Turbulence

by Nance, John J. ;

  Burton had already slid into position alongside the 747 and toggled the necessary switches to arm the guns. He pressed the trigger and fired a volley of cannon fire into the night, the tracers streaking off ahead of the 747, the noise instantly impressive. Once more he shone his flashlight at the cockpit and then on his right hand, motioning the pilot to follow and turn left. The 747 pilot appeared to nod, and once more Burton banked left as gently as possible, praying the pilot would follow.

  “I’m watching, Critter … hang on …,” Blackie said as he swiveled around in his seat, straining against the belts and straps. “Dammit, he’s still holding course. He’s not following.”

  There was a low oath from the forward cockpit.

  “Critter, what’s your status,” home base asked, the voice clearly that of his squadron commander.

  Burton sighed and pulled his throttles back as he toggled the speed brake to slide behind the 747 again, bringing his missiles up once more and letting them lock on as he prepared to fire.

  “I’m getting back in position. I’ve tried everything.”

  CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

  IN FLIGHT,

  ABOARD MERIDIAN FLIGHT SIX

  12:35 A.M. Local

  The American voice that suddenly blared from the speaker of the small scanner radio caused Jimmy Roberts to almost drop the scanner. The words sank in rapidly, sending a sharp chill of fear through all of them.

  … shoot you down. Repeat, in the absence of any evidence of passengers or any evidence of compliance, we will shoot you down. This is your last chance.

  Janie had heard it too, and she turned now, her face betraying utter shock.

  Jimmy pressed his face to the window on the left side at the moment a staccato sound erupted from the same direction.

  “They’re firing on us,” Jimmy said over his shoulder. “Those planes, they’re firing. I saw the bullets.”

  Janie was beside him in a second as Brian Logan and Robert MacNaughton fled back into the galley area from first class.

  “He was just in front of us,” Roberts was saying.

  “What did he say again, exactly?” Janie asked, her heart pounding as Jimmy strained to see anything outside. All he saw was a flashing red beacon that dropped back and disappeared.

  “He said there was no evidence of passengers,” Jimmy repeated. “And he said he’d shoot us down unless we complied.”

  “Complied with what?” Brian asked as several other men pressed into the galley.

  “What on earth?” Janie said, her confusion growing by the second. “Why does he need to see passengers?”

  In the cockpit, the shock of seeing the burst of tracers and hearing the muffled report of the Tomcat’s guns had left Phil Knight in momentary confusion. He was descending for Marseille, wasn’t he? Hadn’t the fighter pilot given him a thumbs up to the sign? Then why was he firing?

  Phil saw the fighter break off again and slide off to the left, leaving him with a growing feeling of dread. Live bullets meant he was doing something very wrong again, and he didn’t know what. He didn’t have a clue what.

  Phil scanned the radio heads in desperation, trying to think of something to use to communicate with them. He needed someone to ask someone else’s opinion, but there was no one else, no experienced copilot, however arrogant, no guru on the radio.

  The presence of the PA system flashed in his mind, an incongruous thought. What was he to do, ask the passengers for help?

  Yes, Phil thought, the idea gaining ground by the nanosecond. What else do I have as an option? Nothing.

  He grabbed the handset and activated the PA function.

  This is the captain. Look, please just listen. We may be in real trouble here, and … I’m going to need any help I can get figuring this out. There’s a fighter out there, maybe more than one, and as some of you may have seen, he just fired warning shots. I thought he wanted me to land in Marseille, France, just ahead, but now I don’t know, and without radio contact, I can’t talk to him. I need … Okay, people, I don’t know what I need, I’ll just admit that. I know you’ve been madder than hell, and … that works both ways but … we’re in this together now, so if there’s anyone with a … a two-way aviation radio aboard, or a cell phone that works in France, or something … now’s the time to let me know. I have no idea whether they would shoot at us for real or not.

  He started to disconnect, then raised the handset again.

  Ah … for the record … I apologize for all you’ve been through.

  The cockpit call chime rang almost instantly.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Janie. I turned the cabin lights out an hour ago to let everyone sleep. But we just picked up a broadcast on a handheld scanner saying that those fighters don’t think there are passengers aboard and they need proof, so should we turn on the lights?”

  “My God, YES! Get ’em all on, Janie, and … and get people in the windows so they can be seen, please.”

  Janie snapped the cabin light switches on and punched the PA code into the handset.

  Attention, everyone! Wake up! Everyone! WAKE UP NOW! All of you anywhere near a window seat, turn on your overhead lights and put your faces in … Well, wait a minute. Make sure the overhead lights are shining on your faces and someone outside could see as many of us as possible. We have a fighter out there who’s demanding to see us for some reason. Make sure he sees you. Make sure we’ve got lighted faces in every window. Wave at him, move around, and make sure he sees you. Hurry! Please! Hurry!

  She lowered the handset as she watched Brian Logan drop to his knees and claw away at the hatch to the electronics bay.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “The radio,” he said, explaining nothing as he yanked the hatch open and dropped down into the compartment. She moved to the edge of it, searching the dimly lighted gloom below, seeing nothing until his head shot back through the hatch and almost collided with hers as he clambered out holding something.

  “What is that?” Janie asked, following as he motioned to the stairway and broke into a run.

  “The copilot’s two-way radio,” he shouted over his shoulder, weaving past several passengers as Janie followed, turning at the top of the stairs and realizing he was headed to the cockpit. She stopped and grabbed a handset, punching the cockpit code into the keypad.

  “Yes?” Phil Knight answered.

  “Captain, this is Janie. Open the cockpit door. Brian Logan is coming in to help you. He found the copilot’s two-way radio.”

  “Logan?”

  “Do it, Captain, if you’re serious.”

  “Opening now,” Phil replied.

  Janie cupped her hands and yelled at the physician’s receding back.

  “He’s opening the door for you, Brian!” She saw him wave as he approached the cockpit entrance.

  Phil Knight reached for the cockpit door release.

  “What are you doing?” Judy asked in instant alarm when she heard the door release click.

  “Logan’s coming with the copilot’s radio.”

  “Logan?”

  “Yes.”

  “NO!” she screeched, grabbing the back of his chair, “Don’t let him in—it’s a trick!”

  He heard the cockpit door being pulled open as Judy swiveled out of the jump seat and turned to face the door. Too late he saw the crash axe in her hands.

  “Judy, don’t!” Phil shouted as he clawed for his seat belt and thrust himself out of the captain’s chair and backward, catching his leg on the center console and kicking the control yoke as he lunged for the axe and missed.

  “STAY OUT!” she yelled, lashing out at the intruding figure.

  Phil was falling face first to the cockpit floor as Brian threw himself hard right to avoid Judy’s attack, his left arm rising protectively. But the space was too narrow and the surprise too great, and the axe struck his left upper arm, slicing all the way to the bone and spinning the physician uncontrollably to the left as he fell forw
ard on top of the captain.

  The axe skittered free of Judy’s hands as she thudded into the aft bulkhead of the cockpit and instantly picked herself up, looking for another weapon. There was a red light blinking on the instrument panel and a warning noise, but it didn’t reach her consciousness that the 747 was steepening its descent and rolling to the right, it’s autopilot disconnected by the captain’s accidental kick to the control yoke.

  The thunderbolt of pain in Brian’s left arm had left him writhing around in agony as he tried to get to his feet by using an arm he could no longer control. He twisted his body to the left, triggering a level of pain he’d never before experienced. He looked up into the maniacal eyes of Judy Jackson just as she prepared to bring a fire extinguisher down on his head.

  Phil was puzzled by the growing pool of blood around him as he saw Judy raising the extinguisher, but his reaction was instantaneous. “JUDY! DROP IT! DROP IT NOW!” He struggled to pull himself out from beneath the injured doctor and watched her as she hesitated.

  Stunned, unsure of what to do, and shaking uncontrollably, Judy stood wide-eyed with the heavy bottle still suspended over her head until Janie Bretsen thrust herself through the cockpit door and grabbed her.

  There was still a persistent warning horn blaring in the cockpit. Phil scrambled to his knees, fighting for footing on the blood-slick floor, and with a hand on the jump seat, managed to look around at the flight instruments.

  The autopilot. We’re diving.

  He slipped repeatedly but managed to claw his way back into the left seat.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Janie Bretsen was saying to Judy as she pulled the metal bottle from Judy’s hands and tossed it aside. “What have you done?” She yanked Judy backward, out of the cockpit, shocked by the sickening sight of a badly injured Brian Logan on the cockpit floor. She manhandled Judy outside the cockpit and turned to several men who had come forward. “Hold her, please. Restrain her.” Janie ordered, as one man pinned the hysterical woman’s arms.

  Janie raced back to the cockpit, unprepared for the extent of the wound to Brian Logan’s left arm.

  “Oh my God.”

  “She got him with the damned axe,” Phil said, working to right the Boeing as he pulled the throttles back and rolled to wings level, nursing the nose up gingerly. Phil glanced frantically at Janie as she worked with the latches on the cockpit first-aid kit.

  “I’ve got to get a tourniquet on him.”

  “And I’ve got to get that radio,” Phil countered.

  “Under … the right side …,” Brian managed through gritted teeth. “Climb … over me …,” he added.

  “Where?”

  “Right side … on the floor …,” Brian answered.

  “Hurry!” Phil added. “Please hurry!”

  NRO

  CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA

  “He’s either started evasive tactics,” David Byrd heard the Navy Tomcat pilot say as he began his return to the firing position, “or he’s beginning to turn around. I’m not sure which. Wait a minute … he may be putting it into a dive.”

  David held John Blaylock’s arm, gaining his attention for a second as the older man hunched over the phone and tried to squeeze a determination from another section of the NRO’s complex.

  “What?” he whispered.

  “John, this is it. Now or never. They’ve got the green light. They’re going to shoot.”

  Blaylock sighed and nodded. “Hang on. Please keep working,” he said into the phone as he stood. “We need the bare basic analysis … don’t wait for certainty, just give me the raw data as soon as the computer spits it out.”

  He lowered the phone and turned to the two analysts at the front of the room.

  “George? Sandra? Tell them to stand down. I now have proof that the pictures from Nigeria were faked.”

  George Zoffel swiveled around, his tone pained and sharp. “What?”

  John repeated himself, but stopped short of a complete sentence. There was no time left. Even if George Zoffel and Sandra Collings agreed completely, they would have to first convince the CIA at Langley and reach some sort of consensus.

  John Blaylock yanked up the receiver and toggled an outside line, consulting his Palm Pilot as he punched in a number as fast as he could, raising his hand in a “wait” signal to Zoffel and Collings.

  “What are you talking about now, John?” Zoffel asked, as he turned in frustration to David Byrd. “Do you have any idea what he’s on about?”

  David shook his head.

  In the background the Tomcat pilot reported in position once again and ready to fire. “Roger, home base,” Critter was saying. “I’m locked up again. He’s shallowing his dive and turning again. I’ll wait until he steadies out. Confirm we’re still cleared for launch.”

  David’s heart sank.

  “Put Sandy on,” John was saying. “This is Big Bird. NOW!” He could hear the Enterprise repeating the attack authorization.

  There was a pause of no more than five seconds before the connection was made.

  “Bill, stop the attack and give me two minutes to justify.”

  On the other end of the line in the Situation Room, Admiral Bill Sanderson came out of his chair. “John?”

  “Trust me, Bill. I’m at NRO. Stop them. I’ll hold.”

  Sanderson yanked up the hot line to the Enterprise’s CDC without hesitating. “Tell Critter to hold his fire.”

  Lieutenant Commander Chris Burton had locked up the left side outboard engine of the 747 after its gyrations and diving descent, his finger holding on the button as his backseater’s voice rang in his helmet.

  “Critter, pickle it. We’re inside seventy-five miles. Even if we blow all his engines off at this range, he can still crash on the coastline.”

  Images of a long-ago Russian shootdown of a loaded Korean 747 had been playing in Chris Burton’s head since he’d first pulled up behind the commercial jetliner. There had been neither forgiveness nor respite for the Soviet pilots who killed over four hundred passengers that night, even though they were only following their orders. The pilot who launched the fatal missiles was forever branded a murderer, and here he, Chris Burton, sat on the brink of the same fate.

  Maybe.

  The thoughts and images were passing in microseconds now as he willed his finger to fire the missiles. After all, the thought ricocheted through his head at lightning speed, I am a military officer. I have no choice.

  “HOLD YOUR FIRE, Critter! Repeat, hold your fire. Acknowledge.”

  The voice from home base was so incongruous at first as to seem self-generated, and for a moment he didn’t believe he’d heard correctly.

  “Say again?” Chris asked.

  “He’s … telling you to hold off, Critter. Home base said to stand down. Don’t fire.”

  “Roger, home base,” Chris transmitted. “Holding fire.” He relayed the order to the wingmen and waited, wondering why he was seeing lights reflected off the 747’s wing where none had been before.

  What is that? he asked himself.

  He pulled the Tomcat to the left a few hundred yards to get a better look.

  In the cockpit, Janie snaked her body over the center console and reached beneath the copilot’s rudder pedals for the two-way aviation radio.

  “It’s not here.”

  “I dropped it … there … I felt it fall,” Brian said.

  “Captain, do you have a light of some sort?”

  Phil nodded and scrambled through his briefcase for a few seconds before tossing over a small flashlight. She snapped it on and dove beneath the right-side panel again.

  “I’ve found it … It’s wedged behind the rudder pedals.”

  “The rudder?”

  “Can you … can you move the left pedal backward?”

  Phil complied, skidding the 747 to the right.

  “Got it,” Janie said, working hard to pull herself back to her feet without kicking or hurting Brian Logan further.

&n
bsp; She held the radio out to Phil Knight, who still had both hands on the yoke.

  “Hang on,” he said, completing the pullout. He reached up to the glare-shield panel and snapped on the autopilot again, adjusting the descent rate and heading before grabbing the radio and scrambling to select the emergency frequency.

  SITUATION ROOM,

  THE WHITE HOUSE,

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  “Okay, John,” Bill Sanderson told John Blaylock by phone. “He’s holding fire, but we’re awfully close to the French coast. Talk fast.”

  “Two things,” John Blaylock said. “One, the message from the plane hours ago included a name no one but the original captain would have known, that of a physician named Logan who boarded in London madder than hell at that airline for letting his wife and son die on an earlier flight. The possibility of a terrorist knowing to use that name in this case is very remote. Point two, I just received the basic results of an analysis I had one of the specialty sections do here at NRO, and it reverses our conclusions.”

  “How?”

  “Our determination that this was a true Trojan Horse incident rested on the assumption that the passengers were removed from the plane in Nigeria, and that, in turn, rested on the believability of the satellite shot that we thought showed some of the passengers in hostage status, and we believed those shots because they showed a lot of light-skinned arms in a region of dark-skinned people. I ordered a spectrographic analysis of the Caucasian skin of those hostages on the next pass. The results are sixty-eight percent calcium phosphate and assorted clay-based compounds, twenty-one percent dihydrogen oxide, and trace minerals.”

  “In English, John,” the Chief of Staff replied. Twenty seconds left.

  “Mud, Admiral. White, west-African, full-of-clay mud, which, when rubbed on your arms, makes them look white to a satellite. We’ve been bamboozled all evening, my friend. Those are all Dr. Onitsa’s men down there masquerading as palefaces, and we bought it. Call off the dogs.”

  “Stand by, John,” Sanderson said. The White House Chief of Staff turned and quickly relayed the new information to the President with a warning.