It took a moment to process what the man on the emergency frequency just said. Everyone on board is dead?
“I need instructions on how to fly this damn thing!”
Andrew, his mouth agape, stared at his radar readout. There was still no aircraft showing in his airspace. Surely, the US Navy and Coast Guard would be picking up this transmission. Their communication lines were much more sophisticated than any civilian instruments—but still, if this man was telling the truth, Andrew would need to alert them immediately.
Andrew took out his iPhone and called Jenkins who answered on the first ring.
He gave him sparse details of what was happening and told him to get back immediately and that both the Coast Guard and Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson in Anchorage needed to be contacted at once.
He could tell Jenkins was flabbergasted on the other line and Andrew could almost envision him stomping out his cigarette and his rotund frame sprinting back into the building.
As Jenkins hung up, Andrew thumbed the headset mike again, “Okay, sir. I need you to tell me what kind of aircraft you are flying so I can help you.”
* * *
Gale had no idea what type of jet he was attempting to fly. His arms strained as he fought to keep the control wheel pulled back and the plane flying as level as possible. He was halfway succeeding. The plane was still losing altitude, but at a much slower rate than before. The altimeter showed he was still above thirteen thousand feet.
“I told you, I don’t know what type of plane I’m in. I barely know how to fly and this cockpit looks like something out of Star Wars.”
“Look for a flight manual in the cockpit. It will be a big binder.”
Gale looked around the cockpit and didn’t see anything.
“It will usually be under the captain’s seat or between the seats.”
Gale looked down to his right and saw the spine of a thick blue binder wedged between the two pilot seats. He picked it up and flipped to the first page of the manual. “It says it’s a Gulfstream G650!”
There was static over the line.
Gale yelled, “HELLO?”
“One second, sir!”
Gale swore out loud, wondering what was wrong.
* * *
Andrew muted his headset as Boyd Jenkins ran into the room. “I alerted Elmendorf—what’s going on?” Jenkins stopped behind Andrew’s workstation, trying to catch his breath.
“Do you know anyone who knows how to fly a Gulfstream G650?”
Jenkins turned pale. “That’s what this guy is flying?”
The Gulfstream G650 was a modern marvel in the realm of private aircrafts. With the price tag of sixty-five million dollars, the G650 had a seven-thousand-mile range, could fly up to six hundred miles an hour, and required specialized and experienced pilots behind the controls.
“HELLO?!”
Andrew turned to his boss. “Would anyone upstairs know how to fly one of these?”
Jenkins shook his head. “I need to get in contact with Elmendorf again. The military is going to have to take over.”
As Jenkins started hurrying away, Andrew stood and yelled, “What am I supposed to tell him?”
“Try to get him flying in a straight line. Find his altitude, his speed, get him using his flaps. Elmendorf is going to have to figure out where the hell he is and why we can’t find him on radar!”
Chapter 41
ANCHORAGE, ALASKA
JOINT BASE ELMENDORF-RICHARDSON
COLONEL RICHARD C. Wallinger closed his weekly PACOM intelligence briefing and leaned back in his chair, daydreaming about his upcoming day off. He envisioned himself taking his Cessna out and exploring the Kachemak Bay State Park south of Anchorage. It had been almost a month since the colonel had had a day off and he was feeling the itch to decompress.
As the commander of Third Wing at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson, or JBER, Colonel Richard C. Wallinger was one of the highest-ranked air force officers on base. His office, which sat in the base’s main compound, was large and lavish—appropriate for a man that held such power.
Most of his colleagues would have been miffed if they were assigned to this desolate corner of the world, but not Wallinger. He was done with the high-stress environment of deployment, of the crazy hustle and bustle of an overwrought base.
JBER offered a repose to a colonel who fought his way to the top, and to Wallinger, this assignment as commander of Third Wing was the top. Compared to his time overseas, he was now a man in control, a commander virtually left alone by his superiors.
So it was a surprise to Wallinger when his office door burst open and General William Bressant barged in followed by a slew of aides.
Wallinger jumped to his feet and saluted the general—the highest-ranking officer at JBER—and wondered what could have caused the broad-shouldered behemoth of a man to muscle in unannounced.
“What can I do for you, General Bressant?”
“Colonel Wallinger,” Bressant said. “We’ve got a situation. Your expertise is needed in CAOC”—the Combined Air Operations Center—“a vehicle’s waiting outside.”
Before Wallinger could reply, the general turned on his heel and hurried out.
After a moment of stunned silence, Wallinger caught up to the general in the hallway.
Without stopping, Bressant said, “A few minutes ago we received a call from a civilian air traffic control supervisor out of a flight service station in Juneau. They received a distress call over the civilian emergency frequency.” Bressant walked outside and climbed into the back of a jeep. Wallinger climbed in next to him, and Bressant ordered the driver to step on it.
Bressant continued, “Control said they were talking to a man who was piloting a G650 who didn’t know how to fly the damn thing. He said there were casualties on board. Supposedly, the aircraft is severely damaged and going down.”
“Where is the aircraft?”
“That’s the problem. It’s not showing up on radar. Pilot thinks he’s over the gulf, but he’s losing fuel quickly and needs instructions on how to land.”
Wallinger suddenly understood why he was summoned. He was familiar with Gulfstream jets. Years ago, he’d worked as a military liaison to the Gulfstream company and even test-piloted various engine systems for them. That’s why he was summoned: he knew how to fly the G650; they wanted him to help the pilot land that plane.
Wallinger said, “What is the navy doing to find the plane?”
“They’ve got three naval vessels using their high-tech radar searching for it now.”
“Why did the Juneau traffic control pick up this distress call and not the navy?”
“Unclear.”
“Is the navy speaking to the pilot?”
The jeep stopped in front of the CAOC building and the general climbed out. “No, that responsibility will fall on you.”
Wallinger swallowed hard, but he was up for any challenge. “Are we viewing this as a possible threat, General?”
“A jet is traveling without its transponder on, we’ve got a man in the cockpit who can’t pilot it, you’re damn right we’re viewing this as a threat. Our F-22 Raptors will be launched to intercept as soon as we locate. Then you’re the one who will help that sonofabitch land, do you think you can do that?”
* * *
The Juneau air control operator who had now introduced himself to Gale as “Andrew” was in the middle of instructing him on how to engage his wing flaps when a powerful voice overtook the emergency frequency.
“JBER to unidentified aircraft. This is Colonel Wallinger of the United States Air Force, do you copy?”
Gale, who had been keeping the control wheel steady for the last twelve minutes as Andrew ran him through basic diagnostic and instrument checks, said, “I copy, Colonel.”
“State your name and the nature of your emergency, pilot.”
Gale swallowed. “My name is James Gale; I already explained to the—”
“Explain it to me, Mr. Gale.
All we know here is that a Gulfstream G650 is somewhere over the Gulf of Alaska and it is not showing up on radar and there are casualties on board.”
That was pretty much the gist, Gale thought, but added, “I was kidnapped in Anchorage, brought on a jet by my assailants and was able to fight them off. Now I’m the sole survivor. The plane is losing fuel and altitude and there is a hole in the fuselage.”
“The plane was still at a reasonably low altitude when the fuselage was compromised?”
“Correct, the plane was still flying low even fifteen minutes after takeoff.”
“And where did you take off?”
“That I don’t know. I was hoping you could figure it out for me.”
“Were there any identifiable landmarks you saw, any landmarks you see now?”
Gale flashed back to seeing the small island with the landing strip they’d flown by right before his assault on the Russians. He told the colonel about the island, and then the colonel had Gale read off his ground speed, altitude, and magnetic heading as well as tell him about any alarms the systems on the jet were reporting.
After two minutes, the colonel alerted Gale that a navy vessel had located the jet.
“We’re sending two F-22 Raptors to intercept. They will be at your location in five minutes.”
“Intercept?”
“Standard operating procedure. They will piggyback with you back to land. They’re a precaution and our eyes in the sky, do you copy that?”
Gale said he did, but didn’t like the idea of jets with missile capabilities hanging too close to him.
“Colonel,” Gale said. “I’m not sure how I am going to be able to land this thing, I’ve only been trained to fly single engines.”
“You let me worry about that, Mr. Gale.”
* * *
Wallinger stared at the bright monitors on the wall in the CAOC room and watched as a green blinking dot showed up almost one hundred nautical miles southwest of Middleton Island in the Gulf of Alaska. The navy had found the plane.
Bressant stood next to him and put down a phone. “F-22s just took off, intercept will be in four minutes.”
In all his years in the air force, abroad and at home, this was truly one of the most peculiar events of Wallinger’s career. He couldn’t believe he was about to instruct a man who barely knew how to fly a prop plane to now land a G650 with a compromised fuselage.
But the longer Wallinger thought about it, the more he recognized that he was truly the right man for the job. The colonel had clocked more than a thousand hours in Gulfstreams over the years and could fly one with his eyes closed.
Wallinger muted his headset and announced to the room of military air traffic controllers and technicians: “I want a list of potential places to land away from the civilian population that are safely within the bounds of the G650’s leaking fuel supply. Account that the G650 needs a landing strip distance of six thousand feet.” He then turned to Bressant and asked, “Has the Coast Guard been notified?”
Being at the top of the food chain at JBER, General Bressant was not used to a subordinate running the show, especially a colonel. But Bressant was an adaptable man; he understood the fog of battle, understood that in dire situations it was best to let the right man take the helm and lead.
Bressant hung up a phone on the control board after conferring with the Coast Guard. “They’re ready. They just need to know where the G650 plans on landing.”
A controller to Wallinger’s left stood up. “Sir, I crunched the numbers; we only have one option and it’ll be cutting it close. With the limited fuel, the aircraft will never make it back to the mainland. It’s going to have to land on Middleton Island.”
“You’re sure?” Wallinger asked.
“Positive.”
Two other controllers confirmed the math.
“But there’s a small problem,” the controller said. “Middleton’s runway is only four thousand feet long. The G650 needs at least—”
“Six thousand.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wallinger swore and tried to figure out what he was going to say to James Gale.
“Mr. Gale, do you remember what I told you about the reverse thrusters and wing flaps?”
“I do.”
Wallinger rubbed at his brow. “You’re going to land on that island you saw. I’m going to need you to turn the plane around and then you are going to listen to me very carefully.”
* * *
Gale was starting to feel fatigued. His adrenaline rush was wearing off, and his arms burned while he tried to keep the compromised jet from losing more altitude.
He glanced at his altimeter: seven thousand feet and dropping.
He hoped to God this Colonel Wallinger knew what he was doing when suddenly he heard what sounded like a rocket blow by him. The G650 wavered slightly as two lightning-fast gray masses shot by Gale and then banked around for another flyby.
“We’ve received word the F-22s made intercept?”
“Jesus Christ!” Gale bellowed, not believing the speed of the jets.
“They’re going to come up beside you and then lead you back toward the island, do you copy?”
Gale said that he did. Thirty seconds later the F-22s slowed to either side of him.
“Move the control wheel to the right, Mr. Gale. Then ease the power lever like I told you and follow the F-22s.”
Gale watched as the jet to his right tipped sideways and veered out of sight. Gale took a deep breath and followed.
“Now the power lever, just a little bit.”
Gale eased the power lever forward and kept the control wheel cocked to the right until the lead F-22 appeared back in his sight line, then Gale leveled the plane back out.
Six thousand feet.
“Good job, Mr. Gale.”
“Am I going to have enough fuel to get to the island?” Gale asked, noticing that his fuel gauge was dangerously redlining.
“You’re one hundred and fifty nautical miles out. You’ll make it. No more throttle, we’ll keep the speed low and start engaging those flaps.”
* * *
General Bressant muted Wallinger’s headset for him. Bressant said, “Coast Guard is thirty minutes out from Middleton. What are your ideas on landing this thing?”
Wallinger thought for a minute. It was good that the G650 would virtually have no fuel by the time it got to Middleton, meaning the jet would be lighter and easier to stop on the short runway. Plus, less fuel meant less chance of an explosion in the event of a crash. As for the landing, the G650’s autopilot had automatically disabled itself with the loss in cabin pressure due to the hole in the fuselage.
But Wallinger thought he had a way for James Gale to land the jet. “The G650’s autopilot can be engaged for landings. The computer is sophisticated enough. The pilot will just have to be able to engage it when he gets to one thousand feet.”
“And if the autopilot can’t be turned on?”
“Then he’ll have to land the jet himself.”
* * *
Fifteen minutes passed with Wallinger instructing Gale on how to lower the landing gears and how to land the jet in case the autopilot failed. As the plane limped to three thousand feet, Wallinger had Gale deploy the landing gears in an attempt to create more drag and slow the G650.
It worked, and nearly twenty miles in the distance, Gale could see the brown-and-green hump of Middleton Island coming out of the seemingly endless blue waters.
Gale shot a furtive glance to the F-22s at his flanks. He knew his fate would be decided in a matter of minutes, because the autopilot would either engage or it wouldn’t. If it didn’t?
Gale tried not to think about that, but it was impossible. If he crashed this damn jet and died, both Cassie and Emily would meet an excruciating death at the hands of Viktor Sokolov. Gale flashed back to that dreary Moscow night a lifetime before—when he’d found Sokolov’s victim outside the US Embassy. Then his mind flashed to that day on the Finnish-Sovi
et border, the ambush—the bodies falling, the pictures he found pinned to the bodies. Then his mind wandered to Paris—what Sokolov had done to Gale’s late wife, Irina—what Sokolov had intended to do to his young daughters.
No matter what happened, dead or alive, Gale wouldn’t let Cassie and Emily die at the hands of that monster.
The odds of him landing this plane were slim; he knew the landing strip was too short. He knew even if he survived the initial landing, that the plane would surely continue off the tarmac and into the field beyond, or potentially off the island and into the ocean. Gale made a decision.
“Colonel, are you there?”
“I’m here, Mr. Gale.”
“How many people are listening to this frequency?”
“Just us, Mr. Gale. And my colleagues in the room with me.”
“You trust them?”
“With my life. Why?”
“If this ends badly, I need you to get in touch with someone.”
“This won’t end badly, Mr. Gale.”
“Just listen to me.” For the next minute, Gale told the colonel who he needed to contact, what had happened, and what to do in the event of his death.
Gale could hear the disbelief in the colonel’s voice when he finally replied, “I… I will Mr. Gale. I will make sure they are contacted.”
The jet dropped below two thousand feet, Middleton Island growing bigger and bigger. Gale felt like he was just on top of the waves; he tested the flaps again and looked down at the brakes and buttons he would have to press if the autopilot wouldn’t engage.
At fifteen hundred feet, the F-22s peeled away, leaving Gale alone in the cockpit with only Wallinger’s voice.
“Are you ready, Mr. Gale? Do you have any questions before you engage the autopilot?”
“No.”
Twelve hundred feet.
Perspiration poured down Gale’s face and he eased the plane to a thousand feet. Middleton Island was less than two miles ahead. The landing strip was a long brown stain.
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