The Eighth Day

by Tom Avitabile

  At the cockpit’s slight angle of ascent, the flight deck crew could not see the island of Manhattan, or its buildings. The little icon representing their craft on the cockpit GPS system showed them to be smack dab in the middle of the Hudson River. The Ring Laser Gyro Inertial Navigation System was starting to sense a disparity between the GPS reported position of the plane, and its own dead reckoning based on physics.

  ∞§∞

  As soon as the plane diverted from its assigned airspace, an FAA flight controller in New York Center, following protocol, sent out a scramble order followed by an attempt to contact the off-course plane.

  ∞§∞

  Major Jack Haus was in the cockpit of his F-18c Eagle. He and his wingman were in the on strip alert, in the hot seats. Their two Grumman fighters, looking like needle-nosed hatchlings nestled under a corrugated steel canopy at the end of runway 2-9’er, were ready to go. Two ground-support units were attached to their engines, keeping them hot and turning. From where they sat, it was a straight shot down the runway and up into the air. When the alert came, all he had to do was snap on his oxygen mask and throttle up.

  It had been that way since the terrible attack on New York’s symbol of World Trade. He and his squadron had responded a total of 47 times since the new security measures were initiated. Thankfully, every time had been an innocent mistake, or electronic glitch that caused airliners and other planes to veer dangerously close to the nation’s collective nightmare in lower Manhattan. As it happened, each time they scrambled, he and his wingman shot off into the sky not knowing whether the threat was real or not.

  Sitting in his war bird loaded with war shots seemed so incongruous to the Annapolis graduate. He was, after all, right here in America, in the affluent suburbs of New York. There were kids playing baseball right outside the gates of the base while his little gnat of a plane sat, with enough explosive ordinance cocked and loaded under its wings to rain hell down on a whole shitload of bad guys. The problem was the cretins who would take a plane weren’t in uniforms or massed nicely on a border somewhere. Major Haus’ flying death machine had a redefined purpose; to minimize collateral damage. God forbid, killing a few hundred on a plane, to save thousands in buildings. The math of the equation was terrible because even a low number, like one hundred, was still one hundred innocent people. Except for maybe one to four maniacs, who would dare attempt something so insane again? The other passengers, moms, dads, sons, and daughters, would simply be sacrificed to save thousands, and in the case of an attack on a nuclear reactor, millions.

  His great sweat, the one that kept him and every other good, American born, professionally trained fighter warrior up at night was having to make the split second decision to terminate the lives of innocent folks. The Major knew he could be flying into a nightmare from which he might never awake.

  As he eased the throttle forward, he said a little prayer, “Oh, God, let this be just another screwed up navigation system, and if not, let me get there while they are still over water.”

  Both screaming Eagles were airborne 30 seconds after the alert signal was sent. The on-board cockpit computer immediately told him the threat was coming from JFK and that was too close. Previous attacks came from planes rerouted (hijacked) well outside of New York.

  As it was on that infamous September morning, a fighter pilot, in a similar plane, missed being on the scene by 1 minute, thus escaping the terrible dilemma by losing the “opportunity” to create a “mini-tragedy” in order to stop the massive one.

  The instant time-distance calculations Major Haus made in his head told him to go to afterburners, a carefully controlled explosion in the exhaust pipe of his engines, which propels the fighter plane at almost supersonic speeds. With full after-burners, the trip from the National Guard base at Gabreski Airport, Westhampton, 60 miles east on Long Island, bee-lined to New York City would take four minutes. At that burn rate he wouldn’t be able to make it back to base. He’d have to land at LaGuardia.

  ∞§∞

  At New York Center, those air traffic controllers who were not frantically trying to reroute traffic away from the hurtling sub-sonic darts slicing through their air space, were watching the little blips approach the bigger one as their hearts stopped.

  ∞§∞

  As he approached Manhattan air space, a chill went through the Major’s pressurized flight-suited body. Haus saw the airliner already over the center of the island. Knowing immediately that the rules of engagement just took him out of the equation, he keyed his mic. Now under the control of an orbiting AWACS, he proceeded to lay out the tactical situation, “Big Daddy, be advised target is over city, I have no clear shot, request permission to break off attack and try to signal.” It was a rhetorical request. The airborne military traffic controller circling above in the converted 707, operating under the same rules of engagement, crackled back, “Affirmative, Baby Eagle; break off your attack; try to interdict.”

  The fighter pilot then contacted his wingman. “Maintain combat air patrol status until replacement Eagles arrive.” His wingman banked his swept wing fighter, to start a racetrack pattern around Manhattan Island.

  ∞§∞

  A passenger on the left side of the aircraft looked directly down to see the roof of World Plaza on 8th Avenue at 50th Street. Meanwhile, in the cockpit, the beeping of the Vector Oriented Radar receiver caught the co-pilot’s attention. The cockpit GPS showed the position of the aircraft as being midway down the island still dead center of the river.

  Mandy Weinstein was watering her fuchsia, which was hanging in a macramé cradle in her window on the 95th floor of the Empire State Building. She dropped her watering can when she noticed the giant cockpit and huge wingspan of the 767 coming head on, right at her. She screamed and backed away at five miles per hour.

  The co-pilot saw it first. His instinct was to reach for and disengage the autopilot switch, but the captain reached for his switch first and jammed his pen in it. The co-pilot’s identical control became non-operational due to the captain’s override. He lunged at the captain. In the struggle, he punched the older man, breaking his jaw and shutting out his lights. With his hand aching, he fumbled for the lodged pen. It broke off in the switch. The building loomed large in the windshield. The first officer having recently served as a flight engineer on older birds, instinctively reached for the circuit breaker panel and took the gamble of his life; he threw one without checking to see if it was labeled Autopilot. It was in the general area he remembered from the manual and that would have to do because he was already putting his weight onto the yolk, so that it would bank hard right the instant the power to the servo-controlled mechanism was interrupted. That 420-volt signal was stopping him from saving his life and countless thousands.

  The yoke disengaged and the screaming plane made a rollover right bank. Literally flying sideways wing tips pointed straight down to 34th Street and up to God. The belly of the plane missed the side of the 1931 building by seven feet.

  The windows and walls shuddered as the passing fuselage blocked the daylight to the 95th to 97th floors. The upper wing tip would have knock King Kong off the top.

  At that moment hundreds of thousands of New Yorkers hearing the horrendous roar of the acrobatically strained engines, looked up with the same thought, “Oh, God, not again!” They then breathed a common sigh of relief as the on-edge plane reappeared from behind the building and righted itself as it climbed to the safety of the heavens.

  The cockpit reading on the flight data recorder would, upon analysis, show the plane was actually four seconds arc east of where it should have been. The co-pilot was hailed a hero. The captain committed suicide, hanging himself while in police custody the first chance he got. The understatement of the year was that “the people aboard that plane and in the landmark building were very lucky.” Others around the globe, however, were not as fortunate.

  Throughout the world, six planes crashed. One into a mountain in Tibet, three missing their airpo
rt runways by less than 2000 feet, and two in a mid-air collision over Argentina. In the short 30 minutes of distorted time, 1,714 people were killed around the world.

  Ten minutes later, the temperature in the cesium core of the Atomic Clock was cooling, significantly decreasing the amount of electrons emitted and, in effect, slowing the clock again. Ten minutes after that, it was back to normal time, as if it had never varied. Barring any further intentional cross coding to the chip, this would never happen again.

  ∞§∞

  At 12:20 PM, Press Secretary Spence stepped behind the podium in the White House’s pressroom. The papers in her hand were the text of the president’s reasons for urging Congress to pass the Farm Subsidy Reform Act. Instead, she said, “The American government has two hours to surrender and cease its reckless course. Nothing less than the total dissolution of the government will be acceptable. If this demand is not met, all planes, everywhere, will crash and all hydroelectric plants will burn out. Every nuclear power plant will explode and all of this nation’s infrastructure will be destroyed.”

  The press corps was stunned to silence. After a second, the room erupted in questions. Spence took no questions, exiting the room. Walking at a brisk pace past the guards, she took a shortcut through the White House barbershop. Quietly, she picked up a pair of scissors and slid them under the sleeve of her jacket. She double-stepped down the nine flights of stairs, passed the uniformed guards, and approached the Situation Room. The Secret Service agent at the door questioned her with his glance.

  “I need to see the president immediately,” she snapped. He permitted her access. The Secret Service agent on post behind the president watched her approach with a bit less than his usual penetrating stare. It was the glint that first caught his eye. Instantly, the “best of the best” agents in the service reached for his gun. Spence, now thirty feet from the president, pulled out the scissors and held them like a dagger in front of her.

  “Freeze,” the agent growled as he chambered a round and aimed in one smooth motion. His menacing stance did not stop Spence’s advance. The other agent, on post across the table on the opposite side of the room, blasted through the chairs and scurried over the slippery top of the conference table in an effort to grab her. The Secretary of Labor, seeing a gun pointed in his direction, bent down to duck as the hurling agent’s leg slammed into his head. The agent stumbled and before he could steady himself for another attempt at her, the first agent fired three times. Although his intention was “shoot to wound,” Spence was shoved a foot to her left by a Cabinet member who went ducking for cover, rendering the shots aimed at her arm and shoulder fatal. Spence’s body spun around from the fusillade. Her teal business suit instantly blossomed red with blood. Multiple exit wounds, the size of silver dollars, punctuated her back.

  The president, who first looked up at the sound of the agent going over the table, was now under the weight of a third agent who threw his body over him. The two standing agents immediately scanned the room with the barrels of their guns while ordering the entire Cabinet to get down on the floor. The president was unceremoniously thrown into the anteroom for safety, guarded by two crouching agents, their guns drawn and trained on the entrance to the sit room. The agent who had let Spence in kicked away the scissors from her hand. Reynolds saw that she was, amazingly, still breathing. He went to her and cradled her head.

  “Why, Naomi? Why did you do this?”

  She was remarkably calm, he thought, as she choked for her last breath and with a puzzled look on her face, uttered, “I don’t know why. I don’t know, but I had to die, Ray.” And then she was gone.

  ∞§∞

  Back in the New Mexican pizza shop, Hiccock’s cell phone rang. He flipped it open. “Ray …What?” As he learned about the press secretary’s attempt to assassinate the president, CNN played her ominous speech to the press corps.

  “Was she on the Internet just before?” Hiccock said.

  “Dear God. I’ll get right back to you,” Ray said and hung up.

  Hiccock turned to the major. “I’m going to make an executive decision here. Since there is nothing to indicate any other secured facility within fifty miles of where we are, I am going to assume we have found the terrorists. It is imperative that we stop them within two hours.” He nodded toward the TV and replay of Spence’s threat.

  “I got communications personnel and a few MPs. The hombres at that facility are Ranger School valedictorians, dug in and probably well fortified. If it comes down to a firefight, our guys will be slaughtered.”

  “Reinforcements?”

  “I can try Fort Carson, but it’s going to be pure luck if they are even mustered in a day, no less in war-fighting mode.”

  “Where’s all the RD divisions I hear of in briefings?”

  “All our rapid-deployment units face outward, most in other countries. Getting them here is a big-time turnaround … maybe twelve hours.”

  “And if this were Kuwait or Saudi Arabia?”

  “Two hours.”

  The Admiral walked up and interrupted. “I have a suggestion. Is there a phone book?”

  The manager produced one and Parks turned to the yellow-page section. She started looking under D for demolition. She found a small display ad and called out the number. Hiccock punched it in and handed her the phone.

  “Hello, is Mack there?” the Admiral said and then waited. “Mack, Henrietta Parks, I’m fine but I need your help. You boys still playing with firecrackers?”

  ∞§∞

  Engles was a brute, a mass of muscle and sinew compressed into the presence of a commanding officer. His Air Cav troops were, to the man, the ultimate best. This achievement came in no small part because he made it his duty to be better than any one of them—a better soldier, a better athlete, a better flyer, and a better fighter. On this day, he once again proved alpha male, as he showed them how far they’d have to go to be better than him. Using an OH 58C Bell Ranger reconnaissance helicopter, he snagged three garters in three passes. His next-best pilot snagged two out of three.

  It was a game he invented after one of his men returned from a wedding having caught the garter. He challenged him to snag the garter from a hook three feet off the ground using the tip of the strut on the helicopter’s landing rails. Like grabbing the brass ring, only at seventy miles per hour, three feet from the floor, with a margin of error of two feet to death. His Air Cav unit was number one, mostly because of his personal challenges to all of his men.

  What Engles had great difficulty flying, however, was his computer. The phone line he commandeered to be his dedicated modem line was faulty when the wind wasn’t blowing, and today the soft Fort Carson, Colorado, breeze was playing havoc with his barely 56 kbs connection to his e-mail. His sister wanted to buy a new Jeep Wrangler and he was trying to enlighten her, by way of a letter, on the merits of getting a heavier suspension. Between constantly being booted and losing his connection, he hadn’t noticed the periods of inaction he had undergone, during the moments when he was hooked up, when he didn’t move or blink.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Gray Seals

  EMMERTS, ONE OF THE GUARDS at the Alison Industries main gate, was personally amused and professionally curious when he saw the three beat-up Jeep Wagoneers and an old International Scout, with fishing poles and coolers on the bumper, pull right up to the gate. “C’mere, look at this,” he called to Renko.

  They watched as two old guys got out of the front vehicle, 140 or so odd years of living between them. As they approached the guard shed, one sucked his dentures and asked, “’Scuse me there, young fella. This here Alison Industries?”

  “Yes, but why do you want know?” Emmerts turned and smiled at Renko. A bunch of other old guys started unloading.

  Renko hustled over. “No, I’m sorry you can’t stop here, please get back into your vehicles.” One of the guys strayed from the crowd and headed behind the guard shack. Renko followed, and he witnessed him unzipping his pants
, preparing to pee. “Sir, don’t do that.” The man didn’t respond and disappeared behind the structure. Renko trotted over to the back of the shack, “What are you, deaf, too?”

  “No, son, I ain’t deaf.” Mack’s hand came up with amazing speed as he took the young trooper in a sleeper-hold, a chloroform-soaked rag woven between his fingers smothering the guard’s nose. The startled Renko was totally caught off guard. “Just had to get you out of the range of them cameras. You sleep tight now.”

  Meanwhile, Emmerts was still dealing with the other oldster. He didn’t see the dust-covered letters on the Jeep, barely discernible as Mack & Harry Demolition Albuquerque N.M. “You have to move your vehicles.”

  “But my grandson said to come stop by anytime and see the place. His name is …” he patted his pockets. “Where is it? Whoops ’sin the back.” He hobbled to the back of the Wagoneer.

  Emmerts followed him, “Look, I don’t give a rat’s ass who …” As the guard came round the back of the vehicle, he came face to face with a Beretta Model 92f 9mm semiautomatic with silencer, pointed an inch above the bridge of his nose.

  The old guy pushed a soaked rag toward Emmerts’s face. “Take a deep breath or die.”

  Emmerts started to deflect and go at him low. Nevertheless, the old codger was surprisingly fast, blocking the younger man’s attempt and reversing the hold.

  Another older guy slammed the rag on him. As the guard started gulping chloroform-saturated air, the old guy got in his face. “When you have the nightmare that will follow this little embarrassing scene, don’t forget to give the boys of UDT Unit 1, retired, the credit.”