Hijack

Five o'clock on a late-summer afternoon, a warm hazy day with only a faint cloud line at the distant horizon hovering over the low Tennessee mountains sloping toward flatness to the west, and the plane--a 727 tri-jet--at 28,000 feet approaching the Tennessee River Valley on a south-southwestern heading from Kennedy in New York to New Orleans, with the sun quartering in on the copilot, sinking fast.

The radioman pushed himself into the cockpit through the narrow door from the cabin, adjusting his trousers, nodding comfortably to the captain. He settled himself at his desk again, putting his earphones back in place, reaching to fiddle with knobs. The captain studied him a moment, reading nothing in the even expression, and then glanced over his shoulder, looking below. Sunlight winked from water. The captain reached for his microphone, switching off the soft cabin music to gain priority, pressing the button that transferred the intercom system from tape to voice.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. To the right of the plane and almost directly beneath us is Watts Bar Lake, a part of the TVA project. Those passengers on the left can see the Watts Bar Dam and Lake Chickamauga beyond. In the distance to the east, for those with sharp eyesight, there are the Great Smoky Mountains...."

He replaced the microphone neatly and flipped the switch; the music returned. Almost in the same instant a light flashed on his intercom panel. The captain leaned over and pressed a button.

"Yes?"

"Captain, this is Clarisse. We've got trouble."

"Trouble?"

"A passenger is locked in the washroom with Milly." The stewardess' voice hurried on, anxious to avoid misunderstanding. "It isn't a pass, Captain. It's a hijacking." Her voice, striving for steadiness, echoed metallically in the crowded cockpit.

The radioman stared; the copilot started to come to his feet. Captain Littlejohn's restraining hand motioned him to sit down again.

"Where are the air marshals?"

"One of them is here with me now----"

"Before you put him on, what about the passengers?"

"They don't know a thing yet."

"Good. Let's keep it that way. Now, let me talk to the marshal."

There was a brief pause and then a man's low voice was heard in the cockpit.

"Hello, Captain. Apparently what happened was the man walked back to the lavatory, nobody paying any attention to him, and when he got there he pulled a gun on the girl and forced her into the washroom. I've spoken to her through the door. So far she's all right, but she says he's got a gun and a knife, and also a bottle he claims is nitro. She says it looks oily and yellow." The sky marshal cleared his throat. "What do you want us to do?"

"Nothing," the captain said quickly and firmly. "Go back to your seat. He's having Milly talk because he has her between him and the door. Go sit down. Let Clarisse handle any communication. I'll get through to New Orleans for instructions."

The radioman was already at work, calling the New Orleans tower. The captain's face was stiff. He spoke into the microphone.

"Clarisse?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Put an out of order sign on that washroom door. And keep the curtain drawn. Is Milly still all right?"

"Yes, sir. Wait a second--she's saying something"--there was a pause. "Hello, Captain? She says he wants the plane diverted to Jacksonville. To refuel."

"Where does he want to go? We have more than enough fuel for Cuba. Better have Milly remind him this isn't a 747, however."

"Yes, sir. She didn't say anything else."

"Who is he, do you know?"

"He's on the seat chart as a Charles Wagner from Hartford. He was in seat sixteen C, on the aisle. I served him lunch when we left Kennedy----"

"What did he look like?"

Clarisse sounded unsure of herself. "Like--like anybody, I guess. Middle thirties, hair a little long but getting thin...."

"How much did he have to drink?"

"Just a beer. I'm sure he wasn't drunk. What should I do?"

"Nothing. Try to look busy back there, in case anybody wonders why you're hanging around there. Get that sign up right away. And remember the curtain. And let me know if----"

The radioman swung around. "New Orleans tower. I've already identified."

"Mayday here," the captain said into the microphone. "We've got a hijacker on board."

"What condition?"

"He has one of our stewardesses locked in a washroom. Armed. Several times. Maybe with nitroglycerin, too. It sounds like it."

"Where does he want to go?"

"So far, just to JAX. For refueling, he says."

"Hold it," said the voice. "I'll contact higher up and be back."

The captain stared ahead, his face a mask. Under his hand the wheel held steady. The shadows ahead deepened. The wait seemed endless, filled with niggling static. Then the static cleared; a different voice was on the radio. It sounded more assured, more authoritative.

"Captain Littlejohn? This is Security, New Orleans. Permission granted to change course to Jacksonville."

The copilot was already digging into his map bag for routing maps. Captain Littlejohn's hand was already swinging the wheel, banking gently. A thought came to him to explain away any of his passengers' doubts.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said into the cabin intercom, "to give the people on the other side of the plane a chance to see what little can be seen of the TVA project at this late hour...."

He continued on a wide banking circle, coming out of it gently with the nose pointing now to the southeast and the growing darkness there. The voice of Security came on.

"Good work, Captain. Eventually, of course, they're going to have to know. In the meantime, tie into Jacksonville Security. They've been informed. We'll be on, too."

"Roger," Littlejohn said, and he peered over the copilot's shoulder at the air map. Clarisse's voice came back.

"Captain?"

The captain straightened up from the folded map almost reluctantly.

"Yes?"

"He wants money. A ransom for the passengers and the plane. He wants it waiting for him when we get there. Otherwise, he says he'll take Milly first and then blow up the plane."

"How much ransom?"

Clarisse swallowed. "A--a quarter of a million dollars."

Captain Littlejohn's expression didn't change in the least. He picked up his microphone.

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Hijack(continued from page 105)

"New Orleans Security? Do you still read me?"

A different voice answered. "This is JAX. We read you loud and clear."

"The hijacker wants a quarter of a million dollars."

"We heard. Who is he?"

"He's listed as a Charles Wagner, from Hartford, Connecticut."

"What else does he want?"

"One second." The microphone was laid aside temporarily, the intercom button pressed. "Clarisse--anything else?"

"Yes, sir. A whole flock of things. I guess he's had time to think. I scribbled them down." Clarisse referred to her paper; her tone changed abruptly. "I'm sorry, sir, that lavatory is out of order. No, the other one is fine. Yes, sir." Her voice dropped again. "A passenger. I put the sign up, but some people----"

"Never mind. Go on."

"Yes, sir. Here's what he wants. The money in an overnight bag, nothing smaller than fifties, nothing bigger than hundreds, banded in twenty-five-thousand-dollar bundles. He wants the plane to land at the end of runway 725 at Jacksonville, as far from the terminal as possible----"

"Hold it," Captain Littlejohn said and spoke into the mike. "Security, did you get that?"

"We got it. Go on."

"Go ahead, Clarisse."

"Yes, sir. He doesn't want anyone to come near. He says the passengers can get off. After that, he will come out of the washroom. The money will be delivered, but no one can enter the plane. And he wants--two parachutes...."

"Two of them?"

"That's what he said. A sports model and an Army standard."

Security could be heard, speaking in an aside to someone. "Get a fast check on a Charles Wagner through the U. S. Parachute Association right away, hear?" It came back full. "What else, Captain?"

"Clarisse?"

"That's all, Captain. So far. He says further instructions will be given when we're on the ground."

"Right." The intercom button was depressed; the captain spoke into his mike. "Security? We'll want to be cleared for landing on 725 regardless of wind direction."

"Roger."

"And what about the money he wants?"

"It'll be there. I don't know how long he'll keep it, but he'll get it. As well as the parachutes."

"Good," Captain Littlejohn said. "I'd hate to lose Milly. Not to mention a plane full of passengers."

There was no reply. The mike was switched off, attention given to flying the plane. The sunset was almost behind them now, the shadows of the Smokies creeping beneath their wings. The Knoxville-Jacksonville beam was intercepted; the plane banked smoothly into the air corridor, its heading now nearly due south. The engines droned in the deepening darkness; the cockpit lights showed the strain on the faces of the men within. At last the lights of Jacksonville could be seen, together with the feathery trail outlining the beach down toward St. Augustine. The plane began losing altitude. With a sigh, Captain Littlejohn turned over the plane to the copilot, who immediately began speaking with the tower. Captain Littlejohn took over the task of informing the passengers. He pressed the proper button. His voice was completely impersonal.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain again. Due to adverse weather conditions, we are forced to make our landing at the Jacksonville, Florida, airport. A company representative on the ground will explain the delay and arrange any necessary transportation. We regret this inconvenience. Now, please fasten your seat belts, bring your seats to the vertical position and observe the No Smoking sign...."

• • •

The last grumbling passenger had filed from the plane, surprised to find himself forced to take a waiting bus to the distant terminal building, unaware that very shortly he and his fellows would be in the envious position of being able to tell their friends of their adventure. Gasoline trucks were completing their refueling operation; a small station wagon took the place of the departing bus and two men got out.

One brought a small parachute in one hand and an overnight bag in the other; the second man carried a more cumbersome parachute. They climbed the aluminum steps, placed their loads on the floor of the plane without entering, nodded to a pale Clarisse, merely glanced in the direction of the washroom door and made their departure. They looked like FBI, and were. From the cockpit window, Captain Littlejohn watched them climb into their car and back off. He raised his microphone.

"Clarisse?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Where do we go from here?"

"Just a second"--there was a long pause. On the ground, the fuel lines were being sucked into the trucks like monsters consuming outsized spaghetti. Clarisse was back. "Captain, he says first to head toward Miami. He wants you to maintain minimum flying speed, he says two hundred knots will do, and to stay at two-thousand-feet altitude. And he wants the rear passenger entrance door left unlatched from the outside----"

Security in the tower had heard. It cut in.

"Captain, is it possible to jump from your plane?"

"It is from this one," Littlejohn said. "He obviously selected a 727 on purpose. He couldn't do it with a 707 or a 747. Either he must know something about flying or he studied up for this caper."

"For a quarter of a million dollars," Security said dryly, "I imagine a man would be willing to study. Or even to make his first parachute jump. There's no record of him in any sky-diving group we've dug up so far."

"If it's his real name."

"As you say, if it's his real name. Any danger of depressurization at that altitude with the door being opened?"

"Not at two thousand feet. And Florida's flat. And if we didn't leave the door unlatched, he could still always use one of the emergency doors." Captain Littlejohn's voice was getting tight; the wait was making him nervous. "Well, what do we do?"

There was a pause. A new voice came on.

"Captain? This is Major Willoughby of the Air Force. Do you have any suggestion?"

"Well," Littlejohn said slowly, "I suppose we could keep over water; he wouldn't jump there. It might give you time to scramble a few planes and meet us somewhere. He won't stand still for that water bit very long, but if you have a few planes follow, it might help."

The copilot cut in, a boy with much wartime experience.

"If he free-falls even five hundred feet, they'll never see him at night."

"At least they could try."

"I'll buy that," Major Willoughby said. "I'll get you cleared for following the coast as long as you can; we'll get other aircraft out of the way, although you'll be flying far below anything commercial until you get near airports. Try to hold over water until Daytona, if you can. We'll be with you by then at the latest. All right?"

"Fine."

"Captain," Clarisse said in a tight voice. "He's getting nervous."

"Tell him we're on our way," Littlejohn said, and he pressed the first of the engine starting buttons.

The plane swung about; the engine whine built up, and then they seemed to leap free. The large plane raced down the runway, gathering speed, and then seemed to raise itself slightly. They swooped up vertically; the city lights fell away, twisting as they banked. Littlejohn leveled off, following the coast a mile offshore. Security came back on the radio.

"What's our boy doing now?"

"God knows," Littlejohn said. "He'll undoubtedly be coming out of his little washroom soon and he'll see we're over water. Then"--he shrugged; the shrug was reflected in his voice. "Well, then we'll see."

"Keep this radio link open."

"Don't worry."

"Captain----"

"Yes, Clarisse?"

"He's going to come out----"

Littlejohn spoke rapidly:

"Clarisse! That microphone cord should reach to the next seat. I want you to strap yourself in and I want Milly to strap herself in as soon as she comes out. That nut can jump or fall, for all I care, but I don't want either of you girls to take any chances near that open door. Do you hear?"

"Yes, sir. Just a second"--there was a short pause. "I'm strapped in, Captain." The timbre of her voice changed. "Captain--they're out...."

"How's Milly?"

"Pale as a ghost, and I don't wonder. Milly, sit down. Strap yourself in"--a brief pause, with everyone in the cockpit staring intently at the small clothcovered speaker. "Captain, he's looking down at the water. He says either you turn overland right now or he'll kill Milly and then me. Captain--I--I think he means it...."

"Turn," Security said at once.

"It's all right, anyway," Major Willoughby's voice said. "We just picked you up."

Littlejohn instantly put the plane into a bank; the lights of Crescent Beach fled beneath them, a cluster with Route A1A etched on either side.

"Captain----"

"Yes, Clarisse?"

"He says----"

"Let me talk to him."

"Just a second." Silence. "Captain, he won't talk into the microphone. But he says fly to Ocala and then turn straight south for Naples, same speed, same altitude as now. He says you can come out of the cockpit by Naples; he'll be gone by then."

Security cut in:

"Do it his way, Captain. Don't take any chances. The major's planes have you in sight and we've also got every town's police notified to be on the lookout for a chute. He won't get far."

"There's a lot of empty space in central Florida, but whatever you say," Littlejohn said. "In that case, why not get us cleared from Naples over to Miami at a reasonable altitude and make us some hotel reservations there for tonight?"

"Will do."

Clarisse came back on, nervous.

"Captain, he wants us to get up into the cockpit before he jumps, doesn't want us to see...."

Littlejohn sighed. "All right, but hang on. I'll bank slightly to keep you away from that door. Come ahead."

The men waited impatiently; at last there was a tap on the door. It opened and two very nervous stewardesses sidled into the cramped space, shutting the door behind them. Milly was pale from her ordeal; Clarisse was partially supporting her. Littlejohn looked at them questioningly.

"She'll be all right," Clarisse said.

Littlejohn set his jaw and stared down. Beneath their steady nose, Dade City came and went, and then the vastness of southwestern Florida, inching past at the maddeningly slow speed of 200 knots. At long last the lights of the west coast could be seen in the still night. The radioman looked up.

"Naples coming up," he said.

They stared down, watching the lights pass them, and then they were out over the Gulf. Littlejohn turned to the copilot.

"Mike, want to take a look? Be careful."

"Right," said the copilot, and he pushed past the stewardesses and into the empty corridor of the plane. He walked to the other end of the plane and back, hanging onto the seats as he passed the cabin door, swinging back and forth, clanking as it struck each time. He came back into the cockpit and closed the door.

"All clear."

"We missed him," Major Willoughby's voice said, disappointed.

"We'll pick him up. Don't worry," Security promised. "We've got the whole state covered under your route. Well, Captain, you're cleared to Miami. Good night and good luck."

"Thanks," Littlejohn said, and he switched off the microphone. His hand pressed the engine throttles forward. "Well, children," he said, "it's been a long day. Let's go get some rest."

• • •

The maps from the map bag were piled to one side. Captain Littlejohn was reaching into the bag.

"Fifty thousand each," the captain said softly. "Not bad for a few hours' work, plus a little careful planning. Especially considering that it's tax-free."

"I ought to get more," Milly said sullenly. "Five long damned hours crammed into a tiny washroom with a dead man!"

"You?" Clarisse said. "What about me? I had to push him out of that damn door. Even though I was fastened in with the harness and the rope, I was scared silly that I'd go out of the plane with him."

"I had to kill the poor bastard," the radioman said.

The copilot was paying no attention to the complaints. He was neatly putting his share in his attaché case.

"Charles Wagner..." he said to no one in particular. "The hard-luck guy who went to the john at the wrong time. I wonder what he did for a living."