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  “Okay, what’s up?”

  Bo said, “Turn your TV on to Fox News.”

  Bobby said, “Okay.”

  Several seconds elapsed while the two watched their respective TVs.

  Finally, Bobby said, “Why, that was my boys that lasered his sorry butt.”

  Bo said, “Task Force 145?”

  Bobby said, “Yep. This is great!”

  Now the two had another terrorist to deal with, close up. An obvious Muslim posing as a Mexican businessman, and more obviously a jihadist.

  “What do you think he is up to?”

  Bobby replied, “My guess would be that he is wearing a suicide belt, made out of C4 molded to conform to his midsection with no metal parts, and the plug from the laptop will have his detonator. The blue-tip matches would be a simple backup. He might even have a firecracker or cherry bomb in his pocket, too.”

  “When will he try to detonate it, do you suppose?”

  “We’re flying to LAX, Bo. That answer your question?”

  Bobby whispered, “If we pull our weapons on him, he will plug in and detonate. If we try to question him, he might do the same thing. If I knock him out and immobilize both arms before he can detonate the bomb, we will be okay.”

  Bo said, “What if he is innocent and there is no bomb?”

  “The government will have to make a heavy-duty apology to Mexico, and I will get my ass handed to me by some general,” he replied. “I’ll probably get court-martialed, or at the least get a major reprimand or maybe an Article 15.”

  He went on. “Because of that, I do not want you involved.”

  “I am your partner!” she replied.

  “That was not a question or suggestion, Captain,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bobby smiled, adding, “Besides, these AQ guys are trained to always have backups. While I take this one down, you have to watch for a partner to appear.”

  “What if the partner is wearing a suicide belt?” she asked.

  Bobby replied, “We are screwed. If there is one, go for a head shot if this one does have a belt on, but you have to watch about putting a round through the aircraft skin or a window.”

  Bo asked, “How are you going to take him down?”

  Bobby chuckled softly. “Punch the hell out of him.”

  Bo grinned and slipped the Glock 17 out of her shoulder holster well hidden next to her left breast. She carefully pulled back the slide and jacked a round into the chamber. The Glock has one safety, which is a little button on the trigger, which you press while you fire. She hid the gun under her blanket and waited, watching.

  Bobby gave her a wink and walked back, palming handcuffs and his badge in his left hand. He walked down the aisle until he was right in front of seat five and simply said, “Sir?”

  The faux-Mexican businessman looked up at Bobby startled, and his hand had started for the side of the laptop when Bobby suddenly lashed out and up with an uppercut that sent shock waves all the way into Bobby’s shoulder. The punch lifted the terrorist a few inches up off his seat, and blood spurted from his mouth as several teeth shattered. Two women screamed and then more, and Bobby held up his badge, yelling “Relax, Police!”

  He grabbed the right wrist of the unconscious man and slapped a handcuff on it, yanking the man’s body onto the floor of the aisle. Stepping on the other limp arm, Bobby yanked the man’s shirt open, with two women screaming as flying buttons startled them. Strapped around the man’s midsection was a tight suicide vest with Velcro connecters holding six-inch-by-eight-inch blocks of C4 plastic explosive. Bo stood behind Bobby looking back at all the passengers holding up in the air with a two-handed grip her Glock 17 nine-millimeter semiautomatic while carefully screening each passenger’s face.

  Several passengers started praising God, and several more praised Bobby and Bo, while she maintained a vigil and Bobby carefully searched the terrorist.

  The unconscious man on the floor was named Abdul Baari and was indeed a member of al-Qaida, as were his two compatriots working specifically on this flight, which they planned to send to the ground in flames as it passed over the highly populated areas of Los Angeles. And as members of al-Qaida, they always had a contingency plan, something always insisted upon by the Director, Osama bin Laden.

  Faarooq Ghasaan was the man who remained on the ground; in fact, he was part of the ground crew at the airport in Washington. Faarooq had cleaned and maintained the inside of the cabin and cockpit before Bo and Bobby and the other passengers boarded. As soon as his helper, a young black female, whose name he never even bothered to learn, walked down the steps to the tarmac carrying two white bags of trash, Faarooq worked quickly and efficiently as he had practiced over and over in the mockup in their shared Georgetown Apartment. At each of the bolt lock points of the newly strengthened door separating the cockpit from the first-class cabin, he molded a liberal chunk of C4, quickly spraying them all with the model paint that blended them into the gray color of the rest of the door. He stuck the spray can back in his cargo pocket on his leg, and inserted the blasting cap and remote processor just inside the cabin door. So far, it had escaped detection.

  Now with the operation compromised and Abdul Baari in custody, the third member, Dhul Fiqaar, had to use option two to effect their plans. He would bide his time and watch back into the cabin from his seat in first class, until he saw an opening. He would have to bring the plane down well before Los Angeles, but there still would be a great loss of life of infidels and more terror in the skies for the hapless, stupid Americans. He held his Mexican daily newspaper Pulso over his open briefcase. Below it rested the innocent-looking garage door opener, which he’d quickly explained in thick Spanish accent when going through the security checkpoint.

  He had been so embarrassed, he’d said as he explained that he was running late when he got out of his car in the large parking lot at Dulles Airport in DC—where, he said, he worked at the Mexican Embassy—and had actually stuck his cell phone in the visor over the driver’s seat and grabbed the garage door opener and dropped it in his briefcase. The expensively dressed Mexican businessman was allowed to board with his carry-on.

  Dhul Fiqaar was also wearing a Brooks Brother suit, a brown one with a gold and brown checked tie, and he too sported a Mexican flag lapel pin. Like everyone else on the aircraft, he was now standing watching Bobby back in tourist as he expertly searched and cuffed the still-unconscious Abdul Baari.

  Bo, simply being a good cop, turned to give a little attention to the passengers in first class. That was when she noticed the man at the very front of the jet, a well-dressed Hispanic-looking man in a brown suit who towered above everybody in first class. Even with the suit, he looked like he could well be an NFL offensive lineman. He was much taller than Bobby and even wider in the shoulders. Then Bo, eyes scouring and searching for details and anything out of place, noticed on the left lapel the tiny little Mexican flag. Even at that distance, Dhul Fiqaar noticed her immediate recognition of the pin, a too obvious attempt at camouflage suggested by Faarooq Ghasaan when they saw some for sale by the cash register while eating at a Mexican restaurant in Alexandria.

  Dhul ducked down into his seat, grabbing the garage door opener, and he rushed behind the next seat ducking.

  In the meantime, Bo, aiming her Glock, screamed, “Everybody down!”

  She ran forward as fast she could, yelling over her shoulder, “Major Samuels, accomplice in first class!”

  Abdul Baari, at the same time, sat straight up looking around him in a daze, and Bobby shoved his shoulders back down. Dhul pushed the garage door opener, and the high-frequency detonator in the cabin blew the door inward, actually cracking Dhul’s right kneecap. Nonetheless he jumped up limping and rushed into the cabin, Bo behind him but unable to get a clear shot because of confused screaming passengers still in the way.

  Dhul Fiqaar hit the copilot with one sweeping backhand that sent his head against the bulkhead, and he slumped in his seat uncons
cious. Then Dhul swung to the left, hitting the pilot with a slapping blow that knocked him out of his seat and against the side window. He was not out totally, but very woozy and disoriented. The navigator had been thrown by the blast into one of the observer seats in the cabin.

  Suddenly, Dhul wheeled to see Bo aiming center-mass at his chest, and he screamed, “Allah Akbar!” as he lunged forward at her.

  Bang! Bang! went the Glock as she did a military double tap, placing two shots into his chest that could be covered by a quarter, but the nine-millimeter pistol was not large enough to stop the behemoth. He swung and his open hand knocked the gun from Bo’s hand, sending it flying back into the first-class cabin.

  Grinning evilly and starting to feel faint, he went after the woman, who barely reached his mid-chest. Women in the aircraft, seeing the charge from the killer with two streams of blood draining from his chest, screamed loudly. Bo stood her ground, concentrating, and waited until he was right on top of her, ready to grab her. His plate-sized hands grabbed her upper arms, but she stomped down on his foot, breaking it with the edge of her foot, and he bent over in severe pain, screaming.

  Remembering all she could from the years of training in tae kwon do she’d had as a girl, she stepped back and then skipped in, pivoting her hips as she kicked as hard as possible and executed a sidekick with her stiletto heel imbedding itself in Dhul’s windpipe. He tried to scream, but it was only a gurgle of blood. Bo withdrew her foot and her high-heel shoe stayed in his Adam’s apple. He yanked it out, eyes open in sheer rage. He started for Bo, but fell back as the jet started into a steep dive. The pilot, barely conscious, now grabbed the controls and leveled it out somewhat. And the giant, knowing he was near death, started toward Bo again. Her eyes searched all around for a weapon. Her pistol had disappeared under a seat. His left hand clutched his throat, frothy bubbling blood working its way out between and around his fingers.

  The man was almost upon her again, blood streaming from several holes now, and she was not sure how she would attack, but she stood her ground and determined she would try attacking with kicks just above and directly on his knee he was limping on. Bo simply knew that she had to get past him. The plane was headed for the ground.

  At the last second, Bobby’s voice from behind her yelled, “Bo! Down!”

  She dropped to the floor immediately and heard Bobby’s double tap, as she saw two bullet holes appear in the forehead of Dhul Fiqaar, former giant Taliban fighter from Sar E-Pol, Afghanistan, who now looked up cross-eyed, seemingly at the holes in his forehead. In actuality, he was dead on his feet. He fell backward, as more screams rang throughout the rapidly descending aircraft. Without looking, Bo waved at Bobby over her shoulder as she rushed to the cabin, stepping on and running across Dhur’s body to get there.

  2

  WHITE DEATH

  She heard Bobby yell, “Folks, fasten and tighten your seat belts and prepare for a crash landing! Don’t you worry, we will all be okay!”

  The jet was already turned around and on its way back to Denver. The pilot was semiconscious, and the copilot and navigator were still out cold with concussions. Although it was now May, and most passengers wore summer-type clothing and carried no heavy clothing with them, Bo was now looking down at a ferocious late-spring blizzard hitting the snowcapped peaks of the Colorado San Juan Mountain range in the southwestern part of the state. She slapped the pilot across the face and tried to bring him around, to no avail.

  The Pratt & Whitney JT9D turbofan engines were working hard to power the Boeing DC10 Model 40 series through the raging blizzard, but their thrust range had dropped to 40,000 pounds from 54,000 pounds. It was losing altitude fast, and Bo saw the looming mountains below getting closer and closer. Bobby appeared next to her and tossed a glass of water into the face of the pilot, but the man was still half out of it.

  Bobby said to the pilot, “We are going to crash in the Rockies. We have to pull out. Wake yourself, man!”

  He looked back and saw the nervous flight attendant running around with another attendant getting people buckled in.

  As if he were given a silent signal, the pilot sat up and looked around. He pulled himself behind the controls and looked at Bobby.

  “What happened?”

  Bobby said, “Terrorists! How can I help?”

  “Pray, and you two get buckled in. I cannot pull this up,” he replied, “I can only try to find us the best place to crash.”

  There was a little break in the blizzard, and they could see fourteen-thousand-foot peaks looming all around and above them. Below them was a gentler slope coming off one and heading right down to the bank of a frozen glacial lake.

  The pilot lowered flaps and his wheels to cause more drag and slow the jet as much as possible. A flashing light and buzzer came on with the word “stall” flashing on the tiny screen.

  “I am going to try to skid it across the lake and hope those trees keep us from going over a cliff or into one.”

  He quickly grabbed the mike and started to key it, then yelled, “Shit!” instead.

  Bobby and Bo both looked and saw the radio literally bashed in, apparently from the door being blown earlier and something flying against it. Bobby looked back and saw the flight attendants were now apparently buckled in and people seemed to be bent over in their seats.

  The plane bounced off some unseen boulders, which tore a hole in the belly and knocked off one set of wheels. They hit the lake surface and the ice held, as the plane collapsed the second set of wheels and skidded fairly straight toward the evergreen and aspen forest to its front.

  Bobby wrapped his large-muscled arms around Bo and held her tightly against his chest, his eyes staring out the window at the looming trees. The jet went into them with loud crashing and screeching noises. The entire right wing tore free from the plane and exploded into flames. The pilot had wisely shut the engines down before hitting the lake. Trees were being clipped off with great cracks, and Bobby, still holding Bo tightly, was thrown forward, gashing his forehead open on the copilot’s headset cradle, which had become draped over the seat. His head started bleeding profusely, and he blinked blood out of his eyes. The jet slowed suddenly and smoke started pouring from the engines on the existing port wing. With a great grinding sound, it stopped and listed to the left.

  Bo immediately jumped up and unbuckled the captain and threw his left arm over her shoulder lifting him to his feet. Bobby lifted the copilot and placed him across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

  As they left the cabin, Bobby yelled, “I need somebody with strength to carry the navigator!”

  A young man in a whitewall haircut ran up to the cockpit and picked up the navigator.

  Bobby, bearing his own load on his shoulders, winked at the young man, who explained, “Marine Corps, sir. Cherry Point.”

  Bobby said, “Semper fi.”

  Bo yelled, “Do not go out the exits on the wing side of the plane! When you hit the ground get away from the plane, but stay in a group!”

  Bobby carried the copilot to the emergency exit and following the Marine and his charge, dropped the man on the chute. Two men stood at the bottom of the chute grabbing all who slid down.

  Bobby then started back toward the fifth seat, where he had knocked out Abdul Baari a second time, so he could take aim and shoot Dhul Fiqaar. The man was still out, and Bobby picked him up like a baby.

  He carried the limp man toward the exit and yelled at the Marine, “Jarhead, I need your help.”

  The Marine ran over and Bobby handed him the terrorist.

  Then, Bobby pulled out his Glock and shoved it in the Marine’s belt, saying, “I need you to follow him down the slide and take charge of him for me. What is your name?”

  “Bobby, Sir,” he replied, “Lance Corporal Bobby Kennedy.”

  Bobby laughed. “You have got to be kidding! No relation, I assume?”

  “No way, sir,” Bobby said, “My family are hardcore Republicans, Protestants, and most are bl
ue-collar workers and proud of it.”

  Bobby said, “Since my first name is Bobby, too, I’ll refer to you as Corporal or Kennedy.”

  “I’m used to it, Major,” Bobby responded. “I’ll take this raghead off your hands, sir. You know, my best friend is from Mexico originally, and it really pisses me off these guys were trying to pass like they were, too.”

  He walked to the exit door and tossed the unconscious prisoner out onto the bright yellow ramp and followed him out the little door. At the bottom, two men, who immediately took up the responsibility when the plane stopped, caught the terrorist and set him off to the side, then grabbed the arms of Lance Corporal Bobby Kennedy as he hit the bottom.

  Bobby and Bo both made sure, along with the flight attendants, that every passenger got out safely. There were assorted injuries, most minor, though, it seemed. Then the one engine burst into flames, and Bobby could tell both attendants were very nervous.

  He said, “Ladies, you have been great, but you need to get out now. I will make sure everyone is clear. You, too, Captain Devore.”

  Bo started to argue but stopped herself, simply saying, “Yes, sir.”

  The two attendants were going to argue, too but both felt very comfortable with Bobby in charge, so all three headed toward the exit door. The flames started spreading to a fuel line and Bobby worried about a tank blowing. Smoke started pouring into the cabin and the snow started falling again outside.

  Bobby yelled down at Bo, “Get all the passengers to form a group close enough to be warmed by the fires, but far enough to avoid an explosion. I’ll be down as soon as I check the plane.”

  Bobby ran into the forward restroom, and the cockpit. As he started heading back looking under seats just to make sure, the cabin really started filling with smoke. He yanked an oxygen mask from its tether and placed it over his face, sticking the end of the tube inside his shirt. This would filter some of the smoke.

  Outside, a woman came running forward crying, and Bo calmed her down.

  She screamed, “My baby is in there! My little boy Daniel ran to the restroom after we stopped and the crowd forced me to the exit and out. He has not showed up! Please!”