Flight 741 Page 5

* * *

  Steve Korning recognized the name, of course. You had to be some kind of hermit not to recognize the Raven, but lately there had been a lot of speculation that the bastard had retired.

  So much for speculation.

  From what he could remember, he knew that for years the authorities of half a dozen countries had been looking for the Raven. The guy had surfaced in the middle-seventies with some spectacular achievements — if you looked on murder, bombing and the like as achievements — carving out a footnote in modern history beside the likes of Black September and the Red Brigades. Sporadic incidents had kept him in the public eye until he seemed to drop from sight a year or eighteen months before.

  But he was back, and his trigger-happy reputation didn't put the flight attendant's mind at ease. From what he'd read, the Raven was as likely to provoke a bloodbath as he was to carry out negotiations for their safe release. He didn't care how many lives were wasted on the way, so long as he could hog a headline here, extort a ransom there, and come out clean.

  Korning knew the adversary now — knew of him, anyway — but that did not relieve him of his duty to the passengers, his fellow crewmen on the flight. He had to try and keep everybody calm as long as possible. No easy task, once bowels and bladders started making their demands, but they could see it through as best they could.

  Unconsciously, he glanced in the direction of the nearby lavatories. The simple knowledge that he would not be allowed to go provoked an angry growl in Korning's stomach and he grimaced, thinking of the hours ahead.

  They had about twenty hours in which to keep their minds off biological necessity.

  But the more you tried ignoring something, the more that something would intrude upon your every thought, becoming an obsession. They would be lucky if they didn't have a diarrhea epidemic on their hands by sundown, and he didn't even want to think about the kids, the pregnant mothers or the seniors trapped on board.

  His stomach growled again, or was it lower down?

  He forced himself to think of something else.

  Like Julie. He spotted her across the cabin, huddled on a folding jump seat by the starboard exit hatch, perhaps ten paces from the nearest Shiite guard. She looked a little pale, but otherwise she seemed no worse for wear.

  He would have liked to slip his arm around her shoulders and tell her everything was going to be fine. She would have seen right through his bullshit, but it would not have hurt to try.

  But Korning couldn't reach her now. Eleven passengers and one lone gunman separated them. No more than thirty feet apart, they might as well have been on different planets. He had his orders with the rest, and he could not afford to move unless the grinning Nixon face or one of his helpers changed the rules of play.

  Initial terror had given way to something that resembled nagging apprehension now, but Korning realized with vivid certainty that he was not prepared to die. Not for something as mundane as a secluded place to squat. He was resigned to soil himself, secure in the knowledge that he damn sure wouldn't be alone.

  Korning made his mind a blank, erasing images of urinals and toilet bowls. He set about to weave a fantasy instead, with Julie Drake in a provocative supporting role. His fantasies would serve the purpose of a fair rehearsal, just in case they had another night together, somewhere down the road.

  In case they managed to survive the Raven's siege.

  * * *

  It was a calculated risk, but Bobby Maxwell felt the time was right. He shifted slightly in his seat, the clanking of his chains enough to make the nearest gunner glance in his direction.

  Maxwell wore his most ingratiating smile.

  "You guys've got the right idea," he blurted, conscious of his escort shifting, reaching out to seize his wrist. "Don't give the bastards any slack."

  "Shut up," his captor growled.

  "Hell no, I won't shut up!" He raised his hands and shook the manacles directly in his escort's face before the deputy could wrench them down. "I said they've got the right idea, and that's exactly what I meant. I don't expect the likes of you to understand."

  He felt the Arab watching them, delighted as the red-faced marshal glared at him with pure contempt.

  "I said shut up, goddammit!"

  "Blow it out your ass! These guys're heroes, pig! I only wish I had the chance to help 'em out."

  He struggled halfway to his feet before the marshal caught him with a stunning backhand, rocking Maxwell's skull and throwing him off balance, back into his seat. He cringed and braced himself to take a second blow.

  But it never landed.

  Suddenly the Arab triggerman was standing beside the marshal, slamming down his little submachine gun on the deputy's skull. A spurt of blood erupted from his lacerated scalp before his eyes rolled up inside his head and he collapsed in Bobby Maxwell's lap, a crimson stain spreading through the convict's denim uniform.

  Exultant, Bobby shoved the deadweight back, then began to rise.

  "Hey, thanks a lot. I really mean..."

  The Ingram stopped him, closed his throat around the words, its muzzle aimed directly at his face.

  "Sit!"

  "Okay, no problem. Don't get nervous, huh?"

  His heart was hammering against his ribs, but Bobby forced another smile as he regained his seat. It might take time, but he had laid the groundwork now. The rat-eyed little bastard had responded to him, helped him out instinctively, but Bobby didn't want to push the guy too far, too fast. He had some time — till noon tomorrow, anyway — and he would have to take it easy until he had established a rapport with this one first.

  When he was finished with the stupid bastards, they would be convinced that he was one of them. If there was any trouble, it would come from the one who called himself the Raven.

  Bobby didn't recognize the nickname, but he knew the guy's type. He'd seen them on the street and in the syndicate, around the lockups where he'd spent at least a quarter of his life. The guy was on a power trip, and that could make him dangerous to anyone who stole his thunder, sure.

  But there were ways around him, too.

  A lifetime in the joint or on the run made Bobby Maxwell versatile, if nothing else. He could appear to be whatever those in power might desire. In maximum security, he was a model prisoner, a goddamn saint. When he was laying out a heist, supported by the local mafiosi, he exuded competence and confidence until the greasy bastards knew that he could pull it off.

  And with the Raven, Bobby knew he could exude humility. He'd kiss the bastard's spit-shined combat boots if that was what it took to get the shackles off. He'd kiss the psycho's ass, if it came to that. And blow his fucking head off if he got the chance.

  But for the moment, Bobby had to play it cool. He hadn't gained acceptance from the Arabs yet, but he could feel it coming. This time tomorrow, he would have the bastards eating from his hand.

  This time tomorrow.

  Or sooner.

  All it took was patience. And brains.

  * * *

  A nagging dread had settled over Julie Drake with the appearance of the man who called himself the Raven, and it grated at her now that violence had erupted in the cabin once again. She should have made some move to help the officer, but she was frankly terrified to face the Shiite gunner, to provoke a fresh attack against herself. From where she sat she saw the officer begin to stir, and told herself that he would be okay. He didn't need her, after all.

  But she could not escape the burning shame that rode the coattails of her fear.

  She had been trained for situations such as this, indoctrinated with the message that her duty to the passengers came first. It was her job to keep them safe from harm, no matter what the risk... and she had failed.

  Across the cabin, Julie met Steve Korning's gaze. He forced a smile and shook his head, as if to warn her off any foolish action that might make their situation worse. She wondered briefly if he had the power to read her mind — or if her angry impotence was written on her face for all to
see.

  She would have liked to take his hand or to feel his arms around her now. If she could tap into his strength, reduce the naked fear to something she could live with, function with...

  And suddenly she wished she had taken him to bed when she had had the chance. The mental image took her by surprise and left her feeling weak inside. Was she reduced to seeking solace from an act of casual sex... or was there something more? Had Korning touched some part of her she wasn't even sure existed anymore?

  It was a startling thought — and had no place among the negative emotions that consumed her at the moment. Julie knew there would be time for them to get together, to explore their inner feelings, when the nightmare of the skyjack was behind them.

  Assuming they survived.

  A little chill raced up her spine, a memory of the Raven raising gooseflesh on her arms.

  He had a killer's eyes; the Nixon mask had not been able to conceal the hungry gleam. He was anticipating death aboard Flight 741, and looking forward to it with the rapture of a connoisseur.

  The Raven was a man in love with death, and having recognized that basic fact, she knew that no one on the flight was safe. He might as easily destroy them all as choose a single human sacrifice. The killing might become a game he was reluctant to postpone.

  If she could only talk to Steven, touch his hand... but she was on her own. The sentry had sequestered Mary Fletcher near the lavatories in the rear, and several other flight attendants were corralled inside the forward galley module. But for Julie Drake, the terror was a solitary thing, contained within herself.

  And she would ride it out alone.

  Whatever came to pass, she would rely upon her training, on the vestiges of inner strength that still remained. She had not attended church since she was a girl, but perhaps she might remember how to pray.

  If all else failed she'd think of Steve, and keep his face before her like a shining icon in the dark.

  And it just might be enough to keep them both alive.

  Chapter Six

  Something woke Mike Blanski an hour before dawn. He had been dozing fitfully, a portion of his mind remaining half alert to any sudden sound or movement in his vicinity... but he was certain that he had not been awakened by either. A rapid scan revealed the Shiite guards in place, the passengers securely in their seats.

  Then he had it.

  A feeling.

  He was accustomed to relying on the hunches that forewarned him when an enemy was near, when he was moving into danger. Combat intuition had already seen him through more battles than he cared to think about right now, and Blanski knew enough to trust his instincts.

  But now the enemy was all around him. Danger was a constant, like the stagnant air they breathed inside the 747's cabin.

  What had shaken him awake?

  Without a conscious reason, Blanski focused on the federal escort and his prisoner. The con was sleeping, or pretending to, but his companion was alert and checking out the sentries. The blood had crusted in his hair, but he ignored it now, intent on what he had to do.

  Blanski shifted in his seat, already plotting out a course of action if and when the marshal made his move. There was no way to stop him from taking on the guards. If Blanski tried to reach him, he would be cut down before the marshal knew of his approach.

  But did he want to stop the lawman?

  If the officer was armed, he had a chance — of sorts — against the Shiite guns. His move, whatever shape it finally took, would offer Blanski a diversion, time and opportunity to take some action of his own. With any luck, he might be able to disarm the nearest gunner; failing that, he might improve his own position, alter the logistics of the situation in his favor for a change.

  If he could shift his own position forward, toward the galley modules, he would have a slender chance of moving on the Raven when the ramrod of this operation showed himself again. It would be perilous, but once he had the bastard in his clutches, there would be time to renegotiate their situation.

  The Shiite gunners would not move against their leader. Blanski knew it with the kind of perfect certainty that leads a man to bet his life without a second thought. The kind of certainty, perhaps, that fortified the federal officer to make his move.

  The guy was fast, you had to give him that. Although he had been watching, Blanski almost missed the sudden lurching movement that propelled the marshal from his seat. A hand was digging back inside his jacket, coming out with what appeared to be a standard-issue Smith & Wesson .38. Incredibly, the nearest gunner hadn't seen him yet, or else his own reactions had been lulled by unrelenting tedium. The marshal might have pulled it off, had his prisoner not betrayed him at the final instant.

  Churning up and out of sleep, the convict lunged against his escort, knocking him off balance, ruining his aim.

  "Look out! He's got a gun!"

  The warning shout was all it took, and now the marshal's target was alert, swiveling his Ingram toward the lawman as the .38 exploded harmlessly, its wasted round impacting on the bulkhead. Before the marshal could correct his aim, the Shiite milked a precision burst out of his stutter gun, no more than half a dozen rounds, despite the Ingram's awesome cyclic rate of fire.

  The lawman took it all. He seemed to shudder, then stumbled facedown between the rows of seats. A dozen women screamed at once, and they were followed instantly by dozens more, their keening voices filling up the cabin and igniting sympathetic terror in a few of the men.

  The gunner's lips were moving, but Blanski couldn't hear his voice above the din. He watched the Ingram rise, its stubby muzzle pointed at the ceiling, and hunched his shoulders as another, longer burst exploded overhead. A second gunner aimed his pistol in the direction of the rear lavatories, squeezing off three rounds in rapid fire, for emphasis.

  "You will be quiet!" they were shouting. "Quiet now!"

  It took a moment for the muttering to die away, but no one dared to raise his voice above a whisper. A kind of eerie silence settled in around them, focused on the prostrate body of the marshal lying in the aisle.

  His killer stooped, retrieved the .38 and tucked it in the waistband of his slacks. Attracted by the shooting, two other terrorists had suddenly appeared from their stations in ambassador and first class, and now a jerky motion of the killer's head dispatched a runner to alert their boss.

  Mike Blanski cursed under his breath. The opportunity was gone. The marshal's prisoner had bitched it for them all.

  He didn't have to check his watch to know the killing had begun too soon. It would be more than seven hours yet before the Raven's deadline passed... and now he had a body to explain.

  It wouldn't prey upon his mind, of course. There were too many other corpses in his past for yet another death to faze him now. But Blanski recognized the smell of blood — both literal and figurative. He was worried how the odor might affect their captor, how he might react to knowledge that the killing had begun.

  Perhaps he would dismiss the incident as an aberration under stress. But if he decided on reprisals, then Blanski would be forced to move without a strategy.

  He took a deep breath and held it, waiting for the sudden rush of nerves to pass. No matter that he had been face-to-face with sudden death on numerous occasions, Blanski could not totally escape the nervousness, the tightness in his stomach, that preceded lethal action.

  The agitation was a killer, nine times out of ten. It skewed perception, dulled reaction time, made nimble fingers clumsy at the crucial moment. He could not predict the Raven's ultimate reaction, and he saw no need to try. The situation would resolve itself — in one way or another — soon enough.

  And there was nothing left to do but wait.

  * * *

  The thunder of his pulse was making Bobby Maxwell dizzy. He only had to glance across the empty seat beside him, catch a glimpse of what was stretched out in the aisle, to feel another rush come boiling up inside.

  He had done it.

  It had been touch
and go there, feigning sleep for hours, actually drifting off from time to time until he pinched the inside of his thighs with shackled hands and held it. The pain had given him an edge, and it had been enough.

  Of course, his escort could have ruined everything by sitting tight and staying cool. It was a calculated risk, but Bobby had already tested his reactions, recognized him as a macho type who couldn't let an insult slide. He had reacted violently when Bobby tried to make his little speech, and had been beaten for his pains. No way on earth could he accept the sheer humiliation of a public beating; he did not possess the inner strength to let it go and get his own licks in when it was safe. He had to try a grandstand play.

  It had been easy to predict what he would do, but waiting for the jerk to play his hand was something else again. As hours passed and Bobby huddled in a crude facsimile of sleep, he had begun to wonder if his feeling for the marshal was correct. Suppose he was a coward underneath the bluster, and he took it lying down? Suppose he had more smarts than Bobby gave him credit for?

  But never fear.

  When he finally cracked, the sound was almost audible in its intensity. The guy had given off some heavy vibes, his anger and embarrassment mingled with fear and pride — the stupid macho bag. He telegraphed his move the way a punchy fighter lets you see the right cross coming seconds in advance... and dammit, no one had been watching!

  Bobby Maxwell had to save it for them at the final moment, clumsy bastards that they were. If he had not alerted them, and spoiled the marshal's aim, the little Arab with the stutter gun would have a brand-new asshole, right between his eyes. Who knows, the marshal might have dropped a couple of them, seized their automatic weapons, even armed the other passengers before the reinforcements could arrive.

  He might have ruined everything.

  But Bobby had prevented that, and he was feeling pretty good about it, stretching out and taking full advantage of the empty seat on his left. He didn't bother looking at the other passengers; they would be glaring at him hatefully, imagining a hundred different ways to waste him, nice and slow, for ruining their two-bit hero's play.