Sam Stephens 3: A Weapon Himself

By Ron Crouch

Sam Stephens is a passenger aboard a plane on his way to a seminar on global warming when three terrorists attempt to take over the plane. The pilots are dead, the only hope for the doomed passengers lies in the hands of a former ninety-four year old pilot. Unknown to Sam, terrorist cells have surfaced all across Canada. It is up to him to try and save the passengers. What follows is fast pace and riveting. Sam is told that his fiancée Annie Greyeyes has been murdered. Colonel Wiggins, the man in charge of the elite Black Ops soldiers called the Team is tasked with saving Canada from an emerging terror. No holds barred.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron Crouch
• Release date: Mar 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781777083014

Ron Crouch

Ron was born in Brighton, England and has worked in the U.K. and Canada for over thirty years as a police officer. He has extensive international travel experience while working with the British Merchant Navy as a navigator, where he travelled extensively in the Middle East and throughout Europe.He continues to write crime fiction from his home in Ontario, Canada.

Book preview

Sam Stephens 3

A Weapon Himself

By Ron Crouch

Amazon Print ISBN: 978-1-7770830-0-7

e-Book: 978-1-7770830-1-4

Published by Colbourne House

Ron Crouch Copyright 2020

Cover art by Chris Salewski

All publication rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

* * *

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events in the story are either a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

To all the Emergency Dispatchers out there. Thank you for your service and thank you for watching over me during mine.

Acknowledgement

I would like to extend my gratitude to Captain Aron Posen for giving up his time to read through the parts of this story pertaining to the actual flying of an airliner. Thanks also to Mike Stephens for his advice on tactical policing and to Ted Branch for his suggestions that led me in the right direction.

Chapter One

I couldn’t sleep, something was troubling me, I missed my fiancée Annie Greyeyes for sure, but that wasn’t it, I knew she would be coming back, her long training period should now be in its closing stages. They could of course deploy her immediately anywhere in the world where her newly acquired skills would be needed, assuming she passed the rigorous course. If she did get sent overseas, the Colonel would let me know, not the details regarding her deployment. I hadn’t seen, let alone heard from her in almost nine months. She was obviously still alive otherwise he would have shown up at my door in person to break the distressing news. Finally I got up, unable to determine what it was that was nagging at me and went over to the window, opened the blinds and gazed out across Lake Ontario from the top floor of my Harbourfront condo. The wind was howling, churning up the lake, whitecaps visible under the half-moon looked huge, big enough to surf on, not that I was a surfer, just a thought entering my head at this early morning hour. Staring out at those whitecaps I understood why I couldn’t sleep. In a couple of hours a taxi would arrive to pick me up and take me to Toronto Airport for what was obviously going to be a very turbulent flight to North Dakota’s Bismarck Airport, four hours and eighteen minutes away by Airbus. If the wind didn’t ease up, the flight was sure to be cancelled.

I made coffee, sat down at the kitchen table and thought about pipelines; you know how it is your mind starts wandering, at least mine does. If the scientists are right we need to find a renewable energy source other than fossil fuels. I’d rather take their word for the causes of global warming over the word of any politician. My phone rang, interrupting my thoughts and my coffee. Hi, this is Patrick, your Google˗ I didn’t let the recorded message finish, last time it was a woman’s voice, this time the scam artists were trying a male voice. I made a mental note to contact my computer guru John Emery, he would know how to track down Patrick. If he was ever located, wherever he was in the world I was going to pay him a visit.

Just before six I made my way down to the lobby carrying my holdall. I liked to travel light, it made getting in and out of an airport a lot easier, no waiting by the luggage carousel for suitcases that might or might not turn up.

Pearson Airport was it sir?

Yes please, I said squeezing myself into the rear of the taxi. Syrian?

Yes sir, he replied beaming into the rear-view mirror. Soon to be Canadian like you sir.

Being among the original inhabitants of this continent, I prefer to consider myself as First Nation. Canada comes from the Huron-Iroquois word, Kanata. It means village or settlement, better look that up, might be on the citizen exam.

Oh I will, thank you again sir. His smile was even bigger this time, well it would be I guess after being bombed out of your own country and coming to a civilized country like Kanata.

Here on your own?

No sir, here with my wife and two daughters, coming up three years next month. Had hardware store in Aleppo, going to have hardware store here too one day, yes?

I hope you do.

Most Canadians very friendly people like you. I smiled back at him; if he only knew.

Youssef dropped me off at departures, rushing to get my door open for me, made me feel like a celebrity. When you return, ask for me, I come pick you up. I tipped him generously. That is most kind sir, most kind indeed. I figured now he’d made me a celebrity I could afford to be generous.

Being a frequent flyer, it didn’t take me long to negotiate the computer terminals, scanning my passport, taking my photograph, all thanks to Nine Eleven. Then it was hurry up and wait for boarding, once the physical body scanning was done and pockets emptied out. Gone are the days of parents asking the flight attendant, air hostess back then I guess, if their child could see inside the cockpit as the plane was flying. No chance of that anymore, and that was way before Nine Eleven. February 1970 the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine or PFLP, bombed Swiss Air flight 330 en route from Zurich to Tel Aviv killing thirty-eight civilian passengers and nine crew, and that was just the start of it.

Finally my flight was called, I made my way over to the boarding gate, the two attendants, one male the other female took a double take when they looked up and saw me. A big, powerfully built man does draw attention, my long native braid added to my warrior look. I smiled, that always helped to diffuse the tension. Same thing when the young attractive woman checked my boarding pass as I entered the plane and made my way to seat D1 in business class. I always make it a habit to get a seat as close to the flight deck as I can, with an eye on the door leading from business class into the cockpit. Germanwings flight 9525 was one of the reasons I revaluated my seating arrangements when flying. It was March 2015 when the pilot left the flight deck momentarily to use the toilet, leaving the co-pilot in charge of the controls as they flew the Airbus from Barcelona, Spain to Dusseldorf, Germany. The co-pilot purposely kept the door closed and having engaged the lock mechanism, the pilot could not override it from outside the door. As the airliner began to plummet towards the French Alps, repeated attempts by the pilot to smash his way back into the flight deck using a crowbar failed. It took eight minutes for the plane to finally crash into the mountains killing all one hundred and forty-four passengers and six crew members. The Israelis were already one step ahead of the rest of the world when it came to the security of cockpit doors by ensuring there are always two people in the cockpit at all times, even if one of them is not a certified pilot. According to the Aviation Safety Network, since 1976 there have been at least eight apparent ‘pilot suicides’, involving airliners. Apparently using the toilet by one of the aircrew appears to be one of the defining factors in these incidents. Which just goes to show; you never really know what lurks behind a human being’s eyes in the deep recesses of their brains. They may be smiling and talking in a friendly manner, when behind the façade what they would really like to do is kill you.

The weakest point of any high-tech security door, no matter how thick or how many sophisticated security systems it has, or the fact the door is bullet-proof, is the lawful right of entry or exit by someone who opens that door, a flight attendant for instance. The majority of passengers feel safe with all the security checks, ensuring nobody boards a plane with a weapon. The most lethal weapon boarding that plane is likely to be the individual themselves. Someone like me, highly trained and skilled in unarmed combat, capable of turning just about anything into a weapon, quickly and effectively, like a pencil or one of those inflight magazines stuffed in the rack behind the seat in front of you. Rolled tightly it becomes, in the right or wrongs hands a weapon to cause death, serious injury or incapacitation of some sort, especially if it’s in my hands. Good luck trying to stop someone like me with your bare hands.

With all these thoughts flowing behind my own eyes I finally sat down in my seat. The small turbine engine operating the electrics and various other in-plane functions was droning away, awaiting the roar of the plane’s twin turbine engines for liftoff, when they would take over the work. At high school I thought I might like to become an airline pilot, but now I realize the exciting part is taking off and landing. The thought of sitting in a seat for hours between airports would drive me crazy, I can see why some pilots drink more than they should, especially if they’re flying long haul, like Toronto to Sydney, Australia, a flight of about twenty hours depending on the carrier and now they’re experimenting with making it a continuous flight with no stops between.

Finally that anxious rush as the plane accelerates at high speed down the runway, the change in air pressure over the wings causing it to rise from the ground up into the sky. With the strong head wind we were soon above the clouds. To say we were cruising along comfortably would be a stretch, the plane was buffeted by the wind, dropping suddenly, then rising, rolling one way and then the other. The seatbelt signs remained on, however I liked to be fluid, able to respond quickly to any threat should the need arise, didn’t want to waste valuable seconds getting untangled from my seat belt.

You might want to keep your seatbelt on. I turned to see the young lady who had welcomed me aboard. She was smiling, genuinely I thought, not one of those fake keep the passengers happy kind of smiles insisted upon by management. I smiled back, genuinely, noticing how dark her brown eyes were, then glanced at her nametag.

Afiej. Don’t tell me, let me guess. Got it, South Sudan. Am I right?

Very good, have you been there?

Once, business trip, long time ago now. The Russians were staking out their territory over there, I remember that, military planes everywhere. A lot of poverty, a lot of guns and gangs and a lot of corruption, but where in the world isn’t there corruption.

You got that right, said the elderly gentleman sitting to my right. He was dressed like he was going on some kind of safari. Any chance of something to drink young lady, and I don’t mean water?

Coffee or tea? She had a sense of humour, I liked that.

I was thinking of something stronger.

According to the captain, we should be heading into some calmer weather, as soon as we do I’ll be around with the trolley.

When that happens, drown me with coffee Afiej. She laughed and continued on her rounds attending to her flock.

Very nice young lady, announced the old guy extending his hand. Wilbur Reynolds.

Sam Stephens, I said, shaking his hand.

Excuse my forwardness, but what’s taking you to Bismarck?

Attending a symposium with other native elders from around North America to discuss climate change and what we can do to help our planet.

Me too, I’m one of the guest speakers. It’s Doctor Reynolds actually; I’ve been studying climate change for decades.

Have you reached any conclusions?

Actually I have. He leaned across and whispered with a smile, We’re fucked, that’s it in a nutshell.

If that were true, you wouldn’t even be on this plane.

Very perceptive Sam. If the whole world pulls together we can reduce the negative affect of greenhouse gases on the planet and perhaps one day return the temperature to the pre-industrial age.

Doesn’t help travelling by plane I guess.

That’s an area still under a lot of investigation, however had you driven by car on your own that would be worse than where you are sitting right now, apparently.

Good to know. We should have bought a tandem bicycle and left earlier together.

Now you’re talking.

Coffee?

Thanks Afiej, black please.

And for you sir?

Red wine please.

Looks like the weather’s improving, I said.

At the moment; the captain is concerned about landing at Bismarck, the wind there has really increased in strength. The doctor and I looked at each other glumly.

Gonna be a white-knuckle bumpy landing my friend.

Doc, hope you packed a parachute.

Chapter Two

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a large figure passing my seat, heading to the washroom situated at forty-five degrees to my left, there were two seats in front of it for the crew, their backs to the washroom bulkhead. They would be sitting facing some kind of cupboard immediately to my left, the galley situated directly in front of my seat and the doc’s. The man took a sideways glance to his right in my direction, turned away immediately he saw I was staring directly back at him. Middle Eastern looking, military or ex-military, certainly trained, powerfully built and very fit looking. A weapon himself, but maybe I was being paranoid. I put on an over-sized pair of tinted spectacles, not because of the glare, they gave me a restricted view to my rear, you wouldn’t find a pair like them at your local optometrists.

I watched him exit the washroom, he hadn’t been in that long, a very short piss for such a big man. It had to be a recon mission, this time he gave me a long, hard and unfriendly stare, sizing me up. A worthy opponent, if it came to that. I watched as he made his way back to the rear of business class, returning to the empty seat at D4, three rows behind me. The man sitting next to him could have been his twin, the man occupying the seat directly in front of him turned and spoke to them. He too was similar in build to his companions, all from the same region of the world, wherever that was. I had a bad feeling, but obviously with all the security checks they had passed with flying colours, which meant they weren’t in the security system. Which could mean therefore, they were harmless, perhaps all going on vacation together or meeting relatives. But I didn’t think so.

I felt for the HB pencil in the right inside pocket of my jacket, next to the small notepad, its pages bound together with a wire coil. Straightened out that piece of wire could slice cheese, or in my hands it could be fashioned into a garrotte, using two halves of the pencil wound on the ends of the wire to give just enough to hold onto so as not to cut my fingers, especially as my quarry would be struggling for their life, for a few seconds anyway, under ten seconds for sure. I never had one go beyond ten seconds as I counted the seconds off in my head, I didn’t need to do that of course, it was just morbid curiosity I suppose. The pencil was one of those yellow ones with a small pink eraser secured on the end with a brass-coloured metal collar. The tip was pointed, sharpened with a cheap metal pencil sharpener. Undo the tiny screw from the pencil sharpener and the blade could be removed. Now you had a small knife, a very small knife, but a sharp one. All items easily purchased at one of those dollar store places, not much you can buy for a dollar there anymore. Quite innocuous, that is if you didn’t know why I carried them. The doc was resting as I rolled the inflight magazine into a tight, hard cylinder, securing it with the thick blue-elastic band that had been around the notepad, one of those rubber bands used to keep broccoli stems together. I’ve got a whole collection of them hanging inside the kitchen cupboard at home, mainly blue and pink ones, I must like broccoli, a very healthy vegetable. Now three instantly available weapons; me, the pencil and the magazine. The black coffee began to take effect, I needed to relieve myself. As I got up and made my way to the washroom I thought about flight 9525.

I was still peeing like a stallion when I heard Afiej’s muffled voice, she was talking into the phone outside the cockpit. Captain I have your beverages ready. There was a delay, the automatic locks disengaged and she entered the flight deck … then, as they say all hell broke loose.

Loud commands in Arabic, screaming from business class passengers. I didn’t rush out, could be an ambush. They had been waiting for Afiej to open that cockpit door, they hadn’t expected someone like me to be sitting so close to the cockpit door, their little discussion must have been about taking me out en route to the flight deck, but luck was on their side, I was still in the washroom. A violent struggle was taking place outside the cockpit. I peered out the door and watched in disbelief as Afiej fought back two of her attackers, one was down in the doorway of the flight deck. For a split second I wondered if she was one of us. There wasn’t time to help her, my immediate concern was getting into the flight deck and neutralizing the third combatant.

The man who had eye-balled me turned wildly, the captain and co-pilot lay slumped forward, either dead or unconscious, I figured dead by their complexions and the way their heads hung on what appeared to be broken necks. I’d seen it before, done it before. Not a lot of room in that cockpit, from my training I could see the plane was on autopilot, not yet taken over by the hijackers. He lunged at me, which I was anticipating, what he didn’t anticipate was the yellow-wooden HB pencil stabbing him straight in the left eye, a perfect bullseye, the sharp point penetrating through the orbital bone. It was a beautiful thing, it had to have upset some of the wiring in the brain. It was embedded pretty deep, didn’t even snap, could become a selling feature, a bit too graphic for a television commercial though. I then fed him the magazine, twisting it as it struck his right eye; he didn’t like that. The reflection in my spectacles told me Afiej and one of the attackers were both down, that left the other one now coming up quickly behind me. My left elbow struck him so hard in the face I actually heard bone breaking, probably his nose. The brachial stun on the man in front of me was not so much of a stun, it was delivered with such force he went down hard, yellow pencil with the pink eraser protruding from his eye, what you could see of it. I’d probably killed him, but that could wait. I spun around, the two bodies on the ground, Afiej and the man she’d been fighting with were both now coming too. The man with the broken nose was still in the fight, until the inflight magazine made a mess of his right eye and then his left. The Judge came up and reconfigured the position of his testicles while the Jury remained planted on the floor, the name I’d christened my new leather hiking boots. The Judge on the left, Jury on the right. I got the idea from my policing partner in Toronto, the legendary Constable Jimmie Callaghan, the mad Irishman. The man dropped to his knees screaming in agony, I turned him over onto his chest and hogtied him with the length of rope that had been pretending to be a handle on my holdall, then dealt with the man inside the cockpit. He was dead, but I hogtied him anyway with the other holdall handle, I like to err on the side of caution.

Afiej was bleeding from the mouth and a gash over her left eye as she gained her feet. Her opponent was slowly beginning to rise from the floor. I stood watching like a referee in an MMA brawl as Afiej straddled the man from behind, locked on a choke hold and kept on tightening her grip. But, unlike a referee, I didn’t interfere, she looked up at me with her good eye, all animal rage and fury. Wasn’t much point him tapping out, Afiej was beyond that. She kept that choke hold on long after he was dead. No tears, not one,