Flight 12 to Rome: A Nick Bracco Novella (3 page)

Nick could see her clearly now. Her eyes were dark pockets of intensity and her chin jutted out with sharp edges.

“The question you’re asking is, ‘Do I work for the U.S. government?’”

“Okay?”

“I used to, but that became an act of futility. You needed a two-hour meeting to decide where the vending machine should go. It’s a miracle anything gets done.”

“And yet here I am, on this plane, sniffing out your ill-conceived plan.”

“A nuisance, that is all.”

Nick’s head was beginning to clear and he realized the flight marshal was still loose. He might’ve drunk himself to sleep, but he was free.

“And what about the three hundred passengers?”

“No one will be harmed,” she said.

“Except for the millions of people exposed to the contents of the device.”

The woman’s face contorted into a sneering glare. “You keep obsessing about this little canister. What makes you think it will ever be used? We’ve had nuclear warheads available for decades and no one seems interested in deploying them.”

Nick scratched the back of his head. “You really don’t understand foreign diplomacy, do you?”

“Or maybe I choose to ignore it.”

“You give that device to a third world country with nothing but guns and Humvees and they will succeed in destroying a major civilization. Including yours.”

The woman frowned. “Agent Bracco, you’ve been watching too many dystopian movies. I doubt the American tumble will affect my world at all.”

Nick had to assume the woman was the only terrorist on board with a weapon. Everyone else was probably armed with a syringe full of a strong sedative, which was much easier to get on board, especially with medical releases. Now he needed to keep the woman talking until he found the right moment to attack.

Nick scanned the interior of the plane, taking inventory of his assets. One drunk air marshal and an ex-FBI agent charged with bribery.

“I will have no problem firing should you attempt to scream,” the woman said.

“Then what? How do you control three hundred passengers with one solitary weapon?”

She smiled a sad smile. “Let’s just say we have strategic control over the rest of the flying public.”

Which meant they had some flight attendants and certainly the pilot involved with the takeover as well. But the way she said it, Nick considered the fact they had many more involved than he’d originally considered. He’d put the number at eight or nine, but now he might be looking at fifteen or twenty. A number he might not be able to overcome.

“What’s your name?” Nick asked.

“You can call me Lisa.”

“I mean your real name.”

A grin curled the side of her mouth. “Let’s stay with Lisa.”

“I’m going to find out eventually.”

Lisa wiggled the gun. “You’re in a bad spot, Agent Bracco.”

Nick shrugged. “I’ve been in worse.”

“I doubt it,” she said, pulling his crushed satellite phone from the magazine compartment, then shoving it back down.

“So where are we going?”

“Not Rome.” She smiled with a smug arrogance that didn’t fit the occasion.

Nick thought about it. “You still don’t have the device yet, do you?”

Her smile dissipated. “Only a matter of time.”

“So you don’t know who has the device and yet you’re already spending the five million.”

“Anticipation is the best part of any vacation.”

“Hmm,” Nick said, feeling the clear air turbulence bouncing the plane. He needed a plan, something. He wasn’t about to watch human greed prevail.

There was a commotion in first class and when Nick looked to the front of the plane, Lisa said, “Just a little search party. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“You realize you don’t have enough bullets to kill everyone on board, right? Eventually the masses will move against you.”

Lisa kept a flat expression, as if she’d heard the story before. “Yeah, but who’s going to be the first to challenge a loaded weapon?”

Nick spotted someone coming toward the back of the plane. It was the bald air marshal and he was wobbling down the aisle, bouncing from seat to seat to catch his balance from the turbulence and excess alcohol. He desperately clutched the headrest from each chair as if attempting to climb Mount Everest. His eyes were half-open slits of inebriation.

Lisa saw the man coming, but showed no signs of concern. She lowered the pistol to her side, then carefully draped her left elbow over the weapon.

The guy never even looked in their direction. He seemed preoccupied with the concept of getting to the bathroom and nothing was going to interrupt that one simple need.

As he went past, Nick almost called out to him, but what good could it do? Get them both killed?

“Good boy,” Lisa whispered as the door to the bathroom shut behind them.

The commotion continued up front. People were chirping loudly about the treatment of some of the passengers. Apparently there was a cover story being used to have people empty their pockets while they were being frisked.

“You see,” Lisa said, “this will be over quickly and harmlessly.”

Nick measured the time they were airborne and came up empty. He couldn’t gauge the time he was unconscious, but he assumed they were at least two hours from takeoff. Maybe more.

The bathroom door slid open and the air marshal continued his dance as if the floor had been smeared with oil. He wobbled behind Lisa, who didn’t feel the need to turn around.

That was a mistake.

The marshal dove down into her lap and swiped the gun from her grip before she could react. He elbowed her in the side of the neck, sending her head into the backrest with a startled expression on her face.

Nick grabbed Lisa and shoved her into the window seat while the apparently sober marshal pointed the gun at her.

“What’s your name?” Nick asked.

“Kirk Weston,” the guy said. “You?”

“Nick Bracco.”

“Something I should know?”

“Yeah,” Nick said, eyeing the front of the plane. “She’s not alone. I have a feeling they’re in control of the aircraft.”

“That why we’re heading south?’

“Yeah.”

Kirk handed Nick his gun, then pulled out his own pistol to keep trained on Lisa. She was rubbing the side of her head but staying quiet.

“Are they armed?” Kirk asked.

“With syringes maybe, but I doubt they have guns.”

“Good,” Kirk said, gesturing toward first class. “Why don’t you see what’s going on up there while I keep her company.”

A female flight attendant came rushing down the aisle toward Nick. She was being chased by a thin man with scraggly hair and a determined look on his face. She ran into Nick’s arms out of sheer panic. Nick held out his gun and stopped the guy in his tracks.

There was a clear understanding that a gunshot on a plane was a bad idea. A bullet through the skin of the aircraft might not be that devastating, but blowing out a window was another matter altogether.

Nick twisted the flight attendant behind him and the terrorist moved back. The passengers were all up in their seats, screaming or huddling their loved ones. Nick had to assume he was the only one with a weapon, so it was time to take control.

He moved slowly moved down the aisle as the terrorist moved backward at the same pace. Nick reached the forward section of the seating area and found the PA system. He pulled the microphone from its cradle and pushed the button.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Flight 12, this is FBI Agent Nick Bracco. Please take your seats and keep your seat belts fastened. As you can tell, there’s a group of people on board who are attempting to divert this flight from its original path. I can assure you that you are safe and will arrive in Rome as planned. To the radicals who are attempting this takeover, your feeble plan has been anticipated by our government. We have hundreds of agents from multiple agencies awaiting our arrival where you will be arrested and brought to justice.”

His words resonated with the passengers and a swell of cheers and applause bounced around the interior of the cabin. Part of Nick’s dialogue was meant to notify the pilot that there was a safe harbor in Rome and if he were operating under duress, he might revert his flight plan back to its original destination. But if he didn’t, it substantiated the fact that he was part of the terrorist takeover and complicated Nick’s plan immensely.

The ruckus inside the cabin seemed to subside. He pushed aside the curtains to first class and saw most of the group sitting on their knees, heads turned toward the back and nodding when they saw Nick appear with a gun. The flight attendant who’d spiked his drink was standing up front, speaking with the man with scraggly hair, staring at Nick with concern.

Nick walked up and said, “Get in your jump seat,” to the flight attendant.

The terrorist sneered defiantly, as if saying, “This isn’t over yet.”

Nick jabbed the guy in the forehead with the tip of his pistol. “You think this is a water gun?”

The guy rubbed his head and glared. “I will get my turn,” was all he said as he returned to the main cabin.

Nick realized the gun was a faint threat. He would only use the weapon unless it was a last resort. And if he waited too long, that chance could cost him.

He walked backward toward the cockpit and tried the knob with no luck. He banged on the door with the butt of the gun. “FBI!” Nick shouted. “Open up.”

There was no response.

He waited and banged again.

Nothing.

From the main cabin came a man dressed in a pilot’s uniform. He approached with his hands held up slightly to show he was harmless.

“I can try punching in the code,” he said to Nick, pointing to the keypad next to the door.

Nick moved aside and allowed the pilot to punch in a sequence of numbers. After a couple of attempts, the pilot shook his head. “They’re denying us access.”

“You know them?”

The pilot nodded. “The captain is Paul Greko, the copilot is Timothy Johnson. I’ve known Greko for ten years. Johnson . . . I’ve only flown with him a few times, but he has a good reputation.”

“How old is Greko?”

“Sixty-five,” the pilot said. “I know this because he’s being forced to retire. This is his final flight.”

“Great,” Nick said. “What about Johnson? Are they friends?”

“Not that I know. He’s young, early thirties. This is one of the first times I’ve worked with him.”

Nick pointed to the door. “Any way of getting through this?”

“Not unless you have an ax and maybe a couple of hours. The thing is bulletproof.”

Nick saw the anxious expressions of the passengers in first class and realized two or more could be terrorists waiting for their opportunity to attack. Nick needed more help. He couldn’t control the situation by himself. He was about to turn to the only person trained enough to navigate through this mess.

It wasn’t an option Nick would use unless he was desperate.

And he was desperate.

The air traffic control center in Reykjavik, Iceland, was normally a frantic workplace, especially considering the four million square miles it covered for transatlantic flights. The air navigation division included one hundred air traffic controllers, forty flight information officers, and thirty-five technicians who operated the communication between pilots and control center.

Gunnar Erikson had been part of the crew for over a decade and knew every nuance of the operation. He requested to be put on the graveyard shift so he could spend more time with his wife and daughter. So when he received a very faint signal from a Skyway aircraft reporting its position, he registered the weakness in his mind. It wasn’t until the pilot missed his second call-in that Gunnar suspected a problem.

“John,” he called to his supervisor, “we have a possible stray.”

John Kurtze was a tall man with a bushy beard and quietly intense eyes. “Who?”

“Flight 12. JFK to Fiumicino.”

Kurtze stood over Gunnar’s shoulder to view his computer monitor. There wasn’t the normal radar screen an air traffic controller would display on a terrestrial command center. This was the North Atlantic they were patrolling and there was no radar to scrutinize.

Gunnar pointed to a green dot blinking on his screen. When he placed the cursor over the dot, the phrase “Skyway Flight 12” popped up. This was a projected path the plane was scheduled to follow in order to keep in the proper flight pattern.

“How long since its last report?” Kurtze asked.

“Thirty minutes.”

Kurtze stroked his beard with an absent look on his face. “He’s not responding?”

“No sir. Nothing.”

“Could be his communications system. Give him until the next check point to ping us.”

“Sir,” Gunnar said, “I felt the signal I received on the last one was faint.”

“Was there anything abnormal about the report?”