Matt's War

Chapter 1

The ‘fasten seatbelt’ sign extinguished with a ‘bong’.

‘Good morning ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Stephen Wong. Thanks for flying Singapore Airlines. Even though the seatbelt sign is off, I’d strongly recommend you keep yours fastened. We’ve got a tail wind today, so our Singapore to Sydney flight should be shortened by as much as thirty minutes. The weather is clear and I expect the flight will be uneventful. Sit back and relax and let Cloris and her experienced crew take care of you.’

Matt looked across the aisle at George Sahin, the technical brains of his organization. An early landing is okay. He stretched, his muscles still tight from the early morning exercise. Ah, I’m getting old.

George snorted as he attempted to stretch his legs, cramped even in Business Class. Right. Thirty-seven isn’t old. He loosened his seat belt. But yeah, the less time I’m in this goddamned metal tube, the better.

Ever regret not following through on that football career?

George smiled and shook his head. Would have blown my knees out in the first season. Engineering was easy. And hey, I get to travel the world with your outfit.

Matt heard the clatter of cutlery as the crew organized lunch in the galley. The fish or the beef, pal?

Beef. Never trust the fish. Especially on a plane. It’s the people who eat the fish who end up in trouble.

The short, solid gentleman sitting in front of Matt got up and headed to the back of the upper deck. Three others - the passenger sitting behind him, as well as the passengers in front of and behind George - simultaneously rose and headed to the back. Matt twisted in his seat and looked back the few rows to the upper deck galley.

Well, shit. Hey George, he whispered. Gonna be a fucked up flight, I think. He nodded his head to the back, where the four passengers were in the process of taking control of Business Class.

~~~

Finally, Azmi. It will be a good day, today. Today, he paused and smiled, today we see another blow against the enemies of Allah. Bashir strutted in his small apartment, just outside of Kuala Lumpur.

Not bad, for a beginner’s effort. I’ll admit, I had my doubts. I’m recording CNN. We should be able to recruit more from this. Azmi closed his eyes and smiled. Tell me again.

The primary target is Ngee Ann Tower on Orchard Road. Tower A. Thousands of shoppers are in there; it’s coming up on Christmas. The large mall complex will be covered in rubble once the building comes down. On top of non-believers. He shrugged. But if that proves to be too difficult, they’ll target Suntec City.

Which tower?

Not Tower 5, that’s too far away from the shopping area. Probably Tower 2 or 3, below which, again, most of the infidel shoppers congregate. First choice will be Ngee Ann Towers. Everybody knows Orchard Road.

~~~

George unbuckled his seat belt and turned to stand.

Whoa, whoa, George. Let’s see what plays out. Matt put his hand on George’s arm and turned a little farther. They could be armed.

On a plane? These days? Shit, I rang the bells and all I had was twenty cents in my pocket. I’m going for it. He stood and turned to where the discussion was becoming animated.

Halfway back on the upper deck, where the exit doors provided a gap in the seating, one of the men was having an agitated discussion with the flight attendant.

Matt sighed and stood with his friend. What the hell. It’s going to happen or it’s not. George’s bulk blocked his view, but as they got closer he could make out what they were saying. He’d lived in Southeast Asia for six years now, and the gentleman was speaking Bahasa Malaysia, a language Matt understood.

You will open the cockpit door or we will blow it. Or maybe I should cut your throat and draw them out. Your choice, said the short and stocky one, obviously the ringleader. The flight attendant shook her head, her Indian features an ashen grey.

No. I cannot. It can only be opened from the inside, and they won’t come out even if there are indications of trouble. This is a horrible mistake. Please, let us land back in Singapore.

Two others, slightly larger, moved the remainder of the staff into a corner in the back galley, threatening them with something which neither George nor Matt could see. The fourth stood at the top of the stairs, ensuring nobody could leave. At this point only the passengers near the short and stocky man were aware anything untoward was happening.

What seems to be the problem, pal? asked George. The stocky guy spun around, swinging a black obsidian ‘blade’ at George’s face. Or where George’s face would be if George were as short as the knife wielder.

George smiled as he pulled his left shoulder out of the way, pivoted and smashed his fist into the guy’s face, shattering his nose. A second hit to the throat dropped the thug to his knees. George stepped forward and drove his knee into the terrorist’s face, breaking his jaw.

Matt, the bastard cut me. He stepped over the prone body and moved in on the other three, Matt close behind him.

The largest of the remaining three stood with his back to the stairs, blocking the exit. He looked concerned. This wasn’t going as expected. His two friends had the flight attendants under control, but the Mat salehs, the foreigners, coming down the aisle weren’t in the plan.

He yelled at them. Hey! Sit down, now!

Be with you in a minute, muttered Matt.

The space at the back of the upper deck allowed Matt and George to spread apart, approaching the three accomplices at almost a run. The larger man at the top of the stairs hesitated. His remit was to guard the stairs, to ensure nobody came up and to prevent anyone from leaving. But a fight was brewing and his instinct was to join the fray.

~~~

Cloris, tending to the First Class passengers downstairs, frowned. Loud voices upstairs, or to the left of the door downstairs, were not at all common. In her experience it signaled too much alcohol and a Flight Attendant not properly doing their job. She told her deputy to take over in First and ascended the stairs to investigate. A large man blocked the top of the stars. Excuse me, sir. I need to pass.

~~~

The two in the galley hadn’t fully registered what had happened yet. Matt and George each took one, disarming them and bringing them to the ground without much of a struggle.

The terrorist who remained standing by the stairs had his arm around Cloris’ neck, his obsidian blade to her throat. Matt recognized her as the one who brought him his drinks.

She will die if you step any closer. I need to get into the cockpit and you will help me get in there.

George inched forward a half step. Really? On your own? Look, nothing personal pal, but you’re not the brains of this organization. He pointed to the two hog-tied in the galley. You don’t have any help here. I think it’s fair to say you didn’t have much help to begin with. You kill her and I’ll kill you

Matt looked over at George, blood running from the cut on his shoulder. You’re bleeding, George.

He glanced at his shoulder. A scratch. Nothing. These guys have nothing. Adrenaline was running things. He was hyper-aware, pulse pounding and a slight tremor in his hands. The remaining passengers were up in their seats, now aware that the ‘uneventful flight’ promised by the captain was not to be.

George snorted and inched a bit closer to the remaining would-be hijacker. You weren’t the flyer anyway, were you? You were hired muscle. What were you promised, seventy-two virgins and paradise in the after-life? You are in for a serious shock, buddy. What do you think Matt, break his nose or break his neck?

Matt edged closer to the punk with the stone knife and was within striking distance when the flight attendant appeared to suddenly lose consciousness and drop like a sack of rice. It caught the terrorist off guard and he almost dropped her. As he lowered the knife from her neck to shift the now dead weight, Matt stepped in and lashed out with an open palm to his face, shattering his nose, driving bone fragments into his brain. The terrorist dropped like a log, half on top of the flight attendant, now very much awake.

Matt shook the sting out of his hand. Damn, that felt good. You okay George? Help me with this young lady. He helped the attendant from the floor and sat her in an empty seat. He adjusted her name tag, That was wonderful acting. You saved yourself, I think.

She trembled as she sat down. I thought I was going to die. It wasn’t all acting, sir. Thank you and your friend very, very much. She blinked away tears. Could you ask someone to get me some water?

Matt grabbed a couple of glasses from the galley. "My turn to serve you. Relax. It’s over."

George looked at the body on the floor. I think you killed him, man. He looks dead.

Yeah. First guy too, I think. Better them than us. Christ, I need a drink. How’s the arm?

George finished taping the plaster on his left shoulder. It was a long-ish cut, but not serious. Not deep. I’ll live. He laughed. Holy shit man, what the hell was this?

A cluster-fuck. Matt grabbed one of the male stewards by the arm. "Tell the captain to head back to Singapore, and to alert the authorities that there may be other planes in the same situation.

This, George, was the most inept terrorist attack I have heard of yet. Check the pockets of these humps for weapons and tie them up. I’m going to check their carry-on luggage and their seat pockets.

The pilot broadcast an announcement to the effect that a medical emergency necessitated a return to Singapore. The flight attendants moved among the passengers on the upper deck, calming them and getting them back in their seats.

George stood from looking through the terrorist’s pockets. He had four stone ‘knives’ in a puke bag to be handed over to whoever met them at the airport. There was no identification on any of them. He used headphone cables and restrained the two who were still alive.

George enlisted the help of one of the Stewards and placed the two dead terrorists on the floor area of the last row of seats. They wouldn’t be going anywhere.

George, look at this. Is it what I think it is? Matt held open the seat pocket where the ringleader sat. Someone had pushed a coil of detonation cord deep down into the pocket.

Probably backup plan for the cockpit door. He looked at Matt. These mutts had friends on the inside. Shit. That would never have gotten through security without help. Leave that stuff. The cops will want to see it. Sit down. We’ll be on the ground shortly.

The disturbance had been contained to the upper deck. The flight crew and the passengers upstairs were aware of what happened, but the rest of the passengers, those downstairs, believed the return to Singapore really was due to a medical emergency and were grumbling as the Singapore Airlines flight taxied to the terminal.

~~~

Azmi looked at his watch. When is this supposed to happen?

Bashir paced, a father waiting for the birth of his first child. Soon, he replied, glancing at his watch. If it took off as scheduled, it’s been in the air almost forty-five minutes. We should be seeing something on the news soon. He looked for World Report on CNN. ‘Breaking News’ would be splashed across the screen at any moment.

Azmi looked at the TV too. He had informed some people that the event would be happening today and that it would be a good idea to watch the news outlets for more information. His loss of face if this didn’t come off as planned would not be nice, and the shit would flow downhill to Bashir.

It had better happen. And stop that bloody pacing, Bashir. It’s annoying.

It will happen. He continued to pace. Why wouldn’t it? The flying training in Australia was accomplished. The ‘muscle’ was well trained in Thailand. There should be nothing left to chance, right? It will happen. Bashir chewed the inside of his lip, concerned. It didn’t feel right.

You say. Azmi settled back in his over-stuffed chair. He recognized the cracking open of the door, the laying down of potential excuses. If there was failure, Bashir wanted to make sure it didn’t all land on him. But it didn’t matter. If it failed it would be all on Bashir. The owner of the plan took the glory and the ignominy.

Chapter 2

Permission was given to the passengers in Business, and First on the lower deck, to leave. Those in the upper deck stayed to chat with the authorities. Economy curtains were kept closed as police arrived and walked upstairs, and then economy filed out, none the wiser that they were that close to becoming part of a missile aimed at Singapore.

Matt and George were singled out as the heroes of the flight, set to one side, and basically ignored while the authorities interviewed the rest of the upper deck.

The two live terrorists were hooded and cuffed and taken off the side of the air bridge, down the stairs and into a waiting van. The two bodies followed shortly after, followed by a host of CSI-type activity. Crime scene techs, including a couple who looked to Matt like Americans, combed the floor, seats and surrounding area.

Finally, the last upper deck passenger de-planed. The officer in charge, a grey-haired, wiry Indian, smiled at Matt and George. Thank you very much, gentlemen, for your patience. My name is Patel. Detective Sergeant Patel, Airport Police. Those two over there are from your FBI; Agents Blake and Wesson. My colleagues and I have very many questions for you. Would you prefer to do it here, or in my office in the airport?

Detective Sergeant, if it’s all the same to you, anywhere but here, replied Matt. Being on a plane this long is fine if you’re actually going somewhere, but it’s been over an hour now sitting on the ground, and it’s getting hot and stuffy, the movies are turned off, the bar is closed, and, he hiked his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the exit, there looks to be blood on the floor.

Please, it’s Patel. And I agree. Follow me to a place a bit more comfortable than this, and we’ll have you on your way in less than an hour.

George stood, stretched and consulted his watch. Boss, there’s another flight at 8:30 tonight. A red-eye that gets us in to Sydney by 6:00 a.m. Think we should try for that?

Patel interrupted. I’ll have a representative of the airline meet us. I’m sure they would be more than happy to accommodate you both. Considering. He shook his head. You may know that this isn’t the first terrorist attempt in Singapore.

Yeah, yeah. I saw the videos on TV. Lots of planning, not much action, said George.

You saw what we wanted the public to see. There were many operations which we’ve shut down, but none have come anywhere near as close as this.

So your prisons are full of terrorist wannabes? George turned to Matt. Sounds like a rich training ground to me.

"We’re not doing too bad a job, George. We did have one escape. Mas Selamat. Have you heard of him? We believe that he was the Singaporean head of JI – Jemaah Islamiah. He was well along in his plans to crash six explosives-ladened trucks into various strategic targets here in Singapore. When we picked him up, there were early plans to crash a hijacked flight into Changi airport on his laptop. He escaped in late February 2008, when his family came to visit him at the Whitely Road Detention Centre. It took almost 18 months to get him back into custody, thanks to our colleagues in Malaysia. It’s possible he was involved in the planning of this attempt. We are arranging an interrogation."

Patel escorted them through some staff only doors to a pilot’s lounge which looked almost as comfortable as Singapore Airline’s Raffles lounge.

A door from the lounge led them to a medium sized conference room, sparsely outfitted. A sturdy, plain table stood in the middle of the room with old-school flat back chairs arranged around it.

Make yourselves comfortable gentlemen. Something to drink? Patel offered.

Matt scrubbed his short-cropped hair with his fingertips. Let’s just get on with it, can we?

Patel looked at his watch.

Certainly. Your FBI will be here shortly. They’ll catch up. Tell me what happened.

The humps picked the wrong plane to mess with. George paced, adrenaline still coursing through his system.

Obviously, Mr. Sahin. But I think a bit more detail would be helpful. Did you see these gentlemen before they boarded? What tipped you off to their intent? What prompted you to take on the four of them? You know, that sort of detail.

Matt grimaced. I bumped into who I think was the ringleader just outside the gate. Never saw him before that. He sat in front of me on the flight. The other three sat behind me, in front of George and behind George. All aisle seats. But you probably already know that.

Patel nodded and held up a couple of pages of paper. I’ve got the flight manifest. We’ve got names for the four gentlemen you obstructed, although I’d be very surprised if they were their real names. Fingerprints will probably identify them, if we’ve bumped into them before.

Yeah right, said George. So, as Matt said, these four were sitting near us. The smaller stocky guy got up first and headed to the back. Matt kinda lagged back after the other three joined, but I was right in there.

Matt actually laughed. Down boy. Your cape is a bit too tight around that bull neck of yours.

George raised his left eyebrow. Seriously Patel, I’m telling the truth here.

Well, Matt took back the conversation, when all four were in the back I nudged George awake and we headed to the back. The little guy -

They’re all little, Matt.

"Okay George, the littlest guy tried to cut George, and George slammed him in the throat."

The doors swung open and the two FBI Agents joined them.

Which one of you is Matt Daly, the taller, much blacker of the two agents asked.

That would be me. And you are?

Agent Blake. This, pointing to the redhead he came in with, is Agent Wesson.

Blake looked at George and referred to the notes in his hands. And so you must be George Sahin. Tell me, Mr. Sahin, were you born in the US?

Istanbul, but I moved to Arlington with my parents when I was three. We got our citizenship when I was seven. Yes, I’m Muslim. What about you? Methodist, I’d guess. Where were you born?

That doesn’t matter, and don’t mistake our intent. We are very, ah, shall we say, pleased that you left two of them alive. I’m sure you would have liked to kill all four of them.

Matt flexed his fist. The hand still hurt from the blow he administered to the fourth terrorist. Actually, I just wanted to get back on the ground in one piece. Killing wasn’t in the plan. My hand still hurts, dammit.

But yet you did it. One each, if I follow the events. Well done. You have big hairy ones, the both of you. He pulled a chair over, reversed it and sat backwards in it, facing Matt and George across the table.

I’m sure the Singaporean Government, not to mention Singapore Airlines, would love to parade you both down Main Street, or Orchard Road, or whatever it’s called here, and give you both the keys to the city. We’d prefer that they didn’t. He loosened his tie and popped the top button of his shirt. Discretion is the watch word for this, gentlemen.

Listen Blake, I’d prefer that this whole thing didn’t happen, but it did. Nonetheless, George and I are not interested in any publicity with this. Right George?

George shifted in his chair. There could be advantages, you know, with the more impressionable ladies...

Blake laughed. We are going to keep this under wraps, for reasons which we will explain to you as soon as I get myself something to drink. You guys okay? Want some coffee?

Matt shook his head. I’ve still got the shakes, Agent Blake. A Baileys on ice would be better, but I’ll save that for later. Iced water for now, thanks.

Sure. Wesson! Bring the man some ice water.

She glared at him. Didn’t move from her seat.

Okay, okay, I’ll get it. Gone are the good old days when you could order the rookies around. Now it’s going to get labeled. Sexism. Or Racism. Or some other goddamn frickin’ ‘-ism’. He left and returned with four bottles of mineral water, one for George, one for Matt, one for Patel and one for himself. Oh, geez, sorry Wesson. Forgot about you. You’ll have to get yours yourself. He turned to Matt and George. Now, where were we?

You were telling us to keep this under wraps. You were going to explain to us why, said George.

Blake thought for a second. We had some inkling that something was going to happen, and we were running it down, but we didn’t have enough information. This almost got away from us.

Wesson slid a chair over and joined the conversation. What Agent Blake here is trying to say is that we screwed up. If our intelligence was a smidge better and a hair faster, we would have cut these morons off at the pass.

But you didn’t. So? You’ve got two of them now. Interrogate them. Give them to a country which has more creative and aggressive forms of interrogation. What’s the deal with keeping it under wraps? Trying to hide your failures? asked Matt.

Nah, no point in that. This is a tactical move. Blake pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. Patel cleared his throat and pointed at the ‘No Smoking’ sign on the wall behind his head. Agent Blake swore. Ah, crap. Fine. Smoke Nazis. They’re everywhere.

George looked at Wesson. Tell me something. The entire crew, and everyone in the upper deck Business Class, knows what happened. You really think you can keep a lid on this, for whatever reason? Dream on.

Patel spoke up from across the room. The crew will cooperate, definitely. They’ve been sworn to secrecy, told that it is a National Security issue, punishable by jail time if they talk before it becomes officially public. The one flight attendant who was cut, she’ll tell everyone she cut herself on a glass she broke in the galley.

And the passengers? asked Matt.

Excluding you two, and the four whacks we have on ice, there were only seven other passengers upstairs, reported Agent Blake. Patel talked to each of them in turn and secured their patriotic promise that there would be nothing told to anybody, right Patel?

Absolutely correct, Agent Blake. Fortunately for us they were six Singaporeans, eager to keep this kind of embarrassment out of the media, and an Australian naturalized resident, originally from Lebanon who, frankly, was extremely embarrassed his religion was the backdrop for this. Plus, Singapore Airlines is going to be treating them as very special customers for the next while.

Okay, fine, but to what end?

Patel looked at Agents Blake and Wesson, both of whom nodded, giving him the go ahead to talk. Mr. Daly, did the four gentlemen on the plane strike you as smart enough to organize this by themselves?

No, not really. Even the guy I thought was the ringleader barely had a clue. The other three were not much more than muscle.

So that leads us to the obvious question: Who organized this?

Like I said, man. ‘Interrogate’ the hell out of those two schmucks you took off the plane alive. If you don’t want to do it, let me have them for an hour. I’ll guarantee they’ll tell me everything they know.

Blake laughed. You’re my kinda guy. He sobered a bit. But they probably don’t know shit. We get talking to them, I guarantee those two jokers you left alive won’t have realised they were going to pancake into a building, let alone know who organized this event.

Agent Wesson shook her head and turned to George. "So you see, Mr. Sahin, if we can suppress the information of this attempt from reaching the public, if Singapore Airlines doesn’t issue a press release about the attempted terrorist act,