Turbulence

by Nance, John J. ;

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, it looks like we’re just helpless observers at this point until and unless he makes it to the Med, but I’ll sure feel more secure when our F-14s get a close-up look at that 747. Before I have to decide to bring it down, I mean.”

  “They will have thought of that, Mr. President,” Jeff replied. “Whatever our pilots see in the windows of that jumbo jet will reinforce the idea that it’s a civilian airliner full of passengers, and thus no harm to anyone.”

  “Maybe so, but …”

  “Sir, may I suggest something more?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “If … Qadhafi were to think that this aircraft was headed for Tripoli, his fighters would be ordered to down it even if it wasn’t over Libyan territory.”

  “Which,” the President began, “would constitute a reprehensible act in violation of dozens of protocols, not to mention a violation of the territorial rights of Algeria, which is where the wreckage would come down.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And, you’re looking for me to sign a finding, are you?”

  “No, sir. I didn’t say that. I suppose I was just wondering if we should be really, really careful to make sure Mu’ammar doesn’t get that idea, or should we just let him interpret our background communications any way he wants?”

  The President looked at Bill Sanderson through the almost transparent medium of the advanced teleconference wall, and Sanderson looked back, his right eyebrow raised slightly, a lifelong gesture of conditional disapproval the President knew well.

  “Very well, Jeff,” the President replied, shifting his gaze to the man from Langley. “I will not sign any finding that authorizes the CIA to purposely instill a false belief in the Libyan government that this Meridian airplane is on its way to Tripoli with lethal intent, and I do not approve any specific attempt to lure the Libyans out of their own airspace. Short of that, if they stupidly misunderstand some … private message we’re sending to third parties that they happen to illicitly intercept, such misunderstanding will be at their own peril.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bill, you say the Seventh Fleet is ready?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “How long before the flight reaches the Med?”

  “A little under ninety minutes, Mr. President.”

  “Okay. We’ll reestablish this conference in ninety minutes with some serious decisions to make. As soon as our pilots can safely intercept the flight to the north of Qadhafi’s airspace, I want to know what they’re seeing. But make sure they’re ready to shoot. Once we’ve solved that, we’ll turn our attention toward ransoming our people in Nigeria.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

  IN FLIGHT,

  ABOARD MERIDIAN FLIGHT SIX

  11:15 P.M. Local

  Janie Bretsen sat beside Brian Logan in the small alcove behind the cockpit door for what seemed an eternity, breathing what remained of the oxygen in her portable bottle as Brian did the same, both of them clearing their ears as the cabin repressurized. When it was obvious the bottles were no longer necessary, Janie motioned Brian to where Robert MacNaughton had fallen, putting the portable mask on MacNaughton’s face and blasting him with pressurized oxygen until he began to stir.

  “What … I mean, where …,” he said, looking around at both of them.

  “We’re stabilized for the moment,” Brian told him, quickly describing what had happened.

  “Good heavens!” Robert said, rubbing his forehead. “Is everyone awake again?”

  “I’m going to find out,” Janie replied, getting to her feet and moving down the aisles, putting the yellow supplemental oxygen masks on the unconscious passengers one by one as Brian stood and helped Robert to his feet.

  “That, most decidedly, was the last straw,” Robert MacNaughton said.

  They descended the stairway and Janie motioned to Brian to help with the masks in first class while she looked for her crew and helped revive the rest of the cabin. Brian moved into the cabin, relieved to see all the occupants standing or sitting and rubbing their eyes.

  “Everyone up here okay?” he asked.

  There were nodding heads and questions, and he quickly filled them in.

  “He did it on purpose?” one of them asked, an incredulous look on his face.

  Brian nodded, chilled by their rapidly growing outrage.

  There was an empty rest room between coach and business class, and a suddenly protesting bladder forced him inside.

  In the main cabin, the passengers whose masks had been snapped in place slowly began opening their eyes and refocusing while those still without masks remained unconscious. Many of them were in extraordinarily awkward positions, some draped over armrests into the aisle, but some draped over each other as well, whether they were acquainted or not. Slowly they, too, began to wake, many in pain with ear blocks from the pressure change, all of them upset to learn that the captain had tried to hurt them.

  Dan Brown had collapsed by door 2-Left while his wife passed out in her seat, oblivious to anything until Janie passed her row and pulled her mask in place. The small trickle of oxygen accelerated her return to consciousness, and the sight of her husband’s empty seat propelled her into the aisle in search of him. There had been nightmares, or dreams, or something in her head about shooting and shouting and something terrible happening to him. There was a taste of panic in her mouth as she moved forward and spotted him at last asleep on the floor.

  There was an open oxygen mask compartment next to the flight attendants’ seat and she grabbed one of the masks and put it to his face, and was greatly relieved to feel his pulse. She massaged his hands and watched him slowly come back.

  “Honey? Are you okay?”

  His eyes were open and glazed, but his mind was engaging slowly, and within a minute he was sitting on his own.

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We’re still flying?”

  “Yes. I passed out, too. I think everyone did.”

  “The masks are down,” he noted, looking around and wincing at the headache which shot across his forehead.

  “I’m a little nauseous, but okay otherwise. How are you?” Linda Brown asked.

  “Confused,” Dan replied. “There was something … the PA I think … the doctor said the captain was raising the cabin altitude, right?”

  “I think so,” Linda replied.

  “Then … the son of a bitch.” Dan shifted his body and started to clamber to his feet, but hesitated as the aircraft seem to undulate around him. He rubbed his head and sat back down.

  “Honey, let’s get you seated,” Linda said.

  “Wait.” He opened his eyes again and took a deep breath. “No. This has gone far enough. Where’s that doctor?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Does everyone know what happened?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said.

  There were footsteps behind her, and a male hand reached out to Dan Brown to pull him to his feet.

  “You all right?” he said.

  Dan nodded.

  “How about you, little lady?”

  Linda felt a flash of anger at the sexist phrase as she looked up, recognizing a loudmouth she’d noticed before. The hardened look on the man’s face told the tale.

  She stood and looked around the cabin, shocked at how many people were on their feet and talking, angry expressions on their faces as the words of the captain, the oxygen deprivation, and the wild gyrations of the plane all coalesced into a growing firestorm of indignation.

  “On purpose! That’s what I heard.”

  “What was he yelling on the PA? I was about out of it when …”

  “I tell you what. I wasn’t in favor of interfering before, but that jerk in the cockpit’s gonna finish us off if we don’t do something.”

  The flight attendants assigned to the rear cabin were coming forward, but they were being met by an aisleful of upset peopl
e asking questions and pointing out the few passengers who had yet to awaken. For the first time, the roar of human voices began to rival the background roar of the slipstream.

  Dan Brown was fully awake now and out of control. He’d seen where the bullhorns were kept in the overhead compartments and moved to grab one, clicking it on and facing the sea of outraged faces as he pulled the trigger to activate the amplifier.

  Hey! Anybody doubt Doctor Logan now?

  A noisy chorus of “no’s” broke out and died down.

  You all realized that son of a bitch in the cockpit just tried to kill us?

  A ragged “yes” rippled through the crowd, less satisfying in its volume, but just as determined.

  Robert MacNaughton had entered the front of the coach cabin as Dan Brown began using the bullhorn, standing quietly a few paces behind him until Brown looked around and saw him. Robert nodded toward the bullhorn and Brown handed it over, not expecting the controlled vitriol that rolled off the corporate chairman’s tongue as he began to outline a renewed plan to remove Phil Knight from the controls.

  Brian Logan emerged from the rest room into a cauldron of milling anger, his reappearance in the cabin greeted by a spontaneous cheer from those closest to the front. Robert MacNaughton was leading the way and began outlining for Brian the new plan for storming the cockpit, as both men and women pressed in from behind. Brian spotted Janie Bretsen standing to the left, an ashen expression on her face, and two other flight attendants farther back who were caught up in the crowd and the emotion. One of them even raised her fist in defiance along with the rest of the passengers when Robert turned and asked for another unified response.

  “We can’t … do that,” Brian said to Robert, trying to keep his voice too low to be heard by the others.

  “We can and we must,” Robert MacNaughton replied. “This captain is incredibly dangerous.”

  “But …,” Brian began, stopping himself as he surveyed the angry eyes in every direction around him.

  “We should have listened to you, Doc,” one of the men said, whose face he didn’t recognize.

  There was noisy agreement as Robert resumed briefing him on what was a serious plan of attack: five men using a metal galley container as a battering ram to blow through the cockpit door without warning.

  “Any comments?” Robert was asking, his eyes boring into Brian’s. “Are you quite all right, Doctor?” he added.

  “What?”

  “I asked if you were all right. We must act right now.”

  Brian felt the cabin undulate violently. He was aware of the thirty or forty or more passengers standing in furious anticipation and waiting for his answer, waiting for his continued leadership. Robert MacNaughton’s initiative in formulating a new assault was tactical leadership, but they obviously considered Brian the leader of the revolt. This was his work, his revolt, his mob, all of them out of control and enraged. These were the people he’d cajoled for hours directly and indirectly to do something about the arrogant and uncaring Judy Jackson, her crew, and the captain, inciting them to rise up and refuse to be victimized by the agents and employees of the entity he hated most in the world: Meridian Airlines.

  And he’d succeeded.… But at what?

  The magnitude of what was happening pressed in on Brian, colliding with shifting realities and changing perceptions. Even the angry exchange with the captain had rattled his previous conclusions about Meridian.

  The copilot, for instance, had turned out to be a decent man, and Janie … Janie over there had turned out to be a caring ally. Only Judy Jackson and the captain had remained in his crosshairs, and the dark possibility was looming in his mind, however remote, that the captain might not have understood that the copilot was bleeding to death outside.

  He looked at the angry mob again, delivered ready for action by perhaps the most restrained, erudite, and judicious man on the flight, Robert MacNaughton. Had his rage blinded MacNaughton as well?

  My God, what have I done? Brian felt the words form in his mind, already understanding their import.

  He took a quick breath and held up his hand as he glanced at Robert MacNaughton, then back at the crowd.

  “Hold it! Wait a minute! I … didn’t have time to tell you that we’ve forced the captain into an agreement.”

  “An agreement!” someone said in a sarcastic tone. “With that bastard?”

  “WAIT! LISTEN TO ME!” Brian moved forward a few inches, forcing Robert to step to one side.

  “What are you doing, old man?” MacNaughton said in a low, irritated voice. “We’re wasting time.”

  Brian ignored the question, his hand still in the air in a stop gesture as he reached for the bullhorn with the other and activated the trigger.

  Okay, everyone! Hang on! I know the SOB upstairs tried to knock us all out and almost succeeded, but he didn’t because we were up there trying to batter down the door. So I worked out a deal with him. Remember, all he has to do is flip one switch and we’re all unconscious within seconds, so in return for our not trying to break in, the captain has promised to continue on to London and to keep the cabin pressure normal, and not try any more moves like that. I wasn’t able to budge the door anyway.

  Brian released the trigger, aware of the ripple of negative responses before him.

  “Have you forgotten we were going to bleeding Cape Town?” One of them shouted.

  “And what about the copilot you said he murdered?” yelled another.

  He said we don’t have enough fuel to make Cape Town. That’s why we’re returning to London. He … also swears he didn’t hear me telling him on the interphone back in Nigeria to stop the plane. He swears he didn’t know the copilot wasn’t aboard until he was on the takeoff roll.

  Robert had Brian’s left forearm in a vise grip, forcing his attention.

  “Doctor, the element of surprise is paramount. We must act now.”

  “And what if we don’t need to? He could still kill us if we tried to get him out of there. Don’t forget they’ve got a crash axe in there, and although I don’t believe it for a moment, he claims to have a gun.”

  “If we move rapidly enough,” Robert retorted, “there won’t be any time for him or that ridiculous lead flight attendant to mount a defense. I don’t care how reinforced that door is, with all of us hitting it with everything we can find, we’ll get in and get him out.”

  “Robert, I … I’ve gotten everyone too riled up without thinking this through. We can’t lose control of this.”

  “We never had control, Doctor. We’re trying to get it, in fact.”

  “What are you guys talking about up there?” one of the men said from several feet behind Robert. “Are we going to do this or not?”

  Robert turned to him and raised a hand. “Stand by. We’re dealing with tactics.”

  “I’m sorry, Robert,” Brian continued. “We’ve got to stop this. I think now it’s best to wait him out. I mean, I talked to him, and I was wrong. The man is a terrible captain at the very least, but he’s not suicidal, or we’d already be dead.”

  Robert MacNaughton looked him carefully in the eye. “You think we’ve become a bit hysterical, then?”

  Brian nodded. “I do. I have. I have. I’ve been too hysterical.”

  “Perhaps, but may I remind you that, unless I’m somehow mistaken, it wasn’t you who decided to make a strange, apparently useless emergency landing in Nigeria. It wasn’t you who abused these people for hours on end, lying to us, as you pointed out, in London about the Queen and almost everything else.”

  “I know.”

  “And it obviously wasn’t you who shot the copilot. So, are we overreacting when the captain attempts to kill us all with oxygen deprivation?”

  “I’m not sure …”

  “Not sure that he was attempting to render us unconscious in a manner that could kill?”

  “He may not know the lethal effects of sustained hypoxia, Robert. Most civilians don’t, and the copilot told me this
guy is a very weak pilot.”

  Robert kept his jaw clamped shut as he shifted position and turned to survey the faces around him, looking back finally at Brian after what seemed minutes.

  “Very well. I suppose you did have me violating one of my personal maxims, you know. Acting without thinking.” Robert turned to the glut of passengers behind them, raising his voice. “We’re going to wait! Doctor Logan is right. Armed intervention may not be necessary, but I’d like those of you who were going to break down the door, to stay ready in case we need you again.”

  Perhaps it was the ramrod-straight bearing of the man or the polished, authoritative accent, Brian thought, but the corporate chairman’s words instantly deflated the explosive tension.

  Most of them don’t even know who he is, Brian thought.

  Robert moved into the crowd, explaining the decision and calming tempers as Janie caught Brian’s eye and gave him a fleeting smile. He smiled back, almost overwhelmed with the need to reexamine all he’d said and done since London, and feeling wholly off balance and embarrassed.

  He looked up again to where she’d been standing, but she’d already moved down one of the aisles and out of sight.

  There was a glow from a panel on the bulkhead wall to one side and Brian looked up, relieved to see that the captain had kept another promise and turned the Airshow display back on. He moved around to get a better look and studied it for a minute, his eyes tracking the blue of the oceanic sections bordering North Africa and the west African coastline and recording the position of the small icon representing their 747 as it flew north. He was too preoccupied to catch the meaning of the lines and symbols at first, but something there was vying for his attention, and in frustration he focused on the electronic map and what it was showing: a projected flight path about to cross the southwestern border of Libya in less than a hundred miles … on a course roughly aimed at Tripoli.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ASSOCIATED PRESS HEADQUARTERS,

  NEW YORK CITY

  5:20 P.M. EDT

  The e-mail message flashed onto Robert Hensley’s computer screen just as the prospect of an early dinner promised respite from a boring shift.