by Gordon Ryan
“Can’t you direct your fighters to force it to change course?”
“Sir,” Admiral Barrington said, “No aircraft, military or civilian, can force a very large aircraft to change directions if the pilot doesn’t want to change directions. It’s not as simple as nudging a vehicle off the road.”
“What do they want?” the president asked.
“They’ve made no demands. At this point, we’ve only been advised that the aircraft is under hostile control. I’m sorry to be so abrupt with this news, but we have less than . . .” he glanced at his watch, “. . . eleven minutes until the aircraft goes feet dry.”
“Feet dry?” Cumberland asked.
“He means that’s when it crosses the coastline, Mr. President,” Secretary-designee Tiarks, a former Air Force officer, offered. “What are the president’s options, Admiral?”
“Mr. Tiarks, given the brief time remaining, we have only two options: escort it while they continue to wherever they decide to take it . . . or shoot it down.”
“Shoot down a civilian airliner?” the president said, his face suddenly flushed.
“Mr. President—” Barrington started.
“That’s not an option, Admiral,” the president said, his voice now tense, the veins in his neck prominent, his breathing beginning to accelerate.
“Sir, with all due respect, it’s your only option unless you’re willing to allow him to choose his target.”
“What in blazes are you talking about? What do you mean, his target?” the president continued, anger welling up in his voice and coloring his face. “What are his objectives?” Cumberland took a deep breath and tried to calm himself.
“Mr. President, he’s already met his objectives. He’s leaving the final choice up to you.”
Cumberland’s eyes opened wider. “To me?”
“Yes, sir. Consider this, Mr. President. A suicide bomber boards a bus in Tel Aviv, detonates an explosive, killing himself. . . or herself, and five or six people, perhaps wounds another ten. Their mission has been accomplished. When this terrorist, or terrorists—we don’t know how many are on board—gained control of this aircraft, their objective was met. There are only two outcomes: they choose a target, perhaps the White House or the Capitol building or even the Pentagon again, and crash the aircraft into the building. They kill everyone on board the aircraft, plus hundreds or even thousands on the ground. We have no time remaining for evacuation. They know that. They also know that the alternative is for you to order the plane to be shot down before it reaches its target. They know these are your only choices, Mr. President. They’re forcing you to decide, and timing it to coincide with the inauguration is no accident. They know you have to let them crash the plane where they choose, or that you have to order the death of the people onboard the airliner. They’re prepared to die in either case.”
“Fanatics! They’re insane!”
“My thoughts exactly. We have eight minutes, Mr. President.”
Silence filled the room for several long moments, broken by a softly worded question from the president, his anxiety growing more apparent, despite his attempts to control his emotions. “How many people are on board?”
“Amsterdam has advised us of 316 passengers and crew, Mr. President.”
“Are your aircraft in position?”
“Yes, sir. We have two fighters escorting the airliner.”
“We’re absolutely positive it’s been hijacked? Are you sure it’s not a communication problem?”
“The aircraft’s transponder signal indicates that the crew is no longer in control, and the voice on the radio was definitely from someone other than the pilot. The message was not garbled, Mr. President. He clearly stated, ‘Allah is in control of this aircraft.’ ”
Cumberland lowered his head for a moment, then looked up at the United States’ senior military officer, a man he had only met once in his preparatory intelligence briefing several weeks earlier.
“Your advice, Admiral?”
Barrington took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “We have to assume the passengers are as good as dead already, Mr. President. This is a suicide bombing on a scale we’ve dreaded and hoped would never happen again. But, sir, we must bring this plane down before it reaches our soil.”
“Hank?” the president said, looking to his old friend.
“I agree with Admiral Barrington, Mr. President. It’s abhorrent but the alternative is unthinkable.”
“Mr. President,” Marilyn said, her political antennae fully extended, “the public will not understand this choice.”
Cumberland nodded his agreement, stood silent for a brief moment, then retrieved his handkerchief and wiped the perspiration on his brow. “Neither do I, Marilyn,” he said, stepping backward and reaching to support himself as he sought the refuge of a nearby chair. “But it appears that Harry Truman was correct: the buck stops here. And it wasn’t very long before Truman also had a tough decision to make, but he got more time than I have.” Cumberland hesitated for what seemed to those in the room like minutes, his eyes closed and his breathing now raspy and shallow. Finally he looked up, locking eyes with Barrington. His voice was weak, his breathing ragged. He was nearly gasping as he softly spoke. “Admiral, order your pilot to attempt, uh, communication directly with this aircraft. If . . . they fail to respond to your pilot . . . to turn around . . . then you have my authorization to … to … to prevent this aircraft from crossing our coastline.” His eyes closed, and the president leaned his head back against the chair.
Marilyn moved closer to his side, kneeling down next to the chair. She took his hand, wrapping her fingers around his wrist, then turned to Secretary Designee Tiarks. “Call for his doctor, quickly.” Tiarks stepped out of the room.
Admiral Barrington immediately picked up the telephone, spoke a few terse words, and hung up, turning back to Cumberland. “You’ve made the right decision, Mr. President.”
The ashen-faced man who, only moments before, had been the center of attention as he began his presidency by signing a wide-ranging health initiative, opened his eyes briefly and again looked at Barrington, his voice barely a whisper. “Perhaps you’re right, Admiral,” Cumberland said, his right hand clutching at his chest, “but I believe, uh . . . uh . . . I’m about to find out if God sees it that way.”
Chapter 2
Bird Dog Nine One
Off the Delaware Coastline
January
“Bird Dog Nine One, Chalice.”
“Go ahead, Chalice.”
“Bird Dog Nine One, the NORAD Commander is on frequency and needs to pass you words.”
Witherspoon paused, his heart performing an internal stress test. “Roger that, Chalice. This is Major Witherspoon. Go ahead, sir.”
“Major, this is General Wilson. I authenticate zebra foxtrot at 1940 Zulu.”
“Bird Dog Nine One copies zebra foxtrot. Good authentication, sir.”
“Major, are you in contact with KL6051?”
“Off my left wing, sir. They refuse to acknowledge me, but I can see two people in the cockpit. They do not, repeat, do not appear to be in flight crew uniform.”
“I understand. Now listen carefully. Are you prepared to carry out the orders of the commander in chief?”
“I am, sir.”
“Major, I want you to try again to contact whoever is in control, tell him of your orders to destroy the aircraft, and, if you fail to receive a response, you are to shoot them down before they go feet dry. You have launch authority. Do you understand that order?”
“Attempt contact, then splash the airliner. Yes, sir, I understand, sir.”
“Both of you. I want you and your wingman to fire.”
Witherspoon didn’t respond for a moment, deciding in that instant not to include his young wingman in this distasteful task, then he responded. “Copy all, sir.”
“Major . . . do it quickly. The airliner must not be allowed to go feet dry!”
“Affirmative, sir.
“Good luck. Wilson out.”
Dutch squeezed the transmit button on his inter-flight radio. “Bird Dog Nine Two, stay in cover position and remain armament safe. I repeat, armament safe, nose cold.”
Rocky remained two miles dead astern of KL6051 with a radar lock-on, and Witherspoon changed frequency on his #2 radio. He continued to fly parallel with the huge airliner, clearly visible to those in the cockpit.
“KL6051, this is Air Force 1005,” he called, using his tail number. “Do you read?”
No response.
“KL6051, this is Air Force 1005. Please acknowledge. I have been instructed to prevent your entry into American airspace. Please acknowledge this transmission.”
For ten seconds there was no response. Dutch reached with his left hand to flip the master armament switch to ARM and squeezed the trigger, letting a few hundred rounds of 20mm fly in front of KL6051’s nose. The noise of the gun was almost as deafening as the silence that followed.
“KL6051, this is Air Force 1005. Acknowledge!”
Witherspoon’s headset crackled with Rocky’s voice. “Dutch, he’s under four minutes to feet dry. Do you want me to arm hot?”
Witherspoon quickly shifted frequency back to Washington Central. “Whetstone, Bird Dog Nine One arming hot. Is there any change of order?”
“Negative, Bird Dog. Proceed as ordered.”
Major Harrison Witherspoon extended the speed brake and quickly drifted to a position roughly a mile aft of KL6051, his thoughts turning to his wife and her effort that morning to change his mind about flying today. She’d wanted to attend the inauguration celebrations in downtown D.C., but he’d been adamant that he needed to fly. She’d taken the kids on her own and left him to his intention, her silence sufficient evidence of her displeasure.
“Bird Dog Nine One, Whetstone. Engage the target!”
“Roger, Whetstone, locked on target.” The warbling tone in his headset confirmed an AIM-9X lock on target, and the AIM-120Cs were set to launch as well. The growling of the missile’s infrared seeker grew louder as it shifted lock directly to an engine.
How often had the Fighting Eagles debated this precise moment in the pilot’s ready room at the squadron? How many variables and no-win scenarios had entered the minds of those pilots assigned to Operation Noble Eagle, commenced after the attack on the World Trade Center? And what were the overall objectives of Noble Eagle? To protect innocent civilians on the ground? By killing innocent civilians in the air? Even his wife, Melinda, had cast her vote. As they lay in bed late one night several years earlier, discussing his new assignment, her head nestled in the crook of his arm, her tears trickling down his chest, she had softly voiced her innermost thoughts. “I don’t understand how they can ask you to do this. I couldn’t stand it, Harry. I can’t comprehend the thought of all those people crashing to their deaths from an airliner that Americans . . . that you shot down. There’s got to be another way. There’s just got to be.” She lifted her head slightly, shifting her gaze to meet his eyes. “Harry, if you were ordered to . . . to . . .”
Witherspoon had pulled his wife closer, kissing her forehead, brushing back her soft, auburn hair, and comforting her in this moment of despair. “It’ll never happen again, Millie.” But his words brought little solace as they drifted toward sleep. It could happen again, and they all knew it.
And now it had.
The moment they had all dreaded had arrived. Dutch had drawn the short straw in this lottery of life and death. He knew he could refuse the order, simply fly away, and someone else would have to make the kill once the airliner had crossed the coast, or Whetstone would shift the burden to Rocky, and he would have to carry out the order. In that split second of vacillation, an indecisive moment born of months of mental gymnastics and personal angst, Dutch realized that he had subconsciously determined the end result long ago. If he ran, he would betray his commitment. His career would also be over. His professional life would be destroyed. And if he obeyed his orders, he was equally dead, politically and professionally speaking. He would forever be the man who killed hundreds of civilians with his Air Force jet, and his missiles would not present a good image on the campaign trail.
In the end, it came down to duty. That’s what the Fighting Eagles had determined in their cavalier approach to tough choices. It was fate. They were as good as dead if they were called upon to accomplish such a publicly abhorrent mission. It would haunt them for the rest of their lives, much as it had Colonel Paul Tibbets, the pilot who had dropped the first atomic bomb on Japan. The Fighting Eagles had come to the conclusion, mostly unspoken, that the only way to view it was to accept that it was combat—kill the enemy and die. There was no other honorable way.
KL6051 thundered on, the vacuum behind the giant aircraft attempting to pull the Raptor closer. Dutch could hear his pulse deep inside his inner ears, his heart heaving and thumping deep in his chest. His years of training took over, and in a practiced reflex action, not taken in reality since his sorties over Iraq, he climbed a few hundred feet to position himself above the airliner and loosed three of his six missiles at the behemoth dead ahead.
“Bird Dog Nine One, fox one! Fox two! Fox three!”
Moments later, the inboard engine on KL6051’s right wing exploded with a direct hit, followed by a slow disintegration of the wing. Hunks of jagged metal streaked below Dutch’s Raptor. The fatally wounded airliner lurched to the left as two larger missiles impacted the tail and fuselage, severing the aft third of the huge aircraft. In the stream of suitcases and clothing that followed, Dutch thought he saw two passengers, still strapped to their seats, tumble past.
KL6051 began a steep dive toward the ocean, trailing thick black smoke from its stub of a wing. Bird Dog Nine One with Nine Two in tow followed the shattered Boeing 767 as it gathered momentum in its downward spiral, continuously spewing litter from the gaping hole where there once was a tail. The impact was tremendous, with the water splashing hundreds of feet into the air. It was as if a pod of dozens of whales had jumped high out of the water and flopped as one. Flaming debris could be seen scattered along the surface as they flew past the gruesome impact site.
“Bird Dog Nine One, Whetstone. Report?”
Dutch hesitated for several long seconds. “Splash one . . .” he responded, his voice weak and distant.
He made three slow circles over the impact site, observing debris now scattered over a two-mile-wide area as Rocky resumed formation with his flight lead. “Whetstone, debris location is north 3861, west 7479 . . . No survivors seen . . . Bird Dog Nine One returning to CAP.”
As the flight of two Raptors began to climb away from the scene of the carnage, Lieutenant Simmons watched as Dutch suddenly rolled his aircraft inverted and pulled back down toward the water. Rocky pursued, trying to maintain formation with his flight lead.
“Bird Dog Nine One, this is Bird Dog Nine Two. Dutch, are you okay?”
Silence filled the air for several long seconds before Bird Dog Nine One, Major Harrison “Dutch” Witherspoon, heir apparent to Virginia’s 1st congressional seat, made his final radio call.
“Rocky, tell my family I love them . . . and I’m sorry.”
Lieutenant Simmons stopped his pursuit and leveled off, watching in horror as Bird Dog Nine One knifed into the cold grayish water, a half-mile short of the deserted Delaware beach.
White House
Washington D.C.
January
At the moment Bird Dog Nine One entered the ocean, Roger Turnbill, the president’s personal physician for nearly a dozen years and the man who had repeatedly warned him—privately, of course—that his heart would not stand the stress of the presidency, rose from beside the chair which held the remains of the former president of the United States. Four Secret Service agents were now also in the room.
“There is nothing further to be done,” Dr. Turnbill said, placing his stethoscope back in his bag. “This time it was just too massive.”
&nb
sp; “Resuscitate him. Put him on life support,” Marilyn Cosgrove demanded.
Dr. Turnbill shook his head. “It’s no use, Marilyn.”
Several staff members had gathered in the room. Secretary Designee Tiarks motioned to one of them, a young woman. “Find the vice president.” Rendered speechless by this moment of history, she just nodded and left the room.
Admiral Barrington, thinking along the same lines as Secretary Tiarks but not confident the young staffer would hold herself together long enough to perform her task, nodded toward one of the Secret Service agents. “Clear the room except for Ms. Cosgrove, Secretary Tiarks, Dr. Turnbill, your security detail, and myself. Then see that the vice president is informed. Also, see if you can locate the chief justice and escort him here.”
Under Secret Service control, three paramedics entered, pushing a gurney. They began to work with the president, unwrapping a blood pressure cuff and feeling his neck for a pulse. “That won’t be necessary,” Dr. Turnbill said. “Please place the president on the gurney.” The three medics hesitated for a moment, uncertain of their next action. Again, Admiral Barrington spoke.
“Gentlemen, please follow Dr. Turnbill’s instructions. The president has been pronounced dead. Let’s all follow procedure here and do this with the proper degree of respect.”
The three men gently lifted President Clay Cumberland’s limp body from the chair, placing him on the gurney and covering him with a green sheet. Tears were now streaming down Marilyn Cosgrove’s face as she leaned against the wall, her well-known, unflappable, take-charge demeanor suddenly subdued.
Secretary designee Tiarks stepped close to Admiral Barrington and the senior Secret Service agent. “When the body is removed, I think we should gather in the Oval Office and meet the VP there.”
“Agreed,” Barrington said. “Shall we try to reassemble the congressional leadership? They can’t be far.”
“Yes,” Tiarks said, nodding his head, “but first we should speak with Vice President Snow. He may have a preference or some concerns that will need to be addressed before we take the next step.”