The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  She knew such a small area would force her to design a near perfect decent approach. It would be a tricky maneuver even for a pilot checked out in this aircraft. Without knowledge of the plane's basic configuration and flight characteristics, she could fail. Failure was not on her list of options.

  She needed a Pilot's Operating Manual, usually stored in the cockpit of every plane. When she found the charts she didn’t see a manual. She'd have to make assumptions, a fancy word for guessing. There was too much at stake for guessing. Her other choice would be to contact ATC and have them talk her through the approach. If they agreed to do that, she would become dependent on them. Not an acceptable alternative, at least not yet.

  Time to examine the rest of the plane for the pilot’s manual. She checked the autopilot and the charts to be certain she was on course and clear of near objects. She felt for her gun and unlocked the door. Bashir began screaming obscenities. "You Jew bitch! Untie me you whore of the gutter or Allah will strike you....” Ashley ripped off a foot of duct-tape and slapped in over his mouth. If only everything was that easy to fix.

  In the rear of the plane she found three large cabinets and overhead bins. She had kicked open one cabinet earlier and now did the same to the last two. They were full of miscellaneous junk: assorted parts, control cables, a dirty flight jacket, tools, a battery box, and Bashir’s rolled prayer rug. In the bottom of the last compartment she found a pile of books and magazines. With a tremor of excitement, she sorted through them but found no flight manual. Crap. The bastard has been flying this make and model for so long he doesn't need one.

  Feeling the urge to relieve herself, Ashley opened the nearby rest room door and stepped into the small space fitted with a stainless steel sink and toilet. A metal cabinet supported the tarnished sink. Overhead a cracked mirror vibrated. Ashley finished and reached for toilet paper and found none. She opened the small cabinet door under the sink, and spotted two rolls of paper on the floor. She leaned forward and got one. Under the second roll lay a tattered pilot's manual. She snatched it up like a kid who found her lost puppy.

  Clutching the manual, she started forward. Suddenly her vision blurred and she braced herself against the bulkhead near the shot-out window. The cold wind screamed though the opening, chilling her body. When her vision cleared she realized it would get colder every hour. She returned to the open cabinets and recovered the dingy jacket she had found minutes earlier. It smelled of aviation fuel, but it would keep her warm. With the flight manual she moved past Bashir, whose eyes bulged with anger.

  Back in her seat, with the door locked, Ashley searched through the manual for the information she needed. Could she trust the manual? Did Bashir alter this aircraft so it no longer conformed to these standards? If he had, her planning would be off. She remembered the picture of Bashir wearing a ton of gold braid standing in front of this DC 3. Ashley deduced from his history he would have stayed with what he knew and not make significant changes. She decided to go with the manual.

  She set about noting the critical information she needed: cruising speed 120 to 158 knots; fuel consumption 100 gallons each hour at neutral cruising speed; fuel capacity 810 gallons.

  Ashley calculated how much fuel it would take to reach the restricted area that was eighty miles north of downtown Vegas. She had enough, but only enough. She could conserve fuel if she slowed her current speed and gained altitude. A steady 100 plus knots would reduce fuel burn, and a higher altitude would lessen drag. But with the loss of cabin pressure, she flirted with oxygen depletion and the chance of blacking out if she got above 10,000 feet. She would climb to 6,000, and hope the western headwinds were weak.

  The soft glow from the instrument panel offered a haven from the black night. Patches of mist slipped between her and the twinkling lights below. The mist thickened and obstructed her view. Visual Flight Rules no longer applied. It was 8:20–time to contact ATC.

  A flip of the switch turned on the transponder. Now her aircraft became a tiny beacon showing itself as DC-3, N-149L. Ashley turned on the radio equipment overhead and studied it. A weather screen lit showing bands of clouds moving northeast. She mounted headgear and plugged in. Her hand shook as she reached for the frequency dial. Ashley realized she couldn't remember the frequencies. She rubbed her hand over her face. Think. You know this stuff. She began turning the dial hoping to hear chatter. Then she remembered the radio frequencies were on the sectional charts.

  Based on the charts she calculated she might be nearing Tucson's Class B airspace. The Awakening bounced when it entered a thick cloud formation. The twinkling lights down below disappeared.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  THE DARKENED ROOM at the Terminal Radar Approach Center bustled with a low hum of activity. Everyone from the controllers to the weather staff spoke in small voices, almost a whisper. This ATC unit served aircraft within fifty miles of Tucson International Airport. Compared with weekday traffic loads, Sunday offered an easy two-hour shift and extra time for controllers to confirm aircraft movement within their airspace.

  Julia Ramos worked aircraft passing through or landing in her sector. She noticed a blip enter her radarscope moving NNW at 6,000 feet. The blip did not broadcast a block of data. It was nordo–out of radio contact. She checked traffic in that area and found it clear, but that wouldn't last. Ramos watched this slow moving blip every few minutes. Controllers know it’s not uncommon for fair-weather pilots to forget to switch on the transponder.

  When the blip's data block lit up at 8:15, Ramos tried to make contact without success. She continued switching radio frequencies, every few seconds. At frequency 123.675 she caught a transmission fragment. In a flat even voice Ramos called, "DC- 3 November-One, Four, Niner squawk ident."

  Ashley pressed the identification button on her transponder which flashed her flight information.

  Ramos replied, "November-One, Four, Niner this is Tucson Approach, confirmed. One hundred knots, heading Three, One, Fiver, level at 6000."

  "Roger that Tucson." Ashley waited for instructions.

  "Maintain heading Three, One, Fiver, increase speed One, Two Zero, ascend and level at 10,000."

  Ashley turned the autopilot off and answered. "Tucson. Ascending to 10,000. Permission to maintain current speed."

  Ramos showed no emotion in her voice. "Negative. Increase speed One, Two, Zero knots."

  "One, Two, Zero knots, affirmative." Ashley pushed the throttle, and watched the airspeed indicator crawl to 120 knots. This would use valuable fuel, but there was no help for it. She knew ATC could see everybody and she could see no one, until it would be too late. She needed ATC at night, but she didn’t have to stay in a heavy traffic patterns.

  Ashley checked the charts and plotted a course that would skirt most congested areas on her way to Vegas. After clearing Tucson, she would have to head due north twenty minutes then assume a 310 heading. She zipped the flight jacket and cupped her hands in front of her face and blew on them. Damn cold at 10,000 feet.

  She keyed Tucson. "DC-3 One-Four-Niner request heading Three Sixty."

  Tucson Control: "DC-3 One-Four-Niner turn right heading Three, Six, Zero. Ascend 12000."

  "DC-3 One-Four-Niner, affirmative 12000."

  With the mike off she shouted, "My fingers are stiff with cold and you want me to climb to 12000?" A chill rippled through her as she searched the instrument panel for cabin temperature control. She found it under the throttle assembly, and turned it up all the way. She pulled back on the yoke and watched the altimeter edge toward 12,000 feet. It got colder, and she started to breathe faster. A sharp pain behind her eyes increased.

  Ten minutes later the radio chirped, "DC-3 One-Four-Niner. You're leaving my airspace. I'm handing you off to Albuquerque Air Route Traffic Control Center, radio frequency 125.025. Have a safe flight."

  Ashley switched frequencies and within seconds she heard a male voice welcome her, "Good evening DC-3 November-One, Four, Niner–this is Albuquerque Center. Confirm."

/>   "Albuquerque Center, confirmed." Ashley knew the Air Route Center, always referred to as the ‘Center’, would check for the required flight plan. She didn’t have a collision-avoidance-system which would have allowed her to fly at night in uncontrolled airspace. Ashley had to fly in controlled airspace. She needed to rely on the electronic eyes of ATC for her flight safety and everyone else’s. The controller at the Center didn't take long.

  "November One, Four, Niner. Flight Services has no, repeat, no Flight Plan for you on file, over."

  She decided she would tell them the truth or at least part of the truth. “Albuquerque I want to file an inflight-plan, over."

  "One, Four, Niner. What's your destination?”

  "Destination LAS, McCarran International direct. ETA 2400.”

  "One, Four, Niner. Roger that. Estimated time of arrival 2400–midnight. I'll forward to Flight Services."

  Ashley did not plan to land at Vegas. She would deal with that when the time came. She requested a course change and a decent to 8000 feet, and got it. After setting the autopilot, she noticed the cloud cover had faded and she was able to see the lights below again. She knew the hard part lay ahead: planning the decent profile.

  The pain behind her eyes became a dull ache and she felt physically weak and mentally exhausted. Ashley leaned back and closed her eyes. She remembered how her mother would sing her a soft song while rocking her back and forth when she came home from school crying. She let the tears flow now. No one could see her. No one would hear her sobs.

  The sound of the engines, steady and smooth, comforted her. At the lower altitude warmer air eased the cabin temperature. She'd set the autopilot to take over, and checked the weather screen: all clear for now. Ashley had a little time to rest–needed to rest, but only for a few minutes. She fell asleep at 2100–nine o'clock Mountain Standard Time.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  THE CALL FROM THE EL PASO Field Office came in at 5:45 Sunday afternoon. Dorothy Hogan forwarded it to Walter, then went into his office and watched his face grow pale as he listened to the report. Walter learned of the trail of blood in the hanger, and the bitter news that Ashley had disappeared. Staring down at his hands, Walter bent over and his eyes appeared moist. Dorothy tried to comfort him with a hand on his shoulder. "Get Johnson and Ramirez," he said, unable to look at her.

  Earlier that day he had received the DNA reports confirming Abdullah al Jamal had perished in the Maljamar explosion and Bashir Hashim survived. Ashley had been right, Bashir was the surviving terrorist and now both were gone.

  Bill and Mark ran into his office minutes later. "What's up?" Bill asked a bit out of breath. Walter, his expression now grim with anger, told them what he’d learned. "That madman Bashir has Ashley, and he's gone off in a plane registered to his address in El Paso."

  Mark stood at attention. "Gone, what's that mean?"

  "She tracked Bashir to a hangar at the El Paso airport where he had a plane stored. I have the tail number. There's blood on the floor of the hanger. The plane took off at 5:30."

  Bill steadied himself against the doorframe. "If there's blood it has to be Ashley's, otherwise she'd have him in custody."

  Walter tried to stay centered. "All they know is that Bashir contacted Clearance Control at 4:45, and the Tower cleared his plane for departure at 5:20. Fewer than thirty minutes ago."

  Mark shook his head. "Can they track him?"

  Walter looked at Bill who shrugged his shoulders and said, "There's a big FAA building over on Louisiana Boulevard, not far from here. We could call them."

  Walter stood. "This needs a face to face. Let's go."

  On their way out, he told Dorothy, "Call the FAA. Tell them we have an emergency and I’ll be there in minutes. Then call Director Delong. Fill him in on the situation. He’ll know what to do.”

  "Yes, I know Delong’s secretary. I'll get through to him. Count on it."

  CODY ROGERS, Director of the Albuquerque ATC Center got Dorothy's phone call. He left orders for the security guard at the entry gate to escort the FBI personnel to his office when they arrived. Ten minutes later, Walter Kent, Bill Johnson and Marcos Ramirez entered his office on the first floor of the building.

  Rogers stood, introduced himself and offered his hand. "Some kind of problem?"

  "Yes." Walter shook his hand, showed ID and made brief introductions. "This is what I can tell you. We have identified an armed terrorist flying an aircraft out of El Paso. This man kidnapped one of our agents. Our agent and many American lives are at risk–thousands, maybe more."

  Cody Rogers gasped. "Are we talking another 9-11?"

  "Not if we can stop him. We need to find that plane."

  Rogers straightened. "We control airspace in this region. If he's in our system we'll find him. Can you identify the aircraft?"

  "Yes. It's an old DC 3 with a tail number N-149L.

  Rogers nodded. "Follow me, upstairs." He took the steps two at a time. When the others caught up, he took them into a dark cave-like room, put his finger to his lips to signal quiet, and then walked to a nearby corner to consult with a tall man wearing headphones. The man's badge read Floor Supervisor. After a brief conversation, the man moved into another room filled with rows of men and women staring intently at green illuminated radarscopes.

  "That's Ryan Simpson," said Rogers to the FBI crew. "He's a good man. This center controls aircraft at low, high and ultrahigh altitudes. He will start with low and high targets. Given the age and type of aircraft that’s where it’ll be found." Rogers pointed to an alcove off the main room. "Stay there, I'm going to check Flight Services for a flight plan."

  Rogers left them and disappeared into the semi-darkness of the control room. Minutes later he returned. "Flight Services has no flight plan on file for our aircraft. I've sent out an alert to all towers and approach control facilities in the region. They will be on the lookout for this aircraft."

  Ramirez shook his head in disbelief. "Don't you know where all the planes are?"

  "We control only aircraft we can identify and talk to. Sure we have safety rules, but if a pilot wants to fly blind to us, he or she can do it. Right now our DC 3 is only a blip with no ID on someone's radar screen. Mr. Kent, I'm going to call the National Airspace System in Virginia. They conduct traffic flow management for all flights occurring in the United States. The Command Center needs to know about this threat. Can you be more specific?"

  Walter stared at Cody Rogers, who appeared to be a competent and sincere man. "That's top secret. Details must come from Edward Delong, FBI Director, but I can tell you this aircraft is armed with an explosive device capable of inflicting massive loss of life, if set off in a populated area."

  "Thank you. That's what I needed to know." Rogers turned abruptly and dashed back into the darkened control room.

  Walter Kent had no control over events confronting him. Powerless, he had to wait, hope, pray, and depend on others. He thought of Ashley and felt a lump in his throat. This can't be happening–not to my Ashley. Please. Not to Ashley.

  SIXTY-NINE

  ASHLEY FELT A STRONG GRAVITY TUG on her body and woke up. The engines whined at a high RPM. Oh God, how long have I been asleep? She checked the altimeter and discovered she had dropped two thousand feet. She heard an urgent voice in her ears.

  "DC 3 November One, Four, Niner, do you read my transmission? Over."

  Ashley checked the time–9:30. She had lost 15 minutes. She overrode the autopilot, adjusted her power settings, and pulled back on the yoke. The engines labored at a climb rate of 500 feet a minute.

  Again an urgent voice. "DC 3 November One, Four Niner, this is Albuquerque Center, acknowledge?"

  Ashley answered, "DC 3 One, Four, Niner, affirmative Albuquerque. I've experienced a sudden drop in attitude due to Clear-air Turbulence."

  "One, Four, Niner, is this C. A. T. an emergency?"

  She reviewed the weather screen. It displayed isolated turbulence in her immediate area. "Negative, Albuquerque. I exp
erienced an air pocket. Returning to 8000. Over."

  She had been out of touch with ATC for too long. They probably had to reroute aircraft for avoidance purposes. When she reached altitude she reported: "Albuquerque, DC 3 One, Four, Niner, 8000 and level. Sorry about nordo."

  She waited for confirmation. A different voice responded.

  "DC 3 November One Four Niner, radio frequency change to One, Two, One, Point Fiver, repeat frequency change to One, Two, One, Point Fiver, confirm." Ashley confirmed the change and adjusted her radio to transmit on the Universal Emergency Frequency. This frequency was never used for communication. It was reserved for extreme emergencies. Did they know more than they were saying?

  Explaining her mission to ATC this early in the flight complicated her strategy. She had hoped to delay this until after Las Vegas. By then there would be little they could do to interfere with her plan. The Air Force would have limited options, too.

  After turning the dials to the assigned radio frequency, she announced, "DC 3 One, Four, Niner. Tag-up Albuquerque."

  The Center wasted no time. "DC 3 One, Four, Niner, who is piloting this aircraft?"

  Ashley's thumb trembled as it hovered over the response key. She could lie. Make up a name. Try to confuse the situation. But no, she must do her job. This frequency was off the working network. She dropped the formal nomenclature. "Who's asking?"

  "This is Ryan Simpson, Floor Supervisor for this center, identify yourself."

  "Special Agent Ashley Kohen, FBI, sir."

  "Confirm your identity, Agent Kohen. What is your badge number?"

  "FBI agents don't have badge numbers. You can confirm my ID with Special Agent in Charge Walter Kent. Albuquerque. Field Office 555-480-1000, over."

  "We know you filed a flight plan terminating in LAS and that you are carrying an explosive device on board. What is the purpose of your flight?"