Turbulence

by Nance, John J. ;

  “I’m sorry. It was … a very real nightmare, I guess.”

  “That happens,” she said.

  “I thought my wife was aboard and … in medical trouble … and …”

  “I understand.”

  “Where am I? I mean, I know we’re on the way to London, but …”

  “Three hours from Heathrow, Doctor. Is someone meeting you there?”

  He gave her a long, uncomprehending stare. “Sorry?”

  “Is anyone meeting you at Heathrow?”

  He shook his head slowly, a faraway look in his eyes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE PENTAGON, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  1:45 P.M. EDT

  Colonel David Byrd quickened his step to keep pace with General James Overmeyer as they swept down a stairway and headed for the Pentagon’s north entrance. The combined intelligence brief had taken nearly an hour, but there had been no time to discuss it. The general reappeared just long enough to issue a string of instructions to his secretary and turn to David with a directive.

  “Follow me,” he’d said. “We’re going to Andrews. I talked the Eighty-ninth into readying a Gulfstream to get me down to Hurlburt.”

  “We’re going to Hurlburt Air Force Base?” David asked as they climbed into a staff car.

  “No. I’m going to Hurlburt on a Special Operations matter. You’re just riding along to Andrews so we can talk. After that, the driver can take you wherever you’d like … within reason, of course. You know. Take you to your apartment, your mistress, your church, whatever turns you on.”

  “I don’t have a mistress, sir.”

  The general grinned over his shoulder as he reached the curb and nodded to the driver who was holding open the right rear door. “Neither do I. For some reason, the idea irritates my wife and probably violates a few regulations.”

  The driver accelerated smoothly into traffic as Overmeyer turned to David. “So, what do you think about that briefing?”

  “General, I think both Mr. Monson and Mr. Smith have been spending far too much time in dark rooms. I mean, I know we’ve been overworking these fellows since the attacks …”

  “So, are we all nuts?” Overmeyer asked.

  David shook his head, trying not to be distracted by the sight of a drop-dead beautiful blonde wearing a skimpy halter top in a silver Mercedes convertible keeping pace to the right. He forced himself to look at the general.

  “There’s no question we should be concerned, maybe even paranoid, about the possibility that some one of the remaining groups we’re trying to ferret out could slip past our other intelligence nets and try to sneak a bomb or biological agent into the U.S., or anywhere else, masquerading as a legitimate flight. You know, no hijacking involved, just piggybacking on the cargo or maybe even the airframe itself. But, if you ask me, Monson and Smith are connecting dots that don’t connect.”

  “I did ask you. Explain.”

  “Okay. How on earth is anyone going to mount a reliable terrorist operation in the middle of the worldwide war we’re waging against them and somehow get the chance to sneak a weapon on board by creating a diversion based on manipulating angry passengers? Their song and dance makes no sense. We’ve been studying angry passengers at FAA under my direction for a year now, so this is more than just my opinion.”

  “Okay.”

  “This concept is far too random. No one can know that a particular load of passengers on any given day is going to be upset enough to be manipulated. And what on earth are they supposed to be talked into doing, anyway?”

  The general nodded.

  “You want me to go on?” David asked.

  “You hate dead air, don’t you, David?”

  “Sir?”

  “Dead air. I was a part-time radio DJ in high school in the early sixties, and that’s an old radio term. When the station goes silent because you run out of things to say, it’s dead air … and it’s scary. Program directors get really upset.”

  “I was never a DJ.”

  “No, but you hate dead air. Most people do. Yes, David, I want you to go on. You think they’re full of it.”

  “Yes, I do. We can concoct all sorts of far-out possibilities, but the probability of some remaining terrorist cells still having enough ability and money … after all we’ve been doing to eradicate them … to goad an otherwise unstable individual or group of passengers into creating an airborne incident that could be used for an attack just doesn’t rise to the level of reality. They’re looking for a Trojan Horse, General, and that’s not the way you’d construct one.”

  “I agree.”

  “You do? But, you said you put me in that assignment specifically to …”

  “No,” the general interrupted. “I put you in that assignment because I owed our FAA administrator a favor, and because I know what happens when our Defense Intelligence Agency in particular approaches FAA on major air security questions.”

  “Terrorist intelligence matters, in other words?”

  “Yes. After all, after the World Trade Center attacks, FAA’s folks have developed a propensity for getting far too excited far too fast and losing their analytical edge. Can’t blame them, really. By the way, you do recall, don’t you, that I headed up DIA for three years?”

  “I’d forgotten that, General.”

  “Well, I did, and I dealt with FAA, and got burned a few times. That’s why I sent you. I couldn’t see the connection either, and I knew you’d be able to give me a more intelligent answer. David, write me a talking paper on what you just heard. Classify it appropriately, but refute their worries with what you know. I may need it.”

  “Why? I mean, why might you need it?”

  “Because I’m afraid Langley and DIA are going to go off half-cocked on this issue. They’re essentially on a twenty-four-hour alert right now looking for a Trojan Horse somewhere in the world. That’s too much of a hair trigger.”

  “You want that paper yesterday, I take it?” David smiled.

  “Of course. And you stay the hell out of the public eye on this issue of angry, misbehaving passengers. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to make brigadier general, and I may have already hurt your chances by diverting you to this assignment when you ought to be commanding a deployed fighter wing in Saudi, so we have to be careful with you from here on out.”

  “Meaning that anything I do publicly …”

  Overmeyer sighed. “The promotion boards are suspicious of colonels who enjoy being on camera or talking to Congress. Understood?”

  “Understood.”

  “Now, one other matter.” The general opened his briefcase and began fumbling with the various papers. He pulled a plain envelope put at last and handed it to David, then pointed to it. “This has the name and contact numbers of a guy I want you to work with. After you drop me at Andrews, call him.”

  “About the Trojan Horse threat?”

  “Yes. John Blaylock is his name. Somehow we made him a full bull colonel some years ago. He’s a reservist, and he’s an utter disgrace to normal officer grooming requirements. He’s sneered at them all his career.”

  “Has he been activated?”

  “No. But he … works for us a lot.”

  “Why do I want to meet this man, sir?”

  “Let me finish. He’s an airline captain, now retired. Flew all over the world for several carriers looking and acting like the boorish ugly American, considering his omnipresent cigars.”

  “As I said …,” David began, recoiling from the verbal image.

  The general held up his hand and smiled. “I know, and he’s a classic case of the so-called raggedy-ass reservist, but that doesn’t explain it either.” The general fell silent, and David started to speak, then stopped and smiled, waiting patiently until Overmeyer began laughing. “Okay, okay, I hate dead air, too,” the general said.

  “Why, sir, I repeat, would any self-respecting senior officer want to meet the likes of Colonel Blaylo
ck?”

  “Because for thirty years he’s been one of the sharpest intelligence operatives we had in the Air Force. While everyone rolled their eyes at him, he was out in the field finding out precisely what was going on when no one else could. Peru, Brazil, Colombia, Paraguay, most of Africa, Asia … the ugly airline captain would always come sauntering back with exactly what we needed when all our air attachés, and all the CIA’s moles and covert ops types hadn’t a clue.”

  “Interesting.”

  “He’s a kick, David. And he knows the airline business. Just don’t expect spit and polish. You can learn a lot from him.”

  “So … he’s retired from the reserves?”

  “John? Hell, no! He just looks like it. John Blaylock is a slightly bohemian national asset with a very strange sense of humor.”

  “Sounds like a real character, but I’ve been warned.”

  “Just don’t introduce him to your wife.”

  “I don’t have a wife. Why?”

  “Women are his main weakness. After cigars, that is. I have no idea how someone like John attracts females, but he always has, and you wouldn’t believe the messes we’ve had to repair.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  ABOARD MERIDIAN FLIGHT SIX, TAXIWAY CHARLIE,

  CHICAGO O’HARE AIRPORT, ILLINOIS

  5:30 P.M. CDT

  Four hours of sitting on a delayed, overheated aircraft were taking their toll on Karen Davidson. She was already exhausted, and the sight of her son being escorted back down the aisle of the Boeing 777 by an angry-looking flight attendant wasn’t helping matters. Four-year-old Billy Davidson was stir-crazy and cranky, and she’d already chased him down once. But this time when he’d thrown off his seat belt and run, she was engaged in breast-feeding his infant sister. Chasing him hadn’t been an option.

  She had seen the lone male flight attendant on the crew grab Billy none too gently and march him back.

  “Ow!” Billy protested. The man turned the child around and forced him back into his seat before pointing a finger in Billy’s face. “You put that seat belt on right now, young man, or we’ll open the door and throw you out on the concrete.”

  “Hey! Don’t threaten my son,” Karen said, as startled as she was embarrassed.

  The man turned. “Control your kid, ma’am, and there won’t be a need for any threats.”

  “You know,” she began, fatigue canceling caution, “I don’t particularly appreciate your attitude. We’re all tired and hot and disgusted, including my little boy. I don’t know why your air-conditioning isn’t working, but this is miserable, and you’re being rude. My son wasn’t racing up and down the aisle. He just got away.”

  The flight attendant snorted and knelt down beside her, his voice still loud enough to be overheard in the adjacent rows. “Lady, you’re bordering on interference with a crew member when you challenge me. Know that? I could have you arrested for not complying with my orders. This is a public place. It isn’t a day-care center.”

  He stood and walked off, leaving Karen Davidson and a host of nearby passengers aghast.

  In the rear of the main coach cabin, one of the eleven flight attendants turned when she felt her sleeve being tugged and found herself smiling at a silver-haired man in a business suit.

  “Sorry to bother you,” he said, “But … someone made an announcement about cellular phones and the door?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “You can only use them while we’re on the ground with the front door open, because otherwise they interfere with the airplane’s navigation system.”

  “If the door is closed, they interfere, but not when it’s open?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s the law.”

  “The law? And why would the law say that?”

  Her hands migrated to her hips. “Because cell phones are dangerous and can interfere with the navigation equipment of the aircraft on the ground.”

  “And … the captain needs that equipment to find the end of the runway?”

  There were several snickers from adjacent passengers as the flight attendant realized she was being interrogated.

  “Yeah, probably,” she said. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Do they teach you this drivel in some class?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “This utter nonsense you’ve just been spouting through complete ignorance. Do they really teach you to say these inane things?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, sir, but I told you what the law is.”

  “Young woman, I’m a lawyer with forty years experience in communications, and an electronics engineer. Not a single thing you said is true. That’s merely an airline rule. It’s not a regulation, and it’s not a law. There is virtually no chance of cell phone interference on the ground with this modern aircraft’s navigation gear or any other circuitry. And the only reason for prohibiting the use of cell phones in the air is the fact that the FAA hasn’t done enough studies to prove they can be used safely, not because they can’t. It has nothing to do with the door being open or closed. And … on top of everything else, if the phones presented a hazard of fuel explosion, using them on the ground at the gate would be the most dangerous time of all.”

  She turned without a word and walked away as quickly as possible as a dozen surrounding passengers broke into applause.

  In the first-class galley, Janie Bretsen, the lead flight attendant, picked up the interphone and rang the cockpit to brief the pilots on the growing unrest.

  “Captain, we’ve got a guy in business class who’s demanding to get off. He wants you to go back to the gate.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  “He’s not feeling well.”

  “Well, neither am I.”

  “What do you want me to tell him?”

  “Tell the man we’ve got over three hundred paying passengers who want to get off the ground, and if we break out of this line and go back to the gate, it’ll mean at least another two-hour delay. Does he feel that bad?”

  “I’ll ask him.”

  Within two minutes she was back on the interphone. “He just says he’s feeling bad and he demands to be let off.”

  “So, he’s not really sick?”

  “No. I mean, I guess not. But maybe we should listen to him.”

  “He’s just whining, and I’m not impressed. Tell him there’s no way the company would understand our going back, unless I have him hauled away by ambulance. Otherwise, he can deal with it in London.”

  There was a click of finality as the captain hung up.

  In the rear galley of Flight Six, Lara Richardson had been deep into a copy of the latest People magazine when a passenger call chime caught her attention. She slapped the magazine closed and rolled her eyes at another flight attendant as she got to her feet. “Now what?”

  Lara began walking toward the front, looking for an illuminated call button, which she found at row 28.

  “Okay, who’s the troublemaker?” she asked with a forced smile as she scanned the four passengers in the row. “Who rang the call chime?”

  A middle-aged man with an ashen face raised his hand. “We did. We’re … concerned about getting to London,” Chuck Levy began.

  “Yes, sir, we’re all concerned about getting to London,” Lara said, rolling her eyes.

  There was a long pause as the man studied her face, then continued. “I … just need to know if you have any idea when we’re actually leaving?”

  “No one knows, sir. We’re all stuck out on this taxiway because of that rainstorm, and because the FAA can’t get their act together. It’s up to them.”

  Chuck glanced at Anna, his wife, who was looking equally grim and gray.

  A real fun couple, Lara thought to herself.

  “Look, miss …,” he said, his voice conveying a crushing fatigue.

  “Sir,” she broke in, “you’ll know when we know. Okay?”

  “I just need to know whether there might be another flight, maybe on another airline, that coul
d get us there faster. The cost doesn’t matter.”

  She snickered. “So what am I, a ticket counter? I don’t know.”

  “Miss,” he tried again. “You don’t understand …”

  “No, you don’t understand! You can’t get off this airplane unless we go back to the gate. If we do go back to the gate, you can get off and go call reservations. In the meantime, I can’t help you, and I’m busy. Okay?”

  “Hey. Excuse me,” a male voice called from the opposite side of the aisle. Lara Richardson turned to find herself in the crosshairs of an angry glare from a young man in a Navy uniform.

  She smiled broadly and cocked her head. “Hi, sailor. New in town?”

  His expression didn’t change as he motioned her closer, speaking in a low voice. “Ma’am, you want to treat those folks with a little more respect.”

  Lara reached out and patted him on the head as she walked off to the rear. “You sail your little boats, fella, and I’ll fly my airplanes.”

  The report of a seat belt being snapped open was followed by a rush of white as the Navy ensign scrambled to his feet in pursuit of the flight attendant. He caught up with her in the rear galley.

  “Ma’am, just a minute.”

  She turned, hands on hips, fixing him with an icy stare. “Yes?”

  “There’s a young girl in a hospital near Zurich, Switzerland, at this moment with two shattered legs, serious internal injuries, and a head injury, and she’s not expected to live more than another twenty-four hours at best. Her rental car was flattened early this morning by a truck. The girl is twenty-two, single, and was in the middle of a graduation trip her parents had saved to pay for. And those are her parents you just treated like dirt.”

  Lara’s jaw dropped slightly. “Oh, Jeez, I didn’t know.”

  “You never asked, did you? I was talking with them before we boarded. They’re scared to death their daughter’s going to die while we sit here on the ground at O’Hare. Don’t you think they’re entitled to some consideration?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Yes. They are.”

  She pushed past him and headed quickly up the aisle.