Moments In Time (35 page)

“Okay, okay, very funny. Now turn ’em back on,” someone called out with exaggerated patience.

“Someone ask the driver what the hell he’s doing,” a second voice called. “He’s gone off the goddamned road!” Angry voices were hushed as the lights flashed back on. Eyes readjusted, then focused without comprehension on the three men who stood across the front of the bus. Dressed in identical khaki, the security guards who had boarded with the performers were silhouetted against the broad windshield. The green bandanas previously worn around their necks were now tied around their foreheads like sweatbands. Each was armed with an American-made semiautomatic weapon.

“What the bloody hell
…
”
someone hissed to break the silence.

“Ladies and gentlemen”—one of the men stepped forward slightly, speaking perfect English in the deepest voice imaginable—“we are pleased to tell you that you are now guests of the Anjjolan Liberation Coalition.”

The twenty-two passengers on board each scrambled to process the words.

Steve McEntee, an American seated toward the front, called out cautiously, “What does that mean, ‘a guest’?”

“I think it’s another term for hostage, mate,” Rick answered from somewhere behind J.D.

“Very good, Mr. Daily,” the spokesman said, nodding in Rick’s direction.

For a moment no one moved or spoke, then chaos erupted as several in the group rose from their seats and started toward the front of the bus. Three shots rang out from behind, and almost as one, the entire group turned to face the rear. Four more men, green bandanas around their heads, stood side by side, a solid wall of khaki, their guns prominently displayed.

“I would suggest that this is not to be a night for heroes, gentlemen. Please be seated, and remain so,” instructed the man who stood directly behind the driver. “We will reach our destination soon enough.”

“Where’s that?” someone asked in a voice that trembled mightily.

“Soon enough” was the abrupt reply.

The crowd was hushed, each individual trying desperately to understand the implausible twist their lives had just taken.

Holy mother,
J.D. thought,
how can this be happening? Sweet Jesus, let it be a dream
…

He felt a slight change in the motion of the bus. It no longer rocked as it had moments before as it had navigated what he had assumed to be the ruts of a dirt road. A smooth surface was now underwheel, he felt certain of it, and up ahead in the distance were lights. He watched as a structure of glass and steel rose before them out of the darkness. From somewhere in the distance he heard the engines of a plane.
Of course,
he thought,
the airport.

The bus drove onto the runway and stopped directly behind a plane that looked as if it was being prepared for takeoff. The four men who had stood silently in the back of the bus now marched wordlessly up the aisle and disembarked. They converged about the steps to the waiting plane, then boarded.

The passengers on the bus waited in terror. Were they to be flown someplace with these fanatics?

Several lo
n
g minutes passed before the instruction was given for them to leave the bus, single file, and walk directly to the plane. They were herded on legs wobbly with fear and ushered rapidly aboard the plane, taking the first seat available to them as they had been commanded to do.

“You are wondering, of course, what is happening here,” the spokesman addressed them when all had been seated, “and quite naturally, you are concerned for your welfare.” He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, taking his time, knowing the terror would grow along with the suspense. “Your fate is now in the hands of President Makubo. Whether you walk off this plane to your freedom within a few hours is up to him.”

“What does that mean? What’s this all about?” a voice inquired. “What is it you want?”

“The release of the nine Anjjolan Federation elders who now rot in Makubo’s prisons. When they are set free, so too shall you be.”

“And what if they’re not?” someone asked tentatively.

The spokesman frowned, as if pondering the possibility for the first time, then replied with considered nonchalance, “That would be most unfortunate. This plane will take off in precisely twenty-four hours, its destination the bottom of the Atlantic.”

“Why us?” The question, a sob, hung in the air.

“Why indeed. You are all internationally famous. Would the Americans risk your demise, Mr. McEntee? And Mr. Daily, it is said that you have inspired a generation of guitarists. Would not the British government intervene on your behalf? And you, Mr. Narood, our own pride and joy. Would Makubo turn his back on the most well-known Anjjolan of all time? I think not.” He grinned with satisfaction, then added darkly, “For all of our sakes, I hope not.”

Their captor turned and walked into the cabin where the pilot sat in terror, a gun held to his head, ensuring he would make no valiant attempt to use the radio.

It had seemed to J.D. that the man’s brief speech had lasted a lifetime. He sat enveloped in his own dread, heart pounding loudly and furiously, wondering how in the name of God he could have been caught in so absurd a predicament. No one dared speak, each man or woman having escaped into his own private world of fear.

Several hours of bleak and desperate silence had passed before the spokesman appeared before them to announce that the women on the plane—seven of them, a Swede, two Brits, and four Americans—would be released immediately. A buzz of relief filled the plane as the grateful women rushed toward the doorway, none of them meeting the eyes of those left behind. They were directed toward a doorway, some sixty feet from the plane, in which stood an Anjjolan soldier. The remaining hostages held their breaths, praying their colleagues would make it across the runway, that it was not a trick.

And so they sat through a night of terror, frozen with the unvoiced fear of what was still to be.

The sun rose and soon the interior of the plane began to heat up in its increasingly warming rays. Water and food had
been distributed, but no news of the negotiations for their release was forthcoming. The anxiety increased as the day progressed, but there was no communication from their captors. By the end of the day, eighteen hours into their ordeal, the unwilling passengers were beginning to fall apart, little by little.

The onset of dusk brought some small relief as the air inside the plane cooled slightly. Food and water were once again offered, and the hostages were told to walk to the front of the plane in order of their seats to receive their evening rations.

J.D., seated toward the rear, was among the last to make his way to the simple concession. As he walked back down the aisle with his bottle of water, sandwich, and fruit, he noticed Hobie, sitting alone and staring out the window. He slid into the vacant seat next to his old friend.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked, unwrapping the sandwich, which was two thick slices of bread with some type of thick yellow substance between. “You don’t know when they’ll feed us again.”

Hobie did not respond.

“Look, Hobie,” J.D. whispered, “if you’re feeling somehow responsible for this mess, I mean, because you organized the
show…”

Hobie turned his head wordlessly.

“Are you scared then? Is that what it is?” J.D. leaned over and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Look, Hobie, I’m scared witless. I’m scared I’m going to die in this bloody plane and all I can think of is Maggi
e, my children…”

He choked up unexpectantly, his wife’s face filling his inner vision. He needed to see that face there, to feel her with him. He was terrified to his very soul that the worst would happen.

“So if that’s it, Hobie, if you’re scared—shit, you’d ha
ve to be a moron not to be…
”

“I never meant for it to go this far.” Hobie’s words were uttered in a tortured whisper. “I am so sorry.”

Certain he’d not heard correctly, J.D. leaned forward.

“What did you say?”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.” Enormous tears rolled down the big man’s face.

“What are you talking about?” J.D. hissed.

“It was only supposed to be the bus.” Hobie spoke as if only to himself. “They said they’d hold everyone on the bus, that was all, until Makubo let the prisoners go
…
”

“You knew about this?” J.D. was incredulous. “And you didn’t try to stop them?”

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he repeated. “They promised no one would be hurt. And by the end of the evening, they’d all be free
…
Ebbu, the others, would all be free.”

“Ebbu?”

“My brother. Of my father’s second wife. He was one of the elders of the Federation of Tribes. He was arrested last year.”

“Why?”

“The federation was banned fifteen years ago by Makubo. He wanted to force the tribes’ allegiance to him, but his actions only made them more defiant.”

“What’s your role in all this?” J.D. demanded heatedly.

“My father was an elder, J.D., and now my brother. My loyalties are with the federation.”

“Did you plan this? Is this some kind of twisted revenge for your father’s assassination?”

He shook his head. “No, J.D. I’ve been funding the organization for years, but I had no hand in planning this.”

“Have you any influence with them? Can you stop it?” J.D.’s hand gripped the larger man’s arm like the jaws of an angry dog.

“I don’t know.” Hobie shook his head uncertainly. “It may have gone too
far…
”

“Try, goddamn you.” J.D. rose angrily and stormed down the aisle, finding an empty seat and plopping into it, and turned his face to the window, gazing into the darkness as the evening spread, thick as an oil slick, around the plane.

Goddamn him,
he thought.
Jesus, if we survive this madness, I swear I’ll break Narood's neck with my own bare hands. I should have been able to live out the years with
Maggie.
He felt self-pity wash over him.
I should have been able to watch our children grow up and grow old with Maggie, making jokes about our failing eyesight and our arthritic joints.

Rick moved into the seat next to him. “You all right, mate?” he asked. “I mean, I saw you talking to Hobie.”

“Did you hear the conversation?”

“No, but it looked pretty intense.” Rick was incredibly composed, as if they were seated in his own living room.

“It was.” J.D. fought the urge to tell him about Hobie’s involvement but could not resist asking “How can you be so calm in the face of all this?”

“I have no one to leave behind but Sophie,” he said with a shrug, “and I know Maggie will take care of her.”

“And if you make it and I don’t, will you take care of Maggie?” he heard himself ask.

“You’ll make it. We’ll both make it,” he said confidently.

“What do you know that I don’t?” J.D. asked bleakly.

“I’ve felt death breath down the back of my neck on several occasions, old friend, but I don’t feel him there now. Maybe for others, but not for me. Nor you,” Rick told him solemnly as his eyes drifted toward the front of the plane. “Now what do you suppose he’s doing?”

Hobie had made his way up the aisle and was attempting to speak with the man in the doorway, who appeared to be ignoring him. Another terrorist emerged from the cockpit, and Hobie took several steps toward him. The man raised his hands as if to push him back when suddenly a blaze of gunfire erupted. The door of the plane was blown open and, with it, the gates of hell.

The hostages hit the floor as the incessant, thunderous barrage continued. They covered their ears against the unholy fury exploding around them, but it was useless. The noise level inside the plane was deafening. J.D. lay shaking long after the gunfire had ceased.

“Up! Get up!” Someone, his accent distinctly American, prodded him. “You hit? No? If you can walk, go quickly. We’re not sure of just what we hit or if this sucker will blow.” J.D. didn’t need to be told twice.

Making his way out, climbing over bodies without consciously realizing it, he searched the rapidly moving line as it snaked forward. There was Rick just disappearing through the doorway and Colin, he’d located him several feet in front of him. Where was Hobie? He had a score to settle with him.

He was almost to the door when he saw, amid a pile of unmoving bodies, the bright blue shirt Narood had worn, now running rivers of red like water pouring from pinholes in a balloon. He stopped abruptly, then was pushed from behind.

“Move, damn it!”

“Oh, Jesus,” J.D. muttered, feeling sick to his stomach but unable to look away.

“Move!” the voice behind demanded, two firm fists slamming into him roughly, propelling him toward the doorway, out into the night.

The entire airport was now flooded with light and there was a sudden convergence of people and vehicles. Army personnel rushed into the plane he’d just fled, looking for survivors among the heap of bodies. Medics were everywhere, as were members of the press.