“Ah… yeah. That’s the friggin’ question, right?” Dan said. “If we knew that, we might know how to fight it off.”
Jerry cursed and turned left toward the side stick controller, grabbing it and mashing the priority button before deflecting the stick full to the left.
Nothing happened, and he flopped the stick back and forth violently as if trying to break it away from its base.
“Goddamnit!”
“I know. Nothing,” Dan said.
“Who the hell would install such a thing in a commercial jet? Has Pangia gone mad?”
“Why would you think our airline would have…” Bill Breem began, letting his voice trail off as the ridiculousness of the question hit him. It was here, therefore someone in their airline had to know, and had to have decided not to tell the pilots.
“Okay, guys,” Jerry continued. “If that thing IS in control, we’ve got to defeat it. Can we cut the cables?”
Dan was shaking his head vigorously. “No. Too risky. But… what the hell is it? Is it some sort of surrogate control center? Is it supposed to protect us and instead it’s gone nuts?”
“I don’t have a clue, but I want it gone.”
“Yeah, Jerry… me, too, but if we go cutting cables to something we don’t understand that seems to be in control and defending itself, we could crash. If we cut the wrong cable, remove that thing’s ability to fly and don’t restore ours, we’re done.”
“We’ve got to do something!” Breem said.
“So what do you think we should do?” Jerry asked through gritted teeth, looking squarely at Dan but expecting Breem to respond as well.
Dan could feel the cobwebs dropping away at last. The burning sensation in his finger and mild headache were trivialities he could ignore.
“Okay, it’s a straightforward problem in essence. It’s electrical. Find me some thick gloves, insulate my shoes, put on the thickest coat I can find, and I’ll go get that goddamn cabinet open. That’s step one.”
“And step two?”
The single laugh that escaped unbidden turned into a guttural giggle, as Dan shook his head. “Jerry, even if I wrote thriller fiction for a living, I wouldn’t have a clue where this story goes next!”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Aboard Gulfstream N266SD (2350 Zulu)
General Paul Wriggle looked out at the lights of Telluride, Colorado, passing below and to the right of their Gulfstream. He’d been there many times and loved the place, even with its rarified altitude. He wished he could just spend his time flying airplanes and looking at incredible sights like this, the sodium vapor lights reflecting off the ski slopes, as night skiing progressed in the crystal clear air. Not that he didn’t appreciate the professional opportunities for accomplishing things and meeting the challenges that his rank and assignment provided. He enjoyed being a general officer, even more so than he’d imagined he would when he was a lowly second lieutenant just entering undergraduate pilot training out in Enid, Oklahoma. But flying was such a joy, especially when he could park the plane at destination after a completed mission, like an actor leaving a bravura stage performance that never needed a follow-up meeting.
Not quite as good as sex, he thought to himself with an involuntary smile, but maybe the next best thing!
He considered throwing off the seatbelts and going back to the cabin to check on Sharon’s progress, then thought better of it. They would be ready to start descending into the Springs in about twenty minutes, and he’d already had the pre-arrival bladder break.
He was lucky to have Major Wallace on his team, he thought. An absolute Radar O’Reilly when it came to anticipating what was needed, and incredibly adept at finding logistics solutions for almost any challenge. She could accomplish more in twenty minutes than most staff members could in a day.
He changed his mind again and decided a pre-descent leg stretch was a good idea after all.
“Don? You’ve got the con. I’m going back for about ten minutes.”
“May I point out, sir, that ‘you’ve got the con’ is navy-speak, not air force?”
“You may,” he smiled.
Sharon Wallace was hunched over the satellite phone when Wriggle walked into the cabin, and she looked up briefly with a “please wait” gesture. He settled into the swivel chair next to her as she finished the conversation and turned to him immediately.
“Sir, we have a problem. A bunch of them. I was just coming to tell you.”
He sat forward, on alert. “What’s the matter, Sharon?”
“First, the FBO I called in to fuel our aircraft in Tulsa called to reconfirm which airplane we were talking about. I repeated our tail number and serial number and the spot. He rang off, then called back ten minutes later to say the airplane isn’t there, despite what the other guy told me.”
“Isn’t there? Did he check all the…”
“Yes, sir. All the white tail A330s. And he checked their hangars. He said the aircraft on spot eighteen is definitely not our Three-Three-Zero-Romeo-Mike. The serial number is three numbers off from ours. He got out and checked the identity plates in the nose wheel well, to the extent that Pangia’s ramp patrol got suspicious and chased him off. Obviously the first guy I engaged was sloppy as hell.”
“Shit! Where the hell is our ship?”
“I’m afraid I already know, General.”
“Well, tell me, Sharon!”
“The call I was on when you came back was the FAA command post in the DC area. I had a bad feeling. I hate to tell you, sir, but the registration number of Pangia’s hijacked A330 is 330RM. In other words, ours.”
As a matter of style, Paul Wriggle had never appreciated the use of dramatic pauses, but he couldn’t help himself. He sat staring at Sharon for several very long seconds as he tried to process what she’d just said.
“You’ve got to be kidding!”
“I wish I were. No wonder they couldn’t find her in Tulsa. Pangia wasted no time putting her on the line.”
“As a white tail?”
“Must be, sir. No way could they have painted her in a week.”
“And the damn flight is hijacked?”
“It gets worse, General. I picked up a late news dispatch about the Pangia flight before those calls came in. It’s not a hijack. The flight crew is reporting that something has electronically locked out all the controls on the aircraft, and the crew can’t fly it, descend, change course, or anything.”
Wriggle snapped forward in his chair, eyes wide.
“Oh, my God!”
“No one knows why, sir. Or at least, they don’t why… or so the news media are saying.”
“Jesus Christ, Sharon!” General Wriggle managed, his eyes flaring wide.
“Those were the words,” she added. “The pilots can’t disconnect the autoflight system. And it’s our airplane.’”
“How the hell could this happen?” the general managed, his eyes casting around the carpet as if searching for an answer or reprieve that just had to be rolling around the floor.
“Our guys are an hour behind us in the other A330 headed for Tulsa,” Sharon continued, “and undoubtedly, every level of our government will be involved shortly.”
Wriggle was waving her to be quiet as he stood and started pacing.
“And we’re constrained by law and regulation from saying too much to anyone,” the general added, half under his breath.
“Sir, should we stop our team from landing Pangia’s airplane in Tulsa for now?”