Critical Mass

by David Hagberg

  He turned the glasses toward the Swissair flight. The boarding tunnel had still not been withdrawn. There was time. But not much of it, he thought as he laid the binoculars down and pulled out his pistol.

  5

  MCGARVEY HAD TO SHOW HIS PASSPORT TO FOLLOW MARTA through security to the boarding gate, and it struck him that everyone out here seemed a little tense. It was probably another terrorist threat. The French took such things very seriously.

  Most of the passengers for the Swissair flight had already boarded, leaving the waiting area empty except for one flight attendant and two boarding gate personnel, one of whom was making the boarding announcement over the terminal’s public address system.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. All passengers holding confirmed seats for Swissair flight 145, non-stop service to Geneva, please board now. Flight 145 is in the final boarding process. Mesdames et messieurs …”

  “I don’t want to go like this, Kirk,” Marta said, looking up into his eyes. “I have a feeling I’ll never see you again.”

  “I’m not what you think I am, Mati. I never was.”

  “I knew what you were from the beginning,” she said earnestly. “And I love you despite it.”

  McGarvey had to smile. “Not a very good basis for a relationship.”

  The flight attendant was looking pointedly at them as the gate person finished the final boarding call in German.

  “I’m not proud. I’ll take you any way I can get you.”

  Something was wrong. Some internal warning system was ringing bells at the back of McGarvey’s head. It was the CIA car outside, he couldn’t put it out of his mind. What were they doing here now? Watching him?

  “Listen, Mati, do me a favor and wait right here. I don’t want you getting aboard that plane for a minute. I need to make a call first.”

  Marta glanced over at the attendant by the open door to the boarding tunnel. “What is it?”

  “Probably nothing,” McGarvey said. “Just hang on.” He went over to the counter. “May I use your house phone?” he asked the attendant who’d just finished making the boarding announcement.

  “The lady must get aboard now, sir, or she will miss her flight,” the young man said.

  “May I use your house phone? It’s very important.”

  The attendant hesitated a moment, but then sighed and handed over the handset. “What number would you like, sir?”

  “The airport security duty officer.”

  A look of alarm crossed the attendant’s face. “Sir, is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Get me the number, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A moment later the call went through. “Security, Bellus.”

  “Monsieur Bellus, my name is Kirk McGarvey. I am an American.”

  “Oui, monsieur, what can I do for you?”

  “One or more of my countrymen, from my embassy … security officers … are presently somewhere here at the airport. It is imperative that I talk with them. Immediately.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about, Monsieur McGarvey, but I am very busy …”

  “You do know. Call them, and give them my name. Please, this is important.”

  “Where are you calling from?”

  “Boarding gate E17.”

  “Swissair?”

  “Yes, please hurry.”

  “I will require an explanation.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  The line went silent. Everyone was looking at him. Marta came over.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  He shook his head. The flight attendant had come over from the boarding tunnel door and was watching.

  Bellus was back a minute later. “Monsieur McGarvey. The answer is that unless your message is extremely urgent, they’d ask you to contact the appropriate … office at your embassy.”

  “I see.”

  “Is it extremely urgent?”

  McGarvey looked out at the Swissair jetliner. “No. I thought they were friends and I just wanted to say hello.”

  “Pardon me, monsieur if I find that odd, since you will be flying to Geneva aboard the same aircraft. You are at E17?”

  “Yes,” McGarvey said. “Actually I didn’t know if they’d arrived. I’m terribly sorry to have bothered you.”

  “Are you a resident of Paris, Monsieur McGarvey?”

  “Yes,” McGarvey said. He gave the cop the number of his apartment on the rue Lafayette in the tenth Arrondissement.

  “And you are known at this address, and by your embassy?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I will verify this, Monsieur. Have a good flight.”

  “Oui, merci.” McGarvey hung up.

  “Well?” Marta asked.

  “It was nothing,” he said and he kissed her. “Goodbye, Mati.”

  “Just like that?” she asked, her eyes filling again.

  He nodded. “Have a good flight.” He turned and walked off without looking back.

  “What was that all about?” Cladstrup asked as Roningen came back from the telephone. DuVerlie was across the room out of earshot if they talked softly.

  “Does the name Kirk McGarvey ring any bells?”

  Cladstrup had to laugh. “You’d better believe it. I was just coming into the Company when he was being booted out. Late seventies. Something to do with Chile, I think. He screwed up.”

  “He’s living here in Paris, and he was involved with that incident at our embassy this winter.”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “Well, he’s apparently here at the airport, and he called security and asked to speak to us.”

  “By name?” Cladstrup asked.

  “I guess not, but I told Bellus that I’d speak to him if he had something urgent for us. Apparently he didn’t, because he backed off. But get this: Bellus thinks he might be on this flight. He called from E17 next door.”

  “Is his name on the manifest?”

  “No, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “What the hell?” Cladstrup glanced over toward DuVerlie. “Do you suppose there’s any connection?”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him?”

  “I could pick him out of a crowd.”

  “Go see if he’s aboard, and I’ll call Lynch and find out if he knows what’s going on.”

  DuVerlie jumped up from where he was seated, but Cladstrup waved him back. “It’ll be just a minute,” he told him, going over to the French cop at the door to the boarding tunnel. “I’m going to check out the plane before we board.”

  “As you wish,” the cop said, stepping aside.

  Cladstrup entered the boarding tunnel and hurried out to the plane, where he showed their tickets and his identification to the stews. “We’ll be just a minute,” he said. “Is everyone else aboard?”

  “Yes, sir. I believe so,” one of the women said. “The preliminary headcount tallies except for you and the other two gentlemen with you. You’ll be the only three in first class.”

  “Every other seat is taken?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mind if I look?”

  The captain was watching from the cockpit. “Have we got a problem?” he asked.

  “Not at all, Captain. There’s a possibility someone we know may be aboard. I’d like to check it out.”

  “Make it snappy, I want to get out of here on time.”

  “Will do,” Cladstrup said, and he turned and made a quick walkthrough. McGarvey was not among the passengers.

  “Is your friend aboard?” the head stew asked.

  “No,” Cladstrup said. “I’ll be right back.” He hurried back up the boarding tunnel to the VIP lounge. Roningen was just getting off the phone.

  “He’s not aboard,” Cladstrup said. “What’d Lynch have to say?”

  “He hasn’t heard anything either, but he’ll check it out.”

  “In the meantime?”

  “We go to Geneva. What else?”


  The American-designed but French-built jeep bumped along the dusty road just off the end of the active runway. From where Boorsch watched from the back of the van, he could only see the one man behind the wheel, and no one else.

  This one was probably a supervisor and had been sent out to check on the gate guards. There’d be no reason for him to bother with a maintenance man on an apparently legitimate call.

  But the cop would have to pass right by the van, which was exactly what Boorsch wanted. He couldn’t afford to have a cop at his back, cutting off his escape route.

  When the jeep was about twenty yards away, Boorsch stepped out from behind the van, and waved. The jeep slowed almost immediately.

  He knew that he was in plain sight now of anyone with a good set of binoculars who might be watching from the tower, but it could not be helped. He could see with the naked eye that the Swissair jetliner had been backed away from the boarding gate and was now turning out toward the taxiway. Time was running short.

  Boorsch walked up onto the road as the jeep pulled up. “Hello. Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” the cop said. His name tag read Dubout. “How is it going out here?”

  “I have a little problem. I’m happy that you came along. I need a second set of hands for just a moment. It’s that damn antenna assembly.”

  “It’ll have to wait. First I have to check on my people.”

  Boorsch glanced back in the direction of the guard hut about two miles away. “What, you mean those two at the gate? I don’t think it’s their fault.”

  Dubout’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You saw them?”

  “Of course. How’d you suppose I got out here?”

  “What did you mean: Their fault?”

  “The phone, that’s why you’re out here, isn’t it? Their phone is out of order. They asked me to have a look, but I think it’s something wrong with the line. Probably at the box out on the highway.”

  “I’ll check it out.”

  “Could I just get you to lend me a hand here? It’ll only take a minute. Maybe less. I need someone to hold a pair of pliers while I tighten a bolt from the other side of the antenna case.”

  Dubout hesitated a moment.

  “It won’t take any time at all.”

  “All right,” Dubout said, setting the parking brake and getting out.

  “It’s in the back of my van,” Boorsch said. “Only take a few seconds.”

  “Well, let’s get on with it.”

  “Sure,” Boorsch said, letting the French cop come around the back of the van first. He pulled out his pistol at the same time Dubout reared back.

  “Mon Dieu.”

  Boorsch shoved him forward with his left hand so that they would both be out of sight of anyone watching from the control tower, and shot the man three times in the back of the head.

  Dubout fell forward onto the missile’s carrying case. Pocketing his gun, Boorsch shoved the man’s body the rest of the way into the van.

  He grabbed the binoculars and studied the far end of the runway. The Airbus had nearly reached the end of the taxiway. It would be taking off within the next sixty to ninety seconds.

  Laying down the glasses he snatched up the walkie-talkie. Ordinarily he was calm under pressure, but he’d never had a chance to shoot down an airliner filled with people before. He was getting excited, and nervous.

  “One,” he keyed the transmitter.

  “Clear.”

  “Two.”

  “Clear.”

  “Three.”

  “Clear. What about you?”

  “It’s good here,” Boorsch said. The Airbus had turned onto the runway. “Stand by.”

  6

  “SWISSAIR ONE-FOUR-FIVE, YOU ARE CLEARED FOR IMMEDIATE takeoff, runway two-six. Wind two-eight-zero at eight. Barometer two-niner-niner-seven. Switch to departure control at one-two-niner-point-zero-niner out of the pattern. Have a good day.”

  “Roger, tower, thank you,” Captain Josef Elver said, advancing the throttles so that the big jetliner could make the turn onto the runway.

  “The numbers are green,” his first officer, Claude Piaget, said.

  “Roger,” Elver responded as the bird came around onto the runway’s centerline. “Here we go.” He advanced the throttles to the first position.

  “Rolling,” Elver said as the A-320 started down the runway, ponderously at first, like a lumbering ox. Ridiculous to think that anything so huge, that weighed so much, could possibly fly.

  “On the numbers,” Piaget said calmly.

  The runway marker lights began to flash past them in a blur. Captain Elver quickly scanned the flight instruments in front of him, taking his eyes off the view outside the windscreen for only a moment.

  “Vee-one,” Piaget warned to his right.

  The Airbus was gathering speed rapidly now, and instead of sluggishly responding to his touch the rudder pedals and side-stick controller had come alive. They were flying, almost.

  “Vee-R,” Piaget said.

  “Rotate.” Elver eased back on the jet fighter-type stick to his left, and the jetliner’s nose came smoothly off the surface of the runway. With his right hand, he maintained the throttles all the way to their stops, and the plane seemed to surge forward.

  “My numbers are green,” Piaget said.

  The jetliner’s speed was approaching one hundred sixty knots, well into the partial flaps-down flying speed envelope for their weight. The runway markers were a complete blur.

  “Vee-two,” Piaget announced.

  “Lifting off,” Elver said, easing the stick back and the Airbus came off the runway, almost by itself, the bumpy ride instantly disappearing.

  “On the numbers,” the first officer advised.

  “Begin reducing flaps,” Elver ordered, and Piaget began retracting them. Their speed immediately started to increase and Elver eased the stick farther back, the plane barreling up into the cloudless sky.

  Once out of the pattern, flaps up and landing gear retracted, Elver planned on turning over control to Piaget so that he could go back to the head. He was picking up a bug of some kind, and frankly, he felt like hell.

  Boorsch’s stomach was tied in knots. He’d known excitement in his life, and he had been anticipating this moment ever since he’d gotten the call forty-eight hours ago. But he’d never expected anything could give him such a lift, such intense pleasure as this.

  The Stinger missile and launcher were comfortably heavy on his right shoulder where he stood behind the Air Service van. He could hear the roar of the huge Airbus, and he knew that it was off the ground now.

  It was time.

  Stepping away from the rear of the van, he raised the Stinger, finding and centering the jetliner’s bulk in the launcher’s sights. The plane was climbing directly toward him, impossibly loud and impossibly huge.

  He no longer cared if he was visible from the tower. At this point no power on earth could prevent what was about to happen.

  He lost the aircraft in the Stinger’s sights, but then got it again, centering the engine on the portside wing in the inner ring.

  With his cheek on the conductance bar, he thumbed the missile’s activation switch and the launcher began to warble.

  “A miss almost always comes from too early a shot,” the words of their instructor echoed in his ears. “In this business one must have the patience of Allah.”

  Allah had nothing to do with it, but Boorsch did understand timing. The Stinger was a fine weapon, but it could not produce miracles.

  “Give it a chance and it will perform for you as you wish.”

  The jetliner was climbing now at an increasingly steep angle, its engines producing their maximum thrust and therefore their maximum heat.

  He pushed the forward button, uncaging the missile’s infrared seeker head. Almost instantly the tone in his ear changed, rising to a high-pitched scream as the missile locked on to its target.

  Still Boorsch waited, certain that by now some
one in the tower must have spotted him and called security. Soon the airport and surrounding highways would be crawling with cops.

  The Airbus passed directly overhead, and Boorsch led it perfectly.

  At the last moment he raised the sights slightly, pulled the trigger, and the missile was off, the launcher bucking against his shoulder no harder than a 20-gauge shotgun.

  7

  “MON DIEU! RAYMOND,” ONE OF THE TOWER OPERATORS shouted in alarm.

  The moment they had spotted the lone figure emerging from behind the Air Service van, with what even at this distance was clearly recognizable as some sort of a missile, Flammarion had gotten on the phone to security with one hand and on the radio to flight 145 with the other.

  The Swissair copilot came back first. “Swissair one-four-five.”

  For an instant Flammarion stood with his mouth open, hardly believing what he was seeing with his own eyes. The missile had been fired.

  “Abort! Abort!” he screamed into the microphone.

  “Security, Bellus,” a voice on the telephone answered.

  “Say again, tower?” the Swissair copilot answered calmly.

  The missile’s exhaust trail was clearly visible in contrast against the perfectly blue sky. About one hundred feet above the ground it made a slight loop before it began its graceful curve up and to the west directly behind the departing jetliner.

  In that short instant it struck Flammarion that the weapon was a live thing; a wild animal stalking its prey, which in effect it was.

  But it was so incredibly fast.

  “Abort!” he shouted as the missile suddenly disappeared.

  For a split second Flammarion’s breath was caught in his throat. Something had happened. The missile had malfunctioned. It had destroyed itself in mid-air. It had simply disintegrated, the pieces falling to earth much too small to be seen from this distance.

  A fireball began to blossom around the engine on the left wing. Suddenly it grew to tremendous proportions, and pieces of the jetliner—these big enough to easily be distinguished from this distance—began flying everywhere.