“We don’t know.”
“I thought MI5 knew everything. You’re not giving me a lot to go on. Hang on. Let me call the cashiers and see what I can come up with.”
“Thank you. And please hurry.”
The passengers onboard Flight 4052 were drinking hard and buzzing with excitement as they prepared for their fun in the sun holiday on Portugal’s famed Algarve coastline. Another hour and they would be there.
That was until the voice came over the plane’s P.A. system, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your pilot, Angela Griffin, and there is no cause for alarm but we have a warning light on one of our trim flaps. This doesn’t affect the safety of our aircraft but it does mean we can’t cruise at our optimum altitude. Because of this we are diverting to Biarritz in France to get the part replaced. I anticipate it will take less than two hours to have the problem resolved and then we’ll be back on our way to Faro.”
A groan arose from the passengers. Two hours of the vacation they had worked so hard for had just been stolen from them. A dozen lights went off simultaneously as the disgruntled travelers punched their call buttons to summon the flight attendants and get more drinks. As they waited to place their orders, the plane dipped its left wing and started into its new course.
Fifty miles behind Flight 4052, the two pursuit fighters watched the 737 bank into a long, sweeping easterly turn as it began its journey to the French coastline.
The pilot in the lead fighter clicked on his radio to report, “M.O.D., this is Typhoon Strike One. We have visual confirmation the target is changing course. Repeat target is changing course. Now heading east, southeast.”
The reply crackled into the headphones built into the pilot’s helmet, “Typhoon Strike One, this is M.O.D. Roger that. Maintain position and wait for further instructions.”
The radio tech turned to the officers lined up behind her, “The Typhoons are waiting for your orders.”
The Minister said nothing, overtaken by the dreadful weight of responsibility falling on him. A Brigadier General, standing with him felt the same anxiety but was forced to agree, “I don’t see any alternative, Minister. This is going down exactly as Signet said it would.”
“I am very aware of that,” replied Britain’s Minister of Defense, “but this is a last resort option. I’ll be damned if I blow a civilian plane out of the sky without trying all other means.” He barked at the radio operator who remained focused on him, “Patch me through to the pilot. I want to talk to them before I give the order to blast them all to hell.”
“Will do, sir.” She swiveled back to her monitor and set the frequency, “Northumbria Airlines Flight 4052, this is a priority one transmission from Whitehall. Do you copy?”
Silence answered her broadcast.
“Trying secondary frequencies now, sir.” She repeated her call four more times as she went up and down the dial. Each time she was only rewarded with static.
Finally, she turned back to her superior, “I have tried all primary and secondary frequencies and received no response. Nothing on the emergency band either, sir. Unless they are on a channel I don’t know about, then either the pilot’s radio is dead-”
“Or the pilot is,” The Minister completed her sentence. “Log those calls. I want it on record we made every possible attempt to reach the plane before…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish his words.
“There’s nothing else you can do, Minister,” offered the Brigadier General.
“I know, but that doesn’t make it any easier.” In his forty-five years in the service, this elderly naval officer had seen combat in many hotspots around the world, from the Falklands to the Middle East, and was proud he had never intentionally harmed a civilian while in action. Now, nearing the end of his career, he was ordering the death of more than two hundred innocent souls. And virtually all of them British, his fellow countrymen and women. But he had no choice.
He felt himself slumping as the moment pulled him down, and forced himself upright, rigid, as if on parade. He had his duty to do, one he had sworn when he first enlisted all those years ago, to protect Queen and country. He spoke again to the radio operator, “Put me through to the fighters.”
“Sir.” She switched on her radio, selected the frequency and spoke swiftly into her microphone, “Typhoon Strike One, this is Whitehall. Come in please.”
There was no lag as her call was answered, “Whitehall, this is Typhoon Strike One receiving you.”
“Typhoon Strike One, stand by for the Minister of Defense, the Right Honorable Sir Michael Bennett.” She gestured to the microphone, “Sir, they are waiting on your words.”
Reluctantly, the old military man bent down and spoke slowly and clearly into the mic, “Typhoon Strike One, this is the M.O.D. You have a code 4-7-4 to proceed. Acknowledge.”
“M.O.D., this is Typhoon Strike One. You are authorizing a code 4-7-4 launch. Confirm.” There was obvious concern in the pilot’s voice.
“Typhoon Strike One, M.O.D. confirms code 4-7-4. We are transferring operation control to Signet with MI6. He will confirm a secondary code and any action you are to carry out. Understood?”
“M.O.D., this is Typhoon Strike One. Understood. Standing by for Signet.”
The Minister nodded to the radio operator, “Patch all calls through to this secure number. Signet will take over from here. Leave the channels open so we can hear as the operation takes place.”
“Yes, sir.”
Colin sat patiently at Simon’s desk, his headset in place, the mini-USB on his phone blinking green. He knew if his plan was working it would be anytime now. The USB switched to red as the call came through.
“Yes?” Colin snapped into the headset.
“Signet, this is Whitehall. Transferring Typhoon Strike control to you. Patching you through now to Typhoon Strike One.” There was a second of silence before she added the words, “Go ahead, Signet.”
A slightly hollow tone sounded in Colin’s headset as they linked him with the pilots high above France’s Atlantic coast. Knowing everything was in place, he spoke quickly and firmly, “Typhoon Strike One, this is Signet. I have a secondary fire control designation code, Bravo, Kilo, Delta.”
“Signet, Typhoon Strike One acknowledging Bravo, Kilo, Delta. My understanding is I am receiving an intercept and destroy code. Please reconfirm.”
“Typhoon Strike One, this is Signet. Your code is correct, Bravo, Kilo, Delta. You are a go to intercept and destroy.”
“Signet, Typhoon Strike One, we have confirmed your code. Acquiring target. Estimated engagement in three minutes.”
The strike leader switched frequencies to inform the other plane, even though he knew the pilot had heard the entire conversation, “Typhoon Strike Two, this is Typhoon Strike One. We have a kill order. Ready all four BVR Meteors and follow me in. I’ll lead, fire two birds and break west, maintaining altitude. You repeat the same action. If we fail to destroy the target on the first pass, we’ll do a second go round with the remaining Meteors. Got it?”
“Typhoon Strike One, this is Typhoon Strike Two. Understood.” There was a moment’s hesitation, “This is for real, right, Stephen?”
His friend’s voice rang back in his headset, “This is for real, mate.”
The two Eurofighter Typhoons banked hard, engaged their afterburners and moved together in attack formation as they closed in on the 737.
At the Ministry of Defense headquarters in Whitehall, the Minister paced as waves of stress and guilt flowed through his body. He stopped behind a second radio operator, “Keep trying to reach the pilot. Use all frequencies to hail them. God help those poor souls.”
Simon sat with the techs in the NCC at Thames house, his face in his hands, waiting for the word from the parking supervisor at Manchester Airport. Finally, a voice sounded from his speaker.
“We had a couple of things we caught on camera that might be of interest which happened over the last hour,” Charles Perry was excited to share his news with
the legendary MI5.
Simon paused, then realized Charles Perry was expecting a reply. “What?” Simon demanded.
“We had someone threaten one of our cashiers. Said they were being overcharged. Almost came to a punch up, but in the end everyone simmered down.”
“How many were in the car?”
“One. A big guy by himself. Definitely not the kind of person you’d want to tangle with.”
Simon grimaced in annoyance, this was obviously not who he was looking for, “What else do you have?”
“A lost ticket. Normally people make a bit of a fuss about it and all kinds of excuses, but this kid paid the full amount without question, one hundred and thirty-eight pounds. All cash, too. And didn’t wait for a receipt or ask for a claim form in case they found the ticket later and could get their money back. That never happens.”
“What kind of footage do you have on the car?”
“Pretty good,” Charles answered. “Front and back plates, and you can see the driver. The other two passengers you can make out but not enough to recognize them in a pub. I’ve emailed you a couple of still shots from the video feed.”
“Three people! Describe them,” ordered Simon, as he pulled out his mobile to check his inbox.
“Like I said, it’s not perfect, but the driver was a teenager, a boy, and he was the one who paid the money. You can see him real clear when he hands it to the cashier-”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Simon was frantic, “and the other two?” The first picture came up on his phone’s screen, as Charles Perry continued with his description.
“From what I could make out it was a man and a woman. The woman in her twenties, the man, early forties. Does that help? Hello? Hello?”
Simon was on his feet, clutching his phone, and racing through the Communications complex to the stairs.
The pilot could see the last of the sun glinting off the tail of the big Boeing ahead of them. This would be like shooting ducks in a barrel, he thought. He clicked on his air-to-air com, “Typhoon Strike Two, this is Typhoon Strike One. I have visual and radar lock. Cutting airspeed and falling back to sixteen nautical miles. Match my actions and prepare to engage and fire.”
Simon knew every second counted and couldn’t wait for the thirties-era elevator, so he took the old stone stairs inside Thames House two at a time as he raced up towards his office, five floors above him. He had to make it.
The two fighters flew wingtip to wingtip as they reduced speed, allowing the passenger plane to increase the distance between them, a move known as lag pursuit, designed to not only give them room to maneuver but also so they would be able to break away after the launch and avoid the missile blast.
Satisfied with their positioning, the lead pilot returned to the radio, “Typhoon Strike Two, this is Typhoon Strike One. Ready to commence initial attack. I will lead; wait three seconds and follow me in. Launch BVR Meteors at the range of fourteen miles then take a hard ninety-degree westerly heading. We’ll regroup and decide if a second go around is needed. Confirm.”
The reply came through clearly, “Typhoon Strike One, this is Typhoon Strike Two. Roger that. Will follow your lead, three seconds behind. All four birds are armed and ready, and I have acquired target lock.”
The pilot checked his armament panel. The computer reported the four missiles were hot. He opened the control cover and unlocked the red FIRE button, designating missiles one and three into armed and ready mode. He was set to engage. With that, the first Eurofighter blasted forward, seconds from missile launch.
Simon emerged on the fifth floor, his level. Damn it. If only his office wasn’t at the end of the corridor. He had always dreamed of having the corner office, from his earliest days as a field agent, and when he had been awarded it, seven years ago, upon his appointment as Director of the United Kingdom’s Internal Security Service, he had luxuriated in the spectacular view of the city and country he was entrusted to protect. But now he wished it was closer, right there, stuck between all the others and not a hard run down the long, narrow hallway. His legs were burning from the steep stairs, but he forced his feet to keep moving, he had no other alternative.
“Typhoon Strike One, firing missiles now.”
The Minister of Defense shuddered as the words from the lead plane’s pilot boomed over the speakers in the Whitehall command center.
Three seconds later another voice filled the air, “Typhoon Strike Two, firing missiles now.” There was a moment’s pause, “Missiles away, locked on target. Breaking west.”
The old general sat down knowing he had authorized death. His two words were simple and said with a tone etched full of sadness, “It’s done.”
Simon burst through the door of his office and saw Colin, as expected, sitting at his desk, in communication with the attacking pilots.
“Call off the fighters,” Simon could barely get the words out, he had no breath left in his body.
“Too late. They’ve fired their missiles.”
Backing up his statement, the lead pilot’s voice sounded over Colin’s speaker, “Birds flying true. Impact in twenty-seven seconds.”
“They’re not on the plane. They stole another car and left Manchester airport ten minutes after the flight took off,” panted Simon. “Look.” He pushed his cell phone in front of Colin.
“There’s nothing there.”
Simon grabbed it back. The screen had gone into sleep mode during his frantic run. “Shit!” He punched in his five-letter code, SPOOK, to unlock it.
“Twenty seconds,” came the pilot’s voice on the speaker.
“A supervisor confirmed they left Terminal Three parking and has footage of them at the cashier’s booth. We also have the car’s plates. We can get them.” The picture appeared again on Simon’s phone, “For Christ’s sake, it’s them!”
“Ten seconds,” the terrible countdown continued.
Colin stared at the image of Eddie leaning out of the car window, paying the parking cashier.
“Stop this, damn it! You can see them,” screamed Simon.
Colin clicked his headset, “Typhoon Strike Force, abort attack. This is Signet, abort attack. Abort attack.”
The soaring fighters were putting needed distance between their two planes and the target, and had steeply banked into a westerly course, towards the setting sun, prepared to turn back and use their remaining missiles should another pass be required.
The headset of the lead pilot crackled to life as the desperate message coming in from Thames House changed everything. With no time to respond or seek further confirmation, he immediately flicked open the security cover on his Fire Control panel, revealing a second large red button and punched it without hesitation.
It was after he had taken the action that he replied, “Destruct initiated, Signet.”
Less than a hundred yards behind the airliner, the four BVR Meteor missiles detonated simultaneously, the high explosive blast-fragmentation warheads sending shock waves and shrapnel radiating outwards, rocking the Boeing and tearing off part of the top of the tail section.
The plane pitched wildly from the concussive blast and was flung into a plunging nosedive. The pilot grabbed her controls and fought hard to pull the 737 out of its unchecked descent. As she battled the massive, unexpected turbulence, she switched to 121.5 MHz, the international frequency for airline distress calls, “Mayday, mayday. This is Northumbria Airlines, Flight 4052. We have sustained unknown impact damage in our tail and rear flaps. Requesting immediate clearance to land, and have fire crews and ambulances standing by in Biarritz. We are coming in heavy.”
The passenger jet began ditching all excess fuel over the Atlantic as Angela Griffin ran through the emergency landing training scenarios she had practiced so many times but hoped she would never have to use.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ireland
A cold wind blew off the Irish Sea as the three fugitives stood at the back of the P & O ferry, staring at the lights of Liverpool fading be
low the horizon.
“I get switching cars at the airport so they couldn’t follow us, but I still don’t understand why we’re going to Ireland?” asked Eddie.
“Because what Cate said was right, without us having a scanner, there was no way of knowing if the fake passport had a valid Covid-19 vaccination record listed, and even if it did and had worked to get us onboard the plane, and then gotten us through immigration into Faro, we would have been too easy to find in Portugal. We don’t speak the language and would have been out of place. This ferry sails to Southern Ireland and they have a travel arrangement with England, so as long as you’re carrying an ID, that’s good enough for them, they rarely check it. When we went through, they didn’t even open our passports. It’s the same as if we were traveling between states back in America,” explained Alex.
“And I have people we can stay with while we work out what to do next,” said Cate.
“I thought we had to keep away from people we knew?” Eddie was still confused.
“They’re not relatives or anything. I met this family when I was your age, hitch-hiking through Europe, then I went back four years ago on a whim. There’s no way anyone could know about them. We’ll be safe there for a few days.”
Alex shivered from the chill, damp air and checked his watch, “It’s nearly midnight. We should go below to our cabin and try to sleep. It’s another seven hours until we get into Dublin.”
No one disagreed with his logic and they followed Alex to the elevators to take them down three levels to their beds.
Colin was at his desk, hunched over paperwork in his office when his cell rang insistently. He tapped the screen, saw Simon’s number and answered, “If you’re calling about the plane, I already know. Landed safely, only a few bumps and bruises.”
“If you call seventeen people hospitalized in France for broken limbs, concussion, and lacerations, bumps and bruises, then I guess you’re correct,” replied Simon.
“It could have been a lot worse.”
“It would have been a lot worse.” Simon kept his temper under control and refrained from getting into a drawn-out battle by holding back the condemnation he wanted to unleash.
Birthright: Pray your past stays hidden (Alex Turner Book 1) Page 19