Jarrah put his newspaper down on the chair and looked across the room toward Hanjour, who was sitting by the window with his own newspaper. Their eyes met briefly and Jarrah nodded his head slightly. Then he went over toward the front of the line and prepared to board. Hanjour followed closely behind. They’d paid extra for prime positions in line so they could sit at the very front of the cabin.
CHAPTER 6
Virgil In D.C.
Virgil paced around his office, just as he had back on Sept. 11, 2001, although that office had been in the White House basement, a place where he was no longer welcomed. He was frustrated, just as he’d been then, and was still wondering about his commitment to this job, even though he’d promised Harry he would stay.
He was frustrated because the FBI’s search for Hanjour and Jarrah had turned up nothing but dead ends. The agency found the apartments where the men had lived, but both living spaces had been cleaned and left pristine. It appeared the men had left Chicago a couple of weeks back, though Virgil wasn’t sure how the FBI knew that. But there were no hints of where they might be now. It was like trying to track down ghosts.
He thought again about the one trace the FBI did get: A phone call from an unidentified woman overseas warning of a possible attack. The woman who had called refused to give her name, and when the FBI had tried calling the number back, there was no answer. They couldn’t trace it to any given person or specific location, and only knew the call had originated in Germany. Either the person ignored the FBI’s calls or the phone had run out of charge. Virgil’s contacts at the FBI shared the number with him, and he had it in a notebook on his desk. He’d tried it several times a couple weeks ago, but no one picked up. There wasn’t even a voice mail. He wondered who could have called. Someone who knew Jarrah? Someone who knew about his plans? Or more likely it was totally unrelated, maybe even a crank. Still, something about it intrigued him. He hadn’t called the number since before the new year, but maybe he’d try again today.
Every day, Virgil looked at the calendar trying to determine if there was some symbolism associated with the date that might make it more likely for an attack. From his knowledge of Al-Qaeda, he assumed if there were to be an attack, it would be associated with some event on the same day in history. Today’s date, he had noticed with trepidation, was the 59th anniversary of the Jan. 9, 1948, attacks by Arabs against Jews in what had then been northern Palestine. Of all the issues Al-Qaeda said it cared about, Virgil knew the Israel-Palestinian conflict was at the top of the list.
“The creation and continuation of Israel is one of the greatest crimes, and you are the leaders of its criminals,” Bin Laden had written in his 2002 letter to America explaining why Al-Qaeda fought the United States. “And of course there is no need to explain and prove the degree of American support for Israel. The creation of Israel is a crime which must be erased. Each and every person whose hands have become polluted in the contribution towards this crime must pay its price, and pay for it heavily.”
Virgil considered going down the hall to check in with Harry, who was back from Iraq. He studied Harry’s calendar on Outlook, but, to no surprise, found that the secretary was booked in back-to-back meetings all morning. OK – he’d go get some coffee. That might settle him down.
As he walked down the hall to the small canteen on the same floor, he thought of what his son had told him last weekend when they met for coffee.
“Dad, you work too hard,” Keith had said, when Virgil had told him he needed to get back to the office. “You worry too much. You need to get a hobby or something.”
Virgil knew it was true, but didn’t think he’d be able to relax until he knew where Jarrah and Hanjour had gone. He looked at the other people going by him in the hall and lining up for coffee at the coffee stand. They talked casually to each other about the ball game last night and the forecast for more snow. None seemed particularly stressed about anything other than the typical workday blues. He wished he could be more like them.
As he stood waiting to order, his eyes fell momentarily on a New York Times lying on one of the tables. Virgil stared over the reader’s shoulder because a picture jumped out at him. It was of the two towers. The headline read, “Celebrities Plan Move Into WTC Condos Today.” Suddenly he felt dizzy, and had to grab the counter to steady himself. A woman waiting at the counter for her drink turned to him, looking alarmed. “Are you OK?” she asked.
“Yeah,” he grunted. “Just had a dizzy spell. I’m OK.”
But he wasn’t. Today was the day. Somehow, he just knew it. He steadied himself, grabbed his phone and started dialing Harry.
CHAPTER 7
Taking Off
Billings and O’Rourke received tower approval to begin their takeoff run. Billings, the pilot in control on this first leg of the day, turned the plane off the taxiway and onto runway 33L, which would put them on a northwest path at takeoff. They were cleared to climb to 10,000 feet and then turn right, where they would proceed to their 37,000-foot cruising altitude. Estimated flight time was one hour and 20 minutes. It would be one of those rides where they started descending almost as soon as they reached their peak altitude.
Billings pushed the lever to full power and the plane zoomed down the long runway.
“Vee one,” Billings said as the plane hit safe takeoff speed.
“Vee two,” he said a moment later, pulling back on the control stick. The front tire left the runway as the nose pointed up sharply into the clear blue sky. Soon, the big jet soared over the suburbs of Baltimore, where patches of snow from last week’s storm still coated the ground in places.
“Still some snow down there,” Billings said conversationally as they reached the assigned altitude.
“Yeah, it melts fast over here,” O’Rourke said. “Seems like we have less every winter, doesn’t it? Global warming, I suppose.”
“You buy that story?” Billings asked. A controller on the radio interrupted him, telling them to climb to 37,000 feet. “Roger, Southwest 143, climb to flight level 370,” he replied, and began pulling the wheel back. The engines gave a roar as he again applied full power and the plane started climbing.
“You mean global warming?” O’Rourke said, picking up the thread of their conversation. “Sure. It’s what all the scientists say.”
“You know those scientists just want funding for their projects,” Billings said. “If they scare enough people with that global warming talk, it gets ‘em in the papers. Raises their profile, you know. Helps with the funding.”
“Sounds like you know more about it than I do,” O’Rourke said. “You might want to watch your angle there – looks like we’re climbing a little fast.”
“Thanks,” Billings said, pushing the wheel in slightly. “I got excited there thinking about that global warming stuff.”
“No problem. Glad to help.”
They were silent for a few moments, with communications on the radio from other flights the only noise in the cockpit. They leveled off at cruising altitude.
“Guess I’d better talk to our guests,” O’Rourke said.
“Sure. Go ahead,” Billings said. He examined the flight map.
“Good morning, everyone,” O’Rourke said over the cabin intercom. “This is your first officer, Kevin O’Rourke, and I’d like to welcome you aboard. We’re at our cruising altitude of 37,000 feet, and cabin service will begin shortly. Our flight route today will take us over Asbury Park, New Jersey, a bit out over the ocean, and then across Martha’s Vineyard and on into Logan. You folks on the left-hand side of the craft should get a nice view of New York City coming up in about half an hour. Anyway, we anticipate arriving a few minutes early today, and hope to have you to the gate at Logan around 10:30. We’ll give an update on connecting gates a little later. We expect a smooth flight today, so just relax and enjoy. And thanks for flying Southwest.”
O’Rourke clicked off the intercom.
“There’s Philadelphia over on my left,” Billings sai
d, pointing out his side window.
“Yep,” O’Rourke said.
“Man, I shouldn’t have had that Starbucks before we took off,” Billings said. “Think you can handle things for a minute while I go make room?”
“Nothing to it, Rich,” O’Rourke replied.
According to Federal rules, the two pilots were supposed to be together in the cabin at all times, but it was a rule commonly broken. Five years after the 2001 hijackings, most pilots took such rules with a grain of salt. After all, when you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go. And who could safely fly an airplane with an aching bladder? Besides, they’d already set the controls to auto-pilot, so the co-pilot had little to do but keep an eye on the settings.
Billings unclicked his belt and climbed out of the pilot’s seat while O’Rourke watched the controls. The plane was headed northeast. Billings glanced one more time out the window. He could see the ocean for the first time, off in the distance. The New Jersey countryside, with more snow on the ground then there’d been in Baltimore, rolled slowly by under the wings. It looked like a smooth flight ahead.
CHAPTER 8
Attack
Billings punched the security code that unlocked the heavy, fortified cockpit door and swung it open. He stepped out of the cockpit and turned to his right to open the door to the bathroom. As he pushed open the door, there was a strange flash in the corner of his eye. A shape flew toward him. He uttered a quick “whaa…” before the dark shape hit him. A fist went into his eye, and he collapsed on the floor in front of the kitchen, wetting his pants as he went down. A muffled sound penetrated his mind an instant before his consciousness plunged into silent darkness.
Jarrah had fired a shot into Billings’ head with his silencer-equipped handgun. Hanjour – now standing right behind Jarrah – blocked the passengers from seeing exactly what had happened. “Everyone keep quiet,” he said calmly to the passengers up front. “Keep quiet and all will be well. We have a bomb, so just sit still.” A woman shrieked and he pointed the gun at her, which shut her up quickly. He turned around and walked to the cockpit door.
In the cockpit, O’Rourke glanced around over his shoulder to see what was going on. Hanjour walked quietly into the cabin through the open door and pointed a gun straight into his face.
O’Rourke put up his left hand reflexively. “No!” he called.
“Give me the security code,” said Jarrah, walking in behind his partner and shutting the door, pressing his body against it to keep anyone in the cabin from opening it. Hanjour continued pointing the gun at O’Rourke.
“Come on!” Jarrah yelled, his face heating up, and Hanjour jammed the gun against O’Rourke’s head.
“It’s 34… 34405,” the trembling co-pilot stuttered.
Jarrah lowered his gun and punched in the numbers on the keypad. Nothing happened. He tried again, unsuccessfully, and then turned quickly to look at O’Rourke.
“This isn’t the right code, you liar!” Jarrah screamed at the co-pilot.
A sharp pain exploded in O’Rourke’s leg. Hanjour had shot him. O’Rourke cried out and clutched his leg where the bullet had hit. Blood sprayed from a tiny hole in his flight uniform pants.
“The real number this time or the next shot goes in your head!” Jarrah yelled.
O’Rourke, moaning with pain, told him the code. Jarrah punched the code in, and he and Hanjour both turned to verify the light at the door’s side, indicating the door was locked. When Hanjour turned back to look at the co-pilot, O’Rourke’s right hand pressed a button on the control panel. Jarrah pulled the trigger and a bullet pierced the back of O’Rourke’s head, ensuring that pressing the button was the last thing O’Rourke ever did. An astonishing burst of blood and brain matter spurted all over the control panel and splashed ugly red and white stains on the windows. O’Rourke’s body, still strapped into his seat, didn’t fall, but remained upright, quivering for a few seconds. Most of his head above his nose was gone, and blood, hair and gore stuck to the back of his chair. A nauseating smell filled the small space.
Jarrah stuffed the gun back in his duffel bag, shaking his head. Even with the silencer, the firearm’s shot reverberated in the cockpit. He looked at what remained of the co-pilot with disgust for the mess it made, not with any empathy. His previous doubts and weakness no longer plagued him.
Jarrah and Hanjour now were completely sealed off, safe from any intrusion. There was nothing the passengers or flight attendants could do, as the system meant to keep the passengers safe by sealing the cockpit against hijackers had worked against them. As Jarrah had expected, O’Rourke and Billings had put the plane on auto-pilot as soon as they’d reached cruising altitude, so the jet continued to fly normally.
Jarrah stood in the cockpit for a moment, reflecting on the last few minutes. After all the years of planning, it seemed unreal to actually be here, in the middle of it. Things had gone as well as he could have hoped. Better, actually, because he hadn’t anticipated that the pilot would leave the cockpit. He’d moved quickly from his second-row seat as soon as the cockpit door opened and knocked the pilot out with his fist, then quickly pulled the gun out of his duffel bag to deliver the finishing shot. This was the best scenario he could have imagined. He’d worried he’d have to put a gun to a flight attendant’s head to get the crew to open the cockpit, which would have taken time, too much time. Luckily, it hadn’t come to that. Hanjour had reacted just as quickly, backing him up instantly, addressing the startled nearby passengers and securing their entry to the cockpit in a matter of seconds. Jarrah saw the Director’s face in his head, that shark-like grin penetrating the darkness. He shuddered. Things were far from over, he thought. Still lots to do.
A pounding noise startled him. He turned toward it and realized it was the flight attendant banging on the cockpit door from the other side.
“Kevin?” a panicked voice called. “It’s me, Wendy. Are you OK? I think they killed Captain Billings.”
“Try CPR!” they heard someone else call from behind the door.
Jarrah smiled. CPR wouldn’t help the pilot at this point. The gun had worked well. The knocking continued. “Kevin, can you hear me?” the flight attendant asked. “Kevin!”
Hanjour was hunched in the pilot’s seat, carefully examining the controls. He disengaged the autopilot but held the plane steady and on the same flight path as before.
“Hey, it’s just like the simulator,” Hanjour told Jarrah as he continued holding the wheel and staring at the dials in front of him on the panel. “It’s pretty easy.”
“Good,” Jarrah replied, thinking quickly of the next steps. “Let me get this guy out of his seat and I’ll help you out. Remember to turn off the transponder. We don’t want them to track us.”
He and the Director had planned for a possible military response, though neither thought it likely that the Air Force would scramble planes to shoot them down. After all, how would the military know they planned to turn the plane into a missile against skyscrapers? No one had ever done that before. Hijackers always landed planes and made demands, and that’s what the military would expect. Still, it didn’t hurt to have the transponders off, and if the military did figure out what they were up to, it would make the Air Force’s work a little harder.
“OK,” Hanjour said, flicking the transponder switch to its “off” position. “Praise Allah, everything is going according to plan.”
Jarrah unstrapped O’Rourke and struggled to lift the big man out of his seat. It was a gory job, and soon Jarrah had O’Rourke’s blood all over his clothes. Oh well – that wouldn’t matter in 20 minutes or so, he supposed. A brief chill etched his spine when he thought of that.
He finally pulled O’Rourke’s body around to the small jump seat behind the captain’s chair and draped O’Rourke over it, head pointing toward the floor of the cockpit. Blood kept pouring out of the man like a fountain, and the rusty smell of it filled the little room at the front of the plane.
Jarrah stepped ove
r O’Rourke’s body back to the co-pilot’s seat. It was covered with blood. He took off his button-down shirt and draped it over the seat to cover the mess, and then sat down with an audible “squish.” He grimaced and looked out the front windows to get his bearings.
“You see New York yet?” Jarrah asked. He felt oddly naked wearing just an undershirt.
“Not yet,” Hanjour replied, surveying the horizon out of the sun-brightened windows. “Probably in a few minutes.”
“OK. You’d better start descending. We’re way too high.”
“I will. But take it easy. Allah will guide us,” Hanjour said. He began uttering a prayer.
Jarrah gazed out the window, straining to see any signs of the city and ignoring the increasing noise of chaos behind the locked cockpit door. Someone was banging on it, but he paid no attention. Nothing below but farms, forests and little towns. But the blue line of the ocean was now evident in the distance. Hanjour began pushing the wheel in gently. Unlike five years ago, there’d be no need for any sharp moves off the flight path. That’s why they’d chosen this route. No sense in having problems that had crippled the mission last time when Shehhi lost control of his plane.
There wasn’t much for Jarrah to do now except speak to the passengers. They might be calling the ground with their cell phones, and it would be best if they heard that the plane would land safely. He was sure the information would be passed along to authorities, keeping them unsuspecting. He pressed the intercom button.
“Hello, this is the co-pilot,” he said in his best American accent. “The plane has been hijacked, but I’m OK and I’m still flying it. The hijackers have instructed me to land at Kennedy Airport and assured me that passengers won’t be harmed. We’re getting near the airport, so you’ll notice we’re starting to descend. Please keep calm and don’t panic. Everyone will be OK if we just listen to what the hijackers want.”
The Towers Still Stand Page 26
