The Kremlin File

The pilot was sprawled half out of his seat across the wheel, locking it for a dive. Blood leaked from a hole in his back. The navigator was hunched over the wounded man. The copilot was fighting the ship back to straight and level flight. I didn’t interrupt them. The navigator got the pilot off his wheel and whipped out a handkerchief to mop at the blood. It was like trying to stop Niagara Falls. The copilot got the plane straight and switched it on automatic pilot. He turned to help the navigator, saw me, the gun in my hand, and froze. I knew he thought I was another skyjacker.

“Relax,” I told him and shoved the Luger back in its clip. “Take a deep breath and set her back on course for Grand LaClare. They lost the game.”

The copilot stared past me at the rubbish on the floor. The navigator whirled, one hand holding the pilot against the seat, and gaped at me white-faced.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Johnny on the Spot, call it.” I nodded toward the pilot. “Is he dead?”

The man shook his head, then dropped his eyes to the aisle. The copilot spoke in a daze.

“She shot Howie... the stewardess!” The way he said it, he might have been talking about the First Lady. Then his mind clicked into gear. “You... Hey... What are you doing with a gun?”

I grinned at him. “Aren’t you glad I have it? You’d better call Kennedy and report. You can ask them if Nick Carter has permission to carry arms aboard. Tell them to query Timothy Whiteside. He’s president of this airline, in case you’ve forgotten.”

The pair looked at each other, then the copilot dropped back to his seat, obviously reluctant to take his eyes off me, and radioed the airport. It was a while before the answer graveled through the mike. Probably Whiteside had to be routed out of bed. But when it came, in a direct quote relayed from his office, his clearance of me was earthy and explosive, due I suspected to the shock of hearing how one of his proud flights had been abused.

By that time the other two stewardesses had com© running, poked their heads into the cabin, sized up the situation and ducked back, one using the PA to make reassuring noises and the other moving along the aisle trying to quiet the frightened, panicky passengers.

I touched the pilot’s wrist and found the pulse ragged and weakening. I told the navigator, “I’ll give you a hand, take him out to those empty seats at the tail.”

He was still wary of me, but he needed my help. We untangled the pilot and carried him awkwardly over the inert figures blocking the passage and on tot where a blonde in uniform had the wit to pull the arms out from between the seats in a row of three. The “couch” we had wasn’t long enough and the pilot’s legs hung over when we laid him on his stomach, but I didn’t think he knew or would care for very long.

A hostess brought a first aid kit and Tara Sawyer came up beside her, saying quietly, “Let me. I knowhow and you have enough to do.”

The navigator and I left the girls to work it out and went to move the unconscious stewardess to an empty seat behind the pilot. I felt over her with my hands in case the little walking arsenal had other guns, but she was clean. I borrowed bandage enough from the kit to tie her hands behind her back and wrap her ankles together — just in case she came to and made a try for the target with her bare claws. We stashed the dead hijacker out of sight in a head and returned to the cockpit.

The copilot still looked pale and worried, asking how the pilot was doing, and looked worse when I said not good.

“Damn them.” It was half a cry. “How could they get aboard with those guns? How did you?”

“Special privilege for me. The girl slipped two into her bra. Cute. Your crews aren’t subject to search, are they?”

Both men made growling noises over that loophole in security. I wondered how deeply the copilot was jolted. There was still a long flight ahead.

I said, “You able to fly her clear to Port of Spain or do you want me to spell you?”

His eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “You mean you have a license to fly these babies?”

I took out my wallet and showed him the paper. He shook his head.

“Thanks for the offer but I can take her in.”

“Sing out if you change your mind. I’ll be around. Close.”

That brought a laugh I hoped would relieve his tension and I left. One stewardess was serving drinks free to tempt the passengers out of their obvious hysteria and the other was administering oxygen to an elderly man who appeared to have had a heart attack. Tara Sawyer still worked over the pilot, cool and efficient. The more I saw of her, the better I felt about her. Not many women would be this calm under the circumstances. She looked at me as I stopped beside her and said almost under her breath, “He isn’t going to make it, Nick.”

“I know. I can see it.”