CUSTOS: THE FIN Read online

  Custos: The Fin

  by

  Jake Aaron

  Copyright © 2015 Jake Aaron. Except as provided by the Copyright Act of 1998, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  A Custos Prequel

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  “Custos: The Fin’’ is a prequel. It occurs before Custos: Enemies Domestic.

  Dedicated to those who are professional to the end.

  Custos: The Fin

  Stan had an overwhelming sense of doom on what he was told, should be the happiest day of his life.

  Stanley Bricker boarded a large turbojet at Heathrow Airport. The flight would be eight hours and thirty minutes, non-stop to Dulles Airport. At the last minute, he had personally paid for the upgrade to first class. He normally wasn’t a moody person, and he didn’t really care much about personal comfort. However, he knew most people got an emotional lift when they upgraded to first class. He had doubts about whether this would work for him, but it was worth a try. Maybe the last day of his career left him feeling depressed. That was totally possible, since his work had been his life. To be precise, his down feeling seemed more of a foreshadowing of bad events than anything. He really couldn’t pin it down.

  He had a roomy window seat that let him stretch out his five-foot-eleven athletic frame. Coming aboard, he had scanned the interior of the aircraft for nearby exits — ingrained situational awareness. As he quickly scanned the plastic safety and egress cards, his seat mate arrived — a stunning, black-haired, sapphire-eyed female who seemed to be an airhead. She went on and on about baggage, airport hassles, and rude flight attendants — as if anyone cared.

  “I’m Sharon, and you’re … ?

  Stan hoped his slow response would diminish whatever emotional connection she was trying to make. “Sharon, I’m … John. Pleased.” He turned his head to the right — away from her to look out the aircraft window. Most men would have been captivated by her beauty. Stan just wasn’t most men.

  Sharon would not have been surprised to learn that his peers called him “The Fin.” In reality, he had some Norse heritage, but no Finnish. Rather, his natural manner was like that of a Fin. He often spoke in monosyllables and liked a lot of personal physical space. He was seldom given to displays of emotion. Very much like a Fin, he had read in sociology texts. Occupational hazard? He also knew the nickname stuck for other reasons.

  Sharon continued to speak toward his turned left ear. “And how is your day going?” she asked in desperation born of icy silence. Recent experience had taught her not to expect an answer. Ironically, she continued to try to get one. Then she began an annoying soliloquy, “Mine was fine, thanks for asking.” Her voice was drowned out as the jets engines spooled up for takeoff.

  On climb out, Sharon started talking to Stan again — a rambling monologue. She could have been a dentist. Eventually she grabbed his right arm with her two hands and fumed, “I’m talking to you. Don’t you talk?”

  Stan turned slowly to look her in the eyes. He tapped his left ear, “Bad hearing!” That seemed to turn off Sharon’s fountain of words — for the time being anyway.

  As the aircraft leveled off at 39,000 feet, Stan leaned his chair back and tried to sleep. He prayed his seat mate would stay quiet. Maybe the bad premonition he had, was about the blabbermouth sitting next to him. He almost smiled.

  *****

  Stan’s nap was interrupted by a warm, breathy whisper in his left ear. Sharon spoke rapidly, “Stan, I’m MI-5. We have the world’s top nuclear physicist aboard. He’s abeam us, window-side. Something is going down!”

  Most people could not process this information so quickly when rudely awakened. Stan, however, had rude awakenings for breakfast. Instantly, he realized Sharon had to be official to know who he was. Her adopted chatty persona was a clever cover. Nestling her head on his shoulder pretending to sleep was a good add-on. He could have done without the drool.

  Stan had been trained to immediately size up the situation. His quick mind rallied. MI-5 was shadowing the scientist for protection, he concluded. If a foreign power was after the physicist, it wanted him alive — and away from NATO’s reach. The plan would be to whisk him off, probably to some third-world destination —- diverting the aircraft while trying to avoid pursuit by NATO jets. Likely, the hijacked aircraft would turn its transponder off, descend, and head toward the African continent. Whether NATO interceptors would shoot the aircraft down doubtless depended on how knowledgeable the scientist was. Was this another MH370 — the Malaysia Airlines flight that disappeared in March 2014 with 239 passengers and crew? Stan knew the inside story on that flight.

  Stan casually stood and spoke loud enough for those nearby to hear, “Sharon, stretch break. Excuse me.”

  Sharon retracted her shapely, stretched out legs for him as he rose to head to the latrine. She was right, there was something not quite right about the situation. The man in a Navy blue business suit already standing seemed a little on edge. The rumpled student, also standing to stretch, registered too much situational awareness for his age group. The lady wearing a brown hijab moved about the aisle with too much deliberation. He saw her in coach class through the open white nylon curtain.

  The student-looking figure confronted Stan before Stan stepped into the aisle, “Mate, I’ll have to ask you to sit down until we get a few things sorted out. … It won’t be long. You can visit the loo then.”

  Stan stood his ground, “Chum, I really need to get to the loo —now!” Stan conveyed desperation to head to the bathroom. He noticed the flight attendants were now all grouped away from intercoms that would allow communication with the flight crew. It appeared Business Suit had herded them to one corner of the galley. Situation not normal — not at all.

  Before Student could reply to Stan, Business Suit shouted loudly through a makeshift megaphone from the foremost aisle location, “Ladies and gentlemen, please keep your seats. There is no reason to panic. Let me assure you that everyone of you is safe. We are stealing the gold in the cargo hold of this aircraft. We are not, I say ARE NOT, on a suicide mission. You are safe! Stay in your seats for now. No talking. No using cell phones. My colleagues will be by to take your cell phones. No games! … You will get your cell phones back later today.” Business Suit produced a pistol, which brought a collective gasp from the passengers. Moving two times down the aisle, Business Suit repeated the message as he made his way toward the tail of the aircraft so that everyone heard. Obviously, he didn’t want passengers rushing him because they were in fear of inevitable death, Stan calculated. An aware public would rationally chose a courageous death over a sheepish one.

  Student started at the front to collect cell phones in a plastic garbage bag from the galley. The woman wearing a hijab started from the rear of the plane to do the same. Suddenly, she interrupted her flow, bolting forward ten rows to prevent an attempted cell phone call. She confiscated the cell phone; screamed, “No calls!”; then returned to her previous place in the aisle to systematically take all cell phones.

  When the cell phone collection was over, Business Suit again used a rolled-up magazine to project his voice from the front of the passenger section, “While we mean you no harm, you must do what we say.” He pointed to Student, who now waved a MAC-10 automatic pistol over his his head. “Now, does anyone still have a cell phone he or she did not surrender?” He repeated these words twice
as he made sure everyone heard him, again moving down the aisle. speaking to a third of the 333 passengers at a time. Three phones were held high for surrender to Hijab.

  Business Suit disappeared behind the white nylon curtain in front of the first class section, now pulled closed. He was with all of the flight attendants. Student stayed in view of the passengers with his MAC-10 conspicuously on display.

  The atmosphere in the passenger compartment had morphed form shock to tenseness. The hijackers had convinced them that this was a heist. There was no sense of the inevitability of death to spark small-group resistance. The MAC-10 intimidated any courageous individual action to thwart the robbers. Like being a prone observer at a bank robbery, each now chose to cower and hope for a good outcome.

  *****

  Senior captain Les Stapleton scanned the skies ahead of him for conflicting traffic. He didn’t expect any, but all conscientious pilots did that — even when “guaranteed separation” from other aircraft. He keyed the intercom of the giant turbojet, “Hey, Jane, I’m ready to have my lunch. While you’re at it, please bring Steve some coffee — black.”

  Walter Link, a pilot riding in the jump seat between the other two pilots and behind the center console, had shaken his head when the captain was making the request. He was going to nap shortly to be alert to spell one of the other pilots later in the flight. He would have coffee after his nap.

  “Anyone in the back read me? I say again, does anyone in the back of the plane hear me? … This is the captain. Does anyone besides the copilot and jump seat hear this?”

  Steve Leone, the copilot, was puzzled. He waited a little longer. He spoke on intercom, “Les, I didn’t hear an answer. Did you? No one is responding to the chime either.”

  Steve put out several similar queries on the intercom system. There was no response.

  Les snapped, “Walt, go see what’s going on in back!”

  As Walt opened the cockpit door, Business Suit pushed in and shoved Walt back. Walt immediately resisted. Without hesitation, Business Suit shot him in the heart. Outside the cockpit door, Student scanned the immobilized passengers, and finally went toward the flight deck. A bold show of force.

  Sharon bolted out of her seat and through the nylon curtain. She jumped Student from behind on the flight deck. Her weight on top of Student kept the MAC 10 from firing. She aimed her knee at his coccyx. Precision was not that important for her; she wanted to distract his body from the neck area. In that microsecond, she twisted his head quickly one way, then the other. She snapped his neck. Stan was several steps behind Sharon. Approaching the pilots, Business Suit had turned his back toward Stan. Stan took Business Suit down and wrestled with him until two shots fired from the terrorist’s contested pistol. Business Suit died in seconds.

  “Very professional,” Sharon observed. “This homegrown terrorist even thought to carry a silenced pistol. I’m impressed. Most people aren’t aware of how deafening an ordinary pistol is when fired indoors. The good news is that the passengers don’t know about the mayhem up here.”

  Meanwhile, the captain in the left seat was frantic. His copilot had turned the plane’s transponder to emergency squawk code 7500 as the first intruder had entered the flight deck. Then, the copilot had unbuckled and turned to foil the hijackers. One bullet that had penetrated Business Suit entered the copilot’s chest. The copilot sat back down and slumped to the right — a heroic act on his part to avoid pushing on his aircraft yoke. He was bleeding out.

  Stan put his left hand on the pilot’s right shoulder, “Captain, I’ll leave the flying to you. I’ll take care of your copilot.” Pressure on the copilot’s chest wound was not working. Stan’s check of the carotid showed no pulse. He shook his head, eying everyone on the flight deck to acknowledge the sad truth.

  Sharon dusted herself off, listened, and sized up the situation. She approached the pilot, “Captain, I’m MI-5 — British counter-terrorism. I suspect your first instinct is to turn the aircraft around and land as soon as possible. Before you do that, would you consider maintaining present course until we can sort some things out? Sticky wicket, you know. Would you be so kind as to dial in this frequency for me to call Mother?” She hand him a card with numbers and radio type.

  On the heels of Student, Hijab had tried to join the fight on the flight deck. A six-foot-two, two hundred twenty-five pound All Black took her down before she could do damage with her box cutter. The New Zealand rugby star invited ladies to offer up scarves and strips of clothing to bind her, as well as “any used undergarments to stuff in her blabbing mouth.” His celebrity in the British Commonwealth brought a great calming to the upset passengers who started to cheer.

  Back on the flight deck, the two operatives worked independently and effectively without speaking a word. The captain gave Sharon a headset for her to radio her contact at MI-5. Stan asked Jane whether she knew of any pilots among the passengers to replace the copilot. He reminded her to think of hats, jewelry, or tattoos that might point to military flight experience. He was leery of a public address system inquiry for pilots in the back. Jane understood about crowd control and already had a candidate in mind. “I can think of one right of the bat, as you Yanks say.” With that and a courageous smile, she headed to the back of the aircraft to reassure passengers everything was under control.

  As Jane entered the cabin compartment with a cheery smile and arms up for victory, the passengers broke into collective applause. Tension became elation. Smiles were on every face. Strangers were hugging each other. A wealthy passenger in first class stood up and bellowed, “I’m buying! Drink up, mates!”

  *****

  The captain returned to his usual calm exterior. He stayed on flight plan, pending further guidance. MI-5 was busy the checking frequencies, call signs, and phone numbers Sharon found in the pockets of Business Suit.

  Still on the flight deck, Stan huddled with Sharon. “Next time, Sharon, you might tell me a little earlier about what’s going on.” He thought the understatement would have some paradoxical power. He also tried to show a professional pique, a bureaucratic you-should-have-told-me indignation.

  Sharon saw right through it, “And spoil all the fun?” she replied wryly.

  “You’re more fun than the MI-6 boys,” Stan said with a twinkle in his eyes.

  “You’re telling me. I was married to one of those wankers. No, you and I both are several steps up from him, especially seeing now that you can actually talk. For a while there, I thought I knew why you are called The Fin, Mister Short-on-Words.”

  Stan ignored the irrelevant to focus, “Sharon, we need to be ready for what’s next. Can you hear me over that whistle? What is that?”

  The captain heard it, too. Being the only pilot on deck at this altitude, proper protocol dictated his wearing the mask to keep him conscious in event of an unforeseen explosive decompression. He pulled off the oxygen mask he was wearing. He told Sharon what to do to silence the whistling sound. She turned to Stan who had not heard the conversation with the pilot.

  “Stan,” Sharon explained, “one of the shots from Business Suit’s pistol made a hole in the fuselage. I’m going to get some wet paper towels to plug up the hole. Fortunately, real life isn’t like the movie Goldfinger, or we’d be toast. … So we have no problem — except who will help fly the plane, Mr. Bond. … I’ve never piloted …”

  Stan half-smiled, “And I have maybe fifty hours of flight time — in a Cessna 172.” He shook his head at the situation. He stepped by Sharon on his way to occupy the copilot chair.

  As Sharon opened the flight deck door, Jared, a male flight attendant, thanked her and brought a cup of coffee to the captain. The captain waved him off. Jared became a momentary statue. Jared would not leave with the coffee.

  Out of his peripheral vision, Les observed Jared seemly thinking about what to do. The perplexed captain reluctantly took off his oxygen mask again. “Look, I can’t be drinking coffee with just me to fly the plane. … I haven’t seen you
before. Are you new? Why didn’t Jane bring …”

  Jared precipitously threw the steamy liquid at Stan and pulled a pistol out from underneath his coat. “Captain, you need to do as I say. Don’t communicate with anyone until I tell you. Shut off your transponder. Plot a course to Keflavik, Iceland …”

  Stan was hot, in more ways than one. He restrained himself. The situation was extremely critical. “Could you get me one with cream next time, friend?” he cracked as he fluidly rose from the copilot chair.

  Jared was not amused. Like an actor remembering his cues lines after initial stage fright, Jared was now totally in charge. He pointed the suppressed pistol at Stan, “Get off the flight deck! Now!”

  “Stan, took a deep breath, then began, “Let me help you out with your demands. Just what do you want?” Stan’s breathing deepened and slowed as he overcame the human fright-or-flight instinct.

  Jared responded again, “I’m not telling you again. Get off the flight deck. Final warning.”

  Stan turned slowly and measuredly opened the door cockpit When the door was halfway open, he dove to the side as he saw Sharon had a silenced pistol out and aimed at Jared. She fired one shot, center mass at Jared — no need to risk extra damage to the aircraft with a double burst. Jared collapsed as if in slow motion. As he did, he tried to take revenge on the crew and passengers by shooting directly at the captain’s head.

  Stan regrouped and rushed forward. Jared and the captain were both dead. Miraculously, the aircraft continued on its original course on autopilot. “Sharon, it’s gruesome, but help me get these bodies out of the way. Stacking the bodies properly will give us a narrow path to the cockpit. We can’t let the passengers see these bodies right now. We’d have chaos … Let’s get Jane up here to help clean up the bloody mess and formulate a plan.”