by Tom Clancy
There was nowhere to go. Fernandez just stopped, faced the massive nose of the plane, and couldn’t believe that this was the way he would die.
The plane exploded not fifty feet in front of him, the wind knocking him to the asphalt before the fires came roaring. He took a breath. No air. And then the plane was on him.
Gilbert Lindsay Community Center
East 42nd Place
Los Angeles, California
Barclay Jones was ten years old and loved going to the rec center. He was part of the after-school club, and his mom paid fifteen bucks a day so that he could play baseball with a pretty cool bunch of guys. He also got snacks and homework help and tutoring. There were a couple of bullies he didn’t like at the center, but sometimes their moms couldn’t afford to pay the money and they didn’t come.
Barclay stepped up to the plate and was ready to hit a home run like one of his Baseball Hall of Fame favorites, Cal Ripken, Jr., who used to be called Iron Man back in the days when he played.
However, before the first pitch to him was thrown, a booming came from the distance. He frowned and lowered his bat, as the pitcher turned to his left and Barclay turned to his right. Now the booming sounded louder and louder, and just above the trees that formed a row behind right field came a strange line of black smoke rising high into the air, like the smoke from an old train chugging down the tracks.
The booming was louder now, and weird sounds like cars crashing and buildings smashing all at the same time got scary loud, and Barclay began to pant.
Something crashed through the trees, and it was only in that last second that he knew what it was, the tail section of a giant plane that looked as though it had tumbled along the ground, picking up pieces of buildings and trees and even what might be some people along the way.
Just after the tail came a rush of fire so loud that Barclay covered his ears and started to run toward the third-base line, as did every other player on the field. Barclay watched as the tail section came slicing across the field, and one by one his friends vanished beneath the gigantic, flaming steel. He screamed and called for his mother.
San Diego International Airport (SAN)
Cell-Phone Waiting
Lot North Harbor Drive
Moore and Towers were still on scene at the cell-phone lot, and the news coming in was changing by the second, rapid-fire and fragmented. Reports of missiles being launched from the ground …witnesses saying they filmed a crew in Los Angeles jumping out of a van and firing on a plane …more witnesses saying they saw something very similar in San Antonio.
Panic. Pandemonium. Moore watched a news feed on his smartphone with an on-air anchor having to leave her seat because she began crying …
People in New York and Chicago were reporting that they thought they saw missiles fired at planes taking off from their airports …
A police officer in Phoenix said he witnessed a missile rise up from the ground to strike a plane taking off …He’d recorded the video with his phone, had e-mailed it to his local news station.
And there it was, a white-hot streak on Moore’s phone screen, rising like a firefly to strike the airliner.
“How did you get such a good picture of this?” the anchor asked. “It all happened so fast.”
“My daughter wanted me to take some videos of planes taking off and landing for a school project. I just came down here when I got off work. It’s a coincidence that’s making me sick.”
US Airways Flight
155 Phoenix to Minneapolis
Before the screaming man could strike the tiny flight attendant with his cell phone, Dan Burleson came up behind him and wrapped one of his powerful arms beneath the man’s chin while simultaneously seizing the man’s arm and drawing it behind his back with such force that he heard the man’s shoulder popping.
The guy let out an ear-shattering cry as Dan dragged him back and away from the attendant, saying, “I got him! I got him!” If there was a federal air marshal onboard, Dan didn’t see him …
At the same time that Dan seized the guy, the plane began to roll, and Dan knew that the pilots would have to compensate for the missing engine. Dan dragged himself backward with the terrorist in hand until he got near his seat and collapsed into it, still gripping the thug by the throat. He did not make a conscious decision to increase his grip. The man struggled against him, and Dan only reacted. He gritted his teeth and fought to remain in his seat as the single engine thundered up and the passengers continued to cry and scream. An elderly black woman two seats ahead got to her feet and shouted, “Y’all be quiet and let Jesus do his work here!”
And that’s when Dan realized that maybe Jesus had begun his work, because the terrorist was no longer moving and the pilots had finally leveled out. Dan relaxed his grip on the man and just sat there, listening, as the pilots ramped the engine to full power. They’d already no doubt cut off the fuel supply to the damaged engine and had rotated the dials on the transponder to read 7700, the Air Traffic Control (ATC) code for EMERGENCY. Flight controllers had noticed the brightening of the plane’s radar signature on their screens and were receiving audible alarms of the emergency. No radio contact would be necessary. Those pilots were too busy attending to the aircraft to give a second thought about talking to ATC.
The flight attendant who was about to be attacked staggered her way to him and looked at the terrorist.
“Is he dead?”
Dan shrugged, but he felt pretty sure he had choked the guy to death.
She widened her eyes, started to say something, changed her mind, then said, “You have to buckle up! Now!”
Dan shoved the guy into the seat next to his, then buckled up as he was told.
The college girl, whose face was now stained with tears, looked over at him and nodded.
San Diego International Airport (SAN)
Cell-Phone Waiting Lot
North Harbor Drive
Moore and Towers were standing near the open back door of an SUV, watching a live news feed on a laptop supplied by SAC Meyers. Moore glanced down at his hand; it was shaking.
The incidents appeared to be moving from west to east. The West Coast news was in full swing, and their reaction time in airing news was much faster. Moore had already watched footage captured by a KTLA news helicopter of the incredible and surreal damage in Los Angeles, the long line of destruction carved across the city as the plane had struck the freeway, then dropped down to plow through the densely populated section of West 41st and West 42nd Streets, destroying homes, bars, bargain stores, fish markets, and anything else in its way. The tail section had been catapulted off the freeway at an even higher velocity than the rest of the plane and had crashed into a recreation center, where, reports said, more than twenty children had been killed.
“Moore,” Towers called, lowering his phone. “They just tried to hit Tucson, but a group of civilians took them out. And I just heard they hit El Paso and San Antonio. That’s six so far. It’s a full-on terrorist attack. Nine-eleven all over again.”
Moore cursed and glanced at the three bodies of the terrorists being zipped up while the fire department crew continued foaming down the area.
US Airways Flight 155
Phoenix to Minneapolis
If Dan Burleson had to bet on it, he’d say the pilots were trying to decide if they thought they could initiate a turn and make it back to the airport. The more likely situation was that they would land at the best possible off-airport site. It all depended on whether or not they thought they had enough power to keep the plane level. If they attempted to turn without sufficient power, they’d very quickly lose altitude. Pilots of single-engine aircraft were instructed to never, ever, attempt to return to the runway, because they would lose too much altitude to effect the turnaround. Case in point: On January 15, 2009, Captain Chesley Sullenberger was in command of US Airways Flight 1549 en route from La Guardia to Charlotte. He had lifted off and flown through a flock of birds, resulting in the loss of bo
th engines. He knew he’d lose precious altitude if he started a turnaround with no engines producing power, and determined that his best course of action was to ditch in the river. His actions had saved the lives of the crew and every passenger on board.
They could blame the birds for that near disaster, but Dan felt certain that Mr. Allahu Akbar in the seat next to him, along with his buddies, was responsible for their present dilemma.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Ethan Whitman. As most of you already know, we’ve lost an engine but plan to make our turn and head back to the airport. We have every confidence that we’ll be able to set the aircraft down on the runway. Those noises you just heard were the gear going down and now we’re about to initiate our all-important turn back to Phoenix. Despite our confidence regarding the landing, we will still initiate crash-landing procedures and want to insist that you remain calm and allow the attendants to do their jobs. Listen to what they say and comply immediately for your own safety and the safety of those around you. Thank you.”
Not five seconds later, the aircraft began to turn.
Bring us home, boys, Dan thought. Bring us home.
United States Coast Guard Station
San Diego, California
Moore, Towers, and a few of Meyers’s FBI agents had gone across the street and spoken to the Coast Guard Station’s commanding officer, John Dzamba, who’d already sent out a dozen of his personnel to help control the scene and keep traffic moving. They borrowed a conference room equipped with big-screen TVs, and there Moore paced and watched the screens with a mixture of horror and disbelief, while Towers got online to see what intel the other agencies were gathering.
Nearly every television network in the United States of America was interrupting its regularly scheduled programming to bring word about the multiple missile attacks on airliners heading toward the East from the West Coast. The local San Diego news stations’ anchors began speculating on more attacks that might happen in the Midwest and at airports along the East Coast as flights everywhere were being grounded and air traffic controllers were doing their best to take those planes away from highly volatile areas such as the oil refineries near Newark, New Jersey, and other heavily populated areas. As a matter of fact, in Newark, flights from Europe would be diverted to Nova Scotia/Newfoundland as they had been on 9/11. And likewise as had occurred on 9/11, rumors and false reports continued to run rampant.
Slater and O’Hara finally got on a video conference that Slater said could last no more than two minutes because they were understandably swamped.
“The nuke teams are already converging on the major cities,” said O’Hara.
“And we’ve got the NSA’s computers monitoring cell phones for key words like flight numbers, Middle Eastern accents and phrases. Your man Samad might try to give his boss Rahmani a report, and if he does, then we’ll work on triangulating his location.”
“These guys are too smart for that. The only way to get him is HUMINT,” said Moore. “Boots on the ground. People who know where Samad is going. He’s got help. Sleepers everywhere, safe houses. They know how to hide—and if they still got Gallagher helping them, then he’s taught them all our TTPs.”
“We’ve got a team hunting for him,” said Slater. “And they will find him.”
O’Hara chimed in: “Towers, we’ve got the go-ahead to keep you on this, because your JTF is already set up for inter-agency ops. You’ll team up with some new agents from the FBI, DEA, and I’ve got a TSA guy we need to get onboard. I assume you’re well enough to keep working?”
“Hell, yeah, sir,” said Towers.
Moore began to shake his head. “The answers aren’t here. They’re back there. In the mountains. In Waziristan. Did you call off the air strikes for me?”
“Still working on it,” said Slater.
Moore held back a curse. “Please work harder. Sir.”
After the call, Moore went into the bathroom. He had the dry heaves and just hung his head over the toilet for a few minutes. When he returned to the conference room, he found a fresh cup of coffee waiting for him.
Towers gave him a sympathetic look. “Hey, man, there’s no way in hell we could’ve known this shit would go down. We signed on to take out a cartel. Our timing sucked. Period. But we still did our jobs.”
They both glanced back at the flat screen, now showing live video of the plane in Phoenix landing at the airport, one engine still smoking. The gear hit the tarmac in a picture-perfect landing.
But then the broadcast was interrupted once more, by live images of a plane coming down toward Interstate 10 outside San Antonio.
“Oh my God,” Moore said with a gasp.
Both engines were out, and it was all the pilot could do to keep the aircraft level. The gear was down, but then he suddenly lost more altitude.
The highway was jammed with building rush-hour traffic, and drivers attempted to pull off to the shoulder, but they were hardly in time.
Two hundred feet. One hundred. The main gear hit the ground but then collided with several cars before the forward gear suddenly slammed down with such a force that the wheels just snapped off, sending the plane skidding forward and through more cars, which were bulldozed out of the way and sent tumbling through the air like Matchbox toys. The fuselage split apart, just forward of the wings, and that first section broke off and went spinning off the highway, while the rest of the jet began to slow as it continued crashing through more and more cars, dense black smoke rising in its wake.
The newspeople were now crying on the air, and Towers was saying, “There’ll be survivors for sure. Some people will walk away from that.”
Moore tore his fingers through his hair, then tugged out his smartphone and sent off a text message to Wazir.
MUST TALK ASAP. URGENT.
THE MORE THINGS CHANGE
DEA Office of Diversion Control
San Diego, California
MOORE AND TOWERS had hitched a ride back with Meyers and his agents, who’d dropped them off at the DEA office. Video taken by a woman waiting at LAX’s cell-phone lot showed three terrorists standing near a DirecTV satellite van. They wore jeans and flannel shirts like migrant workers, with balaclavas concealing their faces. Gigi Rasmussen was a nineteen-year-old USC freshman who’d started her recording with the launch of the second missile, the killing of a civilian who’d challenged the terrorists, and then their departure, all narrated by her as she gasped and repeatedly chanted “ohmygod” throughout the entire sequence. She’d sold the video to CNN, but the Agency had managed to stop its airing in the interest of national security, although Moore knew it’d eventually be released to the public. The missile launcher was identified as an Anza, the missile presumably an MK III, the same type used by the guys in San Diego. The Agency could now focus its searches for weapons deals on that specific ordnance, but even a cursory scan of the MANPADS’ specs told Moore enough: The weapon’s place of origin was Pakistan, and the MK III missiles were the Chinese version of the American Stinger. These were the types of weapons the Taliban might have access to and train with in Waziristan.
Moore reviewed every photo they had on file of Mullah Abdul Samad and zoomed in on the man’s eyes in each photograph. Then he compared those eyes to a still image he’d captured from the video. He rapped a knuckle on the screen and told Towers to look for himself.
“Damn, that could be him. And hey, they found what was left of the van at a Johnny Park on 111th Street. They burned it up. No weapons. No witnesses. You know why? Because they killed all the employees there. Gagged and taped them up, then stabbed them.”
Moore shook his head in disgust. “Mark my words, if they find any DNA at all, it’ll match what we got off the pendant. Samad led the team in L.A. I’ll bet my life on it.”
Towers considered that, then his expression grew odd. “There’s one other thing. Apparently these scumbags like chocolate. They found wrappers all over the floor mats. Foil survived the fire.”
“Maybe they’ll get some good samples off of those, but you know what’s scaring me now? The thought of how many sleepers they had helping them …” Moore flicked his glance up to the television.
All planes were on the ground now. FEMA teams were on the way. Roadblocks and checkpoints were going up within a one-hundred-mile radius of the six major airports where the incidents had occurred. Samad and his men must have accounted for those. Had they escaped before the checkpoints had gone up? Or would they remain within the secured zone for a few days or even a few weeks?
Meanwhile, the entire country was holding its collective breath, waiting to see what else might happen—chemical, biological, or nuclear—as the terrible, terrible images continued flashing across screens. People in Times Square had crowded into the streets and stood like zombies, their necks craned up to the towering images of charred landscape, scars across the soil and the fabric of the nation.
Six planes had been targeted on June 6. Two airliners whose engines had been struck by missiles had landed safely: Phoenix and El Paso. The Los Angeles flight had crashed, killing all passengers, crew, and hundreds of civilians on the ground. The Tucson flight proceeded without incident after a young kid named Joe Dominguez ran over one of the terrorists with his jacked-up truck. The San Antonio flight had crash-landed, with survivors being pulled alive from that wreck. The death tolls were mounting.
By nine p.m., the President of the United States was addressing the nation and quoting liberally from George W. Bush’s address on that fateful Tuesday in September 2001:
“The search is under way for those who are behind these evil acts. I’ve directed the full resources of our intelligence and law enforcement communities to find those responsible and bring them to justice. We will make no distinction between the terrorists who committed these acts and those who harbor them.”
