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Hijack!

　  Five o'clock on a warm afternoon in late summer, with only a faint line of cloud over the distant Tennessee mountains. The plane, a 727 jet, was approaching the Tennessee river valley, flying southwest at 28 000 feet on its way from New York to New Orleans.

    The radioman pushed himself into the cockpit through the narrow door from the cabin, fastening his trouser belt and nodding comfortably to the captain. He settled to work again. The captain watched him thoughtfully for a moment, then glanced over his shoulder, looking below, where sunlight flashed from water. He reached for his microphone, and turned off the soft cabin music.

    "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. To our right, and almost directly below us, is Watts Bar Lake, a part of the Tennessee valley development plan. In the distance to the east, for those with sharp eyes, there are the Great Smoky Mountains..."

    He finished , and music returned to the cabin. Almost in the same instant, a light flashed on his instrument board. He pressed a button.

    "Yes?"

    "Captain, this is Clarisse. We've got trouble. A passenger is locked in the washroom with Milly." The stewardess's voice hurried on, anxious to avoid misunderstanding. "It isn't a joke, captain. It's a hijack."
Her troubled voice filled the crowded cockpit. The radioman stared. The co-pilot started to get up, but Captain Littlejohn's raised hand stopped him.

    "Go on, Clarisse."

    "I saw this man walk back to the washroom. Nobody was taking any notice of him. When he got there he drew a gun and forced Milly inside. I've spoken to her through the door. So far she's all right; but he's got a gun and a knife, and a bottle of yellow oily stuff—he says it's explosive." She paused. "What do you want me to do?"

    "Nothing," the captain said quickly and firmly. "Stay where you are. Do the passengers know anything? No? Good. Try not to let them. I'll ask New Orleans for instructions."

    The radioman was already calling New Orleans airport control tower. The captain's face was stiff. "Clarisse," he said. "put an OUT OF ORDER sign on that washroom door. And ask Milly what the man wants."

    "Yes, sir. Wait a second." There was a pause. "She says he wants the plane to land at Jacksonville, to fill up with fuel."
    

    "Where does he want to go? We've more than enough fuel for Cuba. And who is he, do you know?"

    "He's on the seat plan as Charles Wagner from Hartford. Seat 16C. I served his lunch when we—"

    "What did he look like?"

    Clarisse sounded uncertain. "Like—like anybody, I suppose. About thirty-five, hair rather long but getting thin..."

    "How much did he have to drink?"

    "Just a glass of beer. I'm sure he wasn't drunk."

    "All right. Now try to look busy, in case anyone wonders why you're waiting there."

    The radioman swung round. "New Orleans, captain," he said.

    Quickly and calmly the captain explained the situation. A voice at the other end said: "Wait. I'll report to my chief and come back."

    The captain stared ahead, expressionless. Under his hand the wheel remained steady. The shadows ahead deepened. The wait seemed endless. Then a different voice was on the radio. It sounded more confident, more accustomed to command.

    "Captain Littlejohn? This is the security officer, New Orleans. You have permission to change course to Jacksonville. Call their security officer on your radio. He's been informed."

    "Roger," Littlejohn said.

    As he swung the wheel, a thought came to him, to explain any of his passengers' doubts. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced to the cabin, "to give people on the other side of the plane a chance to see something of the Tennessee valley development, we shall turn..."

    He continued on a wide circle, and came out of it with the plane's nose pointing to the southeast and the growing darkness.

    Clarisse's voice came back. "Captain? He wants money. A quarter of a million dollars, or he'll kill Milly and then blow up the plane. He wants it in a leather bag, in hundred-dollar notes, tied in bundles of twenty-five thousand. He wants the plane to land at the end of runway 725 at Jacksonville, as far from the airport building as possible. The passengers can get off. Then the money can be delivered, but no one must enter the plane. And he wants two parachutes—"

    "Two of them?"

    "That's what he said. A sports model, and an army one. That's all, so far. He'll give further instructions when we're on the ground."

    The security officer at Jacksonville had been listening to all this. Now the captain heard him saying to someone, aside: "Find out if the U.S. Parachute Association knows a Charles Wagner. Quickly! Do you hear?" Then he added, to Captain Littlejohn: "The money will be there. I don't know how long he'll keep it, but he'll get it, and the parachutes."

    "Good," the captain said. "And keep runway 725 clear for us, whatever the wind direction may be. I'd hate to lose Milly—not to mention a plane full of passengers."

    The sunset was almost behind them now, with the shadows of the Smoky mountains creeping beneath their wings. The steady roar of the engines filled the deepening darkness; the cockpit lights showed the anxiety on the faces of the crew. At last the lights of Jacksonville could be seen. The plane began to lose height. With a sigh, Captain Littlejohn handed control of the plane to his co-pilot, and took on the duty of informing the passengers.

    "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain again. Because of weather conditions ahead, we are forced to land at Jacksonville airport, Florida. A company representative there will explain the delay and arrange any necessary transport. We regret this inconvenience. Now , please fasten your seat belts and obey the NO SMOKING sign..."

    The last discontented passenger had left the plane, surprised to find a bus waiting to take him to the distant airport building. Extra supplies of engine fuel were being pumped in. A car took the place of the bus, and two men got out. One brought a small parachute in one hand, and a leather bag in the other; the second man carried a heavier parachute. They climbed the steps, placed their loads on the floor of the plane without entering, nodded to a pale Clarisse, merely glanced in the direction of the washroom door, and went away. They looked like detectives, and were. From the cockpit window, Captain Littlejohn watched them climb into their car and drive off. He picked up his microphone.

    "Clarisse?"

    "Yes, captain?"

    "Where do we go from here?"

    "Wait a second"—there was a long pause. Outside, the fuel lines were being drawn into the trucks, like enormous snakes. Then Clarisse was back. "Captain, he says you must fly towards Miami. As slowly as possible; two hundred miles an hour will do. And stay at a height of two thousand feet. He wants the passenger entrance at the back to be left unfastened on the outside—"

    The security officer in the tower was listening. He interrupted: "Captain, is it possible to jump from your plane?"

    "It is, from this one," Littlejohn said. "He clearly chose a 727 on purpose. He couldn't do it from a 707 or a 747. Either he knows something about flying or he studied for this hijack very thoroughly."

    "For a quarter of a million dollars," the voice said drily, "a man would be willing to study—or even to make his first jump. We've found no record of him as a parachutist so far."

    "It may not be his real name." Captain Littlejohn's voice was getting sharp; the wait was making him nervous. "Well, what do we do?"

    There was a pause. A new voice answered, "Captain? This is Major Willoughby of the Airforce. Have you any suggestion?"

    "Well," Littlejohn said slowly, "we could keep over water; he wouldn't jump there. It might give you time to send up some planes and meet us somewhere."

    The co-pilot, who had wartime experience, interrupted. "If he falls even five hundred feet before opening his parachute. they'll never see him at night."

    "I'll take that risk," Major Willoughby said. "Follow the coast, and we'll get other aircraft out of the way. Try to stay over water as far as Daytona. We'll be with you by then, at the latest. All right?"

   "Fine."

    Clarisse's anxious voice now told him that the man was getting impatient.

    "Tell him we're on our way." Littlejohn replied, and he started his engines.

     The plane swung round the raced down the runway , raised itself slightly, then climbed straight up. The city lights were left far below. The captain leveled his course, following the coast a mile from the shore.

    "Captain—he's going to come out—"

    Littlejohn spoke rapidly: "Clarisse! Fasten your seat belt. And I want Milly to sit down and fasten hers as soon as she comes out. That fool can jump or fall; I don't care. But I don't want either of you girls to take any risks near that open door. Do you hear?"

    "Yes, sir. Just a second." The sound of her voice changed. "They're out! Milly, sit down. Fasten your belt. You're as pale as a ghost." A short pause, with everyone in the cockpit holding his breath. "Captain, he's looking down at the water. He says, if you don't turn inland at once he'll kill Milly and then me. Captain, I—I think he means it..."

    "Turn", the security officer said quickly.

    "It's all right, anyhow," Major Willoughby's voice said. "We're on your track."

    Littlejohn instantly turned the plane. "Clarisse," he said, "let me talk to him."

    "Just a second." Silence. "Captain, he won't talk into the microphone. He says you must fly to Ocala, then turn straight south towards Naples; same speed, same height as now. He'll be gone before you reach Naples."

    The security officer spoke again. "Do it his way, captain. Don't take any chances. The Major's planes have you in sight, and every police force is on the lookout for a parachute. He won't get far."

    "There's a lot of empty space in central Florida," Littlejohn answered, "but I'll do what you say."

    "Captain," it was Clarisse again. "he wants us to join you in the cockpit before he jumps. He doesn't want us to see..."

    Littlejohn sighed. "All right, but hold tight. I'll lean the plane over slightly, to keep you away from that door. Come along."

    The men waited impatiently. At last there was a tap on the door, and two very nervous stewardesses came in and shut it behind them. Milly was still pale from her frightening experience, and Clarisse had an arm round her.

    "She'll be all right," Clarisse said.

    Littlejohn stared down, with a look of calm determination. The wide open spaces of southwestern Florida crept past beneath their steady nose, at the maddeningly slow speed of two hundred miles an hour. At last the lights of Naples could be seen in the still night. He turned to the co-pilot.

    "Mike, do you want to take a look? Be careful."

    "OK," said the co-pilot, and he pushed past the stewardesses into the empty cabin. He walked to the end and back, hanging on to seats as he passed the open door.

    "He's gone," he reported.

    "We missed him." Major Willoughby's voice said, disappointed.

    "We'll catch him. Don't worry," the security officer from Jacksonville promised. "We've warned all police in the area you've flown over. Well , captain, you have a clear course to Miami, and we've booked hotel rooms there for your crew. Good night and good luck."

    The maps from the map bag were piled to one side. Captain Littlejohn was reaching into the bag.

    "Fifty thousand each," he said softly. "Not a bad reward for a few hours' work and a little careful planning. Especially when you consider that it's free from tax."

     "I ought to get more." Milly said, bad-temperedly. "Five long miserable hours in a tiny washroom with a dead man!"

     "You?" Clarisse said. "What about me? I had to push him through that door into space. Even though I was fastened to a seat with a rope, I was terrified that I'd go out of the plane with him."

     "And I had to kill the poor fellow!" the radioman said.

     The co-pilot was taking no notice of their complaints. He was neatly putting his share in his travel bag. "Charles Wagner," he said, to no one in particular. "The unlucky fellow who went to the washroom at the wrong time. I wonder what he did for a living?"

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