by Andrew Watts
“What are their intentions?”
“I’m worried it has something to do with the G-7 meeting. Some of the world leaders have already begun to arrive. The conference is supposed to start tomorrow. I think he’s planning something devastating there.”
Karpinsky came running out. “Special Agent Flynn, I think you need to see this.”
The group ran inside.
“This is our radar controller. He’s been monitoring everything that’s going on,” Karpinsky said.
Wilkes walked in. Renee and Max looked at each other.
Wilkes said, “Fill me in, please.”
“The EADS folks have scrambled an interceptor,” Karpinsky said. “An F-16. And they’ve diverted and grounded all flights on the Eastern Seaboard. Nothing should be airborne except the Fend 100.”
Max could see a TV in the next room. The media was just as far along as they were, it seemed. The headline read:
ALL US-BOUND FLIGHTS DIVERTED. OUTBOUND FLIGHTS GROUNDED. IMMINENT TERRORIST AIR ATTACK POSSIBLE, DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY SAYS.
Max could see the Fend 100 radar track on the screen. It was headed northeast, positioned a few dozen miles east of the Outer Banks.
“Where are they going?”
Flynn said, “I think we should consider the G-7 summit at Camp David a possible target. How long until they get there?”
“Maybe an hour?”
Flynn frowned. “Alright, Max, what are you thinking? Tell me what you want to do.”
Max looked at Wilkes, who was listening now. “We may have a location on Morozov,” Max said. “Up near Amelia Island. I originally thought we could use the helicopters. But they’re going back and forth around St. Augustine…and, frankly I’m not sure we have enough time.”
“So what, then?”
Max looked outside, on the flight line. There was a Cirrus SR22T parked out there—just like the one he owned.
“I have an idea. But I need you to lend me some of those HRT guys.”
26
“Huntress Control, Angry 509, one hundred miles southeast of Andrews at angels twenty.”
“Angry 509, Huntress Control, radar contact, turn right heading 180, maintain altitude and make best speed. We will have a tanker for you up shortly.”
“Roger.”
“509, your contact of interest is due south at approximately two hundred nautical miles.”
“Roger, Huntress Control.”
Captain Easteadt had just checked in with the Eastern Air Defense Sector controller, callsign Huntress. They would vector him towards the Fend 100 aircraft.
He tried to compartmentalize his emotions. To block out any fear or apprehension. But he kept thinking about the people and families that might be on board the Fend 100 flight. What if there were children?
He began to go through his air intercept checklist.
Max, Renee, and two of the FBI HRT men were taxiing for takeoff in the commandeered Cirrus. Max wondered who the owner was. Oh well.
Max thought about what they might face. He wasn’t sure how many men would be at Morozov’s mansion on Amelia Island. He would have preferred to bring twenty agents instead of two, but they didn’t have time.
By his math, they had about forty-five minutes until the Fend 100 reached Camp David. Wilkes had wanted to use the FBI’s HRT team and their helicopters, but Max had convinced Agent Flynn that there simply wasn’t time. It would take HRT almost the full forty-five minutes for them to get ready and fly from St. Augustine to Morozov’s location in Georgia.
Max had argued that if he flew the Cirrus parked right outside the Fend Headquarters at Cecil Field, his small team would be able to arrive in less than half the time.
There was only one minor problem with Max’s plan.
“But it’s a fixed-wing aircraft,” Flynn had argued.
Max said, “Meaning?”
“With the FBI helicopters, we’ll be able to land right outside Morozov’s house. With that little plane, you’ll have to land at the nearest airport.”
Max shook his head. “Not with that plane.” Then he had explained his plan. “It’s the only way to get us there in time to fix this. If there’s a way to reprogram the Fend 100, Renee can do it. We just need to get her in there, and stop Morozov and his men from interfering.”
Wilkes objected. “That’s crazy, Max. I think you should wait for HRT to get there.”
Max turned to Flynn. “Special Agent Flynn, it’s up to you. But you know the math. With the Cirrus, we’ll be there in ten minutes. Those helicopters won’t get there for forty-five. That’ll be too late. And I need a decision now.”
Flynn looked between Max and Wilkes. “I agree with Max. Go. Take two of the HRT men. I take responsibility.”
It had taken Max about five minutes to locate the set of keys at the airport’s FBO, and another five seconds for the HRT men to persuade the person behind the counter to hand the keys over. FBI commandos in full tactical gear could be quite persuasive when they wanted to be.
Now they were about to take off.
“Everyone ready?”
“Yes.”
Max pushed the throttle forward and sped down the runway. The Cirrus was heavy. The FBI men weighed at least two hundred pounds each with their gear. As the end of the runway approached and the airspeed indicator slowly crept up, Max began to feel the cold fingers of fear creeping over his body. He hadn’t bothered to do a gross weight calculation. It was a hot summer day, and that could be a fatal mistake. He kept the aircraft nose level for a bit longer than normal, gaining more speed, and slowly pulled back on the stick for the climb out.
He exhaled. A safe takeoff. Once they were up, he banked right and headed northeast.
“Renee, see this screen here?”
“Yes.”
“Plug in the GPS coordinates you got for Morozov’s mansion. Then press this button.” She did as he said. A moment later, the needle on his heading indicator swung a few degrees to the right. Max adjusted his heading to fly directly towards Morozov’s location. There was a distance indicator that was ticking down.
Twenty more miles.
At over two hundred miles per hour, they would be there in no time.
Max reached up and ripped off the warning panel on the ceiling of the aircraft, handing it to Renee. Everyone was nervous.
A moment later, he rechecked the distance. Only fifteen miles to go.
“Okay, team, I have to tell you, I’m really not sure what to expect here. The landing might be pretty rough. Renee, can you read the instructions?”
Renee’s face was white. “Activation Handle Cover—Remove.”
“Done.”
“Activation Handle…Both hands…Pull straight down.”
Max nearly yelled. “Don’t do that. Just read it for now.”
“Okay.” She continued, “Approximately forty-five pounds of force is required to activate the Cirrus Airframe Parachute System. Pull the handle with both hands in a chin-up style pull until the handle is fully extended. After deployment, mixture…cut off. Fuel selector…off. Fuel pump…off. Bat-alt master switches…off.” She continued reading the checklist, including the part that told them the proper way to position their bodies for impact.
Max said, “Everyone get that?”
One of the FBI agents said, “I was in a helicopter crash in Iraq once. This sounds like it’ll be easier.”
“Good attitude,” said Max.
“Max, this is Fend Control, come in, please.” It was Special Agent Flynn’s voice.
“Go ahead.”
“I need to put you on a conference call. Just keep monitoring this radio frequency. We’re going to be talking to NORAD.”
“Huntress Control, Angry 509, I have visual of the Fend 100 aircraft.”
“Roger, Angry 509. Attempt to establish comms.”
Jason expertly maneuvered his F-16 to the left wing of the Fend 100 aircraft. He could see passengers through the windows. Some were waving fr
antically.
He switched his radio to the guard frequency. Every aircraft and ship would be monitoring that.
“Fend 100, this is United States Air Force armed F-16, you are approaching restricted airspace, do you require assistance?”
For a moment, he heard nothing. Then a woman’s voice came on the radio.
“Air Force F-16, this is Fend 100. We do not require assistance. We are having autopilot problems. We are troubleshooting now.”
Jason gripped his yoke tightly. Thank God. Maybe this was all just some misunderstanding. He looked in the cockpit window of the massive airliner, but it was hard to see anything.
Then one of the people in the cockpit held up a sheet of paper to the window. But from this distance, he couldn’t read what it said.
“Fend 100, Air Force armed F-16, I understand you are having a flight control emergency. Are you able to regain control?”
The woman responded on the radio. “We’re working on it, Air Force F-16. We expect to have it fixed momentarily.”
Jason put in a little right stick and tried to get closer to the Fend 100. He could almost make out what the pilots had written on the white paper they were holding up.
Then he heard the voice of the EADS controller. Only Jason could hear that radio call as it was on a discreet frequency. “Angry 509, Huntress Control, the Fend aircraft is approaching a National Defense High Security Zone. They will not be allowed entry into that airspace. Are you able to establish communication?”
They will not be allowed entry into that airspace. He mulled over the phrase. It sounded innocent enough, but what the controller was really saying was that Jason would be ordered to shoot the aircraft down if it tried to enter.
“Huntress Control, affirmative. I now have comms with the Fend 100. They tell me that they have almost fixed the problem.”
He looked out the window. He could now read what was written on the white piece of paper.
NO COMMS. NO CONTROLS.
He frowned. That didn’t make any sense. He was talking to them right now. Of course they had comms.
What was going on?
Flynn stood with his hands on the desk. “General, I have you on speakerphone. In the room I have a CIA rep, and via radio we have a DIA agent. Please tell them what you told me.”
Wilkes and Flynn had taken control of the office and were speaking with a general at NORAD who was managing the F-16 intercept flight and the air defense for the Eastern Seaboard of the United States.
“As you can see,” the general said, “the Fend 100 is headed towards the Air Defense Identification Zone. It looks like it’ll enter the restricted airspace soon. We can’t let that happen. Is there any way to manage this on your end—this thing is supposed to be remote control, right?”
“General, I’m afraid we’ve spoken with the personnel at Fend Aerospace, and they insist that they are unable to regain control of the aircraft.”
Via his aircraft radio, Max said, “I’m still about ten minutes out from our location of interest. I’ll be able to tell you more once I get there.”
Flynn looked at the radar picture. “General, a question. You said they diverted and grounded all the other flights.”
“That’s correct.”
“Sir, we’re looking at the air traffic screen here at Fend Aerospace. We can see most of the Eastern United States. It looks like there is still one aircraft headed towards the Maryland-Virginia area.”
A few hundred miles to the northeast of the Fend 100, there was another aircraft track. It was still several hundred miles away, but the Fend 100 was closing fast.
“Hold on,” the general said, “I’m trying to find out which aircraft that is. Everyone should have diverted away from the Baltimore-Washington area.”
After a momentary silence, the general said, “They said it’s a head of state plane.”
“Which country?”
“The Russian Federation.”
Max tried to listen carefully to the conversation over his headset as he flew his plane towards Amelia Island. Had he heard that correctly?
The Russian president’s plane?
What was it Morozov had said to Max? A man like me wouldn’t go through all this trouble just to exact revenge upon your father. I have a much grander vision than that.
And all at once, Morozov’s plans snapped together.
Max said, “The Fend 100 isn’t headed to Camp David. Tell the interceptor not to shoot it down.”
Flynn sounded irritated. “But you said…what the hell, Max? What are you saying?”
“Gentlemen, I think Pavel Morozov is trying to assassinate the Russian president. I think we’re witnessing a coup.”
Max excused himself from Flynn’s relayed phone call—he needed to give this his complete attention now. He checked his altitude. One thousand feet. That was as low as he felt he could comfortably go, considering what he was about to do.
He glanced back at his passengers. “Okay, folks. We’re two miles out. I’m slowing down. Once I get on airspeed and set up for wind drift, I’m going to pull the chute.”
He brought back the throttle, and the engine lowered in pitch and intensity.
“I’m going to try and get us as close to the house as possible. But frankly, I have no idea how this is going to go.”
Renee’s voice was shaky. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Couldn’t we just land at the airport?”
“No time. Now remember the body positions for impact. And while I doubt they’ll be expecting anything like this, my guess is they’ll probably notice the plane parachuting from the sky. So be ready to fight as soon as we touch down.”
One of the FBI men said, “Once we’re down, you two follow us. We’ll get you in safely and let you take it from there.”
Max began sharp S-turns, bleeding off speed until the plane got to below one hundred and forty knots. He moved the stick so that the aircraft was straight and level.
“That’s the house, straight ahead, right?”
“I think so, yes,” Renee said. The mansion was right next to a beach, and adjacent to a golf course.
“Okay, here goes nothing.”
He reached up and pulled down hard on the red metal grip. They heard a loud pop from the rear of the aircraft, and then everyone was jolted forward in their seats. Renee let out a yelp. The two FBI men were grunting and swearing as the aircraft decelerated.
The aircraft pitched down violently, and Max’s stomach fluttered as he felt them falling. It took about eight seconds for the plane to slow from one hundred and thirty knots to almost zero.
Max’s face was turning red, the blood collecting in his head due to the downward-facing angle. Then the parachute swung them like a pendulum, and the aircraft was once again level with the ground. They were falling, but at a manageable speed. Each of them looked outside.
“Where are we going to land?” Renee said.
“It looks like we’ll end up on the golf course. Pretty damn close to the house. Do I get points for that? We’ll need to be ready for his security men as soon as we get out.” Each of them was armed and wore Kevlar vests.
Max watched the altitude wind down. Five hundred feet. Four hundred. The ground began rushing up to meet them. Three hundred. The descent didn’t feel slow anymore. He remembered reading that the impact would feel like they had dropped from four meters in the air.
That sounded a lot higher now that he had pulled the shoot.
“The seats are supposed to take the brunt of the impact,” he said aloud, trying to convince himself as much as anything. That was the last thing he said before the big crunch.
They slammed into the green on the golf course. When the plane finally came to a rest, the golf tee flag stood right in front of them.
“Oh, damn, that was hard. My back…”
“Come on, we need to get out.” Max’s back was aching too, but he forced himself to open his door and tumble out onto the low-cut grass. The others were doing the same, wea
pons drawn. Each of them was in pain, but they looked to be okay.
Max looked up at the house. “I don’t see any security. Are we sure this was it?”
“As sure as we can be,” Renee said.
“Oh my God, are you guys alright?” came the surprised voice of someone in a golf cart several yards away.
None of them answered. The two HRT men began running towards the mansion, their HK416s pointed ahead. Renee and Max were close behind, their pistols aimed at the ground as they ran.
Flynn looked at Wilkes, exasperated by their continuing conversation with the NORAD general.
The general’s voice, coming out of the speakerphone, was also noticeably agitated. “Gentlemen, that is unacceptable. I’ve got maybe five minutes before I need to give the order to shoot that plane down. Tell those engineers at Fend that they need to turn that plane around now!”
“We’re doing the best we can, General. We have multiple potential fixes at work.”
“I understand, but I can’t be sure that your theory is correct. How am I supposed to know if the target is the Russian president’s plane or other VIPs on the ground at Camp David? Hell, it’ll fly right over D.C. to get there. Maybe it’s headed for the Capitol Building. I have to call SECDEF in one minute. He wants an answer. I’m sorry, gentlemen, but we have that temporary flight restriction up for a reason. It’s time to enforce it.”
The FBI men were fast. Even Max, who considered himself to be in excellent shape, had trouble keeping up. They flew along the lawn of the mansion. Max noted several large antennae protruding from the roof. A custom job.
The first Russian security man they saw looked shocked to see them. He poked his head out of the double doors of the basement. He was holding a gun, and it got about halfway up before he took two bullets in the chest from one of the HRT men.
The FBI men didn’t break stride. One opened the door and entered, scanning the finished basement with his carbine. The second HRT man followed closely behind. Max and Renee took up the rear. The room was very large. A pool table, rows of couches and a full bar. Two big-screen TVs on the wall.
