Miles To Go Before I Sleep (4 page)

The next day, Saturday, we anxiously and excitedly waited to see who our opponent would be in the finals.

We waited and waited. The other girls' teams were so good that their games kept going into overtime.

That afternoon, I called to cancel my ticket a second time—and reserve a still later flight to Cairo. The last flight out, EgyptAir Flight 648, was scheduled to depart at 9
P.M
.

At 7
P.M
. we were still sitting on the edge of our seats waiting to play. I could feel the anticipation and excitement in the air. I'd been hoping to be in the bleachers for the championship game, but it didn't look like that was going to happen.

I had classes to teach the next day—Egypt is a mostly Muslim country, where people worship on Saturday and work on Sunday. If I missed the last plane out, I wouldn't make it back in time.

I kissed Scott good-bye, wished him and the team good luck, and took a taxi back to the Acropol Hotel. In our room, I packed my suitcase with canned goods and other presents I'd bought for friends. I turned in my key at the front desk and went outside to catch a cab for the airport.

It was a chilly, rainy night as I stood shivering on the corner. I was lightly dressed in an oversized, plain white T-shirt tucked inside my favorite blue jeans. Normally, I avoided wearing larger sizes (they made me look bulky), but this was the only T-shirt I'd brought that went with my pinstriped jeans.

When a taxi finally came, I handed the driver a note that someone had hastily written in Greek. It said, “Please take me to the airport.”

After checking in at the airport ticket counter, I walked to the terminal gate. I was surprised to see so many airport security guards toting guns.

The heightened security was one of the many small reminders Scott and I often got that we were living in a “year of terror”—a year that shocked the world with an unprecedented string of terrorist bombings and shootings, including the hijacking of TWA Flight 847 from Athens to Rome on June 14, 1985, and the hijacking of the Italian cruise ship
Achille Lauro
near Port Said, Egypt, on October 7, 1985.

It was especially dangerous for Americans traveling abroad. For the first time, average American citizens were being singled out as victims of bombings, hijackings, shootings, and other acts of terror. The Ayatollah Khomeini, ruler of Iran, declared open season on Americans, and much of the Arab world followed suit. U.S. support for Israel enraged extremist groups claiming to represent Palestinian interests.

In the TWA hijacking, PLO terrorists forced the pilot to land in Algeria. For the next three days, the hijackers ordered the plane back and forth between Algeria and Lebanon and murdered U.S. Navy Diver Robert Stetham. Eventually, about seventy hostages—including thirty-nine Americans—were taken from the plane and held for fourteen days in various Beirut locations by Amal, a Shiite Muslim militia. They demanded the release of more than seven hundred Shiites jailed by Israel to end their siege.

PLO terrorists on the
Achille Lauro
shot and killed Leon Klinghoffer, a sixty-nine-year-old wheelchair-bound retiree from Garden City, New Jersey, and threw him overboard.

In the United States, security was stepped up at many government and military installations. Air traffic to Europe slowed to a trickle as thousands of Americans canceled or postponed vacations and business trips, deciding it was just too dangerous to risk going abroad.

Many friends warned me not to go to the Middle East.

Before starting the 1985–86 school year, I'd flown back to Houston to plan my wedding with Scott. I was sitting in Barb Wilson's kitchen, writing out wedding invitations, when news of the TWA hijacking flashed on the screen.

“Jackie, look at this,” Barb said.

I looked up from what I was doing and focused on the television.

For a couple of minutes, we silently stared at the screen and listened to the voices of TWA Capt. John Tesstrake and the hijackers who were pointing a loaded gun at his head.

“Jackie, you know if you go overseas, that's a real possibility,” Barb said, with concern.

I said, “Oh, Barb, don't be ridiculous. That kind of stuff doesn't happen to people we know—and it sure isn't going to happen to me.” I assured her everything would be okay.

I was determined not to live my life in fear. That's exactly what the terrorists wanted to accomplish by randomly terrorizing average Americans. They wanted to inject fear into all of our hearts—to make us pull back and retreat from our involvement in the world.

I never really thought much about terrorism when I was living overseas. I never would have considered letting the fear of terrorists stop me from fully living my life or pursuing my dreams.

Yet I couldn't very well close my eyes and pretend that we weren't living in a war zone. While we were living in Egypt, Scott was a daily reader of newspapers that were filled with stories of conflict and tension in the Middle East. He closely followed the TWA hijacking and other activities by terrorists. Hijackings and terrorist acts were everyday occurrences in this part of the world.

One afternoon in late October, I was walking through downtown Cairo when I saw a small crowd of Western-looking people gathered outside the American embassy. A shopkeeper told me they were survivors from the
Achille Lauro
hijacking getting ready to return to the United States.

My curiosity was piqued by these men and women. I'd never talked to someone who had been hijacked.
Wow
, I thought,
that must be exciting.
I wanted to hear their stories.

The Athens airport was an international hot spot all that summer and fall. On June 18, four days after the TWA hijacking, the U.S. State Department issued a travel advisory warning American travelers to avoid the Athens airport. But the advisory was lifted on July 22—four months before I flew into Athens—after careful inspections by the International Air Transport Association and the Federal Aviation Administration led to tighter security. Both agencies ultimately labeled the Hellinikon one of the world's “best guarded” terminals.

Extra security had been added recently. On November 20, the day Scott and the girls arrived in Athens, sixty people were injured, including twenty police officers, in an ugly street riot. Radical student protesters who blamed the United States for supporting a military dictatorship in their country from 1965 to 1971 tried to firebomb the American embassy in Athens.

Walking through the airport, I noticed that the number of security guards had been tripled or quadrupled from just two days earlier, when I flew into Athens from Cairo. I could feel the tension and fear of terrorism in the air and see it in people's eyes.

Before boarding my flight back to Cairo, I stood in a long line to have my bags checked for guns or explosive devices. The airport security guards made us put our suitcases on a long metal table and open them for inspection. As I watched them sifting through other people's bags by hand, I thought,
I could have a gun in my bag and no one would know it.
I was irritated and concerned by the sloppy way that the guards were pawing through our luggage.

My thoughts were interrupted when two Greek men cut right in front of me in line. I bristled with anger. Who did these jokers think they were? Whatever happened to common courtesy? I wanted to tell them off, then decided not to bother.

After walking through the airport metal detector, I looked down at my watch to check the time: it was 8:27
P.M
. My mind drifted back to the volleyball tournament. The girls must be playing by now…. I wondered how they were doing….

My irritation at the two Greek men soon faded as I settled in a long line waiting to board the plane. As I looked around, I noticed a group of beautiful Arab children laughing and playing in the terminal. This group of eight to ten year olds was a joy to behold. Their little faces and dark shining eyes were glowing with positive, hopeful energy. Their proud parents stood close by, talking with one another while keeping a watchful eye on the kids.

My love for children is what led me into teaching. In Cairo, I taught special education classes for children this same age. One of the kids in this group reminded me of a little girl I taught at CAC. She had the same wonderful, infectious smile and the same glowing tan skin as my student Alysha.

“Passengers on EgyptAir Flight 648 nonstop service to Cairo may now begin boarding,” a Greek man's voice crackled over the loudspeaker. Finally, the line was moving. I began talking to a Canadian woman who was traveling with her baby. I helped her carry the baby carriage down the stairs to where the plane was waiting.

I shivered slightly in the blowing wind as we climbed up the stairs leading to the front door of the plane.

After stepping into the plane, I quickly found my third row aisle seat. I liked being near the front of the plane, closer to the center of action.

I reached up to stow my carry-on bag in the overhead bin. As I turned back to sit down, my gaze fixed on a passenger sitting across the aisle.

I found myself staring into the piercing blue eyes of a young, curly-haired man. He wore a well-tailored sport coat and tie, and looked like a businessman. He was attractive, solidly built, with finely chiseled Semitic features. A good-looking man.

Two very attractive, refined, well-dressed women were sitting next to the handsome stranger. The women both had dark hair and dark eyes. One of them looked at the man with a little extra interest.

But something was wrong. The curly-haired man seemed agitated or upset. He didn't talk to the two women. Instead, he clutched his briefcase tightly and was dripping with sweat. He looked very controlled, as if he was determined to do something and nothing was going to stop him. He kept shifting his eyes from the front to the rear of the plane. I felt the fear in his eyes, and thought maybe it was his first time flying.

A flight attendant approached our seats and then stopped. She looked down at the floor and pointed to a black briefcase blocking the aisle. “Whose briefcase is this?” she asked a male passenger.

“It's not his! Leave it alone!” the curly-haired man yelled back at her and snatched the briefcase.

It seemed odd.
Was he on drugs?
I quickly dismissed the thought and settled back in my seat.

As I flipped through the pages of my magazine, flight attendants at the front of the plane demonstrated how to use the life jackets under our seats in case we had to make an emergency landing. They also showed us how to fasten our seatbelts and use the oxygen masks, should the cabin suddenly depressurize.

I looked up briefly, then returned to my reading.
What's the big deal?
I thought. How hard can it be to use one of these things? You just stick it over your mouth and breathe.

My mind was already back in Cairo as we taxied for takeoff. I was glad to be going home. I was thinking about my students and classes the next day and the Thanksgiving dinner that friends were preparing for my arrival. I felt so grown up and “civilized.” Here I was, Jackie Nink Pflug, from Pasadena, Texas, jetting back and forth between two of the world's most ancient civilizations—the center of so much culture, philosophy, art, and science. What a trip! My dreams were coming true.

We were cleared for takeoff shortly after 9
P.M
. As the engines roared, I plopped the new Springsteen cassette into my Sony Walkman. “Born in the USA” was blaring in my earphones as we lifted off the ground and steadily ascended to cruising altitude.

As the “Fasten Seatbelt” signs went off, I lowered my seat back to a comfortable position and took off my headphones. Since I love making new friends, I offered some caramels to an older Egyptian man sitting next to me. We chatted a while. He was curious about why I'd come to live and work in Cairo. I told him about my love for children and travel and asked about his family. Egyptians are very family oriented and love talking about their children and spouses. My new friend was delighted when I asked to see pictures of his wife and two handsome young sons.

After talking a while and listening to more music, I caught the smell of deli sandwiches drifting my way. The flight attendants were moving up and down the aisle, passing out dinner trays. I hadn't eaten much before we left, so I was looking forward to the in-flight meal. As the flight attendant edged toward my seat, I heard some commotion behind me.

When I turned around, I couldn't believe my eyes.

The curly-haired man who had been sitting across the aisle from me was now standing in the aisle with a gun in one hand and two grenades in the other. He was tugging at the safety pin of one of the grenades with his teeth, but couldn't remove it.

The two pretty women who were sitting next to him looked terrified. The one who was sitting in the middle seat, right next to the hijacker, had a look of terror and hysteria on her face. She leaned toward her friend, trying to get away from the curly-haired man.