“And there were no casualties?” The president was a bit perplexed, and his face showed it.
“None. While the action was taking place the hijacked aircraft made a turn and headed toward the Libyan coast.”
“Could he have been maneuvering to avoid fire, or a missile?” the president asked.
Bud shook his head. “There were no missiles directed at the 747, and they wouldn’t have known if there were; commercial aircraft don’t carry the types of sensors that would indicate if they were targeted, and the Libyans were well out of their visual range.”
“My God,” the president said. “How many people on board?”
“Over three hundred,” Bud answered.
“Including the crew,” Gonzales added.
The president was silent for a moment. “Am I reading this the way it sounds?”
“I’m afraid so,” Bud affirmed. He couldn’t read the president’s mind, but the man was smart. “The aircraft made no radio calls indicating a course change, nor did it receive any; our command aircraft would have detected that. Plus, the two Libyan fighters that appeared to be in a position to attack flight 422 formed up to escort it.” Bud paused. “You can understand why the air group commander called off our fighters.”
“I can now.” The president was visibly upset. His mouth formed into a pout of seriousness. “So, Colonel Qaddafi has decided to become involved.”
“In a very large way, sir,” Bud added.
“The good colonel didn’t hold to his promises very long, did he? Well, we’ve got two incidents to deal with now.” The president made a point to keep the two happenings separate, though his mind was putting that which was obvious together. “I can’t keep Nate here. We need him over in Britain. They’re pretty pissed off, I understand. Not at us, just in general. He can do a lot to keep things calm. Bud, you’ll have to chair the NSC on this, and I want to be kept up-to-date. Every four hours, and more if you think it’s warranted.” He turned to his COS. “I remember the media circus some of the past hijackings have generated. You talk to Herman and set some guidelines for press contact on this. It could get messy. That’s just a feeling.
“Bud, what have we done so far?”
“Delta has been activated to start preparations for any contingency. The necessary agencies are working on why, how, and who. That’s the tough stuff to figure out in this kind of situation. After the council takes a look at it we may have more, but for now…” Bud threw his hands apart.
“I don’t like the fact that these people always seem to be controlling us,” the president said. “We’re always reacting. And with the rest going on… So, an American aircraft is going to be landing in Libya. When?”
“About thirty minutes,” Bud replied.
The chief executive sat back into a thinking pose with one finger tracing circles on his chin. “This will not turn into another, flight 847,” he said, referring to the seventeen-day ordeal on the ground in Beirut.
Bud had one final thing to inform the president of. “Sir, there was a message from the aircraft just before the confrontation with the fighters.”
“We can’t take everything they say as truthful, sir,” the COS pointed out.
The president took his friend’s words, then looked back to Bud. “What was said?”
“They said they’re coming here.”
“Here?”
The NSA nodded. “To America.”
The coast was approaching fast. Mohammed Hadad crouched behind and between the pilots, his hand resting on the top of the arrogant copilot’s seat back. The man was nervous. Every few seconds he would cock his eyes to the left to see the trigger switch just four inches away. Hadad sensed more than saw this. Soon this man would be more frightened.
“You are a soldier,” Hadad stated. The barrel of his Uzi rested on the co-pilot’s shoulder.
Buzz’s jaw muscles spasmed at the tone. Fuck you! “Marine,” he said softly.
“Marine…” Hadad smiled, his head nodding. “Were you in Beirut, Marine? Did you murder the children of Beirut, Marine?”
Buzz tried to ignore the taunting, unsuccessfully, and the rising burning sensation in his neck tingled on the surface as hot met cold. Raghead asshole! He would have bitten his lip to control the anger…no, hatred welling up in him, but that would have given something away to the pirate. Anyway, snapping his neck would have been a better use of adrenaline.
“You.” Hadad stepped back to his seat. “You do not know or care what happens to the many children of those you oppress…do you?” There was no answer. “You will know. You will know.”
Captain Hendrickson tried to block out the conversation. He knew that Buzz would kill this guy given the chance. He wanted to smile, but resisted when Buzz practically prayed the word Marine in response to the hijacker’s verbal jab. It was a fitting answer. His first officer was a gung ho jarhead if ever there was one. He had probably eaten guts and farted bullets at one time in his life. Marines did that for fun, he had heard.
As the Clipper Atlantic Maiden neared the coast the captain increased power in the four big engines. The warming air above the desert floor was thinner than that over the water and thus required more thrust from the turbofans to maintain lift A slight pull back on the control column added a little more nose-up attitude to the aircraft, and additional upward force. There was an immediate rise in the whine of the engines as their RPMs increased.
They were going to land. Captain Hendrickson had the stick, leaving Buzz to handle the minor duties required to set the huge aircraft down. The first officer keyed his mike to raise the tower.
Hadad jumped forward, striking Buzz with the Uzi’s barrel behind the left ear. A shallow gouge opened and filled with blood.
“No radio!”
Buzz’s hand came down bloodied from the left side of his face. He felt a cool trickle of blood on his neck. “You fucking—”
“Buzz!” The captain reached across the center console, grabbing his co-pilot. “Another time.” His eyes bored into those in the seat opposite him, into those of his friend. Buzz was more than his first officer. They had flown together too many times over the years to be just co-workers. “We have to fly her, Buzz. Another time. Okay? Another time.”
Hadad pulled back and smiled. “Listen to your cap-tan, Number Two. He is wise with his words.” But there will not be another time.
The old Marine swallowed his contempt and again wiped his reddened ear and neck. Rivulets of blood ran down and stained his collar a dark crimson. He shifted his stare to the pirate, whose face was lit with an unnatural glow from the sunlight filtering through the thick windscreen. He was half turned, facing the grinning pirate, whose eyes showed no fear, only power: the power that came with the gun and a planeload of unarmed innocents.
“If you wish to be first to die, Number Two, that would please me.” The smile left Hadad’s face.
Buzz turned back to the front and the attention of the aircraft. He scanned the instruments — they were all nominal. The captain was right. Now was the time to fly, to keep the Maiden flying. There would be another time. He touched his ear again. The blood flow seemed to be minor and slowing as clots formed at the source. At the same instant the Clipper Atlantic Maiden crossed the coastline.
Michael Alton held his wife’s hand as it lay across the armrest and touched his knee. Sandra’s fingers ran gentle, yet nervous figure eights on his jeans. He could sense her fear, though she would not show it. They had both seen the man, but Michael was one of the few passengers to recognize what he was carrying pressed against his side as a weapon. The couple looked at each other incredulously after the captain announced that they had been hijacked. This sort of thing happened only on the news, or in the movies — not to them.