It took three minutes to open his line to the Oval Office, and he told the president’s secretary that he needed to speak to Admiral Morgan urgently.
Ten seconds later, he heard the familiar growl: “Morgan. Speak.”
“It’s Jimmy here, sir. Have you yet read that intercept message from Boston to Syria?”
“Of course I have. What’s up?”
“Arnie, I’ve just found Flight 62—the one they mentioned affirmative. It’s what air traffic control calls a bolter — it’s refusing to obey orders from the tower, and right now it’s headed for the city of Richmond, Virginia. Its present route will take it straight over the center of Washington.”
“You in touch with the operator supposed to control it?”
“Yessir.”
“Is he worried? Doesn’t think it’s just a mistake or anything?”
“Hell, no. He thinks this flight is very deliberately ignoring all instructions and flying straight down the course it wants to take.”
“Where is it right now?”
“Making 380 knots at 35,000 feet. It’s 1225 now. She’s covering a little over six miles a minute, which would put Flight 62 around thirty-six miles north of the Virginia border, over Dinwiddie County, maybe fifteen miles south-sou’west of Richmond. ”
“What’s Richmond from Washington, Jimmy? About a hundred miles?”
“Correct. Maybe thirty minutes from now if she slows down some, losing height.”
“Slows down! You think she’s planning a second hit?”
“Arnie, there’s no doubt in my mind. There’s only twenty-seven people on board. This is an Arab airliner, and it’s plainly intent on hitting the city. I’m assuming that, sir. And I’m staying right on it, trying to get a visual. Sir, please tell the president to scramble the fighters; we’re gonna have to shoot this fucker down.”
For the first time in his life, Jimmy Ramshawe hung up on the admiral, who was thus left holding the president’s silent phone inside the Oval Office, right in front of the boss.
“Sir,” said Arnie, “National Security believes there’s a rogue Boeing 737 heading for Washington, D.C., with a view to crashing into a major population center. Generally speaking, they believe it’s the same gang that just had a shot at blowing up Logan this morning.”
“What do we do?”
“What d’ya mean, ‘we’? You, Mr. President, scramble Langley and Andrews—battle stations, fighter jets RIGHT NOW!”
“Are you telling me to order the United States armed forces to shoot down a passenger jetliner in cold blood?”
“I’m telling you to give them permission to fire at will. That way, the military has a free hand to do as they think fit.”
“But, Arnie, what about civilian loss of life?”
“Guess that was worrying everyone on 9/11. And that’s why close to three thousand people died in the World Trade Center. If our Air Force pilots had dropped the fuckers straight into the Hudson River with a couple of Sidewinders, it would not have happened.”
“I know, I know. They didn’t get ’em into the air quick enough, right?”
“Not quick enough to nail American Flight 11, or even United 93. Military commanders were not informed of that hijack until four minutes after it crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Basically, everyone was scared shitless of shooting down unarmed passenger jets.”
“I am too.”
“Don’t be, Paul. Get the fighters in the air, and tell them to open fire on sight. The passengers die anyway. But don’t, for the sake of all that’s holy, let that fucking plane ram the Capitol or the White House. That would be absurd, given how much we already know.”
“I guess,” said the president slowly. “There’s no getting away from one simple truth: on 9/11, the only one of the four hijacked aircraft that did not reach and hit its target was the one in the field at Shanksville.”
“Spoken like a naval officer, Paul. And there’s no escaping the fact that on 9/11 the fighters were not ordered into the air in time. They were still on the ground when the Towers were hit, still on the ground when the last terrorist flight hit the field in Pennsylvania. Don’t let that happen again.”
1231 Same Day Command Center, Northeast Air Defense Rome, New York
Colonel Rick Morry came out of his desk chair like a Saturn rocket. His computer screen was showing a possible hijack or terrorist takeover of a Boeing 737 passenger jet in the area of Richmond, Virginia, heading north toward the nation’s capital. More importantly, President Bedford had already given clearance for the military to locate, engage, and if necessary shoot it down.
And these orders came straight from the Oval Office, with all commands, as usual, directed through Northeast Air Defense control, way out there in upstate New York, west of Syracuse, about forty-five miles from the freezing shores of Lake Ontario.
“MAJOR FREEMAN!” snapped Colonel Morry. “Right here we got a real-world possible hijack or takeover of a passenger jet over Virginia headed direct to Washington, D.C. We have permission to shoot it down direct from the commander in chief. LET’S GO!”
Scott Freeman picked up his phone and called out: “LANGLEY AND ANDREWS — GO TO BATTLE STATIONS RIGHT NOW — WE GOT A NO-SHIT SITUATION — BATTLE STATIONS RIGHT NOW.”
The control room at Northeast Air Defense went stone silent. Every eye in the room was on Major Scott Freeman. Two minutes went by, and then he spoke.
“Four F-16s Langley. Andrews scrambled. Copy that. In the air eight minutes. Copy that. Takeoff 1241. Will advise precise location of Boeing 737. No other passenger jets in the area, flights grounded since Logan incident 0800. Rome control over and out.”
Colonel Morry walked over to the command console on Major Freeman’s desk and informed him that the civilian flight controller monitoring the Boeing was Steve Farrell at Herndon Flight Control.
“Langley naval fighters 160 miles to ops area south of Washington 14 minutes. Steve, give me an approximate on Flight 62 at 1255?”
“She’s already losing height and speed, sir. She’s projected over Wood-bridge, Virginia, fifteen miles south of the city at that time — that’s 38.38 North, 77.16 West. Right now she’s making 260 knots through 28,000 feet. We have her over King William County right now, approx twelve miles north of Richmond.”
“Thank you, Herndon. Copy that.”
Colonel Morry: “Rick, we got three F-16s in the air at Langley 1239—headed 335, speed 685—projected ops area 1249.”
“Roger that.”
“Herndon to ADCC Rome — we have a Navy aircraft returning Norfolk moving southeast across Virginia — just picked up a real weird transmission. foreign voice background only passenger jet — something about executing will of Allah — on you I depend. There’s a lot of screaming in the background. No visual. Suspect traveling north.”
“Copy National Security Agency. Langley Birds moving in.”
“This is Herndon — this is Herndon. All tracking techs on full alert — we got Flight 62 on scope — no course change on primary target — but he’s descending rapidly — right now 21,000 feet still descending. Not responding.”
“Langley Birds closing. Andrews fighters in the air headed directly for the city.”
“This is Herndon — emergency, emergency — Flight 62 is descending rapidly below 15,000 feet — no clearance — repeat no clearance — descending all on its own.”
“Langley — Langley to Northeast Command: leading F-16 pilots have Flight 62 on visual now heading north across Charles County, Maryland.”
“Herndon to Northeast Command: we just got another report from that Naval aircraft — picking up sounds of screams and panic on board Flight 62—someone shouted something about the will of Allah.”
“Copy that, Herndon. Ordering F-16s to close one mile astern Flight 62—port and starboard wing. F-16s reporting 11,000 feet — confirm, please.”
1250 Same Day The White House
The president replaced the receiver. “Arnie,” he s
aid, “we got a couple of F-16s right on ’em heading north up Charles County. ”
“Both armed?”
“Yup. Air-to-air missiles. That was Langley, I guess checking once and for all that I wanted the aircraft obliterated. ”
“Before it obliterates the government of the United States, right?”
“You really think it will?”
“Either that, or it’ll take a swerve at the White House, and I gotta say that doesn’t have much appeal. At least, not right now.”
“Arnie, I followed your advice. Almost three thousand people died on 9/11 because of indecisiveness. That’s not going to happen again. You heard me just say affirmative?”
“I did.”
“That was in answer to the question, Do we have your absolute permission to shoot down Flight 62, if it refuses to obey commands from the tower?”
“That’s a good decision, Paul. You may get some flak about being a little hasty. But nothing like the flak you’ll get if that sonofabitch drives straight through those ten-ton bronze doors to the Capitol and blows up the largest legislative chamber in the world.”
President Bedford shook his head half in bewilderment, half in disbelief.
“C’mon, Paul,” said Admiral Morgan. “Our first president, General Washington, laid the foundation stone for the Capitol over two hundred years ago. It’s your privilege to be the president who saved it.”
Northeast Air Defense Command Center
“Northeast Air Defense Rome to Air Force North: Combat Command, Florida, we’re tracking Flight 62 right now — two F-16s out of Langley, one mile astern and closing, positioned port and starboard. Permission requested for pilots to open fire at will?”
“Air Force North Combat Command, Florida, copy that, permission granted.”
National Air Traffic Control Herndon, Virginia
“Flight 62 reduces speed to 220 knots, altitude 8,000 feet, still descending, approaching Chicamuxen Creek, appears to be following Potomac River. She’s not squawking, repeat not squawking, ignores all communications from U.S. Air Traffic Control.”
“Northeast Air Defense to Herndon: did Flight 62 just make a slight course adjustment?”
“Affirmative, Northeast: Flight 62 came three degrees left toward Wood-bridge. Speed remains 220 knots, still descending rapidly, we’re projecting 5,000 feet over city of Woodbridge — that’s 38.38 North, 77.16 West.”
“Herndon, is she still out over the river?”
“Yessir. Right over the widest part where the stream splits into the wide estuary heading northeast up Occoquan Bay. Right here we got width seven miles.”
“Northeast Air Defense, we’re gonna take her out right now. Over and out.”
Same Day Over the Potomac River Cockpit, U.S. Navy F-16 Fighter-Bomber
“Green Leader roger that, Langley. Weapons armed, firing both missiles starboard engine Boeing 737.”
“OKAY, CHUCK — CLEARANCE RECEIVED — HIT THE PORTSIDE ENGINE RIGHT NOW!”
The four Sidewinder missiles dropped from the wings of the two pursuing U.S. Navy aircraft. All four ignited, accelerating forward. They flashed into their heat-seeking mode, leaving fiery trails as they cleaved through the clear skies, straight toward the massive engines of the 737.
All four hit, blasting the engines to smithereens, blowing apart the wings of the big passenger jet, which lurched forward for perhaps four hundred yards and then turned turtle and plummeted out of the sky. Thunder Bay Airlines Flight 62 twisted and turned in a ball of fire until it plunged, with a thunderous crash, into the Potomac River less than a mile below.
“Target destroyed. Repeat, destroyed. Birds climbing to ten, course one-six-zero. Returning Langley, returning Langley.”
National Air Traffic Control Herndon, Virginia
“Herndon to Northeast Air Defense—1257—Flight 62 disappeared from all screens. Last known fifteen miles south of Washington, D.C., making course north 4,000 above the Potomac River.”
“Roger that, Herndon. Over and out.”
1305 The White House
“Jesus Christ, Arnie, they splashed it!”
“Mr. President, like we say back home in Texas, sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
“Well, I agree that that’s a phrase heard more often in the Wild West than in Virginia, but, hell, this is going to raise all kinds of havoc in the media.”
Admiral Morgan looked quizzical. Then he said, “You mean there’s some kind of imperative, weighing down upon us, to make this all public? So far as I know, some charter flight company from north of the border misjudged his instructions from the tower to head inland, and crashed his ole Boeing 737 straight into the goddamned ocean. Lightly loaded, thank God. None of ’em Americans.”
“You mean we make some kind of a false announcement to the press?”
“Certainly not. We make a very sinister announcement about the Boston bomb. Then we allow the flight-control guys to issue a press release revealing that an overseas flight apparently ditched into the Atlantic several hours later. Bit of a coincidence really. Same day and everything. But the United States government will be making no statement until more facts are known.
“The air traffic department of Public Affairs should mention that there may have been a hydraulic problem in the 737, and the pilot was flying in a prohibited area off the coast of North Carolina, east of the Outer Banks, less than fifty miles from a U.S. Navy exercise.
“He ignored all our advice and then disappeared from all screens. No wreckage has yet been located. The military will of course say nothing, know nothing, and suggest nothing.”
“How about people who may have seen the missiles hit the aircraft over the Potomac?”
“Unlikely, Paul. The plane came down in one of the widest parts of the river, almost seven miles across. And it was certainly on fire on impact. There may be a very few claims to have seen something, but in the end it’ll be like a sighting of a UFO: interesting, but unproven.”
“Kinda like that TWA flight that went down off Long Island twenty years ago — there were a few reports that something hit it, but nothing ever was accepted as a fact.”
“You got it, Paul. And before Henry comes back, we have to do a few things — first, get the military and flight control on the same page. Then someone’s got to brief the CIA. We can leave that to the National Security Agency. Meanwhile, have Alan Brett call the Defense Department and get the Navy moving on lifting that wreck out of the river. Top secret, obviously. Last, make sure the damned towelhead has been moved out of Mass General and into Bethesda.”
At which point, Henry the butler reappeared with two king-sized roast beef sandwiches, a few potato chips, and a large bottle of fizzy water. “Just the way you like ’em, Admiral,” he said, addressing his remark firmly away from the president, as if conscious of the terrible sin he had most certainly committed in the eyes of the absent First Lady. At least he would have, had she been present.
The two men divided the spoils, the president pouring the springwater into two crystal glasses. They each took a luxurious bite from what Kathy Morgan described as the billion-calorie-an-inch sandwiches.
“Jesus, these are great,” said the president. Arnold Morgan, chewing dreamily, had a look of such supreme happiness on his face that a reply was strictly redundant.
Henry brought them coffee ten minutes later and clicked the sweeteners into Arnold’s cup from the little blue tube.
“Thanks, Henry,” said the admiral as the butler made his exit. Then Arnold turned to the president and inquired, “What time do you plan to address the nation? In time for the evening news?”
“Me?” replied Paul Bedford. “You think I have to make a formal speech?”
“Absolutely,” said Arnold. “Reveal that this nation has been attacked yet again by the rabid fundamentalists of Islam and that only the prompt and courageous action of the two Boston policemen prevented a massive loss of life inside the terminal at Logan. Tell them w
e have the main perpetrator captive and that a huge inquiry is under way. There will in due course be substantial U.S. retaliation.”
“And what do I say when some journalist wants to know if there is any connection between the airport bomb and the mysterious crash of the 737 into the ocean?”
“You say very simply, sir, the aircraft that went down was a lightly loaded, foreign, civilian Boeing 737 which had been overflying U.S. territory and U.S. waters. Neither the White House nor the Pentagon has been briefed about the precise circumstances of its disappearance. If and when the security agencies become involved, the media will be kept informed.”
“You think they’ll buy that?”
“Mr. President, Marlin Fitzwater, Reagan’s man, used to describe the White House press corps as ‘the lions.’ He reckoned they needed feeding late every afternoon. That bomb story and the attendant terrorist implications will be like throwing those lions fifty of these roast beef sandwiches apiece. They won’t be hungry. Just keep telling them we will seek revenge. They’ll love that.”
CHAPTER 2
1530 Same Day OPS-2B Building National Security Agency
Even the phone had an irritated ring to it when the Big Man called. Lt. Commander Ramshawe picked it up, and the rasping tones of Admiral Morgan snapped down the line. “JIMMY! Just give me one straight, no-bullshit assessment of our actions this morning.”
“Sorry, sir. What’s that you need?”
“I want to know your degree of certainty on the correctness of our actions.”
“One hundred percent.”
“REASON?”
“Sir, the CIA picked up a one-way transmission to Damascus that started off by correctly revealing the bomb at Logan International, time and place, plus operatives. Secondly, it confirmed that some kind of terror operation was happening with a Flight 62.
“Next thing we know, some fucking nutcase is driving a bloody great Boeing passenger jet straight at the city of Washington, D.C. Diving low, directly at the buildings, in defiance of our air traffic orders. What was its flight number? Sixty-two. As forecast. That’s game, set, and match, old mate. Game, set, and match.”
To the Death am-10 Page 4
