THE COMMANDER ANNOTATED the numbers he had just received from Air Traffic Control at Cherbourg Air Base, carefully maintaining a five-meter separation from the 777’s wingtip. “Boeing Extended 777, this is French Mirage,” he said. “You will immediately turn to course 134, drop your altitude to 14,000, lower airspeed to 275 knots and establish contact with Cherbourg Tower on Frequency 3472. Acknowledge, please.”
EIAN REALIZED IT WAS NOW or never if his plan had a decent chance of success. He had to take advantage of the one element all pilots in an oxygen-rich environment were deathly frightened of: fire.
“French Mirage this is Boeing Extended 777, we cannot presently comply with your request. We have a fire indication on engine number one and are declaring an in-flight emergency as of now.”
He was hoping the ruse would gain them the additional time they required.
“BOEING 777, THIS IS French Mirage. I will try and position my aircraft to see if you indeed have a fire in engine one. Please stand by. The Mirage aircraft slowly drifted back into a position 100 meters directly behind and above the 777, seeking a vantage point to scan for any tell-tale signs of a fire.
“KEEP STALLING, EIAN, your ruse is working,” Jim said. “We only have one minute till we reach Irish airspace,” he said.
All three eyed their watches as if awaiting midnight in Times Square.
THERE WAS NO FIRE. Commander Philippe could see he was being played as the fool. They were merely attempting to stall their return to French airspace, seeing no choice but to once again activate his 20mm guns, resuming a position 50 meters directly behind the aircraft.
“Boeing 777, I see no fire, nor do I see an engine shutdown procedure that would have normally followed such an action. Nice try. Now immediately turn to course 134 and drop your altitude 14,000 feet, or I will be forced to open fire,” he said calmly. “Repeat. I will open fire.”
“FRENCH MIRAGE, MY number one indicator has a red fire warning light illuminated,” Eian said, maintaining his cool. “We are making sure it’s not an electrical problem before we start engine shutdown procedures. We are checking the circuit breakers now,” lighting a cigarette with a cupped hand, revealing the burning ash to Jim. “I’m not lying, look at the bloody ciggy. It’s on fire, right?” extracting a laugh from Dan and Jim, breaking the tension that, up to now, existed in the cockpit.
“BOEING EXTENDED 777, you will start your turn immediately, or I will open fire on your aircraft,” replied Commander Philippe, angling his aircraft above the 777. Once in position, he squeezed off a warning burst of 20mm machine gun fire, its orange tracer’s racing by the 777’s cockpit window.
“JESUS,” EIAN SAID, viewing the tracers shoot by threateningly in front of the aircraft. “This bloody bastard is serious. He’s firing live ammo at us.”
AT SHANNON CONTROL Michael Shanely continued to monitor the situation involving the Boeing Extended 777. Having already detected Eian’s Irish accent on the radio, he would not allow a French military aircraft to enter Irish airspace nor harm one of its citizens.
Michael decided to lend a hand.
“French military aircraft, this is Shannon Air Traffic Control,” he said in a firm tone. “You are ordered to return to international airspace and abandon your proximity to Boeing 777. I say again, you have now entered Irish airspace, and you will be forcibly removed if required.”
“SHANNON AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL, this is a French military aircraft pursuing a Boeing 777 with suspected criminals on board. I am under orders of the French Undersecretary of Defense to turn them around. Please advise the Boeing 777 aircraft in your airspace to turn around and return to international airspace.”
MICHAEL SHANELY REPLIED, “French Mirage, your aircraft is now in violation of the sovereign territory of Ireland,” he replied sternly. “We request that you immediately return to international air space or face immediate action. Acknowledge, please.”
COMMANDER PHILIP realized he was beaten. “Affirmative; French Mirage now returning to international airspace.”
EIAN WAVED AS the Mirage peel off from his threatening position on the port side of the aircraft. “Look at that bugger run, boys.”
”Can you believe it? Eian said. “We were actually saved by our old Irish government.
Eian picked up his microphone in order to communicate with his saviors at Shannon. “Shannon Control, this is Boeing 777. We thank you for your humble Irish welcome,” he said. “We would like to request maintaining our present course until reaching Long Island ATC.”
Boeing 777, this is Shannon Control. You are cleared for course request. Maintain altitude of 35,000 feet. Good day to you and Godspeed.”
Dan triumphantly pumped his fist in the air. “You did it, Eian, you beautiful bastard,” he said. “You just had your share of the pot doubled, boyo.” Realizing his mistake with him caught up in the euphoria of the moment, Dan turned sheepishly to Jim. “That is if you agree, Jim.”
“Damn straight, you deserve a medal for the way you handled that French pilot,” Jim said. “You are definitely someone to have around in a pinch. When we hit the Florida Keys, we are going to throw the best damn party those fine folks have seen in a long time. Maybe we can even hook up with Jimmy Buffet for a private concert.”
Dan and Eian looked at each other before replying in unison, “Who the hell is Jimmy Buffet?”
If it’s a party to be, then we need some Clancy Brothers’ music,” Eian said. “Let’s try that toast one more time. The last time that damn fighter pilot ruined it. Raise your cups, gentlemen. Mr. Dieter, you have the floor… or cockpit. Take your choice.”
Jim stood up from his seat, raising his cup. “Gentlemen, if it weren’t for my father having a set of balls the size of Texas back during the war, none of this would have transpired. So raise your cups to my departed father. May he rest in peace beside my beautiful mother. God rest their souls. Cheers, my friends.”
“All right, gentlemen,” Eian said, “let us settle in for a long flight to America and on to my next set of devilish plans.”
Jim turned to face Eian before replying. “The Americans don’t know what they are in for, do they?”
“Not in the least, Mr. Dieter—not in the least.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
FRENCH MINISTRY OF DEFENSE – PARIS
Jacque La Tour sat dejectedly behind his desk, pen in hand, wondering if his “pet” projects would survive the next round of defense budget cuts. Rumors were circulating around the Paris water cooler that they would undoubtedly fall to the axe. What a way to be initiated into politics.
A soft knock by his assistant interrupted his train of thought. “Sir, sorry to interrupt you, but the Commander of Cherbourg Air Base is on line two,” she said, pointing at his phone. “He said it was urgent.”
“Admiral Roche, how are our little captives? Have they landed yet?” said La Tour.
“Sir, that’s why I am calling,” Admiral Roche replied. “We sent one of our best pilots to convince the aircraft to turn around, but they slipped into Irish air space before we could nab them.”
“Admiral, are you informing me that they are not in Cherbourg?” La Tour replied angrily.
“Yes sir, you are correct,” Admiral Roche said, standing in his well-appointed office overlooking Cherbourg’s harbor, loosening his uniforms tie and collar. “They are not at Cherbourg or anywhere else in France for that matter. Our intelligence sources have informed us that the aircraft continued on a direct course for the United States.”
“Admiral, this must be a pretty embarrassing episode for the Navy when a supersonic Mirage aircraft cannot catch and return a fleeing subsonic Boeing 777,” Jacque said. He enjoyed having the upper hand with someone who two months earlier was his boss while he was on active duty. The tables were truly reversed.
“Sir, we had no problem overtaking the aircraft,” the Admiral began. “It was our inability to convince them to deviate from their intended course. That was the issue. But I do
have another idea. We could make arrangements for their capture upon landing in the United States by simply notifying their Department of Homeland Security.”
Jacque wanted no part involving another government agency, an American one at that. The paperwork alone would burden him for days on end. No, he wanted to drop the political hot potato as soon as possible.
“Admiral, let the Americans worry about this affair. It’s out of our hands now. We tried our best, thank you and good day,” he said, hanging up before the Admiral could respond.
Jacque slowly rose from his desk, walking over to where he proudly displayed various mementos and pictures from his days as an officer in the French Navy, focusing on one picture in particular.
Removing an aged bottle of Calvados from his bar, he poured a single shot into a baccarat crystal glass, lifting it in mock salute to a picture of Jim Dieter and himself taken only two years before.
“Good luck my friend—until we meet again under better circumstances.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
MI-6 HQ – LONDON
The early morning fog showed signs it was beginning to burn off as scattered streaks of sunlight made a welcome appearance. A lovely day was surely on tap for those souls lucky enough to enjoy it.
General Parker’s military helicopter burst through the scattered fog as it banked over the Thames en route to the MI-6 VIP helipad. He bore news that could potentially provide his team a second chance to redeem themselves.
Sir Robert was made aware of General Parker’s arrival by the helipad control officer. God only knows what Parker has in mind, he thought, clearing any trace of his morning breakfast of Earl Grey Tea and hot Irish scones with extra butter, an early morning habit he picked up years before from his dear departed mother.
“Good morning, Sir Robert,” General Parker said breathlessly, bursting into the office as if it were his own, his uniform immaculate, an overflowing briefcase and assorted maps in tow. “Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice, sir, but I think we have a chance at redemption concerning the French fiasco.”
General Parker hands a recent telex message for Sir Robert to view. As Sir Robert silently read the telex, the General unfurled a detailed map of the Eastern United States on Sir Robert’s conference table.
Sir Robert glared at General Parker as if he had just crossed an unspoken barrier. “First of all, General Parker, it is not we who have to redeem ourselves. It is you and your SAS boys,” Sir Robert spat out angrily, tossing the message into his wastebasket with obvious disdain. “Secondly, who said I would entrust another operation of this magnitude to you. I am already on the receiving end of a load of buckshot in my ass from the Prime Minister because I approved your cockeyed French plan. Do you see this stack of papers on my desk in front of me? I am already looking for your replacement, General. What would you say to that?”
“Sir, if I may be so bold to recommend providing me with an additional week before you seek my replacement,” General Parker said, scouting the area for something to hold down the edges of the map before it rolled up on him once again, finally settling on a stapler and a hole punch for each corner.
“Why should I extend to you the luxury of an additional week? That would simply provide you with ample time to apply egg to my face once more.”
Curiosity caught the best of him, walking over to view the general’s map.
“Sir, I have a distinguished career. I beg you. Please don’t allow me to go out in disgrace. Provide me with one last chance. I will personally lead the team. No screw-ups. You have my word as an officer and a gentleman on the issue.”
“You, General?” Sir Robert spat out, looking at him with obvious disdain. Wondering as to what depths he would succumb in order to save himself. “You’ve got to be kidding. You haven’t seen action since the renewed fighting in Northern Ireland in 1993. Don’t you think the rust is on your sword so to speak?”
General Parker allowed the snide comment to pass, pressing on with his pitch. “Please, Sir Robert, we don’t have much time,” he began. “Our listening posts outside of Cheltenham have intercepted communications between a French fighter off our southern coast and a privately leased Boeing 777.” He points to the map and the last known position of the French fighter. “The reason they tried to turn the aircraft around was due to a suspected Irish and American criminal on board: our Daniel Flaherty and James Dieter. The message that now resides in your wastebasket was intercepted less than 15 minutes ago. Based upon that message, I overstepped my authority and authorized one of our ready alert Nimrod Aircraft to launch and follow the aircraft. The upgraded Nimrod is faster and should have overtaken the 777 by now. My plan is simplistic in nature; to take the same team that was in operation in France over to the U.S.”
Sir Robert started to protest.
General Parker held up his hands to cut off Sir Robert, continuing. “They can eliminate our friend Flaherty. I have our SAS men stationed on another jet at Gatwick ready to be airborne as soon as you give the word. If we launch in the next 30 minutes, we can catch them off the eastern seaboard of the United States and simply trail them in.”
“And what if you screw up again, General?” He started looking at the maps the general had spread out. “Are you going to shoot any old ladies as they cross the street? Or will I be forced to lie to my American counterparts as I have to the French? Or even worse, will I have to meet with the Prime Minister with more grievous news? Because if I do, General, I will have you eliminated,” his fingers cutting across his neck in one swift motion.
“Your point is well taken, Sir Robert,” the General said, patting his 9mm sidearm. “I will personally guarantee success.”
“All right mister, you sold me,” Sir Robert said. “Your personal guarantee on this? I like that. All right. You have my concurrence on this little operation. But don’t screw it up boy, or I will personally have you hung from Parliament Tower.”
“No need, Sir Robert. If this operation turns to mission failure—I will already be dead.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
BOEING 777 – OVER ATLANTIC OCEAN
Jim’s steady hand operated the aircraft controls, gliding the aircraft through the brilliant blue sky. “I can’t believe an aircraft of this size is so easy to control,” he said to Eian, still seated beside him. “When I was in the Navy, I would always stand mystified behind the pilots as they flew the aircraft. It always looked so hard, or at least they gave the impression that it was.”
Eian laughed aloud at Jim’s flying analogy, still monitoring the instruments as Jim was having his fun, having begged to take over the controls since leaving Irish airspace.
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Dieter,” Eian said, “it’s pretty easy to fly the plane. Due to basic aerodynamics, the plane actually wants to stay aloft. The trick is on landing and take-off. It gets a bit sticky then, especially with the harsh elements thrown in like snow or heavy rain. Other than that, a monkey could fly it.”
“Oh, I’m sure there’s more to it. You’re just being modest. I saw how you handled the situation with that French fighter. You were actually going to shut down that engine to simulate an emergency, weren’t you?” Jim said, looking over at Eian, searching the man’s expression for the half-truth.
Eian enjoyed the captive audience of one, reminding him of his flight instructor days of past. “Your hair would stand on end if I told you what I intended on doing with our fine aircraft here. I have performed many a stunt that most aircraft engineers would deem not possible.”
“Please, don’t tell me until we get down on the deck. I don’t want to lose that fine breakfast you cooked us earlier.” Jim’s hands tightened on the aircraft’s controls as he shot a nervous glance over toward Eian for support. “Any idea on how long we have left? I’m starting to tire from holding the controls.”
“No problem,” Eian said, eyeing his watch. “Looks like one hour and fifteen minutes to our destination. As a matter of fact, I think now would be
an excellent time to contact Long Island Air Traffic Control. We have to keep up our ruse: that and to check our conditions over the target area.”
Eian leaned over the center console, casually disengaging the autopilot system that had been flying the aircraft the whole time Jim was in the seat totally unaware.
Jim shook his head in frustration. “You mean to tell me that I wasn’t flying the plane at all? The damn computer was doing all of the work? I feel like a total fool.”
Eian laughed aloud before turning around to view a red-faced Jim. “Mr. Dieter, do you actually think I would let you fly this aircraft over the ocean, possibly taking us off course? I don’t think so. I just humored you all along. After all, you are the boss.”
Jim joined in on the laughter at his own expense. “Wait until I have a chance to get even, little man. Your time will come.”
Dan slowly made his way forward, rising from a two-hour nap in the rear of the aircraft, arriving in the cockpit as the laughter was subsiding. ”Don’t tell me, Eian, you pulled the old autopilot joke on young Dieter here?” He handed Jim a cup of coffee. “Don’t worry, Jim. He pulls that crap on everyone. He did the same thing to me over 20 years ago.” He turns to Eian. “Do we have an estimated time of arrival?”
“Sure do, Dan,” Eian shot back confidently, “as long as the autopilot stays off,” looking back at Dan and Jim, a smirk still resident upon his face. “We have a little over one hour till we get this baby on the deck and start unloading your mysterious cargo.”
Dan removed his Nokia satellite phone from his pocket, keying up two prerecorded phone numbers. “One hour you say? This would make it an excellent time to call our ground transport personnel and make sure they are in position at Millville.”
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