Fly by Wire (2010)

by Larsen, Ward

  "Battery switches -- yes."

  "Turn them off for ten seconds, then back on. The airplane should still be flyable in the down time and come back up clean. The clock is the key -- that's what cues the entire sequence."

  "We've got it," Townsend said. "We're sending it now."

  "Good. I'll keep the line open." Davis looked at his very accurate watch. Four minutes.

  Townsend s voice came back, "All right, we've sent the word. So now we just wait?"

  "Hell, no -- I mean, no Mr. President. Now we get to work. Keep double-checking that the word has gone through. Have all the airplanes contact you once they're under positive control. Some of these planes will take hours to get on the ground. Have NORAD launch their air defense fighters. Get. them to escort as many as possible -- but no shooting. They can help identify airplanes that are having trouble. Send out these same instructions to every country that can help. C-500s are flying all over the world and we have to track them all until the last one is safely on the ground."

  Davis heard more chatter over the line. He looked for Sorensen and spotted her engaging the police. Her gun was on the ground and she was showing an ID. He wondered which company -- CIA or Honeywell? She was going to have some explaining to do.

  A woman in EMT gear came trotting toward him. She had a medical kit in her hand and said in French, "I am told you have a wound."

  Davis didn't fight it. He kept the phone to his ear, but stretched out his injured leg and pointed to the spot. The woman went to work, cutting away his trouser leg. He thought, My best pair of Dockers, shot to hell.

  "You must he back," she ordered.

  The woman put a blanket over his shoulders, and Davis leaned back gingerly. He could no longer see Sorensen amid the gathering storm of authorities and onlookers. Bystanders were circling around Fatima s body as well, while a pair of policemen tried to push them back.

  The phone on the White House end had gone to speaker. Davis heard the president still giving orders. He heard information coming from a half-dozen voices, an accounting of airplanes safely on the ground. The numbers were rising rapidly. And there were no shouts of imminent disaster. Not even one. He checked his watch. Twenty seconds to spare.

  He felt a twinge of pain from something the woman was doing to his wound.

  "Keep still, please," she said.

  Davis tried, and with his head resting on frozen concrete, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  He pictured the cockpit of a C-500 and imagined the flash messages crews were getting at this very moment, imagined them resetting clocks. Others -- those who didn't read the message right away, or who spent too much time deciding if the crazy instructions were some kind of twisted joke sent by a flight dispatcher -- would get the scare of a lifetime. They'd be riding in an airplane that no longer responded to their commands. At that point, they'd realize the situation was dead serious and start powering down electrical busses in a frenzy to save their airplanes.

  Davis hoped that's how it was all happening.

  He racked his brain for anything else, any uncovered angle. Nothing came to mind. When he opened his eyes again, he was staring straight up at the night sky. There were still clouds above, but the ceiling had gone to a broken layer, the moon and stars filtering down through vague, misty gaps. It was heavenly. Davis spotted a glimmer up high, a tiny set of sequenced flashing lights -- an airplane soaring miles overhead. There was a chance it was a C-500, the crew fighting for their lives. But more likely it was something better.

  Still, he couldn't pull his eyes away as he watched the blinking beacons. They carried on true, no turns or swerves or dives. Just kept going, steady and serene. At that moment, Jammer Davis very much wished he was up there, slipping smooth and quick through the cold winter air.

  EPILOGUE:

  Rub al-Khali, Yemen

  Four days later

  The terminal meeting had been prearranged, the purpose being to conclude affairs after the last decimating attack. It was held, by Dubai's arrangement, in a region referred to as the Empty Quarter, a name that had been coined a thousand years ago but stood as accurate today as it had then. Deep in the ungoverned desert of northern Yemen, Rub al-Khali was as barren as the moon, an endless ocean of sand dunes that flowed to the Saudi border and beyond.

  The night was clear and cold, a deep burgundy sun having surrendered hours ago to the full moon that now cast its silver veneer over the desolate terrain. A single large tent was the sole convenience, and acted as focal point for the heaviest security effort to date. Three dozen armed men patrolled a perimeter that was defined by a convoy of six Chevy Suburbans. The trucks were parked in a rough circle, although large gaps gave the image of a wagon train come short. Two helicopters also lay in wait, their anxious pilots chain-smoking, ready to launch on a moment's notice. It helped no one's nerves that the men inside the tent were arguing vociferously.

  All six members of the CargoAir board of directors were present -- Saudi Arabia, Dubai, Russia, Singapore, Abu Dhabi, and Switzerland. Their bellowing voices competed for attention, competed for air. It would have been worse had the sound not been muted by the heavy fabric of the large tent.

  "Enough!" Luca Medved screamed, having had enough. "We are wasting time! There is no use speculating with regard to how our plan failed. We cannot go back. Our only option now is to disband. It is time for each of us to pull his ripcord and escape the entire affair."

  "I would like nothing better" Singapore shouted, "but with what means? My accounts have been frozen, every single one!"

  Five sets of eyes went to Switzerland.

  "As have mine," he said defensively. "I tell you, I have operated from these tax havens my entire professional life, but never have I seen such a level of government involvement. Switzerland, the Bahamas, Lichtenstein -- all of them. Banking laws that have been on the books for five hundred years are being ignored, thrown away only for us. We have bitten off too much."

  "You were supposed to be the expert," Saudi Arabia accused. "Now is not the time to realize this could happen."

  There was finally a break, a moment of stillness.

  It was Medved, the Russian, who filled the void. "But what bothers me most, gentlemen, is what has not happened. Why are we not sought individually? Our personal finances have been shut down, and we can no longer access the wealth of our nations. Clearly, they know who we are. Yet our names are not in the newspapers, nor our pictures on television. And here we sit, united as ever. Why?"

  Quiet fell again, for none could answer that question.

  Ten miles to the west, a U. S. Air Force B-2 bomber was gliding smoothly at twenty-four thousand feet. It was, like the C-500, a flying wing design. Indeed, from an aerodynamic standpoint, there were great similarities between the two aircraft. The glaring difference involved payload. On this night, the jet designated Spirit of Texas was carrying twelve GBU-31 JDAMs -- two thousand pound bombs that were guided by an intensely accurate marriage of inertial and satellite inputs.

  The weapons operator in the right seat monitored his display. They had been watching the site for two hours, long before the target set had become complete. Under magnification, the right seater momentarily amused himself by distinguishing which of the guards were smoking and which were not. He confirmed his coordinates before announcing, 'Target locked, weapons master arm shows a green light."

  The pilot in command keyed his secure radio. "PORTAL, Plank 21 is inbound hot, standing by authorization."

  The transmission traveled by satellite link, and settled in a bunker seven thousand miles west and four miles down. "Roger, Plank 21. PORTAL, here. Confirm no change in target status."

  "Plank 21, negative. No vehicle movement, and all choppers still cold." The aircraft commander adjusted his course ever so slightly. He didn't have to wait long for a response.

  "Plank 21, PORTAL. You have authorization Golf Oscar. You are cleared hot."

  "Plank 21 copy, Golf Oscar."

  Eight
seconds later the bomb bay doors snapped opened and six JDAMs fell sequentially from their rotary launchers. Another clutch of six weapons was reserved for the second pass -- assuming there was anything identifiable left to hit. The pilot announced that his bombs were away.

  Halfway around the world in a Pentagon bunker, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Robert Banks, answered. "Plank 21, PORTAL. We copy. Standby for possible reattack."

  Banks stood watching a satellite monitor. The picture of the tent in the Empty Quarter was quite clear--until the first two-thousand pounder hit. The next five bombs were certainly overkill, all right on target. "Shack!" he said on the radio. "Nice work, Plank."

  Banks, a native of Austin, couldn't resist muttering under his breath, "There's a little Spirit of Texas for you, you bastards."

  .

  Fredericksburg, Virginia

  "Okay, Dad, I'm ready!"

  Davis was fiddling with the coffeepot in the kitchen. "All right, hang on! I'm coming!" he called. The thing finally started chugging and he went to the living room. Jen wasn't there. He looked up the stairs and saw her standing at the top. Davis had not been prepared. The view took his breath away.

  She was posed on the top landing. Her evening dress was stunning, her hair shimmered in the light. And then there was the smile -- the one he'd seen a thousand times before. Jen was the image of her mother.

  Her smile suddenly sagged. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Don't you like the dress? Aunt Laura and I spent a whole day shopping for it."

  Davis wiped the stupefied look off his face. "It's beautiful, baby. You can't imagine how beautiful."

  The glow returned, a smile that could light the world. She came down the stairs carefully, awkwardly in mid-rise heels. She stopped two steps from the bottom and stood along the banister. He wondered when she'd become a woman. Soon Jen would be driving, graduating, heading off to college. Navigating life's waypoints all on her own.

  Davis went closer, engaged his daughter eye-to-eye. "You're a vision, sweetheart."

  She checked the clock on the wall. "Bobby's going to be here any minute!"

  Don't remind me, Davis thought. He said, "Great."

  "Dad, do you really have to stay the whole time? Can't you just drop us off and then--"

  "Jen!" he said. "No more! We have been over this. I talked to Bobby's mom and we agreed I'd chaperone. I drive you there, I stay. Period."

  "You don't trust me!"

  "I trust yow."

  "So you don't trust Bobby?"

  "I don't even know Bobby."

  He watched her face, saw the cracks begin to form. Here it comes, he thought. Great going, Jammer. When he'd first gotten home from France, there had been hugs and kisses. They lasted ten minutes. Then it was back to the usual parent-teen roller coaster -- one minute they were best friends, the next inmate and warden.

  Davis was saved by the doorbell.

  "Oh my God!" she cried. "He's here!"

  Davis made a move for the door.

  "No!" Jen whispered, horrified.

  Davis stopped in his tracks. Facing away from his daughter, his eyes went to the heavens. "All right," he said, "all right. Give Bobby the full treatment. I'll be in the kitchen."

  Davis strode away, forced himself to close the connecting door. The coffeemaker was in top gear, making a throaty gurgling noise like it was choking on whatever he'd put in the filter. So he didn't hear the front door open. Didn't hear anything until Jen called out, "Daddy/"

  Something in her tone made his blood go cold.

  He bolted to the living room and saw Jen backing away from the door. Davis rushed to put himself in between the two. It wasn't Bobby Taylor. On the left and right of his doorstep were two clean-cut men nearly as big as he was. Between them was the president of the United States.

  The two bodyguards looked very alert, and Davis realized he was set in a strong stance. He eased up.

  The president put out a hand. "Hello, Davis. Good to meet you."

  Davis shook hands. "Hello, sir."

  Truett Townsend looked past him into the living room. "I hope I haven't come at a bad time."

  "No, no. Not at all."

  Townsend looked at him expectantly.

  "Oh, sorry," Davis said. "Would you like to come in?"

  "If you can spare a few minutes."

  The president stepped over the threshold, his two Secret Service men right behind. Davis looked outside and saw an armored convoy on the street in front of his house -- three limos, four Suburbans, and a half-dozen black-and-whites. The vehicles were surrounded by a platoon of Secret Service and uniformed police. Mrs. Irving across the street was standing in her driveway wearing a housedress and a priceless expression of bewilderment.

  Davis eased the door shut and saw Jen eyeing the president. She was positively starstruck.

  "Oh," Davis said, "sorry. This is my daughter, Jennifer."

  Townsend shook Jen s hand and said, "You look magnificent, dear. Are you going out with your father?"

  "Uh -- well, no. I don't dress for him -- I mean -- it's not for him. I'm going to a dance. You know. With a boy." She closed her eyes, bit her bottom lip.

  Townsend smiled. The president was probably used to it. "Have a seat," Davis said, sweeping the sports section up from the couch.

  Townsend did.

  "Can I offer you some coffee?" "Yes, actually. Black would be great." "Jen," Davis said, "would you mind?"

  His daughter collected herself enough to take the cue. "Okay, Dad. Sure." She headed for the kitchen, but not without a few bobble-headed glances over her shoulder to make sure this was happening.

  Townsend said, "I'm sorry you weren't able to make the ceremony yesterday, Davis. We --" "Jammer." "Sorry?"

  "Everybody calls me Jammer."

  "Oh, right. Well, Jammer, we quietly honored a handful of people who helped keep the damage from this disaster to a minimum."

  "Please don't think I wasn't honored by the invitation. I had some important things to take care of here at home."

  Townsend nodded. "I can see that. You made the right choice. But you really saved our butts. If those airplanes had done what they were programmed to do, a lot of people would have died. Not to mention the economic impact -- it would have been a disaster all around."

  "If you ask me, Earl Moore was the real hero. And I wouldn't be standing here today if it wasn't for Miss Sorensen."

  "Yes, Miss Sorensen. She's still over in France, tying up loose ends. I'm going to make a point of seeing her when she gets back." "So am I," said Davis.

  The president's eyes narrowed and the hint of a smile creased his lips.

  Jen came in with a tray holding two cups of Davis' special brew She gave one to the president and he immediately took a sip. Didn't spit it out. Davis took the second cup as one of the Secret Service men leaned over to Townsend and whispered something in his ear.

  The president addressed Jen, "I think your escort has arrived. A young man by the name of Bobby Taylor?"

  Jen nodded excitedly.

  Davis had a vision -- the Taylor kid outside getting frisked by the president's Secret Service detail. He kind of liked the idea. Maybe the kid would figure that's what you got when you made a move on Jammer Davis' daughter.

  Townsend signaled to his man. The door opened and a wide-eyed Bobby Taylor came in under escort. He was dressed in an ill-fitting suit and had a plastic box with a corsage dangling forgotten at his side. To his credit, he seemed to recognize the president of the United States. Jen took social flight and issued proper introductions to her overwhelmed date -- first the president, followed by her father. Davis didn't take offense.

  Having given Jen her moment, Davis said, "Sweetheart, can you give the president and me a few minutes?" He gave a nod toward the stairs and Jen led Bobby up to her room. Davis checked to make sure the door was left open.

  He turned to Townsend. "You have kids, right?"

  "Two, both grown. But I can remember. Tough, isn'
t it?"

  "Yep."

  Townsend sipped again. "Anyway, Jammer, I just wanted to tell you in person how much I appreciate everything you did. Not a single airplane was lost. We've determined that they were set to strike the biggest refineries across the world."

  "Jaber programmed it like I thought?"

  "Yes, his software had the flight computers taking over at the exact time you said they would. It also instructed the flight data recorders to blank out when the clock kicked everything off."