12:31 p.m.
The flight engineer hands Captain Hugh Ratcliff, pilot of the United Global Airlines 747, the completed information needed to land the plane at O’Hare. Ratcliff calls out each item on his checklist, waiting for the co-pilot to confirm as he checks the landing weight, runway, wind, altimeter, reference speeds, and the ATIS information code. They are fast approaching 10,000 feet, at which time the cockpit will become sterile. This means no talking other than replies and requests to and from ground control.
The flight engineer checks the fuel, batteries, and generators. Then he sets the pressurization. The co-pilot scans the approach charts, noting the minimums, then busies himself with the altimeter, checking to see if the captain has set his altimeter exactly the same way. Both radios are on and they hear the controller’s instructions. Ratcliff looks at his watch, three minutes to landing.
“United Global 419 heavy, 8 from Codie, turn left heading 270 intercept. The final approach course cleared for ILS. runway 24 left approach maintain 3000 until established. Contact Tower 124.9 Codie inbound.”
Ratcliff makes some slight adjustments to the rudders with his feet. They are now in the final approach and he releases the landing gear, hearing with satisfaction the smooth whine until the wheels lock. He opens the throttle slightly to get more power for the descent.
“Tower, flight 419 Codie inbound.”
“United Global 419 heavy tower, cleared to land RWYS246.”
“Roger. Okay, gang. Let’s take this baby home to Mama. O’Hare next stop.”
* * *
14:05 p.m.
Colonel Faud Khadi checks his forged Saudi Arabian pilot’s license, folds it into his shirt pocket, and bends down to display the pamphlets neatly on the seat. Each pamphlet proclaims Iran as the new leader of the world to all those who do not wish to live under the twin poisons of capitalist or Communist regimes. He locks the car, pocketing the key, knowing he will never drive it again.
Lifting the heavy flight bags, one in each fist, Colonel Khadi walks toward the Fixed Base of Operations building. He pushes the door with his shoulder marked FBO. It opens and he enters. The man behind the desk has a nameplate sign J. Quinn, Manager, looks up, recognizes his client and says, “Hello again, Mr. Yamani. I’ve completed your paperwork. Just sign here.”
Carefully, Colonel Khadi sets down the flight bags, walks to the desk, and signs all the pages. He checks each copy, noting the third-class medical certificate, temporary airman’s certificate, and his log book, which indicates how many hours he has flown, and in what type of planes.
“Excuse me, please, sir, Mr. Quinn, but I do not find my receipt for the $1,000 I give you as a deposit.”
“Sorry, Mr. Yamani, it’s here on the desk.” He shouts to his administrator, “Donna, please bring me Mr. Yamani’s total receipt.”
Quinn passes it to the man, once again noticing the four large moles above Yamani’s left eyebrow, wondering again why he’d never had them removed. Maybe it was a holy sign or something, some sort of religious symbol. One could never tell with foreigners, especially the Middle Eastern types.
“I am giving you the same, single-engine Cessna 182 you were tested on earlier this morning. That’s what you requested, right?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Quinn. Thank you, sir. I will return later this day at about sunset, OK?”
“Fine, Mr. Yamani. See you then. Have a nice day and an enjoyable flight.”
* * *
Colonel Khadi feels the thrust of the engine jump as the Cessna purrs effortlessly and lifts off Runway 10 from Schaumburg Airport in western Chicago. He has stacked both flight bags on a seat behind him, securing the dynamite with the seat belt and bungee cords. It is imperative to stop any movement of the bags due to turbulence or as the plane banks or turns. The dynamite is primed and ready to explode.
Gently he turns the U-shaped yoke left, feeling the ailerons respond. He glances again at the fuel gauge, altimeter, turn, and bank indicator. The radio is positioned to the right of the center panel with a speaker above his head. He is cruising at 105 knots. At that speed he will arrive at the closest point to intercept United Global Airlines 747 jet in exactly four minutes and thirty-two seconds.
When Eagle One in Chicago came up with this plan over a year ago after researching the times needed for interceptor jets to be alerted in the North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD), Eagle One found the minimum time to intercept would be at least two minutes to scramble and become airborne. The “closest point” was the key to the success of the attack. His “closest point” would be over Bensonville, exactly 58 seconds from United Global’s path.
Any interceptor jets would be about sixty seconds late when they tried to shoot him down. They would need extra time to fly high enough above him so that they could dive, giving them a clear target of the Cessna. They cannot attack him from the side as they might hit the 747 arriving from London, so the time window for the attack gives him ample time.
Eagle One, Allah be Praised, is the genius put onto this earth to come up with these sort of plans for lone wolves to begin attacking in the sky.
Smiling confidently to himself, he knows that he only has 5 minutes and 32 seconds to live. From the point of interception to the moment he will crash his plane into the 747, the 747 will be on its final approach course, traveling at about 130 knots per hour. With its air brakes extended and wheels down, it is at its most vulnerable, almost hovering, slowing down ready to land. As it is about to touch down on the runway, the plane will resemble a large bird, its legs and wings extended.
He would be attacking with the sun behind him so they would have difficulty spotting him until it was too late. The traffic controller guiding the plane in to land could only give an approximation of where the danger was, so the 747 would be a helpless sitting duck. Depending on the alertness and skill of the pilot, the jumbo would need a minimum of 40 seconds before the plane could respond to abort the landing procedure and take evasive action.
Colonel Khadi is confident that he will not give them sufficient time to evade him. It is critical not to attack too soon.
For months, he and his men had practiced this maneuver. Now they were experts, far more expert than the Japanese kamikazes had ever been. He glances at his stopwatch again, which he has taped onto the panel directly in front of his eyes, so that he has no need to move his head to see the exact time. Colonel Khadi knows that all of the Screaming Eagles are now in the air, pursuing their targets in designated cities in precisely the same manner.
Silently, in his mind, he says, “We are all brothers, patriots. We have all agreed to die for our beloved motherland. I love my brothers, for they share this magnificent bond, this brotherhood that has a special place in martyrdom heaven.”
His heart fills with pride. “We are heroes and I know I have trained this band of eagles well.”
He looks at the watch again. Satisfied, he calculates that he has about three minutes of life left on this earth.
Colonel Khadi’s thoughts are clear and euphoric. How many other people have the privilege of being able to decide where, when, and how to die. “Allah has blessed me.”
He wonders if at the moment of death that he will truly see the face of Allah. He also wonders if the passengers on the plane he is stalking will see the face of their gods at that same instant when both planes explode.
The whine of the propeller is soothing. The plane vibrates gently. Above him, the sky is bluer than he could ever remember. It is a good day to die, a beautiful way to die. He feels the power of flight, the enormous strength of an eagle. Like the eagle, he is omnipotent, powerful, lord of the skies, circling his helpless prey.
“I love my country, my mission, and my family. I even love each and every one of the people in the 747, for their dying is necessary for the president’s plan to succeed.”
His heart bursts with pride and love and he is unafraid. It is as if he, not the Cessna, is flying soaring mightily harnessing wind curre
nts, master of all he can see. Allah must feel like this, he thinks.
“With a turn of my wrist,” he says out loud, “I can either kill 500 people or spare them. This is power, what unbelievable power, just the turn of a wrist the flick of an eyelash, the release of a sigh.”
“Today, Allah, you have given me that power in my hands. For a few fleeting minutes, you are allowing me to experience your mighty power. Your humble servant thanks you again and again. Thank you, oh Great One. United Global 747, you are one thousand times bigger than I am, but you are in my grasp. You can try to run but I will catch you, for I am your angel of life or your angel of death. Only I have that choice.”
Through a break in the clouds, he sees the jumbo. It is on its final approach.
He alters his course slightly to the left. Both he and his quarry are now in the precise places that Colonel Khadi has planned. He has arrived at the “closest point.” He glances at the stopwatch. Less than 60 seconds to live.
Shouting above the noise of the propellers, he yells, “Insha Allah, my brother eagles. We will meet again very soon in our heaven. Insha Allaaaaah.”
* * *
14:32 p.m.
We find O’Hare’s security chief, Robert Hawk, waiting for us. His hair is cut short, military style. There is a slight dent on one side of his hair as if he’s just taken off a beret or hat that was too tight. Quickly, Josh explains what has happened. We follow the security chief to the tower cab. He punches code numbers into the pad on the outside of the door. The door marked TRACON opens. We enter the room.
“What do you want to know?” Hawk asks.
“Explain to me what is going on in here quickly, and remember I’m a layman. I might want you to hold the plane in its flight pattern, or once it lands, that you divert it to another concourse. Finally, I might want you to hold the plane on the tarmac and not let off its passengers until I can secure the area. I’ve already alerted my people. They’ll be in their positions in ten minutes.”
“Stop me if you don’t understand what I am saying,” Hawk says. “In the tower cab upstairs, the traffic controllers issue clearances for departure and delivery. They control inbound and outbound flights, ground control to and from the gates, and runways and landing craft. Aircraft are cleared to land and take off. Traffic controllers also monitor positions and watch for changes in weather patterns or sudden crosswinds.
“Here in TRACON, each controller has a scope set up for his or her specific area. The controllers have a single headset and boom microphone in front of their mouths. The humming noise you hear is because each scope has its own motor. The controller’s chair is on wheels so they’re mobile and can move around to check on any changes that might have occurred while talking a plane up or down.
“The scopes are placed all around the room and I see that each radar screen is green with yellow flight numerals. The revolving boom sweep is clearly visible. Large maps are above each scope.
Hawk continues, “The small television screens alongside give us the information about the runways, their surface, and approaches. The other panel of instruments and switches allows us to monitor other frequencies, including the ATIS. That’s Automatic Terminal Information Service. Look on the screen. All planes on instrument flight—we call that IFR—appear as squares. Planes flying visual and not in contact with us are called VFRs, and they appear as a V on the screen.”
Josh replies, “The flights you bring in are squares, the planes you are not in contact with are a V. Do I understand you correctly?”
“Yes.”
Josh said, “Hold on.”
Using his walkie-talkie he says, “Donny, have you got your people deployed at the international arrivals yet? Good. Are they all in position? Fine, Ronnie, where are you. John and Blaine? Okay. Hold there until they land. Once the plane lands, I’m going to hold it out on the runway until you’ve placed enough people with the baggage handlers and next to the luggage carousels. Ken, you take charge there, and secure the whole area with your people and the outer perimeter. Call me as soon as you’re ready. Call Dani or Mike and tell him to send SWAT in helicopters.”
There is an urgent call, “Supervisor, quickly.”
We turn and see a man striding over to Scope 9.
“I noticed an unidentified intruder on target at 2,000 feet. I called him up, warning him that he’s strayed into the terminal control area. I’ve been waiting for him to identify himself but his radio must be out of order. I’ve been unable to
make contact.”
“What is his distance?” the supervisor asks sharply.
“He’s at 3 o’clock. Five miles eastbound, altitude 2,000 feet, unverified.”
The supervisor dials and locks his headset microphone onto scope nine’s frequency. “Aircraft over Bensenville, you are in the TCA. Over.”
We all wait. The other controllers concentrating on their flights do not look at Scope 9. However, Scope 9 is obviously now on all of their minds. A sixth sense warns of danger. Something isn’t right. Thoughts are scattered, but they have to concentrate on bringing in their crews or clearing them for takeoff.
Over all the buzz of activity and noises, Scope 9 has only silence. I see the V getting closer and closer to the square. The supervisor continues trying to make contact with the unidentified intruder. Urgency grows on his face and the controller, finally realizing the potential danger, says, “United Global 419 heavy, traffic alert, emergency. Advise you turn left, climb immediately. Repeat emergency, climb left.”
“Roger, United Global 419 heavy, preparing left turn immediately.”
Josh says tersely, “How long will it take for him to turn?”
Hawk replies, “About 40, 45 seconds.”
In horror, we watch the screen as the seconds tick off. Like a magnet, the V slides and crawls slowly toward the square. The boom on the monitor continues to revolve; it does not waiver. With every sweep, the V inches closer, and the seconds continue to tick, the moments surreal.
Tension enters climbing tightly as we watch. Counting to myself, measuring heart beats, listening to the silence ahead, knowing that there are only about eight seconds to go. Suddenly the square seems to move. With the lightness of a feather stretching sideways, Flight 419 is beginning to turn. It begins to move away, a millimeter, then another. I hold my breath waiting, for the next sweep to see if it has gotten away. It is still moving, trying to distance itself from the V. It moves a few more millimeters but the V catches it. They touch, then merge. Suddenly, their space is blank on the screen. A void appears on the screen.
Death claws back and is now looking at me from a blank hole in the screen.
The four of us look at the screen, silent observers not believing what we’ve just witnessed. This is a thumbprint God has trapped in our souls.
The air traffic controller’s hands shake and tremble. He removes his headset and just stares at his screen.
“What flight was that?” I ask the supervisor.
“United Global Airlines 419 from London.”
We’ve just seen a murder of over 400 people. The Iranians have struck again. Heated anger crawls through me. I shiver. A coldness has invaded my body. I couldn’t save them, I know I cannot rinse this memory from my future. Lone wolf terrorists are now using small planes.
The air traffic controller continues to look at his blank screen, tears trickling down his cheeks, the depth of his expression hidden. The silence of a collective indrawn breath from the other air controllers explodes in the room. There is so much inner pain in the quietness of the bustling noisiness as they focus on their screens, shock and disbelief crackle with the misery residing in the controllers, aware that it could be them who was bringing in United Global 419 from London. It could be them who would have nightmares for the rest of their lives.
Defeated in his loneliness, the weeping man, his face transformed by grief, silently leans back in his chair and continues watching the sweep of the radar circling his screen. His face tilts upward. C
louds of thunder lie hooded in his eyes. His face twitches one time. He draws in a deep, throbbing breath and looks into a space that seems far away.
* * *
3:30 am., The Desert Bunker
The desert night is cold and the black darkness heavy, shrouding all the buildings. Crystal-clear quietness is broken only by the sound of gently shifting sand. It is three hours before the celebration breakfast.
Sweating profusely and panting, the man under the huge table grunts his satisfaction as he finally finishes securing the plastic explosives. He sets the frequency, checks the remote-detonating device once again, and carefully puts it into his coat pocket.
On his knees, moving backwards, he maneuvers himself away from underneath the table. He feels a drop of sweat fall from his forehead onto his glasses, blurring the vision in his right eye.
Standing up, he absentmindedly brushes his hands on his pants, then walks quietly to the exit of the bunker.
At 6:35, when everyone is seated, he will enter the small bathroom alongside the dining room, close the door, and activate the detonator. Everyone will be killed. The massive explosion would injure him but only slightly, for the walls of the bathroom were reinforced months ago when he thought of the plan. He will be the only survivor, so it is necessary that he be slightly injured—that way, no one would suspect him of killing everyone at the celebration breakfast.
The trucks with food and fresh water supplies will be arriving at about 11 a.m. as they do every day. The drivers will see the destruction and find him and save him. He will cry in front of them when they inform him that everyone else is dead.
* * *
6:30 a.m., The Desert Bunker
The celebration breakfast has started. President Abdel Amir stands at the head of the table.
“Welcome to you all, my very good friends, my trusted advisors, and loving members of my family. As a team, what we accomplished today will be written in our history books and taught from generation to generation. Each one of your illustrious names will be enshrined and inscribed in our holy books. You are all, each and every one of you, heroes of our beloved country, greater than any heroes in the history of a country that is known for its heroism.
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