Max Collins: Fly Paper

The captain got a knowing look in his eye; what he knew was this: the ramp was ideal for use by a parachutist. Only 727s and DC-9s had such ramps.

“Do not assume, captain, that I’m going to jump immediately. Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. But I am aware that a warning light on your panel lights up when the ramp is lowered, so I am lowering the ramp now, so that you will not be able to pinpoint when or if I’ve jumped. If I haven’t knocked on the door by the time we approach St. Louis, you’ll know I’m gone.”

“Which airport in St. Louis?”

“It doesn’t matter. The FBI will be at whatever place I pick. Tell you what. Feel free to select the one you like best. You’re the captain, after all.”

The captain’s eyes tightened, while the stewardess seemed almost to enjoy the put-down, and when the captain returned to the cockpit, she remained in the doorway to say something to the skyjacker. What she said was, “It’s a little late to be saying this, but try not to do anything you’ll regret.”

He smiled. “It is a little late for that.”

“Well. Enjoy your money, anyway.”

“Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

She disappeared into the cockpit.

He went back to his seat and waited while the pilot brought the plane to a lower altitude; then he walked to the rear of the plane to let down the ramp. Seats the flight attendants used during takeoff were folded against the door, and above that was the handle, which he pushed all the way to the left, pulling the door in; just outside the door, on the left, was the stair release control, a little box with a lever in it, which he pushed outward. The ramp lowered. There was an immediate suction effect, which he’d anticipated, and he braced himself accordingly. The wind noise and jet roar were deafening, but there was no pressurization problem at this altitude. Ears aching, face whipped by gusting air flow, he smiled out at the ramp, the little mini-flight of stairs that would allow him to jump from the plane with ease.

He went back to his seat, where the attaché case of cash waited. He took off the wig, the sunglasses. He stripped off the green corduroy shirt; beneath it he wore a thin black cotton pullover, long-sleeved, and the single emergency chute, strapped to his stomach. He wasn’t about to use the two chutes he’d asked for. He knew they would be bugged; they would be hastily but well armed with homing devices that could lead the FBI and everybody right to him. He would wait a while, and, one at a time, throw those chutes out, to send the posse on a wild goose chase or two.

He settled back in the seat and, breathing easily for the first time in hours, began to relax. The project was going well. Flawlessly. Admittedly, it had been harder to execute than to plan — well, not harder, really, but more taxing emotionally. It was one thing to coolly plot, to engage in deliberated planning, to rehearse his lines in his head, and quite another thing to carry out all of that in a plane filled not with Xs on a diagram, but human beings.

And that was the element he couldn’t plan for, the human element, and it had worried him, both at home and on the plane. Blueprints were fine for building houses; diagrams were great for putting together electrical systems. But human beings weren’t as dependable as diodes, and he realized something could go haywire, despite his thorough engineering; he knew some human could throw a wrench in the works.

In fact, he had thought he’d spotted someone who might be just the person who would throw that wrench. Sitting next to that kid, that curly-haired guy with the Big Little Books and comics, was a rock-faced man with dark hair and mustache and narrow eyes that had an almost Oriental cast to them; he’d felt those eyes on him, boring into him, and had noticed the stewardess, Hazel, talking to the guy more than was perhaps natural. He’d almost decided the guy was a FBI man or sky marshal or something, but to his relief the guy hadn’t stayed around as a hostage, which would have been a good indication that he was a law enforcement agent of some kind who’d happened to be on the flight. He hadn’t banked on having someone like that aboard, and was glad to find his suspicions were groundless.

Some time passed, and he went back to the noisy aperture and tossed out the first of the parachutes.

He went back to his seat, the calculator still in hand but not so firmly now, and he sat and watched the land go by. He’d told the pilot to fly a straight course, not wanting to be overly specific about precisely what course he wanted (since that would alert everyone that he indeed did intend to jump soon) but knowing that if the pilot wasn’t pulling something, Highway 67 should be in constant sight. It was. It was important for Highway 67 to be within reasonable walking distance when he jumped, in order for Carol to pick him up as planned. He checked his watch; time was working out okay. All was running smooth, then.

A few minutes passed, and he went back to the ramp and threw out the second parachute.

He sat down again, looked out the doubled-paned window. Missouri was rolling by. Some of it was hilly, but most was relatively flat farmland, which was what he was after. Soon he should spot the landmark he was looking for and make his jump. He prepared himself, checked out the chute; got the C. B. out of the Radio Shack sack, which had been under the seat in front of him; he set it on his lap, atop the attaché case. He still had the calculator in hand, and hadn’t decided whether to take it along or not; probably wasn’t wise to leave anything behind he didn’t have to, but maybe there was some freak chance of the thing detonating the bomb on the plane, with the impact of his fall.

He watched out the window, the familiar landscape gliding by. And then he saw the landmark — and red barn whose slanting roof bore white letters advertising MIRACLE CAVERNS — and he got up. He clipped the C.B. onto his belt, tucked the attaché case under his arm.

Now was the time.

He walked down the aisle, toward the ramp at the rear of the plane; the opening beckoned him, a gateway to freedom, to a new start for Carol and him. And as he walked by the rest rooms, a hand reached out and clamped onto him by the wrist, shook the calculator from his hand. Then a fist crashed into his jaw, damn near breaking it, knocking him back on his butt.

His mind reeled: someone sneaked on the plane at Moline , he thought, damned FBI sneaked someone aboard!

Then he looked up and saw who it was.

That hard-faced S. O. B. with the mustache.

Who was now on the floor, in the aisle, scrambling after the calculator, which had flipped between some seats. The guy had a look of pain on that scowling face of his, from the mingled wind-noise and jet-screech coming from the open ramp door, a harsh, grating sound that was working on the guy’s eardrums.

The skyjacker was used to the sound, as the ramp door had been open some time now; but the guy with the mustache had been hidden away in the rest room, apparently, where the sound had been muffled. Which meant the guy was somewhat incapacitated, but the skyjacker was still hesitant about retaliation: the guy was big, and looked mean as hell, and was probably armed.

He knew he was close enough to that door to make a successful jump, no problem; he had the money. Why not go for it?

But the guy with the mustache had seen him, sans wig, sans sunglasses, sans any disguise; and would be able to report exactly where he’d jumped. Which meant one thing: the skyjacker would be caught.

He’d never considered the possibility of capture, really; he’d always thought it was either/or, heaven or hell — a bundle of money and make a new life, or no life at all. Now, with capture, he’d have prison to face; life imprisonment, perhaps, and the same for Carol...