by Andrew Watts
Krites said, “Say that again, Chief?”
“The Fend company thinks their drone passenger plane might not have gone down in the ocean after all. They think it might have been hijacked.”
“Someone hijacked a drone airliner?”
“That’s what they’re saying. A remote-control hijacking.”
“And where is it now?”
“We aren’t sure. We’re looking at the tapes, and we had a radar contact about fifty miles east of Jacksonville with no transponder. It was traveling south to north at twenty-five thousand feet. But that was forty minutes ago—and it’s not on my scope anymore.”
“Understood. Just to be clear, this is not, I repeat, not a drill. Please confirm.”
“That’s affirmative. This is real-world. The flight profile matched what the Fend guys said their aircraft would probably be doing.” A muffled conversation that the Master Sergeant couldn’t hear. “Yup. It was almost the exact same speed and altitude that the Fend 100 was doing earlier, before the crash report.”
“Where’s it heading?”
“Hell if I know. I don’t even have it on my radar anymore.”
Shit.
“Thanks, Chief.”
Krites looked up at his supervisor. “You catch all that?”
A young airman yelled from across the room, a landline phone in his hand. But not just any phone. The red phone.
“Sir, NORAD is on the line—asking for the duty officer.”
Krites’s boss got on the phone and began a rapid flurry of yes sirs to whoever was on the other line. When he came back, he said, “Okay—we’ve got NORAD feeding us information now—scan in on Warning Area W-122, off the Carolinas. They’re tracking something going northeast at over five hundred knots.”
“I see it. They tagged it. Okay, I got it now. It’s got no IFF. No transponder at all. It’s just flying parallel to the coast, staying out of the ADIZ. Boss, I don’t like this at all.”
“Neither do I.”
Krites said, “I recommend we scramble the interceptors.”
His supervisor nodded. “Aligned.”
24
Captain Jason Easteadt, United States Air Force, would soon be ordered to shoot down a commercial airliner. He realized this while watching the news and eating his dinner from the on-base sub shop.
BREAKING NEWS
Those two words consumed the entire TV screen. Big white lettering over a red background, ensuring that the audience was held captive for whatever came next.
He took a sip of sweet tea from a plastic straw, curious about what they might announce. He munched on baked chips and wiped away a smudge of mayo on the corner of his mouth.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
His phone vibrated in the breast pocket of his flight suit. He clicked the button to silence the phone, not taking his eyes off the TV.
“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you this breaking news alert. NBC News has just learned that a commercial jetliner flying near Jacksonville, Florida, may have been hijacked by Islamic State terrorists. We now bring you live to our expert in Washington…”
Whoa. He stopped chewing as he listened to the newscast.
“Easteadt, you catching this?” asked the other pilot on duty with him. The major was yelling from his office one door down the hallway.
Bzzz. Bzzz.
His phone again. He looked down at the messages. It was from the squadron. An emergency notification, telling him to contact the duty officer for instructions. That message had been sent two minutes ago.
He was going to get launched to intercept this hijacked plane.
Jason couldn’t take his eyes off the news. The aircraft was the Fend 100. The newscaster said that it had somehow been hijacked. He tried to think how that would be possible. Jason had just read a magazine article on it the other day—the Fend 100 was fully automated. How would it have been hijacked?
His pulse was racing. He thought about what this meant. About all the people on board. And about what he might have to do.
A circular emergency light protruded from the wall. It was flashing and rotating, covering his shocked face with yellow every few seconds. A bell rang in the hallway. It sounded like a school bell. It was joined by other sounds. Men running, yelling orders, their boots beating against the linoleum flooring.
This was not going to be like the other intercepts Jason had done. This wasn’t some off-course Cessna pilot.
A banner scrolled along the bottom of the TV screen.
Fend 100 AIRCRAFT, FIRST AUTONOMOUS COMMERCIAL AIRLINER, REPORTEDLY HIJACKED. ISLAMIC STATE CLAIMS RESPONSIBILITY. CONFLICTING REPORTS AS TO WHETHER AIRCRAFT HAS CRASHED OR IS STILL AIRBORNE.
“Easteadt!”
Jason looked up, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The major stood in the doorway.
“What the hell are you doing just sitting there? Come on! We have ten minutes to be airborne.”
Jason nodded and rose from his seat. His knees wobbled a bit, and his head felt dizzy.
The Air Force major yelling at him to hurry was the flight lead for the two-aircraft interception unit. Easteadt grabbed his gear from his locker and jogged out to the flight line. A golf cart took him and the major out to their aircraft.
The major, noticing his unusual silence, said, “Are you good to fly?”
He hesitated. “Yes.” No more conversation. At this point, their training took over.
The major hopped off the golf cart and walked up to their separate aircraft. Their jets were being prepared for launch. Jason climbed up and strapped into his F-16. His hands were shaking as he raced through his checklist.
“Good luck, sir,” the plane captain outside said as he removed the ladder, a proud and serious look in his eyes.
Jason waved back, not trusting his voice. The glass canopy descended and enclosed him. He returned a crisp salute from the plane captain.
The engine of the major’s F-16 Fighting Falcon started up next to him. His aircraft fired up next.
The major said over the radios, “Angry 509, Angry 515, radio check.”
“Lima Charlie, how me?” Loud and clear.
The major responded, “Read you the same, 509. You all set?”
Jason said, “Roger.”
“Ground, Angry 515 flight of 2, taxi to runway 19 Right.”
The ground controller responded, “Angry 515 and flight, clear to taxi to runway 19 Right.”
Jason began taxiing his F-16 behind the major’s aircraft. The march towards the start of the runway was painfully slow. The sky above was a deep blue, with a few thick puffs of gray, the seeds of summer thunderclouds beginning to form. He could see commercial airliners on final at Reagan International Airport. He noticed that none were taking off. Had they been grounded?
The major’s aircraft jerked, and Jason pumped his brakes.
The F-16 in front of Jason’s slowed, then unexpectedly came to a full stop about halfway down the taxiway.
Something was wrong.
Morozov had sent only one man to do the job. Like many of the men working in Bear Security Group, he was ex-Spetsnaz. But unlike the others, this man’s expertise was in long-range marksmanship.
The shots would be challenging. The range was almost one thousand meters. The target would be moving at about thirty kilometers per hour, and the sniper must hit it at precisely the right moment. From a suburban rooftop, adjacent to one of the world’s most well-protected military bases.
The sniper had scouted out several locations to take the shot. The woods around Joint Base Andrews were out of the question. He was sure that the Secret Service and base security would have cameras and motion sensors. Even just snooping around there to evaluate the area would likely get him unwanted attention from the US government.
He thought about getting access to the military base. Forging a fake identity or stealing one—and gaining entry for any number of reasons. He could pretend to be a soldier stationed there, or a janitor working at one of the buildings
. But there were too many unknowns. What if the base security guard was familiar with the unit the sniper claimed to be from? Taking the shot from the base would also make his escape that much more difficult.
So the sniper had decided on a neighborhood just next to the base. Many of the families who lived on the street were away on vacation for the summer. That was something he had noticed after canvassing the street. He picked the home that was closest to the base. The last home in a circular court. Thankfully there were no nosey neighbors nearby and no home alarm system.
He broke in, quick and silent, climbing through a second-story window in back and onto the rooftop. A small private perch.
He checked his watch. The sniper had been told to expect two pilots to access their fighters. One was a major, the other a captain. He recognized the rank insignia on their flight suits. Through his scope, he watched them enter their aircraft and then waited for the right moment to shoot.
The sniper had been told to fire when they were on the runway, but he thought that to be a stupid idea. What if he missed? Two shots at that range was a tall order. He would fire while they taxied. It was a shorter range to target. And if he missed, he would have several more moments to retry. Great snipers were not just great marksmen. They were smart in their preparation.
He was lucky he’d planned it that way.
Crack.
His first shot missed the front tire of the first F-16. His rifle was bolt-action, and he had another round ready a second later. Sweaty palms. Heart beating fast, but controlled breathing. Trying not to think about neighbors opening their screen doors and looking outside, or dialing the local police department.
Crack.
A hit. The tire of the lead fighter jet burst open, and he saw sparks as the metal of the landing gear drove into the ground. A few seconds later, the jet stopped completely.
He took aim at the second jet, but it was already taxiing around the first. He took aim again and then heard the sound of a siren. He lifted his head up to look but didn’t see where it was coming from. When he looked back, the other F-16 was already making its way down the runway. He had missed his chance.
To hell with it. Morozov would still have one less fighter to deal with. And this part of the mission wasn’t worth spending the rest of his life in an American jail. He packed up his rifle and began his escape.
“509, 515.”
“Go.”
“You aren’t gonna believe this, but I think I just had a tire pop. My front wheel. Can you taxi around me?”
“Affirm.”
“Alright, 509, you’re gonna have to handle this one on your own for now. I’ll radio base and have them get a backup bird ready ASAP. You’ll be fine, just go by the book.”
“Roger.”
Jason taxied his aircraft around the F-16 in front of him and called up the ground controller to change his flight plan from a formation flight to a single aircraft.
He switched up to the tower frequency. “Tower, Angry 509 holding short 19 Right for takeoff.”
“Angry 509, Andrews Tower, you are clear for takeoff on runway one-niner right.”
“Tower, 509, clear for takeoff one-niner right.”
Jason felt the same thrilling rush of adrenaline every time he pointed the nose of an aircraft down the runway, and it was especially exciting when it was an F-16 at Joint Base Andrews.
The thrill wasn’t there today, however. Today it was dread. Dread at the thought of what he might be asked to do. He hoped to God he wouldn’t have to shoot down a plane full of civilians.
“Angry 509, Tower, please execute your takeoff without further delay. We have inbound aircraft, sir.”
“Tower, 509, roger.”
Jason pushed the throttle forward. Twenty-five thousand pounds of thrust propelled the aircraft down the runway. As the airspeed reached 120 knots, he pulled back on the stick and lifted up into the air, the ground rapidly falling below him.
25
“Renee.” Max touched her shoulder, whispering her name.
She was sitting down in front of her computer. They were in the corner of the room, out of earshot.
“If the Fend 100 is still airborne,” Max said, “wouldn’t that mean that Morozov’s team is still remote-controlling it?”
“Honestly, I don’t know enough about it. But it makes sense.”
“Would there be a way for you to tell if there’s a signal, and where the signal’s coming from?”
Renee’s eyes grew bright. Sensing that Max didn’t want everyone to hear their conversation, she whispered back, “Yes. I think so. Give me a few minutes.”
“Hey—keep it just between you and me.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
He looked over his shoulder, in the direction of Wilkes and Flynn. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Okay.” She paused. “I’m surprised Wilkes isn’t already working on this.”
“Maybe he is.”
Renee nodded. She began typing—chatting with someone on her computer.
“Okay. I’ll be right back. I’m looking for the best location you can find. Try and get me GPS coordinates.”
She didn’t look up, still typing. “That may be tricky.”
“Just do the best you can.”
Max walked through the exit and into the parking lot. A few HRT men were gathered there. These were the backups—the ones who were left behind when the helicopters flew to Morozov’s yacht.
Max went up to them and introduced himself as DIA.
“We know who you are,” one of them said in a southern drawl.
“Right. I keep forgetting that my mug got sent to every FBI agent.”
“That really you, running from the police in D.C.?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, that was a pretty dumb thing to do.”
“Yeah, well. Live and learn, right? Listen, I think I have a lead—but I might need help. You guys interested?”
The HRT members kept their arms crossed and stayed silent.
Max nodded. “Okay—tough crowd. So the man who’s responsible for all this goes by the name of Pavel Morozov. Are you familiar with him?”
Nods. “We got a brief, yes.”
“And you guys just heard from your team that Morozov wasn’t on the boat, right?”
“That’s right,” one of them answered, sounding curious.
Max said, “What if I told you I might know where he is?”
While they might not have entirely trusted Max yet, he was familiar with the breed. The type of men in HRT were like golden retrievers. Brought down here to play fetch and then asked to sit and wait instead. To them, nothing was worse. Now they sensed that they might get in the game after all. A glimmer of hope flashed in their eyes.
“That would be mighty interesting,” the FBI man said.
Max said, “When will your helicopters be back?”
“Not for a while. The yacht was pretty far south. They just called in. They got fuel at St. Augustine and are about to start bringing people back and forth between the yacht and the airport down there. The local FBI SAC has his men headed down to St. Augustine.”
Max nodded. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, that I get Morozov’s location. How many of you would be able to come with me to nail him?”
The men looked at each other. “Look, man, we’d love nothing more. But we’d have to run that up the chain, you know? Someone in the FBI would have to direct us…”
Max looked back at the Fend Aerospace building. He wasn’t sure whom he could trust in there, but he needed the muscle. “Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Max walked inside and asked Special Agent Jake Flynn to step into the parking lot with him. He explained what he was trying to do.
Flynn peered down at Max over the rims of his sunglasses. “Come on, Max. What are you trying to pull? You should be just sitting back and thanking your lucky stars I don’t have you in handcuffs right now.”
�
�Don’t you find it odd that Wilkes isn’t working on this?” Max asked him.
“On what?”
“On finding out where Morozov is, after you didn’t find anyone on the yacht.”
Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “Well, we just found out about that, so…maybe he just hasn’t gotten around to it yet.”
Both of them looked inside, through the glass door. Wilkes was in a glass-walled office. They could see him in there, walking around, headphones in his ears, talking to someone on the phone.
“Mr. Flynn, I’ve been doing this kind of stuff for a while,” Max said. “It sure as hell looks to me like Wilkes is right hot in the middle of something. And he isn’t involving either of us.”
Renee opened the door and came outside, looking at Max with an eager expression. She stayed quiet, eyeing the FBI man.
“It’s okay, Renee. Let us both know what you found.”
“I pulled some strings with an old friend. Canadian CSE has triangulated the position of a signal that might be what we’re looking for. It has all the right electronic characteristics for the Fend 100 remote-control data transfer. And it’s been broadcasting for the last hour and a half. I think we’ve found it.”
“Where?”
“I just did a quick check, but it looks like it’s near Amelia Island. A mansion up there. Max, do you remember when I looked through the GPS history of Morozov’s SUV?”
“Yes.”
“I think this is a house that was in that GPS history. I can’t be one hundred percent sure. I didn’t write it down, but I saw it on the map…”
“Slow down,” Flynn said. “Tell me what you think, Max.”
“Morozov put his yacht off the coast of St. Augustine. The HRT had a shootout with them. But no one was there, right?”
“Right.”
“The yacht is an obvious base of operations. But it would leave Morozov exposed. I think he kept his yacht as a diversion, close enough for him to get somewhere else he needed to be, but far enough for us not to stumble onto him. I think Morozov and Maria Blount are up at this house Renee just uncovered. Near Amelia Island. That’s where they’re controlling the Fend 100 from.”
