Agence Internationale de l’anti-Terrorisme
TO: KING COLE/ITA-USA
RE: OPERATION SPEARHEAD
LOST CONTACT WITH EURECONO FLT 924 DURING COVERT SURVEILLANCE OF TARGETS.
AGENTS ABOARD: FAGIN/DODGER.
EurEcono Air, Flight 924
29,000’ MSL over the Mediterranean Sea
It really wasn’t my fault this time.
They were going to kill the guy, and I just wasn’t going to let that happen.
The first hijacker wore a black headband with some sort of Arabic writing and held a Glock 18 automatic pistol in his hand, making him look scary as all get out. He had it aimed at some random guy, who was cowering in his seat six rows ahead of us.
The scumbag was ready to pull the trigger.
We were just about to start down into Tel Aviv when it happened.
The plane was nearly empty, and my adopted dad Bob and I had a row to ourselves in Coach. I had my nose pressed to the window, while Bob sat in an aisle seat, reading. He was combing through a stack of documents on his laptop that all said something like, “Consolidated Industries, Inc”. on the letterhead. But I knew they were actually some of his insanely boring Top Secret intelligence briefs.
Three more dudes in our section jumped out of their seats, wearing ski masks and shouting Allahu akbar! and such. Two waving knives, the other, a Micro Uzi. How they’d smuggled those aboard, I hadn’t a clue.
People screamed. A flight attendant dropped her serving tray and fainted, right there in the aisle beside us.
Bob yanked her out of harm’s way, just as one of the knife-wielding perps ran up the aisle to the front of our section to join the first guy.
“We are God’s beloved soldiers of the World Islamic State Caliphate,” the man with the Glock announced. “By His blessing, WISC has overcome the cockpit and are now in command of this vessel.”
Around us, passengers gasped. Bob and I traded alarmed glances.
“Cooperate with us and, ‘Insha’Allah’—’God willing’—most of you will not be harmed.”
“Most?” I whispered to Bob.
With his fingers, he quickly “spoke” to me in ASL, or American Sign Language. It had been over six months since CIA Communications training, so I was a little rusty.
“Don’t move a muscle,” he signed. “He’s a major terror suspect. I didn’t tell you this because it’s classified, but he’s been the subject of a worldwide manhunt. We tailed one of his known associates onto this plane, hoping his colleague would lead us to him.”
Gazing at him in pure disbelief, I signed back, “Well, I guess your plan worked.”
Bob added, “All other passengers checked out clean. No electronic or biological flags. All of our Intel put him in Iraq.”
One joke that constantly ran through my head was the name Intelligence used in so many of the world’s spy agencies, like CIA, Britain’s MI6, Pakistan’s ISI or Israel’s “Institute For Intelligence and Special Operations” (Mossad). I mean, if they were so “intelligent,” why did they, like bad stormtroopers, always seem to miss the target?
But that wasn’t fair, I’d come to learn.
To spies, Intelligence didn’t actually mean smart; it meant, information. And, in the blind chess game called espionage, there was never such thing as perfect intelligence.
I glanced behind us. The other two terrorists stood guard in the single aisle in our section, eyeing the passengers.
Looking back at Bob, I signed, “We can take ‘em.”
Bob shot me an alarmed glance. “Stand down, Dodger!” he signed back. “We’re outgunned, outnumbered, and there may be sleepers,” he said, referring to more terrorists that might still be posing as passengers.
“If you do not comply with our instructions,” the hijacker continued, “you will be killed.” He strolled down the aisle toward us, and stopped by a man wearing a Jewish yamaka. “If you do not believe me, then this will be your fate.”
To my horror, he aimed his Glock at the side of the man’s head.
So, despite Bob’s strict orders to stay seated and shut up, I jumped out and ran up the aisle toward him.
“My God! My God! We’re all gonna die!” I screamed, flailing my arms in the air like I was some kid spazzing out.
The slimeball snapped his head toward me. His eyes went wide.
He glanced back and forth between me and his target, as if unsure what to do next.
Finally, with narrowed eyes, he aimed at me.