In A Fit Of Fury

218

IN A FIT OF FURY

by Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

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IN A FIT OF FURY

About 84,000 Words

Copyright © 2016, Kevin Warrick Fitzgerald

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IN A FIT OF FURY

CHAPTER ONE

At 31,000 Feet

Dusty columns of sunshine streamed through different windows in the roof casting various patterns of light across the concourse at Rome's Leonardo da Vinci airport. Unattended children shrieked and screamed as they played in small groups, while the adults shouted to be heard. Men in suits scurried along as they glanced at their watches. Some people moved in unpatterned directions, while others formed small wedges to make their way through the crowds. The air boiled with the odor of people pressed together. Sweat and cheap cologne hung heavily in the air.

Staying close to the wall, a man limped slowly toward his departure gate. His eyes were unfocused, glazed over and drifting because recent business had him weary and dirty—the kind of dirt that doesn't wash off with soap and water. He felt decades older than his forty-two years. He hoped the sutures in his thigh would hold together until he could get home.

An announcement blared over the public address system, first in Italian, then Greek, English and finally French. It declared that his flight was now boarding at gate 41. He was fifty yards away.

The man was one of the last passengers to board. He had to pause periodically when people blocked the aisle to stuff their carry-on bags above their seat. The air was cool, although it smelled like it had been breathed before.

He saw a flight attendant helping an old man down the aisle and noticed her hands shaking and tiny beads of sweat on her upper lip. In fact, all the attendants seemed stiff, with worried darting eyes. Something was not right; the man could feel it. He settled into the last row of the tourist section with the help of a pillow and blanket, then leaned around the seat in front of him and watched the nervous attendants for a few minutes. He couldn't tell what was upsetting them.

The flight began like so many others. There was a delay to taxi and a long wait to take off. During this time, he ignored the usual captain's announcement and the flight attendants giving the emergency advice.

At last, they raced down the runway. The nose of the plane lifted and he got that sinking, empty feeling, like his stomach was oozing out between his ribs. He hated to fly and was reminded why every time he took to the air.

Once airborne, the plane banked left, then settled into a smooth, gradual climb. As they neared their cruising altitude, the unpleasant feeling in his stomach subsided. With a sigh, he unbuckled his seat belt and tucked the blanket under his chin as he scanned the compartment.

Before long, two flight attendants began serving drinks from a cart, starting at the curtain separating the tourist section from first class. A redhead pushed while the blond pulled. They slowly moved toward the rear of the plane.

At some prearranged signal, two men leapt to their feet shouting Arabic. Each grabbed a flight attendant and brandished a handgun.

Men cursed, women screamed and children cried. In the seat directly in front of the young man, a woman fainted and her face slammed into her food tray. An elderly woman in the seat across from the man grabbed her husband and pulled him to her. A man with long hair stood up next to one of the hijackers to protest. The hijacker backhanded him across the face with the barrel of his revolver and the man dropped from sight.

The hijackers' dark skin and facial features indicated both men were Arabs. One wore a three piece-suit and was very handsome. The other had on a dirty, tie-dyed shirt splashed with bright orange and purple. His hawk-nose had two sharp bends down its length and he had no teeth. Each grabbed an attendant.

Within seconds the captain came over the intercom. Ladies and gentlemen, he said in a calm, measured tone. Do not panic. We have new destination orders, that’s all. Do what you are told and everything will be fine. I will give you further information when I can. He clicked off.

The plane banked hard to the left.

The captain's announcement visibly calmed the two hijackers. They stopped shouting and talked between themselves over the cart for a moment. Handsome pressed his gun into the attendant's throat and he grabbed a fistful of her red hair in his other hand and pulled, keeping her on her toes with her chin up. She gasped for breath wild-eyed, while he smiled murderously.

Then, Toothless threw the woman he was holding as hard as he could. She bounced, then skidded to a stop in the aisle and sat where she landed, rubbing her elbow. She scrambled up into a seat as Toothless pulled the drink cart to the back of the plane, then he began pacing the aisle, eyeing the passengers, looking for something.

To his horror, the man knew what that something was. He recalled reading about the Achille Lauro hijacking when Mr. Klinghoffer was murdered just to prove a point. He also remembered the TWA flight in the summer of ’85 that was originally scheduled from Cairo to Rome. It was hijacked to Beirut twice. Along the way, a U.S. Navy diver was murdered and thrown from the plane.

The man was determined something like that would not happen here. Two bulges appeared briefly under his blanket, then disappeared just as quickly.

Seconds ticked by as Toothless paced, studying the passengers. One time he stopped and locked eyes with the man. The man's lower lip trembled and he feigned a cough. The hijacker shook his head and continued pacing.

Within minutes, Handsome removed his gun from the woman's neck. He pushed her away from him, reached down and grabbed the long-haired man who was still crumpled and bleeding on the floor by his feet. Handsome pulled the man upright and forced the barrel of his gun into his mouth. He shouted an oath with a triumphant grin.

At that moment, the man stood up, stepped into the aisle, let the blanket fall and leveled both bulges. They were two specially-designed Glocks with silencers built into the barrels, with very soft loads.

Both guns bucked as one and two specially-designed bullets entered two skulls, splashing the hijackers' brains against the wall, curtain and people behind them. They slumped to the floor like marionettes with their strings cut.

After a communal gasp, everyone took the grisly spectacle rather well except three people who began screaming, and a silver-haired woman who was hyperventilating after being splashed with some blood all over her chest.

The man nimbly raced up the aisle holding the barrel of his right gun to his pursed lips. All quieted except the silver-haired woman who couldn't catch her breath. The young man couldn't blame her for being hysterical, but he holstered his right gun and slapped her across the face anyway, but not too hard. She looked up in shocked disbelief.

The young man reached in his jacket, produced his badge and flashed it around briefly. No one could read the United States Marshal stamped into the gold shield, but the sight of it brought out some smiles of relief.

The Marshal wasn't particularly worried that another hijacker would investigate the commotion coming from the tourist section. After all, good terrorists terrorize, and the end result would be plenty of screaming. He hoped the other hijackers would think the men assigned to the rear of the plane were merely having a good time.

With the back of the plane secure, the Marshal ran up to the curtain separating tourist from first class and edged it aside with his gun muzzle. The view looked fairly normal. The passengers were cowering in their seats; there was no conversation. Only engine and ventilation noises could be heard. No hijackers could be seen and the Marshal wondered where the others might be. His mind spun with the possibilities.

Two men had been assigned to the rear. At least one or two were probably in first class. But where?

Could all of them be in the cockpit?

Doubtful.

His Glocks were loaded with regular ammunition and he knew that an errant slug could easily rip through the fuselage. Be sure of your shots, he cautioned himself, as he took a deep breath and eased forward, holding his guns down by his sides. He felt ready for anything except—

Movement to his right caused him to turn and level his weapon. A middle-aged man with sweat pouring down his face, wearing wire-framed glasses and a crumpled tweed suit stood and was now pointing a snub-nosed .38 not at the Marshal, but at the nearest window. A hoarse laugh hissed through clenched teeth.

The Marshal fired.

The moment the hijacker died, he squeezed off a round from his revolver. As the terrorist's face exploded, a bullet from his .38 smashed all the way through the window.

And all hell broke loose.

Buzzers sounded. The main lights went out. Dimmer emergency lights came on and started flashing. A horrible, wailing wind roared and whistled. Everything not nailed down, including the Marshal and the hijacker's body was sucked toward the open window as the cabin decompressed. Pencils, plastic cups, maps, napkins, magazines and anything small enough instantly shot through the small hole.

The Marshal dropped his guns when the suction slammed him into the edge of a seat back. He grabbed the nearest armrest with both hands and collapsed his knees as the wind tried to pull him through the hole. It might have succeeded except that his right foot got wedged under the seat and his leg was caught. He felt the stitches in his right thigh give way in quick succession when the wind pressure bent him in half.

He slowly lost ground and grunted with the effort of holding on. He had no idea what to do now. He wondered if his arrogance and ignorance had doomed everyone aboard this plane. Regret clouded his mind for a moment.

Like a water-laden cloud, the ceiling rained oxygen masks. Everyone shouted and swore as they grabbed and fumbled for the one nearest them. The engines screamed as the plane lost altitude.

There was an empty seat next to the shattered window but a teenage girl was sitting in the middle seat. Her entire torso and long brown hair flowed toward the opening as she desperately held onto the armrests. Her seat belt was the only thing keeping her from being sucked into the window. The dead Arab lay across her lap. She didn't seem to notice the body in her efforts to find something to breathe.

Then inspiration struck. The Marshal let go of the seat, lifted the dead man by the front of his jacket, wormed his right foot free, and aimed the broad of the hijacker’s back at the hole in the airplane. He let the suction draw them both toward the opening as he slipped between the backs of the seats and the girl's knees.

The hijacker's torso hit the window frame stopping most of the airflow. The Marshal released the body as the pressure molded the terrorist's back with a bone-snapping, shoulder-slumping crunch. The suction stopped almost entirely.

The Marshal didn't have time to pat himself on the back for his ingenuity, nor did he notice how much the terrorist looked like a faceless crucifix stuck on the wall with his arms out to his sides. There was at least one more hijacker and the Marshal knew where he would be.

He picked up his guns, raced to the cockpit. Knowing he couldn't kick in the door and shoot the remaining terrorists before something else could go wrong, he motioned for the nearest flight attendant. Just then the cockpit door opened and another hijacker holding an Uzi was standing in the doorway with a puzzled expression. They locked eyes for an instant before the Marshal shot her right between the eyes. Her lifeless body flew back and landed with a flop.

The Marshal stepped over the corpse and told three of the most surprised faces he had ever seen, Captain, you now have control of this plane. He produced his badge and identified himself.

Without a word, the captain went back to his controls. The co-pilot got on the radio for landing instructions while the navigator shouted their exact position to her colleagues. Rome was still the nearest city. They banked, then set a new course, fast and low.

The Marshal sighed and walked back into first class. He opened his mouth to make an announcement designed to put everyone at ease, when someone to his left stood with a shrill shout. Before the sound died, the muzzle of a silenced Glock was an inch from the remaining terrorist's nose, a huge beak that bent so far down that it nearly touched his upper lip.

The hijacker laughed.

The Marshal wondered why. Then he noticed the hijacker's right fist held a World War II-era grenade with the pin pulled. The Marshal gasped. He felt a lump of dry ice conceal in his stomach and start to burn. The hijacker waved the grenade in the Marshal's face with a wicked snicker.

After the initial shock, the Marshal let go of his left pistol. Before it hit the floor, he reached up with lightning reflexes and grabbed the grenade, its lever and the hijacker's hand. The instant he secured the grenade, the Marshal squeezed off a shot through the terrorist's heart. He had to drop to one knee when the body hit the floor to keep the impact from wrenching the grenade out of his grasp.

Then the Marshal found himself kneeling there, holding the hand of a dead man, sharing a live grenade between them. Through the tangle of fingers, the Marshal felt his thumb holding the grenade's lever down. He holstered his right gun and tried to grab the lever with his free hand, but it was at an awkward angle and he couldn't reach it to get a better grip.

He thought about taking the grenade, running down the aisle and heaving it out the shattered window, but that sounded too desperate. First of all, the window was about forty feet away. If he were to accidentally let go of the lever, how much time would he have until the grenade went off? And if he did manage to get it past the body and out the window, could it explode close enough to the plane to bring it down? 

He looked around, frightened, and saw the red-headed flight attendant rush into First Class. She screamed when the terrorist's body, that had been stuck on the wall in front of the shattered window, slithered down the bulkhead when the pressure finally equalized.

You! Get me some tape? the Marshal shouted to her over all the wind noise, trying to be heard.

Some what? she hollered back..

Tape! the Marshal screamed. Scotch, electrical, duct, gaffer. Tape! Any kind of tape!

Hold on a moment, she said and sprinted toward the galley.

We may not have a moment, the Marshal muttered under his breath. 

The flight attendant raced back with a roll of duct tape and offered it to him. Wrap it around our hands and the grenade, he commanded.

Not at all sure what he meant, she tore off a piece five inches long and held it out to him.

Peel off every bit of tape you have there and wrap it tightly around both our hands to keep the level compressed. Now if you please! He spit out each word trying to keep his emotions under control.

She wrapped all of the tape around their hands. That's it. There wasn't much. Sorry.

I sincerely hope it'll do.

Once that was done, she told the captain of the Marshal's condition. The co-pilot relayed that information to Rome.

For the first time, the realization of what happened touched the Marshal and he shuddered. He and all aboard had nearly died and it wasn't over yet.  

An overview of his career paraded through his mind. He had been in some tight scrapes before, but at least he had always had his feet on the ground when things had gotten out of control.

The disintegrating face of the leering hijacker who had shot out the window stayed in his mind's eye, haunting him. He relived that awful instant when the window shattered over and over.

An itch on his hand brought him back to his situation. He tried to scratch his skin through the tape but it didn't help. The itch swelled into a burn, like ants were eating his flesh. By the time they reached Rome, his hand felt like it was on fire.

They landed smoothly and as soon as the wheels stopped rolling, the flight attendants popped open the emergency doors, then ushered all the passengers down the yellow plastic chutes to safety. The forward door opened and three bomb disposal men, dressed in black, full body armor and visored helmets, hurried on board and ambled down the aisle to the Marshal. They knelt to study the situation.

There's a live grenade between our hands, the Marshal murmured between his teeth. Any of you speak English? He looked at each in turn.

Si, the man to his right said. The Marshal couldn't see his face behind the darkened visor. Where is the lever? Do you have a firm grip on it?

No. I barely have one finger on it. It's . . . here. The Marshal pointed to the spot  under the tape. Be careful.

One of the bomb disposal men produced a small pair of scissors from the tool box he was carrying and began cutting into the tape. Two men peeled back the ends of the tape until part of the lever was exposed. One man grabbed it and  kept it depressed while his partner stripped the rest of the tape off, ripping the hair from the back of the Marshal's hand. The first man gingerly carried the grenade outside and away from the plane.

The Marshal was glad to see it go as he rubbed the circulation back into his sticky hand. He heard a muffled explosion when the grenade exploded harmlessly in the bomb disposal truck that sent the concussion into the air.

The policeman who spoke English had remained behind. You, okay?

Yeah, I guess. I'm still alive anyway, the Marshal said.

You look shaken, the tall Italian said.

Does it show?

You did good, Yankee. I'm Sergeant Antonio Frio. He held out his hand.

Sean Ericksen. U. S. Marshal. Ericksen pumped his hand twice.

Frio pointed to Ericksen’s leg. Hey, you’re bleeding.

An old wound.

Let's take a ride downtown. We’ll get some stitches in your leg for you.

Thanks. So long as we leave now and avoid the press.

The Italian led Ericksen from the plane to his truck. They climbed in and Ericksen was driven to a clinic where they stitched his leg, then to police headquarters where he gave his statement. Then Ericksen sent a telegram to his superiors in Washington. Coming home. Need R&R, was all it said.

That evening at a nice hotel in Rome, Ericksen ordered a 14 ounce New York Strip, medium well, a baked potato smothered in butter and sour cream, a Caesar salad, and a bottle of good Scotch. He ate and drank himself into a stupor, then slept the sleep of a dead man until well past noon the following day.

CHAPTER TWO

Portman

Marshal Sean Michael Ericksen landed at Washington's National Airport at about eight in the morning. He flashed his badge past Customs and Immigration and engaged a skycap to help him with his bags. He walked outside and stopped on the curb.

It was a cool, clear day. There were no clouds in the bright blue sky. The air smelled fresh, like it had just come from Canada. After the stale air aboard the plane, the slight breeze invigorated him. He breathed deeply, savoring each lungful.

He thought about what he wanted to do with his day. He had some time off coming and needed to put the hijacking out of his mind. Nightmares of skin stretching on exposed bodies until they exploded in the thin air of the upper atmosphere had plagued him the last few nights.  He looked forward to a long, hot shower, a good meal and a short nap. Then, maybe he would go by the Saint Francis Children's Home, say hello to Father Norman and give a karate lesson to some of the older students. Ericksen was one of Father Norman's favorite graduates and all the children sensed the Marshal's genuine empathy for them. They had all been told many stories over the years about how this short and skinny boy, who was so shy he never used to talk with anyone, had come to the home when he was four years old to start his education. He worked hard and made good grades, graduated from college, earned his second degree black belt in Wado-Kai karate, and went on to become a successful United States Marshal whose job was helping people. What they weren’t told was that, after his parents died when he was one, he had bounced around one foster home after another for three years before coming to the Home. It wasn’t until he was fourteen that a kind-hearted family finally gave him a real home and a genuine chance in life.

Ericksen raised his arm to hail a taxi and stopped abruptly when he saw Stanley Reynolds, who worked in the same department as Ericksen, get out of a tan, four door Ford. Stanley had a bad case of OCD and a terrible little man complex. He was rude and pushy with an air of superiority, and one of the most obnoxious people Ericksen had ever known. The joke around the office was that Stanley had shuffled more paper than an electronic mail sorter down at the Post Office—when he wasn’t sucking up to their boss, Gerry O’Malley, of course.

He must be here to meet me, Ericksen thought. This can’t be a good thing. He turned his head to the right hoping to avoid him entirely.

Reynolds marched up to Ericksen and blurted, You're to come with me.

Ericksen slowly turned to look at him. Oh?

Stanley spun around and walked toward the Ford.

Ericksen sighed and didn’t move. What’s going on?

Reynolds turned around and put his hands on his hips. You are coming with me now, like it or not. Those are my orders. His face turned red with anger as he continued, They're not open for discussion!

Ericksen looked down at him, gritted his teeth and shook his head slightly. Look Stanley, I'm beat. I need something to eat before soaking in an unbelievably hot bath. I'm not going anywhere until I know where and why.

The boss is waiting for you, Stanley said. He called Gerald O'Malley 'the boss' because he thought O'Malley liked it that way. Ericksen and most of the men under Gerry's command knew he didn't care what you called him as long as you did precisely what he said, or come up with a better plan yourself.

Ericksen rubbed his chin. O'Malley, eh? Hmmm. He was ready to go now.

The skycap put Ericksen‘s bags in the Ford’s trunk. Ericksen tipped the man and climbed in the car. Any idea what's brewing? Ericksen asked as Stanley pulled away.

No, was the curt response and that was the extent of their conversation.

Ericksen wasn't paying attention until they seemed to take a wrong turn. Hey, this isn't the way to the Department.

We're not going to the Department, Reynolds said. The boss is waiting for you at Langley.

Langley? Ericksen blurted, then fell silent. He wondered what Justice would be doing with the CIA. He thought about it for a time, considered asking Reynolds, then realized Stanley wouldn't know. When nothing came to him, he knew he’d have to wait for the answer. He also knew that waiting was not his strong suit. So he bided his time and scowled the whole trip.

As they approached the massive CIA headquarters, Stanley turned onto a private side road entering the complex behind a black, six door limousine and both vehicles stopped at a guard post at the perimeter fence. An armed guard came out of the hut and scanned the passengers in the limo before waving them through.

Stanley pulled up thirty feet and presented his identification to the security guard.  The guard scanned the ID,