The cascade of sound from a decelerating jet outside marked the arrival of the team from Colorado Springs, and Ron Barrett looked up, swallowing hard, his mind on the millions of dollars he’d spent to buy this storage operation, and how quickly it could all disappear.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Shanwick Air Traffic Control Facility, Shannon, Ireland (9:45 p.m. local / 2145 Zulu)
Devon Knightly, the evening lead supervisor of Shanwick Control, had been waiting for the connection with Pangia’s command center in Chicago. At last someone identified as Pangia’s operations chief came on the line, the voice puzzled and brimming with questions.
“Devon, is our crew squawking a radio-out or hijack code?”
“Neither. They’re still on the normal assigned code. There was no warning or radio contact of any sort before their 180-degree course reversal. My lads had a bit of a struggle clearing everyone out of his way. We were hoping you folks might be able to reach him by Sat phone or ACARS,” he said. ACARS had become a near-universal airline link between airborne cockpits and dispatchers.
“Understood …” the man replied from Chicago. “I’m told we’re trying, but no response yet. But I’ve got a more urgent question for you. If you project his new course out, is it steady? And if so, where does it appear to lead?”
“We did that, sir, and yes, it appears steady, and if you project it out over hours, it would take them right back across the Med and to their point of origin, Tel Aviv. It’s almost as if his flight computer decided to return to the first fix.”
Devon let his mind fast forward to an image of the big Airbus approaching the Middle East, and the mere thought of an unauthorized airspace breech anywhere in the area throttled up his already racing sense of urgency.
“That’s what we’ve been thinking,” the airline operations chief was saying, “… along with the worry that they could have changed the transponder code to let us know if they’d lost radio contact. It’s more like they could be fighting a major problem and looking for an emergency landing point.”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” Devon replied, trying to push the Middle Eastern images out of his mind to concentrate on the conversation, but it was as if a panther had silently padded in the door to stand there with deadly potential, impossible to ignore.
Devon Knightly pushed himself back to the moment. “All we see here in Shanwick is your crew flying the reverse course at the same altitude. Of course, he’s got London, Paris, Frankfurt, Dublin, and Amsterdam all available for emergency landing fields … and yet the fact that he appears to be headed back to the Middle East raises the possibility of a hijack.”
“Can we keep an open line with you, Devon?”
“Most assuredly. I’ll have someone standing by for you. Oh, one other matter. Your aircraft’s course reversal triggered a resolution alert on a British Air seven-four, and the Speedbird started climbing. So the TCAS boxes were agreeing that British Air would be told to climb whilst your aircraft would be directed to descend.”
“Yes?”
“Well, you see, your chaps remained at the same altitude, as if they didn’t get the same alert.”
“Oh! Okay, got it,” the Pangia chief replied.
“I should go, seeing as how I’ve a growing list of air defense and air traffic control facilities to alert. The British, for one, are going to be quite annoyed. Please let me know the instant you contact your crew by whatever means.”
“Will do.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Aboard Pangia 10 (2200 Zulu)
In the cockpit of Pangia 10, Jerry Tollefson replaced the crew interphone and shook his head in the negative. “The passenger satellite phone system is dead, too. No one’s getting through back there.”
“Are we going to ask if anyone has a portable satellite phone?” Dan asked.
“You’re kidding, right?” Jerry snapped. “No one carries those anymore.”
“What’s wrong with trying?” Dan asked.
“It’s a waste of time.”
“Jerry, it’s a simple PA announcement. There are two satellite networks for private sat phones, and if someone has one …”
“Okay, okay! Then tell Carol to ask, if it makes you feel better.”
Dan hesitated for a few moments as he suppressed the response that was sitting like bile on the tip of his tongue. He nodded instead, before switching to interphone to ask the flight attendants to make the announcement.
A few bumps roiled the cockpit as a patch of chop accelerated to light turbulence, the same way it had as they’d flown westbound over the Irish western shore a while back, the Irish Cliffs of Moher unseen seven miles below.
Jerry reached up automatically and switched on the seat belt light as Dan looked at the radar depiction, which was showing nothing of interest.
“Clear ahead.”
“Yeah, that was the forecast, except for the UK and Ireland.”
“Which we’re way beyond now.” The moving map display continued to show their westbound course as steady, with the horizontal situation indicator and its compass rose pointing to the same heading of 290 degrees.
“Okay,” Jerry began, “Let’s review this. We’re in a super sophisticated electric jet at 38,000 feet going at 80 percent of the speed of sound, on course, on time, in the soup with no radio communication of any sort.”
“That’s about right.”
He gestured to the array of computer-generated information on the front panel, the ECAM, or Electronic Centralized Aircraft Monitor. “No warnings on the ECAM, no clue as to why, but all backups are down and the damned ACARS won’t even work. What do we make of that? Does anything ring a bell? Am I missing something?” Jerry asked.
“If you’re missing something,” Dan answered, “… so am I. We’re still flying, and everyone on both sides of the Atlantic knows our flight plan, and we have enough fuel, but this is creeping me out.”
“Me, too.”‘
“What would you think about my going below to have a look at the electronics bay,” Dan asked.
“Yeah, we were going to do that. See if we have any breakers out or … or other obvious problems.”
“Got it. I’ll need you to motor your seat as far forward as you can stand.”
“Roger.”
Jerry was already pulling on his quick don oxygen mask as Dan lifted himself out of the copilot’s seat and stood momentarily behind the center console, rubbing his neck.
Stay conscious, Cappy, Dan thought, aware how much of a balm the sarcasm would be if he could just say it out loud, as if Tollefson didn’t remember the rule that when one pilot was out of the seat above 30,000, the other put on his oxygen mask.
But the words remained unspoken as Dan moved quickly to the cramped space behind the captain’s seat and raised the floor hatch, squeezing through to the ladder, disappearing below and reappearing less than four minutes later.
“Anything?” Jerry asked, replacing his oxygen mask in the side compartment and moving his seat back.
“Nothing unusual. It is a bit nonstandard down there in the way it’s laid out, but otherwise normal.”
“But everything with a light is blinking, huh?” Jerry asked.
“Well, nothing I saw needed resetting. No smoking black boxes, nothing.”
“So … how could we have lost everything? Tell me that.”
Dan took a deep breath, forcing himself to think clearly as he slipped back into the right seat. “I don’t have a clue, Jerry.”
“Well, you said you know this bird better than I do, so …”
“I didn’t say that to challenge you, Jerry. I’ve just studied this bird’s systems very thoroughly since she’s an electronics nightmare. But the bottom line is, there’s nothing obvious down there.”
“Which leaves us with what?”
“As I said, I don’t know, but I’d recommend we prepare to land in New York without benefit of the radios.”
“Rather obvious conclusion, since they aren�
�t working,” Jerry sniffed, aware he was pushing Horneman, and equally aware the copilot was purposefully taking the digs without pushing back. “Okay, Dan, here’s a procedural question for you. Since we’ve got a big problem, do you think we’re honor bound to wake up the asshole?”
“Breem?”
“Who else?”
“Jerry, this probably isn’t the book answer, but don’t we have enough trouble as it is?”
Jerry Tollefson nodded aggressively, the hint of a smile on his face as he glanced over. “Probably the first thing we’ve agreed on all evening.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mojave Aircraft Storage, Mojave, California (2:00 p.m. PST / 2200 Zulu)
As the owner of Mojave Aircraft Storage, Ron Barrett was already profoundly frightened by the possible liability of turning over a $200 million jet to the wrong people, but the fact that the principles of the mysterious Colorado Springs leasing company had responded to the news by immediately flying their private jet to Mojave made him even more nervous.
Within minutes of arrival, Ron and Jaime Lopez were climbing aboard the Gulfstream and taking the proffered seats across from the CEO of Air Lease Solutions, a distinguished looking man in his fifties identified as Paul Wriggle. Wriggle’s two corporate assistants, Sharon Wallace and Don Danniher, were also introduced but stood quietly aside.
Paul Wriggle seemed the perfect physical specimen of a buttoned down, serenely confident corporate leader, Ron thought—all the attributes he wished he had. Trim, athletic, chiseled features, and sharply dressed in a monogramed shirt complete with cuff links, Wriggle was obviously a man in complete control, and if not wealthy, then at least well off.
Wriggle outlined the basic facts surrounding their missing, misdelivered Airbus A330 and the need to solve the problem as quickly and amicably as possible. “We recognize this was an honest mistake, gentlemen. It’s fixing it quickly that’s important. What we need to know right now is where our airplane is at this moment, when we can get her back, and what are the model characteristics of the one you should have sent to Pangia Airways?”
“Sorry … why do you need to know about Pangia’s?” Ron Barrett asked, regretting the challenge immediately. “I mean … certainly we’ll give you everything we’ve got in terms of info, but … I guess I’m not following the logic.”
Wriggle leaned forward. “Well, if the two aircraft are essentially identical in equipment, configuration, engine type, and flight hours, we might as well just call up Pangia and propose an even swap.”
“Just like that?”
“Simple solution, don’t you think? You know any reason to suspect the A330 that’s sitting out there right now is any different? You already said it was three serial numbers different from ours?”
“No reason” Ron replied, feeling the proximity of potential deliverance.
“So, a quick solution would be to have our pilots take Pangia’s bird back to Colorado Springs with us today, and we’ll just take care of the rest.”
Ron Barrett knew he must have a confused look on his face, but two new concepts had flashed by and he was having trouble keeping up.
“You … have two more pilots aboard here somewhere?”
“No … my guys up front are A330 qualified.”
“But … how do you …”
“Get this aircraft back?” He gestured to Don Danniher. “Don and I are Gulfstream IV type rated. We’ll fly this ship back. Is Pangia’s A330 ready to fly, by the way?”
“Ron looked at Jaime who was nodding. “We went ahead and de-pickled her just in case. We just need a fuel order.”
“Excellent.”
“But, excuse me, Mr. Wriggle,” Jaime Lopez continued. “We’re legally responsible for Pangia’s aircraft and they’d have to release her formally and with the appropriate paperwork before we could, ah …”
“Let us fly away? Understood. So happens Pangia’s CEO is a good friend of mine, and I have no doubt we can work a deal in a matter of minutes to accept the aircraft pending resolution of the problem.”
“We would need signed paperwork, sir,” Jaime continued.
“We can do that electronically,” Wriggle shifted around to catch his assistant’s eye. “Can’t we, Sharon?”
“Yes, sir.”
Something about the crispness of the reply caught Ron Barrett’s attention. In fact, he thought, this entire team had an almost military sharpness about them, and their professional deference to their boss was startlingly sharp, like electricity crackling through the air.
Wriggle had pulled out an old model flip phone and was tossing it to his assistant, who caught it deftly.
“Sharon? Find Rick Hastings’s number on my list there and get him on the line post haste. Tell him what we need.” Wriggle turned back to Ron. “As you probably know, Rick Hastings is Pangia’s CEO.”
“Right,” Ron replied, having had virtually no idea who filled that role.
The woman named Sharon moved toward the back of the Gulfstream’s cabin as she worked with the keypad on his phone.
“Mr. Wriggle, may I ask …” Ron began. “Are you guys CIA?”
The partial explosion of a belly laugh from their host caught even Wriggle’s staff off guard, although they briefly laughed as well.
“Nothing … whoa …” Paul Wriggle said, wiping his eyes, “… nothing so dramatic, Ron. Oh that’s funny!”
“Sorry, I …”
“No, no, no, that’s fine! It’s just a hoot for me to ever think of myself as involved in the intelligence community. No, you see, you correctly discerned that we’re not your average aviation lease company, but since I’m sure you’ve discovered that we just have one A330, which would be unusual, it would be logical to ask what the heck we’re up to. So I’ll tell you, in the strictest confidence. In a nutshell, we’re working on a special government project to provide and maintain a clandestine alternate to Air Force One.”
“Really?”
“Really. Which is why I have to impress on you the extreme need to treat anything and everything you know or think you know regarding our missing A330 as the equivalent of a top military secret.”
“We … can certainly keep quiet,” Ron managed.
“No, it’s more profoundly important than that. We have to make sure that we thoroughly understand each other on this, Ron. You’ve created some heavyweight liability for yourselves, so aside from just appealing to your patriotism, which I don’t question, we’ve also more or less got you by the short hairs legally. As long as you agree to keep this as an unbreakable top secret, we will agree not to sue you into penury and destroy your business. Sound like the makings of a deal?”
Ron was nodding as he watched Jaime doing the same thing. He returned his focus to Wriggle. “I … yes, that’s a deal.”
“Good. I’ve got some paperwork to give it teeth, but I didn’t anticipate a problem getting you to understand. Break the promise of absolute silence for any reason, we come after you with all guns blazing, and, as you realize, you have no defense.”
“Mr. Wriggle, why is your airplane so special, or different, that this kind of secrecy is needed?” Ron asked. “Has it already been modified?”
“It was going to be extensively modified, but we were just in the design stages, which is why we just needed a place to park it for now. Frankly, it was too conspicuous around the Colorado Springs airport where we were keeping it, so we chose your facility because it could blend in with the other A330s … which it, of course, did all too well. No, it’s a garden variety A330.”
“So … I guess I shouldn’t ask this but … you’re a private company working for the air force unit that flies the president?”
Sharon had moved slightly closer, still standing, as if anticipating something, but Ron’s attention was on Wriggle’s hand as he pulled a small leather case from a back pocket and opened it to reveal a gold badge.
“What’s that?” Ron asked.
“This company is a private corporation, Ron
. I, however, am also a component of the United States Secret Service, and this company is working under a Secret Service contract. We protect the president, and we go to great lengths to make sure that the bad guys can’t get close to him. Sometimes we even waste immense amounts of fuel flying Air Force One around empty while the president flies in a nondescript plane. So, you can see why we’d be working on an alternate flying White House that, among other things, couldn’t possibly be used by the president because it’s a French-built jet. One that never sees Andrews Air Force Base. One that’s not painted like Air Force One.”
Sharon Wallace had moved to Paul Wriggle’s side and leaned over to whisper something to him. The CEO nodded and turned back to Ron Barrett.
“Okay, Pangia wants to just fly the airplane back to us and get theirs. It’s in Tulsa at their maintenance base and hasn’t been placed into service yet, so no problem. They’re sending the approval right now to release their bird to us. You’re printing it, Sharon?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So that should be it.”
The remainder of the transaction had taken less than twenty minutes, and despite Jaime Lopez’s reluctance to sign the multiple-page agreement without a thorough vetting and some legal research, Ron Barrett was determined to get ink on paper and one additional A330 in the air. It seemed an agonizing eternity watching the pilots preflight the Airbus while Wriggle and associates departed in the Gulfstream, but at last the big Airbus lifted into the desert sky to Ron Barrett’s audible relief, and Jaime Lopez’s consternation.
Jaime had taken Ron by the arm as they waited. “It’s not just us, you understand. This agreement muzzles everyone in our employ. We can’t even tell our people why they have to stay silent, just ‘Shut the hell up!’”
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