The Seventh Message

by William Johnstone

  Ashley closed her eyes for a moment. She was about to say words never before exchanged with any air traffic controller. Every muscle tightened as she spoke. "I have on board one disabled terrorist and one enabled nuclear bomb. It's locked down. I'm going to a location where no one lives and detonate this device."

  Communication with ATC is rapid and concise. It is rare to experience dead air. Ashley waited 15 seconds before a response. “Say again."

  "I have a nuclear bomb locked down. I can’t defuse it. Over."

  Ashley’s heart rate quickened when she heard, "Stand by." Hold a minimum altitude of 8000 and navigate to the nearest landing point: Love Field coordinates N 34.39.29 by W 112.25.15". Over."

  "Negative, Albuquerque, I can't do that." Ashley imagined the turmoil her response caused. You almost never refuse an air traffic control command. You might question it, but you comply.

  "This is an aviation imperative. Proceed to Love Field immediately. Bomb experts will be on hand for your landing. Over."

  "Sorry, Albuquerque, I'm signing off. I have work to do." Ashley started to remove her headphones when she heard a familiar voice.

  "Ashley, this is Walter, I'm here at the center." His words came quick and sounded strained. "What's going on? Are you alright? Are you safe? Talk to me. "

  Ashley brought a shaky hand to her forehead. She was willing to deal with the inevitable, but this was too much. She gripped the yoke. “I'm sorry, Walter. I messed up again, but I can't turn back. If only I could." She choked out those last words.

  He sounded frantic, now. "Whatever it takes. I want you back. Tell me what you need. I'll make it happen."

  She drew in a breath and expelled it slowly. "I know, but you can't help me. There's a nuclear bomb on board that will explode below 500 feet. I can't disarm it. No one can. Tell them. Explain it to them." Her voice trembled with awareness and fatigue. "I'm going to the bombing range north of Las Vegas. That's a safe place. No one will be hurt. That's the only way. I'm sorry Walt. I'm so sorry for everything.

  "What do you mean no one will be hurt?” He screamed, “You will be hurt!"

  Ashley felt a tear slip down her cheek. Her voice cracked when she said, "If only you could be here, but you can't. I have to do this alone." Ashley switched off the radio.

  SEVENTY

  WHEN SHE TURNED the radio off her hand quivered, and she felt a deep fatigue. The pain in the back of her head started again. She felt like throwing up, but a dry heave was the best she could do.

  The engines, invisible in the clouded night sky, labored against the buffeting winds. Until now, fear, and the adrenalin it produced, had given her energy. But at this moment she felt lost in a nightmare of hopelessness.

  She leaned back, closed her eyes and thought of the people in her life who had real meaning. She thought of her mother, who remained her guiding force in time of stress. Ashley sensed if her Mom was watching she would be proud of her. And then there was Walter. She finally admitted her feelings for this man who clearly cared for her. Ashley opened her eyes and realized she was grieving for the loss of companionship she would not live to experience. Life was a gift filled with setbacks, and this would be the hardest to accept.

  Feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t fly this plane and get this job done. People’s lives were at stake. She checked the charts and airspeed. Fuel looked marginal. NOAA weather showed a low-pressure system moving in with winds 20 gusting to 35 mph, light to heavy rain, and mostly cloudy.

  Based on the coordinates ATC gave her, she was crossing Prescott, Arizona’s Love Field right now: the time 10:35. Vegas lay190 air miles or about two hours away. Once she cleared McCarran International it would be less than an hour to her target. She had to plan a descent profile that ended in the middle of R4807-B.

  To fly over Las Vegas airport, one of the busiest in the western United States, she had to drop down into uncontrolled airspace: below 1200 feet. That would keep her out of the busy air traffic pattern. Once past that point she must climb, then begin her slow controlled descent. She didn't know how high she must climb or how long the descent, but she knew the outdated autopilot in this plane would be useless.

  Ashley began her calculations with the aid of the flight manual and aeronautical charts. She had to determine the precise power settings, manifold pressure, and engine revolutions per minute to make this work. Maintaining a speed of ninety knots allowed her to travel one point four knots every minute. She knew that once past North Las Vegas, she had only sixty-five miles to complete this maneuver.

  She wrote down numbers, then scratched them out. She calculated several altitudes to begin her descent and found them too low. Finally, she settled on a design that worked–on paper. As soon as she left uncontrolled airspace, she had to climb to 12500, level out for two minutes, and then begin her descent. She must lose altitude at a rate of 500 feet each minute for twenty-four minutes. Her aircraft would travel thirty-three point six knots before terminating over the restricted area at an altitude of exactly 500 feet. Terminate at 500 feet. She realized the word 'terminate' had several meanings. End of flight. End of life.

  Ashley knew her plan would work in a perfect world, but she also knew the world wasn’t perfect. With a front moving through, winds would be unpredictable. She would also have to endure cold thin air at 12500 feet. How long could she endure that environment? And then the fuel. Would it last? The distance she had flown already exceeded her earlier calculations. Running out of gas would be an ever-present danger.

  She checked the time. One hour from Vegas. She must contact ATC. They were tracking her and probably frustrated by her silence. She hoped they would be cooperative, whatever the hell that meant. Short of shooting her down, which would end badly for everyone, what could they do? Yank her pilot license?

  To avoid Las Vegas controlled airspace, Ashley started her decent as she approached the city. Sometimes she would break out of cloud cover and see lights below, but most of the time she lived shrouded in the blackness of a cloudy night.

  USING HEADPHONES plugged into the audio circuit Cody Rogers and Ryan Simpson, in the darkened room of the Albuquerque Center, listened to the conversation between Walter Kent and his special agent. Finally it made sense. She couldn't land at Love Field or any airport because the bomb was rigged to go off in midair. Cody's expression turned to horror. "Jesus Christ, Ryan, we have a disastrous situation here."

  Ryan's face drained of color. "My mother lives in Las Vegas."

  Cody didn't hear him. He yanked the headphone off and ran to his office downstairs. His mind raced through the choices that confronted him. This might be worse than 9-11. More people could die. He had to take action. How much time did he have? It's the middle of the night. He searched his computer for bookmarked phone numbers. "National Airspace System," he muttered as he speed dialed the System Command Center in Virginia. Someone had to be on duty. They worked 24/7.

  THROUGH PUFFY, WATERY eyes Alex Borkowski saw the red light blinking on the console. After thirty-two years with the FAA he'd seen all the red lights he wanted to see the rest of his probably short life. He ran his hand over his hairless scalp and stretched the other out to get the phone. It didn't reach, so he scooted his chair a few inches to the left and snagged it. In a slow southern accent he said, "Traffic Flow Management, Borkowski speakin'."

  "This is Cody Rogers, Albuquerque Center. We have an emergency. We're tracking a target carrying a nuclear bomb."

  Borkowski frowned. "It's too damn late for this kind a bullshit. Balls of fire, Cody. This ain't funny."

  Cody sounded hysterical. "Wake up you old fart. This is real. A DC 3 is approaching Las Vegas flown by an FBI agent with a terrorist and an A-bomb locked down. She can't land because the bomb is rigged to go off below 500 feet. She can’t stay in flight and we can’t predict what’s going to happen."

  Borkowski staggered to his feet. "Okay. Gim'me the data block info and the flight plan. Are you in active contact?"

  A moment of sile
nce. "Not right now."

  "What in blue blazes?"

  "We're tracking her. She's planning to go to a restricted area at the Nellis bombing range north of Vegas. She's going to explode it there."

  "Mother of God. We can't know what might happen, so I'm gonna assume the worst. First, I’m gonna curtail operations at Las Vegas Approach Control and McCarren Tower. I want ya to reroute all aircraft, commercial and private, away from Vegas airspace. Tell 'em to land at the nearest feasible location. I'll get ahold of Los Angeles and Salt Lake Centers, same deal."

  "What about Nellis?"

  "I'm puttin 'em on alert.

  Cody rubbed the back of his neck. “Grounding this many planes will disrupt the entire continental system.”

  “You got that right.”

  “And scare the crap out of everybody."

  "Better scared than dead."

  SEVENTY-ONE

  HEAVY RAIN SPLATTERED against the cockpit windows, setting off a choppy cavalcade of sound as Ashley neared McCarran International. She continued losing altitude to avoid the heavy flight traffic serviced by that airport. She knew Vegas Approach Control would see her on their scopes when she crossed the 50-mile radius in only a few minutes. She opened her emergency radio frequency to ATC. "DC-3 November-One, Four, Niner-Lima. Do you read me Albuquerque, acknowledge?"

  She received an immediate response. "One, Four, Niner, yes we read you. You are below your assigned altitude. Climb and level at 8000. Maintain speed and heading."

  The stabbing pain behind her eyes persisted. The instrument panel became a blur. She reached out to touch the bulkhead–a solid and stationary object giving her balance. Come on old girl get it together. You only need two hours, maybe less.

  Her headphones squawked, "One, Four, Niner. Do you copy?"

  "Sorry Albuquerque. Is this Ryan Simpson?"

  "Affirmative. Talk to me."

  "I'm descending into Class G airspace to avoid McCarran traffic."

  "Negative, Ashley. Central Control Center in Virginia has cleared all McCarran traffic both into and out of LAS. You have a clear sky."

  Ashley, still holding on to the bulkhead, felt her focus return. "Read back?"

  "We know about the 500-foot detonation and your plan to reach restricted airspace. All flights in and around your sector have been grounded or rerouted. Nellis Air Force Base is Code Red."

  Stunned by this response, Ashley squeezed her eyes shut and drew a deep breath. This meant ATC approved of her plan and would aid her as she carried it out. Thousands of people, who will never know the danger they faced have a greater chance to live now. "How can I say thank you?"

  A moment passed. "You just did."

  The altimeter read 4000. Ashley began a slow ascent, which would conserve fuel by slowly gaining altitude this far out. While checking her instruments, she explained to Simpson the details of her controlled descent starting at 12500 and forty six miles from the designated termination point. She asked for confirmation that this approach profile would put her 30 miles west and 40 miles east of any human habitation. After a minute, Simpson came back online. “Your calculations are correct. You are to be commended.” Ashley bowed her head in relief and at the same time felt a touch of pride in her accomplishment.

  A half an hour later her altimeter read 8000 feet. The rain had stopped and clouds started to dissipate. Clearly the weather front had passed this point. To her amazement the moon came into view, and minutes later it shown bright and clear. This change in conditions gave her confidence that weather would no longer be a factor. She continued her slow ascent.

  At 12:28 she glanced out of the window. It offered her a grand sight. She saw the sparkling multicolored lights of the Las Vegas strip and thought of her only visit to Vegas years ago during happier times.

  When she crossed over North Las Vegas she started her final ascent to her target altitude of 12500 feet. In five minutes she would level out for two minutes and begin the final approach.

  Suddenly two sets of blinking lights appeared on either side of her aircraft. Sleek jet fighters with aerodynamic swept-back wings shot by her window, and swooped up and out of sight in seconds. She could feel her plane shudder from their wake turbulence. In less than a minute they reappeared, flying much slower this time. She immediately switched to frequency 122.750 for air-to-air communication. A man's voice spoke to her.

  "Good morning, little lady. My buddy and I thought we'd escort you for just a bit. Courtesy of the United States Air Force." A second voice chimed in, "Yes, ma'am it's our privilege, to say the least."

  Surprised, Ashley said the first thing that came to mind. "Thank you, gentlemen, it’s not every day a woman gets two escorts on short notice."

  "We can't stay long–orders you know, but we want to recognize that your bravery will save thousands and prevent a bloody world war. It's an honor to salute you."

  Ashley watched as both jet fighters moved ahead and dipped their wings in an aviator's gesture of respect for a superior comrade. For a few seconds she didn't breathe.

  That persistent pain behind her eyes brought her back to the real world. She tried to ignore it. The altimeter read 12000. One minute and she would level out.

  A jumble of thoughts crowded Ashley's mind. She thought of Bashir, who she had cheated out of his evil goal to murder a million Americans. She thought of her mother and hoped she would be pleased with her little girl who would soon sacrifice her life, so others would live. A sacrifice much like the one her mother made on that terrible day in New York. And she thought of Walter. There was so little time. She had to talk to Walter.

  Ashley switched back to the emergency frequency and keyed her mike. "Albuquerque, is Walter Kent there?"

  "Yes, here he is."

  She braced herself. This would be hard, but she owed him.

  Walter started out, "Ashley isn't there some way..."

  She spoke softly. "Walter, I want you to listen. Don't talk. Just listen. I only have two minutes." Ashley felt an ache in her throat that hurt. "I want to tell you I'm sorry. That night when I told you about my Mom and cried in your arms, I didn't have the strength to tell you what I felt. What my heart knew and my brain refused to admit. For the first time I found someone I wanted to share my life with. I knew it then, but didn't say it. I want to tell you now. You are the only person I have ever and wanted to be with. I tell you this because I want you to know. I need for you to know even though I'm afraid it will hurt you. I 'm sorry for that, too." Ashley struggled as tears flooded her eyes. "Forgive me Walter. Please forgive me for what might have been."

  Ashley shut down the radio, sat back and screamed at the night. A long, loud wail of bitter anguish and emotional pain. At that moment she wanted to live. Wanted to be a normal woman, a wife and a mother. Wanted to share the intimacy of a loving partnership and feel the warmth of a baby next to her heart. But that was no longer possible because her life would soon end.

  It was time. Ashley adjusted the power settings, manifold pressure and engine RPM's to begin her final descent. With care she positioned, and then immobilized the yoke. She had twenty-four minutes to live.

  SEVENTY-TWO

  THE RADAR ALTIMETER READ 12500 feet. Ashley tapped the Time App on Bashir’s phone and started the stopwatch. Seconds flashed on the screen until they equaled one minute. She shot a look at the altimeter; it read 12000 feet. The Awakening was flying hands free exactly as she had planned. She waited another minute–11500 feet. Twenty-two minutes to go.

  She wondered if she would feel unbearable pain when the bomb exploded or would she evaporate instantly, like a suicide bomber. Thoughts of suicide made her think of Bashir. She felt obligated to tell him what was about to happen. Ashley checked her gun, grabbed a flashlight, and unlocked the cockpit door. It would be dark and cold on the other side. Bashir was tied down, but what if he had gotten free and lay waiting for her?

  With the small Ruger handgun ready, she unlocked the door and kicked it open. A blast of cold air hi
t her as the beam of light cut through the darkness and revealed Bashir tightly bound on the deck next to the platform. Her nostril's sensed he had soiled himself. His face was drained of color, and his body trembled. She knelt down.

  "We cleared Las Vegas minutes ago," she said in a level voice. "We're headed for a desolate patch of uninhabited desert where only you and I will die." She glanced at the stopwatch, "in twenty-one minutes."

  Bashir's eyes opened wide darting back and both as if to find a place to escape. He tried to speak, but only a garbled sound came out. He raised his head a few inches and tried again. This time in a hoarse whisper he uttered words Ashley didn't understand.

  She moved closer. "Speak English, Bashir."

  He again raised his head. "Quran."

  She frowned. "I don't have a Quran."

  Bashir turned his head and pointed with his eyes to the rear of the plane. His voice cracked as he shouted, "In the bin."

  Ashley shook her head in disbelief. This man, this evil man who would murder innocent people, wants a holy book before he dies, as if that will give him salvation. Trying to understand, she realized that in his mind he was on a holy mission to convert the world to a radical form of Islam. He didn't understand the Islam he would die for was based on a twisted and perverted version of the Muslim faith. A distorted view which would meet the needs of men who would dominate the world with their self-serving interpretation of the Quran. Men who used a clever selection of words and phrases to give them power over others.

  She looked at Bashir's pleading eyes and saw a wretched and pitiful man. A misguided believer who thinks he's failed his beloved Allah. Ashley touched her Star of David medal, bowed her head, and using the flashlight, made her way to the rear of the plane.

  The constant drone of the engines barely registered in her mind while the icy stream of air howled through the shattered window.

  Across from the rest room were three overhead bins. She opened the first bin, pointed her light inside, and found it empty. The second held a khaki colored cloth bag. Under one side of the bag she saw a flash of gold color. She directed her light back to that object. It was a book with gilded edges. She stretched and tried to grasp the book, but it stayed lodged under the cloth bag. Frustrated, she put the small flashlight in her mouth, pointed it at the bag and pulled hard with both hands. The bag tumbled out and fell on the deck. Ashley snapped up the book. It was a copy of the Quran. Only then did she examine the bag.