Flight 741 Page 8

  He passed the bullhorn off before the laughter bubbled up behind the rubber mask, the distorted sound made even more horrible by something in the tone itself.

  They were in mortal danger now. The rest of it, the beatings, the attempted rape, the reflex killing of the marshal, had been a prelude to the main event. The Raven had enjoyed his sacrifice, and Korning knew that he was looking forward to the second deadline's passage with a special hunger all his own.

  The skyjack's architect would not be disappointed if negotiators let him down again.

  He would be pleased.

  It would provide him with another chance to slake his thirst, and next time out, they wouldn't have a convict standing by to volunteer. Next time would be the Raven's choice.

  They had six hours left, and suddenly it didn't seem like nearly long enough.

  But Korning knew that it could be a lifetime. It could be all the lifetime any of them had.

  Chapter Nine

  The cabin had begun to reek by sundown. Younger children were the first to soil themselves, but after thirty hours in the aircraft, stationary in their seats, a growing number of adults were giving in to nature's call. The stench of perspiration mingled now with the wafts of feces, vomit, urine, to create a rank miasma in the cabin of the 747.

  Julie Drake had drifted in and out of sleep throughout the afternoon. Still shaken, hurt, humiliated from the beating, she had sought a brief oblivion, but nightmare shapes pursued her there and drove her screaming back to wakefulness.

  Each time she woke, Steve Korning had his arms around her, holding her and rocking her as if she was a child. It might have rankled Julie at another time, but now she didn't mind at all. It seemed appropriate, and she ignored the fact that they were naked, drawing warmth and solace from his flesh, his closeness.

  Memory was coming back in bits and pieces, worming underneath the wall of her resistance and compelling her to face reality. She had watched the brutal execution, peering through her fingers like a youngster frightened by a horror movie, Steven's arms around her even then and helping her to keep the scream inside.

  The prisoner was gone, and the exit hatch was open, though its extra ventilation did little to alleviate the captive stench inside. It registered with Julie that the slide must be in place. If she could make it to the hatch, drag Steve along behind her...

  Then what?

  The Raven's men would riddle them before they reached the bottom of the slide — assuming that they weren't cut down before they reached the door itself. Besides, out there she would be naked, surrounded by the cameras and the prying eyes of men in uniform. Inside the cabin she was merely nude, as all of them were nude together, and she had the shelter of Steve Korning's arms.

  She knew that he had tried to help her when the Raven stripped her uniform away, and later, when the gunner with the rodent's eyes had tried to...

  The terrorist scum must have beaten him unmercifully. She had no cogent memory of the event, but he was bruised and bloody now, his ribs and chest and dear, sweet face a motley canvas of black and blue and other colors in between. He seldom moved, as if afraid he might awaken her, but when he did, there was a stiffness to his movements, and the breath caught in his throat.

  The tears were sudden and not unwelcome. At the moment she was not embarrassed for herself, the fact that everyone aboard had seen her stripped and beaten, mauled and nearly raped. She wept for Steven, and the selfless courage that had made him risk his life on her behalf. A feral warmth was radiating from her now, and Julie realized, astonished, that she wanted him.

  It might have been the proximity of death, a sudden urge to reaffirm their life force, but she wanted him, and knowing there was nothing she could do about it only made the wanting worse. She would content herself with holding him, with feeling Steven's arms around her, knowing he had suffered, bled, to keep her safe. It was the best that she could do, for now. But if she ever got a second chance...

  That "if" was cold and hard enough to break her train of thought and force a sharp diversion back to grim reality. They had perhaps six hours left until the Raven's second deadline passed, and he would be returning with his ax to choose another sacrificial victim. Julie began to tremble uncontrollably, and Steven drew her closer, shushing her and whispering that it would be all right. Instinctively, she held him tight and sought his warmth.

  Outside, the tower and the terminal were swathed in shadow, blending into desert twilight. In the cabin it was dark already, but for scattered bulbs that cast a faint illumination on the aisles. The darkness lulled her fears; it beckoned to her, calling irresistibly. She held on tight to Steven as it carried her away.

  * * *

  Korning waited for several moments, making sure that Julie was asleep before he shifted in his seat in an attempt to restore circulation to his legs. Huddled with her for the better part of half a day, and underneath the constant throbbing pain of his assorted cuts and bruises, he was stiff, his muscles crying out at him to move, do something. He wasn't ready to complain just yet; it wouldn't have accomplished anything, and Korning knew that things could be a whole lot worse.

  He might have been alone.

  The nightmares plaguing Julie were a problem. Their guards were getting nervous as the time wore on, and the breathless little screams that woke her up each time had caused the gunners to regard her with suspicion. It didn't seem to matter that she obviously couldn't stand, much less attack her captors. They were spooked, and nervous men with guns could make mistakes.

  So Korning tried to keep her quiet, smoothing out her tangled hair and whispering soothing words to her.

  It was becoming difficult to breathe, the cabin's stench pervading everything, invading throat and nostrils even when he tried to hold his breath. The sewer reek brought tears to Korning's eyes, and he was thankful that the lady in his arms did not appear to be affected.

  Or should he have been concerned?

  Did Julie's sluggishness denote some injury that he was unaware of? Was she slipping into shock? Might she be dying in his arms?

  He put the morbid train of thought behind him, concentrating on the prospects of survival. There were hours yet before they should expect another visit from the Raven with his crash ax. Still time for someone, anyone, to strike a bargain for their lives.

  And if the Western powers wouldn't budge? What then?

  They would be treated to another round of death. With better than four hundred sacrificial lambs to choose from, Korning wondered how the son of a bitch would decide on who went next. He also wondered if the Raven would propose another deadline, if it would be shorter than the last. He might decide to execute a group of hostages at once, to force his adversaries' hand.

  It was a puerile line of reasoning, and Korning cut it off before it had a chance to carry him away. No point in second-guessing. They would find out soon enough, but in the meantime, the flight attendant sought to push the grinning latex mask from his mind.

  No luck.

  He wondered what the Raven really looked like underneath his mask. A fuzzy newsprint photo came to mind, but Steve could not remember any details of the face, the attitude. What kind of twisted brain and convoluted logic made him kidnap, maim and murder for his cause? Was it genetic? Or environmental? Had the bastard been abused when he was still a child, or had he suffered some debilitating illness? Was he impotent? A homosexual?

  Who cares?

  It mattered only that the rotten fuck was here, right now, and that he held their lives precariously balanced in his bloodstained hand. He might decide to close that hand at any time, to make a fist and snuff them out collectively... or he might play with them a while, prolong the suffering and take them individually, feeding on the terror.

  Steve fervently wished that he could get his hands around the bastard's neck. It would be worth the cost. If he could take the Raven with him, he would give it up right now...

  Korning shook his head sadly.

  He had responsibilities
, not least among them being Julie Drake. The lady was depending on him now, and he couldn't let her down. He didn't want to let her down, not after suffering so much to come this far.

  And there was still a distance left to go.

  They might not get there all together — some might never make it through at all — but they would have to try. It was the least that they could do, and every mother's son and daughter on that 747 had a moral duty to survive, by any means available.

  Steve Korning settled back and drew the lady tightly in against him, relishing her warmth. She might be feverish for all he knew, but at the moment she was like a welcome fire, her inner heat enough to drive away his chill.

  With any luck at all, they just might get each other through the night.

  * * *

  Mike Blanski woke to pain, and was surprised that he had slept at all. Outside, the runway lights were winking at him, beckoning to airborne traffic, luring the corporate jets and jumbo liners down. Beyond the terminal and tower he could see the streetlights of Beirut... except that there had never been such lights, so tainted with the red and orange of wildfire, flickering along the underside of scudding clouds.

  The city was in flames.

  Again.

  It wasn't Blanski's problem, but he couldn't quite head off the stab of sympathy, regret that it had come to this. The people of a once-proud city were turning in upon themselves and hunting one another through the streets like vermin. Killing in the name of Allah or Jehovah, never realizing how their mayhem had perverted and degraded everything that they professed to honor in their souls. So many innocents, inducted forcibly and slaughtered in a war they couldn't even hope to understand.

  He turned away and left them to it now, his mind consumed with problems of his own. Survival was the top priority, of course, and he was hanging on despite the superficial evidence of wear and tear.

  It had been worth his time to help the woman; he had owed it to himself, and expiation of that private debt had been worth the pain. If he had spared her anything...

  Unbidden, Blanski's mind flashed back to Vietnam, another night of fire and blood, above Khe Sahn. They had pursued a team of VC sappers, tracking them as much by mutilated bodies as by jungle signs, until by chance their course had taken them into a nearly deserted village. Corpses had been scattered everywhere, their blood so fresh that he could smell the coppery odor on the wind. Their mission had precluded anything beyond a superficial recon, and his team was pulling out when Blanski found the woman.

  She was still alive but sliding fast, beyond the reach of any known first aid. A lovely woman-child, she had distracted several of the sappers with her beauty, slowed them down enough that Blanski and his men would overtake them close to dawn, before they reached the safety of the DMZ, and kill them where they stood.

  Her dying face had been emblazoned on a youthful soldier's brain, and he had been too late for her.

  But he had been in time to even up the score.

  No, some scores were never evened up. Some crimes were never adequately punished, even when the criminal was dead and in the ground. Some wounds could never heal.

  Mike Blanski hoped the lady flight attendant carried no such wounds. He hoped the anger and the pain would fade with time, until the incident and everything surrounding it acquired some rational perspective in her life.

  He hoped she had the time.

  A certain stiffness of the sentries now, a semblance of attention, and he knew the Raven was approaching, stalking back through first class and ambassador, his lackeys bringing up the rear. It wasn't time to choose another victim, Blanski knew that much, but it was possible their captor had decided to accelerate the pace, extend the limits of the game.

  The curtain whispered back and now he stood before them, looking crisp and cool, as if the temperature had been a pleasant seventy degrees instead of pushing eighty-five. Someone had sponged the convict's crusty essence from the Nixon face, and Blanski wondered if the scrub-down signaled any softening of attitude.

  The Raven stood before them like a cultured orator. The ax was not in evidence, but Blanski saw the Makarov thrust down inside his belt. The Raven waited for sporadic muttering to die away before he cleared his throat, began to speak.

  "Your government had managed to prevail upon the kosher pigs of Israel," he declared. Seconds passed before the import of his words sank home. "They have agreed to our demands, and are preparing for release of certain hostages imprisoned by the Zionists."

  The Raven paused, allowing them to whisper now among themselves. Behind the mask, Mike Blanski half imagined he could feel the burning eyes, the twisted smile.

  "A sum of cash will also be delivered," they were told, "to compensate the revolution for its time and energy. Delivery requires perhaps an hour. In that time, you may prepare yourselves to disembark."

  A ragged cheer was raised behind him from the general direction of the tail, but Blanski's face was grim, his jaw set tight. In place of the relief he should have felt, a creeping numbness wrapped itself around his entrails, reaching out with icy feelers toward his heart.

  Relax, an inner voice demanded. It's okay.

  Except it wasn't.

  No.

  They were alive, some scrambling for their clothes already, anxious for the ordeal to become a distant memory. The worst was over now.

  Or was it just beginning?

  Blanski broke the spell, retrieved his clothing from the aisle, began to dress, unmindful of the others all around him now. They were survivors, dammit... but it still felt wrong, somehow.

  A chunky man in jockey shorts and nothing else was poking at his elbow.

  "Hey, it's great, you know? We made it! Ain't it great?"

  "You bet," the soldier answered, turning stony eyes in the direction of the fires that ate Beirut. "Just great."

  Chapter Ten

  The uniform felt strange when Korning put it on again. It didn't seem to fit the way it had before, almost as if the man inside had shrunk slightly. He checked the name plate just in case there had been some mistake.

  The uniform was his.

  He was suffering from shock, no doubt. Between his hunger and the beatings, more than thirty hours in the septic chamber of the 747's cabin, he was lucky still to be alive. And damn it all, he had done nothing wrong!

  For hours he had replayed the savage series of events inside his head, examining each nuance of his own reaction to the terrorists, intent on sniffing out the smallest trace of cowardice or negligence. And he had come up empty. He hadn't done a damn thing wrong.

  So why did he feel guilty for surviving? Why was it impossible for him to look at Julie Drake without the color rising in his cheeks? He had done everything within his power to protect her, suffered in her place, and he had sheltered her throughout the long, last hours of captivity. Whenever Julie met his eyes she smiled, and there was no suggestion of reproach, but still...

  He was familiar with the so-called Stockholm syndrome, the phenomenon where hostages began to sympathize, identify with, even love their captors... but the feelings that tormented Steve were something else entirely. He would happily have killed the Raven and his men if someone had provided him with weapons or the opportunity. And yet, despite the knowledge that he hadn't yielded, hadn't given them an inch, he still felt... weak.

  Korning dismissed it. He couldn't afford self-pity at the moment. Understandably the passengers were growing restless. Their freedom was only moments away if the Raven kept his word. That was an "if" that Korning didn't care to bet his life on, but it was encouraging that they had been allowed to dress.

  The government — American, Israeli — had decided it could live with these particular demands. This time the terrorists had won... or had they? Were negotiators waiting for them on the tarmac with a surprise in store? A flying squad of Black Berets, perhaps? A sniper team waiting for a chance to frame their cross hairs on the Raven's grinning Nixon face?

  The flight attendant smiled an
d shook his head, dispelling the fantasy. They wouldn't try that kind of shit now, when everything was settled and the hijackers were preparing to release their prisoners. One sloppy shot, one miss, would give surviving gunners time to open fire, or jerk the pins on their grenades and turn the 747 into a titanic crematorium.

  The Western powers wouldn't risk that kind of bad publicity, assuming they could even pull it off in Lebanon, where officers of the chaotic government were more inclined to sympathize with terrorists.

  They ought to nuke the bastards, Korning thought, surprised by sudden violent anger that he hadn't known he harbored in himself. But then again, the past two days had been just loaded with surprises.

  Two days ago he hadn't thought that he could kill a man, and now he pictured the Raven and lingered on the possibility with relish.

  Two days ago he wouldn't have imagined he would risk his life for Julie Drake, but he had done so. Twice.

  Two days ago he wouldn't have believed they had a chance, but when she faced him now he saw respect, and gratitude, and something else behind her eyes.

  She couldn't see the guilt, the personal uncertainty he felt. If he could only make her see... but that would take time, and right now Korning had 350 passengers to console and reassure before they put Flight 741 behind them. When the job was done, perhaps, he and Julie could share their fears, their feelings, and he might find out that she felt a number of the same sensations he was privately experiencing now.

  The prospect taunted Korning, and he couldn't finish with his other duties fast enough. The cabin seemed to close upon him now, and for the first time since the gunners hauled their weapons out, he felt a taste of claustrophobia.

  It was another token that the terrorists were leaving with him. A small reminder of their close encounter.

  He owed them something. Raven and the rest. If nothing else, a statement to the waiting media about their savagery, their disregard for human rights and human life.