Title: Situation 911

QL/RL

Author: Robin Margolin

Email: robinmargo@att.net

This is a piece of fiction inspired by and dedicated to the brave men and women on United Airlines flight 93. They gave their lives to keep more Americans from dying on September 11th, 2001. I have no knowledge of their real actions or of the real objective of those who carried out this horrible act. This is my way of coping with this tragedy.

Sam Beckett and Al Calavicci are the borrowed with love from Quantum Leap. I own nothing but the imaginings of a broken heart.



Situation 911
By Robin Margolin

As if a veil lifted from his face, Dr. Sam Beckett slowly became conscious of his surroundings. He was crouched in a huddle with 10 other people, a low soft hum filled his ears and the matching vibration tickled his feet through his shoes. Sam was so hoping that he was playing football, but the stale air and artificial lighting proved him wrong.

"What do you think?" a male voice asked.

"I think calling my husband would be a good idea," a middle-aged, smartly dressed woman replied. "If they are letting us make contact, we should take advantage of it."

Sam looked around. He was in an airplane, a big one. He wondered why he was there and when Al would let him know. Lately Al had been arriving very quickly after Sam leaped in.

The middle-aged woman stood. She attracted the attention of a short thin middle-eastern man holding a knife. "I'll call home," she said.

That's when Sam noticed the blood on the floor. He followed the wet line with his eyes. He stood to be able to see more of the cabin. At the front of the cabin, a flight attendant lay on the floor. Her blouse and jacket were soaked with blood and her eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling.

Sam felt instantly nauseous and barely held down the bile in his throat. Behind him a door to a bathroom opened. A yuppie in a suit walked out just in time to allow Sam entry to the receptacle where he deposited his stomach contents. As he washed his face, Al arrived.

"How's it going, Sam?" the admiral inquired.

"What the hell is going on here? I feel like I'm in the middle of a hijacking."

"You are. We don't have much time to talk," Al continued grimly. "On September 11th 2001, this plane was hijacked and flown deliberately into the Nuclear Power facility at Three Mile Island in Pennsylvania. The resulting explosion ripped open the core and irradiated the entire east coast."

"What!?!"

Al continued, "It was the last of a three fold attack on the country by terrorists." Al stopped; it was too painful to tell Sam the rest.

"If I'm here to stop a hijacking, it's too late. The terrorists are already in control of the plane, Al." Sam was not complaining but rather looking for ideas. "How long do I have before …"

Al consulted the handlink. "Eleven minutes, Sam."

The door thumped several times loudly causing both men to jump. Sam mouthed, "the pilot" at Al as he opened the door and was roughly pulled out.

Al nodded, "I'll check what's happening on the flight deck. Be right back, Sam."

Sam was thrown to the floor and then kicked by one of the hijackers. Another stood threateningly over the other passengers. Some of the passengers were talking on cell phones, crying as they bid their farewells to loved ones. Some just cowered in terror in their seats. Others sat stone faced, jaws set in anger over what was happening to them.

Harsh Arabic came loudly from the front of the plane. The kicker stopped and ran off the check on his colleague in the cockpit. Two of the other passengers helped Sam into a seat.

"No!" the middle-aged woman called. Sam and his two companions went to her. A small huddle formed again.

Softly and resolutely the woman said, "My husband told me that the twin World Trade towers in New York were hit by airplanes this morning. The Pentagon has also been attacked by a plane."

"This is not just another hijacking. We are all going to die," a soft-spoken teenager said.

"I'll be damned if I'm going to let those bastards use me as a weapon," a large black man spoke. "There are only three of them, we can take them out."

Multiple voices agreed and responded with "I'm in" as Al popped back into Sam's line of sight.

"They're all dead or dying, Sam," he grimly reported.

"Can anyone fly an airplane? I'm pretty sure the crew is dead," Sam asked his compatriots. The answer was a disheartened negative.

"Since we're all going to die anyway, let's die by our terms," another voice said.

"This plane is going to crash," a passenger said.

"Let's make sure we don't take anyone else with us," the yuppie said. "Look, there's a forest down there."

The passengers all agreed. They rushed the single remaining hijacker and stabbed him with his own knife. Then they moved on the cockpit.

The hijacker-pilot engaged the autopilot that he had just reprogrammed. With a sickening smile he rose from the pilot's chair and turned to face his riled prisoners. "Kill me now. It makes no matter. My destiny has been fulfilled." The teen sucker punched him and the crowd began to take him to the rear of the plane.

"Jihaaad!" the third hijacker cried as he flung himself into the crowd of passengers. Sam noodle kicked the knife from his hand and then the large black man pummeled him into oblivion.

"Nine minutes, Sam," Al called out to his best friend.

Sam moved into the cockpit. He surveyed the controls of the jumbo jet. "This is more complicated than the X-2, Al."

"Sam, find the autopilot," Al directed.

"That won't do any good. No one can land this puppy. How do I shut down the engines, Al?"

"No, Sam. You'll crash for sure."

"This plane is going to crash anyway." Sam stared at his partner. Al considered options for a full thirty seconds before realizing that there were none.

"That control on your left is the fuel cut off. Hit that and she falls out of the sky in less that 20 seconds."

"Good-bye, Al. Thanks for … everything," Sam choked back the tears. He flipped the fuel cut off switch … and leaped.



END