Jerome Zindell stood near the navigation table in the control room of the submarine. He had scrawled the original name for the old boat — Trout — on a sheet of paper and taped it over the metal nameplate where the Iranians had the word Sharaf etched. Zindell looked up at the new paper nameplate for several seconds before he hunched over his navigation chart. "I expect a visual contact any moment," he said without looking at the man he spoke with. "We'll stay at periscope depth from now until the sighting."
"Yessir." Clifton Harrison peeked over the Captain's shoulder and at the chart on the desk. "Olga and I will take turns at the scope."
"Very well." Zindell nodded to indicate that the conversation was ended. He watched as Harrison scrambled up the ladder that led to the conning tower and the periscope. Satisfied, he looked around the rest of the control room.
Since they had submerged at dawn, the mood aboard the boat had changed markedly. It always did. The red lights that had bathed the control room and conning tower in an eerie, surrealist glow were gone, replaced by the normal white lighting they used during daylight conditions. The surface of the sea was choppy but since they were submerged — even to a relatively shallow depth so the periscope could be used — there remained only a slight fore-and-aft rocking motion in the boat, gentle enough to go unnoticed. Being beneath the sea was the most pleasant location for a submarine.
Unless something goes wrong. Zindell took a deep breath, laid the calipers down on the navigation chart, then leaned against the table. He allowed his gaze to wander aimlessly across the score of gauges that dotted the port bulkhead. U.S.S. Thresher lost at sea. One hundred and twenty-nine dead. That's what the headlines had said. But Zindell knew that the actual figure was 130. His father had been aboard. Yet no one, other than a handful of military people, would ever know what happened to retired Admiral Alex Zindell.
The decision had come down quickly from the Pentagon. Don't admit Admiral Zindell's presence. It might tip off the Soviets about the actual mission the Thresher was on when it went down, since it was well known that the retired admiral worked for years on techniques to make nuclear subs more silent during deep dives. The decision to cover up his presence on the Thresher had been made offhandedly somewhere within the bowels of the Pentagon, probably as nothing more than an overreaction by a junior aide. But it had turned his father into a nonentity. No official eulogy, no official mention. Nothing.
Zindell stood upright and stretched his legs. "I'm stiff as hell," he said to no one in particular.
"Me, too, Captain," the man a few feet away at the bow plane controls answered. "Stiff. Dead tired, too. When we finish, I'm going to rent a plush hotel room for a week. I'm not going to get out of bed."
"Good idea." Zindell felt the tension travel in knots along the muscles of his calves and thighs. He knew it was partly because of the slight swaying of the boat that demanded constant compensation — getting your sea legs, it was called — and partly because of the level of their work and tension of the situation.
"It's no wonder I see myself coming and going," the bow planesman continued. "We've got twelve people doing the work of seventy-five. We've got one hell of a small crew."
"True."
"But I'm not complaining," the man added quickly. He didn't want to appear like a crybaby, especially to the Captain. There were rumors of a possible bonus, on top of the generous guarantees they had already received for these few weeks of work. "For what we're getting, it's worth it."
"Right." But even Zindell could sympathize with the complaints. They had been operating the boat continuously for eight days with less than one-fifth the normal crew. They needed to work double shifts to cover two and three stations simultaneously, with just a few hours break here and there for eating and sleeping. The strain had begun to show. Zindell turned away from the bow planesman, rocked his head back and forth to ease the tension in his neck, then began to rub his right hand against the stub of his shoulder where his left arm had once been.
Bastards. Look what they've done to me. Even after seven years, he still found it difficult to believe that his arm was gone. It had been sliced off in a pigpen of a Turkish hospital after his accident — an injury that should have ended with his arm being saved, had there been a decent medical facility around. Zindell remembered vividly the moment when the Turkish Lieutenant tugged on exactly the wrong handles at the wrong time during the demonstration of how to release the emergency underwater flares.
The flares had exploded backward toward them. It killed the Turk instantly and injured several of the others gathered in the aft torpedo room. It took most of the flesh off Zindell's left arm. The sight of the exposed bone beneath the charred skin and shattered muscles was still the theme of many of his nightmares.
Zindell picked up the navigation calipers and bent down over the chart again. He thought about how ironic it was that he had lost his arm while trying to train the Turks in the use of the old sub they had bought from the U.S. Navy. He wondered idly if any Americans had suffered injuries during the initial training on the Trout. Probably not, but you could never tell. Iranians. Turks. They were all the same. They were all idiots.
Because of his injury, the Navy had forcibly retired Zindell. Sent him packing. The monthly disability checks came on time, but they were far from enough to cover what he had lost. No one had asked him how he felt about being medically retired. His whole life — since he was a young boy being led around the base by his father — had been involved with the Navy, with the submarine service. Jerome Zindell knew that he had become a nonentity, just like his father. He hadn't lost just an arm in the submarine service, he had lost two lives. His father's. His own.
Zindell was deep in thought when the first sounds — a muttered voice, followed by a loud shout, then a thud — reached him. He spun around and stepped quickly into the companion-way that led aft, just in time to see the man on the other side of the bulkhead crash back onto the deck. "Stop it!"
But the man paid no attention. He scrambled to his feet. His face was red with rage, his eyes wide. The man — Carlos Sanchez, one of the control system personnel — fumbled with the pocket flap of his dirty windbreaker, then pulled out a knife. "Cerdo!" He had spit out the word contemptuously as he glared across the compartment at someone on the far side. "You pig! I will kill you!"
"Sanchez! Stop! I order you!" Zindell took a half step forward. He couldn't see who the other man involved in the fight was, but it didn't matter. Right or wrong made no difference, they had no men to spare anyway. Zindell thought for a moment about his pistol, which was locked in the combination safe in the Captain's cabin. That was thirty feet forward of where he stood.
The sound of the bolas as it whirled through the air filled the room. An instant later there was a yelp of pain from Sanchez. He dropped his knife to the floor and turned.
Olga stood at the aft entrance to the crew's mess, her legs straddling the ledge of the watertight door, the pearl-handled knife held in her outstretched hand. She had caught Sanchez around the forearm, the leather strands of the bolas cinched tightly down around the fabric of his windbreaker.
"Leave it on the floor." Olga stepped over to him and, with one flick of her right hand, unwound the bolas from Sanchez's arm as if it were an obedient snake. "If you make a move for your knife, I will wrap these leather strands around your balls. I would be willing to bet, senor, that the pressure from the metal balls of the bolas would be enough to make your own balls fall off." It was obvious from Olga's smile that she would welcome the chance to make good her threat, to show off her skill.
Sanchez eyed her for several seconds. Finally, he turned to Zindell. "Comandante," he said in a strained voice. "This man has insulted me. I cannot work with him. Not any longer." Sanchez pointed toward the corner of the compartment.
"Leave your knife where it is. Go to the forward torpedo room. Immediately. I'll be there shortly." Zindell stepped aside to allow Sanchez to pass. The only advantage of having a small crew was that it was easier to figure out who was doing what and who wasn't, easier to separate the men. That last part was a requirement in dealing with personnel problems in such a confined area. Sanchez would be taken aside and reasoned with. But Zindell also knew that he had to deal with the other man in the fight, whoever he was. He stepped into the compartment.
Ned Pierce smiled arrogantly, the gold fillings in his teeth contrasting conspicuously against his dark-brown skin. "Sorry, Captain," he said, both of them knowing full well that he wasn't sorry in the least. "A little joke. A misunderstanding. Nothing to get worked up over."
Zindell walked directly up to him. He knew that any hesitation would be interpreted as personal weakness on his part — a condition he couldn't tolerate, not now, not ever. "Second time for you. You're more than half the way to court martial," Zindell said in a low, threatening voice, his face only inches from Pierce. "Aboard the Trout — especially on this cruise — there is only one possible outcome, one possible sentence for a court martial." Zindell stood his ground. He waited a full ten seconds without adding another word. Finally, he spoke. "Take a guess what the punishment for a court martial will be," he said in nearly a whisper. He turned slowly around and began to walk away. He gestured for Olga to pick up Sanchez's knife and follow him.
As Zindell walked past the radio room, the technician inside called to him. "Captain, I've had a sonar contact for the last several minutes. Heavy screws, closing fast. Sounds like what we're looking for."
"Very good. Relay the bearing and distance to the conning tower. Harrison is there with the periscope."
"I know. I've already done that. I know you were occupied," the technician said as he motioned to the aft wall with his thumb.
"Fine." Zindell nodded his approval. He was glad that at least a few of his pickup crew were worth a damn. Moss was the radioman's name. Frank Moss, as he recalled.
"Also," Moss continued, "the teletype checks okay on the frequency and code you gave me." He patted his hand along the side of the gray teletype machine that stood near the entrance to the electronics room. "I sent a general query message to the Pentagon, and we received an automatic reply."
"Is there any chance they know we're out here? Could your message have alerted them?" Just the word Pentagon was enough to cause Zindell's skin to crawl.
"No, sir. The message I sent was a test that gets answered automatically by their equipment. It verifies that the line is open and functional, that's all."
"Good." Zindell was pleased with the radioman. Even though he was an absolute loner — he preferred to take even his meals by himself — he certainly knew his business. Moss was a good man to have aboard on this trip. Zindell headed back to the control room. "By the way," he said as he turned back to Olga. "You did a good job back there."
"Thank you." She fondled the bolas in her hand for a few moments, then placed it back on its spot on her belt. "Always a pleasure to serve my Captain in any way I can. Would you like me to go forward and talk to Sanchez?"
"No. I'll do that myself. Go to maneuvering and see if they need help back there. I expect to have contact with the target shortly."
"Certainly." She inhaled deeply, allowing her ample cleavage to surface above the jungle camouflage blouse that was cinched in at the waist with a four-inch garrison belt. She stood in front of him a moment longer than was necessary, then turned and walked away.
Zindell watched as she left the control room. Of all his choices, she had so far proven herself to be one of the best. He wondered for an instant what would make a woman behave as she did, but he quickly dismissed the thought. She followed every order to the letter, and that was his first priority. His only priority.
"Captain. A visual contact. Bear one-six-zero."
"I'm coming up." Zindell grabbed a rung of the ladder and edged himself up as rapidly as he could with his one arm. Harrison moved aside from the periscope as Zindell stepped up to it. "Our target?"
"Can't tell. Still too far."
Zindell adjusted the focus knob and squinted into the sight glass. "I have the target. Indistinct but visible. Bearing, mark," Zindell called out as Harrison took the readings off the calibration rings of the scope. The sea was moderate, and the swells broke often enough to churn up the water visibly. "We're riding too low. Bring the boat up another six feet."
"Planesmen, bring the boat to thirty feet," Harrison called into the mouthpiece of the communications interphone he wore. "Then steady as she goes."
"I've got her now." Zindell picked his head up from the periscope eyepiece and smiled. "It's the Yorktown. Definitely." He bent over and looked into the periscope again. The huge gray-painted warship had begun to cross slowly from right to left. Zindell had an excellent view of the vessel, the bow and port beam three-quarters visible as she plowed gracefully through the heavy seas. "She's riding well. Definitely seaworthy. Apparently in excellent condition for our purposes. Have the radioman begin to transmit on the low-powered set. Use the special code."
"Yessir." Harrison relayed the order below.
"When she comes within a thousand yards we should have radio contact." As always, whenever he looked through a periscope things seemed clearer, sharper than they did at any other time. The telemetry divisions and crosshair marks made everything extra orderly and predictable — far more so than they appeared above the surface, in real life. When viewed through the periscope the world became a place he could manage, a world he could deal with. "Take a look," Zindell said to Harrison as he stepped back from the center of the conning tower.
Harrison grabbed the periscope and turned it slowly to keep the Yorktown in view. "She's beautiful... enormous... riding high... the flight deck has been cleared... the net erected..."
"Right." Jerome Zindell stood in the aft section of the conning tower and nervously strummed his fingers along the edge of the railing. His mind was occupied with the only element that remained unresolved, the only part of the plan he had no way of knowing about until it either happened or it didn't. If it did occur, it would happen sometime in the very near future. Zindell hoped to hell that McClure wasn't having any problems, that he would be able to accomplish his end of their bargain.
<>
Steven Harris sat at a window seat on the left side of the DC-9 jet, but instead of looking out he concentrated on the electronic game in his lap. "Almost... wait... just a few more...." But then the screen on the game began to fill with alternating streaks of white. A short musical tone began to play.
"Oh, oh. You told me that you had this game aced. You're not as good as you think you are," the teenage boy beside him said.
"Wanna bet?" Steven waved the game in his friend's face. "Let's go, Straka. Put your money where your mouth is."
"Sure thing." Gene Straka took the game and turned it back on. He studied the images in the green scope for several seconds before he waved his hand. "I'm gonna take some practice first. You do it all the time."
"No way!" Steven reached for his game, but Gene pulled it farther away, out of reach and toward the aisle.
"Give it back."
"No."
"Straka, if you don't give it back to me right now, I'll bust your face."
"You and what army?"
"You're the one that's gonna need the army." The two teenage boys began to wrestle within what the confines of the narrow airline seats would allow.
The arms of an attractive female seated behind them reached across the seatbacks. She grabbed both boys by the hair, then stood up behind them. "I'd bang your heads together, except that the hollow sound might disturb the other passengers." Marion Miller smiled at the three giggling teenage girls across the aisle who had turned to watch. "What do you think, Emma?" she asked the black girl who sat between her two friends across the aisle from the boys. "Should I crack these two walnuts?"
"Sure thing, Miss Miller." Emma's full, rich voice was laced with laughter.
"The rest of the senior class would be in your debt. Probably forever," one of the other girls chimed in, also with a laugh.
"I know I'd be," Frank Cobb said from his seat beside the teacher. He turned back to the playbills he had been reading.
"You're killing me," Steven announced in a choked-off, falsetto voice. He began to pant like an over-exercised dog. "You're choking me," he continued, suddenly switching to soprano. "My hair follicles are tangled around my eye teeth. I can't see if I'm breathing. Everything is growing dark, dim, black... it hurts when I laugh... I'll never dance again...."
"Very good, Steven. Very original," Marion said sarcastically. She released the two boys and patted them both on the head. "Be good little boys, now. Promise me you'll be good. I'll buy you lollipops when we get to Chicago."
"Yes, Miss Miller." The boys had answered in unison. Then Gene suddenly snapped into a rigid military salute, held it for several seconds and, with a flourish, pretended to fall over unconscious.
Steven immediately took the cue. He reached for his friend's limp body, pulled it upright, then placed his ear against Gene's chest. After a few solemn moments he turned to the three teenage girls across the aisle. "My diagnosis," he said, his voice now in a deep and measured baritone, "is that either this gentleman has passed away or, possibly, that my wristwatch has stopped."
"Okay, Groucho. Be a good boy now. Please."
"Sure thing, Miss Miller."
"When Harpo comes around," she added as she ruffled Gene's hair, "tell him to calm down, too. Spend a few minutes thinking about your play reports," she announced as she glanced at each of the six of them. Satisfied, she sat back in her seat and closed her eyes. Her teaching job was still so new to her that any of the three high school boys with her, each seventeen years old and 175 or so pounds of pure energy, could easily ignore whatever she said and there was very little she could do. At twenty-two, she was hardly much older than them herself, and at five feet four inches and 115 pounds she was certainly no physical threat. Even the three girls on the trip were as big as she was. But the official authority was hers, so she used it. A first-year teacher was still the teacher, and a senior in high school was still the student. The marvelous thing was that, at the better schools at least, the system still worked. It worked best in those areas the students enjoyed the most — like drama — and for those teachers they enjoyed to study with.
Marion Miller ran her hand along the strands of her long blond hair, then glanced around the cabin. The airliner they traveled on was three-quarters full. There were a few empty seats scattered here and there among the passengers, but not too many. Half of the people onboard were businessmen, but there were a number of women and also several families. Marion adjusted her seat belt and reached for a magazine in the seat pocket in front of her when something out the window caught her eye. She looked out. "Frank. Look." She nudged the boy who sat beside her.
"What?" Frank Cobb put down his theater playbills and turned to the window.
"It's an airplane. See? It's coming closer." Even as she spoke, the small jet grew in relative size as it maneuvered nearer to the airliner's left wing.
"It's getting pretty close. I wonder if our pilot sees it."
"He must."
<>
Captain Drew O'Brien slowly scanned the center instrument panel of the DC-9 jet as was his custom, and each of the dozens of needles and countless lights indicated precisely what they should. Everything was, as usual, perfectly routine.
"Trans-American 255," the cockpit speaker blared, "the traffic I mentioned earlier is at two o'clock and ten miles, a thousand feet above you. A USAir Boeing, also westbound. Once you've cleared USAir, I'll have a higher altitude for you."
"Roger. Understand," the copilot answered as he pressed his microphone button. "We're standing by for the higher altitude as soon as you can get it for us."
"I also have additional traffic for you," the air traffic controller continued. "Unknown, at your seven o'clock position, three miles, fast moving."
"What altitude?" the copilot asked on the radio.
"Altitude is not being reported. Probably down low."
"Roger."
O'Brien nodded, then turned to his left and looked below and behind them. In the distance was the Hudson River, which they had crossed several minutes before. O'Brien could easily make out the ribbon of water as it reflected the bright morning sun. But he saw no aircraft low, although he knew that a solitary aircraft would be easy to miss against the changing pattern of browns, grays and greens that comprised the northern New Jersey terrain. "I don't see anyone." O'Brien turned and scanned out ahead of the airliner. In the distance he could see what he knew was eastern Pennsylvania through the clear skies.
"The traffic is still in radar contact," air traffic control reported. "Eight o'clock, two miles, closing fast."
O'Brien shifted his eyes rearward again, but now at a more level angle and toward the horizon line. "Wait. There's something." He peered out the port window at the silhouette that he had spotted. "Someone... he's coming out of the sun... hard to see...." The object grew in size rapidly. Visually, it soon sprouted wings, then a tail.
"Nine o'clock, one mile."
"Yes. A small jet." The other airplane was distinctive now. Even the make and color were easily recognizable. "A Learjet. White. No other markings."
"What the hell's he doing?" the copilot said, more as a comment than a question. He pressed the microphone button and passed on the information to air traffic control.
"Roger," the man on the ground answered. "Understand, a Learjet." The traffic controller paused for a moment while he checked further. "Definitely no flight plan on file for a Lear, not for anywhere near this area during the next two hours."
"Okay, we'll watch him." O'Brien straightened himself in the pilot's seat. He took the control wheel in his hands, hit the thumb switch to release the autopilot and began to fly the DC-9 jet manually. "He's probably flying visually. Maybe a training flight out of Westchester or Stewart."
"Then what the hell's he doing?" the copilot said again, this time as a question. He leaned to his left and craned over to see. The Lear continued to hover motionless off their left wing, which meant that it was flying at the same speed and on a parallel course with the airliner. "Do you want to change our heading?"
"No." O'Brien took one more look at the Lear to gauge the path that the aircraft was taking. The distance was no more than half a mile. It was an annoying situation, but not an overtly dangerous one. The Lear was holding steady to its parallel course, although it seemed to be edging slightly nearer to them.
"The traffic is now at nine o'clock and less than half a mile," air traffic control confirmed. "Your radar targets are beginning to merge on my scope. Verify that you still have that traffic in sight?" the air traffic controller asked. There was a nervous edge to his voice.
"Yes," O'Brien answered to his copilot while he kept his eyes fixed on the white Lear. "Tell him I intend to hold this heading. I want that clown in the Lear to make the first move. He's obviously playing games. I'll try to get his registration number as he crosses over." O'Brien played gently with the airliner's controls, his left hand on the wheel, his right hand on the two throttles that controlled engine speed. It was obvious that the Lear pilot had seen them from the slight changes in course that he had made. The Lear was playing it much closer than normal; it was still nothing to be alarmed about, although O'Brien intended to report this incident to the FAA when they landed in Chicago. There was no real danger, as long as that jerk.. .
"Flight 255, this is the Lear," a loud voice suddenly boomed out of O'Brien's cockpit speaker. "Do you read me?"
O'Brien reached for his microphone and snatched it off the side panel. "We sure do, Lear. What are you trying to do?" There was a great deal more anger in his voice than he had intended to display, but the anger was sincere. He felt every bit of it. O'Brien had no patience for pilots who cut margins too close, who fooled around with situations that were potentially dangerous. "You'd better break off and get out of here. Right now."
"Listen to me," the voice from the Lear began again as soon as O'Brien had ended his transmission. "Don't touch your microphone. I've got some information for you. It's important. Very important." There was a pause for several seconds before the Lear pilot spoke again, although his transmitter continued to put out its signal — a low, steady hum — the entire time. "No one on the ground can hear me because I'm using a special radio. Very low powered. I'm also monitoring your transmitters with a broad-band receiver, so don't try to call anyone from this point on. What I'm going to tell you is for your ears only." There was another pause, and this time there seemed to be the faint sound of sneering laughter in the background. Finally, the voice resumed. "Listen closely. Follow my instructions. Each to the letter. If you don't, every one of you will be dead in sixty seconds."
<>
Edward McClure glanced backward, out of the cockpit and into the Learjet's tiny but elegant cabin. The rich tones of real leather, the polished woods, the attractive wall panels of carefully colored fiber glass made a ludicrous statement when contrasted with the condition of the people who occupied the cabin.
The bodies of the two dead pilots were hunched over, still strapped in the pair of rearward-facing seats. Their outstretched arms lay at odd angles on the plush carpeted floor. Their legs stuck awkwardly into the small aisle that ran the length of the cabin. Behind them, still handcuffed to the right rear seat and facing forward was Trombetta, the airline's cargo supervisor. His jacket and tie were askew and the front of his shirt hung out from beneath his belt.
When Dominick Trombetta saw that McClure had turned toward him, he began the same plea that he had used nearly continuously since they left the ground at Kennedy Airport twenty minutes before. "Please. I'm in this thing with you. Totally. There's no reason to do this to me. Let me go."
"Good view, huh?" McClure replied as he ignored what Trombetta had said. He gestured toward the DC-9 airliner that flew no more than 400 yards to their right. "Nice color scheme your airline has. I like the two-tone red. Classy, but not overstated. Do you agree?"
Trombetta did not answer. Instead, he pulled senselessly for the thousandth time against where the handcuffs were fastened to the chair rail. It was to no avail. All he managed to do was rub his wrist raw. The blood oozed out of the cuts on his reddened skin, along the metal chain of the handcuffs and onto the floor. It had turned a large spot on the beige carpet into a patch of dirty brown. "Please," Trombetta said again, "let me go."
McClure smiled. "Don't be foolish." He turned his attention away from the cabin and back to the Lear's flight controls. Satisfied that everything was well, he turned to the portable electronics box that he had earlier placed on the empty copilot's seat. McClure reached across and carefully adjusted the box's five-inch antenna, then once more checked the voltage of its storage batteries. Everything checked perfectly. He glanced at the panel clock. 9:24. A full minute had gone by since he had last looked. It was time to go on to the next step, now that the airliner's crew had been given enough time to stew in their own juices, stew in their mounting fears.
McClure reached for his microphone and pressed the button. "Okay, Flight 255, I'm glad to see that you haven't used your transmitter," he began. It was always good technique to remind everyone what the specific ground rules for the day were. "That was very smart. Very cooperative. Now I'm going to lay it all out for you." McClure ran his tongue across his lips — this was the part that he relished the most. Unfortunately, on this occasion he would not be able to see the changes in their facial expressions — that slow transformation from general fear coupled with a tinge of natural human curiosity to the more specific, more intense blends of agonized desperation and total panic. Just like he had seen so many times in Vietnam — even among the 'Cong officers, who were supposed to be so damn inscrutable — that visual change to total desperation was always easy to read. Predictable. And necessary. It was the required prerequisite for eventual and total obedience.
"Thanks to the earlier cooperation of one of your loyal employees," McClure began his next transmission, "there is a radio-activated bomb planted onboard your aircraft." He resisted the temptation to peek back at Trombetta. "It contains enough explosive to blow you out of the sky. It is, of course, located in a spot that you can't get at while in flight." McClure glanced again at the portable control panel on the copilot's seat, then back at the airliner. "I'm going to lead you somewhere. You will follow me. Closely. The flight will be conducted at a very low altitude. We will begin a rapid descent shortly. But before we do," McClure continued, his words slowed measurably so there would be no chance for any misunderstanding, "I'll make the assumption that you'll need proof. Proof of my intentions. Proof of my ability to destroy you. I know that, under similar circumstances, I'd want some sort of proof myself."
McClure reached across to the portable electronics panel. He snapped off the safety switch, then poised his finger above the button labeled Number One. He hesitated for a few moments while he gave some thought to adding one more sentence to his transmission, a few more words to give the crew of Flight 255 at least a general warning so they would know what would occur next. McClure decided against it. While the next act was enough to acquire their undivided attention, the element of total surprise added to it would guarantee cooperation, guarantee the deal.
Edward McClure pushed down on button Number One.
<>
Stewardess Carol Fey carefully stacked the cans and bottles she had taken from the cabinet below as she prepared the forward galley area for the morning drink service. "Take out a few extra tea bags," she said over her shoulder to Lucy. "The Japanese group in row eleven will probably want tea."
"Probably."
"I'm glad we don't serve a meal until we leave Chicago," Carol continued as she fiddled with a pack of plastic spoons. "I'm not up for it."
"Not feeling well?" Lucy Kellogg asked. She took out the tea bags, then gathered up napkins from the lower cabinet on the galley's rear side.
"Not exactly."
"Oh." Lucy turned and smiled knowingly. "Late date?"
"Matter of fact, yes." Carol made it obvious from her gesture that she didn't mind talking about it. She wanted to, actually. She didn't know Lucy very well, but this sort of news was too exciting not to share with someone. "A new boyfriend."
"Anyone I know?"
"No. He's not with the airline." The night before had been Carol's fourth date with Pete and it had been their best yet.
Pete was a real gentleman. He was good looking, interesting and talented. Better yet, he was single. "We're getting sort of serious," Carol added. Even though he hadn't pushed for it, Carol had decided that last night the timing would be right for them to make love for the first time. The dinner at The Emporium had been very good, the wine excellent. They had strolled through the closed mall for an hour afterward, window-shopping, holding hands and chatting about nothing in particular. They then went to her apartment for after-dinner drinks. The lovemaking that followed was natural and easy. But it had gone on until three in the morning. She had set the alarm for 6:00 A.M. to give herself time enough to wash and dry her hair. "I should have called in sick today," Carol said as she silently counted the bottles that she had laid along the galley edge.
"I know the feeling." Lucy smiled sympathetically, then stepped forward to help her friend. "Looks like we can use more napkins," she added as she stretched up to reach the door of the upper forward compartment. She swung the small aluminum door open.
The electronic signal that had been sent by the portable panel in the Learjet had traveled the open span between the two aircraft at the speed of light. It had been picked up by the self-contained antenna of the unit taped to the upper corner of the galley compartment and, being of the proper frequency, was gathered in by its receiving set. The radio signal routed itself through the circuits of the device, through a miniaturized amplifier and, finally, along its output channel. From that point the surge of voltage traveled into a wire that brought it to the electric blasting cap that was an integral part of the package.
Lucy Kellogg had been looking straight into the dark confines of the upper galley compartment when the blasting cap exploded. For the briefest time the sudden explosive glare of light reached her eyes before the effects of the blast did. Her eyes registered the visual effects — a pinpoint of soundless brilliance that expanded outward at a speed her senses could not measure, the intensity of the light increasing as its size grew. But before any of that light-induced message could travel the short distance to the cognizant sections of her brain, the heat and pressure effects of the blast traveled beyond the lip of the galley shelf. Because she had opened that particular cabinet at that particular moment, the explosion slammed full force against her face.
Her scream was short. It mixed with the flat, dull roar of an intense explosion heard too close to its source. Before her muscles had reacted enough to allow her body to fall backward, both her eyes had been charred unmercifully and were pushed far back in their sockets. Slivers of shattered aluminum rammed into her skin. Blood suddenly gushed from her cheeks, forehead and neck, and clumps of hair were torn backward from her scalp and ripped away. Several of the dangling strands of her silky blond hair began to smolder from the wave of intense heat that overran her as easily as a locomotive could run over a small animal.
Yet in spite of its intense power at that short range, the blasting cap was not forceful enough to carry on its destruction for very far or very long. Carol Fey, who had been knocked down by the force of the concussion and whose left arm had been slightly singed by the peripheral effects of the searing heat, had not lost consciousness. "My God! Oh, my God!" she wailed repeatedly as she attempted to stand up. Her hand groped for the galley ledge, slipped off once, twice, then finally took hold. She pulled her upright, slowly, shakily. "Lucy!" Carol reached down to her friend. Lucy had fallen on her stomach. Carol began to turn Lucy's body over.
Carol's terrorized scream filled the entire length of the DC-9. The sound of her shrill voice carried above the noise, shouts and commotion that came from the startled, frightened passengers. Carol saw suddenly, in one horrible moment of total revulsion, how badly mutilated her friend's face had become, how unrecognizable, monstrous.
Even as the few passengers who were brave enough to come forward in those first few moments piled into the galley area, the stewardess continued to scream without interruption. Her eyes remained fixed on the pulpy mass of charred and blood-soaked flesh that lay at her feet — the remains that were, not fifteen seconds before, the person who had been speaking gently and softly with her.
"Give me a hand. God Almighty. Let's get her outa' here." Dwight Tobey pushed around several gawking passengers and stepped into the galley area. He reached across and pulled the hysterical stewardess toward him, past the dead body, then into the crowd that had gathered in a knot behind the galley entrance. "Get her outa' here. Put her in a seat. Someone help her. Getta doctor." Then Dwight turned back to the body that lay on the galley floor. Even though the contents of his stomach had begun to churn up into this throat, he managed to keep himself from gagging long enough to turn the body back over. He could see that there was no chance whatsoever that the stewardess could be alive. It's just like the farm. There's no difference. Flesh and bone, that's all. By talking himself into it, Tobey found the courage to push the damaged body back against the galley wall where it would be less conspicuous to the people in the cabin. "Get me a blanket. Hurry. "Someone from behind handed him a bright red airline blanket and Tobey quickly draped it over the mangled remains of the stewardess.
"What about the pilot?"
"Yes! The pilots!" Several others in the cabin began to shout the same concern about the fate of the pilots that the two older men in the second row had just voiced. Their alarm spread through the cabin as if it were a high wind blowing across an open field. "God help us! The pilots! The pilots are dead!"
"Wait. I'm a pilot."
Tobey looked at the person who had made that statement. A woman, mid-thirties, slender, attractive. She stood a few feet from him, although she had turned to face the cabin. Her voice was loud enough to carry throughout the cabin's length and it had served to instantly quell the mounting panic.
"I'm a pilot," she said again, her voice still strong and clear, although there was a great deal of nervousness in it.
Tobey wondered if she really was a pilot and, even if she were, how long her meaningless announcement would keep the people in the cabin from total hysteria. At least for the moment her words had worked to calm them slightly. Besides, the airplane was obviously still under control. At the instant of the explosion the airliner had jerked wildly to the right and dipped its wings, but it had quickly straightened itself out. Tobey wondered if that meant that the autopilot alone was flying the aircraft. He didn't know enough about airplanes, one way or the other, to decide.
The third stewardess was coming forward from the rear of the cabin, and Tobey watched as she pushed and shoved her way around the standing, milling crowd in the aisle. He decided not to wait for her. "We might need another pilot," he said loudly, mostly for his own benefit. The autopilot is on, but both pilots are dead. That, he now realized, could easily account for the stable flight condition they were in. If it were true, he suspected that he and his family might also be dead very soon, also — along with everyone else onboard. He spun around and yanked hard on the cockpit door handle. At first the door would not budge, but then he felt the lock release. Someone inside had released it. The cockpit door swung open.
The man in the right seat — the copilot — lay slumped forward against the control wheel. He was motionless. There was a jagged piece of aluminum trimwork sticking out of his neck at the base of his skull. A steady river of red ran down his skin and disappeared beneath his shirt collar. Tobey turned to the other man in the cockpit.
"Help me. Get his body off the wheel," the Captain said in a strained, hollowed voice. "Hurry."
"Are you okay?" Tobey reached for the copilot's body and pulled it backward. He held the man against the seatback so his inert body and dangling arms would not interfere with the flight controls. "Are you all right?" Tobey asked the Captain again as he looked at him closely. The man's right shirt sleeve was torn in several places and there were spots of blood soaking through the white cloth. Other than that, he seemed to have no other visible injuries.
"Yes. I'm okay." Drew O'Brien trimmed out the aircraft's controls, then scanned the instruments. Both engines ran normally, the electical system was okay, the pressurization and air conditioning continued to put out what they should. Everything was apparently in working order. "What's happened in the cabin?"
"One stewardess is dead. Another is injured, but only slightly. She's hysterical. The third stewardess is trying to calm the passengers. What happened up here? Can we land okay?"
The fear on O'Brien's face was replaced by the flush of anger as he glanced at the white Lear jet that continued to fly a steady formation off their left wing. He grabbed his microphone off the side panel. "Bastard! Murderer! You've killed some of our people."
"Don't touch that microphone again!" the cockpit speaker blared in response. "Not unless you want to die. I'm serious. You won't get any more chances." There was a pause in the transmission from the Lear while, evidently, the man who spoke gathered in his thoughts. "It wasn't supposed to be much of an explosion... just enough to show you... I guess I put in too much...." The man's voice sounded less self-assured than it had any time earlier. He paused again. Finally, after several long seconds, he resumed speaking. "It doesn't make any difference. Not everything can work out exactly as I planned." The voice from the Lear had grown more cold, more firm with every passing word. "We will begin the descent very soon. Idle power and full speed brakes. I'm going to cross under you first, then you stay off my left rear on the way down. Rock your wings once if you understand."
O'Brien moved the DC-9's control wheel to comply. He didn't know what else he could do. "What's the condition of the copilot?" he asked over his shoulder.
"No pulse, no heartbeat. It looks like his neck is broken." Tobey touched the jagged piece of aluminum that was still stuck in the dead copilot's neck, then looked at the section of wall behind the copilot's head that had exploded outward. Contorted pieces of metal and fiber glass hung loosely around the small hole in the bulkhead wall — the wall which divided the cockpit from the galley. The explosion had blown out the piece of trimwork, and that was what had killed the copilot.
"Unfasten his seat belt. Get him out of the seat." O'Brien didn't want to run the risk of the copilot's body becoming entangled in the flight controls, although at the moment that possibility seemed the least of his problems.
"What about that small airplane?" Tobey asked as he unlatched the copilot's seat belt and began to carefully drag his body backward out of the seat. "What does he mean?"
"Sabotage. Hijacking. He's a terrorist of some kind. There are radio-controlled bombs onboard our flight. We have to follow him. I don't know where we're headed."
"Christ!"
The radio speaker crackled again. "Don't get any bright ideas about outrunning me. This radio-controlled detonator is good for ten miles. If I lose sight of you for more than a few seconds, I'll press the button."
O'Brien gestured out the window, toward the Lear. "Explain the situation to the third stewardess. Have her brief the passengers. Get everyone in their seats."
"Okay." Tobey opened his mouth to add more, but he couldn't think of anything else to say. Terrorists. Hijacking. Radio-controlled bombs. It was too insane to believe, yet it had happened. It was happening to him, happening to his family. The thought of Ann and the kids in the cabin crossed his mind, but he pushed that thought aside for the moment so he could concentrate on the job the Captain had given him. Tobey turned to leave, but then stopped and turned back to the Captain. "There's a woman onboard who said she's a pilot. Do you want her in the copilot's seat?" Tobey pointed to the empty flight chair on the Captain's right.
"No." But O'Brien knew that he had answered too abruptly, reacted negatively for no real reason. "Wait." The woman might be a professional corporate pilot or even an airline pilot. She might be a great deal of help. "Tell her to come up."
"Right."
O'Brien sat further upright in his flight chair and was engrossed in the sight of the Lear as it passed beneath them to position itself on his right side, just as the hijacker had said it would. When O'Brien turned to his right, the woman was already there. She was attractive and competent looking. She appeared to be no more than thirty years old. "Are you with an airline?" he asked, although as he continued to watch her he began to doubt that possibility even before she answered. Her actions showed that she was uncomfortable, uncertain of how to even sit in the airliner's cockpit.
"No. Nothing like that. A private pilot. Single engine only." The woman brushed back her short cropped hair, more out of nervousness than for any real purpose. "This sort of airplane is beyond me." "She waved her hand at the flight panel crowded with endless rows of gauges, dials and lights. "But I'd be able to work the radios for you. Show me where they are. I can dial in the frequencies."
"Sit still. Don't touch anything. First I've got to explain the situation to you." Explain this nightmare. O'Brien let out a deep sigh, then glanced back out the window at the Learjet. It had begun its descent. O'Brien shook his head in disgust, then pulled back on the airliner's throttles and yanked out the speed brakes. He had no choice but to obey. O'Brien began a high-speed descent to follow the Lear as he explained the situation to the unknown, frightened woman who sat on his right.