No response for several seconds, then: ‘Papillon, Papillon, this is Dragonfly.’ A man’s voice, electronic masking rendering it almost robotic. ‘We hear you. Situation?’
‘Phase one complete,’ said Noret, surprised at his own ability to reduce the enormity of what he had just done to a euphemism so quickly. ‘Where are you?’
‘Flight level three-eight-zero, one kilometre directly behind you. Are you ready to commence?’
He had to compose himself before answering. Assaulting Watley was one thing, but what he was about to do was the antithesis of every commercial pilot’s instincts. Even if everything went perfectly, there was still an element of risk to the three hundred and five passengers and crew. ‘Yes. I’m ready.’
‘Proceed.’
The voice went silent. Noret took a deep breath as he reached the point of no return… then disengaged the autopilot and shoved the control yoke forward, throwing the 747 into a steep dive.
Nausea rose in his stomach as the huge aircraft dropped towards the ocean. He could hear screams through the floor from the passengers below. Trained responses kicked in: he hit the button to turn on the seatbelt lights, then activated the emergency oxygen supply. Muffled bangs echoed through the fuselage as ceiling panels disgorged breathing masks. He switched on the intercom. ‘This is the co-pilot! All passengers must return to their seats immediately! Remain calm and put on your oxygen masks. We have a system malfunction, and are descending to a lower altitude for safety. Everything is under control.’
He eased back the four throttles to lower the stress on the airframe. The altimeter spun downwards, nothing but ocean visible ahead. Passing thirty thousand feet, twenty-nine. He needed to get the airliner to no more than eight thousand feet above sea level and hold it just above stall speed, which in the current conditions would be about one hundred knots. It was balancing on a knife-edge, but Noret was confident in his skill as a pilot.
A voice came through his earphones. ‘Captain! What’s happening, what’s going on?’ Rose Dewar, the chief purser. ‘Captain Watley! Are you there?’
‘This is Noret,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘We’re losing cabin pressure. Everything is under control, so please keep the passengers calm.’
‘But — but the cabin pressure seems okay down here.’ Dewar was a highly experienced flier, and even through an oxygen mask he could hear her confusion.
‘We don’t know exactly what’s wrong, but there is definitely a major malfunction. The captain is taking us down before it gets any worse.’
He switched off the intercom and checked the altimeter. Twenty thousand feet and still descending rapidly. Someone hammered on the cockpit door. ‘Captain! What’s going on? Captain, answer me!’
‘Go back to your seat!’ Noret shouted. He had been warned that the US marshals would try to assert their authority once it became clear something was wrong.
More pounding. ‘We have a high-risk prisoner here — I demand to know what’s happening!’
‘What’s happening is that we are trying to keep this plane in the air!’ Noret yelled back, still watching the altimeter. Sixteen thousand. ‘Sit down and put on your seatbelt! Our first priority is the safety of this aircraft and its passengers, so let us do our job!’
Garrison started to say something else, then stopped. Noret assumed he was returning to his seat, but even if he was not, there was no way he could enter the cockpit.
Thirteen thousand feet — and now the co-pilot pulled back the yoke, easing the Boeing out of its dive. Ten thousand, the blue horizon sliding back into view. He reduced the throttles still further. The airspeed indicator dropped, two hundred knots, one-fifty. A course adjustment to bring the airliner directly into the wind, giving him the maximum possible lift.
Eight thousand feet. He levelled out. One hundred and twenty knots, still slowing.
Phase two was complete.
As if in response to his thought, the flat voice returned to his headphones. ‘Papillon, Papillon. Status?’
‘This is Papillon,’ Noret replied. ‘Holding at flight level eight-zero, bearing two-four-seven degrees, slowing to one hundred knots.’
‘Roger. We are moving to transfer position.’
Noret leaned forward and looked up. Nothing but empty sky — then a white shape hove into view overhead.
Another aircraft.
He felt a flash of fear. The second plane — a Bombardier Global 7000, a long-range business jet — was less than a hundred metres above, well within the distance considered a ‘near miss’. Every part of his training told him to veer away, but he forced himself to hold course. The sleek metal crucifix slid into full view.
Its forward hatch opened.
The Bombardier shimmied, the pilot battling to keep it steady as a hundred-knot wind blasted into the cabin. Noret’s breath caught. If the plane went out of control, it could tumble right into the 747…
It stabilised — then juddered again as something else disrupted the airflow. A thick metal bar swung out from the open hatch, a steel cable extending from a pulley flapping in the slipstream. Something resembling a boat anchor was attached to the end of the line.
‘Papillon, Papillon,’ said the radio voice. ‘We are in position for phase three. Are you ready?’
‘Engaging autopilot,’ the Frenchman replied. ‘Preparing to receive.’
He switched the computers back on, then unbelted and stood. Watley was still slumped in his seat. He crossed the cockpit to stand behind the captain’s position.
A plastic cover was set into the curved ceiling. Noret pulled it away, revealing what was built into the hull behind.
The escape hatch.
The Boeing 747’s unique design had created safety headaches for its engineers, the cockpit so high up compared to other airliners that jumping to the ground in an emergency could be fatal. They had solved the problem in an inventive way. The cockpit crew could open the hatch, then use a set of cable reels mounted in the ceiling to make a controlled descent to earth, rappelling down the aircraft’s flank.
Noret had no intention of using the cables, though, and going through the hatch was the very final part of his plan. Instead he braced himself, turned the yellow-painted latch handle until he heard the thunk of bolts… and pulled.
The hatch swung downwards — and a hurricane-force wind screamed into the cockpit.
Alarms howled, the 747 shivering as its aerodynamics were disrupted. Noret locked the hatch open and staggered to his seat. The autopilot was handling the disturbance, but he wanted his hands back on the controls. ‘Dragonfly!’ he shouted into the microphone as he disengaged the computers again. ‘Ready for transfer!’
He looked up at the other plane. The anchor wavered in the wind, then dropped towards him. Noret held the 747 steady, flexing his fingers as the wind chill bit. He switched the intercom back on to address the cabin crew. Dewar’s near-panicked voice immediately came through the earphones. ‘I’m here, I’m here,’ he told her. ‘We’ve lost pressure in the cockpit. Keep the passengers in their seats — including the men on the upper deck. When we get the situation under control, we’ll divert to Greenland or Iceland.’
‘What’s wrong with the plane?’ Dewar asked. ‘Are you both okay?’
‘We’re good,’ he replied, giving Watley a brief glance. ‘We don’t know the cause of the malfunction. As soon as we do, we’ll update you. Out.’
He looked up. The cable was still unreeling, the Bombardier’s pilot making small attitude adjustments to guide the anchor towards the opening in the 747’s humped fuselage.
It came closer, closer. He could now see what he had been told to expect; the mechanism was folded so it would fit through the hatch, with a long dangling strap at its base. When it was just ten metres away he reactivated the autopilot and hurried to the emergency exit. The wind lashed at his face. He shielded his eyes with one hand, holding the cockpit wall with the other.