Chapter 79
Narsarsuaq
Greenland
A small town at the Southern tip of Greenland, Narsarsuaq, had a lot to thank the US for. Its very existence in modern times had been a result of the US building a refueling station to transport aircraft from the US to Europe during the Second World War. Over four thousand American service men had been stationed there at its peak, assisting over ten thousand aircraft to make their transatlantic journeys. Even into the cold war years, Narsarsuaq and Bluie West One, the US name for the base, retained its strategic importance.
By 1958, the US had closed the base and moved most of its personnel to Thule Air Base on the eastern coast. However, benefiting from the legacy of the US airfield, the town of Narsarsuaq had grown, albeit not dramatically, but enough to offer a living to a small number of inhabitants who benefited from a flourishing tourist trade. The town (and its small airport) provided easy access to the southern tip of the glacier that covered over 80% of the world’s largest island.
Almost sixty years later, the inhabitants were once again thanking the United States. The impromptu visit by a collection of fighters from across the different branches of the US military, accompanied by the significant support crew required to maintain and prep them had led to a bustling few days in the small town. The collection represented just about every fighter currently flying and due in service across the USAF, Marines and US Navy.
The official reason given for the impromptu visit was a fault experienced on one of the transport aircraft that happened to be carrying the majority of spare parts for the accompanying fighters. They were therefore all required to land. The ultimate destination was alleged to be a number of trade shows and air shows across Europe. However, a quick search would have revealed that no air show or trade show was due to see a US Marine F-35 Lightning fighter of which there were two sitting on the Narsarsuaq runway.
Whatever the reason, it was an impressive display of the US forces’ flying power and was bringing back fond memories to many of the older inhabitants in town.
After two days of relative inactivity, the airfield had burst into life. The various crews that would prep each of the aircraft were busy preparing the planes for their pilots. As varied as the fighter types, the maintenance crews were from squadrons based all around the world. Few had met any of their counterparts before, nor would they ever see them again. Similarly, hardly a pilot amongst the fighter pilots had ever met any of the colleagues they were about to fly with.
The man who had been tasked with commanding the operation had described the groups of men as an amalgam of strangers, crew, pilots and aircraft, all passing in the night. There would be very few personnel in attendance who would even remember the event a year from then, some probably would wonder in a week whether it had actually taken place. However, for the Commander, Major General Howard Carter, it was a day he would remember for the rest of his life. For the first time in ten years, he would be behind the controls of a fighter plane. That would not be the reason he’d never forget. Despite having been drafted in from every corner of the world, from different branches of the US Military, and despite having never met one another before, on paper, not one of the pilots had one thing in common. Unless and until you dug a little deeper. Each of the fighter pilots at Narsarsuaq had lost a mother, brother, father, sister, wife, son or daughter on September 11, 2001.
The first two planes to take to the runway were a USAF F-22 Raptor and a US Navy FA18 Super Hornet. The Raptor pilot had lost his twin sister in the North Tower and had joined the Air Force a week later. The Navy Pilot had lost his father on American Airlines Flight 11 travelling from Boston to Los Angeles. Four years later, on his seventeenth birthday, he had walked into the naval recruiting office.
Both fighters leapt into the sky and headed east.
“Harry?” said Major General Howard Carter on connecting his call to Secretary of Defense Harry Carson. “Birds one and two are airborne.”
“Thanks for the update,” replied Harry somberly.
“Just remember, Harry, this is for Jackie,” he said, remembering his wife who had died in the South Tower.
“For Jackie,” agreed Harry, a tear welling in his eye, as he remembered his own sister fondly. And many, many others.
Too many, thought Harry to himself.
“God bless America,” said Howard to his brother-in-law, trying to regain his composure.
“God bless America,” said Harry. Never had he meant it more.
Chapter 80
Nick was stunned at how easily he had walked into the terminal. The anticipated additional security had not materialized. He approached the United Airlines check-in line, having barely seen a security officer and certainly none that appeared to have been advised of a potential terrorist in the area. His bookings for Munich-bound flights had obviously worked.
The line for the check-in was surprisingly short but he noted the large number of check-in desks being used for the flight. The staff were moving through passengers quickly, meaning the build-up was minimal. Unfortunately, not minimal enough as Nick spotted Larbi when a passenger in front of him moved, unblocking his view of the passengers in front.
Nick checked his booking. He had a business class booking. He just had to hope that Larbi hadn’t been afforded the same luxury. He had no issue with sitting near Larbi; it was Larbi sitting near him that Nick was worried about. Larbi was a mountain warrior. Airports, airplanes and technology in general were all new to him. There would be a significant risk that Larbi would look to Nick for help if he knew Nick was there.
Larbi turned and looked back down the line and straight at Nick. He looked right through him. Nick was impressed. For a fish out of water, Larbi was coping admirably but then Nick remembered that Larbi would not have recognized him. Nick looked nothing like the man Larbi knew as Nick. Larbi was also doing something he had been told not to. Look around. His level of English, like many of the jihadists, was basic to nonexistent. However, all had been taught the very basics they needed for the trip. Most would have no ability to speak any more than, ‘please’, ‘thank you’ and ‘good morning’. American Passport holders who didn’t speak the language posed the greatest risk. However, they had all been taught to answer ‘yes’ to packing their own bags and ‘no’ to any dangerous items. Other than that, all they really needed to know was their departure/boarding gate. All of which had been explained to them prior to their journeys.
Nick watched closely as Larbi, probably as bad an English speaker as 95% of the jihadists who spoke no English, walked forward to the check-in desk. He handed over his passport and Nick could see him nodding his head to the first question and shaking to the second. The check-in agent then wrote something on Larbi’s boarding card and pointed, directing him to the security gates. Larbi smiled and without a look backwards proceeded to the security gates.
Nick was pleased. If Larbi could do it, all ten thousand could.
Nick felt a knot in his stomach as the check-in agent called him forward. The young man looked at him closer than Nick would have liked but made no sign, at least outwardly, that he had recognized Nick. Nick answered the normal security questions and was rewarded with his boarding pass with instructions to proceed directly to the gate that the agent had written clearly on the boarding pass.
Nick smiled at the young family checking in for the flight at the desk next to his and as instructed, proceeded to the gate. Security was quick and seemed uninterested in him. Again, Nick had no doubt that he was safe, thanks to the Munich bookings. He passed a group of excited passengers taking pictures of two US Airways planes. He looked at them and couldn’t see anything notably different. They certainly weren’t a new model, just a pretty standard looking Boeing 747 jumbo jet to him.
“What’s the excitement?” he asked one of the men, snapping shots like there was no tomorrow.
“It’s a US Airways Boeing 747,” the man said, as though that meant something to Nick.
“And?
”
“They don’t exist!” he said, somewhat negating his previous statement.
Nick looked out of the window at the very large plane that they both could see very clearly.
“Well obviously it does,” he said.
“Obviously, yes,” said the man. “But nobody knew they had any until they arrived here this morning!”
“Okaaay,” said Nick, thoroughly underwhelmed. Plane, train and bird spotters were a special bunch of souls.
He walked through, checked his boarding pass, and proceeded to his gate. He noticed the board was showing a slightly different gate and made a detour towards the one displayed on the boards. Arriving at the gate, he noted the boarding had not started, something the desk agent told him had begun. A United Airlines staff member, one of the staff from the check-in desk, approached him and checked his boarding pass, then directed him to the gate on his pass.
“I apologize, sir. We’re having a nightmare this morning, gate numbers, flight numbers everything’s gone crazy,” explained the agent, directing another two men behind Nick to the same gate as Nick.
Nick arrived as one of the last to board.
“If you just take the stairs to the upper deck, sir, your seat’s on the left hand side.”
Nick followed the instructions and tiptoed through the cabin where it seemed everyone was keen to catch up on their sleep from the early morning start.
He sat down and looked out at the other aircraft which seemed far below, given his position on the upper deck of a Boeing 747. Another United Airlines jet sat alongside and Nick recognized the young girl sat in the window seat. She had been with the family checking in next to him. They had checked in at the desks for the UA988 flight to Dulles, the flight he was supposedly on.
A steward was stationed just two rows in front. Nick waved him over.
“What flight is that?”
The steward looked out the window. “Not sure, there are a few that leave around the same time as us.”
“This is the Dulles flight, right?”
“Yes, sir,” he said confidently, allowing Nick to settle back and relax.
Chapter 81
6:30 a.m. (12:30 p.m. CET)
Washington D.C.
They had agreed to convene at Frankie’s house, being the nearest to the NCTC and providing more space than either Reid or Turner could offer. They owed it to the innocent lives at risk and to themselves to try whatever they could to stop the massacre. They had one major problem. Until the flights started falling out of the sky, they had nothing. All the evidence to back up their theories of the impending mass slaughter was back at NCTC, now under military control and lockdown.
They needed something. Unfortunately, the only thing they had would be after the first plane went down. The race would then be on to ensure that Carson was stopped before he massacred tens of thousands of innocents. They understood the reasoning. The Ebola virus had to be contained, but that didn’t mean they had to kill everyone. Not everyone would contract the virus on the flights. They all hit the computers. They needed the details and flight timings for every flight inbound to the US from overseas that day. Turner and Frankie took on that task and were stunned at just how many there were - hundreds. With each plane they found they couldn’t help but think it was another planeload of innocents flying to a certain death. It was madness; the hundreds of flights inbound to America now neared a thousand.
While they researched flights and details, Reid looked at potential solutions. Her job was to find remote facilities that could accept inbound flights and allow those who had not contracted the disease a fighting chance to survive while protecting the rest of the nation. With the rising number of flights that Frankie and Turner were logging, so too rose the number of potential locations required for the quarantine of passengers.
After three hours of research, the two lists were ready. They looked at them and realized that the scale of the task was monumental and not something that was going to be achieved in the space of a few hours.
“But were there only fifty vials of Ebola stolen?” asked Frankie, scanning down the vast numbers of flights.
“Yep,” said Turner.
“Minus the one he used,” Reid reminded them.
“So that means there are only forty-nine flights that are carrying the virus,” concluded Frankie.
“At most,” Turner remarked.
Reid sighed. “Unless they’ve infected each other before they left.”
“Not without infecting everyone they met prior to boarding, which would have infected most of Europe.”
“Does anyone really believe they can contain it in America anyway?” asked Frankie.
Both Reid and Turner nodded and Turner said, “We’ve seen the papers, it’s not easy but possible, as long as you know where and when the infection started. Obviously, we’ve done it in reverse, protecting us from a virus released in Europe or Asia, not protecting the rest of the world from a virus released here. But the principle would be the same.”
“Although it was North America, not just America,” added Reid.
“Yes, the Panama canal, the narrowest point would be closed and any attempt to cross met with deadly force. Likewise, all shipping and air transport would be sent back or face being shot down. Thereafter, the Navy Coastguard, Air Force and Army would simply shoot anyone who attempted to enter our waters or airspace.”
“So not dissimilar to what Carson’s doing?”
“I suppose come to think of it, no. He’ll say he’s protecting Europe and North America with his actions.”
“Hard to argue against,” pondered Reid.
“Except there are only forty-nine flights inbound that may have carriers on board.”
Turner splayed out the flight details. “But which forty-nine?”
“The emails!” Reid exclaimed.
“You mean the ten thousand emails?” asked Frankie dejectedly.
“There may be some flights that aren’t in the emails.”
Turner shook his head. “And what if there’s another list of emails we haven’t found?”
“Good point,” said Frankie. “So where does that leave us?”
“Wondering if what Carson’s doing may be the right thing?” ventured Reid.
“How many people on a plane?” asked Frankie.
“Depends on the plane,” said Turner, looking at the list at the types they had noted down. “On a Boeing 767-300, maybe three hundred. On a triple 7, maybe nearer four hundred and on a 747, over five hundred. And as for the Airbus A380s, I think there can be over seven hundred.”
“We’ve got hundreds of flights.”
“But they won’t all be full,” said Reid.
“Let’s pray to God they’re not,” said Frankie. “But even half full, that’s still over a hundred thousand people if they’re all on the smaller planes.”
“For forty-nine carriers?”
“Not by the time they land here. That’s forty-nine times, say an A380’s planeload of passengers…” she said, punching the buttons on the calculator. She whistled. “…over thirty-four thousand carriers.”
“So what do we do?” asked Reid.
Franking began collecting up their papers. “There’s only one person who can stop Carson.”
“Stop him doing what though, saving the nation?” asked Turner.
“President Mitchell’s a good man. I can’t believe he’d allow Carson to do this,” she protested. Whatever the case, whether justifiable or not, she couldn’t help but feel partly to blame. This was all because of a man she had loved, trusted and whose child she was carrying. Her child, no matter how innocent, would have the genes of a man responsible for the needless deaths of over a hundred thousand lives. She was not giving up while there was still something they could do.
“You don’t just walk into the White House and see the President?”
“I’ll call Bill, he’ll get us in,” she said confidently.
“Bill?” Reid asked Turner
, as Frankie grabbed her cell.
“I assume she means Bill Jameson, the head of the President’s Secret Service detail.”
“We’ve got ten minutes, an hour from now,” said Frankie.
Chapter 82
Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat
France
Prince Abdullah Bin Fahd Al Khaled stretched out on the lounger by his poolside Cote D’Azur retreat. The luxury mansion, one of many dotting the small outcrop of opulence on the spectacular French coastline, was a favorite of royalty and the new Russian Oligarchs. Prince Abdullah looked out to the crystal clear waters of the Mediterranean and was able to see the super yacht that awaited him, should he wish to spend a day at sea.
It had been a torturous few weeks, constantly under surveillance by the Americans who, although unable to link him with any involvement with the fugitive Nick Geller, had insisted on watching him quite openly day and night. Despite many protests to a number of Senators and Congressmen, many of whom would find far smaller campaign pots, nothing had been done until that very morning.
The prince had woken up to his head of security informing him that the cars stationed outside the mansion had gone, as had the speed boats that had sat permanently off shore. The Americans were gone. His watchers had finally gotten the message. He wondered which Senator had actually managed to grow a pair. The letter of apology from the United States of America’s Secretary of State that arrived by special courier shortly after 9:00 a.m., offering a personal apology from the United States, was as unexpected as it was welcome.
Despite the watchers, the prince had still managed to stay in touch with the preparations that would see the Americans on their knees. They could monitor e-mails, phone calls, listen in to everything – even through walls – and photograph everything he was doing, but they couldn’t stop the small handwritten notes that had been delivered to him on regular intervals over the last few weeks. His nephew, Walid, like himself, a true believer, had kept him in the loop. Very few people had any idea of the scale of the operation that was underway. It was part of the compartmentalization of the plan. Nobody would have any idea what they needed to prepare for, nor if any individual were captured would they know there if were one hundred others like them, one thousand, ten thousand or one hundred thousand. The authorities, even if one man were captured, would be as in the dark as they had been before. It was quite brilliant.
Traitor Page 27
