[Max Fend 01.0] Glidepath

by Andrew Watts

  But being trusted and being in charge of the Fend 100 program also meant that Maria had access to everything. What would make her do this?

  Max turned to Wilkes, who was talking to the FBI agent. “We need to get onto Morozov’s boat as fast as possible.”

  “Already on it. Flynn has the FBI Hostage Rescue Team ready to go outside. They flew in last night.”

  “Good. We’ll need to…” Max stopped talking as he saw a TV outside the glass walls of the control room.

  The headline on the news channel read:

  ISLAMIC STATE TERRORISTS CLAIM RESPONSIBILITY FOR Fend 100 HIJACKING

  The Fend chief marketing officer stormed into the room. “Charles, you’ve got to see this.”

  “Is it true that someone from ISIS has hacked into the Fend 100 aircraft?” A reporter shoved a microphone in front of Charles Fend.

  Another said, “Can you confirm that the Fend 100 has actually crashed? Are terrorists responsible?”

  Charles held up his hands. “We’re just finding things out in real time, as are you. We’re working with our team to establish what—”

  “The terrorist organization sent a message saying that there’s a Fend defense program that’s responsible for the deaths of innocent civilians in the Middle East, and that this is retaliation for that.”

  The chief marketing officer glared at the reporter. “Was there a question there?”

  “Can you comment on whether there’s a secret Fend drone program?”

  Charles shook his head. “No, I can’t comment on that. Ladies and gentlemen, obviously we’ve just suffered a catastrophic event today. If you’ll please depart the building. We need to work with the United States Coast Guard to rescue any survivors. If you will excuse me.”

  He walked away, ignoring the shouted questions behind him.

  Max walked out of the building with Wilkes and Flynn. The column of dark FBI vehicles was in a frenzy of activity. Rough-looking men in tactical gear and sunglasses were gathered around the back of each vehicle, checking weapons and equipment.

  One of the HRT men walked up to Special Agent Flynn. “This them?” the HRT man asked.

  “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Special Agent O’Malley.” Brief introductions were made.

  O’Malley said, “Is everything that you briefed us on last night still relevant?”

  “Yes,” Wilkes said. “How soon will you be able to take off?”

  As if on cue, four MD 530 helicopters flew overhead and landed on the taxiway over the fence. The helicopters were similar to the tiny MH-6 Little Birds that the Army special forces used. In fact, several of the FBI’s helicopter pilots were former Army helicopter pilots and had flown for the Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment.

  O’Malley said, “We’re ready.”

  “I need to go,” Max said. “Do you have extra gear?”

  The HRT man looked skeptically at the three others.

  Wilkes said, “Max, why don’t you just stay here for now?”

  Max was stewing, but he could tell it would be a waste of breath to push further.

  A few moments later, sixteen of the HRT men filed into their helicopters, which then buzzed off to the east.

  22

  The flight of four small black HRT helicopters skimmed the water, two sets of legs hanging out each side, weapons at the ready.

  The team leader could see the massive yacht now.

  “What the hell is that thing?” said the FBI agent next to him.

  “That, my friends, is what you buy when you have absolutely more money than you know what to do with. Okay, gents, lock and load. Expect civilians on board. Rules of engagement as briefed.”

  As the helicopters flew closer, fast ropes slung down from each side. The team leader kept scanning the deck of the yacht. So far, there was almost no movement…

  There.

  “One o’clock. I have two men, armed, one with a set of binoculars, just aft of the bridge.”

  Yellow flashes came from several different locations on the yacht.

  “Taking fire!” came the call from one of the pilots. The four-ship formation broke off into two sets of two aircraft, flying away from each other. They began evasive maneuvers to reduce the chances of taking on enemy fire. Two of the helicopters did an arc around the ship at high speed, angling their aircraft so that the HRT men could return fire.

  A burst of controlled gunfire erupted from the cabin of the helicopters.

  “One down. Two down. Looks like there’s some movement on the aft deck.”

  When the two helicopters finished their arc around the boat, they peeled off and climbed. The other two helicopters were already on their approach to the flight deck of the ship.

  Those HRT team members began sliding down the fast ropes. They landed gracefully on the helipad as the next pair of commandos followed suit. The first helicopter finished dropping off its four men, and the next one did the same.

  The HRT men worked with fluid precision. Their movements carefully choreographed through hundreds of hours of repetitive practice. Weapons always trained outward—followed by expert eyes, scanning the ship, quickly entering and clearing the compartments.

  A moment later, the other set of helicopters dropped off eight more HRT members. They joined the team already on board, systematically searching every compartment of the ship.

  Bursts of machine gun fire could be heard at times, the HRT men communicating on their headsets as they neutralized all threats and secured the vessel.

  Within ten minutes, five Russian security personnel were dead, and three were taken prisoner. Another seven civilians were on board, and the FBI agents had placed them in confinement near the flight deck. Two of the agents were working with the ship captain to turn the vessel towards Coast Guard sector Jacksonville.

  “This door is locked,” said one of the men.

  The HRT team leader said, “We need to get in there.”

  One of the men was an explosives expert.

  “Fire in the hole!”

  A loud bang, and the door lock was blown. One HRT commando threw in a concussion grenade, and it burst as they waited outside the door. Then four of the HRT team members moved in fast.

  The team leader knew this was the room they were looking for. “Get the CIA guy in here!”

  Wilkes’s man—a computer expert—was escorted down to the room. It was empty, filled with rows of computers and electronics—all unmanned. After a quick evaluation, the CIA man concluded that all of the computers had been zeroed out. None of it was usable, let alone active. He radioed as much back to Wilkes, who was standing by at the Fend headquarters.

  Wilkes and Flynn had just finished telling the group what the HRT team had found—or rather, what they hadn’t found. Max, Charles, and Renee listened.

  Max said, “So where is Morozov?”

  “We’re working on it,” said Wilkes. Flynn nodded.

  The group disbanded, each of them needing to speak with someone on the phone to take next steps.

  Renee called Max over. “Something isn’t right.”

  He was only half-paying attention. His father was leaning against a wall, his face in his hands. Max needed to speak with him.

  “Max. Listen.”

  “Renee, it’s over.”

  “I don’t think so. Look at this.”

  She pointed to one of the computer monitors. It showed the aircraft status. Airspeed zero. Altitude zero. The latitude and longitude were static.

  Max sighed. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

  Her voice was emphatic. “The plane’s pilots made their mayday call and said they were forty-five miles north of Bimini. I just looked up these coordinates that are on the screen here. They don’t match up.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I don’t know yet. But when I did research on how one would hack into a drone aircraft, I learned that one of the main ways it could be done is through something called GPS spoofin
g. Basically, they trick the system into thinking it’s somewhere else. If Morozov’s hackers made the Fend 100 think it was somewhere it wasn’t, who’s to say that they couldn’t trick us into thinking the same thing?”

  Max blinked. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying, what if we’re looking at bad data.” She pointed to the aircraft status, which showed that it had impacted the water.

  Max turned and yelled, keeping his eyes on Renee. “Bradley! Come here. Now.”

  Karpinsky walked over, a somber look on his face. “What is it, Max?”

  “What GPS coordinates should be on the screen here?”

  “The last known location of the aircraft. It should be right where it hit the water. Listen, Max, I have to get ready for the NTSB team to—”

  Max and Renee looked at each other. Renee said, “The coordinates on the screen here—the aircraft status screen—they don’t match up with the coordinates the pilots called out when they made their mayday call.”

  Karpinsky shrugged. “So what? They probably glided a little farther—”

  Renee shook her head. “No. They’re one hundred miles off.”

  Karpinsky’s eyes narrowed. “Huh. Well, that is a little weird, but…”

  Max looked at Wilkes. He stood in the corner, talking on the phone with an intense look in his eyes.

  Like he was still in the middle of an operation.

  Max gathered Wilkes, Flynn, Renee, Karpinsky, and his father into an office.

  “What if the plane didn’t go down?”

  Charles shook his head. “Max, what are you saying?”

  Flynn said, “That’s silly. Look, we need to look into this Islamic State thing. I’m getting calls from D.C. about—”

  “Hear me out, Agent Flynn. Please.”

  Flynn sighed. “Okay. Where would it have gone?”

  “You tell me,” Max said. “Bradley, Renee, and I just looked at the in-flight statistics—Bradley told us they’re programmed to stay on the last known GPS location of the aircraft. That helps them set up for a search and rescue. Right, Bradley?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But those coordinates were one hundred miles away from where the pilots claimed to be when they went down.”

  “What are you saying?” Charles asked.

  “What if Maria reprogrammed the system to make it look like they crashed, when they really didn’t?”

  Flynn said, “Why would they do that?”

  Max said, “Think about it.”

  The blood drained from Flynn’s face. “How far could it have flown?”

  “It had enough fuel for another fifteen hundred miles at least,” Karpinsky said,

  “But people would have noticed it, right?” Flynn shook his head, his voice a pitch higher. “I mean, you can’t just fly a commercial airliner around without getting noticed. Right?”

  Karpinsky shrugged. “It depends.”

  Flynn said, “On what?”

  “It would attract a lot of attention if they tried to land it at just about any airport. And I’m pretty sure some radar controller would notice if it was flying over the continental United States without its transponder on.”

  Max said, “I would think so. They at least would have noticed it when it first entered US airspace, right?”

  Karpinsky nodded. “Yes.”

  Renee said, “So we’re saying it’s possible that the Fend 100 is still airborne right now? How would we know that?”

  No one immediately responded. Just sideways glances at each other—faces mixed with hope and fear.

  Bradley Karpinsky cleared his throat. “According to our aircraft in-flight stats, it has crashed. We aren’t getting any signals sent out from the aircraft. The only way we would know is if someone had it on radar.”

  Max said, “Who can check that?”

  “We can look into it here,” Karpinsky said. “The Fend 100 mission control center has several people who are trained as radar controllers. And we’ve got a good relationship with air traffic control in the area. I’ll go talk to them and tell them to start searching for anything suspicious. But at this point, I suggest the government get involved.”

  Renee said, “Aren’t they already?”

  Flynn shook his head. “He means NORAD. We need the professionals looking for this aircraft.”

  Bradley left to go speak with the radar controllers, and the group kept talking. Wilkes excused himself to go make another phone call. Flynn went to call FBI headquarters and make sure that NORAD was updated on the situation.

  Charles said, “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “Relax, Dad. It’s not your fault.”

  “I was a fool to think we could take a risk like that. I just wanted them to get Morozov. It was all I could think about—I wanted to get back at him for what he did to your mother. But now…all those people. I feel responsible. We should have insisted on stopping the flight. We shouldn’t have relied upon—”

  Max placed his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Dad, let’s worry about that later. I have a feeling this isn’t over yet.”

  Max glanced at his father’s newspaper, which was lying on the office desk. Below the article about him was a feature on the G-7 summit. It was to be held tomorrow at Camp David, but the world leaders were due to arrive today.

  Max picked up the paper and scanned the article quickly. After much political posturing, the Russian Federation was reportedly rejoining the group, and it would be renamed the G-8. Several of the member nations were making a big fuss about it.

  Wilkes and Flynn walked back in.

  Max placed his finger on the article. “Have you guys seen this about the G-7?”

  Wilkes watched Max from across the room. “What about it?”

  Max stared back at him. “It would make one hell of a target. The news is reporting that the Islamic State has claimed responsibility for the hijacking.”

  “I know,” Flynn said, “but that’s impossible. They aren’t equipped—”

  “Pavel Morozov has a subsidiary that works closely with the Islamic State,” Max said. “They actually do defense contracting for them in Syria.”

  Flynn said, “You’re kidding.”

  “So Morozov is trying to attack the G-7 conference? And blame it on the Islamic State?” Renee said.

  “Oh, Jesus. You think that—”

  Renee nodded. “If the Fend 100 is really still airborne, and Morozov’s got control of it…”

  Flynn’s phone buzzed, and he quickly answered it. “Special Agent Flynn. Yes. Understood. Use this number.” He hung up and looked up at the group. “NORAD and the NSA are both working to locate the aircraft now. If it’s airborne, they’ll find it.”

  23

  Eastern Air Defense Sector

  Rome, NY

  Air Force Master Sergeant Krites sipped his coffee out of a paper cup. He liked his coffee plain black. Cream messed with his digestion, and sugar rotted his teeth. But a good cup of black joe was heaven. He always brought his own coffee in. None of this rotten stuff that the kids around here drank. They liked all the big fancy brands. He knew better. If you wanted good coffee, you had to grind the beans yourself, the same day. So he did, every morning. His wife certainly liked it. She was looking forward to him doing a lot more cooking after he retired. And that day was coming up faster than he could believe.

  He had been in the US Air Force for twenty-three years. He’d become an expert in modern air defense and air traffic control. For the past ten years, they’d lived in New York state, and Krites liked it just fine. His job with the Eastern Air Defense Sector was meaningful. Especially after September eleventh.

  EADS was the US Air Force command that was permanently assigned to detect and defeat an air attack on the United States. It was his job to identify unknown aircraft and vector in fighter jets to intercept them when needed.

  In his eight years working at EADS, he was used to two types of these intercepts: knucklehead privat
e pilots who accidentally flew into restricted airspace, and drills.

  After September eleventh, his outfit had drilled a lot. And Master Sergeant Krites took it very seriously.

  “How’d your shift go?”

  “Did you see the news?”

  “Down in Jacksonville?”

  “Yeah. Airliner went down in the water. ISIS is claiming responsibility.”

  The two men were silent for a moment. Then Krites said, “It was supposed to be some new type of plane, right?”

  “Yeah, like a drone airliner or something.”

  “Hell, man. I would never let some drone fly me around. How many died?”

  “A couple hundred, I heard.”

  Krites shook his head. “That’s just awful.”

  The two men finished their watch turnover and Krites sat down at his desk, headset on, looking at the information on the screens in front of him. With the news of the Jacksonville terrorist incident, backup duty sections had been called in to the watch floor. Everyone on the floor was on edge, their eyes and ears alert for anything that might be out of the ordinary.

  “Krites!” the watch officer called from the platform behind him.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You got a call on line three. FASVAC Jacksonville wants to talk to you.”

  “Got it.”

  “This is Master Sergeant Krites, Eastern Air Defense Sector.”

  “Master Sergeant, this is Chief Slade at FASVAC Jacksonville. We just got contacted by Fend Aerospace with an emergency. Have you heard about the accident that just happened down here?”

  “Yes, Chief. Very sorry to hear it.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m a little confused. First, we get word that they had a crash. That was about an hour ago. Now they’re contacting us saying that it might not have crashed. They think that the aircraft might be hijacked, and still airborne.”

  Hijacked. The H-word.

  Krites shot a look over to his watch supervisor and waved, eyes wide. The supervisor came running over, and a few other heads turned. Krites switched the audio to the speaker so they could both hear.