IN THE SHROUDED DARKNESS of Ashley’s unconscious mind, an undefined existence flickered. It grew like a pinpoint of light that increased in brightness. This light, her awareness, flooded the emptiness with a blood red pain that seared the core of her being, forcing consciousness to surface. Her eyes opened.
She floated on a bed of agony. Amid this misery, her mother's sweet face appeared. It comforted her when life became cruel and unbearable. She heard her mother’s words from faraway. Ashley, when they knock you down and kick you, reach up and grab their foot and twist it until it hurts. Yes. Yes, I must fight back. But the pain is so great, Mamma. Only then did she realize the meaning of the pain. It was a sign that told her she was alive.
The blinding light faded as Ashley focused on an object in front of her. A black object. Not far away. She strained to make it out. She closed her eyes, then tried again. Finally she realized–it’s my coat sleeve. Fear swept through her as she questioned how wounded she might be. She began to test her senses. First, she moved her head. That hurt, but she could turn it in every direction. Then her left arm. It moved only a few inches. She studied her arm and found a handcuff around her left wrist and another cuff around her right arm. Ashley became aware that she was lying on a hard surface that vibrated along with a distant roar. The pounding in her head eased as she focused on her surroundings that were dimly lit by rows of square windows. The hard metal floor tilted back and forth slightly. It led to curved walls and a concave ceiling. The sound, the vibration–she knew that combination, but couldn’t place it. Then it came to her. She was in an aircraft. An aircraft in flight.
She moved her legs–they responded. Bunched around her feet were her pants. She rubbed one leg against the other and felt her ankle holster still in place. Did it hold her revolver? She rolled over onto her side. Her breasts and most of her lower body lay naked. A coldness gripped her. Naked? She concentrated on how she felt in her most private parts, and sensed a rawness that shouldn't be there.
The handcuffs dug into her wrists when she tried to sit up. The chain that linked each cuff hit against a steel rod bolted to the floor. Her vision began to clear. The rod, part of a four-legged structure, had a metal box clamped to the top. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to clear her head. At that moment a shaft of light struck her when a door opened and a man's form advanced toward her. She rolled flat on the floor in an effort to protect herself, and turned her head, glancing up.
The man knelt down on one knee, grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head, causing the pain to intensify. "I see you are still alive," he said without expression on his face. He let go of her and wiped his hand on her sleeve. "I want you to live so you can die with me." On the floor he sat cross legged only inches away. "My name is Bashir, but then you know that, don't you?"
Ashley made no response.
"How do you like my plane?" He waved a hand over his head. "I call her The Awakening. Allah the Bringer of Death has allowed me to prepare her so I can advance His will. You shall share in this great deed.” A flicker of sadness crossed his face. “It's unfortunate that no one, other than you and I, will know of your sacrifice.” Ashley believed his sincerity, ridiculous as that sounded.
"Oh yes, I have bad news." He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a smashed phone. "Right after we took off 15 minutes ago, you got a call, but before I explained your predicament," he mouth twisted into a hard line, "I stepped on it." Bashir dropped the smashed phone on the deck next to the platform and continued. "Since you will join me in this monumental endeavor, you should know what is about to happen." He placed each elbow on his knees and clasped his hands in front of his face. "Above you I have mounted a bomb. It is small, as atomic bombs go, but I plan to maximize its potential. I understand it will kill at least a quarter of a million Americans in Las Vegas, Nevada, maybe more and hundreds of thousands over the next few weeks and months. That will happen five hours from now. Nothing can prevent it. The bomb is already armed. A radar altimeter, measuring our distance to the ground, is integrated into the detonator. The bomb, activated a few minutes ago, when we climbed above 1000 feet, will detonate when we descend below 500 feet. Even I cannot disarm it. But then I suspect you know nothing of altimeters."
Ashley remained silent.
His eyes traveled up and down her body. "You don't look like a Jew." His forehead wrinkled. "But then what does a disease look like until you learn about the plague it causes?" He leaned forward and slipped his hand under her breast. "Oh, by the way," he said showing yellow teeth through curved lips, "as you Americans like to brag, you were a great piece-of-ass."
From deep within her stomach an uncontrollable spasm forced a projectile of vomit to spew forth splattering Bashir face. He recoiled, instantly rolling away from her and then crawled to a crouched position. Crying out in horror he dashed to the rear of the plane to wash himself. Her reaction may have been caused by his touch, his words or as a symptom of her concussion. Whatever the reason, she felt pleasure for the first time.
When he returned, Ashley stiffened expecting his anger. She waited for him to kick and beat her, but it didn't happen. Instead Bashir skirted her as if avoiding a source of deadly radiation. He slammed the cockpit door behind him.
Ashley rested her head on the cold hard deck. She had no idea a cup of coffee and two chocolate chip cookies could smell so bad, but then she didn't know she would be knocked unconscious, raped, and chained to an atomic bomb either.
Time to reach up, grab a foot and twist it.
The handcuffs. They were her cuffs: the Model 100 made by Smith and Wesson–standard equipment used by most law enforcement agencies in the country. Years ago the Chicago PD issued her a shiny new set of cuffs with a looped key that locked them. Fearful she might lose the key, she had studied the locking mechanism and taught herself how to pick the lock. All she needed was a bobby pin, and about 30 seconds to bend it into the right shape.
She didn't own a bobby pin and suspected few people of her generation knew what one looked like or that they were used to hold hair in place. She must improvise. Maybe a small nail or wire.
Ashley lay still and concentrated while fighting the urge to panic. She did an inventory of everything within her reach. The smashed phone proved useless. Her blouse had buttons, and her pants at her feet contained a few coins–no help. Under her armpit she felt the leather folder that held her badge. The badge had a flat metal clip. Worthless. She pictured the folder in her mind. Aside from the badge, it held her ID card. The last time she used it she had shown the folder to Emilio Ortiz through the glass doors. She had, also, shown Emilio the picture of Bashir clipped to the outside. Her thought froze. Clipped to the outside. A paper clip. Yes, a paper clip is a wire about the size of a small bobby pin. She had to get the folder out of the inside pocket of her coat and get that clip. If still there it might be possible to get free.
She positioned herself to dislodge the folder. By lifting her body forward, and then dropping down and back again, she worked the inside pocket around in front of her. She saw a corner of the leather protruding. Using the side of her right leg she shimmied her body up, forcing her head under the metal platform. The jacket lapel snagged on the floor-bolt, blocking the pocket from her reach. With her teeth she bit the upper lapel of her coat and pulled up. On the third try the pocket slipped off of the bolt and past the metal leg. As she forced her hand down toward the folder, the handcuffs dug into her wrist. Her thumb made contact, but she needed a finger to grasp it. Her thumbnail slipped and pushed the edge deeper inside.
Ashley rested a moment, then brought both legs up and arched her back. Straining with all of her strength she nudged the folder with a knee. Each time she pushed, it edged out a fraction of an inch. Totally pissed, she hit it hard enough to reach it with her left hand, grip it and pull it free. Hoping to see a paper clip, she turned it over. The clip contrasted against the dark brown leather. Ashley dropped her head down on her arm and said a silent prayer.
Almost there.
She slipped the paper clip off the folder and straightened it. Then inserted one end halfway into the lock and turned it to a 90 degree angle. Next she bent the clip in the opposite direction creating an S shape. She then opened the handcuff on her left hand. In seconds she unlocked the right handcuff, sat up, and rubbed her wrists. That effort caused her to feel dizzy and her eyes to lose focus. It passed after a few seconds.
I'm free.
She buttoned her blouse, stood and pulled up her pants. The ankle holster held her Ruger handgun. What to do now? Ashley examined the bomb Bashir had described. It appeared too small to be so deadly, but at least five people had died to make this flight possible and two more will die in a few hours along with thousands more.
Ashley determined the plane must have hauled cargo because there were no seats. Seven small square windows lined both sides of the fuselage. She looked out and judged they were at twelve thousand feet which meant the aircraft was pressurized allowing flight at higher altitudes.
Bashir had warned no one could set off the bomb, but if she could, would it be high enough to be harmless? She remembered reading about the two atomic bombs dropped at the end of World War II, but didn't know how big they were or at what altitude they detonated.
Ashley stepped over to the platform and studied the bomb. Like her mother that September day in New York, she knew she would die, but wanted it to mean something. Bashir said it was armed and would explode at 500 feet. The only way to be certain the bomb killed no one was to fly this aircraft to an uninhibited place. There was only one way to do that. She had to kill Bashir.
Ashley moved her gun from the ankle holster to her pants pocket and walked to a spot next to the hinged side of the cockpit door. She must think this through. Bashir was a slimy bastard, but also smart and determined. She would get one chance. She had to get it right the first time.
She leaned against the bulkhead and imagined the layout of the cockpit she had to enter to kill Bashir. Ashley had never been in a DC 3, but she had flown many twin engine planes. She imagined two seats with power controls between them, instruments arrayed in front of the pilots, and communication equipment overhead. Bashir would be in the captains' seat, port side. She had the benefit of surprise on her side, but she’d have to get to him fast and shoot him in the top of his head. A side shot might compromise pressurization and destabilize flight. The corners of her mouth turned up. No holes in the plane, babe.
At that moment the cockpit door opened, Bashir walked into the cabin, looked down and froze. Ashley's right hand went into her pocket. He turned. She brought up the gun. He screamed and lunged for her. She fired without aim. A great howling sound engulfed them. He grabbed her arm. She fired again. His head jerked back. Disbelieving eyes widened. Ashley shoved him with her left hand. He fell at her feet, blood gushing from his head. The cabin depressurized. Ashley's ears plugged–all sound disappeared.
She sidestepped and aimed at his head. Her finger pressed on the trigger. With tight lips she whispered, "what’s one more bullet between friends?” He lay motionless, but still breathing. She hesitated then stepped to the feet of the body, took aim and kicked him in the balls, hard. No reaction. She tucked the gun in her pocket.
That first bullet–the wild bullet–had pierced one of those square windows causing it to disintegrate. Air shrieked out through the shattered glass. She pinched her nose and blew hard. With a whistling sound, her ears cleared.
Ashley pulled his foot over to the platform and handcuffed his ankle to the same metal leg she knew so well. While he probably wasn’t the bobby pin type, she knew she had to immobilize him in a more permanent manner.
In the rear she found three locked compartments across from the restroom. She opened one with a well-placed kick. Inside she found tools, a coil of electrical wire, duct tape, and a length of 2 x 4 wood.
She tied Bashir's arms to the wood as he lay on his back and his other ankle to the opposite platform leg. With the tape, Ashley reinforced each body part and slapped a hunk of it on the head wound to slow the bleeding. Bashir now resembled a nonlethal crucifixion. Tying Bashir in a spread-eagle position gave Ashley guilty pleasure. It almost made her plight worth it–almost. She considered cutting his pants off, but decided it would not be lady-like, and would in fact be disgusting. She did carefully slip Bashir’s cell phone out of his pants pocket in case she needed a communication backup. After checking her handiwork, she felt satisfied Bashir Hashim would stay put right under his beloved bomb.
When she stood, a pain stabbed her head and she felt dizzy again. She grabbed the platform and held on until it faded. The cockpit door swayed as the plane reacted to a change in wind velocity.
Time to go to work.