Dan was nodding as Jerry punched off the PA. “Well, done, Jerry. Tough job well done.”
A genuine flash of appreciation crossed the captain’s face like the momentary flare of a candle on a dark night, and at the same moment the cockpit door burst open. Captain Bill Breem, his face almost purple with apparent anger, stood in the doorway, his voice loud enough to be heard in first class.
“WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON UP HERE?”
Jerry half turned in his seat and smiled as disingenuously as possible.
“And a good evening to you, too, Bill!”
First class cabin, Pangia 10 (2255 Zulu)
The passenger call light had brought Carol routinely to the side of a fashionably unshaven male in his forties who looked up and motioned her closer.
“Ma’am, could I talk to you, perhaps in the galley?”
“You have a cell phone or radio, sir?”
“Well … yes, but it doesn’t work. I …”
“Right now I need to deal with an airplane full of call lights,” she said, strain showing clearly on her face.
“Yes, but … I need to … to report something the pilots may need to know.”
“Report what?”
He glanced at the seat row ahead, noting the teenage boy who had partially closed the lid of his laptop, but the glow of an aircraft instrument panel could still be seen on the screen.
“Ah … in private, when you can … please,” his cultured British accent easy on her ears.
She nodded, not unkindly. “Follow me, please.”
The man scrambled out of the aisle seat, unnoticed by the woman in the adjacent window seat still too absorbed in her book to notice, and followed Carol forward to the galley where she had him step inside the curtains.
“Okay, tell me.”
“The pilot said he’s having trouble with the autoflight system. I … believe I may possess a clue as to why.”
“Go ahead.”
“I believe the young chap sitting ahead of me in 3B is fooling around with the controls of this airplane.”
“Excuse me? How?”
“He’s a computer hacker, and he’s trying to impress the girl next to him. He’s been manipulating programs for the past hour. I know computers. He’s up to no good.”
The look on Carol’s face told it all: She didn’t believe a word of it. Worse, she didn’t think it possible.
“I’ll tell the captain, sir. Please go back to your seat now, and thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome, but you do understand I’m dead serious?”
“I understand.” He felt her hand on his arm, propelling him gently but with unmistakable firmness back into the aisle and to his seat.
But she didn’t go straight to the cockpit, he noticed. Instead, she went aft and returned with a bag of collected cell phones first, disappearing then into the cockpit. Surely now she would inform the captain, he thought.
He studied the scene one row ahead, the shoulder-length blonde mane of the girl in 3A falling to the left of her seat against the window, sound asleep, the kid leering at her now without subterfuge, his eyes all over her as she slept. He sat with his partially closed laptop showing that same cockpit view. Whatever he’d prepared on that screen to impress her, he obviously wasn’t going to change anything until she awoke.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CIA, Langley, Virginia (6:00 p.m. EST / 2300 Zulu)
CIA Deputy Director Walter Randolph surveyed the packed conference room and said a simple “good evening” as he sat at the head of the table. Thirteen earnest faces now turned to him, their papers, tablet computers, and note pads at the ready.
“Very well, folks. As my able assistant Mr. Duke has, I’m sure, briefed you, we have a winged problem that may just be boomeranging back to Tel Aviv. At least we hope whoever is controlling Pangia Flight 10 intends it to go no further than Tel Aviv. We know Mr. Lavi is aboard with his handler, and in the case of Miss Ashira, the word “handler” is a bit of a double entendre. I do not know where our uniformed DIA rivals at the Pentagon may be on this. Further, at the director’s insistence, I am to meet him at the White House Situation Room in thirty minutes. So, speak to me, starting with the flight dynamics.”
Randolph planted his elbows on the polished table and supported his aging face, letting his eyes bracket whoever was speaking. Full attention mode, he called it, but in fact he was listening on a secondary level as well for something that didn’t quite mesh, some fact that seemed incongruous. Sometimes fifteen minutes later a tiny snag would surface from his subconscious gray matter, and often, too often, it was a missing piece of the puzzle.
The facts came hot and heavy: The aircraft was on the same heading as if it were bore sighted on Tel Aviv; the French fighter pilots were reporting Pangia pilot attempts to communicate visually but no luck with handwritten signs in the windows; Pangia World Airways was clueless about a potential cause and they suspected a hijack; and the Airbus was streaking toward an already upset Switzerland whose leaders perceived there might be a military issue with this rogue flight, of which they, being a neutral nation, would want no part.
Walter raised a hand to stop the briefing suddenly. “Whoa. Several statements back … Charmaine, was it you reporting on the passengers and cargo?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you said in addition to the normal baggage there was what? Cargo?”
She nodded. “One cargo storage igloo. We don’t have the manifest.”
“Can’t we get it? After all, we’re the CIA.”
“We’re working on it, sir.”
“Good. Random bags are one thing, but a cargo container containing unknown cargo and coming out of Israel with Moishe Lavi on board has me a bit more than concerned. Do we suspect something explosive?”
Several heads were shaking no. “No, sir. At least given the neutron backscatter equipment always used at Ben Gurion, nothing nuclear.”
“But we all understand, do we not …” Randolph continued, visually polling the faces around the table, “… that if the Iranians get interested, they won’t buy that assurance for a moment? And, we have no assurance that a Lavi sympathizer isn’t running the neutron backscatter detector array at Ben Gurion.”
The sound of the conference room door opening a bit too aggressively caused everyone to look toward the intruder. A woman Walter Randolph didn’t recognize but sporting the requisite CIA badge moved immediately in his direction, her face a mask of seriousness as she handed him a folded note written on the stationery of the director. Walter studied the note and nodded at her. “In five minutes,” he said quietly, pocketing the note as he forced his protesting body to its feet.
“Well, as expected, the head of Israeli intelligence is requesting an urgent conference with our director, and I have the honor of delivering an emergency briefing so our esteemed leader isn’t blindsided. He already knows the basics, but this will be a high-wire act. Send me a runner with anything new you may get in the next ten minutes, and I want everyone coordinating on a multi-pronged assessment of every possible outcome you can envision. Including ones involving nuclear detonations.”
The deputy director moved quickly out of the room, acutely aware of the deathly silence behind him.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Cockpit, Pangia 10 (2300 Zulu)
There was no place Dan knew of for a truly private conversation between crew members except for the crew rest facility, but that was over 150 feet aft. There was also no avoiding the reality that someone had to get Bill Breem under control, and that someone was him.
Asking Breem’s first officer, Tom Wilson, to temporarily replace Dan in the copilot’s seat had been the first step, and Breem hadn’t even noticed. Dan stood and faced the angry captain, all but physically pulling him away from the running verbal gun battle with Jerry Tollefson, who was not about to surrender control.
“Captain Breem, may I have a word with you in private?” Dan asked, his voice deep, calm, and as steady a
s he could manage.
“Not now!”
“Yes, sir. Now. Right now. Please follow me out of the cockpit.”
“Who the hell are you …” Breem started.
“Legally, sir, I am the second in command of this aircraft, and I’m asking you as a fellow professional to follow me outside to the galley for a private conversation, and this request is on the record.”
“On the record?” Breem snorted. “What are you now, a fucking lawyer?”
Dan pointed at the ceiling. “No, Captain, but you and I are being recorded by the cockpit voice recorder, there’s a tiny microphone right over our heads, and that will not be the case in the forward galley. What I have to discuss with you is probably best left off the record.”
Breem hesitated, uncertainty fighting anger as he glanced upward and gave in with a nod.
“This better be good, son.”
“Jerry? Tom’s got the right seat. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Jerry Tollefson had been on the verge of exploding, but he nodded now without a word, and Dan stepped out of the cockpit and waited for Breem to follow. They moved silently into the forward galley, where Dan asked Carol to step out for a few minutes.
“So what do you want?” Breem asked, his voice reasonably low but his eyes betraying alarm.
“Captain, I have to tell you that I recently attended a training course in Chicago where this very issue of emergency command was discussed. One of the company lawyers came in along with our union counsel, and they confirmed … and I am confirming to you … that the company rule Captain Tollefson was citing to you a minute ago absolutely governs.”
“I’m the senior captain!”
“Yes, sir, you are the senior captain in terms of experience and rank and even seniority number, but you were not the pilot in command, the flight captain, when this emergency began, and therefore the man who was in that position, Captain Tollefson, is the captain of this ship for the duration of the emergency.”
“Screw that. I’m relieving him.”
“Sir, you cannot legally do that unless you are a check captain relieving him for cause, and you are not a check captain, and there is no cause. Therefore, any attempt to pull him out of that seat is legally somewhere between an attempted hijacking and a felonious mutiny, a federal crime in any event, and I, Captain, will be a witness against you, if you attempt it. At the very least you would end up losing your position, and maybe your job, and, possibly, your freedom.”
A lifetime of practice in the art of derision and arrogance had taught Bill Breem how to back down without appearing to give in, and he used his skills now by smiling a snarly smile and glancing away momentarily, as if confronted by fools.
“I am well aware that if Tollefson wants to hold onto command he legally can, and if we survive this, I’m also aware that his refusal to let go will end his career, and you, sonny, can be a witness any way you want.”
“As long as you understand that he is in command. We need your help, not more struggles over who’s in charge.”
“Kid, I was a fucking international captain when you were still wetting the bed! I don’t need a lecture from the likes of you.”
“I certainly hope not, sir, but as of a few moments ago you definitely did.”“Yeah, whatever.”
“Captain, look. I’ve addressed you with courtesy and used your rank each time, and I would appreciate some corresponding recognition that my name is First Officer Dan Horneman, not ‘sonny.’”
Seemingly for the first time, Breem actually looked at Dan, sensing that the wisest course might be to shift gears.
“All right, point taken. Dan, is it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to be so tough on you, Dan, but this is really aggravating to be rousted out of a deep sleep long after a problem develops on my … on this flight … and then hear about it on a frickin’ PA while I’m walking to the cockpit. Very embarrassing.”
“Understood. But we need your help working this out.”
“Okay, then tell me in as much detail as possible what’s going on.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Cockpit, Pangia 10 (2310 Zulu)
Bill Breem had been on his own down in the electronics bay for the past five minutes trying to figure out what was happening, while Dan had climbed out to look for a more detailed electrical diagram. But when he returned to the cockpit, a brief exchange with Jerry was all it took to convince Dan that Captain Tollefson was losing it, and the implications were seriously worrying his copilot.
Tom Wilson had also left the cockpit for a few minutes, and Dan seized the opportunity to sit back down in the right seat, looking at Jerry.
“What’s going on?” Dan probed.
Jerry was all but hyperventilating as he held up and shook the latest cell phone he’d tested.
“Nothing, Dan! Not a goddamned thing! We might as well tape notes to rocks and drop them!”
“Jerry … take a deep breath,” Dan said, startled at the beet red color of the captain’s face, and worried that Breem would pop up from the E and E compartment below like an opportunistic meerkat and renew the “who’s in charge” debate.
The captain looked back as if his copilot was yet a new distraction he couldn’t comprehend.
“Excuse me? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
“You need to know who’s your ally, and that’s me. I’m talking to the captain of this ship. I just chewed on Breem to make sure you stay the captain of this ship! And I’m doing what any good first officer would do, offer my best professional advice.”
Jerry’s eyes had flared as he leaned forward over the center console, his index finger in motion as if pointing a gun at the copilot, his voice almost in a hiss.
“Listen, Danny, when I need someone to wet nurse my attitude, I’ll …”
“You’ll do what?” Dan interrupted with equal force. “You’ll license me to speak if it pleases your highness? Giving you tough advice is what teamwork is all about, Jerry—as you well know. You taught crew resource management, remember?”
“I don’t need to be insulted.”
“I’m not insulting you, Jerry. Jesus, is everyone here so thin skinned? I’m merely suggesting that the situation is momentarily overwhelming you the same as it is me, and we both need to take a deep breath.”
Jerry snorted as he shot an acid look at the copilot.
“Why?”
“Because you’re worrying me, okay?”
“How? How am I worrying you? Aren’t you worried? Jesus, man, we can’t get control of this jet and …”
“JERRY! Listen to me! You wrap yourself around the axle like this and you could have a stroke or heart attack, and I can’t solve this dilemma alone. Okay? Mark it off to enlightened self-interest. Calm down, Captain, sir! We need calm, cool leadership! Steel nerves, like when you were flying Tomcats in the navy. That’s a challenge I can’t even imagine.”
“What? Calming down?”
“No, hitting a pitching postage stamp of a flight deck on a ship at 150 knots in a massive fighter and living to tell about it!”
“Oh.”
At last a sigh, Dan noted, as the captain slowly nodded and said, “Yeah … okay. You’re right. Sorry.”
“May I make another suggestion about the situation?”
“Yes, you may! I don’t have a clue where we go from here.”
“Okay, we’ve only tried a few of the phones. Let’s get the cockpit door back open and get Carol and Tom and maybe one other of her crew up here to start working their way through the rest of this bag of phones until someone maybe makes contact with someone on the ground. Meanwhile, if you’ll strap in, I’ll go back down to the electronics bay and see if Breem has any new ideas, and if we can figure something out.”
“Why should I strap in, Dan?” Jerry snapped suddenly, as if a wave of resentment had suddenly washed over him. “We have absolutely no control over anything up here,” he added, ringing the call butto
n for the flight attendants.
“What if the bird suddenly reverts to manual law and pitches over violently and you’re caught unprepared sitting sideways while I’m off the flight deck?”
Jerry looked up and stared at his first officer for a few seconds as if seeing him anew, the flash of anger diminished as he nodded.
“Okay, Dan. All right. I get that.” He turned back toward the front panel and fumbled with his seatbelt before motoring the captain’s chair forward on its rails. The call chime sounded, and Dan lifted the handset to approve Carol’s reentry, punching the overhead release button simultaneously.
“How can that help, having you go back downstairs, except to keep an eye on Breem?” Jerry asked, as Carol came through the door.
“Remember when we lost the radios and thought we were still flying west, and I went below and reported back that this was a nonstandard configuration?”
“Yes.”
“Jerry, there’s a whole part of the compartment down there filled with a cabinet of some sort I’ve never seen before on a 330. I didn’t try to open it, but since something has electronically locked us out of our own controls, maybe it’s something to do with that cabinet. I need to look at it again.”
“Right.”
“Gentlemen, what can I do?” Carol asked, her voice filled with tension, as she eyed the bag of phones and the fact that neither pilot was yet using one.
Dan quickly explained the assignment and she turned to recruit one of the other flight attendants waiting just outside. She reached for the door to close it, and Dan caught her hand.
“Leave it open, Carol,” Dan said. “We can’t even control the aircraft. I’m not particularly worried about anyone else trying. You agree, Jerry?”
The captain nodded, his thoughts elsewhere, as he tried once more to click off the autoflight system, to no avail.
Lockout Page 10
