by Andrew Watts
No one spoke. But the other Russians must have heard the gunshots, because two men came running down the basement stairs. They fired a burst from a small automatic weapon, and the assault team took cover.
Max had one of them in his sights when the Russian spun around, hit by a burst of gunfire. The other Russian security man met the same fate. Two more down courtesy of the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. They were good.
Max looked to his side. Renee was hunkered behind a couch. “We need to find the room they’re controlling the aircraft from,” Renee said. She winced as another round of gunfire erupted from the stairway.
Max took Renee by the shoulder. “Listen. You go back outside the door. Get under the back deck and hide under the stairs. I don’t want to risk them hitting you. Once we’re clear, I’ll come right back down and bring you up. Okay?”
She nodded. “Okay.” She looked scared. Max didn’t want to risk her getting hurt, both for personal and professional reasons. Renee hurried outside the door through which they had entered, then hid off to the right, under the back deck staircase.
Max turned around and scanned the room. The FBI agents had cleared the basement and were now advancing up the staircase.
His pulse racing, Max followed. He looked up the staircase at a closed door, wondering what was on the other side.
The HRT men were fearless. The first man opened the door and fired several rounds, then recoiled as a barrage of bullets ripped through the wall next to him.
The second HRT man grabbed a concussion grenade from his belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it through the open stairway door.
The sound was deafening.
Max felt it in his chest, and his ears rang.
The two HRT operatives disappeared beyond the top of the stairs. The sound of automatic weapons screamed through the stairway.
Max bolted up the stairs, aiming his pistol forward and scanning the room.
There were three bodies on the floor. The first HRT member was on the ground, gasping for air. He’d been hit in the Kevlar vest. The second HRT operative was spread eagle—Max couldn’t see where he was hit, but blood was seeping out from under his uniform and onto the tile flooring.
They were in a large open kitchen, but the center table was covered with computers, wires taped down along the floor and running up the wall.
The third body was a dark-haired young man of about twenty. He was slumped over in front of one of the computers, dead.
Maria sat in front of the other computer, looking dazed.
Max pointed his weapon at her. “Fix it, Maria. Give control over to the Fend 100 pilots right now.”
She looked like she was trying to focus on his face. Trying to read his lips. He realized she was probably deaf. Wisps of smoke flowed through the air—remnants of the concussion grenade.
Max was about to go downstairs and get Renee when he caught Maria glancing behind him. He turned, weapon raised toward a dark figure in the next room.
The figure moved awkwardly from the second-floor deck through an open screen door. Flowing white curtains partially masked him and his prisoner.
Pavel Morozov stood behind Renee, a gun to her temple.
“Stay there, Mr. Fend.”
Max wrinkled his brow, making calculations in his head. His gun was aimed at Morozov’s forehead, about a fifteen-foot shot. Doable on the gun range. But not with a hostage...especially one that he cared about.
Max sidestepped behind Maria, keeping his pistol trained on Morozov.
Seeing this, Morozov nodded at Maria. “You think I won’t shoot her too?”
“She’s been working for you.”
“Is that what you think?”
Max frowned, confused.
Morozov shrugged. “Fine. More fake CIA propaganda, I think. But whatever you may think of her, she is the only one who will be able to turn the plane around for you.”
Maria was looking up at Max. A tear ran down her cheek.
A voice from a radio in front of her said, “Fend 100, Air Force armed F-16. Can you do me a favor? I can’t read the sign that the pilots are holding up. Can you tell me what it says?”
Maria glanced at Morozov and then began to reach for the radio transmit button.
“Wait,” said Max. Her hand froze. “He thinks you’re on the plane. Why?”
Captain Easteadt couldn’t understand it. The woman hadn’t answered his radio call. What if she wasn’t on the plane?
“Angry 509, Huntress Control, has the aircraft altered course, or does it still appear to be entering into restricted airspace?”
“Huntress Control, Angry 509, no change in the aircraft’s course or speed.”
“Roger, 509. Have you been able to establish communications?”
Jason thought about that. He wasn’t sure what was going on. “Negative, Control. No joy with the pilots aboard the Fend aircraft.”
He looked at the cockpit window of the airliner. The pilots were still waving frantically, holding up their sign. Jason decided to try to raise them one more time.
“Fend 100, Air Force F-16, come in, please.”
Max kept his pistol trained on Morozov’s head.
“That’s the Air Force intercept aircraft?” He was looking at Maria.
Max looked at one of the flat-screens on the wall. It showed the Fend 100 heading towards a lone air contact.
Max began stepping forward.
“What are you doing? Stay where you are,” said Morozov.
Max continued to creep forward, slowly heading towards the table of electronics. He knew what he was after. And it was only another step.
“I said stop.”
Max said, “Fine. I’ll stop. I’ll even place my gun down on the table.” But he didn’t. He just lowered the gun and used the barrel to depress the transmit button on the radio.
Jason listened in disbelief. It had taken him a moment to recognize what he was hearing, but once he did, everything fell into place.
Over the radio, Jason heard a man say, “Tell me, Pavel, why did you take over the Fend 100? And why have you had Maria here pretending to be on the Fend 100 while she talks to the Air Force fighter? At first, I thought you two were planning to remotely take control of the Fend 100 to attack the G-7 summit. But now I know that isn’t true. Pavel, the one thing that really pissed you off was being subservient to the Russian president. You must really envy him. Similar background and all—yet he’s in charge, and you’re just his little assistant. Must be hard for a man like you.”
“There is nothing you can do at this point, Mr. Fend. You should cut your losses and allow me to leave. Put your gun down.” A second man’s voice. Jason didn’t recognize it. Low in tone, with a Russian accent.
“So you don’t deny it?”
“I deny nothing.”
“What will happen to you after the Russian president’s plane goes down? We know it was you. How did you think you were going to escape?”
“You know only what your news media and intelligence agencies agree on. And it seems as though the Islamic State has already claimed responsibility for this hijacking.”
The first man’s voice. “Courtesy of Maljab Tactical, no doubt. One of your own companies. Your fingerprints will be all over this.”
“You are wrong. I have friends everywhere. When those planes go down, I will take the reins in Russia.”
“So you’re going to fly the Fend 100 into the Russian president’s plane right now? And then you think America will recognize you as the new Russian president? Come on, Pavel. Even you aren’t that dumb. Why would the US ever recognize your legitimacy?”
“When I am in charge, Russia will forge a new partnership with the United States. It will be better for all.”
“Morozov, you’re assuming that the Fend 100 continues on its current flight plan and flies into the Russian presidential aircraft. But won’t Maria be able to fix that for me?”
Jason couldn’t make out the rest of what was said over the radio,
except that it sounded like an answer in the negative. He tried to process what that all meant. He looked at the aircraft that was flying next to him. An enormous white airliner, filled with people and fuel. Controlled by computers.
And supposedly heading towards the Russian president’s plane…
He had to act. But what could he do?
Jason looked at his air search radar. Sure enough, there was one contact about one hundred miles ahead. At the rate they were closing, they would be there in mere minutes.
Jason pushed forward his thrust lever and hit his afterburner. His F-16 accelerated forward at close to twice the speed of sound. He would be almost out of fuel when he reached it, but he had to try and warn them.
The Russian presidential aircraft was a four-engined beast. A wide-bodied IL-96. Jason buzzed it from the front, passing only two hundred feet away.
That must have grabbed their attention. He then pulled and banked hard, arcing his nimble fighter to a position just off the right wing.
Jason flipped a few switches and then fired a burst of machine gun fire well ahead of the Russian aircraft. The tracers were clearly visible against the blue water below.
Now they knew he meant business. He wasn’t sure what kind of homing system the other aircraft was using, but he knew enough about dogfighting theory to know that if the Fend aircraft missed the Russian presidential plane on the first pass, that was it. Game over. There wasn’t enough of a speed advantage for the Fend aircraft to get a second chance.
Jason was already on the guard radio frequency. Time to make his call.
Max heard the voice over the radio and smiled.
“Russian aircraft approaching the United States, this is US Air Force armed F-16. You are about to be attacked by an incoming commercial drone aircraft. Begin evasive maneuvers immediately to avoid collision.”
Maria and Morozov both looked shocked. Then Morozov’s face turned to rage as he looked at the radio transmit button, which was depressed into the full detent. He realized that their entire conversation had been played to the American fighter jet. Morozov’s wrist muscles flexed as he gripped Renee tighter. She let out a cry.
All of their eyes turned to the radar screen on the wall. The two air tracks were so close, heading right for each other…about to converge.
But they didn’t.
The Fend 100 continued on in the opposite direction. The Russian Federation presidential aircraft turned sharply and changed altitude.
Maria could see the aviation stats of each aircraft being displayed on the board. “It didn’t hit. The Fend 100 missed it.”
“Put down your weapon, Pavel,” Max said.
Morozov’s eyes were on fire now, his nostrils flaring. “It seems that you have changed my plans. But your aircraft is still at risk. All those people will die if you don’t regain control of the Fend 100. So let us bargain, Max Fend.”
“Let’s.”
Morozov pulled Renee up close. “Maria is the only one who can save the people on that aircraft now. If you don’t have her, they’ll run out of fuel and crash into the ocean.”
Max wondered if Renee would be able to analyze and interpret the data on this computer system in time. Unknown. He needed Maria alive.
Morozov began backing away toward a doorway in the corner of the room, holding Renee in front of him. He was heading to the garage.
Max could hear the FBI men on the floor and behind him, a groan from the stairway.
“Leave Renee,” Max said, “and I’ll let you go.”
Pavel Morozov’s eyes narrowed. “Done.” He pushed Renee towards Max, raised his gun and fired three times.
Max caught Renee and covered her with his body as he returned fire through the closed doorway.
Max ran towards the door, but it was locked. He fired his weapon into the door handle. Wide holes formed and wood splintered. Max kicked the door open and burst through into the garage.
He fired into the fleeing SUV, hearing the sound of an engine revving up and the squeal of tires as Morozov peeled out of view, making his getaway.
But Max didn’t have time to worry about him. He ran back towards the computers laid out in the kitchen, glaring at Maria.
She had been shot in the arm.
“Fix this,” Max said to her, his weapon trained on her head. Sympathy for her gunshot wound wasn’t something he had in him.
Maria nodded and began typing with her good hand, wincing in pain.
He glanced back at Renee. “Are you okay?”
Renee nodded. “Yes, I’m alright.”
“I need you to watch her, Renee. Make sure she’s really doing what we want her to do.”
Renee stood behind Maria, who was typing slowly into one of the terminals.
Max said, “Turn it around now, and give control to the pilots on board.”
Maria nodded, flustered and upset. She typed in a command, dragged her mouse, and began clicking a few times. “There. They should be able to control it now.”
“Call them on the radio and tell them.”
Maria did as requested. “Fend 100, this is…” She paused, not sure what to say. Max grabbed the radio. “Fend 100 on guard, you should have control of your aircraft now. Please respond.”
After a moment, the radio came back with, “This is Fend 100 on guard. Flight controls are now responsive. Declaring an emergency and heading to the nearest suitable runway.”
The ambulances and police cars arrived moments later. The EMS crews provided treatment for the FBI men. Both ended up okay.
The one who was hit in the Kevlar vest had two broken ribs. The one who was facedown and bleeding from a gunshot in the kitchen had lost a lot of blood, but was stable.
Max walked up to Maria as she was receiving treatment under police supervision. “What made you do it?”
She didn’t answer. Just kept her head down, looking at the ground. A few minutes later, the FBI arrived and took custody of her.
Special Agent Flynn flew to the scene, courtesy of the FBI HRT helicopters.
Max said, “Have you found Morozov?”
“Not yet. But we have agents and local police scanning the area. Roadblocks are set up all over for fifty miles around. And flights are still grounded. He’ll turn up.”
The FBI drove Renee and Max back down to Jacksonville. They had a prolonged after-action report to complete with the local FBI office. Then they were cut loose in time for dinner. Max invited Renee to his father’s house in Ponte Vedra.
“You think you’re ready to take me home to your father?” she said with a wink.
“I’m ready for more than that.”
“How about a beach vacation? I know a nice quiet spot in Georgia—near Jekyll Island.”
Max grinned. “In all seriousness, you did great. Thanks for all the help.” He leaned in and kissed her.
“Thanks. You too.” She was blushing.
Dinner that night was a busy affair. Charles Fend, understandably, had to work much of the evening. He had invited many of his company executives to his home. They could manage the public affairs nightmare from there. Max and Renee sat by the pool, sipping on cool drinks and watching the sunset.
When the night finally wrapped up, and the majority of his employees had left, Charles came and sat down with them. He sipped on a glass of scotch and looked at his son.
“Your mother would have been proud.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“And you, dear. If there is ever anything I can do to repay you for saving the lives of all those men and women on my aircraft, you just say the word.”
Renee said, “Your son has already promised me a job.”
Charles looked at Max. “An excellent hire.”
Max said, “What will happen to the automated flight program?”
His father sighed. “I’m sure it will be some time before people feel comfortable enough with the technology. But I think it’s safe to say that we won’t be moving forward with the contract as soon as we
thought we would. It’s too early to say what the fallout will be.”
“Well, perhaps we can start making parachutes for commercial airliners?”
His father laughed. “Perhaps.”
27
Wilkes met Max at the Conch House restaurant in St. Augustine three days later. They sat in one of the secluded grass huts that overlooked the marina. A waitress brought them waters and appetizers.
Wilkes said, “We’d like to retain your services for the future, Max.”
“And what will that entail?”
Wilkes took off his glasses, rubbing them with a napkin. “You liked working for the DIA, right?”
“I did.”
“Well, we would like to have you serve your country in other ways. Your position in your father’s company, and your fame…or infamy, depending on who you ask…will grant you access that few enjoy. You’re a patriot, and a skilled operative. Your talent and loyalty were never in question.”
“Funny how Special Agent Flynn wasn’t made aware of my loyalty when he took me in last week…”
Wilkes sipped his water. “Look, I agree that the entire situation should have been handled differently. But things turned out rather well for us.”
“Did they?” Max looked out over the water and said, “There’s something I want to know.”
Wilkes said, “Go ahead.”
“I spoke with Flynn yesterday. Our final chat, I hope. He suggested that Maria Blount might no longer be in the custody of the FBI. He implied that another agency had taken her from them. Perhaps for interrogations? Or perhaps not.”
Wilkes didn’t say anything.
“I seem to recall a few operations from my days in Europe where our assets were retired by similar means. Sent off to rural lands to live out their days on a government pension, their covers ruined, but their mission accomplished.”
Wilkes’s face remained a blank canvas. Seeing that he wasn’t getting a bite, Max said, “Maria wasn’t just working for Morozov, was she?”
