hello.  yes? when? just a second.  i'm on my way. he hangs up, shaking the sleep from his brain. he thinks a moment and then picks up the phone, punching in a number.
based upon a voice print, i'm certain 'al iqab' is ali hassan, jaffa's second in command. for such a high-ranking member to actually be in charge is highly unusual. he pauses, travis cautiously acknowledging.
then i'm sure you would also agree, colonel, that taking hostages to spring jaffa makes sense, but not coming here. they can secure his release and never leave europe. again, travis stares coolly at grant.
jaffa knew his effectiveness as a terrorist was over and was in the process of portraying himself a moderate, another arafat. but ali has always represented the hard line, fundamental position. rather then take a mossad bullet in the head he would rather go out striking a blow at the great satan. the sword of god's will. his nom de guerre, 'al iqab,' is deeply rooted in arabic culture, associated with suicidal vengeance. it means: "the punishment.'
less than a week ago, a small russian army convoy was ambushed outside of ashkhabad, near the iranian border. ten men were killed, a truck hijacked. he places several satellite photographs on the table, showing the burned wreckage of several jeeps and soldiers lying on the road.
recent intelligence gives us strong reason to believe jaffa's group was responsible. the cargo of that truck consisted of 42 canisters of dz-5, being relocated to a secret storage facility.
dz-5 is the latest generation of a biogenic nerve toxin, far more lethal than any chemical weapon we've ever seen.  he places several photographs on the table showing middle eastern tribesmen and soldiers, lying in contorted and misshapen heaps; one photograph showing a kurdish tribes- woman clutching a baby, their faces frozen masks of agony, gasping for their last breath of life.
assuming only 10 canisters, airburst over washington.  we could expect between 50,000 to 100,000 deaths. anything inside a hundred miles of the coastline would be disastrous. a frozen moment and then kaplan looks directly at travis.
you have to be airborne within the hour. travis thinks a moment and then nods, the soldier's acceptance of duty. he looks at cahill.
that's what i get paid for, colonel.
i'm not sure i follow you, sir.
you're mistaken, colonel. we had nothing to do with jaffa's abduction.
i had no involvement with that operation, colonel. but i agree with it in principle. jafa is an international criminal and had to be brought to justice. men like that have to know they're not beyond the reach of the law.
well, that's all a moot point, isn't it? no matter what, jaffa is home free. a cold look from travis.
excuse me, colonel.  you're using sodium chloral-hydrate?
in the tests of s.c.h. i've been briefed on, the effects on most subjects was a gradual drowsiness for about thirty seconds before unconsciousness.
thirty seconds may be too long. ali is highly intelligent, acts instinctually, by nature suspicious of everything. the slightest indication his mission has been comprised could result in a disastrous reaction on his part. travis considers this.
last minute calculations?
if the attack on washington were successful, sometime in the aftermath, with americans at the peak of their outrage, no doubt certain undeniable information would be leaked to the west.
by ali. set up before his suicide. information implicating the country who supplied ali the nerve gas, the bomb, the diplomatic support needed to get the highjackers on board. so damning, so.
in ali's mind, hopefully so swiftly and devastatingly, maybe even nuclear, that a pan-arabic war would result, the focus at the only plausible target in the region, israel.
inspiration born of desperation.
colonel! the hissing increases, the seal threatening to go. travis looks up, realizing.
you're forgetting something.
the bomb.
i don't think you can afford not to.
it's more complicated than chain of command. finding that bomb is just as important, maybe more, than taking over this plane. think about it. from his stretcher, cappy calls out.
sounds like one more on guard in the upstairs cockpit and business class area.
they're waiting for a report on jaffa's takeoff from london. sounds like they'll contact them on their own frequency.
a lot of theory.
you'd better get cappy.
i don't think you've got any other choice.
it's some form of computer controlled triggering device, very sophisticated.
cahill.
he's the best qualified and the only one you can spare. he's a design engineer. he builds stuff like this all the time.
so what do you think?
honestly.
i'm the only one who can monitor their conversations. you're all we've got left. look at it this way, you've built computers before, haven't you?
now you're going to take one apart.
make a mistake? don't worry about it, cahill, you'll never know it. you can do it, cahill. now let's get going, i've got work to do. grant pats cahill on the shoulder. he moves over the cargo containers towards the bomb where cappy lies, cahill reluctantly following.
all right, cappy. walk him through it. call me if you need any help. grant leaves.
cahill. how you doing?
i copy. describe her.
okay. i'll have baker keep an eye on her. all we can do is watch, hope she can keep a secret. baker.
rat, this is grant. they've isolated the switch.
it's been years since i even handled a gun.
quiet.  sounds like something big's going on. grant continues to listen.
one of our boys is challenging ali. wants to know why they're not returning to london, now that jaffa's been released.
i think he just killed one of his own men. the others don't know about the bomb. of course. the trigger man is one of the passengers. a sleeper. it could be anyone.
we might still have some time. and there just might be a way to find the sleeper. but we've got to keep dismantling the bomb. if we can neutralize it, then finding the sleeper won't matter. but we can't risk it. have to do both.
baker, what about the video equipment, what do you have?
we've got to monitor that cabin. i need to hear everything, see as much as i can. anything we can use from the plane? baker thinks, slowly nodding his head.
how bad is it?
can we disable it? cut the power?
cappy, how are we going to beat this god-damned thing?
we're going to do everything we can to find the sleeper, but it may all come down to you. you're going to have to go the distance.
now we've got eyes and ears.
what do you think?
let's hope she sees it. grant activates the switch. on the video monitor we see that a light on the telephone is flashing a code. a moment later, fran notices the light, but stares at it, unmoving.
pick it up.  pick it up.
just listen. i'm watching you on a video. behind you, above the bulkhead. disbelieving she turns, eyes searching, focusing on the tiny probe, barely visible in the bulkhead.
we're americans. you've seen one of us. there is a bomb on this plane. one of the passengers is in direct control of it. we have to find him and we need your help. you're looking for someone with an electronic device, a radio.  suddenly the phone is ripped from her hand, ali roughly spinning her around.
she's got to. they continue to watch as fran picks up a stack of magazines and turns towards them. a moment's hesitation and then she looks up, directly into the lens, a look of strength and determination on her face, she nods. grant turns to baker.
she's signaling. on the monitor we see a terrorist guard as he slowly moves through the galley, crossing behind fran. lifting the tray off the counter, fran turns towards the camera, flipping the bottom upwards as she does. on the bottom of the tray, written in red lipstick, we see: 148-b.
rat, we've got something. 148-b. window seat, mid-section.
just give it to me straight.
no. he just ran another test. he's got direct access to the thing. it's got to be by total surprise or you're fucked.
he's not going to beat us. we've come too far.
get into your attack positions. cappy, stay with it. we're taking this thing to the wire.
i'll take care of the sleeper.
come on, keep coming.  in his hand he nervously holds the makeshift switch connected to the cabin phone.
i know, we're in deep shit. we've got to stop them. i need a schematic of the plane. baker turns, digging through one of their satchels. he removes a complicated schematic of the 747, showing the hundreds of miles of electrical wiring, hydraulic lines and servos. grant desperately begins tracking something on the schematic.
we've got ten minutes.
get in position. we're going in five minutes.
time we got acquainted.
come on.  fran and two other attendants are sitting in their jump seats, a terrorist standing guard in the entrance, his back to them.
i need your help. the lower galley. do exactly as i say. turn around and enter the elevator. the lives of everyone on this plane depend upon what you do. right now. she quietly hangs up the phone and turns, looking into the eyes of her frightened crew mates. she looks at the elevator a few steps away. with a determined look she moves forward, opening the door and stepping inside.
no sound. sit over there, put your head down, like you're crying. do it, now. she moves to the opposite bulkhead, pulling down the jumpseat. the motors whine again as the elevator begins to lower. the door opens and the terrorist emerges. seeing fran sitting across from him, he raises his weapon to fire. a voice from behind calls out:
hey! startled, the terrorist turns, facing grant, aiming a .22 silenced pistol at him. the terrorist starts to move and grant fires, twice, two tiny red holes appearing in the terrorist's head. he falls to the floor in a heap. grant is stunned, momentarily overcome by what he has just done. fran stares back at him, realizing this is not a cold- blooded killer. he looks at her as if asking for help and then kneels, stripping the terrorist of his clothes. he looks at fran.
the man in 148.  we're going to stop him.
help me get close enough to kill him. grant continues to strip the clothes from the terrorist.
we're ready.
just keep walking. eyes straight ahead. when i push you, hit the floor and stay down. fran moves forward, her face frozen with fear. they enter the aisle, moving towards the man at the window, his head barely visible some ten rows away. on the other side of the cabin, the terrorist guard sees them, but as he can only view grant from the rear, he continues on his patrol. grant focuses his attention on the man, now seven rows away. but he fails to see the terrorist on patrol in the next section aft, moving away from us and towards the work station.
it's not him.  grant reaches across the seats, grabbing the computer, yanking it towards him. as he does, the computer smashes into the seat back, the battery pack splitting open, a flood of glittering diamonds, cascading over grant's leg and onto the floor. grant drops the computer, his eyes whipping across the sea of faces before him -- who is it?
freeze! suddenly, like a flushed quail, the man panics, reaching for something wedged between his jacket and the seat. but his fingers fumble the object, which falls to the floor.
everybody, down! as the man lurches to the floor, grant fires, the bullet exploding into the headrest. grant plants his foot on an armrest and in a wild, crawling scramble across the center section seats, races desperately to beat the man to the detonator. on the floor, the sleeper, with trembling hands, flips open the lid to a six-inch square calculator-like device, rapidly punching in a four-digit code. grant, in a last desperate lunge, goes airborne in slow motion, twisting and firing as he clears the last row of seats, delivering a fatal head shot to the sleeper, just as the sleeper's finger touches the detonation switch!
castle rock, this is grant. we're in control of the airplane. the bomb has been defused. we need a place to land. hugging, back-slapping pandemonium spreads through the room like wildfire.
well, whatever you're talking about, you did the right thing. tell these guys to take good care of you. the stretcher is removed, grant turning to fran.
thank you.
let's just say, we came along for the ride. rest is.  classified. an army corporal appears, handing grant a black, aluminum suitcase.
captain grant. yes, go ahead. yes, mr. kaplan.
one wounded, one pretty shaken but they're both going to make it.
thank you, sir.
yes, sir, i agree. i hate to see the bastard get away. the screen flashes with new information:
the arabs have a saying, 'those who would bare the torch of the devil, shall be consumed in its flames.' his finger holds over the enter key, pausing, a slight tremble of hesitation.
let's get out of here. end credits roll and we:
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