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Flight WAC 1403A

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New York, Wednesday 24th April, 1974.

After a severe winter the spring had set in. Sun rays bathed Central Park in New York. Birds chirped happily. Senior citizens greeted each other, happy to have survived the cold weather. Children played noisily while their mothers gossiped. It seemed that the world was at peace with itself but not everyone was happy.

Mr. Graham Hussley, Chief Editor of ‘The Crime Watch’, was a worried man. He looked out from his office window, which overlooked the Central Park, but he didn’t see the scene below. His mind was wrestling with an important problem; he had called his Senior Crime Editor, Mr. James Rally, to discuss it.

Mr. Hussley was short and tubby, with a receding hairline. He had the habit of biting his nails when he was worried. He could be very nice and pleasant but he had successfully hidden this part of his character from his staff…except from Mr. James Rally, with whom he went out for a drink once a week.

“Good afternoon, Graham,” James Rally said, entering the small office.

“Good afternoon, Jim,” Mr. Hussley responded gruffly.

Mr. James Rally, unlike Mr. Hussley, as tall and slim with a pleasant smile and graying sideburns.

“What’s eating you?” James Rally asked, sitting down.

“I’ll tell you,” Mr. Hussley replied, walking back to his desk and sitting down.

“Jim, our circulation is going down day by day. If something is not done about it immediately then we’ll soon lose our jobs,” Mr. Hussley said dramatically.

His statement had the desired effect. “Is it that bad?” Jim asked, shocked.

“Yes, it couldn’t have been worse,” Mr. Hussley said, attacking his nails afresh.

“What can we do about it?” Jim Rally said.

“People buy our paper to read about the crime in the city,” Mr. Hussley said, “Apparently we are not doing our job.”

“Graham, my boys report only those crimes which are committed,” Jim said, “We can’t manufacture them, can we?”

“Of course not,” Mr. Hussley said, getting to his feet, “but we must do something. Think, Jim, think.”

Jim Rally sat thinking, his eyebrows knitted in deep thought, while Mr. Hussley walked nervously up and down the length of his small cubicle. “I suggest we call in Mary Pullman,” Jim said. “Sometimes she comes up with good ideas.”

“Call anyone you like,” Mr. Hussley growled, “but I want results and quickly.”

Jim got up and, sticking his head out of the door, yelled, “MAAARRRY.”

A few minutes later, Mary Pullman walked in. “Good morning, sir,” she said, greeting Mr. Hussley.

“Good morning, Mary,” Mr. Hussley replied gruffly.

Mary Pullman was not a beauty. She was charming with a sunny smile. She stood 5′ 7″ in her nylons, slim with an attractive figure and shoulder- length light brown hair. She was no spring chicken. At thirty – five she had been a crime reporter for fifteen years, out of which she had spent the last ten years on the rolls of ‘The Crime Watch’.

“Boss, you yelled,” Mary said smiling good naturedly at Jim Rally. Jim looked at Mr. Hussley, who waved his hand to go ahead.

“Mary, the circulation of the paper is going down. We have been brainstorming as to what can we do to make the paper more interesting,” Jim Rally said, “Any ideas?”

“Yes sir, I’ve several of them,” Mary said after thinking for a while. “One of them is that we could take up an unsolved crime which had generated a lot of interest in its time.”

“What good would it do for us?” Mr. Hussley asked.

“Sir, we could write about it and jolt the memory of the public. We could remind the police that the public is watching their performance. We could write about any love angle, its investigations, etc., etc.,” Mary said.

“Hmmm, not bad,” Mr. Hussley said. “What do you say, Jim?”

“A prize winning idea,” Jim said enthusiastically, “Mary, have you any such crime in mind?”

“As a matter of fact I have,” Mary chuckled, “Only yesterday I was browsing through unsolved crimes in the archives. I found the hijacking of Flight WAC 1403A very interesting.”

“I think the New Orleans murders or the serial rapist of Frisco would be more interesting,” Jim said and grinning added, “Nowadays the public goes gaga over the sex angle.”

“Those crimes are quite recent. People would still remember the details,” Mr. Hussley said, “Murders and rapes are order of the day but not hijacking.”

“I was visiting my ailing mother when the hijacking took place but I seem to recall that the police had arrested all six or seven persons involved in it,” Jim said.

“No Jim, if my memory serves me correctly,” Mr. Hussley said, “not all persons Involved could be apprehended.”

“You are right, sir, the Washington Post had several times hinted that the kingpin Is still at large,” Mary said.

“Come on Mary, you know that is an old ploy to sell newspapers,” Jim chuckled, chiding Mary.

“No Jim, we all may do it but not the Post. There must be some truth in it,” Mr. Hussley said.

“Sir, we could interview kadıköy escort these witnesses again,” Mary said excitedly, “Maybe we’ll come up with something that the police overlooked.”

“Oh, an exclusive for our paper,” Mr. Hussley said, dreamily counting his chickens before they were hatched.

“Graham, think about the expense,” Jim said, “We can’t have a team flying all round the globe interviewing people. It could run into thousands of dollars.”

“Mary, Jim has a point there,” Mr. Hussley said, coming down to earth. “We don’t have that kind of money.”

“No, it won’t cost that much. I’ve given it a lot of thought,” Mary said, “The flight originated in New York. Therefore we can safely assume that sixty to seventy percent of the passengers were residents of America. We could interrogate them at minimal expense.”

“Mary is right,” Mr. Hussley said, “It is decided that our first project will be the hijacking of Flight WAC 1403A. We’ll call it “Save Crime Watch” project.”

“Sir, there is one problem,” Mary said.

“What is it?” Mr. Hussley asked.

“We might have trouble with CIA, the investigating agency in this case,” Mary said.

“Don’t worry, I know a few guys in Langley,” Mr. Hussley said, “Do you know who was in charge?”

“Agent Greg Bradley,” Mary said.

“I know Greg very well,” Mr. Hussley said, “He’ll cooperate as long as we keep him informed. All right, Jim, go ahead. You’re in charge of the project.”

Washington, Wednesday 30th October 1963.

“Oh darling, I am terribly sorry to have kept you waiting,” Susan Higgins said, apologizing as she kissed the man waiting for her in a booth of a bar and slipped into a chair behind the table. “My boss wanted me to finish something important that came up late in the afternoon.”

“That’s all right, I was not alone. Mr. Scotch was keeping me company,” the man chuckled, pointing to his drink, “Susan, what’s your poison?”

“What are you drinking? Whisky on the rocks…I’ll have the same please,” Susan said, patting her blonde hair in place, “God knows I need it.”

Susan was a typical blonde, beautiful but not overly intelligent. She was thirty – seven, 5′ 6″ tall, with sea green eyes. Her legs were lean and long, her ass high and hard. She had an hourglass figure with big firm breasts.

The waiter brought her drink and taking a large sip, Susan said, “Darling, how are you? I haven’t seen you in months.”

“I have been very busy,” he said, “I missed you. How have you been?”

Susan started talking. Giving him details of all that had happened to her since they had met last. He listened to her attentively, encouraging her with monosyllables.

After dinner they walked arm in arm to Susan’s apartment. They had a nightcap and went to bed. The man took Susan in his arms and while kissing her passionately, undressed her. When she was naked he climbed on top of her.

“Oh, darling,” she moaned as his hard shaft penetrated the wetness of her soft pussy.

He began thrusting his hard shaft in and out in a rhythmic pattern. Soon her hips were moving in rhythm with his strokes. He continued to drill her hot pussy and licked and suckled both her heaving tits as she humped from beneath.

He was about to come. He stroked her pussy faster and faster. Then with a loud grunt he pushed his hardness deep inside her and began pouring his life-giving seed at the mouth of her womb. This triggered off her orgasm.

“OH MY DAAAARRRRRLINNNNNGGGGGggg,” she yelled, bucking wildly, as she drenched his man root with her love juices. Their lips were locked in a passionate kiss. When the kiss broke he rolled off her.

“Oh darling, it was wonderful,” she moaned.

He lit two cigarettes and gave one to Susan.

“Darling, what was the flap in your office about?” the man asked casually.

“Hughes Aircraft wanted the Agency to ship anti-tank missiles to Germany and Japan for field testing,” Susan replied, drawing on her cigarette.

“Anti-tank missiles, what is new about them? The army has been using them for years,” the man replied.

“I don’t know the details but Hughes called them ‘Prototype ‘A’ production’ of tube-launched, optically- tracked, wire-guided missiles. They wanted it done in a hurry as they had developed them at a huge cost,” Susan replied.

“What was the urgency?” the man asked, kissing Susan’s ample breasts.

“My boss said that some bloody bureaucrat in the ministry had been sitting on the file too long. The army is clamoring for the new anti- tank missiles. There is going to be an inquiry to pinpoint the delay and he didn’t want anyone pointing a finger at us,” Susan explained.

“And you were able to send this “precious” cargo?” the man laughed.

“Yes, dear,” Susan chuckled, “We rang up our shipping agents. The earliest they could ship this “precious” cargo was on World Airways and Charters,” Susan said.

“TOW, or whatever you call üsküdar escort it, may be “precious” to Hughes Aircraft and your boss but you are more precious to me than all the gold in Fort Knox,” he said, hugging her.

“Oh darling, you say the cutest of things. Come to mama and let her take the starch out of your stiffness,” Susan giggled, spreading her legs.

In the morning they made love again. When the man was leaving, he asked casually, “Susan, on which flight did you say the cargo was booked?”

“Flight WAC 1403A on 9th December,” she replied, “Darling, when will I see you again?”

“Maybe next Saturday but I’ll call you to confirm,” he said, kissing her goodbye.

New York, Monday 4th November 1963

“May I speak with Col. Mokolov,” he said.

“Who is on the line?” the telephone operator enquired in English.

“My name is Sparrow,” he said.

“Hold on please,” the operator said. A few minutes later Col. Mokolov of the KGB came on the line.

“Yes, Sparrow,” he said.

“Good morning sir, it is Sparrow here,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” Col. Mokolov said impatiently, “What news do you have for me?”

“Sir, are you interested in tube-launched, optically-tracked, wire-guided anti-tank missiles?” he said.

“You are slipping. That is old stuff,” Col. Mokolov asked.

“No sir. It is a new development. The TOW missiles are still in their Prototype ‘A’ production stage ready for field testing,” Sparrow replied.

“How much,” Col Mokolov asked.

“Ten million US dollars… cash,” he said.

“Too much,” Col. Mokolov stated.

“It isn’t sir. I’ll have to hijack the plane carrying the shipment; for that I’ll require help,” Sparrow replied.

“Hmmm, I see, payment terms?” Col. Mokolov enquired.

“One million advance and balance on delivery,” Sparrow said.

There was no reply. “Sir, are you still on the line?” Sparrow asked.

“Yes, yes,” Col. Mokolov said, “When will you deliver the goods?”

“Before Christmas this year, Sir, one more thing,” Sparrow said.

“Of course, as is always,” Col. Mokolov responded sarcastically.

“Sir, no harm should come to my men, the passengers and the crew of the aircraft,” Sparrow said,

“You Americans are all heart,” Col. Mokolov laughed cynically, “Call me tomorrow at the same time.”

Russia had recently suffered humiliation at the hands of America in the Cuba blockade matter and KGB required something to counter it. The good will Russia could earn by rescuing hundreds of passenger—the majority of them are bound to be Americans—, from the clutches of the hijackers and returning the aircraft to the U.S. was worth more than the ten million dollars.

Next day Sparrow contacted Col. Mokolov again.

“Okay, I’ll take it,” Col. Mokolov confirmed, “You’ll receive one million in the next few days.”

“The rest on delivery,” Sparrow said.

“Yes, the rest on delivery,” Col. Mokolov confirmed.

“Merry Christmas, Col. Mokolov,” Sparrow said.

“Merry Christmas,” Col. Mokolov said, laughing loudly.

Somewhere on the outskirts of New York, Sunday 8TH December 1963

Seven persons had assembled in room 312 of a seedy hotel in the outskirts of New York. Two of them lived in America and the other five had reached America by different routes and on different dates. They were staying in separate hotels. They were from varied background with one thing in common; i.e. they were prepared to do anything for money.

They were Peter Ivanovic, a professional criminal; Joe Roach, a pilot who liked blondes; Thomas Leighton, a gay British Professor; Asif Hussain and Ali Mohammed, two petty criminals from Egypt; and Miss Helga Zolner and her boy friend, Karl Herman of West Germany.

Their leader, Peter Ivanovic, forty-five years old, had arrived from Madrid. He was born of a German mother and a Yugoslav father. He had started his criminal career at the tender age of fifteen by taking part in an armed robbery led by his own father. Since then he had tried his hand at various crimes and spent nearly half his life in different prisons of Europe.


Joe Roach, forty, lived in San Francisco. He was a 6′ 2″ tall; broad-shouldered, muscularly, built black American. He was an expert pilot and could fly any plane. He was an ex pilot of Pan Universal Airways.

Ten years ago he had landed an aircraft with 106 passengers and six crew members on board in very difficult cyclonic weather conditions and became a national hero overnight. The Media nominated him for the “Pilot of the Year” award for two consecutive years.

His weakness was women, blondes in particular. Nearly three years ago Sabrina Kelly, a natural blonde with sea blue eyes, joined his crew. One evening he arrived unannounced at her apartment.

During the visit he suddenly unzipped his fly and taking out his massive erection said, “Sabrina, have dinner tuzla escort with me and I’ll let you have this for dessert.”

Sabrina screamed. The neighbors, hearing the blood curdling scream, called the police. Joe was arrested.

During the trial an onlooker commented to Joe’s colleague, “He must be mad to expose himself like that.”

“Maybe, but I hear he has screwed nearly all the hostesses who have worked with him by this direct approach,” the colleague chuckled.

“Really? I still think it was sheer madness,” insisted the onlooker.

“I would say that he was unlucky,” Joe’s colleague said.

“Why do you say this?” the onlooker asked.

“This was not the first time he did this. Two hostesses had complained earlier to the Company. The Company didn’t want to lose a good pilot, so they made Joe apologize and persuaded the hostesses to withdraw their complaints. This case would have gone the same way if the neighbors had not called the police so promptly,” the colleague responded.

The judge found Joe guilty and sent him to prison. The Company fired him. When he was released from jail he tried to get a job as a pilot but no Company was willing to employ a pilot with a criminal record.

One morning in November, Joe received a phone call.

“Joe, do you want to earn half a million dollars?” Peter Ivanovic asked.

“Maan, do I get to fly?” Joe asked.

“Yes, but it is very dangerous,” Peter said.

“I don’t care as long as it involves flying,” Joe said.

“If we fail you could be jailed for umpteen years,” Peter said.

“I told ya maan if it is a flying job, I’m in,” Joe said.

“Okay, I’ll call you later with more details,” Peter said.

“Hey, man, what’s the job?” Joe probed.

“I can’t tell you now but rest assured it is a flying job. You’ll be receiving an advance in few days. Be ready to leave town anytime,” Peter said and the line went dead.


Both Ali Mohammed and Asif Hussain were around thirty years of age; they flew in from Salzburg, Austria. They were partners since they had met in a Cairo lock up at the age of fifteen.

Ali was the fifth of the ten children spawned by his parents. The parents were too busy earning money to feed and clothe their family to pay attention to individual child. Ali dropped out of school at the age of ten and took to the streets. Soon he was an expert pickpocket. His primary target was tourists.

At the age of fifteen, the police nabbed him and threw him in jail. There he met Asif Hussain. Asif’s background was similar to Ali’s. They became fast friends. On release they worked together.

They often dreamt about going to Europe where, they had read, women were easy and wine flowed like water. They had their passports ready waiting for a chance to travel. Then their chance came.

One evening ten years ago on their way home they saw a young foreign girl standing alone by the roadside.

“You lost,” Ali asked in broken English. The girl did not reply and looked away.

“Miss,” Asif repeated what Ali had said, “You lost.”

“No, go away and do not bother me,” she replied snootily, “I am waiting for my parents.”

They looked at each other. It was dark. No one was in sight. Asif grabbed her from behind and placing his hand over her mouth, pinched her nose with his thumb and forefinger till she lost consciousness. Ali threw a gunny sack over the unconscious girl and carried her to their room.

They lived in a ten foot by ten foot room with a large closet and a small toilet. There was a tap in one corner; a kerosene stove with two dirty enamel plates and a few cooking utensils in another corner and a mattress in the third corner. A stale smell from their last meal hung in the air.

The girl was still unconscious.

They tied her hands and stuffed a dirty-smelling sock in her mouth. They undressed her and when she regained consciousness they raped her virgin body. They ravished her in all conceivable ways several times that night. In the morning they tied her hands behind her back and after stuffing a dirty sock in her mouth they locked her naked in the closet.

“We call your parents,” Asif told her in broken English “You be comfortable here. We be back soon.”

They made a beeline for the docks. Their luck was in. The freighter “Bonnie Lass” was anchored on dock number six. They knew Captain Angus Mcgee very well. They had been drinking partners on many occasions.

“Bonnie Lass” was their escape route. After hard bargaining Captain Mcgee agreed to take them to Naples, to smuggle them on land and write an introductory letter to Mario, a master forger, from whom they could procure a visa and a work permit, for five thousand American dollars each. It was daylight robbery but they had no choice and the deal was struck.

“I weigh anchor at six p.m. on Saturday,” Skipper Mcgee warned. “Be here on time, otherwise will sail without you.”

“We’ll be here,” Ali said, and they left.

Then Asif and Ali phoned the girl’s parents. They demanded fifty thousand American dollars in used notes of small denomination by noon on Saturday. Her parents agreed to pay. They hung up after threatening the parents that if they went to the police then their daughter would be returned t them piece by piece.

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