Lockout

by John J. Nance

  “Dammit!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hastings doesn’t have to keep quiet.”

  “I couldn’t wait.”

  “I can see that. That briefing I just received makes me think there’s a high possibility Lavi is behind this. Of course, our spooks down there think your outfit may be a front for Lavi.”

  “Well, you certainly know better, Mr. President.”

  “Yes, I do. But a black project has to stay invisible, and we just dropped the cloak. By the way, have you ever heard of a William Piper?”

  “No, sir. Why?”

  “He’s the guy who apparently sent the wrong airplane to Pangia … your airplane.”

  “He’s the one working for Mojave Aircraft?”

  “So I’m told. I don’t know whether they’re sure of this, but if it is the guy the CIA thinks it is, he’s a former Mossad operative.”

  “Oh, dear God! I only just found out from my team on the way here that Lavi’s on board. I … we have no idea how anyone could have known about our aircraft, let alone where it was. I guess it is possible that we could have run afoul of a clandestine operation. One of our key people has gone missing, a lady named Gail Hunt, and she’s the one developing the lock and unlock codes.”

  “One of DIA’s men has gone missing as well here in DC, just since this morning.”

  “Really?”

  “Paul, what do we need to do right this moment to get those people out of danger?”

  Paul Wriggle sighed and shook his head. “I honestly can’t think of anything we’re not doing, especially after my call to Hastings. Undoubtedly he’ll try to get that code to his crew.”

  The president was up and pacing in front of the large desk.

  “What if I order NSA to use everything they’ve got to help get a signal out?”

  “That could help. We don’t have much time, but if they could trigger a broadcast on a transponder that we haven’t been using that covers the Med, it could work.”

  The President yanked up the phone and ordered the call. When finished, he turned back to Paul Wriggle.

  “The Company thinks NSA itself may have been co-opted and at least someone there is working for Lavi. Any chance they could be right?”

  “I … have no way of knowing. During normal tests, we send the activation signal …”

  “The one that causes the aircraft to lockout the cockpit?”

  “Yes. If there was an airborne aircraft with the system operational, we would send that signal to NSA by fiber optics and they broadcast it automatically worldwide. It’s very hard to detect … we built the network carefully. All the pathways and protocols were set up to use without human intervention from their end. Like an open channel we could trigger at will. Someone at NSA probably caught wind of that and knowing nothing about the project, assumed a breach.

  The president was nodding. “Somehow DIA was alerted to your signals and got suspicious.”

  “Mr. President, whatever signal activated the aircraft systems, it did not come from us. At least, not volitionally.”

  “Which brings us right back to the possibility that our Israeli friend could be behind this, which means Moishe Lavi has the upper hand.” The president sighed deeply, his eyes studying the carpet.

  “What can I do, Mr. President, considering that hara-kiri is not part of our culture?”

  A brief smile flickered across the president’s face. “I wasn’t going to offer you a ceremonial sword, Paul. We’ll piece this together and the future of the program, if any, later. Right now we’ve got to restore control to that crew, or, in worst case, stop Iran from taking the bait.”

  “Anyone in Tehran you can reason with?”

  “What are you now, auditioning a standup act?” the president said with no intent at humor. “Yes, there are a few sane people with official positions in Tehran, but not when it comes to something like this. We’re talking North Korean paranoia fueled by religious myopia. And … when it comes to staying Israel’s hand … forget it. When they’re huddled in The Hole, they know precisely where the trip wires are, and when one is touched, that’s the ball game for restraint. Think Bebe Netanyahu and his relentless pursuit of Hamas even with the world yelling at him to stand down.”

  “Got it.”

  “No, everything rides on returning control to those pilots. You built the box. Something unplanned turned on the box. How else can it be turned off?”

  “Mr. President, there … might be one other avenue.”

  “For God’s sake man, tell me!”

  “But it would involve the Israeli Air Force, and telling them far more than we want them to know.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The Kirya, Tel Aviv, Israel (5:45 a.m. local / 0345 Zulu)

  The very fact that he’d had to return to the Hole had elevated Prime Minister Gershorn Zamir’s blood pressure, but the evolving seriousness of Tehran’s reaction had sobered virtually everyone in the leadership of Israel.

  Gershorn nodded at Lieutenant General Yossi Alon, acknowledging the briefing just completed, the details of which were still ringing in his head: Tehran already putting its forces on alert, constant intelligence stream from the CIA, an urgent request for Mossad to confirm the whereabouts of a William Piper, who was considered to be an operative for Moishe Lavi, and, most importantly, there was the need for the prime minister to make a series of trigger-point decisions on how to intercept, handle, and perhaps terminate the flight of Pangia 10.

  And now, suddenly, a call from the president of the United States.

  Gershorn excused himself to an ante room to take the call, returning within a few minutes and settling into his chair once more with a cursory explanation.

  “Expressions of concern, support, and deep worry that this man Piper may be the engine of Moishe Lavi’s operation … if there is one,” he said, looking around the room once more, locking eyes with everyone looking back at him. “Very well, I accept the general staff’s recommendation. Launch our fighters; intercept and escort the oncoming flight from 200 miles out. Keep the radio channels open to this room, with any order to bring them down coming from me alone. Our pilots must understand this.” He paused before speaking the appropriate code words necessary to take the defensive forces and nuclear armament to pre-launch readiness. With all elements of the civilian chain of command converging on the Hole, any launch decision could be validated and executed within seconds. The scope of the response, if anything left a launching pad in Iran, was essentially his decision, and the mere possibility had roiled his considerable stomach. It felt like Armageddon was upon them.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Aboard Pangia 10 (0345 Zulu)

  Jerry had called Dan and Frank out of the electronics bay for a quick strategy conference, fully including Bill Breem, who had been extraordinarily docile. Josh Begich was still sitting in the copilot’s seat looking very young and very frightened, with Tom Wilson, the relief copilot, standing behind him.

  Jerry, by contrast, had shed his previous panic and was becoming appropriately analytical and in command, Dan thought. The last PA announcement Jerry had made had bordered on the masterful: calmly and professionally filling the passengers in on precisely what had happened when the aircraft did a complete 360 after scaring everyone to death with the sudden sideslip.

  The captain looked at his small team and nodded to Carol to squeeze in as well.

  “Okay, guys, I’ve slowed us about as much as I think is safe at this altitude, and that’s bought us some time, but … we’ll be over Tel Aviv in about an hour. We must … we absolutely must … regain control of this ship before then.”

  “And if we don’t?” Frank Erlichman asked evenly.

  “I’m not entertaining any negatives. You and Dan have worked wonders down there, but we have more to go. Any reason you shouldn’t go back and start yanking everything in sight?”

  Dan sighed, shaking his head. “I see no alternative.”

  “Nor do I,�
�� Frank added. “I’m glad to be able to help you. Help us, really.”

  Jerry glanced at Josh, whose eyes were turned toward the copilot’s flight management computer. The screen was dark, but he was staring at it as if determined to wish it into phosphorescent life, as he randomly punched buttons.

  “Josh? Are you with us?” Jerry asked. “You gave us some valuable input before.”

  The boy looked up and nodded without enthusiasm as his finger punched yet another button. “Yes.”

  “You okay, Josh?” Dan added, surprised when the boy met his gaze reluctantly, unable to hide a tear in his eye and nodding unconvincingly.

  “What’s the matter, Josh?”

  “I don’t want to die.”

  “Nor do we.”

  “I’ve … I’ve never even … you know.”

  “How old are you, Josh?”

  “Fifteen. Well … fourteen, actually. Fifteen in two weeks.”

  “We’ll get you back on the ground, Josh,” Jerry said, feeling a chill climbing his spine for giving voice to what might well turn out to be a lie.

  “And you will live to get laid, my friend,” Dan added, trying to recall the last time he had immersed in such heavenly pleasures himself.

  Carol was standing at the back of the cockpit and keeping an absolutely even expression, though Dan could almost feel her wanting to smile.

  “Thanks,” Josh replied, looking up as he punched yet another button on the multifunction display control, as unprepared as the rest of them for the Airbus to suddenly and smoothly roll into a thirty-degree right bank.

  Jerry turned back forward in his chair, eyes scanning the instruments that had been lying to them for so many hours, then he looked at the whiskey compass. The attitude indicator was showing the turn, and suddenly the entire instrument display shifted around from the fictitious westbound course over the Atlantic to the same heading as the whiskey compass.

  “What the hell!”

  “Josh, what did you do?” Dan asked the boy, who was wide-eyed and scanning the keyboard he had essentially been playing with.

  “I … I punched …”

  “What did you punch? Do you remember?”

  Josh nodded. The aircraft, still turning, was now more than forty-five degrees off the original heading and turning west.

  “Here! I punched this key.”

  Dan leaned forward, eyes riveted on the key he was touching. “That’s the execute button. The enter button. But do you recall what you punched before that?”

  Josh was shook his head. “I was just pushing them at random because it … it felt good to control something.”

  “I get that. But try to recall what sequence. Were you doing numbers on the main pad or … or those squarish buttons along the edge of the screen?”

  “The numbers. I remember putting in my phone number.”

  “Dan, we’re still turning.”

  “Yeah, I see that.”

  “It might come back around to the same course again.”

  “Hopefully, not. Anywhere but back on that heading.”

  “Okay,” Jerry said, turning to Josh. “Was it your entire phone number and then the execute key?”

  “Yes, I … wanted to call home, you know.”

  “Got it,” Jerry replied, feeling a deep pang of guilt for being up here while his wife and children were probably scared to death back home in Evanston. “Okay, write out that number. Dan, see if that could have been interpreted as latitude, longitude, or something, or maybe a compass heading.”

  “We’ve done a complete 180,” Dan said, watching the progress. “And we’re still turning.”

  “I think he typed in what the box thought were coordinates.”

  “Hell, Jerry, we didn’t think the box might be on. The screen was dark …”

  “Neither did I.”

  Josh handed over a slip of paper with eleven numbers.

  “Much longer than a latitude and longitude,” Dan added. “Here, punch in three digits, Josh. Punch zero-zero-five and enter.”

  Josh turned to the MDCU and entered the numbers, and they all held their breath, but the aircraft was still turning right, now less than ninety degrees from the original course.

  “If this thing steadies out on the same course to Tel Aviv, then all we’ve done is delay things.”

  “But that’s something! We just bought, what? Four minutes?”

  “Yeah. Josh, punch in your entire phone number one more time and hit execute. Let’s see if it does it again.”

  “Dan,” Jerry interrupted, “Look at this! It’s telling us the truth … the instruments, I mean.”

  “Try disconnecting autoflight,” Dan said, holding his breath.

  “Already did. Nothing. And the sidestick still doesn’t work. But something’s new.”

  The aircraft was leveling its wings now, and back on the previous course to Israel.

  “Josh?” Jerry said. “Keep punching things and hitting execute, just … just write down what you’re entering each time.”

  “Okay,” Josh responded, turning back to the MDCU, visibly relieved to have a mission.

  Dan took a loud breath. “Okay, meanwhile, Frank and I are going back down to start pulling relays, starting with anything autoflight related I can get my hands on.”

  First Class Cabin, Pangia Flight 10

  Ashira Dyan was well aware of her conflicting loyalties: First, there was her lover and employer, Moishe Lavi, but she was with him, in part, because Mossad wanted her to be. And the broader intelligence mission of Mossad was in Israel’s best interests. But precisely where did all those coincide and where did they clash?

  She wished she could phone the one who had recruited her so long ago and ask the key question: Is this a coincidence, Moishe being on an electronically hijacked jet apparently headed for Tehran?

  Let’s not dance around this, Ashira, she could almost hear her handler say. If the pilots are telling the truth, someone is controlling this airplane, and it has to be Moishe’s doing.

  Indeed, what were the odds of an accidental presence?

  And, she thought, he’s almost enjoying this!

  She knew him so well. He could be as inscrutable as a statue at times, but it was also true that he couldn’t really hide deep upset from her entirely. There were always contradictory signs, as there were now. His refusal to let her volunteer their handheld satellite phone when the crew was begging for them was one, as well as his unusual reluctance to let her see what he had been writing so diligently on his laptop.

  That feeling of apprehension again crept past her professional training.

  So what if he has engineered all of this, and is determined to start the war so we can finish it? If I could stop him, should I? If he’s behind this, there will be many confederates on the ground, all of them working to make Israel’s launch decision inescapable.”

  She should confront him. But then he would merely deny it, and she would be no closer to the truth. Same denial, same amused expression.

  No, there seemed to be one choice left, and that was to somehow gain control of his laptop. If he’d used a trigger program to take over the aircraft, perhaps she could find it in time and undo it. She had most of his passwords.

  The inevitable pragmatic realism that was the bedrock of her personality reasserted itself, as it always did. If he was in control on this aircraft, he would be expecting her to confront him, and the only way around his usually brilliant maneuvering would have to be complete surprise.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The White House (11:45 p.m. EST / 0345 Zulu)

  Working from a tiny anteroom off the Oval Office, Paul Wriggle had a phone to each ear coordinating what the president had just approved: securing the Israeli Air Force’s immediate assistance in passing the unlock code to Flight 10’s computers.

  “We can do that?” the president had asked. “You built that into the system?”

  “Yes, but we’ve never tested it. It’s an operational back
door, a way of reaching the computers aboard our aircraft from a radio signal relayed through a fighter flying alongside, one with ultra-high frequency military range capability, which all of them have. With the proper gear, we could even fly the airliner from a second seat in such a fighter, but that was just a contingency. But what we have already built in is the ability to reach the computer and lock out the cockpit with a UHF transmission … and reverse it with the right codes.”

  “How fast? Does it take special equipment?”

  “As Rube Goldberg as it sounds, sir, all it takes is using the keypad tones from a cell phone … just hold the cell phone’s speaker against the pilot’s microphone, and the all-important string of numbers can be transmitted over the UHF radio. Unlike their flight deck computer screen, you can try as many times as you need and it won’t lock you out if the sequence is wrong. The downside is that we’d have to provide information that is technically illegal to discuss.”

  “Executive orders, Paul. Don’t worry about giving the information to the Israelis. Get that arranged as fast as you can.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Aboard Pangia 10 (0350 Zulu)

  “Okay, guys, we’ve got about thirty minutes before we find out where we’re going next.”

  Jerry Tollefson met the eyes of everyone in the crowded cockpit, including Carol and two of her flight attendants.

  “I’ll do another PA announcement as soon as I know whether we’re turning or not, but in the meantime … if we can’t regain control any other way and if we do turn in the wrong direction … I’m going to have everyone strap in and get ready for our last, best move.”

  “Jerry … Captain … we’ve got some seriously terrified people back there, including some of my crew. Please talk to them sooner rather than later.”