Hostages of Hate

"LOOK AT THIS place. Is it disorganized!" Joe Hardy scowled as he pushed his way through the huge crowd.

"It's all the media people getting in one another's way," his older brother, Frank, replied. They circled around one camera crew, only to walk into another. "But then, I suppose a national seminar on counterterrorism is big news."

The two brothers had taken Friday off from school and were down in Washington, D.C., because their father was taking part in the seminar. A successful private detective, Fenton Hardy was giving a lecture on the latest in security methods. Frank and Joe had gone along to be his friendly audience—and to pick up some new techniques for their own use. Fenton Hardy didn't always approve of their work as detectives, but he didn't forbid them from doing it, either.

Joe ran a hand through his blond hair, his face the picture of frustration. "So far, it's just been a lot of hot air. All talk."

"What were you expecting?" Frank almost laughed. "A bunch of muscle-men with Uzis and bazookas, demonstrating them in this crowded room?"

"We could use a couple of demonstrations," Joe said. "Better than listening to some guy talk about," — he pulled out a program — "International Effects of Jungle-based Radical-Liberational Movements." He stared in scorn. "What does that mean? How can that help if some crazy throws a bomb ... " His voice trailed off, and his face went white.

Frank stood silently, his dark eyes full of sympathy. He knew what was doing through Joe's mind. The same picture was going through his: their car blowing up from a terrorist bomb. And Joe's girlfriend, Iola Morton, disappearing in the ball of flame.

"Come on, let's get out of here," Frank said, breaking the mood. "I've had enough classes lately. This is supposed to be a break from school."

They stepped out of the building. Joe took a deep breath of fresh air. "This was what I needed," he said. "I was getting a little crazy in there."

"You know," Frank said, "we're only about a quarter of a mile from the airport. What do you say we take a walk over there?"

Joe grinned knowingly as he looked at his brother. "And why would you want to go over there?" he asked. "As if I didn't know."

Frank looked at his watch. "Well, they're getting ready for the hostage exercise. I thought you might like to see it."

"Wait, wait," said Joe. "I feel a deduction coming on." He stroked his chin and pretended to be deep in thought. "I suspect you have another motive for going there. Someone you want to see."

"Come on," Frank said, complaining. "If we don't get there soon, Callie will be on the plane."

The most publicized part of the seminar was going to be a fully staged airplane hijacking. The "terrorists" would be fake — counterterrorist experts. But the people at the seminar, including all the government officials, were going to treat the exercise as real. They'd be acting out their parts in front of television cameras.

Policemen, security agents, and hostage negotiators would swing into action as if a hijacking were actually taking place. And the plane, pilots, and passengers would be real—ordinary people picked at random from the people at the conference.

One of the passengers was Frank's girlfriend, Callie Shaw, whom Fenton Hardy had invited to join them. "She was so excited to be chosen," Frank said as he and Joe walked to the airport. "All I kept hearing about was what an adventure it would be — how lucky she was."

"Lucky?" Joe laughed. "I don't know about that. She's going to spend hours cooped up in that DC-9. She'll probably be bored to death—if heatstroke doesn't get her first." He grinned. "They turn the air-conditioning off when a plane is stuck on the ground with its engines off. It'll be like a sauna in there."

Frank glared at his brother. "You might have mentioned all this stuff to her, you know."

"What?" asked Joe, all innocence. "And ruin her fun?"

They headed for the airport, but the walk took longer than they had expected. Apparently, preparation for the exercise had created a monumental traffic jam. Even pedestrians couldn't get through the wall of cars.

Frank and Joe ran through the Departures building to Gate 61, where International Airways' "Flight to East Nowhere" was supposed to be leaving. But when they got there, the passenger lounge was empty.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the agent. "All passengers have boarded the airplane."

"I wanted to say goodbye to someone." Frank was very disappointed.

"That won't be possible," said the attendant.

"But you can watch the takeoff from the observation deck."

Joe shrugged. "Doesn't sound too interesting to me. We all know the plane is never going to take off."

But Frank surprised him by saying, "Let's give it a try."

They managed to squeeze through the crowd gathered to watch the exercise. They sidled to the front and stood at the huge plate-glass windows of the observation deck, looking down at the International Airways plane. It wasn't the biggest airliner they had ever seen, but it certainly was beautiful. The whole body of the sleek jet was painted royal blue with gold trim. The two jet engines set in the tail of the plane were gold with blue trim.

"What do you expect to see from this far away?" Joe asked.

"You can see a lot—if you come prepared," Frank answered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a squat fountain pen. As he pulled on the ends, it telescoped into a miniature spyglass. "One of the surveillance tools they were selling at the seminar," Frank said. "I couldn't resist it."

He scanned the side of the plane. "If I know Callie, she has a window seat."

"What if she got one on the other side of the plane?"

Frank glanced at Joe. "Spoilsport." He went back to looking through his spyglass. "There she is. Up near the front of the plane — first class." Callie's blond hair was unmistakable. So was the lively look on her face as she gazed out the window. Frank raised a hand to wave, then put it down. "She'd never see me."

"Well, you got your look at her," said Joe. "Happy now?"

Frank smiled. "Happy." He was about to put the spyglass away when a flurry of movement caught his eye. The main door of the airplane suddenly pushed out and swung away. A man stood in the doorway. He wore a conservative gray business suit, a white shirt, and a yellow tie. A large black bag with eyeholes cut in it had been slipped over his head. In his hand gleamed an Uzi submachine gun.

"Uh - oh," said Frank. "Looks like the show's starting." He focused in on the supposed hijacker.

The guy was shouting and pointing wildly with one arm. Frank refocused his spyglass to see airport personnel running around on the tarmac. Then suddenly they were huddling on the ground or diving for cover.

Frank flicked back to the guy in the doorway. Sure enough, his Uzi was spitting flame.

"Outrageous!" said Joe, straining to see what was going on. "They're going to use up a lot of blanks in this exercise."

"Hey, look!" Frank said, still scanning the scene. "The pilot, copilot, and navigator are escaping!" Both crew members had dropped from the cockpit on a rope ladder, then sprinted across the smooth surface. The hijacker turned toward them. He fired a burst as they dove for cover behind a pile of luggage.

Frank froze as he focused on a row of neat holes appearing in the suitcases.

"Something's wrong," he said hoarsely. "That guy is using real bullets!"

Now FRANK COULD see other evidence that live ammunition was flying over the tarmac. Ricochetted bullets spanged off vehicles. A truck's windshield vanished in a spray of gunfire. The driver bolted from the cab, miraculously unhurt.

The gunner wasn't aiming at anything—or anyone—just swinging his Uzi in a half-circle, with steady pressure on the trigger. Frank had just refocused on him when a stray round shattered the window in front of him. Joe yanked his brother back into the crowd pressed close against them. The safety glass crumbled and fell to the floor where they'd been standing.

With the glass gone, they could hear the wild uproar on the runway below. Terrified yells and screams rose from the trapped airport personnel.

Then they were drowned out by the renewed snarl of rapid fire from the Uzi.

Instinctively, Frank and Joe ducked and hit the floor. "The guy must have slapped in a new magazine," Joe said.

Frank aimed his spyglass at the door again, just in time to see the gunman disappear. The reason was obvious — police and counterterrorist experts were charging onto the scene.

Frank and Joe stared as if they were watching a movie. The law-enforcement officials ran back and forth. Some rushed forward, as if to charge the plane. The Uzi snarled again, stitching a line of broken runway just in front of the police. They stumbled to a stop, falling over themselves to retreat in Keystone Kops style.

A voice boomed from the airplane. "You will not come any closer," it announced in lightly accented English. "If anyone passes that line, passengers on this aircraft will die."

Joe turned to his brother, but Frank had shoved his way through the crowd and was dashing from the observation deck. Down on the lower level of the terminal building, police and security people ran around, seemingly without reason. They had all been prepared for a test—but now the test had been turned into a life-and-death situation.

Frank had no problem getting onto the runway himself. And it was no problem for Joe, either, as he pursued his brother.

When they headed for the airplane, however, a large policeman appeared in front of Frank, but he brushed right past him.

That was the worst thing he could have done. The cop, figuring Frank was joining the terrorists aboard the plane, drew his pistol.

Joe pushed himself to top speed.

The policeman, hearing running footsteps behind him, hesitated for a split second and looked over his shoulder. Joe used that time to pass the cop and hit Frank in a flying tackle.

Joe, holding Frank down, explained about Callie to the cop. Then he asked, "Where can we get the story on what's going on?"

The policeman shrugged his burly shoulders. "I wish I knew," he said.

Beyond them, workmen were bringing out sawhorses and boards. The cop glanced over. "Well, somebody's finally getting things organized. They're setting up a police line."

Frank slowly rose to his feet, staring over the improvised barricade to the plane beyond. A crowd was gathering just behind the sawhorses. Not casual bystanders — the police were keeping them away. No, this crowd bristled with microphones and Minicams — news-people in search of a story.

"We can't find out anything here," Joe said. "Come on. Let's head back to the conference. With all the experts there, that's where the action will be."

Frank nodded and started off, almost robot-like. Joe trailed behind.

When they got back to the conference hall, it was like walking into a circus. There were even more camera crews than before. And standing in front of them were dozens of experts, all giving opinions on the daring hijack.

Joe stared in dismay. "This is even worse than the airport. Nothing's changed. It's just gotten louder."

Frank pointed around the hall. Television sets now dotted the floor, adding to the noise. "Everyone wants to see what the networks have to say about the hijacking."

Joe turned to the nearest set. Washington correspondent Pauline Fox was talking from the barricade by the plane. She was every inch the skilled news professional — her blond hair was perfectly in place, and her voice had just the right note of concern. Rising behind her was the hijacked International Airways plane.

"To recap the story," she said, "a test went disastrously wrong today at National Airport." She stared into the camera. "This airplane full of passengers was supposed to be hijacked today— by government agents, as an exercise for the National Conference on — "

The picture suddenly went wild, jagged bars of color zigzagging across the screen. The uproar in the center grew — every television in the huge room was acting the same way.

Then they all cleared, and every set showed the same picture.

In a dimly lit room, a man sat in an armchair. The semidarkness made it impossible to see his face.

"Good afternoon, delegates to the seminar on terrorism." His English was very precise, but a trace of harshness lingered on the consonants. "The time has come for me to introduce myself. Not personally, of course. Your many law-enforcement agencies are already trying to identify me. I am the leader of the Army for the New World Order. We have taken control of the airplane that was to be used for your test."

Chuckling dryly, the man went on. "I have commandeered all the televisions at your conference. This is so you will know for certain that it is my group in command of the hostages. We were the only ones ready with this particular pre-recorded message. I would not want any group of madmen calling the media and claiming responsibility for an act by AN WO."