and the boys?"

"Over there," Stacy gestured.

"Anybody else make it?"

"No. They all bought it."

"Where are they?"

"The firecrew promised to get them off first. They're not going to burn. They just about got the fire out. Most of it blew out when the bomb went off."

"Yeah," Joan said.

Stacy knelt beside Donald Gene's body. She pulled the sheet away from Don's face and carefully folded it back on his chest. "Oh, look what they done to you, baby," she whispered. "Look what they done to my baby." She brushed the hair back from Don's face, rested her fingertips on his closed eyes, on his lips. She leaned and kissed his brow. "Good bye, baby," she said.

***

FRANKFURT, GERMANY:

"Guess what, buddy?" John Bolen said. "Seems somebody had your prints after all, Mr. Ahmad Ajai. Welcome to your nightmare, my friend. You get to take a ride on a C-141 Starlifter, with me and my boys to baby-sit and tune you up a little. We're going to a little place I know right outside of Williamsburg, Virginia. And my good poker buddy Mr. Eli Cohen will be going along to keep you company."

Bolen studied the impassive Ahmad Ajai.

"Charley Dey killed all your shooters, Ahmad Ajai. Every single one of them. The bomb went off, but it didn't kill anybody." Bolen didn't mention the men critically injured by the charge thrown from the aircraft.

"There will be others," Ahmad Ajai said, formally.

"Not after we get through with you. What we're going to do to you is going to make what you did to Bucknell Leigh look like a picnic. Count on that."

***

DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT:

"Five marshals dead, all the rest wounded. Fourteen dead terrorists, one wounded pilot, seven injured passengers, one dead and two injured flight attendants, no other casualties," Tallbert said. He looked Charley Dey up and down appraisingly.

Colonel Young shook Charley's hand. "Welcome back, Charley. I'm sorry about Don."

"You two know each other?" Tallbert said.

"Charley taught me some things in Southeast Asia," Colonel Young said.

"Where are my people?" Charley said.

"They're OK. The medics are looking them over. We're going to need to get them all together now and start on statements, Dey. We're processing the passengers right now. It's going to be a long night," Tallbert said. He looked over his shoulder. "Here comes that asshole," he muttered.

Simon Dinkey strode right past the wounded marshals without saying a word. A television crew followed him up to the three leaders.

"Who let that TV crew through the perimeter!" Tallbert bellowed. Two of his black clad shooters stopped in front of the three television people. Simon Dinkey said, "Let them through, they're under my escort."

"Bullshit," said Tallbert. "Get them out of here!" he directed his shooters.

"Wait a minute, we're live!" the newscaster protested.

The HRTs hesitated.

"We want an interview with the team leader," said Dinkey. "I've authorized it." He looked at Dey. "Where's Harold, Dey?"

"He's dead, you stupid fuck," Charley said.

"Get out! Now! This is a crime scene, this team leader is a material witness, and we are processing it! Get out now!" Tallbert shouted.

"Dey, I..." Dinkey started.

Charley lunged for him, and it took both Tallbert and Young to stop him. One of the HRTs stepped forward and pushed the camera lens away. Dinkey went to push him back, and caught a butt stroke from the HRT MP-5.

"You touch me again, mister, you're going to jail for assaulting a federal officer," the young HRT said warmly.

"Clear this scene," Tallbert repeated. This time there was no hesitation from his agents. "That cock sucker is history," Tallbert promised, watching Dinkey being led away.

***

WASHINGTON, DC:

"Does that man work for me?" the FAA Administrator asked General Stone in the Command Center, as they watched the scene played out on CNN.

"Which one?"

"The one with the camera crew."

"Yes, sir."

"He doesn't anymore."

General Stone sighed. "Understood, sir."

 

***