“Engaging,” Ben said, feeling the tiny feedback click of the button as the computer screen changed to reflect the remote engagement. “System engaged and locked,” he continued.
“Crown is affirmative on the lock. We have control.”
Ben realized he’d been holding his breath and permitted himself to exhale and sit back slightly in his seat in the familiar environment of the Gulfstream’s otherwise deserted cabin.
Straight and level. Good!
On an intellectual level, he’d expected nothing less after hours of checking and rechecking to make sure no strange commands had been embedded in the Boomerang master code.
“So far, so good,” Ben said into the headset, aware that the comment would be considered nonprofessional by the hardcore test engineers.
The screen was changing suddenly, the list of streaming data locks staying the same, but the control inputs moving as the Gulfstream began banking left.
“Are you commanding a bank to the left?” Ben asked, the immediate anxiety in his voice all too apparent.
There was a small chuckle embedded in the rapid reply from the AWACS remote pilot. “Roger. That’s just me playing with the controls. Coming left twenty degrees and a thirty-degree bank, then I’ll come back to the right before getting into the systems checks.”
Ben willed himself to relax and look around. He massaged his neck muscles and realized they were as tight as steel bands, a direct reflection of the tension. He wondered if the Gulfstream pilots were feeling the same anxiety. If so, they’d never admit it, Ben knew. It was against the pilot code, and especially true of test pilots, though held observed the inherent discomfort of the pilots in giving up control to a mechanism or a remote pilot not under their command.
“Coming back to the right now,” the remote pilot was saying, his voice cheerful as he watched his “instruments” on the mock control panel with heading, altitude, and airspeed readings coming back up live from the Gulfstream.
The thought that this test flight was unfolding correctly and safely had been merely a wish a few minutes back. They had already passed the critical point in time when the computer had suddenly started diving them in the Monday night test flight. All systems seemed to be operating normally, which meant perhaps thirty minutes of flight maneuvers before they could go home and Uniwave could collect its life-giving green government check.
The problem of who sabotaged the program Monday night was still with them, of course.
“Okay, starting down the flight control list now with the speed brakes.”
A wave of warm feelings for Schroedinger and innate happiness that he would, in fact, be seeing him again filled Ben at the same moment another more sinister connection came together in his memory. He ripped his attention back to the moment, searching for whatever that connection had been.
Wait … something the AWACS pilot just said …
His seat began falling gently out from under him as his stomach got lighter, and Ben diverted his eyes to the altitude readout.
“Whoa! Gentle on the sudden descent there, Crown,” the Gulfstream pilot said.
“What descent … wait. Sage Ten, have you seized control?”
“Negative, Crown. We’re showing you still locked. Don’t tell me this is happening again?”
The figures on Ben’s computer screen confirmed the sequence, the converted business jet now moving vertically toward the terrain below and out of twenty-three thousand at a rate of first two thousand, then three thousand feet per minute downward.
“Oh, shit!” the remote pilot said. “Yes, Sage, it does appear to be happening again. I’m commanding a climb and you’re not following.”
“Are you showing the telemetry link still locked?” the Gulfstream pilot asked.
“Yes.”
“We’re descending now through flight level two-zero-zero, and I’m not going to wait very long this time before I pull the plug. Ben? Are you on?”
“Yes. All indications are contrary to what’s happening, except that I see the altitude loss. How low should we let her go before we disconnect?”
“This is the test director. We’re disconnecting all the telemetry links now.”
The descent was continuing. Ben watched the figures, hoping for a flattening, but they were falling through seventeen thousand now, with no change in deck angle.
“This is Ben … ah, Test One. You guys up there physically locked out again?”
“Yes. Should we use the new T-handle?’
“Stand by on that. Crown? Test One. Have you disconnected?”
“Affirmative, Sage Ten. We physically shut off the transmitters.”
“Problem is here again. Okay. I’m beginning electronic disconnect now.”
“No change, Ben,” the pilot announced.
“Roger … going to secondary method.”
“Still nothing. We’re coming through fifteen thousand.”
“I’m shutting down the computer like last time,” Ben said, reaching for the power switches and watching the information on his screen collapse to a point of light, then nothing.
But they were still descending.
“Pilot, Test One. Are you free?”
“No. Have you shut down?”
“Yes. Pull the T-handle.”
A long silence followed as the descent continued. Through the windows, Ben could see the last vestige of daylight on the western horizon lighting up the exposed sides of the Alaskan terrain to the left, painting a warm reddish light on the mountains and ridges that were simultaneously coming up toward them.
“Go ahead with the T-handle,” Ben said again.
“The damn thing didn’t work!” the pilot said, more tension in his voice now than five days before. “Ben? I can’t believe we’re here again and out of options. How about you?”
The same wave of confusion and uncertainty that had overwhelmed him Monday evening washed over him again, but this time he pushed through it immediately and mashed the interphone button.
“The computer’s completely off. I do not understand this! There’s no telemetry, there’s no computer, the T-handle doesn’t work, and you can’t override the controls, right?”
“That’s right. We’re fighting several hundred pounds of force in either direction, and the trim won’t budge. We’re coming through eight thousand feet. Let’s just hope this thing wants to level at fifty feet again.”
“What happened when you pulled the T-handle?” Ben replied.
“It came out about three inches, I felt it tugging on something, then nothing else changed.”
“I’m turning the computer back on.”
“Just do something, Ben!” the pilot said. “This is ridiculous! Passing four thousand feet.”
They’ve succeeded after all! Ben thought, taking a split second to be angry with himself for not seeing that any test flight would be suicidal until they caught whoever was responsible.
“Through two thousand!” the pilot was saying, his voice tense.
The computer was just beginning the reboot process, and it was clear it wouldn’t be on-line fast enough, even if he could think what to do.
“Two thousand nine hundred, Ben! It’s now or never!”
“I’m … rebooting … but somehow I don’t think that’s the problem.”
What was the atmospheric pressure setting on Monday? Oh, yeah. Two-nine-four-two. What is it tonight?
He pulled a notepad to him, the figures leaping off the page: 30.10!
He jabbed at the interphone button. “RESET ALL ALTIMETERS TO THREE-ZERO-FTVE-ZERO IMMEDIATELY! DON’T ASK WHY! DO IT!”
ABOARD WIDGEON N8771B IN FLIGHT, OVRBORRD CROWNER THE GULF OF ALASKA
Scott had given a wide berth of at least a mile to the Navy support ship April had spotted as they climbed to two thousand feet to remain well clear of the restricted area. The ship was miles behind them now, and the sun was just about to drop below the horizon, making forward visibility difficult. Scott spotted the reflection
of a high-flying aircraft ahead and pointed it out.
“Probably a big military jet like a KC-135 or a KC-10, and probably above twenty-five thousand.”
“He’s in the restricted area? The MOA?”
Scott nodded, his eyes on the metal underbelly of the distant aircraft as it caught the long-wave rays of sunlight and glowed bright for a moment in the purplish sky.
“Wow,” April exclaimed. “That’s beautiful!”
“Sure is. Amazing what you see from cockpits, especially at night. I’ve got a friend who flies for Alaska Airlines who made two circles one night in a 737 on the way to Fairbanks from Anchorage because the northern lights were so incredibly bright and beautiful. All the passengers were gasping! He even got video, and the passengers gave him a standing ovation when they parked.”
“How’d the airline respond?”
“They loved it,” Scott chuckled.
Another airborne metallic body caught the sunlight, blinking on and off again just as April looked in that direction.
ABOARD CROWN
“Sage Ten, Crown. Traffic twelve o’clock, southwest-bound, altitude showing as two thousand feet.”
Mac MacAdams had remained silent through the entire sequence of events, but with the onboard controller’s words in his ears, he turned, spotting Sergeant Jacobs at a console two rows back, motioning him to come quickly to his console.
Mac nodded and moved back, taking the offered headset as Jacobs filled him in.
“The intruder is just outside the MOA, sir.” He punched his microphone button again.
“Sage Ten, Crown, I say again, traffic twelve o’clock, fifteen miles, southwest-bound, reported at two thousand level. Can you change course left or right?”
“Negative, Crown! No control …”
Jacobs turned back to Mac. “Range is thirteen miles.”
“Where are the eagles?” Mac asked, referring to a flight of four F-15s doing the shadow duties for the test flight.
“Flying high combat patrol.”
“Open the channel,” Mac directed, and Jacob’s hands deftly clicked the appropriate switch and held down the push-to-talk as Mac immediately ordered two of the F-15s to intercept the low-flying civilian aircraft.
“You’re going to shoot him, sir?” Jacobs asked.
“Of course not!”
“They can’t reach him in time,” Jacobs said. “They’re closing too fast.”
The lead eagle driver asked for more instructions and Mac issued them quickly. “Force him to land at Elmendorf. If compliance is refused, destruction unauthorized.”
Mac looked at Jacobs and pointed to the radar display. “What’s the range?”
“Five miles left. It’s gonna be close, sir.”
ABOARD WIDGEON N8771B
“More traffic at almost twelve o’clock,” April said.
“Didn’t see him.”
“Much lower I’d say, by the angle.” April strained to see the speck again through the slightly scarred Plexiglas of the Widgeon’s windscreen. There was a faint hint of a light, different this time, more white and self-generated, and she relayed what she’d seen.
“If he’s got landing lights on, it’s someone under ten thou …”
Scott’s eyes had been searching the same spot of sky. He stopped speaking, leaned forward, focusing on … something … getting larger ahead of them.
“Oh SHIT!” he yelped as he jammed the control column forward, lifting April out of the seat with negative G forces.
The onrushing dot had been growing at an alarming rate and not moving in the windscreen when Scott latched onto it visually, realizing almost too late that it was an aircraft closing on them at jet speeds. The calculation of relative flight paths led to the emergency dive, but as soon as he had the Widgeon standing on her nose, it was sickeningly obvious he’d gone the wrong way! The oncoming jet was diving too fast for Scott to get under him. He yanked back on the Widgeon’s yoke and firewalled the throttles. Gravity jammed both of them into their seats. A large metallic T-tail loomed at them from the twilight sky just ahead as time dilated, inducing a feeling of slow motion, the huge structure passing almost laconically beneath them with a horrendous “whoosh” and a mighty roar. The Widgeon’s stall warning horn sounded at the same moment, and Scott fought to roll off to the right and let the nose drop, regaining speed and finally righting the aircraft.
He glanced at April, who was drained of color.
“What the hell was that?” she stammered.
“A near-midair!” he said. “Some sort of bizjet … I couldn’t tell.”
Scott could feel his heart racing and his breathing trying to catch up, but his voice sounded funny.
“You all right?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
ABOARD SAGE TEN
“Below two thousand now, and thirty-fifty is set!”
The Gulfstream pilot’s words were clipped and urgent. The descent was continuing with only seconds left until they hit the water, when once again Ben felt the nose starting to come up as the descent rate slowed. He could see enough through the windows to know they were very low, but the horizon line—or what there was of it in the gathering darkness—was now nearly horizontal.
“Jeez, Ben! What was that?” the pilot demanded.
“Are we level?”
“Yes … at sixty feet this time. What on earth …?”
“Do you have control back?”
“No. It’s still locked, but we’re level and the power’s coming up.”
“Try to disconnect the autothrottles.”
More silence, then a yelp of triumph. “THAT worked! What’s it doing, Ben?”
“I still don’t know why, but it has to do with the altimeter setting. You reset them all?”
“Yes! Hell, you didn’t give us a choice, thank God. But what’s still holding on to this bird, if it’s not the computer?”
It was Ben’s turn to hesitate. His finger moved to the interphone button, but the pilot beat him to it.
“Wait! It’s the damned autopilot, isn’t it?”
An autopilot disconnect warning horn sounded through the interphone as the Gulfstream jumped and both pilots let out a war whoop.
“Got it!” the captain whooped. “By damn, that did it!”
“How?” Ben asked.
“The autopilot disconnect! Somehow the autopilot had seized control, and with all the modifications we’ve made, it couldn’t be overridden.”
“We’re back under control?”
“Yes! And climbing. Crown, you copy?”
There was a sigh from the test director aboard the AWACS.
“Yes. Stand by while we finish performing CPR on each other.”
THIRTY
FRIDAY AFTERNOON, DAY 5 SEQUIM, WASHINGTON
Arlie had noticed the dark blue Chevy van earlier in the afternoon, a utility version with no windows motoring down the road leading past his property. The van stopped for several minutes before moving on. Addresses were hard to find among the widely spaced properties in the area, but it was the third appearance of the same van within three hours that snagged his attention as unusual. When it showed up several cars back in traffic as he drove into nearby Port Angeles, Arlie realized he was being followed. He turned suddenly near the center of the downtown area and turned again into a hotel parking lot, racing past the separate lobby structure and around the back, where his car would be hidden. He sat, waiting for several minutes, before deciding to investigate on foot.
He reached the main street and walked several blocks in each direction, but the blue van was nowhere to be seen, and he retraced his steps to the hotel parking lot feeling slightly foolish.
I must be getting paranoid, he thought, as he rounded the corner of the building and looked up to see the dark blue van parked right next to his car.
“Captain Rosen?” A male voice startled him from directly behind, and he turned abruptly to find himself facing a broad-shouldered man with a weathered f
ace.
“Yes? Who are you?”
The man smiled and looked around before meeting his gaze. His hands were stuck in the pockets of a long black leather coat, and he held himself with easy confidence. Arlie glanced at the broad pockets of the coat and wondered if either contained a gun.
“Consider me a friend, Captain.”
“Okay, but do you have a name?”
The man ignored the question and fixed Arlie with a cold stare. “I have a vital warning for you, and I did you the favor of coming a long distance to deliver it in person.”
“What, you couldn’t ring my doorbell?”
“I doubt you would want your wife to be as frightened as you’re about to be.”
“Excuse me?”
“Captain, you’ve blundered into something way over your head, and your daughter and her pretty friend, Gracie, are making some very powerful people very upset with their questions and lawsuits.”
“What the hell are you—”
A large right hand came out of the jacket, motioning for silence, and the accompanying look on his face stopped Arlie cold. “I’m not here to answer questions. I’m here to warn you to call your girls off, withdraw your lawsuits, fire your lawyers, and just hunker down. You will withdraw those legal actions on Monday and bring your daughter back now. If you do, your license will be reinstated in a few weeks. If you don’t, you’ll never fly again, and someone’s very likely to get hurt.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Rosen, the people you’re challenging will stop at nothing to protect their interests. Do you understand what that means?”
“Yeah. You, or they, are threatening my family. If you’re a government agent, I’ll have your badge for this!”
Once more the man smiled and studied his feet before replying. “Who I am is not important. What’s involved is. Stop your little war and you’ll get back in the cockpit. Keep it up, and lives will be changed drastically, jobs extinguished, and careers ruined. Especially your daughter and her friend. Do not tell them, or anyone else, about this conversation, or I’ll be back to deal with you.”
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