The Ghost of Flight 666

CHAPTER 41: A Short Drop

Abdullereda Hussein awoke to intense pain in his knees, hands and face. He opened his eyes with difficulty. They were almost completely swollen shut. Forcing them open, Abdullereda witnessed a fuzzy world of light institutional green. It slowly resolved into a hospital room. A doctor and two other people were leaning over him. They wore yarmulkes.

“There we are,” said a voice in Arabic. “He is coming around.”

“What am I doing here?” he croaked, his throat dry from the oxygen tube in his nose. “Why am I not in paradise?”

A man smiled, and said, “You’re in Tel Aviv not in paradise. I’m afraid that journey will be up to someone else.” He laughed and said, “Don’t worry, you won’t have to wait long.”

Abdullereda was confused, but he didn’t remain so. Shortly thereafter the men from Mossad came. He tried to be strong but they were very persuasive and he was already weak. Soon, he told them everything they wanted to know and more. Once he satisfied their curiosity all they seemed to want was for him to make a full recovery. They gave him excellent care, he couldn’t complain, and then they informed him they were sending him home.

Reality hit Abdullereda. The humiliation! The failure of his mission! He consoled himself though; it was really the guards that failed him. He had done everything a martyr could do but actually die. Surely people would understand.

The day arrived and the Israelis gave him a nondescript grey jumpsuit to wear. Abdullereda shuffled onto an Air Malaysian flight with two escorts. They were there, they said, to make sure he got home okay. The short flight, only seven hours, landed in Kuala Lumpur in a driving rain. They got him off the airplane but instead of taking him through the terminal they took him down the jetway stairs and put him in a van, one man on either side.

“Where are we going,” he asked, but then he answered his own question. “Oh, right, we probably want to avoid the press.”

Undoubtedly there would be questions about his involvement in the jihad. However, seeing as most people were sympathetic there would probably be a time and a place for the press. Maybe he could salvage his pride. Maybe this would all work out.

Still, he couldn’t quite understand why the Israelis of all people were so nice to him. He expected to be tortured to death. It didn’t happen. In fact, he owed his health to them. He could easily have died.

The van didn’t leave the airfield as he expected but instead it drove to one of the airfield hangers.

“Why are we going here?”

“It’s the only place big enough for all the families,” said one of the men gravely.

“What families are those?” Abdullereda was truly mystified. They drove through the hanger doors and he saw hundreds of people gathered within. There were several portable grandstands and a raised central platform. The platform had a wooden scaffold mounted on top.

His heart leapt. A hero’s welcome!

No.

“These are the families of the people you killed on board Malaysian Flight 666,” said the man with grave venom. “You’ve been convicted in absentia and sentenced to hang for your crimes.”

Abdullereda went cold and limp. The van stopped and they half carried, half dragged him up the stairs to the platform. He couldn’t register what was happening, but he felt the concentrated glare of hundreds of eyes. He looked out at them; and they all seemed luminous, fiery white eyes that burned him with their stares.

The men on either side pulled his hands behind his back and put them in cuffs.

“Tight!” he yelped. “Too tight!”

A hood was pulled over his head, stifling, black, and musty. It stank of vomit and death. Abdullereda started to panic, to hyperventilate. Then a rope tightened at his throat and a voice whispered in his ear.

“I am the man who will hang you! My niece, my beautiful eight year old niece was on your plane. It was your job to take care of her. Now I will take care of you!”

Abdullereda heard him step away. Clarity came to his mind. It was all about to end. Mustering his courage, Abdullereda shouted, “I did it for the sake of Allah!”

“You did it for the Devil!” replied a hollow, distant voice.

He waited, trembling uncontrollably. Nothing happened. The tension was so great he soiled himself, crying out in despair. Now he wanted, he prayed for the trap door to open and end the terrible anticipation, to bring about death, swiftly.

Abdullereda was only partially right.

The trapdoor opened and he fell — six inches — not the four feet needed to snap his neck. The narrow gauge rope tightened around his neck painfully, slowly strangling Abdullereda over the next twenty minutes.

The last thing Abdullereda heard was the sound of a jet aircraft taking off, as if it were a reminder of the respectable life he could still be leading had he not fallen into darkness. A shudder rippled through his body and then Abdullereda heard voices, thousands, millions of voices screaming, shouting and howling. He couldn’t see, but he could feel. His body was suddenly immersed in an intense, skin curling heat.