Primary Target (1999)

by Joe - Dalton;Sullivan 01 Weber

  The hushed atmosphere in the gloomy control room reflected the intense, serious environment the controllers work in while they steadily and efficiently handle multiple inbound flights. Working with a multitude of computers, radar, aircraft transponders, and radios, controllers and pilots work in unison twenty-four hours a day 365 days a year to make air traffic flow smoothly and safely.

  Inclement weather conditions, like snowstorms, thick fog, and violent thunderstorms, have the potential to create tension so palpable that nerves are stretched to the breaking point and mouths suddenly go dry. It isn't the kind of work environment for those who have a low threshold for pressure. In fact, many aviation experts consider the profession one of the most stressful in the world.

  Kawachi was working four airliners and a corporate Learjet when he accepted two more flights, United Flight 1147a Boeing 727 arriving from Chicago, and Air Force One en route from Andrews Air Force Base.

  Customarily, the flying White House received kid-glove treatment from air traffic controllers when the commander in chief was onboard. However, the custom had been relaxed when President Macklin took office. Having been a seasoned military pilot, he had requested that the Federal Aviation Administration treat the world's most famous airplane like any other aircraft; no special considerations, no excessive separation from other aircraft, and no holding other flights on the ground until the big Boeing departed. In other words, no protective bubble. The word went out, but controllers still provided preferential treatment whenever possible. No one wanted to be remembered as the individual who caused a problem for the president of the United States.

  Kawachi handed two other air-carrier flights to the final controller earlier than usual and quickly switched his attention to his new charges. Although the feeder and final controllers share the same working space, they don't have direct voice communication and they communicate with the flight crews on separate radio frequencies.

  The final controller, Louis Traweek, was becoming over- loaded by the multitude of inbound traffic. He was handling six aircraft when Kawachi dumped two more flights on him.

  Traweek had to reduce the number of aircraft he was controlling before he could accept any more flights. He was becoming saturated and begining to lose his situational awareness.

  Recognizing that he had a fast-moving Sabreliner corporate jet overtaking a twin-engine Cessna 310 he had turned eastbound onto the final approach for runway 8 Left, Traweek quickly ordered the jet crew to slow to their final approach speed and turn left to a heading of 350 degrees. Preoccupied by the latest two air carriers that had entered his airspace, Traweek momentarily forgot about the Sabre-liner and gave his attention to the airliners.

  Although Ken Kawachi had passed control of the two flights to Traweek, the final controller hadn't acknowledged the handoff. In essence, no one was providing positive separation for the two airliners. The jets were descending and rapidly closing on the preceding aircraft when Traweek remembered the Sabreliner.

  "Sabreliner 324 Zulu Romeo," Traweek tersely radioed, "turn left to two-three-zero and maintain normal approach speed."

  "Sabre Twenty-Four Zulu Romeo, two hundred on the heading and, ah, normal approach speed."

  "Negative! Heading two-three-zero for Sabreliner Two-Four Zulu Romeo. Repeat--two-three-zero!"

  "Copy, two-thirty on the heading--Twenty-Four-ZR."

  Listening to the various approach frequencies and the tower frequencies, Khaliq Farkas and Named Yahyavi were ecstatic when they heard the copilot of Air Force One check in with the approach controller. The 747 was precisely on time, as the Iranians expected the crew of Air Force One would be. Determined to undermine public confidence in U. S. civil aviation, Farkas seized the moment to test his radio equipment and further exacerbate the already congested air traffic system.

  A Delta Air Lines MD-88 arriving from Dallas-Fort Worth was descending out of the low clouds on an Instrument Landing System approach to Runway 9 Right. Farkas quickly scanned his notes and selected the radio tuned to the tower frequency for the south runways and pressed the transmit switch.

  "Delta One-Seventy-Six," he said in an urgent voice, "go around! I repeat--Delta One-Seventy-Six, go around! Fly heading three-six-zero, maintain five thousand."

  "Delta One-Seventy-Six on the go," the surprised voice replied as the MD-88 captain abandoned the ILS approach. He rotated the airplane to a normal climb attitude and reentered the darkened clouds. While he initiated a smooth turn to a northerly heading, the first officer raised the landing gear and the flaps.

  "Delta One-Seventy-Six, disregard the previous trans--" The frantic controller was cut off as Yahyavi quickly secured the transmit switch to the transmit position. The frequency was now unusable since no one could receive or transmit on it.

  "This is going to be better than we anticipated," Farkas said excitedly as he looked at his scribbles and broadcast another pirate radio transmission on one of the approach frequencies.

  "United 1147," he said in a bold, authoritative voice, "turn left heading zero-eight-zero and maintain five thousand." "Ah, 1147 heading zero-eight--"

  The radio transmission was interrupted when Yahyavi repeated the same steps as before. Another blocked radio frequency meant fewer options for the pilots and air traffic controllers. At the most critical moments Farkas was taking away their ability to secure the safety of scores of airplanes and thousands of passengers.

  Feeling the effects of a sudden surge of adrenaline, Farkas glanced at his sheet of paper and transmitted another order. "Air Force One," he barked in a taut voice, "descend and maintain five thousand, turn right to two-eight-zero. Now!" "Air Force One, five thou--"

  Yahyavi interrupted the transmission and set all but one of the radios to transmit. No one would be able to use the majority of the normal frequencies used by the tower and air traffic controllers. Using the last available approach frequency, Farkas radioed an American flight inbound from Dallas-Fort Worth.

  "American Eight-Sixty-Four," he said impatiently, "expedite your descent to five thousand and fly heading zero-onezero."

  "Five thousand and zero-one--"

  The first officer of Flight 864 tried to acknowledge their instructions as Yahyavi stowed the last radio in the transmit position and reached for the two police scanners. With a few pirate directives and twelve blocked radio frequencies, he and Farkas had created pandemonium in a dynamic and lethal environment.

  Listening to the scanners, Yahyavi monitored the police-and fire-department communications while Farkas counted backward from sixty seconds. The longer Air Force One and the multitude of other aircraft groped around in the clouds without any directives, the more frantic everyone would become.

  The pilots and flight engineers who had maintained their situational awareness to other aircraft would be even more concerned; there were a number of planes, including Air Force One, on a collision course at the same altitude.

  A feeling of great satisfaction suddenly swept over Farkas. "The friendly skies aren't going to be so friendly this morning."

  "Allahu is with us," Yahyavi declared in a soothing voice. "The infidels are going to get a taste of real terror."

  Chapter 36

  Atlanta.

  Captain Fred Oliver, commanding United Flight 1147, gave his first officer a curious glance and then saw the concern written on the face of the flight engineer. Buffeted by light turbulence, they were flying in solid instrument conditions and suddenly couldn't communicate with anyone on their assigned frequency. Worse, they were headed straight for the northeast corridor of inbound traffic to Hartsfield/Atlanta International, one of the busiest airports in the country.

  "Pete," Oliver said as evenly as he could, "try our previous frequency. Get someone on the horn."

  "Okay."

  Recently promoted to copilot, First Officer Pete Taylor frantically switched the radios and made three calls to the air traffic controller who had been working them. The only thing he heard was a high-pitched screeching so
und. He turned to meet Oliver's questioning eyes.

  "There's something weird going on," Taylor declared in a hollow voice, "and we're right in the middle of it."

  They exchanged anxious looks.

  "Try twenty-one-five," Oliver said firmly.

  "Okay."

  Taylor switched to 121.5 and tried the emergency frequency. Finding it blocked, he gave Oliver a blank look.

  "Nothing, boss. We better get the hell out of here while we have a chance."

  "Yeah," Second Officer Zeke Ingraham added, "before we end up scratching some sheet metal."

  Fred Oliver, a former Navy F-4 Phantom pilot and distinguished military test pilot, nodded his agreement with his crew. "I don't know what to tell you, except we've got big problems."

  "No shit!" Ingraham grumbled.

  "Pete," Oliver began in as calm a voice as he could muster. "Keep transmitting on guard, and squawk emergency, then lost comm."

  "I'll try Flight Service, too," Taylor responded while he set the transponder to squawk 7700.

  "Good idea," Oliver said briskly.

  The special 7700 transponder code would notify the air traffic controllers that United 1147 had an emergency situation in progress. Taylor then tried the nearest Flight Service Station. The FSS frequency was clobbered with frantic requests for information and directions. Everyone was attempting to talk at the same time, which was completely obstructing the frequency. The frightened flight crew of United 1147 weren't the only people in trouble.

  "No luck," Taylor reported.

  Oliver glanced at him. "Great--just what we need." Zeke Ingraham groaned and absently studied his flight engineer panel. Along with his fellow pilots, Ingraham knew that for every second they remained in this predicament, the chances of having a midair collision went up exponentially.

  We've got to do something, skipper! Ingraham's mind was screaming. We can't screw around out here.

  Without waiting a full minute, Pete Taylor switched the transponder to squawk 7600--the code for lost radio communications--and gave Oliver a pained look. "We better get outta the area, or we're gonna get our asses smashed."

  "Yeah," the shaken captain answered. "You're right." Ingraham leaned forward. "You got my vote!"

  Fred Oliver hesitated a moment to analyze the situation. He knew his radios were working because they could hear the frantic calls to the Flight Service Station. However, he didn't have any idea what was going on with the approach, departure, and tower frequencies. If there was a massive blockage of communications and everyone attempted to follow the FAA regulations pertaining to radio failures while operating in instrument flight conditions, Captain Oliver knew there was going to be a lot of aluminum fluttering to the ground.

  Unable to see beyond the nose of the airplane, Oliver decided to do something unorthodox. He turned north-northwest toward Dobbins Air Reserve Base and descended to 4,500 feet--a Visual Flight Rules cardinal altitude that was 500 feet below and 500 feet above standard Instrument Flight Rules altitudes of 5,000 feet and 4,000 feet. He could only pray that no one else was trying the same evasive tactic--and that no one was climbing or descending through their altitude. He silently cursed both his bad luck and the miserable weather. This isn't really happening, is it? "Pete, try Dobbins Approach while we test the 'big sky theory.' "

  "You got it."

  Zeke Ingraham looked ill. "We're in the goddamn Twilight Zone."

  "Traffic! Traffic!" warned the computer-generated voice of TCAS, the Traffic Alert and Collision Avoidance System. "Traffic! Traffic!"

  An airborne-collision-avoidance system, TCAS is based on radar beacon signals which are beamed outward from the host aircraft. The collision warning system operates independent of ground-based equipment and provides conflict resolutions to pilots.

  In a frenzy, Pete Taylor searched his charts for the proper approach frequency for the military base. What a cluster-fuck "Traffic! Traffic!" TCAS blared.

  Ingraham momentarily closed his eyes and prayed that he'd be able to see his son's softball game the following day. A few moments later he opened his eyes and stared at his wedding band. If I survive this, I'm going to find a ground-based job and stick to it.

  "Uh-oh," Kirk Upshaw said nervously. "Someone is deliberately interfering with our communications."

  "Sabotage," Curt Bolton declared.

  "What?"

  Bolton spoke slowly. "We're being sabotaged."

  Upshaw's eyes reflected his fear. "Should we declare an emergency and climb to VFR on top, then sort this mess out?"

  "Let's hold on declaring an emergency. Get out the Dobbins charts and get ahold of a controller--try UHF and VHF."

  "Okay." Upshaw reached for his approach plates and paused. "Do you want to contact Washington?"

  "Absolutely. Fire off a message."

  "Yessir."

  Upshaw quickly thumbed through his flight information publications. "You wanna squawk lost comm?"

  "Yeah--go ahead."

  Upshaw punched in 7600 on the transponder.

  "I want to get the president on the ground," Bolton loudly declared. "Then we'll find out what the hell is going on." A moment later the senior Secret Service agent onboard rushed into the cockpit. "Colonel, we've just received a warning from Washington that we may be flying into a terrorist trap."

  With a small turn of his head, Bolton cast a lazy glance in his direction. "You're a little bit late, Sam."

  "Oh, shit," the agent said with an anguished look. "What's going on?"

  Bolton concentrated on his flight instruments. "Someone is giving bogus instructions over the radio, then jamming the frequency."

  Gripped with acute fear, both the feeder and final air traffic controllers sat helplessly and watched scores of moving radar blips beginning to merge while they frantically tried to establish radio contact on different VHF and UHF frequencies. Warning devices for the special transponder codes and the airborne conflict alert systems were sounding their alarms, adding more distractions to the utter confusion in the control room.

  Through trial and error, the frustrated controllers found unblocked local frequencies, but the desperate flight crews had no way of knowing what radio frequency they should be monitoring.

  In the enormous Atlanta Air Route Traffic Control Center, frenetic en route radar controllers were quickly attempting to stem the flow of air traffic descending into the Atlanta area. Some flights in the high-altitude structure were being placed in holding patterns, while other flights were being diverted to other major airports or held on the ground.

  The sudden breakdown in communications near Hartsfield/ Atlanta International had reverberated all the way to the Air Traffic Control System Command Center located at Herndon, Virginia, near Dulles International Airport. Approximately 130 ATC personnel at the 29,000-square-foot building monitor and manage more than 150,000 flight operations daily in the contiguous United States. With a click of a computer key, FAA specialists can scrutinize eight large screens with pictorial displays of air traffic and weather conditions nationwide.

  If a major midwestern airport was expecting a blizzard, ATC Command Center would be able to regulate the time flights could depart for the area. The idea is not to allow more aircraft in the air than can be safely controlled without having to resort to "stacking" the airplanes in holding patterns. The system was designed to hold planes on the ground until the FAA feels it is reasonable to expect that the flight can proceed directly to the destination airport and land. Holding flights near an airport is an added complication for controllers and pilots and consumes a tremendous amount of fuel.

  At the moment the planners and controllers at Command Center were scrambling to slow the arrival sequence of 287 aircraft headed for the Atlanta area. Safety was the paramount consideration on their minds. Restoring order was the only way to achieve that goal. Everyone was cooperative, but no one had anticipated this type of communications breakdown and the system couldn't cope with the blocked frequencies. Simply stated, there
wasn't a contingency plan to deal with this magnitude of sabotage.

  Louis Traweek sat in stunned silence and stared at a radar symbol that represented American Airlines Flight 864--a Boeing 727 carrying 124 people that was passing over the airport and flying almost straight at the corridor for traffic inbound from the northwest. A reformed chain-smoker, Traweek reflexively reached for his empty breast pocket as he visualized the midair collisions he believed were imminent.

  While chaos was spreading through the darkened control room, Traweek snapped out of his daze and repeatedly tried to call Delta Flight 176--the MD-88 that had been given a counterfeit order to go around as the captain was preparing to flare for a landing. With the hapless crew unable to see out of the airliner, or communicate with an air traffic controller, the airplane was now flying straight north toward the combined inbound traffic congestion from the northeast and northwest.

  What concerned the shaken controller most was United Flight 1147. For whatever reason, the crew had changed course and, according to their current altitude readout, had descended to 4,500 feet without receiving an ATC clearance to deviate from their assigned heading or altitude. Under the circumstances, the captain had elected to play a deadly game of airborne Russian roulette.

  The cluttered radarscope indicated another frightening catastrophe in the making. After losing communications when they were told to turn to a heading of 280 degrees, the pilot of Air Force One had obviously decided to use his command prerogative to declare a lost communications situation and proceed toward Dobbins Air Reserve Base. They were squawking 7600 on their transponder while the Boeing 747 was rapidly merging with United Flight 1147.

  With his insides twisted from stress and sheer frustration, Traweek helplessly watched the United flight and Air Force One close on each other. lie knew the only salvation would be if each maintained their current altitude. More midair conflict alerts went off as nine airplanes converged near the airport and occupied a one-square-mile section of airspace. Louis Traweek and his fellow controllers wanted to close their eyes and block out any thoughts of the high probability that they were about to witness multiple collisions in the skies over Atlanta.