To The Death Part 2

"Airline?"

"Thunder Bay Airways, sir. Canadian. She has no scheduled stops in North America. Her fuel stop was not on her flight plan, according to the Miami Tower."

"They probably ran out in Barbados."

"Guess so. But what do we do?"

"Well, right now she's flying over some lonely country. But I want you to alert the agencies. CIA, National Security, then White House Security . . . that'll do it. They'll take it from there."

"What do I tell 'em, sir?"

"Tell 'em we got a f.u.c.king bolter! What else? And keep trying the c.o.c.kpit, Steve. You never know. Could be an electrical problem."

1213 Same Day National Security Agency Fort Meade, Maryland.

Today Lt. Commander Ramshawe was hot on the trail of anything to do with aircraft. The short, low-key signal on his screen was informing him that some nuthouse Canadian pilot was ignoring warnings from the control tower and appeared to be heading for the North Carolina swamps. This. .h.i.t him like "Houston, we have a problem" had hit the NASA ops room on April 13, 1970.

Jimmy Ramshawe grabbed the phone, direct line to his a.s.sistant. "Get me Herndon on the line right now," he snapped.

"National Air Traffic Control Center, Operator Simpson speaking."

"Operator, this is Lt. Commander Jimmy Ramshawe at the National Security Agency, Fort Meade. Please have the operator dealing with the Thunder Bay Airlines off-course Boeing 737 call me back right away. Military Intelligence Division."

As always, the words National Security Agency National Security Agency worked their magic. Inside seven seconds, Steve Farrell had dropped his donut, mid-bite, and hit the phone. worked their magic. Inside seven seconds, Steve Farrell had dropped his donut, mid-bite, and hit the phone.

"This is Steve Farrell, sir. You wanted me."

"G'day, Steve," said Jimmy. "This Thunder Bay flight. Where is it right now?"

"Sir, I'm showing it just southeast of the city of Raleigh, making around 380 knots through 35,000 feet. They've ignored my orders to swing left, refused to answer my signals, and stopped squawking. Just silence, sir. Like they'd gone off the charts."

"You're certain they haven't."

"Dead certain, sir. We got a radar paint on relay. They're up there, sir. And right now they're flying where they ain't supposed to be."

"They stuck to their original course all the way?"

"Nossir. After the Palm Beach refuel, they were directed out over the water and were scheduled to stay off the East Coast until they made landfall over Connecticut, and then proceed on up to Montreal. But we got a Navy Exercise in operation off Norfolk, so we redirected 'em west, back over land."

"And they heard that okay?"

"Yessir. And obeyed it."

"So they didn't ignore the towers until they were diverted from their northerly course off the Carolinas?"

"Nossir. That's when they went quiet. Soon as I told them to head for Cincinnati, Ohio."

"Is the aircraft full?"

"Nossir. It's not logged as heavy. But we don't have a pa.s.senger count."

"Who owns Thunder Bay Airways?"

"No idea, sir. They usually fly out of Downsview Airport, Toronto."

"Where's their home base?"

"No idea, sir. We don't see them that often. Tell you the truth, I think this might have been a private charter."

"Got a flight number?"

"Funny you should ask, sir. I've been checking. But I've had two different answers, 446 and 5544, almost like they filed two different flights."

"Steve, you sound like a very smart guy. I'll find out who owns the airline; you nail down their flight number. And keep tracking that b.a.s.t.a.r.d, will you? Call me in five with the flight number and gimme a projected route, okay?"

"You got it, sir. Be right back."

Lt. Commander Ramshawe hit the line to Military Intelligence Research and instructed them to run Thunder Bay Airways to ground and find out how many were on board their flight from Barbados to Montreal this morning. "And get the name of the pilot while you're at it."

Then he hit his own desktop computer, which took all of two minutes to inform him that Thunder Bay was situated way up in northern Ontario, on the northwest sh.o.r.e of Lake Superior. The city was very small, mostly a ski resort, but it most certainly did have an airport.

Three more minutes went by, and the phone rang again: Steve Farrell, to give the pilot's name, Captain Mark Fustok, plus the Boeing's current projected route.

"If she doesn't deviate," said Steve, "this bearing will take her four miles to the right of Raleigh, North Carolina, then straight over the middle of the city of Richmond, Virginia, across the Potomac, up the eastern sh.o.r.e, and on over the very center of Washington, D.C. There was still no accurate flight number."

"Gimme her last known," snapped Jimmy.

"She's just crossing the Virginia border," replied Steve, "close to a little place called Greensville. Still making 380 knots, still at 35, still defying every f.u.c.king thing she's been told to do."

Ramshawe liked that. Farrell was an earthy character, feet on the ground, hard to fool, no bulls.h.i.t, moving fast, right next to a half-eaten donut.

"Stay with it, kid," he said.

At that moment, his screen lit up the way it did when there was incoming data from Military Intelligence Research. He swiveled around and watched the signal, which informed him that Thunder Bay Airways was about two years old, registered in Canada, excellent safety record, with servicing facilities at the local airfield. It ran regular flights to the Caribbean throughout the winter, with specialized vacation programs available throughout the year to a series of luxury hotels, all of them in the Middle East, Dubai, Saudi Arabia, Qatar, Egypt, Tunisia, and Morocco.

There were no American-based directors, and only two Canadians. Ninety percent of the shares were held by an overseas trust based in the Bahamas. There was an office on the airfield at Thunder Bay, dealing mostly with their flights from Toronto and Montreal, transporting skiers. The president was listed as Mr. Ismael Akhbar, an Iranian-born naturalized Canadian, who held a master's in engineering from McGill University.

Jimmy glanced at the phone number and called the office in Thunder Bay. He explained to the girl that he was trying to trace a pa.s.senger on the flight but could not locate a flight number.

"Well, that's because we have no scheduled stops in the USA-it's not necessary to file flight details if you're going straight over. We never stop in the USA. Sir, what was the name of your pa.s.senger?"

Jimmy trotted out the name of his maiden aunt Sheila, who was currently located on a sheep station 746 miles southwest of the Great Dividing Range in New South Wales, Australia. He added that he was real anxious to make contact.

"I'm sorry, sir," replied the girl from Thunder Bay. "I can confirm that Miss Sheila Wilson was not on that flight from Barbados. There are only twenty-seven pa.s.sengers aboard, and she is not among them."

"Okay, Miss," said Jimmy. "By the way, what was that flight number?"

"Our nonstop Barbados-Montreal is under charter today. It's TBA flight number 62," she replied.

Jimmy Ramshawe's heart stopped dead. When it restarted, he murmured, "Say again."

"TBA 62, sir. Will that be all?"

"Just say h.e.l.lo to Aunt Sheila if you see her."

He slammed down the phone and yelled into the intercom, "Get me the White House!" "Get me the White House!"

It took three minutes to open his line to the Oval Office, and he told the president's secretary that he needed to speak to Admiral Morgan urgently.

Ten seconds later, he heard the familiar growl: "Morgan. Speak."

"It's Jimmy here, sir. Have you yet read that intercept message from Boston to Syria?"

"Of course I have. What's up?"

"Arnie, I've just found Flight 62-the one they mentioned affirmative. It's what air traffic control calls a bolter-it's refusing to obey orders from the tower, and right now it's headed for the city of Richmond, Virginia. Its present route will take it straight over the center of Washington."

"You in touch with the operator supposed to control it?"

"Yessir."

"Is he worried? Doesn't think it's just a mistake or anything?"

"h.e.l.l, no. He thinks this flight is very deliberately ignoring all instructions and flying straight down the course it wants to take."

"Where is it right now?"

"Making 380 knots at 35,000 feet. It's 1225 now. She's covering a little over six miles a minute, which would put Flight 62 around thirty-six miles north of the Virginia border, over Dinwiddie County, maybe fifteen miles south-sou'west of Richmond. . . ."

"What's Richmond from Washington, Jimmy? About a hundred miles?"

"Correct. Maybe thirty minutes from now if she slows down some, losing height."

"Slows down! You think she's planning a second hit?" You think she's planning a second hit?"

"Arnie, there's no doubt in my mind. There's only twenty-seven people on board. This is an Arab airliner, and it's plainly intent on hitting the city. I'm a.s.suming that, sir. And I'm staying right on it, trying to get a visual. Sir, please tell the president to scramble the fighters; we're gonna have to shoot this f.u.c.ker down."

For the first time in his life, Jimmy Ramshawe hung up on the admiral, who was thus left holding the president's silent phone inside the Oval Office, right in front of the boss.

"Sir," said Arnie, "National Security believes there's a rogue Boeing 737 heading for Washington, D.C., with a view to crashing into a major population center. Generally speaking, they believe it's the same gang that just had a shot at blowing up Logan this morning."

"What do we do?"

"What d'ya mean, 'we'? You, Mr. President, scramble Langley and Andrews-battle stations, fighter jets RIGHT NOW!"

"Are you telling me to order the United States armed forces to shoot down a pa.s.senger jetliner in cold blood?"

"I'm telling you to give them permission to fire at will. That way, the military has a free hand to do as they think fit."

"But, Arnie, what about civilian loss of life?"

"Guess that was worrying everyone on 9/11. And that's why close to three thousand people died in the World Trade Center. If our Air Force pilots had dropped the f.u.c.kers straight into the Hudson River with a couple of Sidewinders, it would not have happened."

"I know, I know. They didn't get 'em into the air quick enough, right?"

"Not quick enough to nail American Flight 11, or even United 93. Military commanders were not informed of that hijack until four minutes after it crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Basically, everyone was scared s.h.i.tless of shooting down unarmed pa.s.senger jets."

"I am too."

"Don't be, Paul. Get the fighters in the air, and tell them to open fire on sight. The pa.s.sengers die anyway. But don't, for the sake of all that's holy, let that f.u.c.king plane ram the Capitol or the White House. That would be absurd, given how much we already know."

"I guess," said the president slowly. "There's no getting away from one simple truth: on 9/11, the only one of the four hijacked aircraft that did not reach and hit its target was the one in the field at Shanksville."

"Spoken like a naval officer, Paul. And there's no escaping the fact that on 9/11 the fighters were not ordered into the air in time. They were still on the ground when the Towers were hit, still on the ground when the last terrorist flight hit the field in Pennsylvania. Don't let that happen again."

1231 Same Day Command Center, Northeast Air Defense Rome, New York.

Colonel Rick Morry came out of his desk chair like a Saturn rocket. His computer screen was showing a possible hijack or terrorist takeover of a Boeing 737 pa.s.senger jet in the area of Richmond, Virginia, heading north toward the nation's capital. More importantly, President Bedford had already given clearance for the military to locate, engage, and if necessary shoot it down.

And these orders came straight from the Oval Office, with all commands, as usual, directed through Northeast Air Defense control, way out there in upstate New York, west of Syracuse, about forty-five miles from the freezing sh.o.r.es of Lake Ontario.

"MAJOR FREEMAN!" snapped Colonel Morry. "Right here we got a real-world possible hijack or takeover of a pa.s.senger jet over Virginia headed direct to Washington, D.C. We have permission to shoot it down direct from the commander in chief. snapped Colonel Morry. "Right here we got a real-world possible hijack or takeover of a pa.s.senger jet over Virginia headed direct to Washington, D.C. We have permission to shoot it down direct from the commander in chief. LET'S GO!" LET'S GO!"

Scott Freeman picked up his phone and called out: "LANGLEY AND ANDREWS-GO TO BATTLE STATIONS RIGHT NOW-WE GOT A NO-s.h.i.t SITUATION-BATTLE STATIONS RIGHT NOW." "LANGLEY AND ANDREWS-GO TO BATTLE STATIONS RIGHT NOW-WE GOT A NO-s.h.i.t SITUATION-BATTLE STATIONS RIGHT NOW."

The control room at Northeast Air Defense went stone silent. Every eye in the room was on Major Scott Freeman. Two minutes went by, and then he spoke.

"Four F-16s Langley. Andrews scrambled. Copy that. In the air eight minutes. Copy that. Takeoff 1241. Will advise precise location of Boeing 737. No other pa.s.senger jets in the area, flights grounded since Logan incident 0800. Rome control over and out."

Colonel Morry walked over to the command console on Major Freeman's desk and informed him that the civilian flight controller monitoring the Boeing was Steve Farrell at Herndon Flight Control.

"Langley naval fighters 160 miles to ops area south of Washington 14 minutes. Steve, give me an approximate on Flight 62 at 1255?"

"She's already losing height and speed, sir. She's projected over Wood-bridge, Virginia, fifteen miles south of the city at that time-that's 38.38 North, 77.16 West. Right now she's making 260 knots through 28,000 feet. We have her over King William County right now, approx twelve miles north of Richmond."

"Thank you, Herndon. Copy that."

Colonel Morry: "Rick, we got three F-16s in the air at Langley 1239-headed 335, speed 685-projected ops area 1249."

"Roger that."

"Herndon to ADCC Rome-we have a Navy aircraft returning Norfolk moving southeast across Virginia-just picked up a real weird transmission . . . foreign voice background only pa.s.senger jet-something about executing will of Allah-on you I depend. There's a lot of screaming in the background. No visual. Suspect traveling north."

"Copy National Security Agency. Langley Birds moving in."