He cupped his hand over the receiver. “I’ve got the chief duty technician for the Iridium system checking his computer. They don’t normally cross-check for geographical location, but he says he can do it.”
Rusty had called the Iridium headquarters and demanded to speak with an officer. He was with the CIA, he said, this was a national emergency, and there was no time to go through normal authentication procedures. Besides, the information he needed right now was not terribly private or sensitive.
“You want what?” a senior vice president had asked.
“The access numbers of any of your units that have made outbound or received inbound calls in the past seven hours from the following locations: Iceland, until 1711Z, and then anywhere along a five-hundred-mile-an-hour line extending south from Iceland toward the western coast of Africa.”
“Good grief, Dr. Sanders, you don’t want much. Wait a minute, does this involve that seven-forty-seven with the doomsday virus?”
“Yes, sir, and I’m calling on behalf of the President’s team trying to deal with this.”
There was a long silence, then a quick response. “Okay. Hold on.”
He had been handed over to the technical branch, then to the operations center, and now the corporate officer came back on the line.
“Well, Dr. Sanders, we have eleven different customers calling from Iceland during that time, but nine of them also made calls from Iceland more than an hour after the departure time you gave me. Since we’re dealing with an aircraft, I think the two numbers that are left would be your targets. There are no more calls from them, but obviously they are the only ones not accounted for in Iceland after the departure.”
“Wonderful. I’ve got a pen.”
The man passed the access numbers, along with familiar instructions on how to reach them from an ordinary phone, and how to access the pager function on each phone.
“I must warn you, the phones aren’t meant to be used in flight. If someone has the antenna next to a window, it might work, but it’s more likely it won’t.”
“Understood. I don’t suppose you know who these numbers belong to, do you?” Rusty asked.
More silence.
“Well, given the circumstances, yes. One is registered to a Carl Wilhoit of NBC News, New York. The other one belongs to … I can’t read this first name … somebody Lancaster, of Manassas, Virginia.”
“Okay. Thanks a million!”
Rusty recycled the line and punched in the first number. A male voice responded almost immediately.
“Wilhoit.”
“Uh, Carl Wilhoit?”
“Yeah. Is that you, Bill? Didn’t you get my ETA?”
“Mr. Wilhoit, this is Dr. Rusty Sanders of the CIA. Are you aboard Quantum Flight Sixty-six?”
“Aboard it? Good Lord no! I’m covering it. We’re in a private jet on the way back to New York. How’d you get this number?”
“Sorry to bother you.” Rusty disconnected and redialed the alternate number.
It rang eight times before a recording came on the line:
“I’m sorry, the Iridium world telephone you’ve called is not responding to our worldwide signal. The person you are calling will receive a message that a calling attempt was made. Please enter your country code, city code, and telephone number for a response, and speak your name at the sound of the tone.”
Rusty disconnected and punched in the numbers again as Sherry stood and tapped her foot.
“Fourteen minutes, Rusty! Fourteen minutes left.”
He nodded. “I know. I know.”
Again the circuit rang. Four, five, six times, then a seventh. The recording was going to come on again. Rusty prepared to deal with it, but the female voice on the other end was different this time.
“Hello?”
“Uh, this isn’t a recording?”
“No. Who’s calling please?”
“Is this, ah,” he consulted the notepad, “Ms. Lancaster?”
The tone on the other end was one of puzzlement. “No, it isn’t. Are you looking for Lee Lancaster?”
The ambassador! This is the ambassador’s phone!
“Yes, yes I am. Who’s this?”
In the cockpit of Quantum 66, James Holland had been distracted by some sort of warning beep he had never heard before. If Boeing made it, he wasn’t familiar with it, and his experienced eyes had scanned nearly every instrument on the flight deck before the beeping stopped.
To Rachael, the sound was familiar, but in the midst of the dials and gauges and instruments, she assumed it was some aircraft function.
When it began again, she realized her purse was beeping.
Rachael retrieved the Iridium phone and punched the ON key.
“This is Rachael Sherwood,” she said after Rusty’s fumbling attempts to make sense, “the ambassador’s administrative assistant. Who is this?”
“Dr. Rusty Sanders of the CIA in Washington. Listen very carefully, Ms. Sherwood. This is a major emergency. Can you take this telephone and proceed to the flight deck and get the captain on the line immediately, and if I lose the connection, have him hold it by the window and wait for me to call back?”
“Certainly. I’m already there, and he’s right here. Hold on.”
Thousands of miles away in the Washington Grand Hyatt, Rusty Sanders felt himself wobble a bit out of balance. What did she mean, ‘He’s right here’?
Rachael handed the phone to James Holland, who took it gingerly in his big hand. “This is Captain Holland.”
“Captain? You’re in command of Quantum Flight Sixty-six?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I’m with the CIA, Captain. Dr. Rusty Sanders. I need you to listen very carefully, Captain. What I’m going to say is going to sound very odd, but if you don’t listen to me and act immediately, the consequences could be fatal.”
“Our situation is already fatal, Doctor, or haven’t you heard?”
“Captain, please listen. You’re aware an autopsy was done in Iceland on the body of Professor Helms?”
“Yes. And I’m aware the world media are saying it came back positive.”
“Wrong, Captain. I spoke with the head pathologist in Iceland. The professor apparently died of a heart attack. There is virtually no evidence of an active viral infection. I know he showed signs of fever in Frankfurt, but that had to be the beginning of the coronary.”
“Is this true?”
“Yes, sir. Now, that doesn’t prove he wasn’t carrying the virus, but it does indicate very strongly that the virus didn’t kill him. And, Captain, I’m personally convinced that the majority of you have more than an even chance of being free of that bug. This whole thing could be a false alarm. Even if the professor carried the virus, if he wasn’t in an infectious stage, he couldn’t pass it around the airplane.”
“Doctor, I’m sorry to tell you, we’ve already got someone else sick on board. A little girl. High fever and flulike symptoms.”
Rusty calculated rapidly and nodded. “Too soon, Captain. That can’t be the German bug. There hasn’t been enough incubation time. No one could possibly be sick yet.”
“All right. What is it you’re afraid I won’t believe?”
“Captain, you’ve got to alter course. Less than thirteen minutes ahead of you, some sort of attack aircraft is waiting to shoot you down. I’m convinced the attack has been mounted by a very effective Iranian-backed terrorist organization called Aqbah. I don’t know exactly what type of plane is waiting for you, but I do know they’ve gotten hold of the coordinates of your next way point. We … intercepted an Arabic message. By the way, kill your transponder immediately. They’ve got the code.”
James Holland looked over at Rachael with an expression of broad alarm. He cupped his hand over the receiver. “Rachael, would you go back and get the copilot for me? He’s in the bunk room just behind the cockpit door on the right as you exit. I need him up here.”
She nodded and left immediately.
Holland took his hand off the receiver and reached down, turning off the transponder, just in case.
“Doctor, why would anyone have anything to gain by shooting us down?” he asked. “Everyone thinks we’re already dead.”
“Lee Lancaster is on board, right?”
“Yes, if you mean the ambassador.”
“Captain, every terrorist organization in the Middle East has been trying to kill Ambassador Lancaster for years. They don’t give a damn who else they kill, and now you’re flying Lancaster right into their backyard. He’s the target, but you are too—in ways I don’t have time to explain.”
Holland was silent for a few seconds. “So you want me to change course and fly around that next way point, then continue on for the destination?”
Rusty realized suddenly that he’d been so focused on the impending intercept, he’d forgotten about the destination. If Aqbah couldn’t get them in midair, they’d find a way to get them landing, or on the ground. Quantum 66 would never survive a trip to eastern Mauritania. In a microsecond he could see Roth’s plan clearly. And a 747 was a sitting duck.
What, then, should they do?
Rusty rubbed his forehead, eyes closed, and tried to call up an image of the Atlantic Ocean off Africa. There were islands to the south, none of which would want Flight 66 on their soil.
“Captain, you can’t proceed to Mauritania. If they don’t get you just ahead, they’ll get you over the desert.”
Holland’s voice sounded incredulous. “What are you suggesting, Sanders? Are you suggesting I disregard my company’s instructions, the White House Situation Room’s instructions, ignore a major effort to airlift supplies for us in the desert, and just … fly off somewhere? I don’t know you! Hell, you could be a terrorist!”
“But I’m not telling you where to go, am I, Captain? I’m telling you you’re a dead man if you go where they’re expecting you.”
There was a long pause. Rusty looked at his watch. Less than ten minutes remained.
“Captain, at least change course. Fast! Do you have enough fuel to make, say, the Canary Islands?”
More silence.
“Why should I believe you, Sanders? Are you the CIA Director, or something? Why aren’t these orders coming from someone high up?”
“The name’s Rusty, please.”
“Question’s the same,” Holland replied acidly as he reached up and disconnected the link between the computer and the autopilot. He pressed the Heading Select button and began banking the 747 imperceptibly to the right.
“Captain, okay. I’ll level with you. I am an analyst, formerly FAA, who’s been helping with your problem since the incident began. I’ve uncovered a renegade group within Langley—I found a message they sent to Aqbah in Arabic passing the coordinates to someone ahead of you who now has your ETA and your transponder code. Captain, please at least alter course!”
“I am, as a precaution that you might not be insane. Continue.”
“Okay.” Rusty took a deep breath. “Okay. The renegades are being led by a deputy director of the CIA—the Director’s in the hospital in a coma. The man’s name is Jon Roth. He’s a longtime enemy of terrorist groups.”
“Who isn’t?” Holland replied.
“Yeah, well, he’s built his reputation on squelching them, and now I think he’s seized the opportunity to have Aqbah expose themselves to world condemnation by killing you and your passengers.”
There was shocked silence on the line before Holland replied. “Why would they do that if they know it will condemn them in public opinion terms?”
That question again! Rusty thought.
“Because, Captain, they’re basically insane when it comes to killing Lancaster. Anything’s worth that to them. And Roth has handed them that on a platter. Captain, where are you?”
“Calm down, Doctor. I’ve altered course to the right. The sky’s clear ahead. Where was this task force supposed to be?”
“I don’t have any idea what you should be looking for, but obviously a flying machine of some sort capable of firing guns or missiles or both. You don’t have hostile detection equipment, and the bad guys won’t be announcing themselves, so you might not see them in time. You need a drastic course change!”
Dick Robb was entering the cockpit with Rachael right behind. Holland motioned him to the right seat, noticing his alarmed expression.
“If they exist,” Holland said, “I’m a former Air Force fighter pilot. I understand the equation.”
“Good!” Rusty said.
“Hold on,” Holland said.
More silence. In the captain’s seat of Flight 66, James Holland thought through the problem quietly, then began shaking his head, his disbelief becoming firmer. It didn’t make sense!
He held the mouthpiece of the phone against his thigh and turned to Dick Robb, quickly outlining what Sanders had said. Robb’s eyes looked as if they were going to pop out of their sockets, his mouth falling open in disbelief.
“How do we know—” Robb began.
“Exactly!” was the response from the left seat.
James Holland took a deep breath and growled his answer into the phone. “You’re nothing more verifiable than an unknown voice on the other end of a telephone, Sanders. I’m not going to fly off in some unplanned direction just because someone’s unofficially come up with a conspiracy theory! What if we really are infected? They’ve got facilities waiting ahead to help us, and get us off this airplane. Our restrooms are overflowing, we’re low on food, I have only so much fuel, and I can’t circumnavigate the globe.”
Rusty tried to control the shaking in his stomach. He had only one chance to convince this man. “Captain, you’ve got to stay alive and safe for at least another twenty-four hours. If the whole passenger list isn’t coming down with this by then, it doesn’t exist! You understand what I’m saying? You need to buy time to prove you’re not infected!”
There was no response.
“Captain?”
The voice came back from Quantum 66 low and intense. Holland had arrived at a decision. He pressed the LNAV button to reconnect the computer to the autopilot, and the 747 began a shallow bank back to the left to resume course as he spoke into the phone again.
“I don’t believe you, Sanders, or whoever you say you are. Ever heard of meaconing? Intrusion? Interference? They’re old tricks the Vietcong loved to use on us in Vietnam. They’d get on our radios and pretend to be our people and try to lure us into traps. I think that’s what you’re up to.”
“I don’t understand,” Rusty said.
“I’m ending this charade right now,” Holland said.
“NO! Captain, at least, at least take down my number, or leave the line open, please!”
“Forget it, Charlie. Nice try, no cigar. The sky’s clear ahead. Tell your employer it was a clever plot, but you pulled it on the wrong GI.”
Holland pressed the disconnect button.
ABOARD GULFSTREAM IJSVA
Yuri Steblinko’s years of service as a Soviet Air Force fighter pilot had left him well aware of the dangers of locking up a target too early with his attack radar. The enemy pilot would know instantly by the change of tones in his ear—audible tones generated by his threat radar and sent to his headset. With advance notice of even a few seconds, an enemy pilot could run, or get off the first shot.
But the normal commercial 747 had no such capability, nor did the normal corporate Gulfstream IV.
The prince’s Gulfstream, however, had a sophisticated attack radar, and Yuri had locked it on the electronic profile of Quantum Flight 66 five minutes earlier, knowing there would be no tone to alert the commercial aircrew.
But something wasn’t right. First, the 747’s transponder had dropped out. The little coded block with “Q66” in glowing alphanumerics he had been tracking, next to the altitude of “F370” for thirty-seven thousand feet, had suddenly evaporated. Then, he’d watched in fascination as the 747 suddenly began turning off course to the
right. Yuri prepared to drop out of his high holding pattern to give chase when the jumbo just as suddenly resumed course.
The transponder, however, remained off.
What was that all about? Yuri mused.
The 747 was ten miles out now, coming straight at the preprogrammed position. Yuri double-checked that the Gulfstream’s lights were out.
Okay, when he’s right under me, I’ll start a shallow dive and come in behind him at a range of five miles or so. That should give me a good solution.
His mind went over the unusual procedure. First, he’d extend the missile rack on the left underside of the Gulfstream. Next, he’d arm the two missiles, and prepare to aim the warheads at the 747’s left inboard engine. Each missile held a nine-pound warhead, which should be just enough. The warhead should take off the entire engine and engine pod assembly, and with luck, it could collapse the entire wing. If not, he would fire the second one at the right inboard engine.
He adjusted the volume control and began listening to the low growl of the infrared eyes in both missiles as they looked for a heat source ahead.
Two missiles had been enough to bring down Korean Airlines Flight 007, but they had held twenty-five-pound warheads. Two missiles at nine pounds apiece would be enough, provided the shots were right.
Yuri mumbled a small prayer of thanks that the sheik had not demanded the smaller Russian ATOL missiles or the American AIM-9s. Both were too small to kill a 747.
The radar return moved steadily toward the center of the screen. Yuri spotted the 747 visually, the strobes openly pulsing into the night, moonlight reflecting off the silver wings, and the position lights on each wingtip and the tail marking the passage of the aircraft. His left hand curved around the control yoke, his right hand on the throttles, as both thumbs prepared to press the respective disconnect buttons for the autopilot and the autothrottles.
The oncoming 747 had no lights showing from the cockpit as it slid beneath the Gulfstream some six thousand feet below. The jumbo was precisely on his flight planned position.
And it was time.
Yuri hit the two disconnect buttons and rolled the business jet into a tight right turn as he let the nose down and pushed the throttles up. The 747 was traveling at Mach .80, or eighty percent of the speed of sound. Yuri could accelerate to Mach .87 and slide into position behind him within two minutes, forming a stable platform for the missiles. He heard and felt the speed increase as he descended rapidly out of forty-three thousand feet, remembering many of the combat scenarios he had flown in his career.
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