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Posted February 19, 2009
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The Hijacking of Panam Flight PA 101
If you are reading this story online or in print you can be assured of one fact: I am dead. If you are listening to an audio recording of this narrative you can be equally assured that I am dead. Today is Friday August 17, 1989. I am a passenger aboard Panam Flight # PA 101 from Paris to Philadelphia. Minutes ago, the jumbo jet was hijacked by five armed men. I have a micro-cassette voice recorder concealed in the pocket of my blazer and I intend to record my observations if and when it is save to do so. Don't ask me why I'm doing this ‘cause I don't know; it must be my crazy journalist's instinct or something. There are over 250 people of every color, shape and size aboard this aircraft. I am in seat 17A, a window seat next to Todd a 10-year kid who loves soccer and his dad Fred, an entrepreneur with his own landscaping business. Fred wanted to give his son opportunities he never had as a child and a surprise trip to France was the first of many he had in store for Todd whose hero was French football legend Michel Platini. Todd asks his dad if they were going to die; I see tears welling in his frightened eyes. Fred hugs him and whispers a prayer for divine intervention. It's 2:30 pm Eastern Standard Time and we're about 40,000 feet or 8 miles above the North Atlantic Ocean. All I see as I look out the window are dark gray clouds below... My name is Joseph Piggot or JP as everyone calls me. I am 28 years old. I was born on February 22, 1961 in Erie, Pennsylvania to Samuel and Joanne Piggot. I am an only child. My parents are the best in the world; they spoiled me rotten but I turned out okay in the end. It took a while though. And I know I haven't said it much, if at all, over the years but I love you both more than life itself. I just finished a master's degree in Journalism at Georgetown University and they bought me a two-week vacation package to Europe as a reward for my accomplishment; "It's about time!' They probably said. "The boy has been in college for over a decade!" The bitter irony is I wasn't even supposed to be on this flight; I'd overslept at the hotel in Paris and missed my scheduled flight yesterday. What a horrible twist of fate.... When I was 15 years old, I attended a fair in Erie. There were tons of rides, clowns and vendors with cotton candy and ice cream. There was also a fortune-teller named Mrs. Rose. She had a red and white scarf tied around her head and a big black mole on her chin. I gave her two bucks to read my palm. Mrs. Rose held by right hand and traced a wrinkled finger over those brown lines in my palm. It tickled. I giggled. Then she looked me straight in the eye and said I wouldn't live to see thirty. I laughed. What the hell did she know anyway? But I must admit that I remembered her dire prediction each February as another year accrued to my precious life. When I turned 27 last year, I was convinced Mrs. Rose was wrong. Now I'm beginning to have second thoughts.... unless God has a rescue plan... There may be more hijackers, but the five I've seen so far are brown-skinned with black curly hair and intense piercing eyes. They just placed black hoods over their heads, each with two holes on the front. I'm guessing they're from North Africa; Libya, Morocco or Algeria. But they could be from the Middle East or Indonesia as well. They are very efficient, moving effortlessly as if they had rehearsed this hijacking a thousand times. Two are on patrol, each with a gun across his chest at opposite ends of the corridor watching over the passengers. The legs and hands of four stewardesses were bound securely with rope, two at the front entrance and two at the rear. Another two hijackers have their guns pointed at the heads of the terrified stewardesses. How on earth did they get guns and explosives on board? The metal detector at Charles de Gaulle airport had picked up my belt buckle for Pete's sake and a few pennies I'd forgotten in my pocket. They must have had some inside help; maybe the weapons were stashed by cleaners or technicians who were in cahoots with these terrorists. Yes, that's what they are. Cold-blooded killers all of them! How could they justify killing 250 strangers who had done nothing to harm them? We just want to go home to our loved ones, dammit.... The tall wiry hijacker who appears to be the leader, just announced over the intercom in a thick Arabic accent, that the jet was now under his command; that there were two additional armed men in the cockpit with the pilot and co-pilot; that they were all freedom fighters on a mission to liberate their Arabic brothers and sisters who were brutally oppressed and falsely imprisoned by Israeli and American imperialist pigs all over the world; that unless 250 Arabic prisoners were freed from jails in Israel by midnight they were going to blow up this jet killing everyone; that each of them had belts of explosives with detonators and that they would not hesitate to hit the red button if anyone made any wrong moves or if their demands were not met. One of his cohorts unzipped his jacket revealing a row of five or six yellow cylinders with green and red wires connecting them to a device in his hand with a red button. The screams and sobs you hear are those of women and children and some men; the imminence of death has sunk in. A young woman in her twenties stood up with her baby screaming in her arms and tearfully pleaded with the leader for mercy. He coldly pointed the gun at the infant and ordered her to sit down. His sinister voice and steely vacuous eyes sent a chill through me; this man had killed before and wouldn't hesitate to do so again. The woman sits down abruptly; her baby is still screaming... "Do you think we can take out two of these punks Fred?" I whispered to my neighbor. He was a big man; about six four with hairy muscular fore-arms like tree- trunks. "Are you insane? They have bomb belts. They'll blow up the plane. Can't you see these guys are not afraid to die?" "We're gonna die anyway; might as well go down fighting." Todd stared at his dad. His eyes were blood-shot red with tears streaming down his pink cheeks. Fred tried to comfort him. "It's all in God's hands now my son. All we can do is beg his forgiveness and pray for a miracle." The leader grabbed the intercom mouthpiece and announced they were going to turn the jet around and fly to Tripoli International Airport in Libya; that if their wishes were met, everyone would be safe; if not....then....he raised the detonator on his hand. We all knew what that meant... I feel the jet turning, slowly changing direction, making a left turn toward Tripoli. Cumulus clouds hang dark and thick in the sky. A storm is imminent. Suddenly, a phone near the front entrance of the plane rings. After the third ring, the leader picks it up. "Hello, who is this?" his voice is calm; his tone, measured. "You don't need to know my name. My demand is clear: 250 Arab prisoners must be freed from jails in Israel immediately or there'll be 250 dead men, women and children floating in the Atlantic Ocean. One for each prisoner not freed. Do I make myself clear?" "You'll inform Sheik Yusuf Al-Quarad, one of the prisoners, to contact me directly to confirm that you've complied fully with my wishes." "Do not test me sir. I've killed before and I will not hesitate to kill again in the name of Allah the Almighty, Most Gracious, Most Merciful." ...this guy is fucking nuts! The leader is clearly agitated by whomever he is talking to on the phone. I assume it's an official from Interpol or the CIA. "There will be no compromises!" "You have 8 hours starting now." He hangs up the phone. The young woman with the screaming baby begs him again for mercy. He shoves her back into her seat. He barks a command to his fellow terrorists in Arabic. They respond shouting, "Allah Akbar" three times in succession. They all seem to be in a trance-like state. Maybe they intend to blow up the jet anyway. Maybe this was a suicide mission. I had read somewhere that suicide bombers shouted "Allah Akbar" just before they pulled the switch. Suddenly, the leader rips open his vest. His colleagues do the same. Their fingers are on the red buttons. "Allah Akbar!" By Pablo Poet, Author of Behcet's in Black and The Drummer in Me http://www.poeteez.com/ DISCLAIMER: This is a fictional piece. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased is purely coincidental. 2/19/2009
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