This takes place during the events of The New Batman Adventures Episode
"Knight Time," and is set firmly in the continuity of the animated
series. It is based mostly on dialogue, information, and impressions from
the episodes "The Shadow of the Bat," "Batgirl Returns,"
"Scratch Your Back," and "Chemistry" (which I'm assuming
falls after "Knight Time" in the continuity), and particularly
"Old Wounds" and "Sub Zero." I also have to admit influence
from the relationship between Nightwing and Oracle in the DC comics.
Thanks to Batya, who offered insights into the characters of Dick Grayson
and Barbara Gordon that made my head spin, to Liz, Batman stylistic consultant,
who offered such details as the Turkish coffee, and to Michael, stunt
coordinator.
Disclaimer: Batman and related characters are the property of DC Comics
and Warner Bros. Animation, borrowed without permission and with respectful
intentions. The title refers to how long it takes to fly from Bucharest,
Romania, to the New York City area, based on a web search of airline flights
I did in 1998. Recent research indicates it can take as little as 7 hours
on Air France. However, I refuse to allow improvements in air travel to
upset a story which was partially based on careful time-planning. But on
some airlines, it takes 13 hours. As I have never taken the trip myself,
I make no claims as to accuracy and take dramatic license as needed. If
there are any hideous time gaffes or other flaws in realism, please let
me know. Praise and adoration would be nice, too ;)
Thirteen Hours
by Constance "Eilonwy" Cochran (eilonwy@earthlink.net)
***
11:15 am
The "fasten seat belts" light flicked out as the plane reached
cruising altitude. Dick unclipped his seatbelt like one escaping chains.
Beside him, Barbara didn't even look up from her magazine. She unbuckled
her belt with one hand and continued--whatever it was she was doing, which
would be difficult to term reading. Nose uplifted slightly, she flipped
the magazine pages over rapidly, pausing only now and then.
The vibrating hum of the plane's engines surrounded them. The passenger
across the broad aisle stirred in his sleep and let out a snore. A soft,
murmured conversation came from a few seats ahead of theirs. The only other
sound was the soft *flip* as Barbara turned over her magazine pages.
Dick shifted in his seat uneasily, and his knee bumped hers. She hardly
seemed to notice, except her leg moved away from his. Coughing, he pulled
out the airplane safety guide and studied the layout, from habit. Then
he stuffed the guide back into its pouch, leaned back into the generously-sized
plane seat, and closed his eyes. His fingers curled around the end of the
armrests as he took a few deep breaths. It looked as if he were dozing.
Barbara glanced at him, then quickly moved her eyes back to the magazine.
A loose strand of red hair drifted down along her cheek, and she tucked
it back. When she glanced up again, he was looking at her. Her gaze snapped
back to the magazine.
"Babs, can you close the window shade? It's kind of hard to sleep
with the sunlight."
"Of course," she said pleasantly, and pulled down the shade.
"Glad everything turned out okay at home," he said.
"Hm-hm," she murmured. *Flip* Her foot moved, fidgeting against
the footrest.
"Could you stop that tapping?"
"So sorry." The foot stilled.
Silence thudded between them. The plane roared on towards Gotham--home.
"That's it. I can't take it anymore." Dick rose to his feet.
"What?" Now, finally, her eyes fixed on him, magazine genuinely
forgotten. "Where are you going?"
"I'm going...to have a smoke."
"They don't let people smoke on airplanes."
"Then I'll just step outside."
Her eyebrows went up at that. His fist struck the back of his seat before
he turned and started back along the aisle.
"And you don't smoke!" She called, leaning across his empty
seat to watch him go.
"I'm thinking of starting!" He called back, and vanished through
the curtain separating first from coach class.
Several passengers' heads swivelled, staring at her. She subsided back
into her seat.
"Damn him," she said under her breath.
***
12:12 am
At least the in-flight meal gave them something to do.
Dubiously, Dick eyed the piece of meat speared on the end of his fork.
"Sure could use some of Alfred's cooking right now. This stuff tastes
like my gym socks." He took the bite anyway.
"At least we get those great salted peanuts." She held up
her hand, letting a small packet swing back and forth.
"Hey!" He finished chewing, swallowed. "How come you
have those and I don't?"
"Because I stole yours." She held up a second package with
her other hand. A half-smile tugged at her mouth.
"Why, you sneaky...gimme my peanuts!"
"I don't think so." She transferred the second packet to her
other hand, the one closest to the window, out of his reach, and held both
packets down out of sight.
He grinned. She should have known to watch out when he grinned like
that. Moving with a suddenness and precision that at first left her unable
to react, he closed his fingers around her wrist and bent her arm up against
her chest, effectively pinning her. His other hand flashed across her legs
and pried a packet of peanuts from her grasp.
Too late, she started her countermove, and for a split second they were
eye to eye, nose to nose. Time stopped for a heartbeat, then started up
again.
Opening his fingers, Dick released her wrist as suddenly as he had grabbed
it. He sat back in his seat and his fingers went to work tearing open the
little bag of peanuts. Barbara sat, arms at her sides, not moving for a
second or two, eyes staring straight ahead. Then she cleared her throat,
picked up her fork, and started on the limp green salad.
***
One day earlier
The trip east had been easier, in a way. Both had been too taut with
worry to think about anything else. It had been deemed safest to travel
as themselves, via public airline, suits in special, lead-lined pouches
in their duffel bags. No one but Tim would know that Gotham was any less
protected.
"God, I hope he can handle this alone," Dick said, as they
collected their luggage at Otapeni Buchare airport.
"He's a smart kid," she said, a crease of worry appearing
in her forehead. "He'll be okay. Right now I'm more worried about
Bruce."
They walked out through the automated doors. The Romanian night was
chilly.
"We'll check in with Tim when we get to the hotel," Dick said,
as they threw their bags into the back of a cab and climbed in after. "And
then we go do what we came to do." In halting Romanian, Dick gave
the address of their hotel to the driver, then shut the plexiglass window
for privacy.
"We're just going to walk right in there?" She said, fiddling
with the strap of her bag. "And if he is behind this, do you think
he'd actually just confess everything, and give Bruce back?"
"If he doesn't, we'll make him do it," Dick said, voice flat,
with a hard note that was unusual for him but not unprecedented. He watched
the lights of Bucharest slide by outside the window for a moment, then
turned to her. "You haven't gone head to head with him, have you?"
"No," she said. The lights played shadows over her face in
the dark cab. "You have."
"Yes. And the first time, I wasn't exactly...ready for it."
His expression went slightly sullen, then went poker-face again. "You're
in for an interesting experience," he told her.
***
"Ah, detectives, what a pleasant surprise. Please, do sit down."
Over six feet tall, Ra's Al Ghul moved with smooth grace, gesturing at
one of the generous chairs of the richly decorated library. The firelight
played over his gaunt, slender features, darkening his already shadowed
eyes. His voice held equal grace, and equal shadow, as he settled into
a deep armchair himself. "Would you care for some turkish cofee?"
One long fingered, brown hand waved at a serving tray, where an ornate
brass coffee set waited.
"No, thanks," Nightwing said rudely.
"Then perhaps the lady?" His eyes travelled over Batgirl,
appraising, committing to memory.
"No, thank you," she said, politely. Neither she nor Nightwing
chose to sit.
"You're new," he said to her. "As are you...perhaps."
He fixed a hawk-like gaze on Nightwing. "Your voice is familiar. You've
grown since we last met."
Nightwing's eyes narrowed, white night-vision lens slits in his mask.
"We don't have time for small-talk, Ghul."
Ra's crossed his impeccably clad, breech-covered legs and steepled his
fingers. The firelight gleamed off the high polish of his black boots.
"Well then, what brings you to Romania?"
"I think you know," Nightwing said coldly.
"Actually, I don't, detective. Perhaps you could enlighten me?"
"Where is he?" Nightwing stepped closer to the chair. His
sleek shadow fell over Ra's.
"He?" Ra's looked up at the young man consideringly, then
let out a short bark of a laugh. "You mean Batman? My, you _have_
grown. This is a switch. You, confronting me, to rescue your esteemed mentor."
A faint beeping sounded in the cozy stillness of the library, preventing
whatever might have happened next. Startled, Nightwing pulled out his cell
phone. He half-turned, while Batgirl watched Ra's al Ghul carefully, her
hands loosely curled, limp, but ready at her belt.
"Nightwing here.... What happened?...he is?" Several degrees
of tension visibly drained from the line of his shoulders. He let out a
long breath. "That's a relief...Who?!...You're kidding...okay, I've
got to go. We'll get back as fast as we can. Oh, and if we're not back
within 48 hours, you know who to blame," he said, shooting a glance
at the man in the armchair. "...Nightwing out."
Nightwing snapped his cell phone shut and put it away. "Come on."
He took Batgirl's arm. "We're leaving."
"So soon?" Ra's rose from his chair with the smooth power
of a panther.
In a motion that looked like reflex, Nightwing pulled on Batgirl's arm,
moving her halfway behind him.
"I take it Bruce Wayne has turned up safe and sound."
"Okay, so it wasn't you this time."
"Sorry to disappoint you...Nightwing, was it? A fitting name. I
like it." He turned his gaze to Batgirl. "My dear. It _has_ been
a pleasure. I wish we had more time to talk." Before either could
move, he reached out, took Batgirl's gloved hand, and kissed it with a
gallant motion. Then he returned to his chair and the dark coffee waiting
for him on the antique table.
The two masked figures left quickly.
***
Morning found Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon on their way home, nothing
to think about now, but each other.
***
1:12 pm
"Ladies and gentlemen, we should be arriving at Charles DeGaulle
airport in approximately one hour. We've encountered some heavy cloud cover,
so some turbulence is perfectly normal and nothing to be alarmed about.
Our crew will be bringing drinks around shortly."
The captain's message, which was in French, was repeated in English
and German while a stewardess started moving through first class with a
cart of coffee and drinks, the coffee in fine brass serving pots that reminded
Dick and Barbara unpleasantly of Ra's al Ghul.
"Coffee, monsieur? Coffee, mademoiselle?" The stewardess stopped
at their seats, friendly smile in place.
Dick rubbed his hand over his face, which bore the beginnings of a five
o'clock shadow. "Yeah. Could use some caffeine. Babs?"
"Mmm...no, thanks."
The stewardess poured some hot liquid into a porcelain cup. "How
do you take your coffee, monsieur?"
"Black, two sugars."
As she added the sugar, the cabin lurched suddenly, and the stewardess'
expert hands faltered. The cup flew from her hand, splashing steaming dark
liquid onto Dick. The cup landed on the floor of the cabin and rolled away
along the rug.
"Ow!" He sprang from his seat.
"Je regret, monsieur, I am so sorry, here," the stewardess
frantically handed him several towels. "Oh, dear, the turbulence...so
sorry..."
"That's...okay..." he said with teeth clenched. He started
wiping his jeans with a towel, but a sound made him turn sharply.
Bent double in her seat, Barbara was gasping for breath, her fingers
gripping the edge of the seat in front of her.
"Babs!" He reached his hand towards her. "Are you okay?"
She looked up, and a laugh burst from her. His look of concern melted
into annoyance.
"Sorry," she squeaked, "I know it's not funny..."
she doubled over again, shoulders shaking.
"Sure, it's hysterical, a real laugh riot."
Barbara pounded her fist on the armrest, tears in her eyes. "I'm
sorry, Dick." She sat up, took a deep, tremulous breath, looked at
his face, and let out a hoot of laughter.
"For cryin' out loud!" Snatching another towel, he shoved
past the cart and headed for the lavatory.
When he returned a few minutes later, the stewardess was still there.
"Monsieur," the stewardess said to Dick, "may I please
offer you another drink?"
Dick dropped into his seat, tucking in his black t-shirt, which was
slightly damp. "Yeah. I'll have...something strong. Make it a double.
Oh, and you got something for her?" He jerked his thumb at Barbara,
who was stiffling her laughter with small snorting noises, face averted
to the window. "Like a tranquilizer?"
The stewardess blinked, then started preparing his drink. "Certainly,
monsieur," she said, with an aplomb that would have impressed Alfred.
***
2:15 pm
Charles De Gaulle Airport
"An hour to kill until our connecting flight."
Dropping his duffel bag to the carpeted floor of the airport's first-class
lounge, Dick fell back onto an empty couch. There were only a few other
passengers present, reading, or dozing as they waited.
He pulled off his black leather jacket. "Think I'll take the opportunity
to get forty winks."
"Fine. Then you can take twenty winks instead and keep one eye
on our bags while I stretch my legs." Barbara dropped her bag on the
floor next to his, and paused. "Okay?" She said, voice more conciliatory.
"Sure, no prob, Babs." He shrugged, putting his sneakers up
on the couch. Reaching down with one arm, he lifted each duffel, one at
a time, and deposited them in the space between his body and the back of
the couch. "Anyone trying to get these will have to wake me up first--and
you know I can sleep light enough to hear a footfall on carpeting."
He folded his arms behind his head. "Just don't forget to come back
and wake me in time to catch the plane," he said, eyes closed.
"Got it. Tempting as it is to leave you here, I won't," she
added, but her voice was teasing. "Besides, you'll probably hear the
boarding call over the loudspeaker anyway. If I am late, meet me at the
gate."
"Whatever."
***
3:01 pm
Charles De Gaulle Airport
New magazine in hand--the cover featured an article on a new flexible
synthetic material that could withstand extreme heat--Barbara Gordon yanked
open the
lounge door and darted inside.
The other passengers had left. Dick was still stretched out on the couch,
duffel bags safe under the curve of his arm.
"Dick, get up, we're going to miss the plane...well, what do you
know? He's out cold." She folded her arms, magazine flopping over
from one hand, and looked down at him, shaking her head. Probably he had
been tireder than he'd thought. "Dick!"
He stirred slightly, but something told her it wasn't her voice that
had disturbed him. Her hands dropped to her sides and she took a step closer.
He was muttering in his sleep, his hand clenched around a fold of couch
fabric so hard his knuckles were white.
"N...nnnn..."
"Dick!" She reached down and touched his shoulder gently.
"No..."
"Dick, we're going to miss the plane--"
She shook him slightly.
"No....NO!!" He struck her hand away and sat straight up,
the word tearing from his throat in a shout. His chest heaved once or twice
as he caught his breath. One hand came up to rub at his forehead; then
he looked at her. After a few seconds the distance went away and his eyes
were his own again. "Babs? What...?"
"The plane! Our flight! Hurry!"
He cursed, then leapt from the couch, grabbing up one duffel bag and
tossing her the other one at the time time. Together, they ran, slamming
out through the lounge door, then racing through the terminal.
"What happened? Why didn't you wake me up in time?" Dick shouted
at her. A neat row of someone's matching luggage loomed before them. He
leapt, clearing the obstacle cleanly.
With equal ease, she followed. "There was some security problem,
backed up the crowd. I couldn't get through."
"Any idea what was going on?" Dodging on the balls of his
feet, Dick lowered his head, avoiding being struck by the topmost suitcase
on a cart piled high with luggage. He darted around a couple with three
children in tow.
"They were looking for someone." Barbara dodged and weaved
through the crowd after him, her red hair flying out behind her. A man
with a suitcase stepped into her path. She leapt in mid-stride to the left,
missing him, and kept on running without breaking pace.
"*Last call for boarding, Flight 714 to Gotham airport...*"
"You couldn't have avoided the crowd?" They had reached the
gate. He skidded to a stop on the carpeting, and breathing only slightly
faster than usual, handed his boarding pass to the clerk.
"How was I to know? Do I look like I have ESP?" She pulled
herself to a full halt, feet stilled firmly against the carpeting. Her
upper body swayed a bit with the sudden stop, but she didn't overbalance.
She held out her boarding pass, then trotted after him into the boarding
tunnel. "Besides. Whatever happened to Mister Wake-at-a-footfall?
How come you didn't hear the boarding call?"
"Bonjour," the steward at the plane said brightly. "Have
a pleasant flight."
"Yeah," Dick muttered, as they found their seats. "It
should be a real barrel of monkeys."
***
4:30 pm
"I said I was sorry. Besides, it wasn't my fault. How many times
do I have to explain it?"
"Fine, let's drop it."
"Good."
In the window seat this time, Dick frowned and watched the landscape
of France give way to ocean. Barbara opened her magazine and began studying
the article. Finally she sighed and tucked the magazine away.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth for a moment, then ventured
a tentative look sideways at Dick.
"Dick..."
"Hm?" He said, eyes still out the window.
"When...I came in to wake you up, you were muttering in your sleep...it
sounded like you were having a nightmare."
"I don't want to talk about it." Voice flat, rigid, closed.
"Now you sound just like him," she said softly, folding her
arms and slouching deeper into her seat.
"I am _nothing_ like him!" He turned from the window, eyes
dark with anger.
"I didn't say _were_ like him, I said you _sounded_ like him. What
is your problem, anyway?"
"What are you talking about?"
"You've been touchy this whole trip."
"Me!"
"And every time I try to actually _talk_ to you, all the armor
snaps down." She gestured with her hands.
"Look, there's nothing to talk about. See?" Turning in his
seat, he spread his arms as wide as he could in the small space. "No
armor. I'm not even mad. I know the time thing wasn't your fault."
She folded her arms again, looking at him. Her hand began rubbing her
upper arm in a gesture that looked almost wounded. "Okay. Everything's
fine, then, right?"
"Right."
"So why won't you tell me about your nightmare?"
"Because I--"
"Don't want to talk about it," she finished for him, turning
back to her magazine.
***
5:00 pm
Without warning, Dick spoke. "Why are you so curious to hear about
it, anyway?"
"I just..." she paused. "Before you left Gotham, even
when I was still just Babs, and you were just Dick, there were things you
wouldn't tell me. The night you had the fight with Bruce...you were so
angry. All I wanted to to do was help, but you wouldn't tell me what was
wrong."
"Neither one of us was ever 'just' anything, though, were we?"
he said. "Anyway, this dream definitely wasn't anything Dick could
tell Babs."
Her eyes widened slightly. "Then...it was about..."
"Just forget it. Why should you care, anyway? You got what you
wanted. You got to work with him. Allowed into his world."
"Well, sure." She shrugged. "You know, it wasn't easy
getting accepted into that boy's club of yours. Now, what was it you first
called me?" She tapped her finger to her lips. "An...amateur?
You told me to go home, little girl."
"I never called you 'little girl.' I never...thought of you like
that. It's just...you were a stranger, new. And obviously, yes, an amateur.
I didn't want you to get hurt."
"Oh, how magnanimous of you."
"You're good. You're very good at what you do. Is that what you
want me to say? You don't need to hear that from me."
"How do you know?"
He snorted. "Well, yeah, he isn't exactly free and easy with the
praise, is he?"
"Why do you always talk about him like that? Like he's some kind
of stone statue without feelings? After you left, he took it hard."
"Why are you defending him?"
Across the aisle and up one row, a white-haired elderly couple had turned
to stare at them, wrinkled faces kind and curious. When Barbara noticed
them they both quickly turned away. The woman nudged the man, whispering
something. He shrugged.
"He never did anything to hurt you," Barbara said, lowering
her voice.
"Not on purpose, no. But how could I expect you to understand?
You worship the ground he walks on."
"What?!"
"Wasn't much fun, being your consolation prize," he said,
close-lipped, so quietly she almost didn't hear.
"Consolation prize..." Realization dawned in her face. "You
idiot!" Her voice rose. Several passengers turned in their seats to
stare.
"Excuse me," said the overweight British gentlemen in the
seat just behind Barbara's. He wore a beige suit of expensive material
and was balding. "Do you mind keeping it down?"
"I swear to God, Dick," she murmured under her breath, so
that only he could hear, "one day that chip on your shoulder is going
to get so heavy you'll fall right over!"
"You expect me to believe you never felt that way about him?"
She gritted her teeth, then let out a breath, and said slowly, "Maybe,
at the beginning, it was sort of a school-girl crush type of thing. And
I did admire him. But eventually, that's all it was."
"Right. You copied him, while I was just the kid in tights."
A stewardess passing by with pillows looked at them, blinked, then quickly
looked away, face rigidly holding its smooth, professional, friendly expression.
"No. You're good at what you do, too. You're almost as good as
he is. Is that what _you_ want to hear from me?" She looked down at
her hands, knitting her fingers together. "At first I thought you
were trying to get rid of me."
"Get rid of you? But I..."
"You know, waiting for me to trip up so you could send me home.
Keep things the way they had always been, I guess. And while I was running
around trying to copy him, you were the one who always seemed to be around."
"Gee, thanks. How annoying for you."
"No! I mean, you were always there. You covered my back more times
than I can count. After a while...it didn't feel like you were trying to
get rid of me anymore."
"Did you trust me?"
She blinked. "Yes." She met his gaze, realized, and her hand
lifted in protest, before he even began his next words.
"Then why didn't you tell me."
Her hand dropped. "The same reason you didn't tell me. Did you
trust _me_?"
"As much as you trusted me."
In sheer frustration, she balled her hand into a fist and let it fall
to the arm rest, rattling her seat.
"I say, do you mind?" The Englishman protested again, faintly,
behind Barbara.
"Maybe that's not saying much," she said coldly. "Obviously,
I trusted you more than I should have."
"How can you say that?"
"What am I supposed to say? How do you think it felt, always having
you there, and then you weren't anymore. You walked out. Like that."
She snapped her fingers. "You left without even saying goodbye."
"Huh. Taking his side again?"
"I'm not taking sides. I'm just saying...you didn't have to leave."
She looked down, sadly.
"There was nothing to hold me there," he said defensively.
"Can you give me one reason I should have stayed? One reason?"
She raised her head. Her face had the blank, shocked look of someone
with the wind knocked out of them. Then she tucked a loose strand of hair
behind her ear, and let out a breath.
"Well, if you can't think of one," she said, voice clipped,
"I guess there wasn't one, was there?"
A note in her voice, something beneath the anger and the bitterness,
made him look at her hard.
Seconds passed before he finally spoke again.
"But...when I left, you were mad," he said softly, turning
in his seat, one hand resting on the top of the seat in front of him, leaning
slightly closer to her.
She averted her head, refusing to look at him now. "Yes."
It was almost a whisper.
"How come?"
A newspaper, turned in the hands of another passenger, rustled in the
silence
"Because you don't just offer someone the future and then take
it back," she said, voice caught at the back of her throat.
He pulled back from her slightly, slow realization growing in his eyes;
his hand, almost of its own accord, reached out towards her. He opened
his mouth to say something in reply.
"Nobody move," a male voice said slowly, loudly, commandingly,
accent american.
Heads going up sharply, a movement almost synchronous, Dick and Barbara
watched as two rows ahead of them, a man with wide shoulders, thin features,
and blond hair cropped short rose to his feet and turned, something small
and black held in his hands--handgun, semi-automatic, made of what looked
like plastic, like a child's toy.
The other first-class passengers gasped. One woman saw the gun and screamed.
From coach came the faint sounds of a similar command from two more voices,
one female, one male, and small cries and screams of surprise. The elderly
man put a protective arm about his wife's shoulders as she moved closer
to him.
"And you two..." the man added, stepping out into the aisle
and approaching Dick and Babs, who had tensed in their seats. "You've
been arguing all the way from Paris. It's driving me crazy." He aimed
the handgun at Dick's face. "So keep your mouths shut!"
"Y'know," said the portly British gentleman, "I've been
waitin' for hours fer someone to tell them that."
***
5:40 pm
He dialed the cell phone under his jacket, with Babs on lookout. Hunching
over as if to tie his laces, he put the phone to his ear. "Come on,
pick up..." he muttered.
"Dick!" She said sharply, a warning.
A gun pressed to the side of Dick's head, just above his ear. Slowly,
he sat up. The blond terrorist looked down at him with a grim smile on
his face.
"Hang up and hand me the phone." He held out his free hand.
Through the earpiece, the ringing on the other end was audible, along
with the abrupt click as it was answered. Then Tim's voice-- "Hello?
Hello?"
"I said, hang up!"
Dick complied.
"Now, give me the phone."
Dick had only paused for a second, but that was all it took. The barrel
of the gun moved from Dick's head to Barbara's.
"Give me the phone."
He obeyed immediately.
"As for the rest of you," the blond man said, pocketing the
cell phone as he turned to sweep his gun over the cabin, "if anyone
else tries anything like that, you'll be executed where you sit, shot in
the head."
***
6:00 pm
The sick-passenger routine worked. Despite the suspicions of the blond
terrorist, Barbara was permitted to go back to the lavatory--which gave
her a great view of the situation in coach. She returned, dropping back
into her seat as if exhausted, hand on her stomach. A quick glance passed
between Babs and Dick.
It was time to start planning strategy.
"Even the food disagreed with me," she said, loudly and petulantly.
The blond terrorist gave her a look but didn't come over with his gun.
Not yet.
"Now, dear, no one else is sick. It's probably nerves."
"Oh, that's typical." She flipped her hair back over her shoulder.
"You can't even choose an airline without terrorism and food-poisoning.
I swear to God, Richard, the moment we land, the moment we land..."
Her voice, rich with fury, trailed off. She looked Dick right in the face,
eyes speaking volumes. Imperceptibly, so that she almost missed it, he
nodded.
There was a chance the terrorists would be cool-headed enough to remember
they shouldn't risk shooting a hole in the plane at 30,000 feet. But both
of them had learned a long time ago not to trust chance with the desperate.
The blond terrorist's glance swept over first class. Satisfied that
all was as it should be, he leaned against the side of a seat six rows
ahead of Dick and Babs, gun held at the ready.
Keeping his hands low, Dick turned his palm upward in a question gesture.
~Report.~
With her hands in her lap, Babs pointed towards the back of her seat,
then stuck up one finger.
~I only saw one in coach.~ Her glance went to the cockpit door, and
she pointed to it. ~The third is still in there?~
Dick nodded.
Babs gestured her finger towards the blond american, then spun the finger
in a little circle.
~We can take him out.~
Palm face down, hand flat, Dick waved his fingers back and forth vehemently,
then moved his hand towards the direction of coach.
~No. The one in coach would start shooting the moment we touched him.~
Barbara pointed her thumb at the overhead compartment, and met his eyes.
Dick shook his head. ~Too risky.~
She held her hands out at him, palms up. ~We have to try.~ She put her
thumb and tip of her forefinger together as if holding a tiny marble. ~Just
the stuff from the belts.~
After a long pause, he nodded. Far below, the Atlantic Ocean gave way
to the rocky northeastern coastline of america.
***
6:12 pm
The terrorist in the cockpit, a woman wearing glasses, opened the door,
and stood with her back to the jamb, gun arm extended back into the cockpit.
Her glance moved between her associate and the pilot, co-pilot, and navigator.
"Ready, mate?" She also had blonde hair, pulled back into
a flawless french braid, with black roots. Her Australian accent may or
may not have been genuine.
"Frederick!" The blond american called. The curtain separating
first from coach had been tied back. The third terrorist, a small, dark-haired
frenchman, appeared, taking a stance similar to that of the woman.
The two at the cockpit door could be taken out with one leap and a kick,
at the same time. The one at the curtain would be even easier. Dick began
a slow shift in his seat, hands bracing on the armrest--and Babs lightly
touched his arm, stopping him. He looked at her questioningly. She tapped
her fingers on the hull of the plane just below the window, then pointed
at the gun held in the blond's hand. For a second undecided, he held his
position. Then, slowly, his nod full of resignation and disappointment,
he sat back again. Barbara lifted her hand, palm flat, then brought it
down at an angle across the top of her other hand, and rested it there.
~When we land.~
"Why don't we just land in Gotham, Stan?" The woman asked.
The blond man's eyes narrowed. "Don't be an idiot if you can help
it, Rebecca. Do you have any idea what lives in Gotham?"
At the curtain, the small frenchman murmured almost reverently, "La
chauve-souris!"
"We land in New York. There's nothing like that in New York!"
"Okay, mate. You heard the man," Rebecca ordered, turning
back into the cockpit. She left the door open this time. "Turn this
plane. We're goin' to the big apple."
***
7:21 pm
There seemed to be too many lights on the runway of John F. Kennedy
International Airport. Outside the plane, the sun was setting in a glorious
display of molten fire over the distant New York City skyline.
Rebecca had radioed ahead from the cockpit, gun stuck to the co-pilot's
head. Their demands were simple, easily overheard through the open cockpit
door: ten million dollars, a fast, long-range helicopter, diplomatic immunity.
Firetrucks, police vehicles, news vans, and countless sedans that had
an air of government agency origin seemed to fly by outside the plane's
windows as it touched down, then taxied to a halt.
The fasten seat belts light flicked out. Back in coach, someone was
crying, very softly.
As soon as the plane had lurched to a gentle stop, Barbara rose indignantly
from her seat. "Well, it's about time," she declared, popping
open the overhead compartment. "Can we get out of here now?"
Quickly, her fingers closed over the handles of her duffel.
"Sit down," the blond, Stan, ordered. He moved to her side
with two fluid steps and grabbed her upper arm with a brutal grip. "I've
had just about enough from both of you." Pulling on her arm, he flung
her hard down into her seat, while Dick reached out to steady her.
Only Dick saw the look of pure, white-hot rage she gave Stan before
a mask of timidity and submission fell into place. She hunched over her
duffel bag defensively. "I'm sorry. I just want to get off this plane.
I just want to go home..." she sniffed.
Disgusted, Stan moved away. Barbara stuck her tongue out at his back
and unzipped the duffel just wide enough to fit her slender wrist through.
She rummaged around, keeping her body hunched over the duffel to hide what
she was doing, while Dick put an arm across her shoulders, as if to comfort,
making it easier for him to take the small items she pressed into his hand
without drawing attention.
Six small gas balls. Two packets of flash powder. A micro-sized radio
frequency jammer. A homing device. A hypospray.
Dick, intent on gathering the items and tucking them away in the inside
pockets of his leather jacket, only caught the movement in the corner of
his eye. Then he did a double take, and stared.
The portly British gentleman was peering curiously over the top of Barbara's
seat, watching everything they were doing.
"Babs..." Dick said, through clenched teeth.
"Not now, Dick, I'm trying to get the--" she whispered, hand
stuck in the duffel.
He reached out, took her chin, and turned her head so she could see
their watcher.
"Oh," she said.
The portly English gentleman gave them both a polite, curious smile.
Then, in broad, deep tones whose origins were of a sudden clearly from
the american midwest, he said "That's quite an arsenal you have there,
m'dear." His arm came up, and a handgun similar in style to that of
the three terrorists appeared over the top of the seat to point at them.
"Stan, I think you'd better come take a look at this!"
***
9:31 pm
"So, what you are you, CIA? NSA? You don't seem like DGSE...Interpol,
perhaps?"
The portly american, whom Stan called Bill, leaned over them in a friendly
fashion, as if he were hanging out at the local bar shooting the breeze.
Stan knelt on the floor of the aisle, examining Barbara's duffel bag with
one hand.
Thanks to her skillful rummaging, the leather pouch was resealed and
stuck under her clothes. But sooner or later, he might find it, and even
if he couldn't figure out that certain trick needed to open it, he would
be very, very curious about it.
A low, rhythmic thudding sounded outside the plane windows, audible
in the silence left behind when the engines had stilled.
"Helicopter's here," Rebecca called out. "And they're
wheeling the disembarking platform up to the plane now."
"We don't have time now," Bill told Stan. "Bring it with
us, along with the man's--it's in the overhead. We'll examine them later
once we're at home base. Maybe we'll find something useful inside."
Stan rezipped the duffel bag. Dick's eyes met Babs'. ~This is bad. Very
bad.~
Bill turned to Rebecca. "You radioed them my cell phone number?"
he said.
"Yes," Rebecca said.
"Tell them to call it now."
Rebecca stepped back into the cockpit.
"You two are good, I have to admit," said Bill. "That
bickering couple routine, the upset stomach, your little spook toys. I'm
impressed." He sighed. "It's just such a shame you aren't on
our team."
***
10:30 pm
"...all right. We agree. And in case your boys think to try anything
funny, we're keeping two of your agents...that's right. We so much as smell
a trace on the helicopter, and they'll be executed...oh, _really_. Well,
you can tell interpol to kiss my--hey, he hung up." Bill handed the
phone back to Stan. "That's it. We're getting out. Good news, folks!"
Bill turned and called back into the coach cabin. "You all get to
leave. You two..." he swung back to Dick and Babs. "You two are
our insurance policy. Come on, get up." He yanked Barbara out of her
seat, handing her to Stan. "Tie her hands," Bill ordered.
Stan roughly pulled Barbara towards the exit hatch, pulling a length
of cord from his pocket. He wrenched her arms behind her back and looped
the cord around her wrists, yanking it tight. When she twisted, trying
to ease the pain of it, Stan slapped her across the face with the back
of his hand. Her head moved with the blow, red hair falling into her eyes.
"Leave her alone!" Dick lunged out into the aisle, but a pinch-grip
between his neck and shoulder stopped him.
"You want to mess with me?" Bill traced the barrel of the
handgun along the line of Dick's chin, then pressed it into his neck. "Button
it, big mouth."
Barbara turned, Stan restraining her. She shot Stan a glare and then
stilled. "Dick, don't," she spoke, watching him; the tense lines
of his shoulders and jaw as he glared at Bill levelly, ignoring the gun,
were sure signs of what might happen at any second now. But it was too
risky, too soon, not with the other passengers still on board.
With a blank expression, Dick relaxed, then stood submissively and let
Bill ties his hands. Barbara let out a sigh of relief. Dick met her gaze.
A look telegraphed between them, received clearly on both sides.
~Wait for the helicopter. No news cameras to catch our moves on tape,
no people to get hurt. It's our best chance.~
The hatch swung open as a roar of noise and wind entered the plane.
Blinking red lights flashed in the night. Outside the hatch a metal stairway
waited.
With a relaxed, commanding air that might have suited a boy scout troup
leader, Bill began giving orders to the passengers for disembarking, with
Frederick lending a prod or nudge as necessary.
As the elderly couple from first class moved towards the hatch, the
woman, leaning on her husband's arm, stopped in front of Barbara. In a
warm, conspiratorial gesture, she put her head close to the young woman's.
"Why don't you two patch things up?" She whispered. "You're
adorable together."
The elderly couple moved out onto the platform, the wind from the helicopter
blowing the woman's white hair in the wind. Then they were gone, the man
helping the woman down the steps, swallowed by the bright lights and the
wave of reporters and law enforcement officials that enfolded them.
***
11:55 pm
"Rebecca, where are we?" Bill demanded over the thud of helicopter
blades.
"Midpoint between New York and Gotham," the woman answered,
hands on the controls. "Heading south-southwest."
Through the small windows, a blur of darkness that was woods was visible
below. In the distance, surrounded by the dark threading ribbon of a river,
an ethereal aura burned--Gotham.
"Anyone on our tail, Frederick?"
In the seat next to Rebecca, Frederick turned. "Non. It is just
darkness."
"Nothing on the radio, either," Rebecca reported.
Stan sat between Dick and Barbara with Bill across from them. The duffel
bags were tucked in a corner. It was dim in the helicopter, only faint
starlight and the pale lights from the cockpit offering illumination.
"That'll do," Bill said with satisfaction, turning from the
window. He stood, stooping slightly beneath the curving ceiling of the
hull. His fingers closed around Dick's shoulder, and pulled him from the
seat. "Open the door," he told Stan.
The blond man complied, letting in a blast of cold night wind. Bill
kept the barrel of the gun to the back of Dick's head. "We don't really
need both of them now," Bill explained to his colleagues, voice raised
over the sound of the helicopter blades. "We'll shoot this one, and
keep her as our insurance."
Click. The safety moved off the gun. Dick held very still, hands gripping
either side of the door. The wind ripped at his hair and jacket. Dark tree
tops rushed by hundreds of feet below.
"You can jump," Bill shouted over the thud of helicopter blades,
the beige cloth of his suit whipping about him, "I can shoot you,
or I can push you. Which is it going to be, secret agent man?"
"None of the above," Barbara said mildly.
Her leg flew up. The powerful kick struck a precise point on Bill's
wrist, knocking him back against the curving walls. His gun flew out the
door as he slumped, momentarily stunned.
Simultaneously, Dick, whose hands had not really been tied for approximately
twenty minutes, went up a crouch, then leapt at Stan.
Before the gun left his hand he managed one shot that went wild, tearing
a hole in the helicopter hull. Frederick, out of his seat while Rebecca
had to concentrate on flying, began to shoot repeatedly.
Barbara, whose hands had not really been tied for about fifteen minutes,
dropped and rolled, a bullet missing her by inches.
Something in the aircraft machinery went *clank* and the cabin lurched.
Barbara rolled towards the open door, and grabbed a seat, catching herself.
"Stop it!" Rebecca yelled. "You're going to bring us
down with all that shooting."
From her crouch, Barbara used her hands for leverage and leg-swept Frederick.
The dark-haired man fell, still holding his gun. Barbara rolled to her
feet and stepped on his lower arm. Frederick screamed a curse in his native
tongue and lost his grip on the firearm. Fisting her hands together, Barbara
clubbed him on the back of the neck. He lost consciousness.
After kicking Frederick's gun from craft, Dick picked up Stan's and
threw it out as if it were a dead rat, something not to be handled longer
than absolutely necessary.
Stan leapt at Barbara, wrapping his arms about her waist and bringing
them both crashing to the slanting floor.
Dick turned to help Barbara, but powerful arms closed around him from
behind, lifting his feet from the floor. Despite his paunch, Bill moved
with an oily grace and strength. "You _are_ good," he said, with
genuine admiration.
"Thanks." Rather than struggling, Dick leaned forward. His
feet met the floor. He hardly seemed to move as he used his opponent's
weight against him, pitching Bill over his shoulder. The heavy man thudded
against the far side of the helicopter, slumped to the floor, and lay still,
eyes closed. "I learned from the best," Dick finishished.
Barbara's fingers closed around Stan's wrists as he went for her throat.
"I've had about enough out of you, Stan. Hi-yaaah!" Lying on
the floor of the copter, she kicked Stan in the stomach. As he gasped for
breath, she grabbed him by the collar and socked him across the jaw. He
went limp.
"Nice moves," Dick said, holding out his hand to her.
Rebecca let go of the controls with one hand, fumbling for her gun.
Using Dick's arm to propel her, Barbara leapt to her feet and launched
herself at the pilot's seat. She grabbed Rebecca from behind, trying to
pin her gun arm.
A pair of legs ending in sneakered feet shot past Barbara, catching
Rebeccca in the face. She slumped over the controls. The helicopter pitched
forward and lurched violently. Dick, using the pilot and co-pilot's seats
like parallel bars, swung himself into the seat next to Rebecca.
Gently but quickly, he pushed the unconscious woman into the co-pilot's
seat and grabbed at the controls. The helicopter continued to tilt. Barbara
staggered back from the seat.
"What is it?" She yelled.
"I think it's the rudder. Get that door closed."
Kneeling, Barbara held onto a seat with one hand and slammed the door
shut with the other.
"Okay, Babs, strap in, and hang on!"
Barbara dropped into a seat and fastened the belt. The helicopter began,
slowly, to go into a spin.
Tree branches scraped against the hull with a sound like ripping claws
trying to get in. Then the blades hit the leaves. The world went sideways
and upside down.
And stopped with a tremendous jolt. The crippled blades powered down.
An equally thudding silence descended in their place. The floor had ceased
to move.
Hands shaking slightly, Barbara unclipped the metal clasp of the seatbelt.
She clenched her hands and unclenched them; the shaking diminished. Gingerly,
she got to her feet. "Dick?"
Silence. She stepped closer to the pilot's seat, something tightening
in her throat. "Dick?!"
A faint groan. The slumped form at the controls sat up and rubbed at
his face groggily.
Barbara leaned against the side of the cabin. She closed her eyes for
a moment. Then she opened them, and picked her way carefully over to him.
"Dick, you okay?"
"Yeah," he said ruefully, pulling himself out of the seat.
"Like landing a washing machine doing the tango. No prob. How are
the four stooges doing?"
Kneeling, Barbara checked Bill's pulse. "He's alive."
They checked the rest. All were unconscious but seemed fine otherwise.
Dick pulled his own cell phone from the pocket of Stan's jacket, then reached
in again and took out the terrorist's phone. He looked at Babs.
"Who do we call?"
"Airport security."
"Can you find something to tie them up with? Not...from our stuff.
That'd be sort of a giveaway."
"Dead," she embellished, and gathered up the rope that had
once held her and Dick.
"...hello?" Dick spoke into the phone. "Yeah, got a hot
tip for you. You know the four terrorists on flight 714 to Gotham airport?
The ones that held an entire planeload of passenger hostage for hours?...yes.
Them. Well, you'll find them waiting for you in a clearing about thirty
minutes from JFK. Oh, and we gift-wrapped them for you." He hung up
and dialed another number. "Hello, Alfred? It's me....we're going
to be a bit later than we expected...uh...we had a little trouble on our
flight from Paris....tell you about it later...no, nothing to worry
about...we'll
rent a car. Oh, and Alfred? Did Bruce happen to catch the national news
tonight?...Uh...yeah...no...he was?....then tell him...tell him Barbara
and I are all right. We're together. We're all right." He hung up
again and snapped the phone shut.
He looked at Barbara as she put the final touches on the knots holding
Bill secure. The last one. She got to her feet and saw him staring at her.
"We are, aren't we?" He said softly. "All right?"
In the half-darkness she gave him a wan half-smile. "Maybe. We'll
have to see."
They found their bags. Then together, they climbed out of the helicopter,
and walked away from the tangle of branches and wreckage.
END