Rain unto Death

by Alex Ryan

  There is a lot of paperwork involved in filing international flight plans. If a pilot is flying a small plane, the pilot files all the flight plan paperwork. On a scheduled air carrier, there is even more paperwork, so the carriers have people that do that for the pilots. They are called the dispatchers. They prepare a packet of information; routings, navaids, frequencies, and weather forecasts. They are generally standard for a route, but sometimes need to be modified. The pilots will review the packet, confirm that the routing works with the expected weather, assigned altitudes work with expected winds, and generally, they end up with a procedure that they can follow and execute. When they are happy with it, they give it back to the dispatcher, and the dispatcher files the flight plan with the respective civil aviation authorities.

  Dutch liked his women. He also liked to do a little blow occasionally. Working in Ensenada was like being a kid at Disneyland.

  Air Mexicali Flight 318 had been cancelled because the aircraft, a 727 painted in bright green and yellow patterns, was in maintenance for a mechanical issue. It was actually the only flight scheduled for the day, so Dutch probably wouldn’t have even planned on going in to work that morning, but he promised his new found friends, the ones that hooked him up with a whore and a few grams of powder for the last several days, the young pilots, that he would let them see the office and show them how things worked in the back, if they were willing to take him in to the cockpit one of these days. Thank god they weren’t company pilots. They had funny names. Tom. Harry. Steven. No, these guys weren’t no Tom, Harry, or Steven; they probably had long weird sounding hyphenated names that a Westerner couldn’t pronounce. He didn’t care, they were fun to hang out with and, damn, could they round up the ladies.

  There was something distinctly fun about sneaking into the dispatch office on an off day, with the three pilots, a bottle of champagne, and that one girl he was trying to impress at the club. Hell, he had an audience. Dutch loved audiences.

  The green display of the teletype terminal was his cockpit. It was his link from a stack of papers to ‘the system.’

  “That flight that was supposed to fly out this afternoon, how would that get filed?” The young Captain, wearing a white uniform and epaulets, asked.

  “Well,” Dutch answered. “This is the packet. Normally, the pilot gets it, looks it over, if everything is fine, he calls back and says to file, or, if everything is not fine, he makes some changes first.”

  “So, what does it look like, ‘entered into the system’?”

  “Watch this. I’ll just enter it. I won’t hit ‘file.’ I type out all these headings, okay, the standard stuff, the flight, aircraft, instrument suffix, departure procedure, routing, arrival procedure for Atlanta, estimated time enroute, not that different from how you guys enter it in to your FMS, except for the upfront information, just like that... And... It’s ready to go!”

  “That was fast!”

  “I do this for a living.”

  “What would happen if you pushed the key to file?”

  “What would happen? Um, nothing really, it would just disappear off the system after a certain time when the aircraft fails to call in and accept the clearance.”

  “Push it! Push it!” The men chanted in unison. The girl giggled.

  “What the hell, why not! Live on the edge!” Dutch pushed the button. Then there was the series of green, glowing characters....

  *flight plan accepted*

  “Hahaha! That was great! Listen, we need to leave you now, enjoy your time with Carmela!”

  Ensenada Airport, although towered, is not set up with terminals and gates like a normal passenger airport. It doesn’t even have continuous passenger service. It is a joint military and civil aviation airport. After Air Mexicali pulls out next year, there won’t even be scheduled passenger service to the airport at all. So, there is nothing strange about three pilots walking on the tarmac to their jet, parked in the middle of a large apron.

  The tower operators and Mexican ATC have no clue whether Air Mexicali cancelled their flight or not. For that matter, the presence of an aircraft not painted in company colors would not be unreasonable either. Sometimes planes are swapped or leased temporarily.

  The captain was able to roust a lineman to pull the air stairs away, and remove the chocks from the 727 after the three pilots entered the aircraft and closed the hatch. The prior day, they had flown the jet into the large yet non-towered airport at San Luis Rio Colorado, loaded the canisters of liquid into the tank holds with the aid of the crew that ran the production facility, dressed in isolation suits. Their hope was that they would not be exposed to a sufficient level of the anthrax spores before the debilitating symptoms set in. So far, they were good. They prayed to Allah to leave this world through fire, not through sickness. So, far, Allah has been merciful.

  The key is in Ensenda. It had to be. Those pilots weren’t whooping it up in Ensenada for nothing. That was their base. That’s where they were going to leave. As far as Rex was concerned, and for that matter, Kirsten as well, this was a race for time. The only thing they could do was go to Ensenada, watch for the jet, and wait. They bought standby tickets on a flight to Tijuana, and hailed a cab to Ensenada. “A donde?”

  “Aeropuerto de Ensenada! Con Rapidez!”

  “I feel sick to my stomach,” Kirsten said as the Toyota sped down the highway, the driver honking as he passed cars. “Something terrible is about to happen, and it feels like I can’t do a damn thing.”

  “We’re doing as much as we can do.” Rex soothed. “Right now, there is a fighting chance of stopping that airplane, we just need to keep fighting.”

  It did occur to Rex that during this entire situation, they had constantly been driving by, and for that matter, living near these pristine, beautiful beaches, and he hadn’t gone for a swim, not once. Why is that? Then, he realized he was clutching her hand. Maybe there would be a time when he would clutch her hand as they walked out in to the water, not speeding in a car to prevent the world’s worst case of pending bioterrorism to date.

  Methodically, the crew started the three engines, ran through the checklists, and programmed the flight computer. The man acting as the flight engineer was unfamiliar with the systems, but became more adept as the pilots coached him. They could actually fly the plane with a crew of two. And they would have to, when it was the flight engineer’s turn to operate the cargo release.

  The captain looked at his watch. This was going to damned close. “Are we ready to taxi yet?” He asked the first officer.

  “Almost. Not quite. Go ahead and call, I should be ready soon.”

  The captain took a deep breath, and keyed the mic on with the button on the yoke. “Ensenada ground, Air Mexicali flight three one eight is ready for taxi, IFR to Atlanta.”

  “Air Mexicali flight three one eight, taxi to runway two-niner at your discretion, clearance is ready, advise when able to copy.”

  The captain readied a pen on a yellow notepad on his kneeboard. “Ready to copy.”

  Air Mexicali flight three one eight, taxi to runway two-niner, at your discretion, clearance is ready.... The sound of the radio broke the sounds of intense breathing as Dutch pumped away on top of the small brown figure beneath him on the linoleum floor. “What the hell?” He stopped, and got off her.

  “What wrong?”

  “Shhh, I need to check something out.” He pulled his pants up, walked over to the radio, and turned up the volume. He stood there, incredulously. There it was. Someone was accepting the clearance that he entered in to the system a little over half an hour ago. Impossible. He ran outside the small building and looked around. The large blue and yellow jet was still over by the maintenance hangar with the right wing engine nacelle still off.

  He couldn’t see it, but he could hear the sound of jet engines spooling up for taxi. He walked a little further, and saw the bright aluminum aircraft starting to move. He walked back inside the office and shut the door. The girl was getting dressed.<
br />
  “Ah whatever. Get back down on the floor” he said as he pulled his pants back down.

  Al-Hasan sat in a wooden chair, dressed in a suit, at the edge of the tarmac closest to the departure end of the runway. He smoked a cigarette, and drank shots of vodka. The reality just occurred to him. He would soon be thrust in to an incredibly precarious position. They would eventually put the pieces together, if they had not already. Getting out of the country and returning to home has just become extremely difficult. The three comrades were about to perform the ultimate sacrifice. Technically, they already have, given their exposure.

  But the mission. The mission, as far as Al-Hasan could gather, was destined to be a success. All the aircraft needed to do is reach Atlanta. It would then divert to Charlotte. By the time they figured out, it would be too late. The whole corridor from there to New York was highly populated. DC would be fine. And, if they did know, all their resources would be focused near the border. If they were able to sneak past that, god willing, and by the look of it that should happen, then the wheels are now spinning fast enough that they cannot be stopped.

  The speeding taxicab turned in to the airport gate. The guard looked at the occupants, and waved them through. Foreigners speed by in taxis all the time to get to their private planes and chartered aircraft. They were probably heading for that departing Air Mexicali flight. Good luck. It’s probably too late.

  “Air Mexicali flight three one eight, you are cleared for release.” the tower operator said over the radio.

  “Cleared for release, Air Mexicali three one eight. Thank you sir.”

  “Good day.”

  “Oh, shit” Rex said. “There it goes.”

  “We need to find a phone. Quickly!” Kirsten hissed.

  “Where, where, where? Hey driver, go over to that office building over there.”

  “Que?”

  Rex pointed. The driver stopped in front of the one-story office building with the Air Mexicali sign on it. “That should have a phone.”

  Rex and Kirsten jumped out of the cab, and headed the door. “Damn, this is an administrative office. And nobody’s here.” Then they heard a rustling sound behind the desk as a short fat man and a small brown girl struggled to get dressed in a hurry.

  “Don’t you people knock?” Dutch demanded angrily.

  “The hell is going on?” Rex said.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “That airplane that just took off, do you know anything about it?”

  “No.” Rex could tell he was lying.

  “We need to use your phone.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Kirsten dialed the hotline number, in the clear, to the director himself. “Mr. Director?” She spoke.

  “Yes?” the director answered.

  “This is Agent Maples, an aircraft, a 727 equipped with fire tank capability departed Ensenada just now. We have reason to believe this is the terrorist aircraft.”

  “Where is it heading?”

  “I don’t know where it is heading.”

  “It’s heading to Atlanta.” Dutch retorted.

  “Excuse me?” Kirsten asked, lowering the receiver. “What did you say?”

  “I said the airplane is headed to Atlanta.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I filed the flight plan.”

  “Who is flying it?”

  “I don’t know, three guys I met in a bar. Middle Eastern guys.”

  “Are you still there?” Kirsten said in to the receiver.

  “Yes, go ahead.”

  “We have confirmed that this is, in fact, the terrorist aircraft. A flight plan has been filed for it.”

  “What is the tail number or flight?” The director asked.

  “What’s the flight number?” Kirsten asked Dutch.

  “Air Mexicali flight 318.”

  The shift supervisor hung up the phone, picked up his notes, and entered the dark room filled with an array of headset-clad operators in front of radar scopes. He knew immediately which sector would be affected, and pulled up a chair beside Jacobs.

  Jacobs was an experienced controller, but he was fairly new at this assignment. Normally, when the boss takes a seat beside you, you’re doing something he doesn’t like. And he has notes.

  “Hey, Jacobs. How you holding up?” The supervisor asked.

  “Just fine. Traffic has been light.” Jacobs answered.

  “Good. You picked the right day and the right time to be on your sector.”

  “Why is that?”

  “See that tape right there, the one that just came through?”

  “You mean Air Mexicali flight 318?”

  “Yeah. We just got a priority assignment directly from the Pentagon itself. You need to do your best to vector that aircraft, after it checks in, to this location.” The supervisor pulled out a high-altitude enroute aeronautical chart, with an outline and an ‘x’ on it.”

  “Shit, that is smack in the middle of the White Sands missile range.”

  “You got it. Expect some company from some boys in the Air Force to join you shortly after on military frequency.”

  “Damn, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t have time to explain, but if you don’t get that damn plane where it needs to be, a lot of people could die.”

  Jacobs wiped his brow. He was starting to sweat. “I’ll do my best.” Then the call came over his radio headset.

  “Albuquerque Center, Air Mexicali Three One Eight with you at level two seven zero.”

  Jacobs took a deep breath, and keyed the mic. “Air Mexicali Three One Eight, good day, need you to turn left heading one one zero degrees.”

  “One one zero, Air Mexicali three one eight. What is the reason for the deviation?”

  “Severe clear air turbulence reported by a United 767. Damage and injuries reported.”

  A deafening silence ensued for several seconds. “Roger.”

  “Good job, Jacobs.” The supervisor said.

  The Air Force colonel sat alone with the young major in the flight briefing room at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base. Major Abdul Sharif was the pilot selected to fly the F-104 Starfighter mission.

  “Abdul. You’ve been briefed thoroughly on this mission. I halted this scramble order because I just wanted to talk to you personally before you took off, and...”

  “Sir, are you questioning my resolve to engage radical Islamic terrorists?”

  “No. I’m just asking you, are you okay with this?”

  “Never mind that I’m the only one on this base qualified with both the F-104 Starfighter and the AIR-2 systems. Even if that were not the case, I can assure you that I would be the very first one to take down these crazies that cast shame on...”

  “On your people.”

  “I don’t mean it like that. Yes, I am Muslim. But I am one of you. My color is the same as all of my Air Force brothers. Blue. I am an American, and proud of it. Sir, if you were going to question me, you should have done so well before this. The clock is ticking.”

  “I can’t stress the importance of completing this mission successfully. And I want you to understand, mentally, you’re going to hear the words ‘Air Mexicali flight 318’ on the radio suggesting that it is a passenger jet filled with people. I assure you it is not that at all. Strike Eagles are tailing it, and have confirmed it is an aerial tanker.”

  “I am prepared to do what I need to do.”

  “Then go do it.”

  Sharif buttoned the oxygen mask to his face, pulled down the visor, and keyed the microphone. “Davis Tower, Striker One ready for takeoff.”

  “Striker One, you are cleared for takeoff, intercept vector three seven two, flight level two seven zero.”

  “Three seven two, two seven zero, Striker One.”

  “Good luck, Striker One.”

  The F-104 was a dinosaur, built to fulfill a mission that would likely disappear within ten years. Same with its payload of the obscure AIR-2 Genie nuclear guided mi
ssile. Both were intended to intercept and engage Soviet bombers. Those pilots assigned to fly them would probably never see combat during their period of service, particularly in this day and age of technically superior tactical fighter aircraft, such as the F-15 and F-16. Maneuverable, it was not. Fast it was, and that’s what counted. Those that placed Sharif in the program did so primarily because they actually did have reservations about placing him in the cockpit of an advanced fighter likely to be deployed with live missiles. He couldn’t help but smile, as this was his opportunity to prove them wrong.

  “Something is wrong here.” the captain of the 727 said. “We’ve been deviating for far too long to avoid turbulence.”

  “We are significantly off track. Perhaps ATC has forgotten about us. I’ll call them.” The first officer keyed the microphone on his yoke. “Center, this is Air Mexicali Three One Eight. May we resume navigation?”

  Jacobs looked on his scope. Not yet. This was too early. Maybe ten more minutes. Then the jet could turn and still be in the box. “Tell him to remain on course for a traffic conflict,” his supervisor suggested.

  “Air Mexicali flight three one eight, remain on course for now, you have a traffic conflict to your one o’clock, I will advise when to turn back on course.”

  “Roger.”

  Five minutes passed. The captain started getting very nervous. “No. Something is wrong. Give me that enroute chart. Do we have a VFR sectional?”

  “Of course not, why would we even carry them?” The first officer replied.

  “Do you know where we are going?”

  “Not offhand.”

  “We are going directly over a missile bombing range.” The captain turned back towards the engineer. “Quickly, change of plans! Get ready to deploy the load, we are going to turn back towards Phoenix!”

  The captain keyed the radio. “Center, this is Air Mexicali three one eight. We are experiencing a fuel issue and we need to divert. Request vectors to Phoenix.”