by Rick Mofina
Two uniformed police officers had entered his car and were headed in his direction.
Sixty-Nine
Denver, Colorado
An unmarked white Chevy Trailblazer, its emergency lights wigwagging in the grille, idled at Denver International Airport.
Nick Varner, who’d been alerted to his pickup, spotted it upon arriving after his ninety-minute United Airlines flight from Williston, North Dakota.
An FBI agent got out of the vehicle to greet him and take his bag.
“Mitch Butler. We met at the Chicago conference.”
“Hey, Mitch. Thanks.”
“Welcome to Denver, Nick.” Butler opened the passenger door for him. “Let’s get rolling.”
The SUV pulled away with its lights flashing and threaded through traffic. In minutes they were speeding northbound on 85 as Butler updated Varner.
“Our subjects, Veyda Cole and Seth Hagen, landed in Denver. We tracked them to a motel on Colfax Avenue. ERT’s processing their room.”
“Anything?”
“Nothing so far.”
“What about the GPS on the rental?”
Butler nodded big nods.
“Pay dirt. We’ve locked onto it and are setting up for a takedown.”
“Really?”
“The signal shows they’re stopped in the middle of nowhere in Weld County.”
“Maybe they dumped the rental?”
“Maybe. We have no visual and no contact yet. We’re in the process of getting confirmation. Here’s the area.” Butler handed a phone displaying a map to Varner.
“Who’s in on this?”
“Everybody. We’ve got our SWAT out of Denver Colorado Department of Public Safety, State Patrol, and Weld and Morgan County Sheriff’s Departments. We’re still marshaling resources. We’ll be joined there by experts from the NTSB’s Denver office to provide immediate assessment of what we might find related to hacking flight systems. We’re setting up for an operation in a community barn in Galeton. It’s on the map there. That’s where we’re headed now. We should be there in an hour, give or take.”
Varner studied the map.
“What could they do to jetliners out there in the middle of nowhere, Mitch?”
“Anyone’s guess. There’s nothing out there but a whole lot of nothing, except for the Minuteman missile launch sites.”
“Missile launch sites? Are you serious?”
“But they’re empty and inactive, so it couldn’t be that.”
Seventy
Palmdale, California
Camilla Rosa’s eyes narrowed on her radar screen in the dimly lit room housed by the Los Angeles Air Route Traffic Control Center.
Ever since receiving the FAA’s recent alert, Rosa had been functioning at a heightened sense of awareness at her station.
She was a skilled, conscientious air traffic controller, a ten-year veteran who was ever vigilant, but news stories about the FBI’s search for three people related to the London crash and the troubled EastCloud flight had every controller on edge.
The Los Angeles Center’s reach of responsibility encompassed the southern half of California, southern Nevada, southwestern Utah and western Arizona.
Trans Peak Airlines Flight 2230, nonstop to JFK, was one of the flights in Rosa’s sector. The flight had crossed over Las Vegas and was high above Lake Mead, Nevada. Soon it would be over southwestern Utah and out of her sector.
Rosa was preparing to hand off the flight to Denver Center when she felt a tiny ping of concern. Flight 2230’s altitude was thirty-five thousand feet, the altitude assigned to the flight. But she’d noticed the aircraft was climbing to thirty-six thousand feet.
What’s up with that?
Typically, east-to-west and west-to-east flights were assigned odd-numbered flight levels, while north-to-south and south-to-north flights were assigned even-numbered ones.
No immediate traffic was in Flight 2230’s corridor, but the pilot had not requested to leave his assigned altitude, so Rosa radioed the aircraft.
“TP Twenty-two Thirty, LA Center. You’re at flight level three six zero. Return to flight level three five zero.”
“Twenty-two Thirty. Roger, LA Center. Stand by.”
Rosa allowed sixty seconds. During that time she tended to other flights in her sector while keeping an eye out for 2230 to return to its assigned level. When it didn’t happen, she radioed again.
“TP Twenty-two Thirty, LA Center. You’re still showing level three six zero. Request you return to flight level three five zero as you’re approaching Denver Center sector.”
A full ten seconds passed in silence.
“TP Twenty-two Thirty, LA Center. Did you copy? Return to flight level three five zero.”
“Twenty-two Thirty. Roger, LA Center. Uh, we’re working on it but it seems we’ve got a system issue. Request you clear space until we can correct things.”
“TP Twenty-two Thirty, what is your systems issue?”
“Twenty-two Thirty. LA Center, that’s what we’re trying to figure out.”
Rosa scanned the vicinity near Flight 2230. They were clear in their space, but her unease had deepened, and in keeping with the FAA advisory, she pressed a button to summon her supervisor.
Seventy-One
Oklahoma
Five minutes after Seattle-bound NorthSun Airlines Flight 118 had flown over Oklahoma City, First Officer Sam Zhang blinked several times while scrutinizing their course readings.
“We seem to be veering slightly,” Zhang said.
Captain Will Miller stuck out his bottom lip after appraising the figures on display.
“Just the autopilot adjusting. Give it another few minutes.”
Five more minutes passed, and Zhang saw nothing change as the plane continued heading off course.
“Still veering,” Zhang said.
“Maybe we’ve got weather up ahead and it’s compensating.”
“But we have no weather issues showing and no advisories.”
Miller nodded and got on the radio.
“Kansas City Center, NorthSun One Eighteen. Have we got weather issues ahead?”
“Negative on weather, One Eighteen, but we show you moving out of your assigned course. Please correct and advise.”
“NorthSun One Eighteen, will do.”
Miller turned to Zhang.
“Sam, see what you can do to adjust it and get us back on the straight and narrow.”
Zhang made a number of inputs calibrating longitude and latitude. All were rejected. He reset and tried again. Nothing happened.
“It’s refusing my adjustments.”
“That’s nuts,” Miller said. “Let me try.”
The captain’s attempts met with the same result.
“How’s our separation?” Miller asked, his tone betraying a degree of frustration as he continued trying to correct the course heading.
“We’re still good,” Zhang said.
“NorthSun One Eighteen, please adjust your heading.”
“NorthSun One Eighteen here. Kansas City Center, we’re on it. Seems we have a sticky issue. We request you clear space until we resolve this.”
“NorthSun One Eighteen, identify your problem.”
“NorthSun One Eighteen. Center, that’s what we’re trying to do. Stand by.”
“Sam, take us off auto and I’ll do this manually.”
Zhang shut off the autopilot then Miller took control of the aircraft.
“All right, Sam, make the correction.”
Zhang input the changes but nothing happened. Miller exchanged a glance with him then tried directing the plane manually.
His commands were refused.
“What t
he hell?” Miller said. “It’s got to be a bug in the system.”
Zhang’s face was sober with concern.
“I think we should report an anomaly.”
Miller was shaking his head.
“Let’s run a diagnostic first.”
“But that will take too long and who knows where we’ll be then. Sir, I think we should first report an anomaly. We could still run the diagnostic.”
Miller licked his lips and nodded.
“Okay. All right. NorthSun One Eighteen. Kansas City Center, we’re reporting an anomaly with our flight-management system and request you clear space for heading...”
Seventy-Two
Washington, DC
Jake Hooper gripped his laptop computer under his arm like a football as he joined his supervisor, Anson Fox, and the new IIC, Reed Devlin, in running upstairs to the NTSB chairman’s boardroom.
The alert that two in-air jetliners had confirmed flight-management control trouble moments ago had impelled top national security officials to convene an emergency teleconference to assess the facts and take action.
The NTSB chairman and several board members, along with chiefs from Major Investigations, Research and Engineering, and Aviation Safety were already at the large table. Hooper, Fox and Devlin found seats as the teleconference call got underway.
Speakers crackled on the line as the FAA led the teleconference with a short roll call. The same array of national security offices from earlier calls and meetings were represented.
“Here are the facts, people,” Estevan Diaz, chief operating officer of the FAA’s Air Traffic Organization, began with a lightning-fast summary of NorthSun Airlines Flight 118 and Trans Peak Airlines Flight 2230, nonstop to JFK.
“One Eighteen out of Miami is Seattle-bound. It’s a Startrail AV600. The crew count is sixteen. The passenger count is six hundred. The second plane, Twenty-two Thirty out of LA, is headed for JFK. The plane is an Ultra Supreme 880. The crew count is fourteen. The passenger count is four hundred ninety-five. In total, we have eleven hundred and twenty-five souls aboard these two planes.”
Diaz gave the course coordinates for each jet, which Hooper recorded in the notes he was making in his laptop.
“Given our current situational concerns, we believe that the flight systems of both aircraft have been breached. Both aircraft employ aspects of Richlon-Titan’s fly-by-wire systems. We’re also taking into account our new intel—that the Zarathustra email was sent to the Kuwaiti Embassy in advance of the Shikra Airlines crash, confirming that the suspects have the ability to undertake cyber hijackings. We’ve alerted NORAD and the National Military Command Center to the flights, as well as all national security organizations, and we’re consulting the planes’ makers and the airlines on the situation.”
The White House national security advisor was the next to speak.
“So we have two remotely hijacked planes in two different regions of the country. Are there any others reporting trouble?”
“No others,” Diaz said.
“What’s the status of action to bring them down safely?” the White House advisor asked.
“Yes.” Cord Bolton, office deputy director for operations for the military command center at the Pentagon, cleared his throat. “At this time we’re scrambling fighters to the aircraft for escort or other operations.”
“And our pursuit of the suspects?” the White House advisor asked.
“We’re poised to launch an arrest operation near Galeton, Colorado, where we’ve located a vehicle rented by two of the three suspects,” Kal McClure, with the FBI director’s office, reported.
“How much time before we have an arrest?”
“I’m advised that we’re within half an hour, maybe less,” McClure said.
“And the third suspect?” the advisor asked.
“We’re still in pursuit. We believe he’s in Washington, DC.”
“Any other actions before we brief the president?” the advisor asked.
“The FAA is recommending an immediate national ground stop of all nonmilitary and nonemergency aircraft,” Diaz said.
“We’ll brief the Oval Office. Anything else?” the advisor asked.
“Oh, no,” Hooper said aloud.
“Excuse me? What was that?” the White House advisor asked.
Hooper, who’d been working as fast as he could making calculations, turned his laptop computer to Reed Devlin and whispered, “Reed, look. Of over five thousand flights in the air, only two have reported control issues. Given their present courses, these two aircraft will intersect somewhere over Galeton, Colorado, within forty minutes.”
Devlin’s face whitened and he tapped the shoulder of the supervisor next to him. Soon, the NTSB chairman spoke.
“Yes, this is the NTSB. Inform the president that our rough estimates show that these two aircraft are on a collision course that will end in about forty minutes over Colorado.”
“You’re certain?” the White House advisor asked.
The NTSB boss looked at Hooper, who nodded.
“We’re certain,” the NTSB chairman said.
“Deputy Director Bolton?” the advisor said.
“Yes?”
“What’s the ETA before the fighters reach the jetliners?”
The director did a quick calculation then said, “They should reach the respective aircraft within fifteen minutes.”
“We’ll brief the president. If we can’t restore control of the planes to the crews, we’ll be forced to consider the option of engagement.”
Seventy-Three
Weld County, Colorado
High above the vast reaches of the empty prairie, an FBI drone scoured the ground below.
It flew at a height that kept it invisible and silent from detection.
Equipped with high-powered video cameras and sensors, the small surveillance aircraft gave agents at the command post in Galeton a critical aerial view of the area where the GPS trail of their subjects had stopped.
The agent piloting the drone at a control console exercised the precision of a surgeon, carefully watching the video screen as she stabilized its position.
The camera panned, captured objects, then zoomed in.
The clear image of a lone vehicle emerged on the screen. Near the vehicle two people came into view, one male and one female, sitting on a blanket with laptop computers.
The camera pulled in closer.
“Is that the grip of a handgun by the male’s leg?” asked Nick Varner, who huddled with other agents and SWAT team leaders near the monitor.
“We can’t confirm,” the drone pilot said. “But that’s as close as we’re going to get, sir.”
“All right, let’s go,” Burt Young, the FBI SWAT commander, said. Then he instructed the drone pilot, “Keep us updated on movements because they’re going to see us coming.” Young confirmed coordinates with the other teams, who would each take a compass point for their approach, boxing in their subjects. Then he turned from the group and signaled to his team. They shrugged into their gear and climbed into the vehicles parked outside.
Varner strapped on a vest and helmet, checked his weapon and found a seat next to Mitch Butler, who had been on the phone.
“So what about those missile launch sites?” Varner asked.
“Just had it confirmed—they’re empty and inactive.”
Varner nodded. “Good. We can rule that out.”
Engines revved and seconds later FBI, city and state SWAT teams moved out in a convoy of armored police trucks, along with two ambulances from Weld and Morgan counties, and two NTSB experts in an SUV taking up the rear.
They were braced for all eventualities.
Seventy-Four
Washington, DC
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The two police officers who’d entered Robert Cole’s Metro car had moved past him without stopping.
Cole exhaled his relief but kept his face in his files until he got off at the Metro Center station, where he boarded an Orange Line train to the L’Enfant Plaza Metro station.
Anxiety surged through him during the short ride but he regained his focus on what he had to do as he stepped from the train, blending in with commuters as he made his way to NTSB headquarters. Suddenly, the enormity of his situation caught up with him, stopping him in his tracks outside the building’s entrance.
How did my life come to this? I’m wanted by the FBI. Veyda’s killed fifteen people and is planning to kill more.
He ran his fingers over his dry lips. He craved a drink. One drink.
No, you have to keep going. Cole tightened his hold on his briefcase. Stop thinking of yourself. You have to fix this and you have to do it now.
He entered the main lobby.
Streams of government workers and employees of companies in the building were using their ID badges to go through the security turnstiles. Nongovernment visitors had lined up at the security desk, where they had to show identification and provide the names of the people they were there to see. Their personal items were passed through a scanner and x-rayed.
I can’t let it end here. I’ve got to see Hooper.
Cole licked his lips and fumbled for the ID badge he’d used when he’d worked on NTSB investigations long ago. He eyed the security officers while keeping his head down. His line moved steadily.
Remain calm and act natural. Calm and natural.
“Next,” said the young female security guard, Atley, according to her nameplate.
“Robert Cole to see Jake Hooper with NTSB Major Investigations.” Cole placed his ID on the desk.
Atley looked at it carefully, deepening his fear.
“It’s urgent,” Cole added. “I’m party to an investigation.”
Atley looked at Cole, typed on her keyboard then reached for her phone.
Cole glanced at other security officers, momentarily eyeing their holstered guns. Then he looked back at Atley, not liking the way she was tapping his card on her desk while on the phone.
