Warren Murphy: Lost Yesterday

“And for good reason. Not only do they not care, you've got people in power here who hate America. And who hijacks planes? The British? The Israelis? The French? No. So why should they change things? My friend, you have come to the right place.”

“I don't know,” said Robert Kranz. “I couldn't bring my weapons in on an American plane so I had to buy them here in Athens. I just don't know if I should pay premium price at the airport sale.”

The Arab pulled Robert Kranz closer to him so the noise from the jet engines would not drown out what he was about to say. They were just outside the perimeter gate, which was a loose connection of links that could be walked through.

“Friend,” said the Arab. “You look like a smart boy. You wouldn't come here if you didn't know what you were doing. Right?”

“Actually, we were sent,” said Robert. His partner still had his eyes closed, working on his fear.

“Smart people. They know the business. If you're going to do your business, Athens is the place to do it. Now you can put your bombs and guns in a valise, wrap them up in fiberglass, and walk right through their metal detectors. You could make them look like other things.”

“We had thought of that,” said Robert.

“Or you could have your friend here walk through the gate and give some ground-crew guy a hundred dollars and maybe the weapons will be left where you want them. And maybe not. Maybe he'll take your money and keep your weapons and sell them again.”

“That's possible,” said Robert.

“But with me you have a guaranteed weapons placement you can count on. I take credit cards. If the weapons aren't there, you can cancel payment.”

Robert thought about that for a moment. But he remembered what Mr. Dolomo said:

“In an operation like this, the more people involved, the more chances for it not to work. Get your guns and grenades there, but test them. Test them anywhere you won't get arrested, but test them. There are certain places on the plane where you can stash them. Here is a list drawn up by our engineer.”

Robert looked at the list. He looked at the Arab. He decided against letting the Arab place the weapons.

“I'll pay cash, but I've got to have weapons that work.”

“Actually they don't have to work, you know. The pilot only has to think they work.”

So that was why Mr. Dolomo had told him where to fire the guns so the plane would not be disabled in flight, thought Robert. He was not to kill anyone, but to make the crew think they were capable of killing someone.

“I want real working weapons.”

“That'll cost more. But don't be crazy. Don't take a real hand grenade. Those things can go off and take down the whole plane with you. You really want the dummy in a grenade. I can give you the American pin-pull and lever-release or the popular Russian. I don't like the Russian myself, because once you pull the pin it really is all over. It reflects their national character. On the other hand, with the American grenade you can even put the pin back. I would go American for your grenade,” said the Arab.

“American for the grenade, without the powder in it,” said Robert. He tried to keep his stomach from jumping around by remembering a positive part of his body that would put it all back into calm control. It wasn't working. But brilliant Mr. Dolomo had an answer for that too. In his wisdom he had said:

“Never mind that shit, Robert. Just get on board the plane with the weapons. It'll work fine. If you're scared, to hell with it.”

The Arab had a nice assortment of handguns and field guns.

“There is nothing like the Kalashnikov rifle, except in airplane aisles the barrel can get in the way. And a passenger can grab it, although I must say, if you are dealing with American passengers you often have help. We had a fine hijacking to Beirut recently where an American actually reminded one of us that we had forgotten a gun in the lavatory. You just can't beat that in passenger cooperation.”

“You're talking pistols,” said Robert.

“I definitely am,” said the Arab. “And let me recommend a heavy butt. You don't want to go onto an aircraft with a flimsy butt that can only be used to hold. You want heft because you are going to have to be beating people over their heads with it. It's your crowd control.”

“We already knew that.”

“So you've done this before?”

“No. First time.”

“Well then, you know you need at least two guns apiece, one for the belt and another for the hand. You can always use one in each hand. You've got to appear somewhat hysterical so they will think you're really going to go through with any insane thing, like killing yourselves too.”

“But you see, we will if we have to,” said Robert, who, after he had paid an exorbitant price for the guns and dummy grenades, offered to clean a bit of dirt from the salesman's hand with a cotton swab that he held in a rubber glove. The Arab gun salesman never looked happier as Robert Kranz took back the money for Dr. Dolomo, who had explained that they were all at war and that money was the main ingredient for that war.

As ordered, Robert dropped the swab away from himself and carefully removed the rubber glove. Then with four pistols and an American grenade apiece, Robert and the other Powie, who was still working on his fear, went into the terminal and bought tickets for a flight filled with American passengers headed back to an American airport. According to plan, they returned to the outside perimeter and walked through an open spot in the linked fence.

The biggest danger was getting run over by one of the planes taking off. Once they found their plane, however, Athens security, already scorched by the world press for laxness, moved in.

Two burly guards surrounded them.

“You two. You just walk through fence?”

“No,” said Robert.

“You got guns?”

“No,” said Robert.

“Okay. You good guys. Go ahead.”

Athens security having been breached, Robert Kranz and the other Powie entered the plane.

Five miles above the Atlantic, as prescribed, they screamed hysterically that it was a hijacking, ran up and down the aisles hitting people with the butts of their guns, and then told the captain of the aircraft that he would either fly to Harbor Island or they would all be dead. A real shot into a real aircraft seat with a person's thigh in between convinced the pilot they were all going to die unless he did what Robert Kranz said.

“There's no airport at Harbor Island,” said the captain, looking at his charts. “We've got to land at Nassau. It's the only one big enough for us.”

“Look at your map. You will land here,” said Robert, pointing to the Atlantic side of Harbor Island.

“That's a beach. How the hell can we take off from a beach?”

“I don't know. Do what you're told and you won't be hurt. We don't want to hurt you. We won't hurt anyone if you cooperate.”

Before they got to Harbor Island the pilot was met by naval aircraft warning him to veer away from the quarantined airspace.

“I can't. A lunatic has got a gun at my head and I can lose all my passengers.”

“Veer.”

“Sorry, no,” said the pilot, whose first responsibility was for the safety of those aboard.

“Veer,” came the order again from the naval aircraft.

“No,” said the pilot.

Below on Harbor Island the engineer watched the Navy tomcats backing away from the passenger jet.

Rubin Dolomo coughed and didn't even bother to look up.

“They've backed down,” said the engineer.

“Of course,” said Rubin. He knew the Navy world. It would have to. He had figured out what made hijackings against America so successful. It wasn't who the hijackers were, it was who the Americans were. They were people who cared enough to protect human life. In the real world that made them very vulnerable.