(This is the last segment of the fictional story of a group of passengers trying to re-take a hijacked plane. I have written the story in first-person-present to try to portray the tension and the impossibly risky choices inherent in such a circumstance. There was such an attempt undertaken by the heroic passengers of United Flight 93 on September 11 2001. Their attempt to re-take their plane ended in a catastrophic crash in Pennsylvania but it was still a brilliant success for having saved thousands of lives of the people who, on that infamous day, occupied whatever target the terrorist had planned to strike with their plane. This simple rendering of a passenger coup grapples with scenarios that would have to play out in order for a band of passengers to successfully re-gain control of a hijacked plane.

Let us hope that we never have to deal with such a circumstance but if we do, pray that we will have the presence of mind to methodically work through the situation and destroy the plans of the terrorists even in the face of our own deaths.)

Continued……

Mrs. Irish begins to scream. The plane is immediately electrified with tension. Mr. Irish bangs against the wall making guttural noises. To complete the picture for the pilots, I yell, “Allah Akbar”. I want to cement an image for the terrorist pilots that their guards have abandoned their posts to rape a woman in a sick mix of the sacred and the profane.

Mrs. Irish keeps screaming and calling for help. We wait for the door to open. It does not.

I start to consider what action we could take if the pilots stick to their plan and leave the door locked. Although the cockpit door frame is made of aluminium, I can see that trying to force the door open would take more than a few kicks. My hands feel sweaty and they are trembling slightly. Mr Irish keeps ramming himself against the passageway wall but he looks over at me with the same question that is on everyone’s mind. I look over at Mr. Slim. He is a wiry man but now he is knotted up even more than usual with his jaw clenched tightly.

Mrs. Irish’s voice is getting weaker and she begins coughing as she strains to keep screaming as loudly as she can.

Suddenly, though the noise, I think I hear a sound in the cockpit. I hold my hand up to warn everyone to be ready. Mrs. Irish coughs and screams hoarsely. I hear a shout in Arabic through the cockpit door. I signal everyone to remain silent but signal Mrs. Irish to keep screaming. She shrieks as hard as she can trying to simulate the sounds of a terrified woman.

I hear another shout of anger in the cockpit and suddenly the door is kicked open.

For a brief shudder in time, the universe stands completely still and becomes absolutely silent.

The brightness of the sky through the cockpit windows makes us squint as our eyes adjust from the gloom of the passageway. I stare at the short sturdy man standing in the entrance to the cockpit. His light brown face is trimmed with a beard and moustache. His short curly hair is greasy. Beyond him is another brown face looking back towards us from the pilot’s seat on the left. This face is clean-shaven and hawkish and belongs to a tall lean man. The two men in the cockpit are squinting at us as their eyes adjust to the dimness of the narrow hall.

There is an explosion of movement.

Mr. Irish grabs the man standing in the door and yanks him towards us so quickly that his brown head whiplashes against his back. In an adrenaline-fuelled rage, Mr. Irish pulls his quarry past us and to the waiting passengers.

Almost in stop-time motion, I feel my legs leap towards the open cockpit door. I fix my gaze at the dazed face of the pilot. The hot water splashes on my arm but I feel only the wetness. Lifting the jug, I lean over the console between the pilot seats and pour the contents of my jug onto the head and back of the pilot.

He arches backwards as the hot water runs down between his back and the back of the seat. As the jug empties, I raise it and strike the man on the side of his head as hard as I am able. I swing again wildly not noticing that only the handle of the jug remains in my hand and that the body of the jug is bouncing around the cockpit. The jagged edge of the broken handle cuts a gash on the pilot’s face. I swing again. This time I aim for the pilot’s eyes and I land a glancing blow across the bridge of his nose.

The pilot has his hands gripped tightly to the control wheel and is pulling the stick back towards his body. I can feel the plane beneath my feet tilt sharply downwards towards the back. The control wheel and the stick begin to shake violently and a loud beeping alarm urgently sounds in the cockpit.

“We are going into a stall”, is all I can think.

The automatic warning system is shaking violently to warn the pilot of the looming fatal flying conditions.

Regaining my balance, I again strike madly at the side of the pilot’s head with the handle of the jug held like brass knuckles. The pilot lifts his right shoulder to deflect my blow and I swing past his head. The shuddering is getting louder. I claw at the pilot’s head and pull myself onto his lap between his torso and the controls. Using my knees, I push against the pilot’s chest using my back to push the controls forward. The Arab's grip on the stick breaks and with the stick being push forward, the plane begins to level off. The shaking in the controls ceases and the stall alarm stops.

I start screaming. “BREAK HIS NECK, BREAK HIS F*&%^ING NECK”.

Mr. Slim had stumbled and fallen back as the plane had gone into the climb. He is now in the cockpit. The Arab pilot has changed his tactics. He is now pushing against my chest, which in turn pushes the stick forward and the plane begins to tilt into a dive. My body slides forward against the instrument panel with my legs hanging on the throttle levers.

The engines are getting louder as we gain speed into the suicide dive. The passengers are screaming in fear from behind the cockpit. Mr. Slim grabs at the pilot’s chin and the top of his head. He twists the head as hard as he can to break the man’s neck vertebrae.

The man’s neck does not break. He winces in pain but he keeps pushing my weight against the controls. Passengers are beginning to fall forward into the cockpit.

I force my body around so that I was sitting on the pilot’s lap. I then lift my legs against the instrument panel and pull the stick back towards my belly. The pilot tries to push me forward with his arms but he cannot overcome the strength of my legs.

“KILL HIM”, I shriek.” KILL HIM”

Mr. Slim is now frantic. He gets up onto the console. He aligns himself with the pilot whom I have pinned against the seat. Raising his knee, he brings his leg sharply down to the side of the pilot’s head and a snap is heard.

The pilot goes limp. I scramble out of the man’s lap and pull the stick back as steadily as I can. The throttle is in the maximum power position. I slowly pull the throttle back and then pull the stick back until I feel the weight of the plane being transferred to the wings. I try to identify an altimeter among the instruments. “This must be our altitude I say to Mr. Slim who is leaning over my shoulder. A digital instrument with the word “Alt” shows a reading of 19456. I look for other instruments. Above the Altimeter is the Air Speed indicator with the word “Knots” on it. The pointer indicates that our air speed is 430 knots. I calculate that to be about 800 kilometres per hour by multiplying the number by 2 and taking a little bit from the total. Above the air speed indicator is the attitude indicator. The flag is red so I turn the caging knob to adjust the fixed airplane reference so that I can make sure that the plane is flying level. The reference is flat sitting on the artificial horizon so I read it to mean that the plane is flying level. Viewing the horizon confirms this so I leave the control wheel as it is.

I unbuckle the limp body of the pilot and drag it out of the cockpit carefully trying not to knock any of the controls.
I gingerly climb into the pilot’s seat and tell Mr. Slim to get into the co-pilot’s seat. Mr. Irish enters the cockpit. “We have our plane back laddies”, he says in his Irish accent.

“Not quite yet”, I tell him. “We need to talk to someone before we get shot down”.

I reach for the headset that is hanging to my left and slip it over my ears. I key the microphone using the button on the control wheel.

I clear my throat, take a breath and say into the mouthpiece, “Does anyone copy this radio?”

My Irish friend and his wife are now through the opening of the food preparation area at the back of the plane.

The Arabs are about to enter the space when I hand the Red-haired man a knitting needle. I signal with my own knitting needle that it is to be jabbed into the face of Arabs and preferably the eyes.

The two goons burst through the curtain. Other passengers are instructed by the slim man to block the exit from the rear galley.

The Arabs make a run at the Irish man with a short blade. The Irish man raises his arm as the Arab reaches him. The knitting needle sinks into the man eye. He screams and clutches at his face. The other man turns back to warn his fellow thugs that the passengers are responding. He comes towards me thinking that I am harmless. I stab sharply at his face with the long needle. It penetrates his cheek. I stab again rapidly and get his eye. The man backs away from me and tries to escape through the curtain. Three people are blocking his exit. As he pushes against the curtain screaming, I unfurl my woollen turban and wrap it around the man's neck and pull him backwards. He struggles fiercely. The slim man enters the galley and kicks the struggling Arab's head with such force that it snaps back and strikes me in the chest. The man goes limp. The slim man pounces on the Arab struggling with the Irish man. Together, they hit the man's face till he falls to his knees. A kick to his jaw delivered by the slim man sends him to floor unconscious.

The Irish man is bleeding from the side of his torso. There is blood on my mouth where the struggling Arab's head struck me. The slim man winds up and kicks each of the Arab's heads again. They lie still.

I speak to the group in the galley. "We have to get the cabin guard back here".

The Irish man's wife speaks up. "Try the Turban thing again".

I pull my blue turban from around the Arab's neck and re-wrap it around my head and wipe the blood off my mouth.

I instruct the small man who tried to talk to the thugs at the start of the incident to make sure that the unconscious men did not awaken to come after us. I instruct the man to break all their fingers by stomping on them with his shoes. After that, he was to drag the men into the rear washroom and tie the doors shut.

The slim man and the red-haired man walk down the aisle towards the business class curtain. The two men stand on either side of the passage way as I brush through the curtains into the business class galley. The large man is startled to see me. He knocks on the pilot's door and says something. I do not hear a reply. I walk as confidently as I can towards the guard. I pass the bodies of the pilots lying face down in the seats. He scowls and wags his finger at my face. Remembering the Arab greeting, I say “Allah akbar", as authoritatively as I can.

The goon's expression becomes quizzical. I then say "Mohamed, Mohamed" and point towards the back of the plane motioning the large man to follow me. I am guessing that at least one of the hijackers is called Mohamed or something very close to that. He starts to follow but hesitates when he remembers his prime directive to guard the cabin.

I turn back to him and instruct him to follow me with a stern look on my face and a brisk wave of my arm. I am taking a chance that he has followed the instructions of older turbaned men all his life and that he will feel compelled to follow my instructions if he believes I am one of them.

I stride towards the back of the plane purposefully and brush through the curtains. I have instructed all the passengers to sit calmly and I see that they are in position as I enter the economy section. I keep walking towards the rear galley and stop part way.

We wait tensely to see if the ruse works. We look triumphantly at each other when we hear the man coming towards us. As the man comes through the curtain, I resume walking and disappear into the rear galley. I watch through the blue curtain as the goon puzzles over the state of affairs. The passengers sit in their seats reading and drinking without looking up at him. He walks down the aisle towards the back where I wait with the slim man. My Irish friend sits among the other passengers with his wife.

The goon peers through the rear galley curtain and we spring to action. I grab his head and roughly pull him into the small room. I cut at his eyes using the short blade I have taken from his comrade. With surprising strength, he lashes out in my direction sending me crashing into the wall of the lavatory. He starts to scream as the slim man jams two needles into his eye sockets. I attack the man again. This time, I stab the side of his neck with the blade. The cut is shallow but blood begins to flow heavily and covers his shirt in a few seconds. The thrashing man makes for the curtain but again it is blocked by a mass of passengers who have risen from their seats and jammed the passageway. The slim man and I continue to work on him. Several sharp kicks are delivered to the man's groin and as often as I can, I stab the man's face with the knife. The man falls to his knees and I make way for the slim man to have a clear shot at the man's head. With a strong wind up, a devastating blow is delivered to the large man's jaw and he slumps to the ground.
I ask if the other terrorists have had their fingers snapped. The small man smiles broadly and says “You bet they have”

.
I instruct the small man to break the goon’s fingers and to tie him up. With broken fingers, the terrorists would have a hard time escaping from their confinement and interfering with the last part of our plan.

It is now time for the final assault. I join the other passengers in economy and sit down to catch my breath after the exertion of subduing the large guard. The other passengers gather at the rear seats to discuss the plan.

I tell them that to try force the cabin door open would probably cause the terrorist pilots to crash the plane. The Irish man’s wife speaks up. “Surely there is something that we can do”?

I assure them all by saying that I believe that there is a way to get the pilots to open their door voluntarily.

“How?”, the slim man asks.

I take a deep breath and explain.

“These men are on a suicide mission. They believe that they are doing what Allah has instructed them to do. They believe that this suicide act will give them a ticket into paradise."

The other passengers look at me unblinkingly. They know that the successful suicide of these men necessarily means their own deaths.

I continue. "To interfere with this religious murder, we are going to have to make the pilots believe that one of their own is doing something that may prevent them from entering paradise."

The Irish man looks at the others and says, “Sex”

“Exactly”, I concur. “We are going to have to take a woman to the front the plane and make the noises to simulate a sex act. The pilots will believe that one of their own has decided to rape a passenger and will probably open the door to put a stop to it before they reach their objective. They certainly do not want to reach Allah while one of their number is raping an unclean infidel."

“What do we do after they have opened the door?”, asks the slim man in his southern accent.

"We are going to have to charge into the cockpit and incapacitate them very quickly or else the thugs will have a chance to plunge us into the ground", I reply.

“Why do you think there are two of them in the cabin?” asks Mr. Slim.
I had debated that very question while I was formulating the plan. I answered question by saying, “There may only be one but I believe that they have a navigator to direct the pilot to the target. To fly and navigate alone is almost impossible especially if one is not a long time pilot and I don’t think these guys are very experienced given how roughly they turned the plane around”. Mr Slim nods in agreement.

I tell the passengers that the best bet is to fill a number of jugs with boiling water from the coffee makers and as soon as we get the cabin door open, we pour as much boiling water as we can onto the pilots. As they struggle reflexively against the water, we then attempt to wring their necks and then take control of the plane.

Because the struggle itself could cause the plane to fall into an unrecoverable dive, I tell the assembled group that we are going to have to practice the actions before carrying out the assault. I also tell them that we are going to have to test the effect of a pot of boiling water on a person to make sure that we understand what is going to happen in the cabin.

The Irish wife, asks “How are you going to test the hot water?"

Just then, a muffled shout from the lavatory is heard. One of the terrorists is returning to conciousness. The Irish wife covers her mouth with her hand as she sees my plan. She wants to object to the horrifying cruelty of what I am planning but she does not.

I release the lavatory door and pull out the struggling terrorist. His fingers are broken and he cannot grasp anything. I close the door leaving the other thug on the floor evidently still unconscious. I drag the groggy terrorist to the last seat at the back of the plane and buckle him in. He yells weakly as I go back into the rear galley. The slim man covers the man head with a coat to muffle his yells and joins me in the back. The other passengers who are going to take part in the assault join us. The Irish man speaks as I fill a coffee jug with water from the hot water spout on the coffee brewer. “If one of the men opens the door, we will have to grab him and rapidly pull him out of the cabin and toward the back where we can deal with him”. I nod. He continues. “You will then need to then rush in and pour the water on the sitting pilot and then grab his arms and legs before he has a chance to push the controls.

“That is the hope”, I say to the group.

"Let us try to re-create this operation right here. Mr. and Mrs. Irish will simulate a rape near the door of the cockpit which is right near this blue curtain. We hope the door opens in response and if it does, Mr. Irish will grab whomever opens the door and will pull him towards the back of the plane where a number of passengers will help subdue him. Mr. Slim and I will charge into the cockpit which is through this blue curtain and we will proceed to pour boiling water on the pilot in hopes of temporarily incapacitating him. The pilot for the purposes of this simulation will be represented by the thug strapped in the seat. We will pour hot water on him and then we will try to subdue him quickly. Are we all clear?"

Everyone nods in agreement.

Irish wife pours some hot water into another jug and sets it on the ground. The simulation goes into effect.

Mrs. Irish starts screaming while her husband bangs repeatedly into the wall. They look embarrassed but determined. I give them the thumbs up signal. A passenger representing the door opener comes through the curtain. Mr. Irish grabs him by the arm and pulls him to the back of the galley. I signal Mrs. Irish to keep screaming and I rush through the blue curtain. I pour the hot water on the man strapped in the last seat. He convulses and screams in pain as he tries to block the water as it streams onto his head. I grab his arms and pull them behind the seat. Mr. Slim brushes past me and grabs the ‘pilot’s’ kicking legs by the ankles and ties them together with the strapping. We then both sit on the wailing man to restrict his motions.

Mr. Slim simulates twisting the thug’s neck to breaking point.

The simulation is fairly smooth.

We unbuckle the thug and heave him back into the lavatory and re-seal the door. He is yelling weakly in Arabic.

We take a moment to recover some strength.

“How are you feeling Mr. Irish?”, I ask. “I’m good”, he replies in a good-natured tone.

“Let us say our prayers and then, I believe, we are ready to go”, I declare. We all sit still for some moments as we reflect on the task ahead. I whisper a prayer for my family and then I stand up.

Slowly, I walk up the aisle to the business class galley followed by the rest of the passengers. I refill my jug with boiling water from the business class coffee maker. Mrs. Irish fills several jugs with hot water. I station some passengers at the front of the business class section to handle the pilot who is ejected from the cabin and pulled to the rear by Mr. Irish.

Mrs. Irish and Mr. Irish take position near the door of the cabin. Mr. Slim and I stand to the side of the passageway each holding a jug of water. We leave some room for Mr. Irish to pull out the person who opens the door.

We look at each other when everyone is in place. We are nervous and facing a catastrophic end if the plan fails. We all look towards Mrs. Irish. She composes herself and then gives us the thumbs up.