‘Good, now you’re going to fly me to Bermuda.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me. We’ll fly out across the Atlantic until we get close to the island, and then you’ll turn off your transponder and descend to three thousand feet so the radar can’t see us. Then you’ll divert to Bermuda. When we get real close you can use the radio again and explain that you’ve had pressurisation problems or engine problems or maybe both and that you need to land. You’ll taxy to the edge of the airport and me and Ali will jump out. If I’m happy I won’t shoot you before I go. Is that straightforward enough for you?’
‘Ok, I guess you’re calling the shots.’
‘Yeah, definitely.’
Despite her display of self-confidence Gerry felt nervous within the confined space of the flight deck. Her assertion that she would know if things weren’t right had been somewhat hollow. She was in horribly close proximity to the two men, both of whom had detailed knowledge of the complex aircraft. All she had on her side apart from the gun was their knowledge that she would shoot them if she suspected that they were trying to deceive her.
She looked around the flight deck. The instruments were a mix of the old fashioned type to which she was accustomed from her own training and the large navigation screens which Harvey Wallis had introduced to her on the flight over. The route was on the screen underneath the main flight director. Her best chance was to say as little as possible and not to ask questions that might reveal her lack of confidence or knowledge. First of all she could use some of her experience supplemented by what Wallis had taught her.
‘Okay I want to see Bermuda on the screen? What’s the four letter ICAO code for it?’
‘TXKF,’ Reece replied, and she saw the sharp look that Carson gave him.
‘I want to see it on the screen,’ she repeated.
‘I can’t; it’s too far away,’ Carson replied.
Damn! One mark of credibility lost, but she had an answer. ‘Ok, show it as a diversion airport with bearing and distance,’ she replied. Neither man moved.
‘Now!’ she shouted and hit Reece across the side of the skull with the muzzle of the gun. He swore and clutched his head.
‘Ok, ok,’ Carson said with a note of resignation that did not fool her for a moment, but he entered TXKF into the alphanumeric keypad and she read 570 nautical miles.
‘Ok, this aircraft usually flies at about eight miles a minute, so allowing for the wind and adding a bit for flying at low level for a while, and approach and landing, give me a flight time.’
Carson entered some more data and turned round to look at her.
‘About one hour and forty minutes to landing at Bermuda,’ he reported.
That seemed reasonable, she decided. ‘Ok, now I’ll establish some rules. I’ll stand or sit at the back here, and you two will not look around at me unless I give you permission. I know that if I kill one of you, the other one can land the plane. My gun will always be trained on one of you, but you won’t know who. I also have a Taser which will be ready for whomever I don’t shoot. There’ll be no warning shots or wounding shots; I’ll shoot you through the back and into the heart. Any questions?’
‘November Two Seven Whisky, climb flight level 350 and route direct to two zero north, six zero west, continue with New York on HF’ came the voice of the air traffic controller.
‘Climb flight level 350 and direct two zero north, six zero west, continue on HF November Two Seven Whisky,’ Reece answered automatically and then he froze, expecting another outburst from the British agent.
‘That’s good,’ said Gerry. ‘Just take things normally until I say. Now just think of me as your Federal Aviation Authority check pilot not saying much but watching you very, very carefully.’
She spent the next fifty minutes in a state of high anxiety, not daring to relax her vigil for a moment. Fortunately at cruising altitude there was little for the pilots to do in terms of flying. The operation was carried out using the flight management computer that was coupled to the autopilot. She thanked her good fortune again that Wallis had shown her how to operate the Gulfstream jet. The system fitted to the Boeing was different but by careful observation she noted how the numeric information on the small computer screen related to the navigation display on the instrument panel and the occasional air traffic control communications. Soon the aircraft would be about 250 miles from Bermuda and it would be time to ask for a course to the island’s airport. Her bladder was becoming uncomfortably full, and she wondered if she could get Ali to hold the gun on them, then quickly dismissed the idea. If necessary she would just wet herself. She was becoming increasingly confident that she could pull this off.
‘Okay, turn off the transponder, descend to three thousand feet on this track and then turn towards Bermuda,’ she ordered.
Ryan Carson had spent the last fifty minutes scheming how he could turn the situation around. He had been careful to do exactly as bidden for as long as possible to lull the English bitch into a false sense of security. Without turning directly to look at her, he had made a surreptitious inspection of the flight deck, checking distances to miscellaneous items of equipment. He had slowly adjusted the lighting until he had a fairly clear reflection of her in the centre instrument screens. The most important thing being that he could see which way her gun was pointing. He had also chosen his moment to make his move.
He sensed as much as heard Gerry Tate’s sigh of relief as the aircraft reached three thousand feet and he prepared to act. Unbeknownst to the British agent an eight inch steel crowbar was tucked into an alcove behind his seat, secured to the bulkhead by a pair of fabric tabs held by press studs. Its primary purpose was to lever open panels in case of an electrical fire on board the aircraft. Carson spent the next twenty minutes as the aircraft approached Bermuda planning his movements.
The symbol for Bermuda appeared three hundred miles away on the navigation display. ‘Look there’s the island,’ Carson declared and pointed at the screen. He saw Gerry automatically look in the direction he pointed. ‘Carl, get your Bermuda info out,’ he ordered. Reece turned to his right to retrieve the aerodrome reference booklets from their folder. Carson watched Gerry’s reflection and saw her follow the co-pilot’s movements and next in one rapid motion he reached round with his right hand, tugged the crowbar from its mounting and then he swung it backhanded towards her hand holding the gun.
Too late Gerry realised something was amiss. She realised that Carson was reaching for something out of her sight and his sudden change in body language showed that he was ready for action. She swung the gun round to point at him but just before she pulled the trigger the crowbar caught her with a numbing blow on the forearm just as she fired the gun. The bullet ricocheted off the centre console and hit Carl Reece. He shrieked and clutched at the wound in his neck from which blood was spurting. Her eyes met Carson’s as she tried to take aim again but in the pain that followed the numbness her hand lost its grip and she dropped the gun. She flung her arms up as he tried to hit her over the head with the crowbar and she shrieked as the metal rod caught her on the thigh just above the knee. She tried to ignore the pain and scrambled out of the flight deck, hoping to retrieve the taser from where she’d left it on the front seats but her leg gave way and she tripped over. Carson tried to follow her but his seat belt was still fastened. Then he saw the gun lying on the floor behind the centre console and he snatched it up, released his harness and followed her out. She was kneeling on the floor clutching at her leg. Just as he was about to shoot her, the dying co-pilot slumped over the controls and the auto pilot disconnected. When the warning horn sounded Carson instinctively swung round to look back in the flight deck and in that moment Gerry kicked the gun from his grasp. He snarled and swung the crowbar at her. She ducked under the sweep of the weapon and threw herself at him. The two of them rolled around on the floor in a hate-filled embrace as the aircraft plunged towards the sea. His superior strength was overcoming her fighting skills, rendered ineffective in the restricted space of the lurching fuselage. He struck her over the head again but the awkward blow lacked any force. Before he could hit her again she wriggled free snatched the gun up from the deck and shot him. Then she looked out through the flight deck window and realised the aircraft would soon crash into the sea.