“You have no firepower,” the FBI Director scolded, clambering to his feet.
“There’s no intelligence gathering capability at DHS either,” the CIA Director said. “This whole investigative effort requires solid intel.”
“We’re talking about a goddamned logistics nightmare,” said the Marine Corp Commandant, his baritone voice resonant over all the others. “The American people’s ability to move around this nation quickly and safely by air.” The burly Marine pulled a cigar from the inside pocket of his uniform jacket and stuck it, unlit, in his mouth. “I don’t see this as an act of economic terrorism. To what end? This is an attack on America’s commercial airline passenger industry, plain and simple. I’m with the Commander in Chief. Concentrate our resources on protecting the airlines.”
Jack felt the tide rushing away from him. One more try, “There’s a term we used in the Teams called, ‘distributed lethality.’ It is the strategy of not giving the enemy one big target. Instead, spread out the weaponry of war—the destructive payloads, the technology, guidance systems and sensors—to a host of smaller units—”
“Distributed warfare,” interrupted the Chief of Naval Operations. “Smaller targets are harder to find, and losing just one does little to undermine our overall offensive capability. It’s like Hercules' Hydra on a regional or global scale.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said. “To the enemy, it’s death by a hundred cuts. That is the trap we’ll fall into by allocating all of our resources to the airlines exclusively. It is exactly what the perpetrators want. Once we’re totally committed to the airline’s safety, then they attack the other, more exposed forms of transport. Suddenly, we’re being attacked on multiple fronts. Impossible to defend against.”
Jack watched the President apply his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose and squeeze. Hell of a decision he’s going to have to make.
The President raised his head and looked Gallagher’s way, “Have your people identified the next most likely targeted airlines?”
“We’ve identified six possible airlines,” Gallagher said. He ticked off each, including the two largest that made businesses ferrying vacationers from the mainland to the Hawaiian Islands.
The President said, “Here’s what I see: Two airline disasters. But thankfully a tolerable loss of life. Yet, a helluva lot of PR activity from them.”
Heads nodded around the Situation Room table. There was silence except for the Marine Corps Commandant chewing on the end of his unlit cigar.
“Okay, ladies and gentlemen,” the President said, “Jack and Helen, I appreciate your assessment of the lesser forms of transport. Terrorism is based on the PR value of the attack rather than the actual body count. Whoever did this is attacking the trust and faith in our commercial airline system. That is an industry that employs over 500,000 people and flies 100 million people annually—”
“All voters, by the way,” the National Security Advisor interjected.
The President glared at her. “Without trust and faith in safety, no one is going to fly,” the President continued. “No other form of transport has so many people concentrated in one place. The airlines must be the target of choice. Homeland takes the lead in focusing on the airlines. CIA and FBI provide support as needed. Jack, you will stand down on this one. Let the professionals do their jobs. And everyone else, stop this interagency squabbling. It wastes time and irritates the hell out of me. Dismissed.”
Everyone rose from their seats as the President got up and walked out of the Situation Room. It was now 4:45 a.m.
Benched, thought Jack as he followed the brass out of the room. Just like that. Sure, toss the ball to the bureaucrats. That’s the risk-free way of dealing with the problem. Get the blame off the President’s shoulders and increase his distance from more terrorist acts. Let the agencies take the heat. But it’s the wrong decision. What now?
* * *
Chapter 17
Colonel Li Yong strode down the aisle of the 10th floor of Unit 61398. It housed air and space targets. The floors below accommodated the maritime targets and overland transports—buses and trucking. Below that the specialists focused on trains and subways carrying passengers, goods, equipment, chemicals, fuels, and food. America depended on its network of trains and subways. The specialists in banking and finance worked on another floor. They targeted the movement of money through the Federal Reserve System and operations of the various stock exchanges.
Finally, there was the fifth floor. Within this controlled access enclave worked experts targeting the most economically critical targets: America’s fuel and oil pipe lines and refineries along with the electrical utilities, and the dams providing hydroelectric power.
No one knew the full extent of the mission. Interaction within the teams was encouraged. But discussion of the broader mission was absolutely forbidden. There can be only one true master, Li Yong thought. Lose me and the whole thing goes up in flames. It is my life insurance.
“Sir, my humble apologies for our failure with InterTrans 3361.” The skinny, sallow-faced 5-foot 5-inch computer hacker bowed in obeisance. He was a major in the PLA.
Li Yong looked down at the shorter man. They were so much more than ordinary soldiers—their impact, immensely greater. He had hand-selected each. Their battlefield less defined but hugely more important than any his beloved country had ever fought over. They would never respond to harsh rebuke.
Li Yong grasped the man’s hand and used it to lift him from his bow. “Just our bad luck,” Li Yong said solely for the Major’s benefit. “Who could have known there was a remote-control takeover system aboard that LTS450? Or that there was some sort of pilot workstation within the vicinity? No one!”
No one, that is, except for the one person who looked for it, found it and then incorporated it into his plan. Good God, there was no reason to needlessly kill 147 innocents. Especially when we achieved the same end by allowing the chance for a gentle landing on a beautiful day in calm waters safely off the coast of Los Angeles.
Li Yong spoke loudly more for the minders than for the Major, “Actually, your attack worked as designed. It utilized the weakened Safety Management System of the InterTrans airline. Most impressive, Major. Reflective of your team’s superior capabilities. Our failure resulted from circumstances over which we had no control.”
The Major’s eyes grew wide with the unexpected reprieve.
“When are the next targets scheduled for attack?” Li Yong asked. The Central Committee will ask the same question within the next day or so. Everything is in place. All of the remote computer launch points are locked and loaded. Impossible to trace any action back to the Motherland.
The Major punched a few buttons on his keyboard and the printer in his cubicle erupted to life. “I have the target list, Colonel,” he said handing him the printout. “And the times we launch the attacks and the damage estimates.”
Li Yong scanned the list. His eyebrows rose and fell as he considered each familiar target and the calamity its destruction will cause. Again, in his loud voice for the benefit of those listening—the men will think I’m going deaf. “Three more days of testing each targeted node, and we will be ready. After that, Xi BigBig has asked that we launch just a few attacks over the next two weeks. He says the American press will do the rest of our work for us. Their headlines will first spread disbelief, then denial, and finally fear. Xi BigBig has studied the Americans’ dropping of two nuclear bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He says it is not so much what you actually do but what you have the power to do that wins the war.”
Li Yong hoped this was true of the Americans. Why launch all the attacks at once as the Chairman ordered? That would cost countless lives for no reason. Just a few attacks followed by the mass hysteria the American press would create. Then maybe a couple follow-up attacks as a demonstration of China’s resolve should do the trick.
“Sir,” the Lieutenant in charge of the meteorology unit called out, hustling after him. “I
thought you should know. The severe weather front forming over Hawaii has grown stronger.”
Li Yong’s breath caught in his throat. “How strong? When will it reach critical mass?”
“In three hours, sir. It is an F-1 tropical storm. Maui and Lanai will get the worst of it. The Big Island of Hawaii will be affected, but not as much.”
“And the hack into air traffic control?”
“Complete and tested,” the lieutenant said.
“Very well. Carry on, Lieutenant.” Li Yong stepped aboard the elevator. A tropical storm without ATC? An added challenge for the pilots. They should be able to handle it. He pressed the button for the ninth floor, where his next group of targeting specialists was diligently finishing up the last steps in preparation for launch.
* * *
Chapter 18
“Captain, I’m receiving a message from Air Traffic Control,” said the co-pilot of the Sun Island 747.”
“They’re always chatty when we approach Honolulu,” the 747 captain said. “What do they want?” The captain sat comfortably in his seat 10,000 feet above the blue Pacific Ocean. He had four minutes of peace before they entered Honolulu International Airport’s landing pattern.
“More than just being chatty island controllers,” the co-pilot said. “Seems that they’re having some sort of problem with the Air Traffic Control radar. Everything is down.”
The captain took one final look through the windscreen at the gathering dark clouds over the Hawaiian island chain now just three minutes ahead. Then he switched his radio to the ATC channel for a listen.
“HNL air traffic, your transmission is breaking up,” the captain said. “Please repeat your last.” Both men looked at one another. “Did you copy that?” the captain asked.
The co-pilot shook his head. “Must be an electrical storm. They play hell with the radios out here this time of the year. The radar systems too sometimes.”
“Must be,” the captain agreed. He scanned the glass panel displays. “Altitude 10,000, airspeed 350 knots.”
“Roger instruments,” the co-pilot was all business now.
“Let’s not enter the pattern,” the captain said. “We can’t land anyway without clearance. Maybe ATC radar will come back online.” He wiped his upper lip.
“Out here in this soup is one helluva time for ATC to crap out on us,” the co-pilot said. “I’d feel better knowing they were watching nearby traffic for us.”
“Keep a sharp eye,” the captain ordered.
“Roger that.”
“Please request a climb to 15,000 and a figure-8 pattern ten miles north of the HNL pattern while we wait,” the captain said. The co-pilot radioed the change request to Honolulu Air Traffic Control.
“Clear to change as requested,” the co-pilot said.
The captain reached for the control panel, “Disengaging autopilot. I have the airplane. Climbing to 15,000 and making a left turn out of controlled airspace.” The jumbo jet’s nose came up and its left wing dipped. The Sun Island Airlines 747 was now flying parallel to the Big Island, ten miles outside the designated landing pattern.”
The co-pilot had his iPad in his lap and was reading from the Jeppesen charts for Honolulu International Airport and the surrounding area. “Steady at 15,000.” The co-pilot checked his map. “When ATC comes back online, we’ll have to descend to 7,000 before reaching the landing pattern’s outer marker.”
“Roger. They’ll bring us into runway 8L over Ewa Beach—”
The co-pilot had just finished his FAA Crew Resource Management refresher. “It’ll be 8L unless the Kona winds are blowing with this storm. Then ATC will switch the landing direction and bring us into 2-6L, the reef runway.”
The captain wondered if the radios went out how would they know Honolulu ATC had switched the landing direction or not? “Which way are the winds blowing now?”
Five miles ahead of the Sun Island 747, the captain of a Blue Hawaii A320 pulled his seat harness tighter. He picked up the cabin intercom and keyed the mic, “Ladies and gentlemen this is your captain. How about remaining seated and maybe give your seatbelts a little extra tug? There’s quite a bit of turbulence over Honolulu. We are currently in a holding pattern. Sit tight, and we’ll keep you informed from up here on the flight deck.”
“Radios are still sporadic,” stated the A320’s co-pilot. “ATC radars and their computers are still down. They’re texting us now. Can you believe it? ATC just switched the landing orientation due to the Kona winds.”
“By text? Seriously?” the pilot said. “Must be some kind of awful radio problems they’re having. Meanwhile, we’ll orbit outside the pattern—”
The co-pilot looked down at his cell phone. Another text message was just now coming through: Blue Hawaii 658, climb to 15,000 and turn right to 150 degrees. Maintain until further notice.
“Guess that says it,” responded the pilot. A former Naval aviator, he was used to following orders. He pulled back slightly on the A320’s side stick and pushed the throttles forward to maintain airspeed as the airliner with 150 passengers and crew climbed through the rain and thickening gray clouds on its way to flight level 15,000 feet.
Bang! Bang! Passengers aboard the Sun Island 747 screamed when they heard the crash. The giant jet shuddered at the impact. To the pilots up on the flight deck, it seemed every warning horn Boeing had installed was going off.
“I have the plane,” called the pilot over the din. Then he flipped the autopilot switch to off. Immediately, the 747 yawed to port and dropped its nose toward the ocean.
“Number four engine is out,” shouted the co-pilot.
The pilot was struggling to bring the jumbo jet back to level flight. Reaction from his 30 years of flying and constant training, not to mention his 22,000 hours in the 747 cockpit instantly told him the most immediate problem: The plane’s propulsion was out of balance. “Re-engage the autopilot,” he commanded the co-pilot. He didn’t want to take even one hand off the control column.
“Autopilot, re-engaged,” the co-pilot said.
The pilot watched the autopilot panel light glow green. The giant jet’s nose began to rise. It’s descent slowed, then the plane began to climb back up to 15,000 feet. The artificial horizon indicator rose back up to an even split between the sky blue on the top half and sandy brown on the bottom—straight and level flight again.
Slowly the pilot peeled his fingers off the control wheel. His hands hovered there, barely an inch away from seizing the wheel again, until he was satisfied the autopilot was undamaged. “Let’s run the in-flight checklist and see what kind of damage we’ve sustained,” he ordered the co-pilot.
The main cabin of the Blue Hawaii A320 was instantly quiet. That lasted just a few seconds as the shock of the crash took hold. Once the passengers looked out the windows and saw the aircraft was in a flat spin—turning like a helicopter’s rotor blade—the screaming began.
The A320 had been climbing up to 15,000 feet as the text message ordered. With ATC’s change, the doomed jet approached the 747 at a 45-degree angle. The combination of the A320’s rate of climb and the closing speed—about 700 miles per hour as both aircraft converged on one another—made the inevitable only a matter of high school geometry.
The 747’s Pratt & Whitney 4056 jet engine—big enough for a man to stand inside of—crushed the smaller A320’s entire flight deck on impact. Both pilots were instantly killed, their bodies sucked out into the open sky. The crash immediately peeled back the front of the fuselage like a can of corn. The explosive decompression was devastating.
Since the A320 was approaching from below, the 747 pilots had no idea it was there.
“Captain, I think we had a mid-air,” the 747 co-pilot said. “For just a second off to our left and below, I saw chunks of debris and what could have been its tail section spinning off.”
“Can’t worry about them now,” said the pilot. “Let’s concentrate on that checklist and see what we have to work with.”
&nbs
p; “Number four engine is offline. Number two engine has just forty percent thrust. Must have ingested some of the debris. Cabin pressure is stable. At least, nothing punctured the skin. The nose gear is offline.”
“The nose gear?” repeated the Captain.
The co-pilot nodded, “Yes, sir. Its electrical and hydraulic systems are unresponsive.”
“That’ll make for a touchy landing. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
Suddenly, both men heard their radio crackle to life. “Sun Island 232, Honolulu ATC. Our radar and computers are still down—”
The pilot said into his mic, “Sun Island 232. At this time, I am declaring an emergency. We have suffered a mid-air with another aircraft. Our plane is stable for the moment. Number four engine is offline and number two has diminished thrust available. Nose gear is inoperative.”
“Roger emergency Sun Island 232. Must have been the Blue Hawaii A320. That is the only aircraft that failed to acknowledge our radio contact.”
A few seconds of silence passed. Then Honolulu ATC’s professional voice came back, “Can you make Kahului?” The ATC operator fed them the vectoring information and radio channels for the Kahului approach.
“More of a country airport compared to Honolulu,” said the pilot.
The co-pilot had already looked it up on his iPad. “At least, its runway 2-20 is 6955 feet long.”
“Sun Island 232, affirmative. With our damage and this weather, I am going for just one approach.”
“Roger Sun Island 232. I will have emergency equipment standing by on runway 2-20. When you enter the pattern, I will hand you off to Kahului control. We’ll take good care of you, Captain.”
Man of Honor (Enforcement Division Book 4) Page 8
