Murray McDonald - Critical Error

Meanwhile, Sam, with his right hand clamped around the Marshall right wrist and taking a number of small punches to the ribs from the Marshall’s left, swung his left elbow round and crashed it into the Marshall’s temple. The Marshall was dazed and his right hand relaxed. Sam grabbed the pistol just as three have a go heroes came crashing towards him.

Sam jumped and missed being washing lined by a fraction of an inch. Sam stepped back a few feet and leveled the Sig Sauer P229 at the three heroes.

“Guys, I’m on your side!” he shouted. “I’ve just got a few little problems I need to resolve but trust me, nobody will get hurt.”

The Marshall struggled to his feet and tried to calm the other passengers down. He knew what could happen if Sam put a bullet through the skin of the plane at 37,000 ft. He was trained incessantly not to, for exactly those reasons.

“Guys, I am a Federal Marshall. I will deal with this. Please step back.”

The youngest of the three was having none of it. “I’ve got two young babies on this plane and no Al Qaeda fucker is going to fly them into a building.”

Sam turned to Rebecca. “Do I look like an Al Qaeda terrorist!” he asked.

“No,” she answered honestly.

“What do you think?” Sam asked an elderly lady sitting on the left hand seat.

“Hmmm, no,” she stammered, frightened out of her wits.

He could see that the young man was willing to give his own life for his children, very admirable and extremely hard to rationalize with.

“Tell him,” instructed Sam to the Marshall.

The three heroes looked at the Marshall.

“Tell him what?” asked the Marshall, bemused.

“What you were told about me?”

“I’m trying to calm them down!” he pleaded.

“Exactly, tell them that I’m not a terrorist.”

“I can’t because that’s what they told me.”

“They said I’m a terrorist?” asked Sam. Somehow, that made everything even worse, to be branded a terrorist by the very country he shed blood for.

The young father was getting ready to move. Four men one gun and very little room, Sam’s odds were worsening by the minute.

Rebecca moved towards the men that were now closing in on Sam. She pushed past the two at the rear and coming from behind, the young father, she delivered a devastating kick to his manhood. The young father crumpled and fell to the floor. She held her FBI badge high in the air.

“Right, you two,” she barked. “Take him back to his seat before he loses the ability to have any more kids. You two then go back to your seats and you,” she said, pointing to the Marshall. “Sit on the floor, right there!”

“Now everybody, just calm down!” she shouted. Somebody had taken charge who didn’t have a gun and it worked.

“Now what?” she whispered back to Sam, who stood between her and the cockpit door.

Sam picked up the intercom and hit the button to speak to the flight deck.

“Captain?”

“Yes? What do you want?” he barked.

“Firstly, to promise you that absolutely no harm will come to anyone aboard this plane, as long as you do me one little favor.”

“I’m sorry it’s not possible,” he replied firmly.

“Let me tell you what it is before you get all worked up.”

“I’m sorry I will not negotiate with you. That is my final word.”

Sam told him what he wanted in any event and left it for the Captain to decide.

CIA Director Allan Johnson had taken the rather unorthodox act of leading the capture of a terrorist fugitive at JFK. He had had to twist a number of arms and would be repaying favors for a number of years but he was going to end this bullshit personally. As far as he was concerned, this would pretty much seal the VP position, not that there should have been in any doubt. The evidence was all still in his hands, including a recording of President Andrew Russell, then VP, instructing him very clearly that the President had to go. However, Allan wanted the job on merit and not by using underhanded methods.

He had gotten word through to the Sky Marshall that a terrorist was on board. Although it was not expected the terrorist planned anything on the plane, he should take extreme care and under no circumstances approach him or alert him to his presence. He would be arrested at JFK. The Marshall’s job was to protect the passengers, keeping them onboard when the terrorist was taken down. The flight was scheduled to arrive at Terminal 8 and Johnson had all but shut it down. The last few stragglers were disappearing as the area was cleared and flights were reassigned to other terminals.

Johnson was taking no chances. Twenty men were within the terminal with him, while another twenty surrounded the parking area below. All were dressed as airport crew and should not rouse suspicion as the plane completed its taxi and the passengers disembarked. He had him.

The tower had allocated one air traffic controller to that one flight and had, as requested, plugged the controller into the CIA comms system. Although they could hear him, Johnson had ensured he could not hear them. Every member of Johnson’s team knew exactly what was happening at any given time.

“American Heavy 45, please come left, to heading 245 and drop to 2,000 feet.”

Johnson knew that meant they were just minutes from landing.

On board American Airlines flight 45, Sam had been praying for the Captain to do the right thing. So far, he had acceded to not radioing in what had happened on board the flight and been assured by the stewardess that Sam, as promised, had let the Sky Marshall take his seat again. No passengers were injured and no other demands were being made. Just the one favor, as requested.

As the Captain began his final procedures, Sam gave it another try. Of course, he wouldn’t shoot the Sky Marshall. The Captain had obviously got his measure and realized he wasn’t a cold blooded killer. Well, certainly not of innocent bystanders at least, thought Sam.

If they landed at JFK, he was dead. He had a gun but Johnson would ensure a very large welcoming committee and he knew there would be no qualms when it came to collateral. As long as Johnson got his target, collateral was exactly that, collateral.

Sam lifted the intercom again and pleaded with the Captain. He could hear the co-pilot in the background being given the instructions for final approach. On hearing the two-feet call, he gave up.

“These things I do, so that others may live,” he muttered in acceptance of his fate.

“Sorry?” said the Captain.

“Nothing, just an old motto,” said Sam, not wanting to repeat it. He hadn’t even realized he had said it out loud.

“Just hold on a second, Mark.” The captain stopped the co-pilot responding to the last call.

“Were you a PJ?”

“Yes, Sir,” responded Sam automatically on hearing the Captain refer to his old unit.

“Well why in the hell didn’t you say, Son? You guys pulled me out of a very tricky situation in Iraq many years ago. A slight detour is the least I could do. Take your seat, Son, this may get a little bumpy.”

“JFK this is American Heavy 45, we have a problem. We cannot make the turn as requested, believe we have a fault with the rudder.”

“Roger that American 45, can you maneuver at all?”

“JFK, yes, can turn to right. Repeat we can move to the right.”

As Johnson wondered what was going on, the tower were pulling charts and looking at options. The Air Traffic Control Director pointed wildly at the chart as the controller calmly relayed his suggestion.

“American Heavy 45, a slight right turn could land you at LaGuardia, do you think that is possible?”

“Confirm possible, as long as we get a direct landing, we will not be able to maneuver once on course.”