Now, I never ran track or field in school, but I was a gazelle and ran the seatbelt hurdles in record time, even shaving off some last few tenths of seconds from my last year’s qualifying time.
At the rear of the aircraft, I met and high-fived my brothers from the C team, who had effectively breached the left rear passenger door. We kicked in and cleared the lavatories. I slowly but surely moved forward again, unbuckling the seat belt hurdles, screaming the perfunctory commands that communicated to the passengers that if they did not do exactly what we told them to do, they were going to get hurt really, really bad.
I moved up the aisle, gun-lighting passengers in the eyes to keep their heads down. I moved with my left hand out forward in front of my body, my right gun hand tucked high up under my chin and flat against my chest, sweeping strongly from side to side, precluding anyone from grabbing my pistol.
Sam was just now sitting up, he looked at me with a thoroughly dazed expression and a big fat lip: “Wha… wha happened?” He had fallen and knocked himself unconscious (for the second time on such an operation) but had kept his pistol secure the entire time, somehow. That was impressive.
Long(er) gunners thundered down the aisle en route to link up with the Charlie boys in the rear of the aircraft. Only then would the aircraft be accepted as secure. I passed Sam off to them to take care of. They did not look happy when they saw his damaged face: “Who did this, Goddamnit?!?”
“Relax, he did it to himself,” I explained.
The scene inside was a morbid remake of Dante’s Inferno. All were the most amazing liabilities. Men, women, children, babies, invalids, non-English speakers. We had to tame this mob and get them off the aircraft quickly and safely.
POP, POP, POP, whhhoooooosssssshhhhhhhh: the brothers fired the inflatable slides for the emergency exit. Leadership moved swiftly down the aisle, receiving curt verbal status reports, repositioning men, and sending as many of us down the slides as possible to form the search corridor; only once that was ready could we begin to send passengers down the slides.
The problem was this: We did not know how many crows were among the crowd. The crowd did not know how many crows were among the crowd. We needed to get the aircrew outside and positioned at the Prerogative Finger (PF), where every single passenger would have to pass through to be identified as friend or foe. There, a passenger manifest would also be present.
I was given back Sam to tend to. I stayed with him while he came back to sense, sucking on ice cubes wrapped in a napkin to coax his swollen lips down. The din was ridiculous; my hammer was pounding my anvil with a feverish passion. My head buzzed.
The Grinch shoved his way through the lunatics lined up to exit: “I swear to God, if these bastards don’t shut up, I’m going to gas this plane!” he promised. The Grinch had a staunch reputation as a man of his word, though he was a sensible brother of immense patience.
“Chik, you and Sam bail out; get to the search corridor.” Sam was pretty much ‘with it’ again as he bulldozed his way to the front of the exit line, me riding his wake. In the doorway was the most amazing and inexorable panic. Yelling, screaming, oaths, old ladies, kids, roller boards, purses… all petrified to jump down the slide.
“What these people need, is a sound throttling!” suggested Sam, using that buzz phrase of his that he used so often. But a sound throttling was indeed what this throng needed. Sam, being Sam, did what only Sam would think of doing: he scooped up two children, one in each arm, and hit the slide with a jump and a “Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!” What can you say about a guy like that?
“You guys alright? You got this?” I asked insincerely of the two brothers who were trying to help the flight attendants manage the panic.
“Are you kidding’ me? Bro just shoot me; kill me now!’
“Roger! I saluted and shot out down the slide. Something caught the slide toward the bottom and turned me sideways, allowing me to roll the last few feet down the slide like a run-away log. I stood, feigned, brushing dust off of my sleeves, and moved through the corridor.
At the PF, the pilots and flight crew were gathered with our Squadron Command Group, fussing over papers nervously. Two brothers kept the peace with assault rifles, high-power gun lights, and the wrath of God in them. One unidentified man sat with his back to the action, his wrists tightly flex-cuffed behind his back, his head drooped low.
“Crow” winked a gunner. I nodded and moved to a position in a three-man search team. The passengers were all sitting in ‘dirty’ rows with their backs to us search teams. Once all teams had three men, that commander ordered the search to begin.
One at a time the passengers were brought to their feet by the cover man. The passenger was handed off to the two men who searched them for weapons, while the cover man locked eyes with the passenger the entire time, weapon at high ready. Searched persons were finally taken and set down in ‘clean’ rows, facing away from the search corridor.
It was over now, and we moved back to the hangar, lugging our ladders and corollaries. The passengers were turned over to airport/airline authorities for reunification. Crows were taken by agents from the FBI. It had been a helluva night, yes it had… or had it yet?
geo sends
(continued in part III)
Featured image courtesy of Bundesarchiv
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