FLIGHT 419

Copyright (c) 2019 by Randall R. Peterson ALL RIGHTS RESERVED This is a work of fiction. All persons, locations and actions are from the author's imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.

FLIGHT 419

By R. Peterson

          Having logged one thousand six-hundred and fourteen hours in the air before and during Operation Desert Storm and another four-hundred and fifty-nine flying later for Delta Airlines I shouldn’t have been apprehensive … but I was. Sure piloting a Boing 737 with one hundred thirty seven passengers is dull compared to hunting with an F-15 Eagle, but at least a thousand sand box Hajjis aren’t trying to shoot you down. It was the passenger manifest on flight 419 that had my nerves doing the tango. The plane was only half full and the seating chart read like an extras casting list for Lawrence of Arabia. I’d never seen so many Hamzas, Rashids and Abdullas on one flight in my life. I asked the flight director what was going on. She said The Islamic Society of North America was holding their annual gathering at the Washington Convention Center in DC. I shook hands with my co-pilot whose name happened to be Shoaib Rahman and after suppressing a smile and having him give me and odd look we ran through our pre-flight checklist. Thirty minutes later, we took off from Metro airport and rose like exhaust fumes over the motor city of Detroit.

-------2-------

            An hour later, I almost asked a stewardess for a ham sandwich and then re-considered. She told me the in-flight meal consisted of Lamb which had been slaughtered according to Sharia law, Baba ganoush and tabbouleh a kind of leafy salad. She smiled when I begged her for coffee. “Of course! We’re not that austere,” she said. Her name was Maheen.

            “I think she likes you,” Shoaib said as he checked the approach restrictions for Dulls International. “Too bad you are an infidel!”

            “An infidel! Me?” I thought surely he was joking.

            “Had you been chosen by Allah to be a soldier for his eternal glory she could have been one of many sacred virgins to reward your earthly desires,”

            “I have an x-wife and two kids in Denver, Colorado,” I told him. “My earthly desires have already cost me plenty.”

-------3-------

            Twenty minutes later, Maheen informed me that two passengers had been arguing. She asked me to go aft and resolve the problem. I looked at Shoaib. “Take care of this for me will you?” I begged.

            “I am very capable of flying this aircraft,” he insisted. “You are the captain. Go back there and reestablish your authority.”

            “That’s right,” I told him. “I am the captain and you are my subordinate. Go back find out what the problem is … and then report to me.”

He glared at me for a few seconds and then he shrugged his shoulders. “A man must clean his own house … if he doesn’t … evil will spawn from the litter.”

I didn’t really understand Shoaib’s logic and I was glad when he left the cockpit.  I don’t know why I waited to activate the onboard video camera display but I was glad I did. The hidden camera in the coach and first class sections of the aircraft showed no disturbance.  Shoaib was in the center isle talking conspiratorially with several passengers. They kept gesturing toward the front of the plane and seemed to be formulating a plan to get me to relinquish my flight controls. I watched as Shoaib joined with them in a prayer. The entire passenger sections were on their knees paying homage to a desert God. My copilot and the others were obviously unaware of the hidden cameras. I decided to keep it that way. In addition to numerous precautions implemented after 911 it was customary to plant a security flight marshal on board especially on flights like these. I wondered where/who he was.

-------4-------

            “Is everything okay?” I asked Shoaib when he returned to the cockpit. I kept my eyes on him and he seemed nervous.

“Two men were fighting over a spare seat and one pillow,” he said as he settled into his seat. “Your airline corporations are beginning to crowd the passengers like fish in a basket all in the name of excessive profits!”

            “I couldn’t help but notice that he said your airlines. I knew we were in trouble.

-------5-------

I could see the lights of DC ahead and it was time to make contact with traffic control. “Dulls International this is Delta Flight 419,” I radioed. “We are on approach at thirty thousand feet.”

            “Delta Flight 419 … descend to twenty-two seven and hold radial pattern at five miles,” traffic control responded.

            “Roger Dulls International, descending to twenty-two seven and waiting for landing instructions.”

Shoaib smiled as I put the aircraft into descent. “Time for the pre-landing checklist,” he said.

We went down the list, a procedure that would have been routine on any other flight. When it came time to test the landing gear a red light began flashing on the control panel. “We have a problem!” Shoaib smirked.

Just then Maheen’s voice boomed in my ear. “We have a strange vibration and a thumping noise coming from under both wings,” she said. She didn’t sound nearly as alarmed as I was.

“This time I really think you’d better go back and check it out!” There was what looked like an all plastic gun in Shoaib’s hand.

            “What the hell are you doing?”

            “This is not one of your Lone Ranger toys,” Shoaib said. “The nylon shells inside can kill just as quickly as lead.”

            “We all were scanned through security,” I said. “And the detectors don’t just pick up metal. How did you smuggle it aboard?”

            “A maintenance worker who is a friend of Allah left it under my seat when he was doing pre-flight testing,” Shoaib bragged. “He also tampered with the hydraulic lines that lower the landing gear.”

            “Are all you people ready to die for a God who demands a blood sacrifice from his followers?”

            “This aircraft has become a mighty sword in the hand of sixty-six of his most loyal children,” Shoaib motioned for me to get out of my seat.

Other than me, I knew there were sixty seven other individuals on board when we left Detroit. “What did you do with the flight marshal?” I demanded.

            “He was easy to spot,” Shoaib smirked, “and even easier to dispose of … he was the only one who didn’t attend our pre-flight meeting!”

            “What do you hope to accomplish?”

            “The glorious events of 911 left unfinished business,” Shoaib said. “United Airlines flight 93 was supposed to destroy the White House … this time we have promised Anwar al-Awlaki and the many others gathered to witness our triumph that we will not fail!”

I imagined the Washington Convention Center filled with expectant fanatics. They had been promised a glorious show … and I was coming on center stage.

I reached for the drop down oxygen mask a split second before I pressed a secret button on the console. The CIA developed knockout gas burst into the cockpit with the force of a deploying airbag … still I felt a plastic bullet graze my head and shatter the side window.

------- final -------

“Request for emergency landing,” I radio.

In the last three hours my entire life has changed. Blood is dripping from my chin. The reinforced door between the aircraft cockpit and the interior of the airliner has been sealed according to homeland security restrictions implemented after 911. Shoaib Rahman lies slumped in the co-pilots seat. I know the gas didn’t hit him hard enough to knock him out for more than a few minutes but it doesn’t matter. Some things are just meant to be. The light for the landing gear malfunction is still flashing. There is no way to belly-land this bird safely with over four thousand gallons of jet fuel still onboard. Even when you don’t take Destiny along with you when you start your travels … you often pick him up on the way.

My last thoughts are of my x-wife and children probably watching TV in a pleasant suburb of Denver. I long for the quiet easing down that is typical for a work day in America. I should have been a better husband and father. The 737 banks sharply as I pass over the historic White House the intended target of this latest religious Jihad.

There is furious pounding on the cabin door and the smell of sulfur. I think they will break through in a few minutes. I replay the secret videos from cameras hidden throughout the aircraft. Mohammad Nisbah was surely the onboard flight marshal and the video now shows him lying in the center isle with his throat severed by a plastic dinner knife. Maheen leans down and dips a finger in his blood. She smiles as she smears it on her pouty lips. Most of the passengers are out of their seats looking jubilant and I see no resistance to their vile celebration. I am alone.

I am still waiting for emergency landing instructions.

My radar detects three F 15’s moving up fast from the south. I wonder if I know the pilots.

I spot the rooftop of Washington Convention Center straight ahead. I begin my descent. Anwar al-Awlaki, having faked his death in a Yemen drone strike the year before, will be there along with many other murderers waiting to celebrate as the United States loses its most enduring symbol of leadership. I line the nose of the 737 with the roof of the building and give the aircraft full throttle.

“For the Glory of God!”

THE END ???