First they had started fueling on the left side, and then they switched to the right, necessitating moving the tankers and the pumper. Hadad wondered at first if they were not really workers, rather commandos in disguise. But, after all, this was friendly territory. The Cubans would simply want them to land and be on their way, and the closest American commando was across the Florida straits.
Why, then, am I nervous? he asked himself, instantly realizing that he was exerting extra pressure on the small round button that kept him alive. Possibly because I am so close to victory. Yes. The two brother fighters he took his name from, Mohammed Boudia and Wadi Hadad, had tasted victory. And they, too, are in paradise. That thought calmed him.
His seat on the right side of the lounge allowed him to watch the entire process: the scissor like lift on wheels lifting two blue-clad workmen up to the underside of the wing, where they attached the thick gray hose. The rumbling of the vehicles’ motors was distinct above the steady whine of the jet engines. Hadad wondered when they would be done.
“Mohammed.” It was Abu. Wael was beside him, looking perplexed. Hadad knew why.
“Go, Wael,” he said in his native tongue. “You watch the Americans.”
The big terrorist looked at Abu, who still stared at their leader, then entered the cockpit. Hadad turned back to the window.
“I can feel your words, Abu, so do not hold them in on my account.”
The younger of the two ran his hand through the black waves atop his head, his eyes searching the floor for words before coming back up to his leader. Hadad had turned to face him. His eyes were sullen, and very, very tired.
“We are in trouble, Mohammed?”
Hadad shook his head. It leaned slightly right, giving him an angular perspective of his comrade. He looked up and down at him.
“You are lying.”
“And you are too soft.”
“Soft!” Abu shouted, the word coming out in an Arabic shriek. “You leave the Americans alone at the controls, for how long now, so you can sit in here and…what?…pray for good fortune! And you say that I am soft?”
Hadad did not match Abu’s furious tone. “And who did you leave to watch all those below?” The rhetorical inquiry broke Abu’s gaze, sending his eyes back to the floor, but leaving his teeth visibly clenched. “Abdul.”
“He is—”
“—is alone with hundreds of our prisoners right below your feet. When there should be no fewer than two of you watching them, you leave only one. And as for good fortune, my friend, my brother, it is assured. Would Allah not have blessed us with life to this point if He had not wanted us to succeed?”
Abu breathed out his wrath. “Then we are in trouble.”
“Allah has protected us.”
“Against what? Why do you try to deceive me, and the others? We are not blind. The aircraft acts as if it is dying all around us.” Abu’s tone was a mix of cynicism and pleading. “Why are you pushing us so hard? Why are you pushing yourself? We are safe here. If there are problems with the aircraft we can stay and have repairs done before going on. The Cubans would not deny us that. What would a short delay—”
“No delay!” Hadad responded in a burst of determination.
“But—”
“No!” He stood up and stepped closer to Abu, leaving their faces only inches apart. “We are on a mission, one charged by Allah, and we will not delay its conclusion. If you choose to be weak and soft, then I have erred in my judgment of you. I believed that you were a soldier of Allah, a true one, who would accept his fate willingly.” Hadad knew the last words had slipped out.
Abu’s suspicions, which had grown in the last twelve hours, were confirmed. This was never meant to be a mission to humiliate and win concessions from the Americans. The reasons and intentions now became crystal clear. It was a personal mission they were on, not of their choosing, but of their leader’s. A grand drama of deception, indeed. One most effective on the integral parties.
“And the weapons in the hold?” Abu remembered being assured by Hadad that they were just for the Americans’ benefit, and were totally harmless.
“Gifts from Allah and our Arab brethren.”
Insh Allah, Abu said to no one. “You are going to use them on the Americans…in their own land.”
“We are,” Hadad corrected him. “At the very heart of their infidel government. It will be more than appropriate, and convenient for them. The mourning will already be in progress.”
“I see.” It was all Abu could think to say. His wife and his child would be living without him. The solace was that, if his leader was right, he would soon be in paradise, awaiting a glorious reunion.
That thought, however comforting, was short-lived. Abu had to admit that there were doubts now in his thoughts. Would he be with Allah, and the prophets of Islam? He wondered. He truly wondered.
Hadad slid back and sat on the arm of the aisle seat, leaning on the back with his free arm. “Accept your fate, my friend. Go below and help Abdul. I will have Wael rest up here. He has been awake much of the journey, yes?”
“Yes.”
Hadad smiled. It was meant to reassure his comrade. Abu turned his head first, his body following a split second later, and headed down below, his soul not yet at peace, but his mind having accepted his fate as a martyr.
Sandy was still sleeping, thank God. Michael could feel her chest rise and fall against his left arm, and occasionally her nose would rub against his neck as she nestled closer. The shouting from above had not awakened her as it had a few others. A man and woman across the aisle exchanged worried looks with Michael, and the terrorist forward of where they sat had nervously looked up sporadically during the verbal match. None of what was said — or yelled — had been heard with any clarity, but could displays of bellicosity mean anything good? Michael thought not.
The muffled thud of hard shoes on the carpeted stairway started, then stopped. One of the hijackers had come down. That left two upstairs. Michael had found himself increasingly keeping track of where the terrorists were, and how many were anywhere at any one time. Their situation, he felt, was not getting any better, and the fight or whatever upstairs didn’t lend comfort in the least. Something was wrong, in spades, and he was determined that if they started shooting, he was going to know where the nearest gun was, and he was going to take it — or die trying. For Sandy’s sake.
The thoughts that would have been more familiar in his military days abruptly faded. One of the terrorists, the one who had just come down, was walking aft. He was approaching Michael’s row.
For whatever reason, their eyes met, and the visual exchange seemed to slow time. The shared, silent exchange was brief, yet telling. Michael had seen something, more in the terrorist’s eyes than on his face. It was…what — futility? No. Resignation. That was it.
Michael was scared. For both of them. He was doubly grateful that his wife was sleeping, and he consciously listened to the sound of the footsteps retreating aft. He figured, after they had stopped, that the man was past the middle bulkhead of the nearly silent aircraft.
The rhythmic thrumping of the piston-driven pumper stopped with a sputter. Hadad moved to the window quickly. They were done. The last of the tank trucks was pulling away and the scissor lift was coming down next to the pumper. He carefully shifted the thumb switch to his left hand and took the Uzi in his right. Its barrel tapped rapidly on the cockpit door, and Wael opened it inward without taking his eyes off the pilots.
“Wael. Go rest.” Hadad added a head toss to the words.
Silently the huge terrorist slid between the half-open door and its frame, which Hadad closed and locked.