“The satellites?” Garth asked, feeling a slight prod from the rifle for being audacious enough to speak.
“Of course. That’s what we’re doing, you see, satisfying the United States’s voracious desire for satellite pictures which will be relayed faithfully to the Nigerian military, whom I happen to be fighting. I do not remember the name of the spacecraft overhead at this moment, but it belongs to your Central Intelligence Agency and will be past in … thirty seconds more.”
“How do you know this?” Garth asked in amazement.
“Quite incredible what the former Soviets have for sale these days, such as all the orbital charts of all the spy satellites including their own, which can be purchased on computer disk.” Jean Onitsa looked at his digital watch. “Ah! Very well, the time has passed, now.” He spoke another order. Garth felt the barrel withdrawn from his head as several large hands reached down to help him up. At the same moment, two men began pouring sticky red liquid on the ramp where he had been kneeling as several others pulled a rag through it, trailing the traces off to one side, as if a shattered body had been dragged away.
“There!” the general said with a huge smile. “Pure Hollywood, I’m afraid, but necessary. Another spy satellite will be overhead in eleven minutes with its camera clicking away, so we do not have much time. Now, Mr. First Officer, which engine did you say was the problem?”
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
MERIDIAN AIRLINES OPERATIONS CENTER,
DENVER, COLORADO
12:40 P.M. MDT
The news that Flight Six was on the ground with the same recurring engine complaint at some unheard-of airport in the middle of Africa had caused the rapid assembly of a crisis team. There seemed to be no one to negotiate with, and several rapid, urgent calls to the State Department had triggered only a slow, confused response at first. After nearly a half hour, however, the government of the United States began to take very seriously the fact that over three hundred people, many of them Americans, were stranded in northern Nigeria.
The director of flight control had tasked his team to locate a maintenance shop at Katsina, but they were getting nowhere. The only airline serving the airport was a regional concern, but no one at the home office in Nigeria would answer the phones, and the news got worse when the State Department reported that rebel activity might have shut down the airport.
“Is their number-four engine inoperative?” The DFC asked the maintenance duty controller.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “They aren’t answering my calls right now.”
A tug on the DFC’s sleeve brought him face-to-face with the senior vice president of operations, who had a funereal look and was motioning him into the conference room where he quickly closed the door behind them.
“What is it, sir?” The DFC asked.
“I just got a call from the CIA at Langley, Virginia. Flight Six has blundered into a small war at that airport. If you reach the crew, you are to order them to take off immediately, if possible. Langley is saying their chances of survival if the rebels get hold of them are nearly zero.”
“Jesus! But we don’t know whether number four is running.”
“Can’t he take off on three?”
“I doubt it. A DC-8 crashed in Kansas City trying to do that a few years ago. It’s pretty dangerous.”
He inclined his head toward the main control complex. “Go. Tell this to no one but the crew. But get them out of there if you can.”
“Roger.”
“I’m telling you, if someone in Africa doesn’t kill that captain, I will.”
NATIONAL RECONNAISSANCE OFFICE, CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA
2:40 P.M. EDT
The somewhat routine notification by Nigeria’s air traffic control system to the originating European Air Traffic Control authority in Brussels that a flight originating in London had diverted to an African airport had been duly relayed by Internet message to the FAA’s System Control Center in Herndon, Virginia, and sent over secure lines in turn as a routine message to the CIA at Langley, where it gained the immediate, undivided attention of a computer algorithm looking specifically for such anomalies. Within minutes, a request was flashed from Langley to NRO for immediate satellite imaging of the Katsina, Nigeria, airport, which the State Department confirmed was in a state of siege from rebel forces as earlier reported by another obscure section of the CIA itself.
Deep within NRO’s building in Chantilly, three analysts—two women and a man—sat in comfortable chairs in one of the compact viewing rooms as the first images were downloaded from orbital relay.
“Okay, the 747 is at the west end and halfway turned around, sideways to the runway,” the man said.
“I’ve got two trucks, a couple of jeeps, and … some sort of cart near the nose of the plane,” one of the women added, as they verbalized their way through the shots. The next frame blinked into place, followed by a dozen more as they boosted magnification and began peeling back the meaning of the images. Within eight minutes, one of the secure lines to Langley was engaged.
“This is very preliminary,” one of the NRO team said when the CIA analyst had answered. “The aircraft appears to be surrounded by rebel troops, but apparently undamaged. We can’t see the landing gear, of course, so we don’t know if the tires are intact. However, it appears one crew member, one of the pilots, got out of the aircraft, perhaps from a hatch underneath. We see no emergency slides or portable stairs.”
“Okay. Is that a real-time picture?”
“No. Last fifteen minutes.”
“What do you show?” Langley asked.
The male analyst looked at his two female companions, who shook their heads and nodded. The story the pictures told seemed depressingly clear.
“We have two passes within ten minutes,” he reported. “During the first images, they’re forcing the pilot to kneel in front of the airplane. He’s got three stripes on his shirt.”
“That would be the Meridian first officer,” the CIA analyst replied. “That ship carries only two pilots.”
“Three stripes. We can’t read a name tag.”
“Go on. You said he was forced to kneel? Like at gunpoint?” their CIA counterpart asked.
“Definitely. That’s probably an AK-47 to his head. Eleven minutes later, on the next pass, there’s what appears to be a huge puddle of blood where they had him kneel. The computer’s still refining the spectrographic image, but so far it’s coming up consistent with human blood. Heavy on the iron and all the necessary traces.”
“Aw, shit” was the response from Langley.
“There’s a reasonably high probability they blew someone’s head off in that eleven minutes on that exact spot. Since we see no more of the first officer, there’s a moderate probability that he was the victim.”
“High confidence?”
“Let’s call it a notch lower. But it’s not fuel or oil or water.”
“How about the engaged troops?”
“These are rebel. It looks like they’ve taken the airport. There are bodies everywhere around the terminal and only a small platoon-sized element apparently huddling in a ditch to the northwest, and they’re surrounded.”
“Okay.”
“But … there is a major force of several hundred with some armor to the north. The rebels haven’t engaged them. We assume Nigerian Army.”
“How close?”
“Within shelling range right now, but they’re not deployed to fire. They’re just oozing toward the field and a half mile out.”
“Somehow they need to get that damned airplane off the ground.”
“It could be too late,” the analyst at NRO added. “There’s one more thing you’re not going to like.”
“Go on.”
“Eight buses, apparently rebel, on their way to the airport and one mile away with a dust plume on the last shot. Each bus of that type can hold fifty people. Do the math.”
“Understood. Above the passenger count of a 747. When’s your ne
xt bird overhead?” the CIA man asked.
“It’ll be infrared. Daylight’s fading.”
“Yeah, but when?”
“Another half hour. I’ll call you back.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
KATSINA AIRPORT,
NIGERIA, AFRICA
9:02 P.M. Local
As soon as one of the rebel jeeps had been positioned beneath number-four engine, a tool kit appeared, sophisticated enough to satisfy any Boeing mechanic. Garth’s confidence was growing slightly as two of Onitsa’s men helped him open the cowling and no immediate signs of fire greeted the beams of their flashlights in the waning light. Garth’s legs were still shaky after what had seemed certain execution just minutes before, and his mind was a jumbled contradiction of deep, mortal thoughts and immediate impulses, accompanied by an unexplained, steady flow of tears that seemed to make no sense. He was glad for the increasing darkness of the tarmac, and hoped Onitsa’s men hadn’t noticed.
“Okay, Phil,” he said into the handheld radio, “if there was fire in or around number four, there are virtually no traces out here.”
The bleed valve was less certain. There were wrench marks around it, as if the wrong tool had been used to manipulate it, but there was no way for him to tell whether it was damaged or not.
“If it starts,” Garth radioed, “then it should keep running just fine, unless we yank the power back at high altitude again.”
There was a monosyllabic response, and Garth motioned to his impromptu team to close up the engine covers. As soon as the engine had been resecured, Garth got off the jeep and motioned for the soldiers to move it a safe distance away.
“Okay,” Garth radioed, “Start number four.”
Garth had never stood next to a 747 engine during start-up before. The whine of the turbines starting their spin-up was impressive and loud, and he could hear the repeated snap of the ignitors firing sparks through the misting jet fuel deep inside the so-called hot section of the engine just before the flame front took hold, the hot gasses spinning the turbine wheels ever faster and accelerating the huge jet engine to its minimum idle speed.
“How are the indicators?” Garth yelled into the sound-saturated radio. The reply from Phil Knight was inaudible, but Garth saw a thumbs-up gesture through the cockpit window.
“Okay, I’m coming back in now. Start the other three.”
The first officer dashed toward the nose gear and the hatch. Onitsa was waiting, flanked by several of his soldiers.
“We have one small additional duty, Mr. First Officer,” the general said.
Garth felt a rush of appreciation and offered his hand to the big man, who took it with a smile and shook it solemnly. “I really appreciate all your help!” Garth said.
“No problem,” the rebel general replied. “Except that I need to borrow your emergency slide.” Onitsa laughed at the confused look on the copilot’s face. “Only one will do.”
Garth looked at the general. His huge smile was all but blinding.
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Please deploy and inflate one of the main door emergency slides. I will tell you when to release it. If you do this, we will let you take off.”
This just keeps on getting more and more bizarre, Garth thought to himself.
“There is a river, you see,” Onitsa said, “and these big slides make wonderful rafts. Our enemy does not expect this type of escape.”
“Okay. I get it,” Garth said, raising the handheld radio to his lips and punching the transmit button. “Okay, Phil. Here’s the deal. If we do one more thing for the general, he’ll let us out of here, but not until.” Garth explained the request for the emergency slide, fully expecting resistance, but Knight agreed immediately. “I’m ordering it now,” the captain confirmed.
“Ah, Phil. Better check the performance charts to see if we’re okay to take off with this length of runway.”
“Already have,” Phil replied. “It’s marginal, but legal. When you get up here, I’ll want you to sign off the maintenance log, with your name. This was your idea, after all.”
Garth ignored the dig and motioned the general to the left side of the plane. He saw movement above as door 1-Left was opened and the impressive mass of plastic and rubber ejected itself in a state of rapid inflation, stiffening almost immediately to provide a safe evacuation pathway down from the twenty-one-foot-high doorway.
“Very good,” Onitsa said.
Just as quickly, one of the flight attendants pulled the release handle and the top of the slide detached from the door, which she closed.
Three of the soldiers dragged the inflated slide at double time to one side of the runway and out of reach of the idling engines.
“You may go now,” Onitsa said. “But understand that there is a large government force trying to sneak up on us from the north, over there, behind the tail, and if you’re caught in the crossfire, it may be too late.”
“We’re history!” Garth said as he waved and lifted the handheld to his mouth. “Phil, can you hear me?”
The reply was instantaneous. “Yes. What the hell’s happening?”
“We’re okay to go. I’m coming back aboard.”
“Wait! I need you out there to make sure I stay on the tarmac. I’ve got to move forward a few feet before I can cock the nose gear. I’m not sure it’s going to stay on the runway.”
Garth looked at the tires on the 747’s nose gear, visible in the light of several old mercury vapor lamps still operating alongside one of the airport sheds to the south. “I see what you mean,” he radioed. “Do you have all four engines running?”
“Yes.”
Garth dashed to the left side of the nose far enough out to be seen from the cockpit. He could see Onitsa and his men racing back to their vehicles and moving off to the south side of the runway with more speed than he’d expected. “Okay, come forward Phil just to get her started. You’ve got about fifteen feet before you have to turn full left.”
The powerful engines accelerated, and suddenly the big ship was moving, the nose gear rapidly swiveling full left as the 747 began turning to the east.
In the first-class section of the main cabin, Brian Logan heard the engines increase power and felt the 747 lurch as he waited by the hatch in the floor for the copilot’s return. He looked around frantically for a crew member and spotted one of the flight attendants.
“Hey! What’s he doing? The copilot’s still outside.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“Call the cockpit! Tell that SOB to stop!”
The flight attendant wasn’t moving, and Brian turned to see Robert MacNaughton standing a few feet away.
“What is the trouble?” MacNaughton said, his voice calm and precise.
“That fool captain upstairs is trying to leave the copilot outside, just as I warned him.”
“Has anyone informed the captain?” MacNaughton asked, but Brian was already maneuvering himself onto the small ladder leading from the main floor into the electronics bay.
There were racks of electronic black boxes on both sides as he reached the small floor and turned forward toward the open hatch to the ground. Brian could hear voices talking above him as he got to his knees and held on to one of the racks to poke his head out of the hatch. At first, the copilot was nowhere to be seen, but as he struggled to look in all directions while hanging almost upside down through the hatch, he caught sight of Garth Abbott running off to the left of the nose, apparently trying to keep up with the jet.
Brian reached down and waved frantically, trying to shout above the scream of the engines for the copilot to get aboard, but Garth couldn’t hear him.
Brian had noticed a handset on the side of the electronics bay when he entered the compartment. It was identical to the one he’d used earlier to dial the cockpit. He pulled himself back up from the hatch and grabbed it, finding the two-digit code for the flight deck listed on the side and punching it in.
“Wha
t?” an angry male voice answered.
“Stop this damned airplane!” Brian ordered.
“Who the hell is this?”
“This is Dr. Logan, you bastard! You’re trying to leave the copilot behind.”
“No I’m not, I’m talking to him right now on the radio! Get off this line!” Phil Knight said.
“Give him time to get aboard. You hear me?”
There was no answer, but he could hear the engines winding down suddenly, along with popping sounds echoing through the open hatch.
A hundred and fifty feet to the left side of the Boeing, Garth was holding the transmit button down as he watched the nose gear tracking safely past the edge.
“Keep coming. Keep coming, you’re fine on the nose gear,” Garth radioed as he ran backward to keep pace while the Boeing completed its turn. He saw the nose gear swivel back to a forward position just as the sound of small-arms fire broke through his concentration. It was coming from behind him, from the north side of the runway. Garth glanced around to the north just as answering fire broke out from the opposite direction.
Jeez! We’re already in a crossfire!
He could see muzzle flashes from both directions and hear the whirring buzz of bullets passing far too close, erasing any further hesitation. He broke into a run for the electronics hatch as he yelled into the transceiver.
“THEY’RE SHOOTING DOWN HERE! GET READY TO GO!”
“The wind’s too stiff from the west for this runway,” the captain said, his words barely audible between the crack and rattle of gunfire as Garth tried to keep the speaker to his ear while dashing head down for the ladder.
“We’re too heavy for a downwind takeoff,” the captain continued. “I’ve got to taxi to the opposite end.”
Less than fifty feet remained to the ladder as the copilot raised the handheld radio to his mouth again, forcing his words between breaths.
“WE’VE … GOT TO GO … PHIL! FIRE-WALL IT WHEN … I’M ABOARD.” He reached the foot of the ladder and tossed the radio up through the hatch without waiting for the answer.
Turbulence Page 23
