the adventures of rick oahu ~ 4 ~ the ballina flight
The Ballina to Sydney flight was never overbooked and it was only after the plane had risen from the ground did Yasso Kraynt wonder why the thin-faced man was in such a hurry.
Yasso had been on the three to five afternoon customs bagcheck shift, and had stupidly nodded his last passenger through on courtesy, seeing as he had no cabin baggage and was wearing a clean shirt.
And only now, and far too late, did Yasso wonder why Flight AWS59 – the Ballina to Sydney – was circling the airport at 1,000 feet instead of heading south at 10,000.
Rick Oahu relaxed in his aisle seat; homebound after 6 months in the Islands and a two-month break from serious surfing in the stoned calm of back Byron. A couple of days in the hills with friends. Skies of stars and wild dogs in the gullys. Immense quiet.
Acknowledged Master of Teahupoo and a semi-retired SAS veteran of both Gulf wars. Five years in Afghanistan.
8th belt in the routine of Chen style Taijiquan, Black Sash in Wudang Boxing.
North Korean Bare Fist champion of all the provinces.
Fighting wonder of the modern world. Gentleman. Salt of the earth. Goofy foot. Super man.
Later, when interviewed by the NSW Premier Assault Squad Commander, Rick admitted some surprise when the thin faced man burst out of the toilet and trod all over him as he strove for the cockpit.
Said Rick, ‘ Mate, he was seriously out of order.’
The Official Police Report described the thin-faced man, now identified as Norm Smith of Toongabbie, as having a lifelong hatred of men who could fly something heavier than air, in the air. Never got the grasp of it did old Norm, same at school. Real dickhead. This is what happens when you don’t play rugby.
Smith had burst out of the toilet screaming incoherently and the thin blade that glittered from his fist first sliced through the shoulder of occupant A14 and then along the throat of occupant A3, who happened to be a real bleeder, and all over the seat. Very messy. Bloody man couldn’t keep still.
Oahu was observed slowly getting to his feet as Smith reached the locked door that separated the cockpit from the passengers, and despite the insane and menacing harangues of the madman he moved forward, steadily. Like a panther.
He watched Smith pluck a small child from her mother’s arms and wave both blade and child aloft. Now they looked at each other with some authorised animosity. An authority to kill had settled upon them both like an all-body massage .. murderous intent can be asexually ascribed. This is what we are. Ponder this deep moment before we continue.
…. but where is the love?
Rick (SAS ret.) stumbled and fell a full length along the fuselage floor, a masterful piece of subterfuge, and as thin-faced Smith turned his attention once more to the door that denied him entrance to the cockpit he felt but did not see the arm that encircled his neck and relieve him of his small and helpless hostage, who by now had accumulated quite a substantial and menacingly pungent deposit in
its her clothing. As if A3’s blood wasn’t enough today. Now we have compost.
Oahu turned Smith around and bent his knife arm backwards and rigid against seat A2, and snapped it clean at the elbow, delivering a hissing compound fracture that had the thin man howling in agony. Major pain. Bones, flesh, tendons, arteries all red-souped up.
A little garlic, a hot pan and hello Dr. Lecter.
Just an aside.
Seat A2 was unconscious at the time. We are back to the plot here. More blood, more splatters. Some dry cleaning bills are going to be outrageous.
He (this is Rick) then revolved the howling hijacker anti-clockwise, and after disposing of the now useless blade he rested the half-dead bastard’s left arm over his thigh and bent it slowly backwards until the woodsman like SNAP of freshly broken bone and yet another fine red spray of arterial blood that accompanied the emergence of another massive and compounded fracture convinced him that the game was won. Smith subsided onto the floor. The look wasn’t good. Training works.
Rick Oahu hasn’t been seen for a while, although Tanya, the Exotic White Tamale says that he writes from the North-east Russian coast occasionally. She has told me this in confidence. Last week at the Gold Coast Sheraton. Now it rests with you.
I thought it was going to be about your old Bondi mate Rick de Ruiter who spent many years as a cop in the Honolulu Police Dept. Oh well ………..perhaps another time since Barrett beat you to it some years ago.
Rick is an intellectual Ted, Norton is a wombat.
Ah, Pete, good ole Rick. He should be conscripted to front up for Australia’s tourism industry instead of Hoges or Bingle. Would bring a whole new meaning to “where the bloody hell are you?”, I reckon.
I only wish the wanker would come up here and help with the grass –