Turbulence

by Nance, John J. ;

  “But, maybe not. We shouldn’t stampede to a conclusion that this is a terrorist.”

  “I agree, it’s too early to conclude one way or another. But it’s also not too early to look at the alternative theory and take protective steps.”

  David Byrd shook his head slowly as he tore his eyes away from the screens and met John Blaylock’s gaze. “John, keep in mind what you said to me this morning about the improbability of someone actually using a commercial airliner as a Trojan Horse. What was it, the conservation-of-paranoia principle?”

  “You listen well, Colonel Byrd.”

  “I try.”

  “But neither of us considered someone creating the illusion of an air rage incident to mask a Trojan Horse attack. We were discussing how someone might use a genuine, spontaneous air rage incident as a diversion.”

  “The guys I told you about in General Overmeyer’s office weren’t thinking about diversions, John. They were all worked up over the possibility that some remaining terrorist cell could whip a mild air rage scenario into something lethal just by manipulation.”

  “I really think this is something else,” John said, rubbing his chin, his eyes on the monitors. “We’ve got no evidence of any air rage except that message, which is quite likely bogus and carefully planned. And, this involves Dr. Onitsa, which means it’s got to be a package deal, which means it’s very well thought out and extremely well funded and they’re very well informed to know how to press our air rage buttons.”

  “Wait … Doctor Onitsa?”

  John searched through a folder in front of him and pulled out a two-sheet classified briefing paper, which he handed over. “He’s called general now, but he’s a physician and a very clever rebel driving the Nigerians crazy.”

  David skimmed the paper before looking up. “Never heard of him. John, we’re not losing sight of the possibility of that message from the cockpit being authentic, are we?”

  John Blaylock shook his head. “No. They know that. It’s always possible. But if so, then where did the extra dead pilot on the runway come from?” He glanced over at David.

  “Have we checked the passenger list?” David asked. “Where did this flight originate, by the way? For some reason, the call sign seems familiar.”

  John filled him in. “We don’t have the passenger list yet.”

  “You know what worries me?” David added, his eyes back on the activity at the front of the room. “The phraseology in that message. ‘Passenger riot on board’ sounds very American. All of it does. If it’s American, there has to be an American pilot on board.”

  “Or they’ve got an American turncoat on their staff who knows our idioms. Do you know you may have had a passport-carrying double in training in Moscow in the eighties?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Our old buddy adversaries, the ex-Soviets, had a lot of tricks up their sleeves. One was to select and train select Soviet personnel who physically looked like American officers or senior enlisted counterparts and put them through an Americanization course at KGB university that approached the flawless. If they ever needed to insert them into reality, just eliminate the real Major Byrd, for instance, and insert the well-trained imposter. Their linguists are still around, as are their students. Discount no possibility before its time.”

  “We’ve got pictures,” Ray said as new images flashed on the main screen. They looked closely at the picture as a small cursor appeared on the screen.

  “Okay, I’m controlling the cursor,” George Zoffel was saying. “This appears to be some sort of large shed, right here … probably corrugated metal roofing, looks like, perhaps, a hundred feet by eighty feet.”

  “Enough to put three hundred twenty people under,” Sandra added.

  “Yeah … and … we’ve got the buses all parked outside, and … wait a minute! We’ve got people sitting in rows spilling out of the structure.”

  “How many?”

  “Ray, can you get a live shot?” George asked.

  “Yeah, with unfiltered infrared.” Ray punched his keyboard and a more fuzzy version came up, white human images burning their way across the scope of the picture as they moved around the seated objects.

  “Those are living humans, all right, sitting in rows. I count about twenty-five visible. Any way they could be troops?”

  Ray toggled the picture back to the composite freeze-frame and enlarged it, eliminating the infrared images and leaving regular light. “They have electricity there and lights inside,” he said, as he once again enhanced and zoomed until wristwatches and small carry-on bags and Western-style clothing were clearly visible. “I see what’s probably an electric power plant to the right.”

  “What are we seeing in terms of racial makeup? If those are passengers from Meridian, you’ll see a cross-section of dark and light skin.”

  “And we do,” Ray replied. “I’ve clearly got light-skinned people as well as some blacks. Too many to be explained by a few stray white mercenaries in the employ of General Onitsa.”

  The door to the room opened and an aide moved quickly to George Zoffel’s side with a folded message. He read it before turning around and nodding to John Blaylock and David Byrd as he spoke to his counterparts at Langley on his headset.

  “Well, guys and gals, we’ve just received another little missile that fits the nightmare. The folks at the State Department report that General Onitsa has just contacted the Nigerian government in Abuja by satellite phone to demand three hundred million American dollars wired to an offshore account within two hours, or he starts executing his three hundred twenty hostages. He claims he let the pilots go.”

  “But we know better,” Sandra said.

  “In other words,” the voice from Langley said quietly, “whatever Flight Six is trying to carry back to Europe, it isn’t the passengers they started with.”

  “I see no reasonable alternative explanation at the moment,” Zoffel agreed with a tired sigh. “Provided all these facts hold up. Better sound the Klaxon at the White House and the Pentagon. This appears to be the real thing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  IN FLIGHT,

  ABOARD MERIDIAN FLIGHT SIX

  10:35 P.M. Local

  Janie Bretsen raised one of the interphone handsets to her mouth and toggled in the code for the PA as she looked up at Cindy, who was watching the process with a frightened expression. It was bad enough that the majority of over three hundred crowded, tired, angry passengers were already in passive revolt against the captain and crew. But the collective attitude was spiraling toward something worse, and Brian Logan was the catalyst as he walked back and forth answering questions about the copilot and the captain and the loss of his wife at the hands of this same evil airline.

  Janie took a deep breath and forced herself to punch in the PA access code. It was time to act, but the gamble she’d decided to take was unprecedented and dangerous.

  The sound of the speakers coming to life caused the usual flurry as conversations stopped and heads turned.

  Folks, I need your attention, and please hear me out.

  She could feel her heart pounding and imagine the outraged response at Meridian headquarters in the coming weeks when the cockpit voice recorder yielded the record of what she was about to say. So much for my airline career, she thought.

  A new lead flight attendant has taken over this cabin crew, and that’s me, and things are going to get much better. My name is Janie Bretsen. I was a deadheading crewmember going along to Cape Town, but because of what’s happened and the way Miss Jackson, the previous lead flight attendant, has grossly insulted, manipulated, and lied to you ever since push-back in London, I’ve finally come to the conclusion that I can’t tolerate this any more. I’ll probably be fired, but I’ve relieved Jackson. She’s the acid-tongued flight attendant some of you chased out a while back.

  There was a ripple of exchanged glances in the cabin, and more eyes meeting hers directly, but no one was grumbling or moving in her direction.


  Okay. Look, I’m … just as disgusted as you, and I’m just as scared. I don’t understand any of what’s happened today any more than you do. Please believe me, though, when I tell you that your flight attendants are not the problem. We are NOT your enemy. With the exception of Judy Jackson, that is. In fact, your flight attendants were being ordered by Jackson not to get you water and coffee and food except when she decreed it, and they were threatened with being fired if they bucked her. Now I’m in charge of the cabin, and we’re going to do our dead level best for you by serving every drink we’ve got, every snack we can find, and by trying to get this captain under control.

  It’s true that none of us can understand the loss of Garth Abbott, the copilot, or how the captain could leave him behind. We can’t understand much of anything this captain has done. But I have a big, big request of you. I know that some of you are openly talking about going to the cockpit. Please … no matter how furious you are … don’t even think about trying to get through that cockpit door. All of us want to live, and starting a fight with a lone pilot while airborne could be fatal for all of us, not to mention the fact that the captain is still legally in command, thus any attempt to break in could be a crime.

  And I have a second big request. Please try to stay seated with your seat belts fastened. In return, I promise that your flight attendants, under my command, will NOT lie to you about anything, and we’ll do our best to make you as comfortable as possible until we can all get off this airplane.

  “We understand that we have your sympathy, Janie,” a male voice bellowed from the rear of the cabin. “But are you with us?”

  Janie raised the handset again and hesitated before answering. Calculating the consequences of the various things she could say. It was still better, she decided, to be an ally trying to soothe them from within. It was the best chance she had to keep them under some sort of control.

  This captain’s conduct is not what my airline is all about. So, yes, I’m with you. Now, we’ve got to be very careful what we do, because the situation is so dangerous. But, yes, my crew and I are with you.

  The man who’d shouted the question stood and started clapping slowly, loudly, and others gradually joined him until most of the passengers were also standing and applauding.

  Janie nodded to them as she lowered the handset, gratified to see almost everyone sit down and reach for their seat belts. She wondered if the captain had been listening on the flight deck. The fact that she’d already discussed this sympathize-and-control ploy with the rest of her crew might insulate her career from Meridian’s inevitable outrage, but it was still a gamble—not that there was any real choice. No one but Brian Logan had been leading the passengers up to now.

  She saw a short man with a completely bald head leaning over another row of passengers and staring out the window. He was motioning to Logan, and she saw the doctor move rapidly from several rows away to the man’s side.

  “He’s turned north,” she heard the man say. “He’s steering about ten degrees left of due north.”

  “Back to London, in other words,” Brian answered.

  The man nodded, then shook his head as he glanced around at several others. “Could be anywhere along the way. He could be taking us to the middle of the Sahara. In fact, it could be Libya.”

  Logan turned and caught Janie’s eye as he pointed to the window and shook his head. She could see his lips compressed in anger, but she hurriedly motioned for Brian to come to her.

  He hesitated and looked around before complying.

  “Come in here,” Janie said when he’d reached her. She pointed to the privacy curtains which screened the galley from view.

  “Why?” Brian responded, suspicion evident in his tone.

  “Because we’re both trying to get some control over this situation,” she said, as if cooperation between them was an agreed goal. She held her breath and turned without waiting for a response, pushing through the curtains to move to the far side of the galley’s interior before turning to see if he’d followed.

  He had.

  “The son of a bitch has changed course again, Janie,” Brian Logan said, coming up to her. “Now he’s heading north.”

  “Do you think,” she replied, “he could be trying to go back to London?”

  Brian Logan was breathing hard, his right hand nailing the air in frustration as he glanced in both directions, then met her eyes once more.

  “I don’t know where he’s going, but I do know we can’t trust him for a second.”

  “But, there are no other pilots aboard, and without him, we’re dead. That’s the reality, isn’t it?” she replied, quietly, watching his eyes and keeping them locked on hers.

  He hesitated, then nodded. “That’s what’s driving me crazy. We’re hostages here!”

  Janie reached for his left arm, touching it gently, then closed her small hand as far as it would go around his upper arm, momentarily stunned by the rush of attraction she felt toward him. He was looking at her intently, and she wondered if he felt the same thing, but she hurriedly pushed the thought aside.

  “Doctor … Brian … as long as we’re still airborne and moving toward some safe airport, shouldn’t we just wait it out? I’m afraid of panicking the man.”

  He made no effort to pull away, and she felt a tiny bit of tension evaporate. He could be talked to. She was going to have to build his trust, but he wasn’t unreachable. Thank God, she thought as he broke lock on her eyes and looked away.

  “We can’t let the arrogant little bastard kill us all,” Brian was saying.

  “But … But …,” she said, squeezing his arm slightly, “if we try to take over, and we have no one else qualified to fly a 747 …” She let the rest of the sentence trail away and suppressed a small flutter of guilt at using the technicality to mask a lie. Technically, Robert MacNaughton was not qualified to fly a 747, but he was qualified in a 737, so he understood big airplanes and systems. However, putting MacNaughton in the pilot’s seat would be nothing more than an emergency backup if all else failed. “I agree the captain’s a bastard and worse, Brian, but be practical! If … if there were another 747 pilot aboard it might be different, but not just any pilot can land this large a ship. Besides, that’s a reinforced door up there, and I don’t have a key. There’s no way you could get in unless the captain opens it, and he’s trained to never open it just because someone’s threatening his crew.”

  “I know all that!” he said, grinding his teeth and closing his eyes as her alarm grew. She could feel his anger rising again, his frustration about to boil over. She tugged on his arm in an attempt to turn him back to look at her, but he wouldn’t turn. She saw him pinch his nose as he cleared his ears and shook his head slightly.

  And suddenly he was looking at her with the same distrust as before.

  “My ears!”

  “I’m sorry?” Janie said, thoroughly off balance.

  “You feel that? The pressure’s changing.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Why is the cabin pressure changing?”

  Three other men pushed through the curtain from coach.

  “Hey, Doc?” the first one said. “Hickson back there says he’s trying to go to Libya now.”

  Brian whirled around, breaking away from Janie’s grasp and ignoring the statement. “Are your ears clicking?”

  The men exchanged glances as they paused to take stock of their ears, one of them shrugging. “I don’t know …”

  The first man began nodding energetically, his eyes wide. “Hey, yeah! Mine have been clicking. What’s that mean, Doc?”

  “Did you have to do a Valsalva maneuver to clear them?” Brian asked, his voice intense.

  “Val … what?” he asked.

  “Valsalva. Close your mouth, pinch your nose, and blow until your ears clear.”

  The two exchanged another glance. “Ah, no. They’ve just been popping.”

  Brian moved across the galley and ripped the curtain b
ack, surveying the passengers.

  “So what does that mean?” another man asked behind him.

  Brian turned to Janie, who was feeling stunned at the sudden loss of connection with him. “Okay, Janie, what does it mean?”

  “I … I don’t know,” she answered, her mind racing over the question. “Probably he’s climbing to a higher altitude. Why?”

  Brian inclined his head toward the cabin. “Because they’re all working to clear their ears back there, and mine are still popping, and I didn’t hear the engines change pitch.”

  “Then, I don’t know,” she said. “But don’t worry about it. Changing altitude during a flight is routine. The pilots are … I’m sure he’s trying to find smoother air.”

  Brian let go of the curtain and turned to her, shaking his head.

  “It wasn’t bumpy.”

  “Well … I don’t know, then.”

  “You’re lying, aren’t you?” he snapped.

  “No!” Janie said, feeling light-headed as she heard her own ears pop again.

  Brian Logan pointed to the ceiling as he moved slowly back toward Janie. “He’s pulling something up there with the pressurization, and you’re pretending you don’t know.” The other two men stepped aside to let him pass until he was standing in front of her, towering over her petite figure and looking down, hands on hips, his eyes hard and angry.

  “What’s he doing to us, Janie? TELL ME NOW!”

  She shook her head, her hands out in a gesture of immense frustration. “I don’t KNOW! Honestly! My ears are popping, too. Either we’re climbing, or … or …”

  “Or what?” Brian shot back, his breathing becoming more rapid.

  Janie felt her own breathing accelerating, but not from fright. Something was wrong, but it was gradual, so it couldn’t be a rapid depressurization.

  “Wait,” she said, pointing to the entrance. She moved past him and pulled the curtain to look at the passengers herself, just as he had done. As many as two dozen were sleeping, she saw, but as she watched, an older woman in a forward row suddenly let her head loll to one side as she, too, dropped off.