“Do I want to know Plan A?”
“You afraid of helicopters?”
“Of course not. I’m a pilot, right?”
“Yeah, but you’re fixed wing, not a fling-wing pilot. Fixed-wing pilots are generally suspicious of helicopters and bumblebees, for damn good reason. Plan A calls for you to go immediately to Hangar Five at Reagan National where a civilian helicopter, a Bell JetRanger, equipped with a real helicopter pilot, will snatch your commissioned body up and bring it here.”
“Understood. I’m on my way.”
“Ex-cellent, as children say these days after their minds have corroded to dust under the influence of such alien forces as Wayne’s World and MTV.”
David found himself closing his eyes and shaking his head. “John, what the hell are you talking about?”
“The collapse of American culture and language into guttural triviality, among other things, but that can wait. Hurry. We’ll try not to start World War Three without you.”
IN FLIGHT,
MERIDIAN FLIGHT SIX
9:45 P.M. Local
Janie Bretsen wasn’t certain when she reached her personal breaking point, but in the minutes following Brian Logan’s emotional speech on the PA she found it virtually impossible to sit by any longer and tolerate the void Judy Jackson had created by running away. Previously, the state of the cabin crew and their utter impotence when it came to dealing with the passengers had just left her disgusted.
Now she was alarmed.
Janie moved into the empty forward galley and used one of the interphone handsets to reach Judy Jackson in the cockpit.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing up there, Judy?” she asked. “Where does it say in the manual that the lead flight attendant hides in the cockpit?”
“I have no choice,” Judy said, relating her duties with the crash axe that had become her relieving central focus.
“Then neither do I,” Janie replied. “I’m next in seniority, and I’m taking control of this cabin crew. Stay up there and rot, for all I care.”
“Go to hell, Bretsen.”
Janie slapped the handset down and turned to find a wide-eyed Cindy Simons staring at her.
“Where are the other girls?” Janie asked.
Cindy pointed forward and aft simultaneously. “Hiding, mostly.”
“That stops here. I’m taking over. Any objections?”
Cindy rolled her eyes. “Are you, like, kidding? It’ll be a relief to have some direction and help.”
“Get Elle and the others up here for a quick huddle. Tell them to take inventory of the food and drink stocks in the back before they come. Okay?”
“Okay! Cindy shot off toward the rear of the cabin as Janie rifled through the carts and the compartments, trying to discern what they had left. It was a lot easier to riot when you were hungry, thirsty, scared, and mistreated, which was the general condition of most Meridian passengers these days, she thought to herself. Certainly, the awful leg from Chicago had been no exception, but this … this was becoming uncontrollable. A life had been lost and a passenger had been injured. She was beyond thinking about legal liability. There were passengers actively trying to stampede other passengers into doing something stupid with a captain who had, indeed, imperiled them.
Janie peeked around the curtain in coach and tried to assess the state of the revolt. She didn’t hear Robert MacNaughton approaching until he touched her shoulder, causing her to jump.
“Oh! Sorry.”
“We met earlier, Ms. Bretsen, but I’m still unclear whether you’re part of this crew,” he said.
“Yes, I am.” She related the circumstances of her clash with the lead flight attendant and her retreat to the cockpit. “I’m taking over the cabin crew.”
“Good. We’ve got quite an emergency here, I’d say.”
“Mr. MacNaughton, I need to ask you a very direct question, since you were … talking with Dr. Logan much earlier, too.”
“By all means.”
“What’s your assessment of him?”
Robert MacNaughton studied Janie’s face for a few seconds as he formulated an answer. “Very well. Two points. Dr. Logan is predisposed to hate this airline, with substantial justification as I understand it, and he came aboard very upset.”
Janie was nodding. “I heard about his wife and child.”
“Therefore,” Robert continued, “he may be expected to exaggerate any problems.”
“I thought that as well,” she said.
“But … it’s also quite clear that our strange captain has indeed left his copilot behind, apparently on purpose, and it’s quite clear that we have a very odd and dangerous situation here, and the doctor is probably correct that we’re dealing with either a seriously incompetent flyer, or a suicidal one. In either event, we can’t afford to sit and wait for the next act.”
Janie shook her head. “Suicidal I can’t buy.”
“Logan has a point, you know,” Robert added. “Merely finding a qualified pilot to watch him is a rather smart suggestion, don’t you think?”
Janie hesitated, then nodded. “Within limits.”
“Of course.”
“But … we can’t corner the captain and run the risk of his doing something dangerous in response,” Janie said.
“Such as landing in the middle of a firefight in a civil war?” Robert let the words hang there as he watched Janie swallow and look away momentarily before meeting his eyes again.
“Point well taken.”
“I must tell you that except for yourself and some of the other ladies, this is the worst crew I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. Especially Miss Jackson. I hope that doesn’t offend you.”
“It doesn’t,” she replied. “And you’re right about the service and the decisions made by the captain.”
“One more thing. If the good doctor returns empty-handed from searching for another flyer, it so happens I, myself, am a pilot, though I’m not qualified on something this large.”
“What’s the largest plane you can fly?”
She thought she noticed a small grin as he replied.
“The Boeing 737.”
The soft dual tone of a cabin call chime rang, and Janie turned to look at the overhead light as someone shouted from the first coach cabin. She pushed through the divider curtains as Brian Logan rushed back into the forward coach area from the rear section of the huge aircraft, following a small, bald man she hadn’t seen before as he pointed to one of the windows and leaned across two passengers.
“See? We are turning!” the man said.
Janie moved toward them as several others rushed to other windows, straining for a view of whatever had attracted their attention.
“Where?” Brian Logan was asking
“There. See that W-shaped constellation? Watch it move to the left. We’re turning very slowly, but he’s already changed course over ninety degrees. Cassiopeia was squarely off the left wing when he started.”
Brian nodded and pulled away, his face ashen as he strode forward to find Janie in his path.
“Please move,” he said.
“What’s the problem, Doctor?” Janie asked, holding her position.
Brian looked at her quizzically for a few seconds before responding. “He’s drastically changing course. We’re supposed to be going south.”
She took a deep breath and glanced over her shoulder at Robert MacNaughton, who was watching without comment, then turned back to Brian.
“What are you planning to do?’
“I’m going to call the bastard and see what he’s up to now,” Brian said, as he gently pushed past her and headed for the same interphone he’d used before. Janie made no attempt to stop him as he consulted the numbers printed on the back of the handset and punched in the flight deck code.
On the flight deck, Phil Knight picked up the receiver and growled a response. “What?”
“What the hell are you doing up there?” Brian snapped.
>
“I … have to go around some thunderstorms.”
“There’s nothing out there but stars.”
“You don’t have radar. I do, and I’m looking at thunderstorms and I’m not going through them.”
“A ninety-degree course change to avoid weather? That sounds pretty drastic. You’re headed due east.”
“That’s the way it goes over Africa. Now get off this interphone.”
“Understand this, Captain,” Brian said, well aware of Janie Bretsen standing beside him and listening carefully to every word. “There are several people back here who can read the stars, and they’ll know which way we’re heading at any moment. If we’re not back on course for Cape Town very quickly, we’re coming up there.”
“And I’ll blow your head off, Logan, if you even try to open this door. Understand?” Phil replied, but the other end had already been disconnected. He sat in silence for a moment, trying to recall some of the tricks other crews had used with hijackers. One method in particular had impressed him as clever. Maybe, he thought, he could make it work, too. After all, he was hijacked, wasn’t he? Logan had clearly told him that on the interphone, which meant the man’s words would be on the cockpit voice recorder, and they had the new version that recorded all the radio calls and interphone and cockpit chatter throughout the flight, not just the last thirty minutes.
There’s enough there to put him in the gas chamber, Phil told himself as he glanced at the overhead panel, thinking through the steps he’d have to take if he used the method he was considering. There would be some serious physical risks to the passengers, but weren’t they responsible anyway? No, he concluded. He had every right to take such a chance.
“Judy?” Phil said sharply.
“Yes?” The answer was cautious, but maybe he could force her into action.
“We’re going to end this revolt right now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
NRO HEADQUARTERS,
CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA
4:20 P.M. EDT
David Byrd greeted the NRO aide in the lobby of the headquarters building and clipped on a security badge as the young man motioned for him to follow. The high-speed dash to Reagan International Airport and the equally fast helicopter flight to Chantilly had been a whirlwind of sights and sounds competing with his growing curiosity.
After a quick walk down several corridors, the aide ushered him into a slightly larger version of the high-security room he’d seen earlier in the day. Three NRO analysts, including George Zoffel, were sitting at the circular console and hunched over their computer keyboards in the midst of an intense exchange as he moved into the room. David spotted John Blaylock seated behind them at a second-tier continuous desk and waved. Blaylock motioned David to the chair beside him and offered him the same type of lightweight headset the others were wearing, along with the whispered information that an intensive discussion with a CIA team at Langley was under way.
John adjusted several switches in front of him, his deep voice suddenly booming in David’s ears.
“Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” David replied, inclining his head toward the others.
“They can’t hear us talking when we’re in a private chat mode,” John said. “That’s Sandra Collings next to George Zoffel, by the way. I don’t know the other guy.”
“What’s happening, John? Why are we here?”
“Very strange situation, it’s evolving rapidly, and it involves a civilian 747,” he replied, filling in the basic facts about the departure from the Nigerian airport after the apparent murder of the flight’s copilot and removal of all passengers. Something in the intense background discussion snagged John’s attention and he raised his hand, silencing David’s impending reply.
“Wait!”
“Pull that in closer,” George Zoffel ordered as one of the many electronic images on the screens began changing. “This is the other end of the runway,” Zoffel continued. “The east end … six thousand feet away from where the copilot was apparently killed, or at least, where he was last seen.”
“Okay,” a voice from CIA headquarters said.
“This is a frame taken as the aircraft was climbing to the west, before it turned south. There’s a body on the runway, as you can see, and shooters on both the north and south sides.”
“An active crossfire?” Sandra Collings asked.
“I think so, but look at the blowup here using just available light … not infrared. The body appears to be in pants, probably male, bleeding badly, and wearing a white shirt. Closer, Ray, on the shoulders,” George Zoffel ordered, watching as the frame pushed in even closer. “It’s too blurry.”
“Hold on,” the analyst named Ray replied. “I’ll computer-enhance it in a second.” He worked through a series of keyboard orders to the computer, and they watched in silence as the pixels of the image began to migrate toward one another to form a sharper picture, step-by-step. There were black patches on the shoulders of the figure, and as the computer improved the frame for the sixth or seventh time, one of the patches began to show alternating stripes.
“Oh, shit! There we are,” George Zoffel said, sitting back.
“What?” Langley asked.
“You getting this shot at Langley?” Zoffel asked.
“Yes, but where’s the ‘Oh, shit’ material?”
“See the black patches on the shoulders? Those are epaulets. Civilian pilots wear those. That’s how we ID’d the copilot. There were only two pilots aboard. As I told you, we believe the copilot was killed at the west end just after they landed. Here’s the other pilot. I’m unable to tell whether I’m looking at a four-stripe captain’s epaulet or not, but if it’s four, then we’re looking at a deceased or badly injured captain whose aircraft is airborne without him.”
“Hard to tell from this angle,” Ray added, still cajoling the computer to improve some more. “But, that’s as far as I can take it. Not bad from two hundred miles at night.”
“So …,” a male voice from Langley asked, “you think both the captain and copilot have been killed and dumped out?”
“I’d class that as high confidence,” George Zoffel replied, “which then raises a little technical question about who the hell’s flying Meridian’s airplane.”
John Blaylock checked the switches to make sure they were still in private chat mode and turned to David, who had been following the exchange carefully.
“David, this could well be the attack everyone’s been on alert for. The jet took off, we think without passengers, and about a half hour ago the live shot showed they were changing course and flying almost due east on a heading of about zero-seven-five degrees, which is how you get to Yemen, among other not-so-friendly places. That was the last satellite shot. They’re just now working to reacquire the aircraft with another satellite.”
“How do we know the passengers got off?” David asked.
There was a small yelp in the background, and they both turned.
“Okay, we’ve got another course change, folks,” Ray was saying. “He’s going north!” They watched the ghostly white infrared image of the 747, its hot exhaust plumes streaming white behind each engine.
“What’s the course you’re reading, George?” The CIA man asked.
There was a rueful laugh as George Zoffel shook his head. “Oh, how about roughly in a direct line to London, just as the message said, or for that matter to Rome, or Paris, not to mention Geneva, Brussels, Amsterdam, and possibly Copenhagen.”
“He can’t aim at all of them simultaneously,” the man at Langley said.
“No, but with small alterations in course, he could head for any one of them.”
“Your fissile scan still negative?” the voice from Langley asked.
George Zoffel nodded before replying. “We have no indication of any fissile nuclear material on that jet … yet. But you know the problem if they’ve got incredibly well-shielded nuclear material aboard. We may not see it for a few hours until the
satellites can ping it and collect enough particles.”
“The next shots are coming up in sixty seconds,” Ray said.
John Blaylock turned back to David and ran through the evidence and pointed to a freeze-frame on an upper-left screen “This one just came in as well. The buses that we think carried the passengers away from the plane are still in motion, but they were heading down a road leading to what appears to be a warehouse as the last live satellite moved over the horizon and out of range. On top of everything else, the aircraft has started squawking seventy-six hundred.”
“Radio failure code,” David said.
“Right.”
“Did he have a clearance?” David asked, his eyes boring into the various images on the screens.
“Never called,” John Blaylock replied. “No satellite communications with his company, either, after an initial call on the ground. But, he … or someone … sent a cryptic message over the satellite ACARS system. We got it in here about twenty minutes ago.” John pushed over a copy of the message from Phil Knight as he read the first few sentences. “He says, ‘Passenger riot on board … Hijacked by angry passengers. First Officer Abbott apparently badly injured and dumped out on takeoff from Nigeria by passenger named Logan who is leading revolt. Have been threatened and ordered to continue Cape Town but must secretly turn around and return London due to insufficient fuel.’”
“Good grief!”
“He goes on: ‘Request armed intervention on arrival.’ And he says all his radios are out.”
“But, that’s consistent, John, with his squawk.”
“Right. He may well be needing to squawk both codes, but the fact that he’s using only the radio failure code is interesting. Hijacking’s a greater priority, to say the least, but the radio failure thing is a perfect ploy if you’re going to pretend to be running for home but don’t want anyone analyzing the voice of whoever’s at the controls. Remember, they probably aren’t aware we can read the stripes on the shoulders of bodies on a runway. Point is, that message makes no mention of the passengers having been removed. It does mention the loss of the copilot, but the captain that we’re supposed to believe is in that cockpit is more than likely the dead or dying airman we’re looking at who’s been abandoned back at the Katsina airport.”
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