Nick Carter
The Kremlin File
Dedicated to
The Men of the Secret Services
of the
United States of America
One
It’s impossible now to skyjack a plane from the United States. You know it can’t be done, and I know it — and so does every idiot who gets hold of a Saturday Night Special or an army surplus grenade.
So why was the stewardess on Flight 709, bound for Grand LaClare Island, being so cozy with the black haired, dark faced passenger at the head of the aisle? She was passing him a gun.
A tidy little snubnosed job all warmed up from lying under her uniform, between the fantastic breasts I’d just been admiring so much. Everybody seemed to be asleep, and at first I thought the man was feeling her up and she was being an obliging hostess. “I’m Reddy. Fly me.” When she unzipped her fitted jacket, I figured I was in for some entertaining voyeurism. Until she took out the shiny little piece of metal that caught a glint of light and winked at me.
She laid it in his palm, turned her back and went through the door to the front cabin.
The man stood close to the door between the two heads, looking back along the plane, holding the gun in plain sight. My Luger hung in its shoulder clip, but I knew any movement I made to reach it would draw attention. The stiletto in the chamois sheath on my right forearm would snap down to my hand invisibly enough, but throwing it was something else. The man would see it, and he’d be able to get off a shot before I could hit him.
While I was still trying to decide what action might be possible, the decision was taken out of my hands. The noise of a shot in the cockpit woke everybody. I heard grunts and gasps and people started up in the seats, then the man’s voice overrode the sounds.
“Remain calm. The plane is being diverted. In Havana you will all be released unhurt so do not be afraid.”
He had an accent, Spanish. Beside me Tara Sawyer vented a low groan, and beyond her Randolph Fleming sucked in his breath.
“Be quiet. Sit still.” I whispered it without moving my lips and my voice didn’t carry beyond our seats.
The girl whispered back. Try to stop a woman talking. “Cuba? With the antihijack treaty?”
It wasn’t the time to explain that the only people who could count on refuge in Cuba would be agents for Castro or his big Red friend across the waters. But if she’d shut up and think, she could figure it out herself. She was smart enough.
I watched the man’s black eyes play over the passengers, working back along the plane. They paused for a split second on us, then lifted to see what the reaction was behind us.
I turned slowly, as if to speak to the girl at my side, and with my twisted shoulder as cover slid my hand under my lapel for the Luger. The man did not drop his glance. No passenger would be expected to be armed. I eased the gun into my lap and switched it to my left hand. I was in the aisle seat on the right of the plane and I could get a clear shot from the level of the arm rest. I squeezed the trigger.
The little weapon spun out of his hand and I fired a second time. The front of his white shirt bloomed red. He slammed back against the door and hung as if he were nailed there, his mouth dropping open for a scream that did not come. Then his knees gave and he crumpled. The door jarred against him but his body kept it from opening. I had moved as soon as I fired. Behind me a woman yelled. Hysteria was building all around.
I yanked on a dead foot, pulled the body away and the door swung toward me. The stewardess stood there, gun in hand. The bullet whispered between my raised arm and my side, cut through my coat, sped on and a scream from the rear of the plane told me someone had been hit. Then I had the girl’s wrist, forcing it down and twisting until her fingers opened and her gun fell.
She fought me, clawing at my face with long, sharp nails and I dropped the Luger to use the side of my hand in a karate chop against her neck. She went out like a light. I flung her behind me on top of the corpse and scooped up all three guns, dropped two in my pocket and kept hold of the Luger. I didn’t want her waking up and tossing lead at my back.
I didn’t know what I’d find in the cockpit. The plane was tipping, banking, changing course, then falling off on one wing out of control, sliding toward the dark sea. Either way it threw me off balance and I ducked through the door, bracing against the jamb.
The pilot was sprawled half out of his seat across the wheel, locking it for a dive. Blood leaked from a hole in his back. The navigator was hunched over the wounded man. The copilot was fighting the ship back to straight and level flight. I didn’t interrupt them. The navigator got the pilot off his wheel and whipped out a handkerchief to mop at the blood. It was like trying to stop Niagara Falls. The copilot got the plane straight and switched it on automatic pilot. He turned to help the navigator, saw me, the gun in my hand, and froze. I knew he thought I was another skyjacker.
“Relax,” I told him and shoved the Luger back in its clip. “Take a deep breath and set her back on course for Grand LaClare. They lost the game.”
The copilot stared past me at the rubbish on the floor. The navigator whirled, one hand holding the pilot against the seat, and gaped at me white-faced.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Johnny on the Spot, call it.” I nodded toward the pilot. “Is he dead?”
The man shook his head, then dropped his eyes to the aisle. The copilot spoke in a daze.
“She shot Howie... the stewardess!” The way he said it, he might have been talking about the First Lady. Then his mind clicked into gear. “You... Hey... What are you doing with a gun?”
I grinned at him. “Aren’t you glad I have it? You’d better call Kennedy and report. You can ask them if Nick Carter has permission to carry arms aboard. Tell them to query Timothy Whiteside. He’s president of this airline, in case you’ve forgotten.”
The pair looked at each other, then the copilot dropped back to his seat, obviously reluctant to take his eyes off me, and radioed the airport. It was a while before the answer graveled through the mike. Probably Whiteside had to be routed out of bed. But when it came, in a direct quote relayed from his office, his clearance of me was earthy and explosive, due I suspected to the shock of hearing how one of his proud flights had been abused.
By that time the other two stewardesses had com© running, poked their heads into the cabin, sized up the situation and ducked back, one using the PA to make reassuring noises and the other moving along the aisle trying to quiet the frightened, panicky passengers.
I touched the pilot’s wrist and found the pulse ragged and weakening. I told the navigator, “I’ll give you a hand, take him out to those empty seats at the tail.”
He was still wary of me, but he needed my help. We untangled the pilot and carried him awkwardly over the inert figures blocking the passage and on tot where a blonde in uniform had the wit to pull the arms out from between the seats in a row of three. The “couch” we had wasn’t long enough and the pilot’s legs hung over when we laid him on his stomach, but I didn’t think he knew or would care for very long.
A hostess brought a first aid kit and Tara Sawyer came up beside her, saying quietly, “Let me. I knowhow and you have enough to do.”
The navigator and I left the girls to work it out and went to move the unconscious stewardess to an empty seat behind the pilot. I felt over her with my hands in case the little walking arsenal had other guns, but she was clean. I borrowed bandage enough from the kit to tie her hands behind her back and wrap her ankles together — just in case she came to and made a try for the target with her bare claws. We stashed the dead hijacker out of sight in a head and returned to the cockpit.