Jack Frost

by Diane Capri

  He’d quit smoking back in Boston after he was sentenced. Cigarettes were an addiction no inmate should entertain. Otherwise, he’d find himself at the mercy of dealers inside. Keegan had more self-control.

  He reached into his pocket for a stick of chewing gum, unwrapped it, and folded it into his mouth.

  He looked into the empty sky, toward Rapid City.

  “What do you see up there, Walsh?” he asked.

  “Nothin’, Boss,” Walsh replied.

  “That’s right. Nothing but cloudless blue space,” Keegan said, flexing his feet in the running shoes.

  He wasn’t worried. His ride would be here soon.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Friday, May 13

  South Dakota

  6:30 p.m.

  Captain Romone was getting close. He ran through everything one more time.

  The A320 aircraft carried a slew of instruments that were monitoring and recording every flight parameter on a constant basis. His employer was required to review the parameters and file reports of any and all deviations.

  FAA regulations governed aircraft movements and tracked position and speed through data broadcast from the aircraft as it traveled, too.

  Hiding his actions would be neither easy nor foolproof. He couldn’t do an actual practice run. He had one chance to make this work.

  Which was why Romone had prepared his list late at night using a flight simulator.

  Before anything else, he had to buy a little time. The flight schedule was way too tight.

  Under normal conditions, descending from cruising altitude, landing, and climbing back up would take twenty minutes. But every moment of his flight time was scheduled and monitored at all times.

  Which meant he needed to find a way to create twenty extra minutes of maneuvering room.

  First, Romone keyed the microphone to call the company dispatcher to report nonexistent headwinds.

  Headwinds made a difference. Flying into a hundred-knot breeze took a hundred knots from his speed across the ground. Ninety-eight minutes of flight time would be stretched to 110.

  If such headwinds existed.

  Which they didn’t.

  The dispatcher noted the pilot’s reported headwinds and Romone ended the transmission without further discussion.

  He’d bought himself twelve minutes with the false report.

  Twelve minutes.

  He needed twenty.

  There was no way to get permission for the next step. Neither his dispatcher nor FAA controllers would allow it. Too dangerous, they would have said.

  If he’d asked.

  Which he didn’t.

  Romone wasn’t concerned. He could do this. He’d flown in every condition imaginable. Today’s flight conditions were as close to perfect as Mother Nature could produce.

  Regulators, on the other hand, were another thing entirely. Over the years, he’d learned it was easier to get forgiveness than permission from the regulators. He’d worry about them when, and if, they investigated the flight later. Chances are, if he pulled this off, they wouldn’t have any reason to investigate at all.

  No one would ever know. He’d take the secret to his grave.

  Romone took a deep breath and dialed the autopilot height down from FL300 to FL200, which reduced the cruising altitude from thirty- to twenty-thousand feet.

  Landing from the lower altitude was not in the flight plan, but it would trim the remaining minutes he needed.

  The aircraft systems reduced the engine power and went into a gentle dive.

  The descent still took too long. Eight full minutes.

  Because the aircraft’s flight control system prioritized passenger comfort over a more rapid descent.

  Which was stupid. The old bird hadn’t carried a passenger in twenty years.

  Romone’s next steps would be where his personal risk really kicked in. His internal controls snapped to full attention.

  Aircraft are designed to handle failures. Which meant, given the chance, the systems would thwart Romone’s unauthorized activities.

  The flight control system had multiple physically separate computers calculating how the aircraft should respond to the pilot’s joystick and throttle changes. Romone knew that any onboard computers that generated such risky moves would be rejected by the safety systems, so he turned them off.

  The system was designed to prevent an errant computer from crashing the aircraft.

  But it also limited the plane’s performance, minimizing fuel consumption and maximizing the life of the plane’s components.

  Romone couldn’t allow the safety systems to get in the way. His mission needed to succeed on his own terms.

  “I’m in control here, baby. You computers can take a little nap,” Romone said aloud, partly to reinforce his own choices.

  He taped his phone to his leg and started a timer to display big digits he could see at a glance counting down on the screen.

  Romone reviewed his private checklist and traced his fingers over the switches he would activate and buttons he would press, further committing the whole process to memory.

  The faster he worked, the more plausible his cover story would be later when he claimed the A320 had experienced a power failure. Intermittent electrical problems were a fact of life on complex aircraft, and he’d use that reality to cover his ass.

  He’d flown over Bolton prison twice a week as it was being built a few years ago. He knew precisely where the compound was located. Smack dab in the middle of nowhere USA. Surrounded by open land. The closest town was Bolton, five miles south, and it was a tiny burg, itself.

  He peered into the distance, looking for the prison.

  At the limits of his vision, a smudge on an empty landscape marked his target. The smudge resolved into a long black line of runway beside a series of mottled earthy colors.

  He’d studied the layout carefully during his satellite research and while creating his checklist.

  Large open concrete areas with smaller buildings dotted the perimeter around the prison. Guard towers.

  The runway and three much larger buildings were coming into view.

  The buildings were separated by strong steel fences topped with serious amounts of razor wire because Bolton was a maximum security facility.

  The runway was likewise fenced off. Physically, of course. And also by government regulation. A permanent FAA NOTAM, a notice to airmen, restricted the prison runway to emergencies and authorized flights only.

  Such access was rarely requested and even more rarely granted.

  The feds, the state, and the county were not kidding about keeping the extremely dangerous prisoners inside their respective compounds at Bolton Correctional and keeping the rest of the world out.

  The runway itself was a good size for smaller birds, but for Romone’s fully loaded A320, it would be tight.

  He’d completed similar jaunts in the military and knew the drill.

  Slow in.

  Touchdown at the very start of the runway, and straight onto full reverse thrust to slow the big bird down.

  He’d use any remaining speed at the end of the runway to turn on the tiny parking apron.

  The timer on his phone reached zero, alerting him with a loud buzz. He inhaled deeply and began to work his checklist, mumbling as he covered each point.

  Romone’s fingers darted over the controls above his head like a concert pianist moving surely over the keys, in precisely the correct order, with exactly the right touch, following years of practice.

  Powering down computers and responders. Disabling the radio and flight recorder. And finally, shutting down all but one of the flight control computers.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Friday, May 13

  Bolton Correctional Facility

  7:00 p.m.

  Numbers and displays in front of Romone blinked off until only the standby instrument was illuminated.

  He’d transformed the old bird in an instant, from one of the most soph
isticated commercial aircraft in the world, to a basic cockpit any World War Two pilot would have recognized.

  The aircraft shuddered.

  One computer controlled the aircraft, and Romone controlled that computer.

  “Just you and me, now, baby,” he murmured as he touched the joystick.

  The aircraft responded immediately. The safety nets were gone.

  He had become the pilot in command.

  It was a simultaneously exhilarating and nerve-wracking feeling of power that he hadn’t experienced in years.

  Romone savored the feeling only for a brief moment. He had no time to waste.

  He pushed the joystick forward, nosing the aircraft down, while also pulling back on the throttle.

  As if she lived to serve his every command, the big old bird started down fast.

  Normal descent rates for the A320 were in the region of 3,000 feet per minute. But Romone had neither time to waste nor passengers to worry about.

  He kept pushing and the plane descended more than 4,000 feet per minute.

  He felt his stomach drop through the floor.

  To the aircraft’s designers, the sharp dive traded potential energy for kinetic energy. To Romone, the maneuver meant gaining airspeed, just like rolling down a hill faster and faster.

  If he didn’t bleed off the excess speed before touchdown he could cook the brakes, or worse, blow out a tire.

  Cooking the brakes might be okay. He could deal with that.

  But blowing a tire was not okay. It presented a major risk for takeoff on the way back up. Romone and his new passenger would be lucky to survive.

  He was a good pilot, but not a miracle worker.

  “Come on, baby. Slow it down,” he said softly, like a lover.

  The runway was neatly aligned along his flight path. The skies around him were clear. He’d been paid to land, collect a passenger and leave, and that was what he intended to do.

  It was a matter of pride now. The money was simply proof that he’d done what couldn’t be done. He was old and sick, but he was still a damned fine pilot.

  He was told not to radio for permission to land. So he didn’t.

  “Just don’t shoot me,” Romone said under his breath to the prison guards who couldn’t hear him anyway.

  At 15,000 feet, he pushed the lever for speed brakes to twenty-five percent.

  But the A320 didn’t slow down.

  Even in big planes, pilots get used to the bumps and vibrations caused by actuating mechanical components on the way down, but there was none of the expected noise and vibration now.

  Romone cycled the lever to zero and back to twenty-five percent.

  Still no response. The big bird didn’t slow. Instead, his airspeed was increasing.

  At 10,000 feet, he pushed the speed brakes to one hundred percent and idled the engines.

  The brakes didn’t slow the plane, either.

  He was coming in far too hot to land.

  Which left him with two choices.

  Circle and get his airspeed under control and try again.

  Or maneuver hard and hope to bleed speed somehow before the A320 crashed and burned on the runway.

  He ran through possible options, but he knew he only had one choice.

  Circling the airport would alert too many people. It would take time he didn’t have. The mission would definitely fail. He wouldn’t land or collect his passenger.

  He wouldn’t get paid.

  His family wouldn’t collect the money he’d risked so much to earn.

  “Unacceptable, dammit!” he said.

  After everything he’d been through to get here, he wouldn’t give up now. He had to slow the big bird down and land.

  Right now.

  He banked right.

  Fifty degrees of roll and pulling two Gs as they said in all the good movies. The prison disappeared from view as the plane’s nose veered away.

  He felt the force of gravity pushing him into his seat.

  His airspeed began a steady decline caused by the aerodynamic drag.

  He counted to fifteen before banking left. Another fifty degrees. Another two Gs. Another fifteen count.

  The prison came back into view.

  After a third roll, he was breathing hard but back in line with the runway.

  With the engines idling, the maneuver had put him closer to landing speed, but he wasn’t there yet. He was still about five miles out from the prison runway.

  “Let’s do one more. Just to be safe,” he muttered.

  Romone pulled the joystick over to roll the big aircraft again. He needed to slow down.

  Nothing happened.

  The horizon stayed level. The runway remained straight ahead.

  “What the hell?”

  He stared at the joystick. It was exactly where it should be.

  “Tipped over in roll and pulled back in pitch,” he reminded himself, unnecessarily, like a plumber’s “righty tighty, lefty loosey.” He knew the stick was in the correct position for a coordinated banked turn. Knew it.

  He shoved the stick to center and pulled it over again.

  Still, nothing happened.

  The sweat on his forehead ran down into his eyes and he blinked furiously to get rid of the stinging salt.

  His gaze ran over the switches above his head. Had he powered down a vital system? Severed a crucial link? Fat-fingered the wrong switch?

  Nothing looked out of place except the too-rapidly growing view of the prison.

  Romone yanked back on the joystick as hard as he dared. Still no response from the plane.

  His heart raced, even as he made every effort to control his panic.

  He couldn’t keep going. He needed to stay airborne to solve the problem.

  Now he needed airspeed.

  He shoved the throttles to max.

  Again, the A320 did not respond.

  He felt no vibration. No tremble. No thousands of pounds of thrust pushing him back into the sky.

  “Come on, you big bitch! Move!”

  He rammed the throttles back and forth as his left hand stabbed at the power switches to bring the big aircraft’s computers back to life.

  But the lights behind each switch remained dark.

  “Two miles out,” he said incredulously. He truly could not believe what was happening.

  The prison’s tiny windows were clearly visible. He could see movement in the guard towers. There were prisoners outside in the large exercise yards.

  He was still losing altitude, but at 300 knots he had no hope of landing.

  The undercarriage doors would be torn off. The tires would burst on contact. The undercarriage itself could collapse.

  He literally could not make it happen.

  But he was still lined up on the runway.

  Romone took a deep breath and accepted what his experience was telling him in no uncertain terms.

  The A320 was about to crash. No way to avoid the truth.

  His best hope was a glancing blow in a crash landing.

  He whipped his head around.

  The first officer’s seat was empty, but his joystick functioned independently of the pilot’s. Whatever failure had happened might have left the copilot’s controls operational.

  Romone hammered on the seat belt release and fought to escape his four-point harness.

  The prison and runway loomed larger. He was almost there.

  And he had no control over the hurtling A320.

  No control at all.

  He struggled to get his legs out of the harness, stretching over the center console.

  The throttle levers stabbed into his back, but he didn’t care what switches he hit.

  When half his body reached into the copilot’s seat, he grabbed the joystick and yanked it back.

  Nothing happened.

  He grunted as he rammed the stick back and forth with strength borne of desperation.

  The aircraft began to roll. He couldn’t believe it. He grinned
and snorted a quick burst of laughter.

  Today wasn’t the day he’d been fated to die after all.

  Only thirty seconds from the runway, the nose of the A320 began to edge away. The roll continued. He felt Gs. Same as he’d felt maneuvering at higher altitude.

  It was working. The damned bird was rolling. He felt hot tears in his eyes, blurring his vision. He blinked furiously to clear them.

  “Thank you, God,” he said, feeling relief all the way down to his toes.

  He wasn’t saved yet.

  Romone fought his way to the copilot seat and pulled the joystick left, towards the runway, and back, to gain altitude.

  But it didn’t work.

  The Gs remained strong.

  The bank angle didn’t correct.

  The side of one of the big buildings crept into the aircraft’s curving flight path.

  The aircraft rolled out, righting itself, as if it was controlled by invisible hands. Wings level. A straight path.

  The A320 was headed straight ahead at a shallow angle. In seconds, it would collide directly into the side of one of the large prison buildings.

  Romone inhaled sharply as the ground came up fast.

  Pilots call it ground rush. At 300 knots, it was amazingly fast.

  He leaned over as far as he could reach. He had the joystick pulled back hard.

  From his position, he glimpsed grass and concrete.

  Small windows with bars.

  In the distance, a stripe of black. The runway.

  Everything was close. Too close.

  He didn’t think about death at that moment.

  No, Wayne Romone was massively annoyed.

  Aircraft didn’t just fly itself.

  And no possible systems failure could disable both the pilot’s and copilot’s controls.

  It simply wasn’t possible.

  His anger grew hotter. Only one thing was possible.

  He’d been set up. Used as a pawn in a deadly game.

  Someone had taken over the controls of the A320.

  The hacker had steered the jet directly into the prison at the precise point when Romone could no longer save the plane.

  Or his life.

  The last thing he felt was monstrous outrage.