Turbulence

by Nance, John J. ;

  Okay … goddammit … whoever’s banging on the cockpit door, you’d better understand I’m going to maneuver this airplane as wildly as necessary to prevent you from getting in … and if I have to turn us upside down again, the airplane could break up inflight and … and kill us all. No one’s getting in this cockpit, so BACK OFF! Understand? Enough is enough! Logan, this means you and whoever else is out there.

  Brian felt numb, which didn’t make sense. He was wearing the mask and breathing pure oxygen, but his mind felt full of cotton and Janie was faring no better fifteen feet away. He started to swing the oxygen bottle at the door once more despite the warning, but the bottle was growing inordinately heavy, and he happened to glance at the small quantity gauge on the bottle, wondering in almost detached fashion how the needle could have landed in the red zone already.

  He tried sucking harder on the mask. The oxygen was coming, but not enough, and he shivered as a sudden chill shuddered down his back. His concentration was drifting somewhere else, and it didn’t seem to matter. What was it he was trying to do?

  Cockpit! Yeah, I have to … get in! he thought. That was the mission, but he was having trouble forming the words in his mind. There was something about a bottle, but he’d forgotten what it was. Brian let himself sink down to the floor as he leaned against the bulkhead. He felt rather good. Relaxed.

  No worries, mate! Who says that? he thought.

  The door. A door somewhere. He would have to swing that heavy bottle again by a door or something.

  But first, he decided, it wouldn’t hurt to take a little nap.

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

  SITUATION ROOM,

  THE WHITE HOUSE,

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  4:40 P.M. EDT

  William Sanderson, the White House Chief of Staff and former four-star Navy admiral, followed his normal pattern by materializing before the Situation Room staff expected him.

  This time, however, they were ready, having learned the lesson months before that wherever the Chief of Staff was supposed to be, he would appear ahead of schedule and arrive with the stealth of a B-2.

  Sanderson slid into a chair at the end of the small briefing table in the relatively compact basement room and motioned to the electronic display on the wall, now blinking with several scrambled, highly classified live shots being relayed from Chantilly.

  “I have the basics,” he said. “Why do Langley and NRO think this is a possible Trojan Horse attack?”

  The director of the Situation Room slid several papers bearing red classified markings across the table.

  “Sir, these are the bullet points backing the initial conclusion. Langley believes General Onitsa worked some sort of package deal, with whom we don’t know. He’s never been in bed with terrorists before, and never put himself in our crosshairs. But if he’s made a trade, he gets three hundred and twenty hostages, then whichever organization put this together gets a place to prepare a commercial airliner carrying a legitimate flight number with some sort of mass destructive weapon. We’ve got spacebased verification that the passengers are on the ground and being held hostage, we have photographic evidence of two dead pilots from an airliner that only carries two pilots, we have an airborne 747 with apparent radio failure squawking a radio failure code, and we have an exceedingly clever digital message supposedly from the captain claiming the aircraft has been hijacked by the very passengers Langley is sure are still back in Nigeria. And just five minutes ago NRO believes one of their satellites picked up initial indications that there may be fissile material aboard.”

  “What happened? They get a positive neutron hit on the aircraft?”

  “Not exactly, sir. A few bursts that could be from something shielded on the plane, or it might be nothing at all. In other words, it’s low confidence at this point, but it’s not impossible that there could be a nuclear weapon on that aircraft. NRO also reports that there was no indication of anything nuclear at the Nigerian airport before they landed. Then again, it could have been well shielded.”

  “Doesn’t impress me one way or another unless confirmed,” the Chief of Staff replied. “They could be carrying anthrax or something chemical.”

  “Bottom line?” the director continued. “Langley is recommending we brief the President immediately.”

  The admiral snapped his eyes from the papers to the director. “And ask him for what?”

  “Authority to sound the alarm at NATO and SHAPE, as well as alert the Israelis in case the aircraft makes a sudden right turn, and authority to unleash State to contact everyone in the possible European path of the 747.”

  Sanderson looked back at one of the papers. “This says that Doctor Onitsa’s already made a demand. What’s Nigeria going to do?”

  “Wait to see if we’ll give them the money. Otherwise, they’ll wait to see what Onitsa is demanding of the Nigerian military. The first deadline—the money demand—expires in a few minutes.”

  “Where’s the Pentagon on this?”

  “Watching and waiting, Admiral, and alerting the Seventh Fleet in the Mediterranean in case we need them.”

  Sanderson looked up again and smiled. “Good. We just may need them. The Enterprise is out there, along with Eisenhower and … I forget who else.”

  “Once the Chief of Naval Operations, always …”

  “You betcha,” Sanderson replied, sliding the papers back across the table. “Very well. Where’s Air Force One right now?”

  “Signals has him near Des Moines. The President’s on the phone with the first lady.”

  “Interrupt them, hook us up, and have the Pentagon stand by to brief at a moment’s notice. You know how he always asks me right out of the box for the Pentagon’s point of view? Well, if we’re going to be shooting down an American 747 over the Med, I want everything on the table from the first.”

  The director hesitated, obviously unprepared for such a prospect. “You … think that may be the result?”

  William Sanderson stood and moved to a small table at the edge of the room to pour a cup of coffee, as he looked back over his shoulder.

  “If we can’t be virtually certain they’re not a threat, we may have no choice. He’s already given a standing order authorizing a civilian shoot-down over the U.S. if necessary. But at least, unlike that Quantum Airlines flight a few years ago with the suspected virus aboard, this time there are no passengers to worry about.”

  NRO HEADQUARTERS,

  CHANTILLY, VIRGINIA

  4:45 P.M. EDT

  George Zoffel swiveled around in his chair to catch John Blaylock’s eyes. He pointed to the main screen where another ghostly infrared image of Meridian Six streamed white heat plumes from its four engines.

  “What do you think, John? Was that some sort of aileron roll we just saw?”

  John Blaylock nodded energetically. “It was, and I’ll tell you, no sane commercial captain’s going to do such a thing in a 747, then gyrate around with steep bank angles like that. Whoever’s flying that ship isn’t one of Meridian’s boys. That tells me more than any of the pictures of pilot bodies on the runway or demands from Onitsa.”

  “You flew the 747 as captain, didn’t you?”

  “More years than I’ll admit,” John replied. “You can roll it. That’s not a problem. It’s just that none of us would ever do so voluntarily.”

  David Byrd leaned forward, watching both Zoffel and Blaylock carefully as he raised a finger.

  “Colonel, you have a comment?” Sandra Collings asked.

  “Well … I’m just an observer, but something’s really troubling me here.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, first … what if there really is a passenger riot aboard that aircraft? Is an aileron roll such an outlandish maneuver if there’s a fight going on? I mean, remember on the day of the New York and Pentagon attacks, we had a group of heroic passengers who fought the hijackers in the cockpit and brought the plane down.”

  “Hard to have a passenger riot withou
t passengers, Colonel,” Sandra replied, gesturing to a freeze-frame shot of General Onitsa’s camp with the telltale line of buses outside.

  David sighed as he scanned the shot once again, then met Sandra’s eyes.

  “True, but … I guess I’m not completely convinced all the passengers are off. Look, if Onitsa arranged this thing as some sort of deal with Group X, it’s obvious they weren’t just looking to steal a 747 … which is a bit hard to hide anyway. So what’s their purpose?”

  “The most obvious purpose is what we’re suspecting here,” Sandra replied, “taking advantage of the routine international acceptance of what appears to be a regular commercial flight using the cover of an emergency diversion to deliver a weapon. It’s a great idea, and they’ve made it even better because there’s this perceived emergency aboard and a poor, lone captain battling it out and looking for a place to land.”

  “Yeah, but hold on,” David said, pointing at the screen. “On that monitor we’ve got visual confirmation that the passengers are off the aircraft. Right?”

  “Right,” Zoffel echoed.

  “Now, if General Onitsa’s plan was to take the passengers and crew off and hold them for ransom, surely his partners, Group X, knew he was going to do that. After all, that’s the benefit Onitsa gets for the deal: the use of hostages to extract concessions and money from Nigeria. That means that Group X knew Onitsa was going to tell the world at some point that the 747 they just stole has no one left aboard except the pilots. So, Group X sends a carefully planned written communiqué claiming an air rage incident and says they’re being hijacked by their own passengers, which I agree is both clever and unprecedented. But at the same moment, that claim is completely discredited by Onitsa’s statements to the Nigerian government that there are no passengers aboard! So … why would Group X set themselves up to fail?”

  “Who says they’re failing?” George Zoffel asked. “They’ve got our undivided attention.”

  “Yes, but, what do they want us to believe? See, something’s wrong here in our reasoning.”

  John Blaylock had been smiling and keeping quiet, but now he was chuckling and David turned to him in slight irritation.

  “What, John?”

  John shook his head. “I’m sorry … it’s not you, Davey … it’s General Onitsa. Actually, it’s Doctor Onitsa.”

  “I don’t understand,” David replied, fighting a flash of irritation at the older colonel’s smugness. “I mean, I know I’m as green as they come with respect to international intelligence matters, but logic is logic.”

  John Blaylock looked at the table and cleared his throat, the smile fading and the chuckling gone. “I know this guy’s history and profile. The doctor is a master at the art of double-cross, and he’s far too intelligent to become an instant enemy of the United States in a time of war. So what’s he doing? In this case, I’ll betcha a B-1 that he’s outfoxed and double-crossed Group X, and I’ll guarantee you they don’t know it yet.”

  “Okay, I’m getting confused here,” David said.

  “So am I,” George Zoffel echoed with a wry smile. “You don’t own any B-1’s, do you, John?”

  “I certainly do,” Blaylock shot back. “And it’s a beautifully built scale model in my den.” He got to his feet and stretched to his full height before nodding to the screen where the 747’s image was still streaking northbound. “It’s a clever plan, boys and girls,” John continued. “Group X, as you call them, plans to either use that 747 to release a biological agent, or detonate a nuclear weapon, over the heart of some European city. More than likely it’s biological. The pilots are probably not suicidal. They’re probably not aware of what they’re really carrying, or what’s going to happen. But to carry out the mission, they need to hide behind the illusion they’ve tried to create that the passengers are rioting and there’s a beleaguered captain barricaded in the cockpit conveniently accompanied by a lone flight attendant. Onitsa undoubtedly swore to Group X when he was making the deal that he’d wait for them to release their anthrax or detonate their bomb before making his demands to Nigeria and destroying the illusion that the passengers remained aboard. Now, afterward, Group X won’t care where the passengers are, or were. Their mission will be complete. The U.S., however … either mourning the loss of a few million souls or the impending epidemic of just as many … will be inordinately relieved to find that at least the three hundred Meridian passengers are still alive in Nigeria. Knowing us, we’ll pay anything to get them back. So Onitsa gets his money, the passengers get to live, and Group X gets to wipe out a few million people in Rome or Geneva or London and then race underground after fingering Baghdad or Tehran, hoping we’ll pound the shit out of some civilian population center and damage our worldwide coalition against terrorism. That would explain the basis of the deal Onitsa struck.” John began pacing along the perimeter of the room, gesturing grandly. “But!”

  “I knew there was a ‘but’ in there,” Sandra replied, winking at David, “there always is with John Blaylock.”

  “Kindly refrain from interrupting your elders, young woman,” John said, winking at her as he held up an index finger to resecure the floor. “But,” he continued, “our crafty Doctor Onitsa has a flaw that so far hasn’t been fatal to him. He’s a healer! A physician. A Hippocratic oath-taker on a mission to save his people. He doesn’t really relish killing, although he’s good at it. Mainly, he’s as good at theater as he is at military tactics, and he’s been amazing at building a terrible, bloodthirsty reputation while sparing as many as possible during the civil insurrection he started eight years ago. But when it comes to wiping out London or Geneva or Paris, he doesn’t care much for the idea because the man happens to love those cities and Europe in general.”

  “You’re saying …” David began.

  “I’m saying he knows exactly what murderous thing Group X is planning and has purposefully jumped the gun on making his demands to Nigeria’s government, knowing we’d find out and be on the case in a New York minute. He knew we’d figure out that the 747 is now a flying threat long before it even reached the southern shores of the Mediterranean.”

  “There’s another loose end, John,” George Zoffel interjected. “How’d they harvest that airplane to begin with? How did they get two airline pilots to land at a remote airport like Katsina, for God’s sake?”

  “That one’s obvious, George. They rigged some sort of maintenance problem to trigger over Nigeria at exactly the right moment, or they had one of their captured Nigerian fighters shoot one of his engines out. And they probably had a powerful radio transmitter on the ground overriding Nigerian air traffic control and directing them to Katsina. In either event, Meridian’s pilots had to be terminated on the ground, although Onitsa and Group X screwed up by not considering our satellites.

  George Zoffel was nodding. “Most of that makes sense. No, I think all that makes sense.”

  “So, thanks to Doctor General Jean Onitsa’s kind assistance, we can now proceed to shoot down the empty 747 as soon as it soars over water, meaning that in a twisted way, Onitsa has become an ally,” John Blaylock said. “And I,” he added, holding both arms out and taking a small bow, “thereby rest my case. Thank you so much.”

  George Zoffel and Sandra Collings both laughed and began applauding in perfunctory fashion as David Byrd joined in, stunned by the brilliance of the plan even if disturbed that something inchoate and incomplete was still scratching at the back of his mind.

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks, folks,” John said, enjoying the moment, “although I’d much rather be paid in blondes.”

  Sandra cleared her throat and rolled her eyes as she swiveled back toward the screens while George Zoffel picked up the tie-line to the Situation Room.

  “You phoning that in to Sixteen Hundred Pennsylvania?” John asked.

  George nodded.

  “Good. Tell them if we’re wrong, it’s the fault of a rookie colonel named Byrd.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY SEV
EN

  IN FLIGHT,

  ABOARD MERIDIAN FLIGHT SIX

  10:45 P.M. Local

  Several minutes had elapsed since the last loud crash against the cockpit door. Phil Knight turned to look over his shoulder. Judy Jackson’s eyes were wide with fright over the oxygen mask obscuring her mouth and nose. Her hands were still clutching the crash axe in her lap.

  He reached back in the other direction and ganged the switches on her oxygen regulator to the 100 percent and emergency position to match his, making sure she was receiving enough pressure to stay conscious.

  Phil glanced up at the cabin pressurization panel again. The cabin altitude was just above thirty thousand now, and his breathing felt strange, as if the oxygen system were forcefully inflating his lungs and making him work to exhale each time. Somewhere in training he had heard about that, positive pressure and something called reverse breathing at higher cabin altitudes, but he couldn’t recall the details.

  The cabin pressurization controller was in manual, and he toggled the switch slightly now until the large outflow valve two hundred feet to the rear closed slightly, causing the rate-of-climb indicator for the cabin to stop climbing and settle back to zero. Thirty thousand was good enough, he figured. Ten minutes more or so without supplemental oxygen and even the portable bottles would be exhausted, leaving only Jackson and himself awake. He would send her back, then, to use the plastic handcuffs and immobilize Logan, who he’d seen on the TV monitor ineffectually battering at the door. He could see the doctor now slumped on the floor in the small hallway.

  Phil looked at the forward panel, his eyes focusing on the attitude indicator. They were in a twenty-degree left bank again. He returned the 747 to a magnetic heading of 350 degrees and reengaged the autopilot, his heart still racing as he waited for the next assault on the door.

  Something on the radar screen caught his attention, and he realized he’d been too distracted to pay attention. They were cruising at thirty-nine thousand feet, and the powerful radar beams the Boeing was sending into the night were returning substantial electronic evidence of huge thunderstorms over a hundred and eighty miles away. As he watched, a huge north-south line of yellow radar returns heavily splotched with red crawled onto the screen, indicating severe convective activity over the western Sahara. That much red on the screen that far out meant the storms were massive. He’d have to fly around them.