Flight into Darkness (Flight Trilogy, Book 2) (19 page)

She and the children’s lives hung in the balance of a set of conditions that might or might not turn
their
lights out—forever. From the way it looked, the albino and his little friend were setting things up to, at some point, leave them alone.

“You see, Keri, I didn’t want to leave a bloody mess this time.”

“I’m finished,” Usman said. “Do you want me to activate the program?”

“Not yet.”

Usman returned to his chair and continued monitoring the computer screen.

Samael retrieved the three bottles of brown water from the mantle, and returned to Keri’s side. She watched as he disconnected the tube extending from the bottom of the bag marked, POTASSIUM CHLORIDE, removed the top from one of the bottles, poured the contents of the fluid into the tube, and then reconnected the tube to the bag. He repeated this procedure with the bags hanging from the children’s IV poles. He then returned the empty bottles to his satchel.

“Keri, if the worst happens, and of course we hope it doesn’t, you can now be assured that your bodies will be cleansed from the evils of this life.”

Keri looked up at the tube filled with the dirty liquid. When released, the brown sludge would flow into her veins, followed by the last deadly chemical, potassium chloride. At that point, it really wouldn’t matter what the freak had poured into the tubes, because if they made it that far, they’d all three be dead, unless the infusion pumps malfunctioned, or—worse—less than the lethal dose of the chemicals made it into their bodies.

Just as with execution by lethal injection or physician-assisted suicides, the sodium thiopental—a powerful sedative—would cause unconsciousness, the pancuronium bromide—a paralytic agent—would stop their breathing and all muscle movement, except the heart, and the potassium chloride would ensure the end by inducing a cardiac arrest, stopping the heart.

“Keri, for death row inmates this process would only take a few minutes, but for you and the children, since I am using drip bags, it will take a bit longer.”

The amount of thiopental the freak had in the drip bag far exceeded what was needed for medically-induced coma protocols. If none of the other drugs made it through the infusion pumps, the thiopental alone would kill them. Due to its high lipophilicity, it would only take one circulation through the brain before they were in an unrecoverable state of unconsciousness.

The albino placed the cloth satchel on Keri’s stomach. She squirmed. “Easy, Keri.” He withdrew the flexible rubber tube from the bag. “It’s time for you to sleep.”

She moaned and shook her head violently.

The albino studied her eyes. “Would you like to stay awake?”

She nodded.

“Can you behave?”

She nodded.

“Okay, but I still need to hook you up to the IV.”

He used the rubber hose as a tourniquet to make a vein clarify in her arm. She watched as he slid the hollow IV needle out of the plastic cover. His fingers traced along the crease of her arm, looking for a vein. Next came the expected sting of the needle stabbing through her skin. Her jaw muscles clamped down hard. She sucked in a breath. He pushed the needle in deeper, then pulled back.

“Sorry, Keri, I missed. My vision is not the best.” He leaned in closer, putting his face inches from her skin.

She watched, his fingers pressing in the crook of her arm, searching for a new place. He stuck her again, harder this time. She flinched with the sting of the needle, sucking in more air, her left hand gripping the thin mattress.

“There we go, dear, I think I got it that time.”

He snapped off the rubber tourniquet, attached the tube dangling from the infusion pump, and then anchored everything to her flesh with strips of adhesive tape.

He then moved to the sleeping children and repeated the process. Once he had the children’s IV’s in, he pressed a few buttons on their infusion pumps. “That should keep them under,” Samael said. He glanced at Keri. “Just a slight drip of thiopental, that’s all, don’t worry.”

Keri did worry. She worried that the freak had no idea what he was doing with the drugs. A “slight drip” too much could put the children into a coma.

He stepped back to admire his work. “Usman, you can activate the program now.”

With an unobstructed view of the computer screens, Keri watched as the little man clicked away at the keyboard. The right monitor, which was previously used to track Ryan’s car, was replaced with a large, digital clock showing the current time in hours, minutes, and seconds—10:18:52.

The infusion pump strapped to the IV pole on her gurney beeped once, followed by beeps from the pumps connected to each of the children’s poles.

“Done,” Usman said.

“That looks nice,” Samael said, admiring the large, digital clock on the monitor. “Even I can read those numbers. How about you, Keri?” He walked over and stood beside her. “Yes, you have a perfect view. Now you’ll know if your husband does what he’s supposed to do. Since I won’t be here, you’ll be the first to know.” He looked down at her. “When the clock reaches midnight, if you hear that pump click ON, you will know your husband has failed us. Of course, you know what that means. I’ll have to do this all over again with another family. But on the other hand, if you don’t hear a click, you and your lovely children will live…that is, if nothing goes wrong with the automation before someone finds you.”

Keri glanced over at the children, thankful that they were asleep and unaware, and then back at the clock—10:19:32. Her thoughts drifted to Ryan and what he must be thinking; what he must be going through—alone.

God
,
why
?

The computer monitor to her left displayed a map of the west coast of California from Los Angeles to San Francisco. On top of LAX airport was a small, airplane symbol—assumedly the plane Ryan would be flying. A line was drawn from the airport out over the Pacific Ocean and then up the coast to a point abeam San Francisco. The line then turned to the east, stopping at the coast.

The albino and the little man stared at the computer screens, waiting. The scheduled departure time for Ryan’s flight was 10:30 p.m. The clock on the right monitor ticked away the seconds:

10:29:56

10:29:57

10:29:58

10:29:59

10:30:00

10:30:01

“He’s off the gate,” Usman said.

The small airplane symbol moved, indicating the flight had pushed off the gate.

“That’s good,” Samael said. He turned to Keri. “Looks like you might be around to see another sunrise—not that I think that is such a good thing, but I’m sure you do.”

Keri swallowed hard, her heart pounded in her chest. Fresh tears filled her eyes.

God
,
I
beg
you
!
Please
stop
this
evil
man
.

CHAPTER 27

10:38 p.m.

Ryan looked across the dark cockpit at Chuck. It was a long shot. If he couldn’t convince Chuck to help him, all hope would be lost.

“I’m all ears, Cap’n. What’s up?”

Here
goes
…

“Chuck, my wife and kids are being held hostage by some lunatic who says, if I don’t fly this jet into the Golden Gate Bridge at exactly midnight tonight, he’ll kill them.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes! I’m serious! I’m pretty sure this maniac is the same guy that murdered Rex Dean’s wife?”

“What are you talking about? I thought Dean murdered her.”

“Listen, we don’t have time to get into it. I need you to fly the profile the maniac gave me.”

“By myself? Solo? Where are you going?”

“To try and save my family.”

“Let me get this straight. You want me to fly the jet, solo, into the Golden Gate Bridge while you go home to your family? Have you lost your freakin’ mind?”

“I’m not asking you to fly the plane into the bridge. When you reach the bridge, fly over it and land at San Francisco or Oakland.” Ryan hit two keys on the flight computer’s keypad. The secondary route displayed on the screen. “I’ve loaded the route exactly like he wants us to fly it—nav points, altitude, and speeds. All you have to do is couple the auto pilot after takeoff, and when you reach the bridge, just pull up. If you don’t help me, my wife and two kids will die.”

“This is crazy!” Chuck said. “You’ve got to come up with another plan. Have you tried calling someone? You need to call 911, the police, the FBI! Call somebody! There are people trained to handle this kind of stuff.”

This
is
why
I
didn’t
tell
him
inside
.

“You don’t understand, if anyone shows up at my house, the lunatic said he’ll start killing, starting with my daughter, then my son, then my wife. I can’t call anyone. Please! If you’ll do this, I’ll have time to make it home before you reach the bridge.”

“Maybe he’s lying.”

“NO! He knows everything. He’s tracking the plane right now. He tracked my car, he’s tracking my cell phone, and I’m not even sure he isn’t tracking
me
…or even you!”

Chuck stared at the navigational display—similar to a small TV—in front of him. The secondary route was mapped out, giving him a bird’s-eye view of where the route would take the jet. “How am I going to get ATC to let me fly up the coast, when we are supposed to be going to New York? They’ll have fighters on my butt in a nanosecond. What do you propose I do then? Have you forgotten what they did to Dean? They blew his ass right out of the sky, along with over 200 innocent passengers.”

“After you take off, declare an emergency. Tell them you’re having flight control problems, and it’s taking full left control to fly level. They’ll never know. Tell them you can only bank right. Make them believe you need to stay out over the ocean to troubleshoot the problem. They’ll never suspect terrorists if you hit ‘em with the flight control problems.”

Chuck listened.

“The navigation points will keep you out over the ocean and away from land. Then somewhere up the coast, tell them you’re going to fly abeam San Fran, let down, and make a wide circle to the right and come back for a landing at Oakland. I know it’ll work! As long as you stick to the flight control problem, you’ll never see any fighters.”

After a moment of silence, Chuck said, “I’ll do it.”

“Thank you!”

Ryan ripped off his seat belt, reached above his head, popped open a plastic panel in the ceiling and pulled a nylon bag from the cavity. The bag contained a twenty foot rope used for emergency evacuation from the cockpit, one end attached to an anchor point in the ceiling. He then unlocked his side window and cranked it open. As the window opened, the rush of jet-engine noise filled the cockpit. He tossed the bag out the window, taking the knotted rope to the ground.

“Get your coat,” Chuck said. “It’ll hide that white shirt.”

“Good idea.”

Although it was pitch black, the lights of a vehicle or airplane would reflect off the white shirt like a billboard. He slipped on the dark jacket. He put his right hand on his hip. The .40 caliber Glock 23 was secure in its holster. He tossed his cell phone to Chuck. “One more favor…”

Chuck stared at him. “What?”

“Do you have a car?”

“Yeah, but it’s a beater.”

“I need your keys and your cell phone. My car and cell have tracking devices on them. I’ll use your phone to call for help once I get close to my house.”

Chuck dug his keys from his pocket and located his cell phone and handed them to Ryan. “Like I said, it’s a beater, but it should get you there.”

“I’m sure it will get me there.” Ryan tossed his car keys to Chuck. “After this is over, you might need a ride.” Ryan stepped up in his seat, grabbed the rope with both hands, and sat on the ledge of the cockpit window.

“Remember, fly the profile. You must arrive at the bridge at exactly midnight.”

Ryan pushed his body out of the window. The noise of the jet’s left engine was deafening. Hand over hand, he lowered himself to the ground. Once on the ground, he looked up to see Chuck give him a thumbs up as he reeled the rope back into the cockpit, and cranked the window closed.

Ryan scurried, half-crouched, into the uncut grass at the edge of the taxiway, running like a convict escaping prison. The bright lights in the cabin prevented passengers from seeing a man running. The control tower was too far away to spot him in the dark.

Luck was on his side. A tug pulling six baggage carts was approaching from the right, one headlight burnt out, the other casting a weak beam. Ryan lowered himself to the ground, hoping the driver would not think to scan the dark, grassy median.

The train of carts passed, then began to slow. Thinking he might have been spotted, Ryan fell spread-eagle in the grass. He heard the tug rattle to a stop. He lifted his head slightly to see that the driver had not spotted him, but had stopped at a stop sign on the service road. Ryan sprang up and sprinted for the last cart on the train. He dove into the cart, half full of luggage, just as the driver hammered the accelerator, sending a roller bag crashing down on top of Ryan. The driver, oblivious that Ryan had hopped a ride, sped off to deliver his load of bags.

Ryan closed the side curtains on the cart, shielding him from being spotted. The tiny wheels of the baggage cart telegraphed every crack and bump in the pavement through its metal floor to Ryan’s butt. The caboose fishtailed like an out of control garden hose. Under cover of darkness, the tug driver pushed the tug’s engine to its limit, racing to deposit the load of bags.

After one last abrupt stop and start, the train veered off the service road and toward the ramp area, coming to a jolting stop beside a parked Boeing 737, its baggage doors open wide like the mouths of baby chicks waiting for food.

Ryan hopped out of the cart, unnoticed by the driver and meandering ramp workers, straightened his coat, and blended into the scene as a pilot performing a routine preflight. He scanned the area near the terminal spotting an employee bus stop, a bus just approaching. He broke into a run, waving at the driver. Luckily, the driver looked up.

Once at the employee lot, Ryan stepped off the bus and scanned the sea of cars. He froze. He’d forgotten to ask Chuck what kind of beater he drove or where he’d parked it. “Great!”