by Gary Ponzo
Right on cue, Cory held up his pistol and moved closer to the entryway where Lisa stood so the entire cabin could get a good look at his weapon.
This put a stop to the commotion and Bennett slammed the microphone back into its cradle and pointed directly at Nick. “I want him searched first,” Bennett told Cory. “He’s been known to carry some high-tech gadgets with him, so make sure it’s a full-cavity search.”
Cory winked at Nick.
“And,” Bennett pulled out a handful of trash bags from the service area, “we confiscate every cell phone, wallet, purse, and earring. They can keep their clothes, but I want everything else bagged.”
Then Bennett pointed to another kid and said, “Start going through the baggage compartments, one by one. Bring me anything suspicious.”
Nick said, “Just out of curiosity, what happens if you don’t find the device onboard? Doesn’t that put a little crimp in your escape plan?”
“Don’t worry,” Bennett assured him. “Our intelligence is much stronger than yours. It’s here.”
But Nick was worried. He doubted Bennett would allow survivors should the search come up empty. Nick was pretty sure there weren’t going to be survivors either way, but he needed to be patient and wait for his opportunity. It would come eventually.
Nick looked over at Jess, who seemed completely absorbed by the situation. She observed the action like an embedded journalist taking in her surroundings to report to the people back home.
He just hoped Jess would be around long enough to tell the story.
Chapter 6
It was 3:36 AM, and FBI agent Sam Pettit was filling the printer with paper when the phone on his desk buzzed.
“Sam,” came the male voice, “I got an air traffic controller in Iceland says there’s a plane out of position over the Atlantic. Line 1204.”
Pettit took the two steps to his desk and pushed the extension. “Agent Pettit.”
“Sir, this is John Kurtze with Isavia here in Reykjavik and I believe we’ve lost an aircraft.”
Pettit dropped down into his chair and ran a hand though his hair. “Tell me about it.”
“Flight 12 out of JFK left just past midnight your time with a destination of Rome. They’ve missed two waypoint call-ins and are not responsive to our calls.”
“Where was their last known location?”
“The last positive radar position had them heading directly on their flight path, but once they left radar, they’ve been unavailable.”
“Shit,” Pettit muttered. He yanked open his desk drawer and pulled out a fresh legal pad. He began scribbling notes as he asked, “Any distress calls?”
“No sir.”
“Any pings?”
“No sir.”
Sam tapped his pen on the legal pad. He was a pilot himself and the FBI’s aviation director. He understood the consequence of silence over the Atlantic. The pilot likely turned off the transponder and possibly turned the narrative into a calculated decision. Unless the aircraft broke apart somehow and that’s why Pettit was called in the middle of the night. Both scenarios leaned toward acts of terrorism.
“You call the FAA?” Pettit asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Pettit considered the sequence of events. “You called the FAA and yet you decided to make another call to me. Why?”
“Sir,” Kurtze said, taking a moment to put it together, “I have a controller here who claims the last high-frequency communication was weak. He felt the plane was out of position when the call was made.”
Pettit’s pen was tapping his legal pad a feverish pace. Kurtze was giving him opinion. He was suggesting the pilot of Flight 12 had deliberately called in a false waypoint check-in. If Kurtze gave that information to the FAA, his opinion might be construed as subjective and therefore not given the proper respect.
“Did you tell the FAA about this weak signal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
Silence for a few seconds, then, “Sir. That’s why I called you.”
Pettit nodded to himself. The FAA was a large immobile organization which had protocols stacked on top of one another until the obvious fell into place. There were mechanical problems and communication failure to consider first. The FBI, however, had more sinister opponents to deal with, and in a situation like this, minutes became extremely valuable.
“Listen,” Pettit said, “I need you to email me the flight plan along with the last radar contact.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pettit was on his feet now, looking out the window in his Washington, DC, office as if he might see the lights of a wayward plane heading his direction. “And Mr. Kurtze, I want you to have every controller searching for any unknown objects on their radar. You see any anomalies at all, you call me immediately. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m switching you over to Agent Swanson and he’ll give you my contact info.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pettit pushed a couple of buttons and when Swanson answered, he said, “Pickup 1204 and give this guy my email and cell number.”
“Got it,” Swanson said. “You got Henry on 1209.”
“Of course I do.”
Pettit pushed a button. “Henry, what’s going on?”
“We’re tracking the sequence now,” the director of the FAA said. “Its last inspection was two weeks ago and it came out clean.”
“How many passengers?”
“Three hundred twenty-seven.”
“The pilot?”
“Paul Greko. He’s a veteran. No incidents. No reports.”
“How veteran?”
There was a hesitation in the director’s tone. “It was his last scheduled flight.”
“Shit,” Pettit said.
“Now Sam, don’t jump to conclusions.”
Pettit was pacing now, imagining the worst. His job was created because of September 11th, and he wasn’t about to have a recurrence. Not on his watch.
“I need to go, Henry. Keep me posted.”
“But—”
Pettit slammed down the phone and pushed another sequence of buttons. When the phone was answered, he said, “We need fighters in the air. Now!”
Chapter 7
Nick sat and listened to Jess interview Vincent Bennett with acuity, trying to uncover anything he could from the proceedings. Bennett answered questions while keeping an eye on the cabin search. As the minutes passed without a discovery, the passengers became more and more expendable.
Nick glanced over his shoulder and saw the two pilots sitting in the seats behind him. At least they weren’t in on the plan. He tried to capture one of the pilot’s attention without Bennett’s scrutiny.
The pilot looked at him, and Nick whispered, “Does Greko have any illnesses that you remember?”
The pilot shook his head.
“The copilot? Johnson?”
The pilot shrugged. “Allergies.”
Nick nodded.
“Agent Bracco,” Bennett raised his eyebrows, “keep your head forward please. We don’t want any casualties onboard.”
When Bennett spoke, Cory crept forward and eyed Nick with the pistol by his side. The kid was enjoying himself, having fun at Nick’s expense. Especially after probing Nick’s body with his gloved fingers. Nick still had trouble sitting after that episode. Once Cory was done he’d turned over his searching duties to another one of Bennett’s lackeys and took up first-class patrol.
There were occasional shrieks emanating from the back of the cabin where the women were getting their bodies searched, while the passengers whimpered at the rough treatment given their luggage as the terrorists threw clothes on the floor and scoured their personal effects for the doomsday device.
“Where will you go?” Jess asked Bennett as he stood over her with a wry grin.
“Well, that’s a good question, Miss Kimball,” Bennett said. “Let’s just say we’ll be in a place where we can’t be found.”
/> “And what are your plans for the passengers?”
Bennett nodded to himself as if he’d prepared for this question and was recalling the response. “You will be left behind on the island.”
“You told me that,” Jess said, then pointed to the two pilots sitting behind Nick, “but what’s preventing us from powering up the 767 and taking off?”
“Nothing,” Bennett said very matter-of-factly. “I’ll have you delayed for a couple of hours to give us a head start. Then you’ll be free to go if that’s what you choose.”
Jess was incredible with her tactics, trying to be a professional while riding on a hijacked plane. She continued her probing while Nick waited for his opportunity. Cory was patrolling first class with an exuberant expression, strolling down the aisles like a prison guard. Probably the most responsibility he’s had since his mom offered to give him an allowance.
Nick caught Kyle’s attention from across the aisle and he seemed to understand. They had to move soon. The overhead compartments in first class had been examined and it was only a matter of time before they found the device, or worse, didn’t find it.
Cory was now coming up Nick’s aisle, to his right, and Kyle gave Nick a subtle nod. As the kid reached Nick’s row, Nick barreled into him, shoving Cory right into Kyle’s lap. The kid tried to get away, but Kyle was too quick and grabbed his torso. Cory needed to use his arms to gain balance away from Kyle, which meant his gun hand was available for Nick to snatch.
And he didn’t miss.
Nick was up and in control now, swinging the pistol at Bennett and saying, “We have a slight change of plans.”
Bennett did his best to appear composed, but it was obvious he couldn’t handle the type of pressure Nick kept presenting. The type of pressure Nick faced on a routine basis.
Nick gestured toward his seat and Bennett sat down, shutting his mouth for the first time since the takeover.
“We have a lot to discuss,” Nick said.
Bennett frowned. “You haven’t got a plan that can prevent this from happening.”
“Maybe not,” Nick said. “But that never stopped me from trying.”
Nick nodded to Kirk Weston. “Go down that aisle and act like you’re going to the bathroom. I’ll cover you from this side.”
Kirk didn’t hesitate. He walked toward the back of the cabin as if he were part of the terrorist team. As soon as he reached the third row, the gunman yelled at him to stop. This time Nick had the proper angle, and he shot the guy in the leg.
There were screams and passengers scattering all throughout the aircraft.
In the mayhem, Kirk swiped the gun from the terrorist’s hand and signaled that he now had the weapon.
Nick stepped over piles of luggage and clothing to get to the terrorist lying on the floor, writhing in pain. Nick looked around the cabin and yelled, “Do we have a medical professional on board?”
A thin elderly woman got up from her seat and walked around the crowded cabin to get to the wounded terrorist. As she hunched over the man, she examined the wound and said, “Are there any medical supplies on board? Some gauze, gloves, tape, alcohol, that kind of stuff?”
Nick looked at a flight attendant, who nodded at him.
“Then go, please.”
She took off toward the front of the plane while two other terrorists tried to blend in with the other passengers as if Nick might forget what they looked like. He motioned them to their feet and had them stand in the back with Lisa, who seemed disgruntled about the insurrection. With the gun in his hand and seemingly in control of the situation, Nick instructed Kirk to keep watch over the back of the plane. He pointed to Lisa and added, “She’s dangerous.”
Once back in first class, Nick gestured for the pilot who’d helped him earlier to meet him by the cockpit door.
“Talk to him,” Nick said. “See if you can get him to open the door.”
The pilot knocked hard, then said, “Paul, this is Kenny. Open the door.”
Nothing.
Nick kept an eye on the passengers who were sitting orderly while Kyle Church stood guard over them. There was a nervous smile on some of their faces.
The pilot pressed the entry code into the keypad and tried the door. He turned to Nick and shook his head.
“Paul,” the pilot shouted, “the FBI is in control of the plane. The terrorists are all prisoners now. Open the door and we’ll be safe.”
Again nothing. The engines hummed loudly and Nick wondered just how far off course they were. There was no change in the direction or speed of the plane.
Bennett slowly crossed his legs and said, “He knows what he’s doing, Agent Bracco. There are reinforcements waiting for us on the island. He lands this plane, he knows he’s safe.”
Nick was losing his patience. “You sure we can’t get through this thing?” he asked the pilot in a soft voice.
The pilot shrugged. “Maybe the air marshal knows something I don’t?”
Nick slammed his elbow into the door, then said. “I’ll be right back.”
When Nick returned to the back of the plane, the doctor was bandaging the terrorist’s leg while Kirk stood guard like a high-noon showdown.
“Is there any way to get into the cockpit?” Nick asked.
Kirk frowned. “Not if the pilot doesn’t want you in there.”
“Then we have a problem,” Nick said. “This plane will land on a remote island where there will be soldiers waiting for us.”
Kirk used his free hand to rub his bald head. “We can try to impair the flight somehow, but that puts us in the ocean.”
“That’s your idea?” Nick asked.
Kirk lifted his left shoulder into a half-hearted shrug. “It’s the best I got on short notice.”
“Remind me to give you a couple of days notice before the next hijacking.”
Suddenly the plane lurched and the engines pulled back.
“He descending,” Kirk said. “Probably twenty minutes out.”
“Is this thing really as invisible as they think?” Nick asked.
“If we’re in the middle of the Atlantic, then yeah. If there’s some small island out in the middle of nowhere, then they can pull it off.”
“And what about search parties?”
“I’m sure he’s turned off the transponder, but eventually I think they’ll find us,” Kirk said, then looked directly at Nick and lowered his voice. “It’s just a matter of whether we’ll be alive when it happens.”
It was the exact thought Nick had. He’d tried to hold down the images of his wife and son finding out about their father who was never found, or killed on a remote island. He looked at the faces of the passengers and found nervous smiles from people who didn’t quite understand the predicament they were in.
“We need a plan,” Nick said to himself. “And fast.”
A young boy came waddling through the mess on the floor to approach Nick.
“Officer,” he said, “are we landing in Rome now?”
The plane kept descending and the boy was merely asking what every other passenger wanted to know.
Nick leaned over and touched the kid on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. You can tell your folks that you will be landing in Rome sometime today.”
The boy smiled, then scurried back from where he came.
Nick was putting himself in a hole and just prayed he would be able to climb out of it. From the back of the plane, he could see Lisa glaring at him with a knowing grin.
“Boy, do I need a plan,” Nick whispered to himself.
Chapter 8
Sam Pettit was gulping down his third mug of coffee and feverishly reviewing the data he’d received for Flight 12 on his computer monitor. The pilot was experienced, the plane in good working condition. There was no weather that he could tell. It was always a puzzle that he would put together piece by piece. Somewhere there would be a sign that would lead him in a specific direction. Right now was the hardest part, because he couldn’t narrow it down
to mechanical failure or pilot error, so he had to presume all scenarios, which made the search extremely difficult.
If he knew it was a terrorist takeover, then he could widen his scope and prepare for ancillary events, but without that knowledge, the entire ocean was his haystack. And Flight 12 was a very tiny needle.
Sam pushed the button on his phone. “Swanny, do you have that report yet?”
“Not yet,” Agent Swanson said.
“Do you feel they’re stretching it out?”
Swanson didn’t respond right away. Sam was accusing the FAA of sandbagging information so they could conduct their own investigation before sending the data to the FBI.
“Hard to say, Sam. They’re pretty busy over there.”
Sam drummed the pencil on his desk. “Can you get me that Kurtze guy again?”
“Sure.”
A minute later his phone chirped. “1205.”
Sam pushed the button. “Kurtze?”
“Yes sir.”
“I need a better timeline,” Sam said.
“Um . . . well, I was told by the FAA I was supposed to talk with them.”
“Look, if you want to play footsy with the FAA, fine. They can make your life miserable and I get it. But we’re talking about a plane which may be headed toward a busy civilian population. I can’t afford to wait for bodies to be show up before I claim this a terrorist attack.”
“I understand.”
“So, are you going to help me?”
Just then another chirp interrupted the call and Agent Swanson’s voice came over the intercom. “Sam, I have an urgent call from Walt Jackson.”
That stopped him.
“What line?”
“1203.”
Walt Jackson was the Special Agent in Charge of the Baltimore office. He also headed up a small tactical group of agents who specialized in counterterrorism, known simply as The Team. It would confirm Sam’s suspicions were real.
“Hang on, Kurtze,” Sam said, then put him on hold. He took a long sip of his cold coffee, then a deep breath. Finally, he pushed the 1203 button.”
