It was ten minutes before general boarding.
Delta Airlines Captain Joseph Falk hurried down the passenger boarding ramp with a six large coffee cups. One cup was special. The Starbucks ladies made a special blend of rich, dark cocoa for Falk and marked it with a distinctive red X. The early flight crews always flipped coins for breakfast. This was his third loss in a row.
A seasoned captain with 22,000 hours, Falk had flown since he was sixteen and had earned his commercial certification piloting trans-Atlantic cargo to Africa. Once, over the coast of Namibia, he drifted so low over a plateau that he could count the stripes on a herd of zebra. It was the only time he’d fallen asleep flying an aircraft.
The morning flight to Atlanta was routine. Still, Falk preferred westbound routes, and Denver, in particular, due to its pilot-friendly layout. No matter where a plane set down, it could reach a terminal without having to cross another inbound runway. Eastbound flights were the worst, especially Boston’s Logan or New York’s dreaded LaGuardia with its complex routing points, crowded skies, and temperamental controllers. Mitchell International was just the opposite. It was a quiet, well-run airport that was rarely congested, and the FAA used it to break in rookies. That meant by-the-book procedures and maddening distance spacing between approaches. It was a common joke among pilots that on a clear day, one could see training wheels at the base of Mitchell’s tower.
First officer Tim Haas had never flown with Falk before and was eager to make a good impression. He reached for a clipboard that held one of three preflight checklists. He craned his neck briefly and noticed that the lead flight attendant had closed the cockpit door, a signal that the cabin was secure.
“So you’re the one,” Haas said.
“The one what?” Falk asked suspiciously.
“The pilot with the antique lunch pail. The other flight crews say it’s a good-luck symbol. Gosh, I loved those old flicks, especially Raiders of the Lost Ark. Do you mind if I hold it?”
“A vintage Indiana Jones lunch box is hardly antique,” Falk answered. “Sorry. You can look but not touch.”
“Whatever you say, Indy. Do you wear a leather jacket and carry a whip too?”
“Only for unruly passengers.” Falk laughed, setting the lunch box aside. “Okay, let’s see if this old gal can still fly.”
Boeing’s MD-90 twinjet referred to a series of models certified by the FAA in 1990. Nearly obsolete, the MD-90 was best known for a quiet fuel efficiency that produced some of the lowest operating costs in the aviation industry. Only seventy-seven remained in US service, sixty-five of those with Delta. The Pratt and Whitney engines were fuselage-mounted.
“Where are we?” Falk asked.
“Before-start checklist. Hydraulic pumps on, fuel on.”
“What’s the volume?”
“Twelve thousand pounds. Navigation lights and rotating beacon are on. The maintenance log is on the aircraft.” Haas scanned a dispatch release. “We are, in fact, flying to Hartsfield-Jackson. Oxygen system is set and checked. Pressure is set for elevation. The flight management computer is set and checked. Parking brake and pressure, checked. Rudder and trim set to take-off settings. Seat belt sign is on. We’re all filled up, and the doors are closed. Before-start checklist is complete, Captain.”
Falk spoke into his microphone. “Ground crew, how about a push?”
“Ready for push, sir,” a tug operator’s voice responded from outside on the tarmac. “Release your brakes.”
“Delta 771 at gate D47 requesting clearance for pushback.”
“DL771, you are cleared for pushback at D47,” a ground controller’s voice answered. “Advise ready for taxi.”
Haas initiated the engine start-up sequence.
The tug pushed the aircraft back from the gate.
“Delta 771 requesting clearance for taxi,” Falk stated.
“DL771, you are cleared for taxi on Bravo-Gulf-Echo. Proceed to runway 19R and hold for departure.”
Chapter 18
The Poker game at the American Legion had ended.
Chief Watts escorted the players to the parking lot. He turned back for the building and noticed a silhouette upstairs in an open window.
“I see you up there, you little monkey,” he called to Akil. “I thought you were sick. What’re you doing with those binoculars?”
“I can’t sleep,” Akil said. “Is everyone gone?”
“Yeah. With all my money. The only thing they left was a mess.”
“Do you need any help?” Akil offered. “I could give you a hand.”
“Heck, yes. And bring that sandwich if you didn’t eat it. I’m starved.”
Akil flew into his kitchen and pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves. He opened the refrigerator and gently removed the cyanide. He held a deep breath and delicately squeezed a full eyedropper over the ham. He carefully reset the bread and covered the now-lethal snack with a paper towel, exhaling down the stairs on his way to the bar.
Akil returned to his apartment and lifted the drone case onto his sofa. He removed the yellow frame and inserted a set of wings and legs. He reached for one timer assembly and tightly wrapped four windings of duct tape around the drone’s body. A second layer of tape held the pouched circuit harness and two explosive potassium cubes, a total of three hundred grams, an amount capable of blasting a hole in a metal plate twice the thickness of the aircraft’s skin. He pressed the sets of exposed wires into the cubes and then wound more tape across the entire assembly. It held together firmly. He removed the tiny cap from the front of the camera lens. He touched a toggle on the controller and viewed the laptop screen. The picture was clearly focused. Next, he glanced at his watch and set the laptop clock timer at 00:09:00. Finally, he snapped in the fuel and catalyst packets.
He tossed the drone into the morning sky and watched it flutter across East Layton Avenue and onto airport property, south across the public observation lot, and over a steel fence monitored by two security cameras. Both were angled down at the gate crossing.
Flight 771 was stopped at the end of the taxiway.
The drone approached the aircraft from the rear. Akil knew that the nose landing gear folded forward, so he had to maneuver the length of the fuselage to embrace the gear head-on. This he accomplished with relative ease.
Captain Falk spoke into his mouthpiece. “Delta 771 holding short of 19R. I still need a minute or so. Is it all right if we wait?”
“Roger, DL771. Hold short of 19R.”
Falk turned on the cabin speakers. “Gooood morning, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of the flight crew, this is your captain welcoming you to Delta Flight 771 with service to Atlanta. We are filled up today, and our flying time should be approximately one hour and fifty-five minutes. Atlanta has clear skies and a temperature of sixty degrees. We expect a smooth ride. Once again, thank you for flying Delta and welcome aboard. Flight attendants, prepare for departure.”
Akil eased the drone forward, simultaneously pressing a button on the controller. The drone’s legs clamped securely around the jet’s front gear shock strut one foot above the wheels.
Akil activated a cell phone, dialed a number, spoke a brief sentence, and then turned the cell phone off.
Falk tucked his clipboard away.
“Delta 771 ready for departure.”
“DL771, you are cleared for takeoff on runway 19R. Climb to five thousand and turn left to one-seven-zero. Winds are calm.”
The jet reached 165 knots and lifted into the air.