by Tom Hansen
6:00 p.m.
“Y our attention please. This is the final call for Bayou Airlines 444 to Dallas. All passengers should be on board.” The intercom was cracking and difficult to hear and the majority of passengers didn’t want to go home to Texas. The Youth Christian Club of Fort Worth, an organization dedicated to bringing happiness to needy children from the inner city, had sent seventy-eight over-the-top-with-excitement kids to Orlando on Friday for two full days at the Magic Kingdom. The boys and girls, ranging in age from nine to thirteen, had spent today killing time at Gatorland while waiting for their night flight back to the Lone Star state. They cheered like crazy every time the giant alligators would leap up from the swamp and swallow a whole chicken that was dangling from a human feeder’s skinny and shaky hand. By the time the kids stopped for Happy Meals at McDonald’s on the way to the airport the ten moms who were chaperoning were totally wasted. But the plane was on schedule and they smiled at each other knowing that they would be home in their cozy beds in plenty of time for Johnny Carson to put them to sleep.
There were only a handful of other passengers who were not associated with the youth group on board Bayou 444. They longed for peace and quiet amidst this group of rowdy kids so they could catch a few winks on the westward flight. Chances were slim of that happening. Sitting in a middle seat in the last row next to the bathrooms was Harley Hutter, a Bayou pilot who was deadheading to Dallas to catch his early morning flight to Mexico City. Harley was returning from an extended leave of absence following the death of his brother, Harry, who had piloted the fateful Trans South flight that crashed in the Everglades last month. Harley’s mother had tried in vain to talk him into a new career, perhaps cleaning jets instead of flying them, after Harry’s memorial service. Harley assured her that lightning never strikes a family twice and she should have no reason to worry. Besides, Harley flew his jets carefully and by the book, unlike his wild and crazy brother who longed for a little shaky-shake from the turbulence dance in the skies.
Harley’s mom didn’t buy his assurance because, quite frankly, her sons were like two peas in a pod. Whatever Harry could do, Harley thought he could do better.
* * * * *
Federal Aviation Administrator Hubert Combs had been appointed to the top position by President Layman a year earlier. He was a well-decorated Marine Corps veteran, a Navy test pilot and a real nice guy . . . who didn’t put up with crap. Three months after heading up the FAA, Combs fired three air traffic supervisors in Washington for coming back two minutes late from their coffee break. One was Combs’ nephew who was living with him in a Virginia suburb.
The call came from FBI Director Morris Clements who informed Combs that NTSB Chief Investigator Jack Tassett had broken bad and was a top suspect in a criminal investigation into the two Florida midair disasters this past month. He had been briefed on the case from Jack Jones, one of his most trusted field agents who had pleaded with Clements to take immediate action. After a five-minute discussion with the FBI Director, who had mentioned that Tassett was just seen on a live TV news program from Tampa International Airport, Combs grounded all planes. Every flight currently in US airspace was ordered to land at the first available airport. He assumed President Layman would be furious that he placed the directive without his permission. He was right. Within ten minutes, the president was on the phone.
“Who the hell do you think you are, Bert, grounding all planes without even speaking to me first?” President Layman was beside himself. “Can you even comprehend the panic you’ve just created in the minds of all Americans?”
“I had to make a quick decision, Mr. President. Many American lives are at risk. I’m more concerned with protecting human blood than I am with image.” Combs then proceeded to inform Layman about the conversation he just had with FBI Director Clements. The president softened up, then apologized to Combs.
“What’s your plan, Bert, I mean, where’s your focus at this point?” inquired the president.
“The two midair collisions occurred in Florida. Tassett was last seen at Gate 14A in Tampa advising the public that he himself would be providing the safety check for Coastal East 561, the first flight out of there since the crash over Lake Okeechobee. I believe that flight, which lifted off before six, is in grave danger. We are unable to contact the cockpit, however, the pilot has been transmitting coordinates with somebody on the ground. Middle Eastern accent, but we have no idea where it’s coming from. The pilot believes the person to be legit. I have no doubt it’s fraud. Also, sir, Clements informed me about a plot to control airplanes with some sort of remote control device and that Tassett had loaded air traffic control centers and certain aircraft with radar jamming equipment. There’s a chance the Coastal East flight is being controlled by whoever is on the ground and the pilot doesn’t know it. His radar panel could be displaying false data.”
“Do you think any other flights are being controlled by this person?” asked the president.
“I’m sorry to say, but the chances of that are very good, sir. We found out that Tassett was at Orlando’s airport a few days ago making what he recorded as ‘safety adjustments’ to the air traffic control center there. He was also seen tinkering around with an airplane that was down for a few days of scheduled maintenance in a hangar. I hate to say this, but that plane just took off for Dallas with a large group of kids from the Youth Christian Center in Fort Worth. And yes, we are unable to hail the pilot, but once again, he is making voice transmissions to someone on the ground. Same Middle Eastern accent.”
“Oh my God! This is nuts. Will someone please arrest Tassett. I don’t want him to see the light of day ever again! Bert, you have my full support on whatever you need to get those planes home safely. Keep me posted. I will keep a line open here in the War Room.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you Mister President.”
CHAPTER 91
Monday, March 15, 1982
6:35 p.m.
J ack Tassett simply walked away unnoticed from the news cameras following his inspection of Coastal East 561 and headed for the National Transportation Safety Board office located near the charter terminal. When he arrived at 6:45, the last employee was getting into his car. Jack waited in the shadows until the man drove away, then unlocked the door and walked to his office in the back. As he entered, the phone on his desk rang and he debated answering it. He knew the feds would figure things out soon, and it was time for him to finish the job and drive down to Roy Jackson’s ranch. Jack decided to let the phone go to the answering machine.
“Tassett! Are you there? Damn it, pick up now, this is Harfield.”
Jack lifted the receiver. “Go ahead, Oliver. I’m here.”
“The FAA just grounded all flights. We barely got both in the air before the order went out. We have no video access, but Dulie and Yussef have the joysticks. Dulie’s controlling the Coastal East jet while Yussef is handling Bayou which just took off from Orlando. Yussef was able to scramble communications with both jets and intercept cockpit transmissions through our satellite. The pilots think Sam and Yussef are their air traffic controllers and they are relaying flight data to him. Dulie and Yussef are controlling the flight by providing headings and bearings, but it won’t be long before the pilots realize the plane’s not going in the right direction to get to their destination. Where do you have jammers in place right now, Jack?”
“Every major airport in Florida, plus Chicago, Dallas, both Washington airports, Denver, Houston, St. Louis and Minneapolis. I can turn on the jammers from my office at any time with a computer link.”
“Hit the switch, Jack. It’s time to play hardball with the president.”
“One problem. The jammers are all on the same code and frequency, including the Coastal East and Bayou flights. If I shut down the towers, your flights will be jammed, too. That means your pilots won’t be able to transmit their locations to Sam and Yussef.”
“Hold on,” shouted Sam, who was listening to the conversation. “If you c
an give us ten minutes, we can have both planes close enough to Seminole Bend so we can see them. As soon as that happens, we can guide them around from right here. Make them do parade laps around Lake Okeechobee until the president gives in.”
“Okay, did you hear that, Jack?” asked Oliver, holding the receiver out a small distance from his ear.
“Affirmative. At seven sharp I will jam all our equipment, and then I can meet up with you by nine o’clock at the ranch.”
Jack Tassett could hear sirens coming from all directions and several helicopters overhead. He knew the FBI was on his tail and converging fast. Holding off until 7:00 might prove to be a complicated mess.
CHAPTER 92
Monday, March 15, 1982
6:50 p.m.
A bove Roy’s office was a makeshift rectangular-shaped control tower for his own little airstrip with glass on all four sides plus the ceiling. It looked like a greenhouse in the sky. The satellite receiver and communication’s antennas were bolted to all four corners of the roof. There was a computer and radio in the tower that was connected to the equipment downstairs. Sam and Yussef dashed up the metal staircase into the glass enclosure and continued their transmissions from there.
“Coastal East 561, this is Sam in Tampa Tower,” announced Dulie into the microphone. “Continue on course heading one-seven-zero and level off at four thousand feet. Hold tight at 250 knots.”
“Tampa Tower, this is Coastal East 561,” replied the Coastal East pilot. “Roger that, Sam. But we’re heading to Atlanta. Why bear south-south-east with minimal altitude?”
“Report of high turbulence over the Gulf of Mexico. We’re looping you around Lake Okeechobee and then you will climb to ten thousand near Melbourne with a course heading of three-four-zero up to Atlanta.”
“Roger. My radar is showing no weather activity over the Gulf, though.”
“We received reports from earlier flights out of Miami and Orlando, so just advising a safer path for all your high paying clients.”
“Roger that. Coastal East 561 out.”
Meanwhile, Yussef was plotting a southeasterly course heading for Bayou 444, also at a low altitude, much to the confusion of the pilot. Yussef claimed the same turbulence theory, then ordered the pilot to go around it from the south. Harley Hutter leaned over and peered out the tiny window from his uncomfortable middle seat, much to the annoyance of the window seat passenger trying to catch a few winks. Why was a plane that should have a straight course over the Gulf of Mexico now turning left in a southerly direction? And why the hell was it flying so damn low?
At precisely 7:00 p.m., Jack Tassett flipped several switches and all radar equipment in the targeted cities and onboard the Coastal East and Bayou flights went blank. Sam and Yussef could see both aircraft in the distance, but just barely. They pulled out their joysticks. This should be fun!
* * * * *
“Coastal East 561 to tower. Sam, I’ve lost all radar functions. Also, rudder pedals and control wheel are moving on their own. I’ve disengaged auto pilot with no luck. Ailerons are flopping and I can’t control my pitch or roll. Need to declare an emergency!” Coastal East pilot Aaron Douglas had never trained for anything like this in a simulator. Copilot Keith Carver had been a Navy electrician during the Vietnam War and guessed the problem was electrical, but couldn’t seem to pinpoint where to start looking.
“Coastal East 561, this is Sam. Sit back and relax boys, I’ll take care of you from here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, let me show you,” replied Sam as he pushed the joystick up with one hand, and then an accelerator switch forward to increase speed. The HJ-15 jet began to climb at a forty-five-degree angle. Then Sam slid the joystick to the left and the plane banked into a 30 degree turn. The Coastal East passengers and crew would now be doing a counterclockwise lap around Roy’s ranch every two minutes. In the background, Sam could hear screams echoing from the cabin into the cockpit. He smiled.
Bayou 444 pilot Rich Auferdahl had radioed Yussef with the same radar and flight control malfunctions that Coastal East 561 was experiencing. Yussef’s response was the same as Sam’s, and he was now banking the Bayou jet clockwise just 125 feet above the Coastal East jet. Passengers in window seats on both aircraft could see the other plane circling just above or below them. To keep from panicking, the kids from the Youth Christian Center joked to one another that they were back riding Disney’s Space Mountain roller coaster. But soon they went silent and fear was imbedded into their eye sockets. The barf bags were getting quite a workout.
Harley Hutter unbuckled his seatbelt and made his way to the cockpit, falling twice on aisle passengers as he tried unsuccessfully to compensate for the crooked fuselage and turbulence. Under orders from the captain, the flight attendants were strapped into their jump seats. They too feared the worse. Harley pounded on the cockpit door and Co-Captain George Alvin reached back and opened it.
“I’m Captain Harley Hutter, deadheading to Dallas. Do you need some help up here?”
“Yes, please, we’ll take any help we can!” answered Captain Auferdahl frantically. “We’ve lost all cockpit functions, including radar, flight control and communications. Our ATC’s name is Yussef, but he has now hijacked the plane!”
“How the hell can an air traffic controller hijack a jet?”
“I have no idea, but he is now flying this plane from somewhere on the ground, and either he or someone else is most likely in control of the Coastal East jet below us.” Harry leaned forward to get a better look at the other aircraft flying dangerously close and at a ridiculously low altitude. He had read the NTSB report in detail following the midair crash that had killed his brother and remembered that the air traffic control center in Miami was malfunctioning at the time of the accident.
“We need to get into the control deck and find the device that is steering this plane remotely.”
Captain Auferdahl and Co-Captain Alvin both stared blankly at Harley. “Obviously it’s happening, Captain Hutter, but how?” inquired Auferdahl.
“Quite frankly, I’m not sure. But we need to find out. Grab your tool kit. And just call me Harley, okay?”
CHAPTER 93
Monday, May 15, 1982
7:10 p.m.
L ew drove the Trans Am back to Seminole Bend while Janet sat silently day dreaming, staring blankly out the passenger side window. In the back seat, Otis, Lance and Pancho were snoring in harmony. At 7:10 they were nearing the Yeehaw Junction exit off the turnpike when Lew tapped his wife on the arm and pointed up to the sky.
“Look up there. Those two planes must be in some kind of air show. They’re circling around awfully close to . . . hold on, I think they are passenger jets!” Janet leaned forward to get a good look, then she covered her mouth with both hands.
Meanwhile, Major Barney Watkins brought the Huey Chopper down softly on the Seminole Bend High School football field. Before leaving Gainesville, Willy had phoned the sheriff’s office and told them to find Sheriff Bonty and send him over to the stadium immediately. Bonty left Norma Foss and Sheryl Berry with Father O’Shea at the Catholic church, but Jimmy, Jenny and Tyrone demanded to go with him to the high school.
Major Ben Smith dropped the ramp and was the first one out of the chopper. Bonty and the kids were standing by the visitor’s bench on the fifty-yard line watching as the others disembarked. Willy glanced up and noticed Bonty had brought Jimmy and Jenny Jackson and his nephew Tyrone with him. He walked over to Sheriff Bonty and shook hands. “I heard, Al, what you did and I’m very grateful. I apologize for being an ass.”
“You’re a good man, Deputy Banks,” replied the sheriff. “And I’m glad to have you back on the force.” He winked at Willy.
Willy nodded at Jimmy and Jenny, then put his arm around his nephew and led him back towards the Huey. “Tyrone, there’s someone here I would like you to meet.”
Tyrus was the last one off the chopper and he froze in his tracks when he no
ticed Willy approaching with a teenage boy. His mouth dropped wide open and tears ran down his cheek. He knew it was his son - there was no doubt in his mind.
“Tyrone, let me introduce you to your dad,” said Willy as he stepped back. Tyrus embraced his son with a bear hug while Tyrone stood completely still. Then, Tyrone reached up and pushed his father’s chest, releasing Tyrus’ clutch and causing him to stumble backwards.
“You’re not my dad,” retorted Tyrone. “You abandoned me!”
Willy grabbed Tyrone from behind and turned the boy to face him.
“Your father is a hero, Ty. He left you only to save your life and that of your mother. I will explain everything to you later.”
Tyrone dropped his head and wiped the tears from his cheeks. Willy and Tyrus embraced him and each other. America was in a state of siege, but family still came first.
CHAPTER 94
Monday, March 15, 1982
7:30 p.m.
B arney Watkins noticed it first. “Ben, look up.”
Ben Smith glanced westward where Barney was pointing. “Awesome sunset, Barn, but we need to refuel the Huey. Let’s get this party over and get moving.”
“That’s not what I mean. Look again. Those two jets are circling as if they were in a holding pattern, but they’re flying dangerously low and way too close. And they’re flying in opposite directions!”
Sheriff Bonty saw the two special ops pilots pointing to the darkening sky and he looked up, then began a sprint to the chopper. While running, he shouted over his shoulder, “Willy, Johnny and Tyrus, over here!”
The family embrace suddenly became unlocked. The two brothers joined Deputy Murphree and all three jogged back to the Huey where Al was now watching the aerial show with Ben and Barney.