Blackout

by Nance, John J. ;

“A missile with a phosphorous warhead?” the President asked.

  “Precisely.”

  “For the record, Mr. President,” the DCI cut in, “CIA believes the more credible possibility is a midair collision. I mean, after all, that other aircraft is missing. If he was just the target designator aircraft, where is he?”

  “Ah, Mr. President, Jake Rhoades here.”

  “Go ahead, Jake,” the President prompted.

  “We’re told the missing business jet cut in front of the Meridian flight just before the explosion. We have that information directly from Hong Kong Approach. Whether they collided or helped fire a missile, that jet is likely to be involved.”

  The President was nodding slowly. “There is a similarity here to SeaAir. Both aircraft were over water. If a missile was fired from a boat in both cases, that fits.”

  “Sir,” the DCI replied, “remember that we don’t have any idea what brought down the SeaAir MD-eleven.”

  “True.” The President nodded, glancing at the general. “Wait a minute. General, could a target designator damage a pilot’s eyes?”

  The general shook his head. “Not like this. Maybe over time, but it’s an invisible infrared beam, Sir. It just puts an invisible hot spot of coded light on the side of whatever we want to hit, and the missile recognizes the dot and flies to it. The designator is not designed to do any damage itself.”

  “Okay.”

  “But a small phosphorous warhead or, to be fair, the flash of exploding fuel in a collision, as Director Herd postulates, could easily flash-blind.”

  Stella Mendenhall spoke up from NTSB headquarters. “Mr. President, two points of difference on SeaAir. First, the SeaAir accident occurred during bright daylight, and even a phosphorous explosion at close range would probably not be enough to temporarily blind a pilot. Could it hurt his eyes and make it difficult to see around the huge spot in the middle of his vision? Certainly. But in bright daylight the pupils will be contracted, and I doubt anything but a nuclear fireball could do the job. Therefore, I see no possible connection between these two incidents.”

  “Okay, but—” the President began.

  “And,” she continued, “one other point, please. I can’t imagine how a seven-forty-seven could physically collide with a large business jet the size of a Global Express, create an explosion of fuel bright enough to blind both pilots, and not destroy the nose section and probably the cockpit of the airliner in the process. From what we’re hearing, the copilot never reported any physical damage to the jet until they struck an ILS tower by the runway trying to land.”

  “But, Stella,” the President said, “in theory, could Director Herd’s assessment be right?”

  “Could a midair, you mean, cause a big enough explosion to blind?”

  “Yes,” the President responded, knowing the NTSB official would choose her words carefully and try to refrain from crossing swords with the DCI.

  “Sir, I can’t say it isn’t possible. I just don’t know how.”

  The President sighed. “Fair enough. Okay. We may have a sophisticated attack, or we may have a midair collision, but what we don’t have is a clear indication of which one and who, if anyone, attacked. That sum it up?”

  “Yes, Sir, I believe it does,” the DCI said.

  “Jake,” the President said suddenly, “what’s the status of the Bureau’s thinking on sabotage or terrorism in the SeaAir crash?”

  Jake cleared his throat before answering. “Mr. President, all we have right now are deep suspicions. There are several minutes missing from the SeaAir cockpit voice recorder that probably could have given us substantial clues, but without that, or at least some physical evidence of sabotage, neither we at the Bureau, nor Stella and her folks at NTSB, can say what caused the SeaAir pilots to lose control, let alone answer the question of whether a criminal act is involved. We know the MD-eleven didn’t explode. We have no evidence or reason to suspect a missile. It’s as if the pilots just suddenly clicked off their autopilot and keeled over for no apparent reason. Naturally, all of us at the Bureau are haunted by the incorrect initial terrorist conclusion we jumped to in the TWA 800 disaster a few years back, and I know we’re being super careful on this one, but the bottom line is, we just don’t have any evidence as yet in either direction.”

  The President nodded. “As I said an hour ago, if anyone can prove to me that Cuba is responsible for downing that SeaAir MD-eleven, we’ll hit Fidel immediately. But let’s say that SeaAir is not Cuba’s fault. Let’s say you fellows and gals at the Bureau determine later that it is a terrorist act. And let’s say, further, that the Hong Kong thing is a terrorist act, and let me go even further into fantasy and speculate that we decide the same organization is probably responsible. Then we’re facing a real specter: Who the hell is attacking airliners, how are they doing it, and what do they want? This is the second one inside six weeks. It seems to me those questions would become a matter of great national urgency, because we have no group taking credit, we have no demands, and that means we have a terrorist organization that will undoubtedly keep on doing whatever they’re doing until they’re ready to reveal themselves and tell us what they want.”

  “Mr. President,” the DCI replied, “with all respect, is there a question in there somewhere that we can answer?”

  The President shook his head. “I guess not, Richard. I’m just worried.”

  “Sir, as you know, other than the possibility of Cuban involvement, we simply do not see any substantive reason to believe that the SeaAir accident was terrorist, let alone a new terrorist group. Perhaps the best reason is the one you cited yourself, the utter lack of anyone taking credit. Any organization that wants to kill a jumbo jet and all aboard wouldn’t hesitate to crow about it early on. And why be subtle about it? If you’re going to mount an operation to bring down a civilian airliner and commit mass murder to make a point, why run the risk it will be labeled an accident?”

  “Okay, Richard, the Company’s caution is noted and appreciated. Stella? Is there any aspect of SeaAir that resembles what we know so far of Hong Kong?”

  There was a long, uncomfortable silence from the other end before the NTSB board member responded. “Mr. President, only one thing. The flight path of the SeaAir MD-eleven resembles an aircraft devoid of pilot control. If the Hong Kong flight was, in fact, purposefully attacked, the objective was most likely the removal of both pilots’ ability to control the aircraft, so it would crash. Somehow, one pilot managed to stay in control, but if they were attacked, the objective would be to take both of them out. If SeaAir was attacked with the same objective, then the answer is yes, I see a similarity. But in Sea Air, we haven’t a clue yet as to what could have incapacitated the pilots, and a light burst, as I said earlier, just doesn’t explain it.”

  “Thanks, Stella.”

  The President’s secretary had quietly entered the Oval Office and slipped a note to the President. Those in the group who were watching him saw his face fall and his eyes grow dark as he read the message. The President looked up then and sighed, a sad and grim expression on his face.

  “Folks, we’ve been keeping an open line to Hong Kong in the Sit Room. I’m … devastated to tell you that the Chinese air traffic people have just lost Meridian Five from radar, and believe he’s crashed. The location”—the President referred to the note again—“is at sea, approximately thirty miles south of Hong Kong.” He passed the communiqué to Jason Pullman, who shook his head.

  “Okay,” the President said with a loud sigh. “We have mysteries and no solutions. If this flight was attacked, we’re at war with someone, and I need that target defined, whether it’s Fidel, Saddam, Milosevic, or some other upstart group. I want a deep assessment of the possibility that we’re looking at a new pattern using phosphorous-based warheads designed to flash-blind pilots. That, to me, is the most promising, and chilling, possibility. And, Jake, from the Bureau I want the earliest possible confirmation of terrorist activity in either of these tw
o accidents.”

  “Yes, Sir,” Jake replied. “We have two hundred and ten agents assigned to the SeaAir accident and I happen to have one of my best agents in Hong Kong right now.”

  The President got to his feet. “Good. We need to turn these questions into answers very rapidly. If the idea gets out that American airliners are being systematically targeted by some mysterious new group using some noxious new warhead on a laser-guided missile, we’re going to see the airline industry paralyzed, and all of us held hostage by the panic. And with our luck, the damn missiles will probably have been made in the U.S.”

  In the FBI headquarters building, a short distance from the White House, Jake Rhoades clicked off the connection and got up from his desk. Two of his senior agents were waiting in his outer office and stood when he entered.

  “How’d it go, Jake?” one of them asked.

  Jake snorted and shook his head. “The Air Force used missile-speak to mesmerize the big guy. He likes a missile with a phosphorous warhead that magically knows just where to explode in front of a cockpit.”

  “And we don’t?”

  Jake shrugged and sighed. “I don’t know what to think, except that the NTSB lady had it right. At this point, we’re clueless.”

  HONG KONG APPROACH CONTROL,

  CHEK LAP KOK/HONG KONG INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  Kat Bronsky thanked the shift supervisor and pushed through the door of the radar facility, where the consulate car was waiting. She felt stunned, empty, and ill, and the supervisor’s words rang in her ears in bits and pieces: “Terrible explosion … nuclear mentioned, but not possible … copilot blinded, captain killed … another aircraft missing in the same area … possible midair …”

  The last radar return, the supervisor told her, had come during a rapid descent through 2,000 feet in the middle of a thunderstorm cell.

  Kat closed her eyes and shook her head, trying to get the image out of her mind. Without question, the big Boeing was in pieces in the South China Sea. She thought of Robert MacCabe and the seat next to him, which she would have occupied if fate had not intervened.

  “Where would you like to go, please?” the Chinese driver asked.

  “What? Oh,” Kat replied, fatigue weighing her down. “Give me a minute.” She sighed and pulled the satellite phone out of her purse, intending to check in with Jake Rhoades back in Washington, but the words of the Hong Kong Approach Control supervisor crystallized at the same moment: possible midair with another aircraft now missing. Which aircraft? She had been too shocked to ask.

  She yanked open the car door and headed back into the radar facility.

  chapter 14

  NATIONAL RECONNAISSANCE OFFICE, MARYLAND

  NOVEMBER 12—DAY ONE

  1:48 P.M. LOCAL/1848 ZULU

  The urgent call from Central Intelligence for satellite support in the Meridian 5 matter had triggered a flurry of activity in the NRO’s surveillance center near Washington. As the newly targeted orbiting sensors peered intently at the Hong Kong area from space, three men and one woman gathered around a large, sophisticated video screen in a small room within the high-tech warrens of the cutting-edge installation. One of the men had been holding open a phone line to a CIA team in Langley, but he put them on hold to peer at the display screen, following the small pointer being used by the chief NRO analyst.

  “This is Hong Kong over to the far right,” Janice Washburn said. “The satellite we’re using is approaching at almost ninety degrees overhead. There’s a solid cloud cover both above and below the jet’s altitude, so we’re using a primary infrared depiction with an optics backup.”

  “We have this real-time, correct?”

  “Yes, Sir,” the woman answered. “But remember, this is a processed shot. Real-time information for a composite depiction. We’ve got the other stuff on tape.”

  “Bottom line, Janice, have you found anything?”

  She nodded. “I’ve filtered out all other known air traffic being worked by Hong Kong, Vietnam, or any of the other air traffic authorities in the vicinity.”

  “And?”

  “Take a look,” she said, pointing to a tiny white dot southwest of Hong Kong. She repeatedly toggled a switch on the display to zoom the picture. “This is twenty-mile range from one side of the screen to the other. Ten miles. Five. Two. One.” The target became progressively larger, streaming white plumes behind it as it moved to the southwest. “Okay, I’m zooming in to a matter of yards.”

  Suddenly the screen was filled with a white, ghostly shape that could only be a 747. The inboard power plant on the left wing was obviously not producing heat, since there were plumes from only three engines. There was another, smaller plume from the tail-mounted auxiliary power unit.

  “Are we sure that’s Meridian?” George Barkley whispered.

  She nodded. “We’ve dovetailed the track of the aircraft from before the landing attempt back to when we could pick up the radar transponder. That’s him, okay, and as you can see, he’s still very much airborne and alive—though his course has been erratic. By the way, George, I’m told the Chinese have launched a search-and-rescue force. Are we going to be able to tell them the aircraft hasn’t crashed?”

  George Barkley shrugged his shoulders. “That’s not our decision, but you know the concerns. Too much information about what we’ve seen and how we did it compromises our capabilities.”

  “In other words, probably not.”

  He nodded as he pulled the phone receiver to his ear and smiled. “At least I can tell our side, and it’s going to feel good to relay positive news for a change.”

  ABOARD MERIDIAN 5, IN FLIGHT

  Dan Wade had fully expected to die.

  Unable to actually see the altimeter unwinding toward the surface of the South China Sea, and caught in the maw of a massive thunderstorm downdraft, he couldn’t sense the sudden exit of the 747 from the downburst until Dallas Nielson’s voice rang through his consciousness.

  “There! Oh sweet Jesus, THERE! We’re level. Three hundred fifty … no, we’re climbing now! Thank you, Lord!”

  The heavy turbulence continued bouncing them around. Lightning flashed ceaselessly outside the windows. Suddenly, a soul-shattering crack tore through the cockpit, lighting up everything and receding just as fast. The electronic flight instrument displays went dark, leaving only a few small instrument lights beneath the forward dash panel.

  “WE’VE LOST POWER!” Dallas yelled.

  Dan’s left hand snaked up to the overhead and cycled two electrical switches, restoring the power. “Did that cure it?” he asked.

  “Yes. What in hell was that?” Dallas asked.

  “Lightning strike. Knocked off the APU, I think.”

  There were three more horrendous flashes of lightning not accompanied by noise as they flew through the lower western wall of the cell, and within a minute, a clear night sky opened up before them, framed by towering storms.

  “Altitude?” Dan asked in a more normal volume.

  “One thousand five hundred and climbing fast. Two thousand.”

  “Geoff,” Dan said, “take over as I push the nose forward. Keep a positive climb … back to eight thousand, okay?”

  “I’ll do my best,” Geoff Sampson replied, his voice thin and fatigued.

  To the right, the top part of a cumulonimbus towering above 60,000 feet boomed away with lightning, and to the left, another wall of storms could be seen. But ahead there were stars and moonlight glinting off the ocean’s surface.

  “Good heavens! What on earth happened?” Geoffrey asked.

  “We … blundered into a massive thunderstorm cell, I’m afraid, and a huge downdraft,” Dan said, shaking his bandaged head carefully. “Is everyone okay?”

  “That was one hell of a ride,” Robert said softly.

  “We’re okay, Dan,” Britta added as she pulled the interphone handset from the pedestal and punched in an All Call. She polled the flight attendants below before disconnecting. “No one’s
hurt below. They’re all terrified, but no injuries. The galleys are a mess, of course.”

  “Geoff? You okay?” Dan asked.

  “In all honesty, Dan, I think Ms. Nielson should consider taking over. I’m doing a frightful job. I nearly lost it.”

  Dan started to answer when the cockpit door opened. Britta turned around, shocked to see young Steve Delaney standing just inside with a hesitant expression and looking around with wide eyes.

  Britta moved toward him instantly. “Mr. Delaney! I did not say you could come up here!” Britta’s voice was sharp and irritated, and Steve Delaney backed up.

  “What did we hit?” Delaney asked, his voice betraying fright.

  “Who are you, Darlin’?” Dallas asked, looking at the teen.

  “A brash young irritant who says he knows how to fly simulators,” Britta said, turning to push Steve back out the door.

  “Whoa, Brits,” Dallas said, sliding out of the jump seat toward the door. “We aren’t exactly running a surplus of pilots up here. What’s your name, Honey?”

  “I’m, uh, Steve Delaney.”

  “Can you fly this airplane, Steve?”

  He nodded, repeating the information about his father’s simulators.

  “He taught you? Your dad, I mean?”

  “No. He didn’t want me near them, but I’d fly them anyway, at night.”

  “My man! Self-starter, then,” Dallas said, offering him a high-five palm slap, which he met somewhat timidly.

  Dan Wade had been listening to the exchange without comment as Dallas turned to check the instruments. “Dan, pull the nose up a bit for Geoffrey and roll right about ten degrees.”

  “Thank you, Dallas,” Dan replied.

  “Just a moment here,” Geoffrey Sampson said, his hands maintaining a death grip on the control yoke. “Look, it’s time we faced the fact that I’m not helping you at all. I’m doing a horrible job. We don’t have many options, it seems, so may I be so bold as to suggest that if this young chap thinks he can fly, why not give him a go?”

  Dallas was nodding. “Geoffrey, why don’t you climb out and let Mr. Delaney here get in.”