Still thrown to the left, Dan turned to reinsert the cube as they hit some sort of turbulence just enough to knock the relay from his hand. He heard it clatter and skitter to the bottom of the cabinet and knew there was too little time to chase it down. He could hear Jerry’s voice clearly through the hatch yelling to restore whatever he’d changed.
The relays all appeared to be identical, and he made a split second decision and grabbed for one off to the right side of the row of cubes, pulling it out and shoving it in place of the first one he’d removed.
And suddenly the severe sideslip stopped, the Airbus returning to coordinated flight, whether in a bank still or not, he couldn’t tell.
“What’s happening?” he yelled at Carol, whose terrified face could be seen through the hatch.
“Jerry says we’re still turning left, but we’re not slipping,” she shouted.
Dan got to his knees and shone the small flashlight at the bottom of the cabinet, being careful not to touch his face to the frame. He spotted the loose relay and gave chase, sticking his arm perilously into a maze of equipment and finally closing his hand around the precious little cube, then scrambling to his feet to plug it back in place of the substitute he’d removed.
“He says the turn is continuing,” Carol yelled. Dan pushed past Frank, motioning for him to stay in place, and climbed the ladder far enough to hear Jerry directly.
“What’s happening, Jerry?”
“Man, don’t do whatever that was again, please! I thought we were going to go inverted!”
“Are we wings level now?’
“No. We’ve turned around almost 270 degrees and are still turning left. Wait … from the horizon it looks like the bank is lessening and the whiskey compass says we’re coming back to the original course.”
“We just did a 360?” Dan asked.
“Apparently. Did you put everything back?”
“Yes. For the moment.”
“I don’t know, Dan. I don’t want to experience that ride again.”
“I need to keep experimenting, Jerry.”
“Well, whatever just happened, this thing has been commanded to return to the original course.”
Dan scrambled out of the hatch and stood at Jerry’s side to eliminate the need for yelling back and forth.
“You think that’s what’s happening? Someone’s actively controlling us?” Dan asked.
“It’s possible. It was weird. The slip stopped, the wings leveled, and then it started turning again to get back to course. Are there any antenna leads down there that might be feeding it commands from a satellite? Can we disconnect them if there are?”
“I hadn’t looked, but there might be.”
Once more, Dan descended the ladder back to the electronics bay, where Frank Erlichman was waiting with a pleading look betraying any attempt to project calm.
“Jerry raised the issue of whether someone’s fighting us move for move,” Dan explained.
“Similar to what would be used to fly a remotely piloted vehicle. I think they call them a drone?”
Dan nodded, as he crouched by the ladder and let his eyes run over the mysterious cabinet.
“Yes. Like a remotely piloted vehicle, an RPV, or these days we call it a UAS, unmanned aircraft system. If that was so, maybe we could disconnect the telemetry antenna and block any further orders from coming in.”
“But what if the relays did not unlatch?”
“Yeah, I know. We disconnect the active control from the ground, but we still can’t regain cockpit control.”
“For there to be active control or just a signal which turned this thing on, there would need to be a satellite connection, and I found a lead in the big cabinet labeled satcom.” Frank pointed aft and Dan followed, as he moved to the open cabinet, looking for the thick wire he had seen.
“I see it. And … there appears to be a cannon plug. Okay, help me with this logic. If this cabinet activated and took away our control in flight, it either did so by some freak accident … in other words turned itself on … or it received a radio signal. If I was going to go to all the trouble and expense of engineering this thing in the airplane to seize control from the flight crew, I wouldn’t depend on VHF radios or anything with limited range. I’d use a satellite link, separate from the passenger system or our cockpit satcom with the company.”
Frank was nodding. “And you think if the antenna lead here is disconnected, it might let go of us, whether we’re being actively controlled or not?”
“I don’t think we’re fighting a live person, Frank. Jerry up there nailed it a while ago, I think, when he said we haven’t changed heading once since this all started. How could that be active control?”
“That is logical,” Frank replied, watching Dan think it over, his eyes glued to the satcom antenna lead.
“Frank, I think we have to disconnect the satellite antenna, at least for a while. If we are under active control, and we don’t disconnect, and we keep turning off different systems, like we’ve already done with the throttles, whoever’s at the remote controls will try to compensate somehow. But if we deprive it of the basic satellite connection …” Dan’s voice trailed off.
Frank Erlichman nodded solemnly. “I see two possibilities. If we disconnect the antenna lead and nothing happens, I would think that proves we were probably not under someone’s active control. That doesn’t mean the satcom couldn’t have been the means of someone on the ground programming us previously. Second, if we disconnect the satcom and this cabinet unlatches and returns control, it proves we were under active control and now we’re free.”
“I think I followed all that, but the bottom line is, we’ve got to try to disconnect. Could you hand me those gloves?”
The cannon plug connector for the satcom antenna was easy to reach, and Dan looked up to find Carol once again in position, leaning down through the hatch as he held onto the lead.
“Tell Jerry I’m ready to disconnect this antenna, but if we’re under someone’s active control, like a remotely piloted vehicle, this could be a big risk.”
She disappeared for a few moments then reappeared, nodding essentially upside down as she stuck her head down far enough to be heard.
“Dan, he says we need to take the risk. Be ready to reconnect it if something bad happens, but go ahead and disconnect now.”
“Okay.” He glanced at his watch, which was showing exactly 0252 Zulu.
Building 4-104, Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado Springs (0252 Zulu)
Colonel Dana Baumgartner yanked the phone to his ear on the first ring. The discovery of what appeared to be both the lock and unlock codes in Gail Hunt’s classified office safe had precipitated a mad scramble to upload the unlock sequence and open the fiber optic channel to NSA’s computers, a process that required a maddeningly lengthy series of steps that had taken the better part of an hour. No way, Dana thought, could anyone have accidentally triggered that satellite array. Sabotage was the only answer.
“The unlock code is just about to go up, sir, on your order.”
“Do it! Now! Are you sure it’s the right sequence?”
There was a telling hesitation. “No, sir, we’re not. It’s our best guess, based on Gail’s notes.”
“Had she changed the numbers before?”
“Yes. Often. For security.”
“Blast the disconnect code out there, and let’s hope it’s the right one.”
“Yes sir. Transmission in sixty seconds, and we think we now have the Med covered.”
Aboard Pangia Flight 10 (0254 Zulu)
Dan held the two halves of the connector and hesitated, wondering whether there was any other aspect he hadn’t considered.
A fleeting memory of an impromptu lecture he had once given to his employees in the early days of his company came out of nowhere, an admonition for them to listen to intuition, but he couldn’t tell whether it was intuition or the shock of the aircraft’s earlier reaction to the pulled relay that was staying
his hand.
Is there any reason I can think of why we’d want to maintain this connection? Somewhere there seemed to be an answer to that question, but he couldn’t get his mind around it, whatever it was. Something was definitely tugging at him, yet the logic was inescapable: If someone was controlling them from below, this would solve the problem!
Dan took a deep breath and pulled the two halves apart, totally isolating the satcom receiver.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Andrews Air Force Base, Maryland (10:20 p.m. EST / 0320 Zulu)
Essentially, Lieutenant Colonel Don Danniher realized, he was flying the instrument approach solo.
A cold drizzle made the landing at Andrews a bit more challenging than he had expected, and the presence of a totally preoccupied general in the left seat hadn’t made it any easier. Not that he minded, necessarily. He was well aware of the high stakes and the dilemma that had his boss wholly distracted and tied in knots.
The staff car Sharon Wallace had ordered for the general had pulled up moments after they’d braked to a halt on the transient ramp, but the destination General Wriggle was going to give the driver was one of the bits of information Don assumed neither he nor Sharon Wallace had any immediate need to know.
Paul Wriggle threw off his shoulder straps and seatbelt and disappeared wordlessly into the jet’s main cabin to change into his air force uniform. Sharon had already descended the Gulfstream’s stairs to tell the driver the general would be a few minutes in coming. She returned to the jet then, standing in the entry space behind the cockpit as Don emerged.
“How are you doing?” he asked, knowing well the question had more depth than the words alone would indicate.
She responded with a strained smile, glancing at the closed entry door to the cabin. “I’d feel a lot better if I knew Pangia was talking to their pilots with code in hand, so to speak.”
Don Danniher nodded. “I agree.”
“Can you talk to him?”
“He knows, Sharon.”
“Of course he does, but … time is critical here. This feels like brinksmanship.”
“You know what our legal constraints are on revealing any aspect of this program.”
“Yes. I signed the same papers. Don, talk to him. Please!”
Danniher nodded and opened the cabin door, closing it behind him and slipping into a seat across from where the general was adjusting his tie.
“Don …”
“Sir?”
Paul Wriggle turned to look at his copilot, then pursed his lips and shook his head, deciding not to voice whatever he had been thinking, then changed his mind again and turned back.
“Check my math. That jet … our jet … has an hour and a half to go before reaching Tel Aviv.”
Danniher checked his watch and nodded. “That’s correct, as of the last position we had.”
“How long have we been blasting the disconnect code?”
“The first transmission was at 0252 Zulu, about thirty minutes ago, with no answering transmission. We did trigger transmitters covering the Mediterranean, though.”
“And we have the code now they can punch in manually, right?”
“Well … same caveat as before … it’s what they found in Gail Hunt’s notes. If there isn’t a subsequent change, then that’s it. Sharon put it on your iPad and in your briefcase, with full instructions.”
“And we don’t know whether anyone has direct radio or satellite contact with them? Right? Some way we could verbally pass the code and how to enter it?”
“No sir.” Don shifted forward in the swivel chair. “And, sir, I know we discussed the fact that if we call Pangia directly to find out, they’re not only going to want to know who’s asking, but we may tip off every intelligence service listening to such a call, but …”
“That’s right. That’s why we’re here in DC.”
“Sir?”
“Don’t ask,” Wriggle said, pulling on his tunic and turning. “While I’m gone, fuel us up and get on the secure line back to Dana and the team, and call me the instant they get a confirming response from the jet … if they do.”
“Yes, sir. But in regard to Pangia?”
“I’ve got their CEO’s personal cell number, Don.”
“Yes, sir, but about the possibility of direct contact with the aircraft, I think …”
“No calls to their Command Center yet, okay? But if you discover through any safe channel that the pilots are talking to someone on the ground … a line we can get to, even a VHF radio to one of the air traffic control facilities … let me know immediately and get all the information necessary to pass up to them.”
He could see the troubled look on Danniher’s face.
“What, Don?”
“Begging the general’s pardon, sir, but may I speak very frankly?”
“You always have that authority. Go ahead.”
“Sir, I know the stakes for us are critical, but I don’t think we have the moral right to wait another minute if there’s any way to get hold of that crew. We don’t know whether our broadcasts will work or not, and …”
“I understand that, Don.”
“But, General, every minute that passes that that crew has no control is another rise in international tension, and maybe even brinkmanship. I seriously urge you to make the call to Pangia right now. Sir.”
Paul Wriggle sighed heavily and studied his shoes for a few moments before meeting his executive officer’s eyes again.
“Don, I don’t have time to explain my full reasoning for delaying.”
“My job is to point out …”
“Yes!” Paul replied, pointing his finger in an affirming gesture. “Yes, it is. And it is also your job to trust that your commander knows what he’s doing.”
I wish I could trust your decision not to warn the aircraft, Don thought to himself, forcing a nod.
Wriggle studied his eyes for a second. “Answered without enthusiasm, I see, but the orders stand. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Paul Wriggle slipped into the back seat of the nondescript town car and passed his destination to the master sergeant at the wheel of the staff car after asking his name and security clearance.
“Should I put the star flag on the front, General?”
“No, but thanks for asking. We want to keep this low key.”
“Yes, sir.”
He pulled out his cell phone and entered the required password before paging down to the phone number he was looking for. The line was answered on the second ring, and he gave his name and rank and an identifying digital “signature” code, waiting impatiently for the individual on the other end to acknowledge.
“We have you and the applicable protocols logged in, sir. How may I assist?”
“I will be at the west entrance in fifteen minutes. I need immediate access to my reporting authority. Highest priority code.”
“You’re certain, sir? Highest code? This is a busy evening.”
“Yes. I’m sorry, but absolutely yes. On my authority and accountability.”
“Yes, sir. Understood. An escort will be waiting.”
He punched in a fast dial number then and waited until Colonel Baumgartner had come on the line back in Colorado Springs.
“What have you got, Dana?”
“A mixed bag, Paul. We haven’t located Gail Hunt yet, but we got into her credit card account and found her last charge was for gasoline in Lyons, Colorado, which is a gateway to Estes Park.”
“Nothing beyond that?”
“Nothing. Also, we’ve been blasting the unlock sequence on every network link we have, but we’re getting no answering response, and just a minute before you called, I got the word that our conduit has shut down.”
“Translate that, please.”
“We … transmit the signal to an intermediate location that I think you know, and they boost it on an uplink, and from there it networks out. That primary server has been turned off, or at least is sud
denly refusing our signal.”
“Any ideas why?”
“Yes, sir. A few. None of them good. And at least one involves a project compromise.”
“Okay. Keep trying. Dana, were any of us thinking that Gail had something to do with the aircraft switch?”
“I’d hate to think that, but she’s the key, and without her, we don’t even have a clue whether the codes we’ve been blasting are correct. Where the hell is she, you know? Disappearing the very day our airplane is pulled out of the desert doesn’t sit well with me.”
“On the outside chance that … well, she’s involved, try sending a picture of her to Ron Barrett, the owner of Mojave Aircraft … no, on second thought, don’t.”
“You mentioned Mojave … and that’s becoming strange. We had a call from Ron Barrett for you, and he was about a millimeter from hysterical. He said two federal officers from the Transportation Security Administration had shown up there this afternoon to grill him and his lawyer, and the agents reportedly told Barrett that his employee … the one who made the mistake with our machine … was using an alias and now can’t be found.”
“TSA? What the hell would they …”
“Obviously not TSA.”
“Oh. Of course. The Company?”
“CIA, yes.”
“More likely DIA.”
“No, Paul, it makes sense. One of our friendlies in the Beltway tipped me off an hour ago that Langley was kicking over trash cans looking for explanations, and supposedly the Situation Room has been lit up for this.”
Lockout Page 21
