Lisa had a head start, but she was stumbling as she ran. Wilson kept up with her, paralleling her down the other aisle, as they raced past forty rows of startled passengers, who shrank back from the aisle as they approached. Holland and Erickson, however, were hampered and slowed by people leaning in the aisle to see where Lisa was going.
The rear door had been unsealed and pushed out. A figure in a white protective suit was standing just outside, handing in small boxed lunches two at a time to Brenda and two other flight attendants. Lisa Erickson arrived in the rear passageway and instantly spotted the door standing ajar. No one expected the small figure that came bursting upon them, followed immediately by the large bulk of Garson Wilson from the other aisle. Lisa hesitated and Wilson yelled, “Go, little lady! Now’s your chance, and I’m right behind you!” Lisa pushed past the crew members and the suited figure on the top of the stairs outside and thrust herself down the stairs and into the night.
Wilson followed her to the head of the stairs and began to descend, but stopped in his tracks at the sight of security police in the same protective suits running toward them with their M-16s raised.
Wilson backed up to the doorway, thoroughly startled, as the man in the protective suit grabbed his shoulders and shoved him back inside.
Holland and Erickson arrived at the back of the aircraft in time to see Lisa disappearing through the doorway, followed by Wilson, who reappeared within seconds.
Holland pushed past Wilson and squeezed through the door, yelling back at Erickson, who was trying to follow.
“Stay there! No one’s allowed outside.” The startled man in the protective suit was already halfway down the stairs, yelling in a muffled voice for Lisa to come back. He noticed more movement behind him and turned to see Holland flash by as well.
There were shouts in the distance as James Holland reached the foot of the boarding stairs. The wind was vicious, and instantly, it seemed, he was shivering.
Lisa Erickson had slowed to a stumbling walk only a dozen yards from a red rope on the ground, her arms crossed, her body trembling.
Several figures were converging from the right and left on the far side of a roped-off security zone. Holland looked both ways and realized the red rope ran completely around the 747 at a distance of maybe a hundred yards. Lisa was at least a hundred feet away from him and still headed toward the rope.
Holland knew security police mentality. They would threaten anyone approaching that zone, but if anyone tried to cross the rope …
As Holland stepped off the stairway, the sound of gunfire erupted, several tracers passing just in front of him. The advancing force waved him back and tried to get Lisa’s attention.
Each of the security men was in a protective suit, and each of them had raised his weapon and moved to either side of the advancing Mrs. Erickson. It was a classic formation. They were trained to position for a clean shot without hitting the airplane behind.
Their voices were unintelligible because of the protective gear and the howling wind, but Holland could make out their gestures to go back.
He cupped his hands and yelled. “She’s disturbed! Leave her alone!”
The wind took his words.
He took another step forward and more bullets chewed the tarmac just in front of him, causing him to jump back.
Two of the men on the left had dropped to a shooter’s stance, both of them aiming at him. Another on the right was aiming at Lisa. And another guard well upwind had ripped off his mask to use a bullhorn.
“Go back or we’ll shoot! You by the stairs, do not take another step. We will drop you if you take another step. Ma’am! You near the rope. Freeze this instant or we’ll be forced to shoot!”
He yelled the warnings over and over again.
But like a sleepwalker, Lisa kept right on going toward the rope.
Holland raised his arms and waved to hold them off, yelling again that the woman was disturbed. It wasn’t working. Two more guards had approached from the right and drawn a bead on her. Holland moved sideways and saw the guns move with him, the gloved hands holding the M-16s fumbling for the triggers.
He yelled as loudly as he could to the woman.
“Lisa, please stop! We have your children in the airplane!”
She was still walking, moving slowly, steadily, now less than fifteen feet from the rope. Any single guard could have held her back, but Holland knew that none of them would risk it. Holland was sure the guards had been warned that the people on the 747 were contaminated. Touch them without adequate protection and you’ll die.
The voice on the bullhorn grew more frantic. Another burst of automatic gunfire rang out as one of the guards tried shooting over her head.
Nothing seemed to faze her.
Holland could hear her husband’s voice behind him from the top of the stairs, pleading with her.
More gunfire, still high, and more warnings followed in close succession.
Holland could see the man in charge drop the bullhorn from his mouth reluctantly and issue an order he couldn’t hear. In response, the security policeman next to him raised his M-16 and pointed it at Lisa’s legs, while Holland yelled once more, as loudly as he could.
“No! Don’t shoot! Just restrain her! She’s out of her mind!”
Lisa stopped suddenly less than eight feet from the rope and turned. He could see her shaking violently, wearing nothing but a thin dress, which the wind was whipping around her. Her hair was standing out horizontally from her head.
She looked vacantly back at the airplane, her back to the guards, who began dropping their muzzles toward the concrete. Holland waved her forward, gently, calling to her, encouraging her, unsure if she was even looking at him. Keith Erickson’s voice called plaintively from behind as he, too, approached the bottom of the stairs.
“Honey! Please! I love you, Lisa. Come back to me and the kids, honey!”
But Lisa remained stock still and merely stared at him. He stepped to the ground and started to bolt for his wife, but Holland grabbed him by the shoulders as several more bursts of gunfire hit right in front of them.
“She’s my wife! Don’t shoot!” Erickson yelled, scared, distraught, and shaking from the cold.
There was an odd toss of Lisa Erickson’s head. Her arms came up to encircle her head, then slowly she held them out to each side perfectly parallel to the ground and stood for many seconds. Holland could see several security policemen standing just on the other side of the rope, within fifteen feet of her, their guns aimed. They had just turned to their sergeant and asked what to do when Lisa caught them off-guard by suddenly pivoting and bolting toward them, her arms still outstretched, her voice screaming incoherently.
The young airmen with the M-16s were taken by surprise. She was from inside the plane. To touch her meant to die. Female or not, if anyone crossed the line, that person was to be shot. All those thoughts ran through their collective heads as they watched a wild-eyed, screaming woman coming at them with outstretched arms.
Keith Erickson tried to bolt toward his wife, but Holland dragged him to the ground as a brief burst of automatic gunfire reached their ears.
Lisa Erickson’s shattered body hit the frozen concrete and skidded into the rope, then lay motionless, a rapidly growing pond of crimson encircling her as the two shooters staggered back, horrified at the result of their reactions. One of them approached slowly then and knelt to prod the lifeless form with his gun, while the other turned his gun toward Holland and Keith Erickson. The man with the bullhorn ordered them back in the aircraft. Four of the guards were advancing on them. A few more rounds were squeezed off, hitting right in front of their feet.
Erickson seemed transfixed. “Oh God, NO!” he sobbed, trying to break away, testing Holland’s strength.
“They’ll shoot you too! Don’t do it! Your kids need you! Do you hear me? Your kids need you!”
With guns following their every move, Holland dragged the grief-stricken man back up the stairs, into t
he aircraft, and into Barb’s care. He began to explain what had happened.
“I know,” Barb interrupted, “everyone on board knows.”
“Take him to the upper deck,” Holland said quietly.
“Where’s the goddam captain?” One of the guards had arrived at the top of the stairway. His muffled voice was clear enough to understand at close quarters.
Holland pushed the door open a bit more and stuck his head out, his face mere inches from the man’s protective visor.
“You bastards! Couldn’t you figure out what was happening? Did she look like a damn terrorist to you? You just murdered a young mother. And for what?”
“Goddammit, Captain, you were told no one could leave!” Holland could hear that the man was almost as upset as he was. “Our orders are to prevent anyone from crossing that line out there, and to do so with deadly force. We gave her, and you, more latitude than we should have. If I’d followed my orders, I would’ve shot you too!”
Holland shook his head in disgust and despair. “I was trying to tell you she was mentally unbalanced, couldn’t you tell?”
The man in the suit was obviously in charge of the others. A sergeant, probably. He held his M-16 down to his side and shook his head. “We couldn’t let her run, sir. Our orders are crystal clear. We warned her and you!”
Holland shook his head sadly. There was no point to the argument. “What about her body?” he asked at last.
The sergeant turned and looked at the small, crumpled form on the concrete a hundred yards away as several of his men began to cover it. He shook his head.
He turned back to Holland. “Not my decision, sir. They’ll let you know. Now, we have to finish loading these boxes, secure the dead man’s body, and get this door closed. And this time, tell your people if anyone’s foot hits the bottom of those stairs, we’ll blow them away where they stand.”
Holland could feel his temper give way like an overloaded dam. With both hands he grabbed what passed for the lapel of the man’s suit and pulled him closer, expecting a fight. Surprisingly, the sergeant didn’t resist.
“You pathetic little automaton!” Holland snarled. “And what would you do if we just all came marching out at once? Your orders say to kill us all?”
The man hesitated, then nodded slowly, deliberately. Holland could almost make out his eyes through the thick visor. He released his grip.
“In that case, Captain, there would be a massacre. My men and I would probably spend the rest of our lives grieving in a personal hell. Our orders are clear, Captain. We tried to warn you.”
Barb Rollins forced herself to resume functioning after the killing, but it took great effort. She supervised the removal of Professor Helms’s body and made sure all the food boxes had been brought in before securing the door. Then she roped off the bed the professor’s body had occupied in the crew rest loft, pulled the curtain, and had the young man with the broken leg moved from the coach cabin to an unused bed in the loft.
She returned to the main cabin level to find Brenda distraught and needing to talk.
“If they’re willing to shoot us, Barb—if they’re that scared of us—that has to mean we’re really in trouble!”
“Calm down, honey, it’s going to work out. It’s a false alarm, remember?”
“I don’t think it is!”
Barb took her by the shoulders.
“Look! They may be panicked out there, but we know that Helms had a heart attack, whether he was sick or not.”
Brenda closed her eyes and began shaking her head.
“Brenda, listen to me. Everyone out there thinks we’ve got a doomsday virus that could kill the planet, but James says that can’t be true.”
“He doesn’t really know! He’s trying to protect us. He’s doing his best, but he can’t really know.”
“And you do?” Barb said, more sharply than she’d intended.
Brenda looked up at her and nodded silently.
Barb dropped her arms from Brenda’s shoulders as she tried to ignore the cold jolt of fear that was creeping up her back. She had resigned herself to not getting home for Christmas. Her husband could live with that. They’d celebrate a day or two later.
Now she felt herself beginning to wonder if she’d ever see him again.
Brenda’s eyes were on the floor again, her voice little more than a ready whisper.
“I think maybe Mrs. Erickson was the lucky one.”
FIFTEEN
CIA HEADQUARTERS, LANGLEY, VIRGINIA—FRIDAY, DECEMBER 22—11 P.M. (0400Z)
Sherry Ellis had worked directly under Jonathan Roth for four years, she told Dr. Rusty Sanders in a quiet moment as they sat in the conference room-crisis command post.
“Director Roth has a professional veneer as thick as stainless steel,” she added, “a practiced result of years in Covert Ops coupled with years as a master bureaucrat able to fuzz up simple issues with a single briefing. It’s not easy to read him.”
Rusty watched her bright green eyes narrow just a bit and a very slow, very slight smile spread over her face. He had been noticing her quite a bit as the hours passed, and he was enticed by what he saw: an attractive, diminutive, highly intelligent, and self-confident young woman who happened to be turning him on with her wry sense of humor and quiet energy—not to mention her looks. It was no time for such thoughts, he knew, but as the hours carrying the unfolding horror of Flight 66’s dilemma dragged past, his busy mind was crying out for diversion.
“You like him?” Rusty asked.
“Why?” she shot back without defensiveness.
“Curiosity, that’s all. I just work in the basement, remember? I don’t get to know the superspies or the movers and shakers.”
She nodded and smiled, cocking her head. “I’ve heard the old self-effacing routine before, Doctor. It’s been used by everyone from Andy Griffith and Columbo to Nikita Khrushchev and Yasir Arafat. I’m on to you.”
“No, really, I’m just curious.” He laughed, holding his hands out, palms up.
She looked at him without speaking for several long moments, then smiled.
“I take it you’re not going home tonight.”
Rusty nodded. “I’d rather stay and see this through. Besides, there’s no one home but my psychotic cat, EPR.” He pronounced it “eeper.”
“EPR?” she asked.
“Stands for ‘engine pressure ratio.’ I’m a pilot with a few business jet ratings, and that’s the scale you use to set power in turbojets. My cat takes off about as fast when he’s startled. EPR seemed the natural name for him.”
Rusty realized she was only half-listening. Sherry smiled then and rose from the chair in a fluid motion, moving toward the door like a feminine wave, with Rusty’s eyes following her appreciatively. He was doubly glad he’d stayed, and wondered at the same time where she was going.
Sherry returned. She’d checked the hallway and closed the heavy, soundproof door rather surreptitiously, which puzzled Rusty. She sat down again, her eyes boring into his. For several long moments she said nothing. He guessed she was trying to gauge how much to tell him, since they’d never worked together before.
She inclined her head toward the hallway.
“You asked if I liked him. Rusty, I work for Jon Roth. He’s incredibly talented. I’m not required to like him or dislike him.”
Rusty nodded, feeling off-balance as she sat back and watched him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Yes, you did.” She smiled. “You’re carrying an ID from the CIA, right? You’d better pry. That’s what you’re paid to do.”
When news of the killing of Lisa Erickson entered the warrens at Langley, Sherry disappeared to brief Roth in his office. She returned a short time later with a grim-faced Mark Hastings, who slid a box of doughnuts across the table.
“Coffee’s coming,” Mark said. “Looks like this is going to be a marathon.”
“Something new?” Sanders had been searching databases again.
&
nbsp; Mark nodded. “We’re going to hold them on the ground in Iceland until the African site is staffed and ready. Could be half a day. They’re going to try to hush up the shooting, but the media are swarming to Iceland right now and, we can assume, monitoring communications. The story’s getting as big as the invasion of Kuwait.”
Mark gestured to a bank of television monitors hastily set up along one wall. CNN’s coverage was becoming constant, and the three major networks were planning live satellite feeds from Keflavík at first light—if they could get their portable earth stations there in time.
“By the way, Rusty, Roth said to thank you specifically for helping beat the deadline. We skunked Defense Intelligence by twenty minutes.”
Rusty Sanders acknowledged the words with a slight wave of his hand as Mark briefed them on the latest assignments. With the political assessments of northwest Africa done and delivered to Roth and the White House, and the satellite surveillance of the desert airfield arranged, the deputy director wanted to monitor the international intelligence community’s reactions. Specifically, he had told Mark, he wanted them to search for any hint that Ambassador Lee Lancaster’s presence on Flight 66 had become a matter of operational interest to the Iranians or their pet terrorists.
“What’s he asking?” Rusty wanted to know. “Does he think Hezbollah or Aqbah might target Flight Sixty-six? They couldn’t do a better job than the Germans have already done.”
Mark and Sherry agreed, as did three other analysts who had joined them.
Mark shook his head. “I think it borders on busywork, but Roth wants to make sure no one interferes with the President’s plan. So let’s get on it.”
They fanned out again as Mark realized he had forgotten to leave a sheaf of briefing papers on Roth’s desk.
“I’ll take them,” Rusty volunteered. “I wanted to talk to him anyway.”
Mark Hastings turned and looked quizzically at Rusty Sanders. An underling in the Central Intelligence Agency did not just go chat with the people at Director level without invitation, and Sanders had already been typed by Roth as a loose cannon. But Sanders had also been invited before to Roth’s office.
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