Flight 741 Read online

  It might have been miraculous... except that it was just a job.

  The passengers were in their seats at last, securely belted down, and Korning watched as the selected flight attendants gave their spiel about the life rafts and flotation vests, the oxygen and exits that would theoretically permit survival if the plane went down. In theory, yes, but in reality, he knew that rafts and life preservers wouldn't mean a damn if they went plummeting nose-down from thirty thousand feet. The water might as well be concrete.

  He pushed the morbid thoughts away and turned his smile back on full force. Steve Korning didn't fear his job, had never worried long or hard about the possibility of cracking up. It happened, sure... but always to the other guy, the other airline. Most of the disasters came on takeoff or on landing, anyway. You never heard about a jumbo dropping from the sky.

  Well, almost never.

  Anyway, the biggest risk around these days was humanoid, the terrorists and skyjack bandits, flashing back to private dreamworlds from the early seventies. Their art form was passe, except they didn't seem to know it yet, and lately they had focused their attention squarely on the airline Korning served.

  It used to be El Al, but the Israelis took reprisals with ferocious energy and left their adversaries reeling, beaten to their knees. Once Castro closed his sanctuary and started sending outlaws back to face the music in the States, the skyjack industry had gone to seed.

  Till now.

  Four months, three planes, so far with only one fatality among the passengers and crew. Steve Korning didn't see it as a renaissance of terror, but rather as a desperate asshole bid to reap publicity, to hog a stolen moment in the sun. In time the phase would pass, the perpetrators hunted down or driven underground, and it would all be status quo again.

  Melodic chimes alerted crew and passengers that it was time for takeoff. Korning made it to his jump seat, buckled in and searched the nearest rows until he found the chesty blonde. Well, if we're going down, he thought, let's try to find a nice deserted island, big enough for two.

  Not bad.

  Not bad at all.

  They lifted off, and Korning felt himself compressed against his seat. It would be now or never, if they lost it, but he wasn't really worried in the least. This made almost a thousand separate flights without mishap, and he was looking forward to a thousand more.

  En route, there would be opportunities to start a conversation with the blonde, to feel her out about an evening on the town once they were safely grounded in the States. He would be looking forward to it.

  The plane was banking sharply over Frankfurt, climbing steeply toward its cruising altitude. Steve Korning settled back in concert with the pull of gravity and, smiling, closed his eyes.

  Chapter Two

  Flight 741, from Munich to New York, had never been a favorite run for Julie Drake. The transatlantic haul consumed nine hours minimum, and while the outbound flight to Europe was a longer run, it held the promise of adventure and excitement — even romance — at the other end. Returning home, conversely, was the end of an adventure, a resumption of the tried-and-true routine.

  The passengers in coach would be worn-out, dejected by the swift evaporation of their holidays, and she could count on half a dozen minor crises every hour they were in the air. Between the meals and beverage runs, she would have her hands full keeping up with the requests for blankets, pillows, aspirin, magazines and airsick bags.

  She could already spot the children who would make a nuisance of themselves by running in the aisles, the parents who were too burned out or too damned negligent to care. The passenger in chains was something else again, but with a guard in tow, he promised to be more sedate than many of the tourists in her charge.

  She had been flying international for eighteen months, which made her practically the novice of the crew. Seniority on international resulted in a higher average age among the flight attendants, not to mention the cockpit crew. At twenty-six, she was the youngest staffer on the flight, though two attendants had been working international for shorter lengths of time. To some extent they looked to her for pointers and advice, but there was still a trace of condescension in their attitudes.

  She had been glad when Steve Korning drew Flight 741. He wasn't Julie's type — she tended more toward continental flavors — but he had a ready wit, a sexy smile, and best of all, he didn't treat her like the new kid on the block. Her senior by a year or two, he clearly still remembered how it felt to be the tenderfoot, the butt of jokes and snide remarks from older veterans. He took a measure of the burden off her shoulders, buoyed her spirits when they hit a rocky stretch of turbulence. He was her friend, and then again...

  They had come close in Frankfurt, just the week before. Equipment failure laid them over for an extra night. They had no plans, and it had seemed natural to pass the time with Steve. But Julie hadn't counted on the schnapps, the sudden rush when he had slipped his arms around her outside the door of her hotel room, kissed her with a passion that was missing from her latest string of one- and two-night stands. She had been taken by surprise, and she had needed every ounce of strength to break the clench and push him forcefully away.

  He wasn't Julie's type, and yet...

  At least he didn't hold a grudge. So many others would have worn their wounded egos like a Purple Heart, but Steve had taken the rebuff in stride. There were some awkward moments — awkward on her part, that is — but he had not alluded to the incident in any way these past nine days. Ironically, she found herself concerned that he might not recall the kiss, the flash of chemistry between them... but she saw where that was leading, and she put the thought away. Not out of reach, perhaps, but safely out of mind. For the moment.

  They would be over France by now, the patchwork countryside concealed beneath a solid floor of clouds, and she had drinks to serve, immediately followed by the in-flight meal. She hoped Steve would be working the other cart along the starboard aisle, but still she felt afraid that her hands might tremble and betray her when she looked into his eyes.

  Julie caught a jerky movement to her right, and turned in time to see a passenger invade the galley module. Slender, swarthy, hair slicked back, she recognized him as a member of the ragtag Middle East contingent seated by the lavatories in the rear. He had been smiling when he boarded, smiling almost idiotically through takeoff while they climbed to cruising altitude ... but Julie noted that he wasn't smiling now.

  Before she had a chance to ask if she could help him, the intruder raised one foot and kicked her squarely in the chest. The impact took her breath away, propelled her backward, shoulders slamming hard against the beverage cart before she lost her footing and toppled to the floor. A flush of anger brought the color to her cheeks, immediately tempered by the fear that something had gone hideously wrong.

  She struggled to her feet, but now a second Middle Eastern type was blocking off the other exit to the galley module, glaring at her with a kind of crazy hunger in his eyes. Another flight attendant — Mary Fletcher — stood beside him, facing Julie, staring at her blankly, on the verge of shock. The Arab had one arm around her waist; his free hand clutched a stubby automatic weapon, muzzle pressed against the trembling woman's ribs.

  "My God."

  And Julie Drake could think of nothing else to say. She turned to face the Arab who had kicked her, found his stupid grin in place once more.

  "You take us to captain now," he told her in his broken English. "Follow orders, and you don't be hurt."

  * * *

  "My pleasure, ma'am."

  Steve Korning summoned up his most ingratiating smile and held it as he turned to leave the blue-haired dragon to her magazines. It was the third time she had called for an attendant since departure, and the act was getting old.

  A slender figure jostled Korning, muttering apologies, dark eyes averted with embarrassment. Korning's smile was glued in place now as he followed the retreating figure with his eyes. An Arab, one of four who had been seated in th
e rear, and Korning wondered what he wanted at the galley module.

  He saw the second Arab even as the thought began to form itself, unbidden, in a murky corner of his mind. Already homing in on the galley, number two was walking briskly, with a jerky, nervous kind of stride that set Steve Korning's teeth on edge and started small alarm bells sounding in his head.

  A sidelong glance informed him that the other Middle Eastern types were on their feet as well, still hanging back and loitering beside the lavatories. Korning tried to tell himself that they were used to open spaces, walking. They would need to stretch from time to time.

  It didn't work.

  For starters, they were too damned small to feel confined in normal airline seats, and never mind that seats were smaller, more congested, here in coach. And even granting that the four of them would all decide to stretch their legs in unison, it didn't answer why the lavatory flankers both had hands stuffed inside their matching knee-length coats.

  Beside the galley module, numbers one and two were similarly dressed in raincoats. It had not seemed odd in Frankfurt, with the omnipresent German drizzle, but the other passengers had stowed their coats, umbrellas, scarves, relaxing in anticipation of the transatlantic flight. The Arabs were alone in clinging to their rain gear after boarding, and it didn't help at all to tell himself that they were simply strangers to the climate.

  A sick sensation in his stomach told him that they wore the raincoats for a reason, sure. And it was not because they were afraid of sudden squalls inside the cabin.

  The blue-haired dowager was tugging at his sleeve.

  "Young man..."

  He shook her free. "Not now."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Korning didn't hear her injured tone. He was already moving toward the galley module, trying desperately to keep it casual, praying that he might be wrong.

  Ahead of him, the slender Arab seemed to be in conversation with a member of the crew. Korning recognized the profile — Mary Fletcher — but the sudden, stunned expression on her face was something new. The Arab had an arm around her now, his free hand out of sight. Across the intervening rows of seats, Korning watched the second Arab step inside the galley proper, vanishing from sight.

  Oh God, oh Jesus Christ, it's happening!

  And not to someone else, some other airline.

  Here and now.

  To him.

  Flight 741.

  He might be wrong, of course. There could be countless reasons why a pair of Middle Easterners would check in at the galley. Special menus for their Muslim palates? No, the specials were requested in advance. A lump formed in Korning's throat and he could not come up with any other reasons.

  When he was touching close, Korning tapped the Arab on the shoulder.

  "Can I help..."

  The wiry man exploded, dragging Mary Fletcher with him in an awkward pirouette as he pivoted to face Korning. Surprised, perhaps embarrassed that he had been taken unaware, the Arab snarled at Korning, lashed out with the stubby automatic weapon.

  There wasn't time to raise his hands, and Korning took the slashing blow across one cheek, the Ingram's foresight opening a ragged gash below his eye. He staggered, fell to one knee, stopped himself from sprawling with a superhuman will. Behind him several passengers had seen what happened. Three or four rows back a woman screamed.

  Hot anger flared behind the bloody fog inside his skull, but Korning fought it down. He was aware of several passengers standing, and now the Arab flankers were approaching from the rear, their automatic weapons surfacing from under raincoats as they shouted for attention, desperate to be heard above the general din.

  "Sit down! Silence!"

  Within a moment, something close to order was restored. From his position on the floor, Korning spotted two more swarthy passengers, erect and scrambling toward the starboard exit hatch. For just an instant he was terrified that they had panicked and now meant to blow the hatch, creating an explosive decompression in the cabin, but they rifled through the empty life-raft storage bin instead. He saw them coming out with automatic pistols, with what looked like hand grenades, and knew that they were not attempting to escape. What he had taken for anxiety on their faces was revealed as dark excitement now.

  The nearest gunner had released his hold on Mary Fletcher, shoving her aside. He stooped and slid a hand around Korning's arm, revealing an unexpected strength to get the flight attendant on his feet once more. The muzzle of his Ingram nudged at Korning's ribs.

  "We see captain now!" he snapped, propelling Korning in the direction of the cockpit with a straight-arm thrust between the shoulder blades.

  Steve recalled the briefings they had received for such emergencies, and there had been frequent updates in the techniques of handling madmen, terrorists, potential suicides. The first and foremost rule that came to mind now was to protect the cockpit crew, deny a gunman access to the all-important flight deck. It was fine, in theory, but with six guns ready to unleash a bloody holocaust on some 350 passengers, Steve Korning couldn't think of any way to carry out the plan.

  He could attempt to grapple with the Arab gunner, but he was dazed by the blow he had received, and any sluggish move to seize the terrorist's machine gun would most likely set him off. If the bastard began to fire, the others might react by kicking off a massacre — and any single round might smash a window, drill the fuselage, and thereby drill them all.

  As he moved toward the cockpit now, Steve clenched his fists in frustration. If only he could string the lousy fucks along, then there was a chance of coming out alive. The other recent skyjacks had been harrowing, but there had only been a single death among the passengers and crew. From past experience, it stood to reason that the gunners would request an audience, concessions, even cash, before they started freeing hostages. But somewhere down the line, the hostages would be exchanged. If Steve tried to grandstand now, they might be killed before the sleazy assholes had a chance to bargain for their moment in the sun.

  A startled gasp came from someone on his left as Korning and his escort reached ambassador, disturbing beverage service with their unexpected entrance. Midway along the aisle, in the direction of the galley module, Korning saw a virile jock type rising to his feet.

  "Sit down!" Korning's captor shrilled. "No danger if you keep your seats and do as you are told."

  The golden boy glanced back and forth between the Ingram's muzzle and his busty girlfriend, finally deciding that survival was the better part of heroism. He tossed a last defiant grimace at the Arab, then took his seat.

  Their voices would have carried, and the first-class flight attendants had already interrupted beverage service, moving on a cautious interception course when Korning and his captor threw the curtain back, emerging into view. The Arab saw them coming, and seized a fistful of the flight attendant's jacket. Using Korning as a shield, the gunman braced the Ingram across his captive's shoulder, muzzle against his cheek.

  "Stand back, or I will fire!" he shouted, laboring with unaccustomed English. "We will see captain now."

  Steve Korning knew that meant a hike upstairs, and no one on the flight deck was expecting them. There had been no opportunity for any warnings or alarms. If he couldn't think of a diversion on the way, these bastards had another 747 on their hands.

  Except, he realized, the bastards had it — had them all — right now. Their mission was accomplished from the moment the guns came out, and there was nothing he could do to turn the thing around. He could prolong the agony, provoke a bloody melee here among the first-class passengers... or he could play along, and try to save them all.

  Disgusted with himself and with his circumstances, he began to climb the spiral stairs.

  * * *

  In coach, the passenger named Michael Blanski calmly weighed out odds of life and death. The nearest gunner stood some fifteen feet away, covering a quarter of the passengers as best he could. From time to time he swiveled toward the galley, keeping visual contact with his
cohorts farther up the plane.

  It would be simple.

  Seated on the starboard aisle, Blanski had only to wait until their captor made his momentary pivot, turning toward the nose. A silent rush, an arm across the Arab's windpipe, shutting off his oxygen, a twist to snap his weasel neck before he knew that he was dying on his feet. Once Blanski had the Ingram, he could...

  What?

  Take out the gunners by the galley module? Risk a stray round rupturing the fuselage? Destroy them all?

  Of six commandos who had seized the 747, only three were still in sight: the one in coach, and his cronies stationed at the galley to command a view of sections fore and aft. The other three — providing there were only three — had been dispersed to cover first-class and ambassador, together with the flight deck crew.

  And Blanski knew that he could never hope to take them all.

  Assuming that he took the nearest gunner, that he tagged the galley flankers perfectly, without a stray round out of place on either side... his gunfire would alert the others instantly, and bring them rushing back to find out what the hell was going on. They would be nervous, frightened, ready to unload on anything that moved. And he could never hope to stop those three before they opened fire — into the passengers, the bulkhead, anywhere at all.

  It would take only one round to bring about explosive decompression. And oxygen, human flesh or anything that wasn't bolted down would be sucked out through a pin-size bullet hole. Some passengers would probably survive, provided that they were belted in or that decompression forced the aircraft down to altitudes where they could breathe. Provided that no one on the flight deck panicked, or was wasted by an edgy terrorist before they got the 747 stabilized.

  Mike Blanski weighed the odds... and kept his seat.

  He had no decent chance at all, no right to gamble with the lives of some four hundred human beings. Later, possibly, when they were on the ground...