The Kremlin File

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It’s impossible now to skyjack a plane from the United States. You know it can’t be done, and I know it — and so does every idiot who gets hold of a Saturday Night Special or an army surplus grenade.

So why was the stewardess on Flight 709, bound for Grand LaClare Island, being so cozy with the black haired, dark faced passenger at the head of the aisle? She was passing him a gun.

A tidy little snubnosed job all warmed up from lying under her uniform, between the fantastic breasts I’d just been admiring so much. Everybody seemed to be asleep, and at first I thought the man was feeling her up and she was being an obliging hostess. “I’m Reddy. Fly me.” When she unzipped her fitted jacket, I figured I was in for some entertaining voyeurism. Until she took out the shiny little piece of metal that caught a glint of light and winked at me.

She laid it in his palm, turned her back and went through the door to the front cabin.

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