Rainbow Six, Section 3 The situation was getting worse and worse. John concluded that none of the three of them could have full control. Now, three aimless 'free agents' were controlling a plane with guns: this was bad. Clark was no stranger to fear; he had faced many heart-stopping scenarios in his life, but usually he could manage the situation or at least escape the danger. Compared with the current situation, he suddenly realized how much he missed the feeling of 'being able to control the scene.' He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Number Two looked at the woman beside Alistair for a few seconds, then shifted his gaze to the seat next to her. Alistair wore an expression that tried to maintain calm. 'What is it?' After staring at each other for a while, the Brit spoke, and in the most polite tone. 'Who are you?' asked Number Two. 'Alistair Stanley; I told your friend already, mate. My passport is in my travel bag if you want to check.' Alistair acted like an ordinary traveler who was terribly frightened. 'Take it out and show me!' 'Yes, sir.' The former SAS major, with refined movements, unbuckled his seat belt, got up, opened the overhead compartment, and took out his black travel bag. 'Can I open it?' he asked. Number Two nodded. Alistair unzipped the bag, handed the passport to the hijacker, then sat back in his seat, holding the bag against his chest, his hands slightly trembling. Number Two flipped through the passport, then returned it to Alistair. Next, he asked the woman in seat 4A something in Spanish; Clark thought it sounded like he was asking where her husband was, and she maintained her previous calm. However, Number Two was clearly extremely unsatisfied with the answer and angrily spoke to Number Three. Alistair exhaled deeply, gently turned his head to look around — to an outsider, this action seemed like seeking protection — and finally exchanged a glance with John. Although Alistair did not move his hands and his face remained unchanged, John knew what he was thinking — he also sensed that the current situation was deteriorating and that they were being cornered by two criminals.After a while, Alistair raised his right hand to play with his hair, while lightly tapping above his ear twice with his finger, indicating that he thought the situation could get worse. Clark stretched out three fingers; from this angle, the hijackers could not see his gesture. Alistair nodded, then turned his head back, letting John think for himself. John assumed there were only three attackers, and Alistair held the same view.
If only they were smart terrorists, but smart people don't hijack planes. Perhaps it had been too long since the last time anti-terror forces reclaimed a plane, causing these people to forget the bloody lessons: like the Israelis in Uganda or the Germans in Somalia. Hijackers are only safe in the air, yet they can't stay up there forever. Once the plane lands, the counterforce of the civilized world would sweep through them like a tornado across Kansas; let alone, not everyone in the world wishes to die before the age of thirty—those who don't want to live long use bombs, while the smart ones use a different approach. Although smart terrorists are even more dangerous than 'stupid' ones, at least their actions are predictable; they don't kill for pleasure, nor do they become despondent at the first setback, because their actions are meticulously planned.
These three guys are fools; they acted based on unreliable intelligence sources, and without final confirmation of the mission, landing themselves in their current deadlock: the three of them had already committed serious crimes and might be executed or imprisoned for life… and the target wasn't even on the plane! The only good news—if it can even be called good news—is that they hijacked a plane from the United States, so they would face trial in a country that respects human rights.
Of course, they don't want a life behind bars, nor do they want to die heroically in this hijacking, but they will soon realize there is no third way to go. And the guns in their hands are currently the only leverage they have; perhaps they would try to use them to carve out a way to survive…
…And for John Clark, the choice he faced was: should he take the risk of acting to prevent this from happening?
No, he cannot sit here waiting for them to start killing…
Alright, move.He continued to observe the two hijackers for about a minute; the positions where they were standing allowed them to cover each other perfectly; he knew this situation very well. There was no solution at the moment; whether dealing with smart people or fools, acting rashly was never a good idea.
He waited another five minutes until Hijacker Two decided to step forward and talk to Hijacker Three; they loosened their watch over the passengers. Clark slightly turned his head, looking into Ding's eyes, and touched his upper lip as if he had a hidden little mustache. Chavis's head moved slightly, as if saying are you sure? But he had indeed received the message. He unfastened the seatbelt, leaned back, and skillfully reached behind with his left hand to retrieve a gun. His newlywed wife watched from the side, her eyes full of tension. Domingo held her right hand and covered his Beretta pistol with a tissue. Everything he did seemed very natural, and he waited for Clark's next order.
"Hey! What are you doing?" yelled Hijacker Two.
"Calling me?" Clark replied, struggling to stand up.
"Sit down!" This guy's English wasn't bad. Well, European schools always did a good job with foreign language education.
"Hey, bro, you know, I, um, just drank a bit too much, so I—you know what I mean? I really need to pee badly." John put on a pitiful expression.
"No, go back to your seat!"
"Come on, don't be like that, don't shoot someone who urgently needs to pee. I don't know what your problem is, but I really need to go to the restroom, okay? Please."
Hijackers Two and Three looked at each other, their expressions saying: Damn, how did this happen?—a further proof that they were amateurs. The two flight attendants sitting in the front seats, although not daring to move or speak, were full of worry on their faces. John unfastened his seatbelt, slowly stood up, and walked toward the back.
Hijacker Two followed John, pressing a gun against his back. Sandy's eyes widened: Over the years, her husband had never done anything dangerous in front of her; at this moment, he was not the man she had shared a bed with for twenty-five years, but another Clark, a Clark she knew but had never witnessed with her own eyes.
"I'll just go in and pee, then come out, okay? What? You want to watch me go to the bathroom?He said, adopting a slurred tone from the half glass of wine he had previously drunk: 'Alright, but don't scare me so much that I wet my pants.' Clark was eight feet two inches tall, and from under his rolled-up sleeves, you could see his arms were strong. The second hijacker was about four inches shorter than him and weighed thirty pounds less, but he had a gun in his hand. Usually, short people like to dominate those bigger than them whenever they get the chance, so he grabbed John's left hand and pushed him toward the restroom on the right. John staggered forward with his hands on his head.
'Hey, buddy, can you be civilized?' Clark opened the restroom door. The second guy was still as clumsy as before, actually allowing him to close the door. John took care of his physiological needs inside, and when washing his hands, he looked in the mirror—hey, 'Snake.' 'You okay?' he asked himself. But he immediately made a decision.
Alright, let me try.
John unlocked the door and gently pushed it open, wearing a grateful expression.
'Phew, thanks a lot.'
'Back to your seat.'
'Wait a minute, to show my gratitude, I should pour you a cup of coffee, I—' John took a step back, and the foolish second hijacker actually fell for it, immediately following him and grabbing his shoulders to turn him around.
Suddenly, a voice in Spanish: 'Don't move.' Not ten feet away, Ding lowered his voice and pointed a gun at the second hijacker's head. The second hijacker, in the corner of his eye, barely saw the bluish metallic object was a gun when Clark's right fist struck his temple, knocking him to the ground.
'What kind of bullet are you using?'
'Low-velocity,' Ding answered in a low voice. 'We're inside an airplane.'
John nodded and said quietly, 'Stay here.'
'Miguel!' At the front of the cabin, the unaware third hijacker loudly called for his companion.
Clark went to the coffee machine, poured a cup of coffee, placed creamer, sugar packets, and a spoon on the tray, then moved forward along the left aisle.
'He said I should bring the coffee to you, thanks for letting me use the restroom.' John displayed a respectful demeanor, 'Sir, your coffee.'
'Miguel!' the third one shouted again.
'He went to the back. This is your coffee. Can I sit down?'John took a few steps forward and then stopped, hoping that this rookie would continue doing something foolish. Sure enough, as expected, Number Three walked toward him. John slightly bent forward, and the coffee cup rattled on the tray due to his shaking hand. Number Three approached him, continuing to search for the companions. Suddenly, John's hand slipped, and both the coffee and the cup fell to the floor; he hastily bent down to pick up the cup—Alistair's seat was not far ahead.
Number Three instinctively took a step back; this was his biggest mistake of the day.
John drew the pistol from Alistair's waist, flipped the grip, and struck the hijacker on the back of the neck, hitting just at the junction of the skull and the neck. Number Three immediately collapsed to the ground.
“You impatient guy,” Stanley said, “but well done.” He stood up and pointed at the nearest flight attendant to him. She immediately sprang from her seat and ran over. Stanley said, “Get some ropes and tie them up, quickly!”
John picked up the criminal's pistol, removed the magazine, and took out the loaded bullet. Soon after, he disassembled the gun and threw the parts to the Spanish lady sitting next to Alistair; her brown eyes widened.
“Ma'am, we are sky marshals. Please relax, everything is fine now,” Clark explained.
A few seconds later, Ding escorted the second criminal to the front, and the flight attendant returned with a bundle of thin ropes.
“Ding, front cockpit,” Clark instructed Chavis.
“Understood, Mr. C,” Chavis said, holding the gun with both hands as he approached the cockpit door. Meanwhile, Clark tied up the criminal's hands—he even remembered the knot-tying skills he learned thirty years ago as a sailor, which surprised him. He tied them as tightly as possible; the criminal's hands turned black from poor circulation, but he couldn't care less.
“John, one more,” Stanley whispered to him.
“Can you watch these two 'friends'?”
“Gladly. Be careful, there are lots of electronic devices inside.”
“I know.”
John walked forward without carrying any weapons, while Chavis stood by the door, holding his gun with both hands pointed at it, staring without blinking.
“Are you alright, Domingo?”
“Oh, I was thinking the salad and the main course were both good, and the wine selection was also decent;"This really isn't a good place for a gunfight, John. We'd better just ask him to come out," Ding half-joked.
Chavis' suggestion was worth considering. That way, the first thug would face the tail of the plane, so even if he fired, the chance of damaging the plane would be smaller—of course, the passengers in the first row probably wouldn't like this solution. John walked back to the rear cabin and brought another cup of coffee.
He said to another flight attendant, 'Notify the cockpit, have the captain tell our friend that Miguel needs to see him, and then just stand there and don't move; wait for him to open the door and come out. Just point at me. Understand?'
End of Chapter Three.