As he left the area, due to a cross coding in the microchip, which processed the temperature information, a subtle shift in the temperature occurred. Like a thermostat in a house, it started to raise the ambient heat of the cesium containment crucible that accelerated the rate at which the cesium gave off electrons. The atomic collector of the electrons, which, when it counted a certain amount, declared that another millionth of a second had just passed for mankind, started reporting the event ever so much earlier.
Up the East Coast, twelve degrees and 18 minutes of arc away, the four-striped shoulder boards of an American Airlines captain’s uniform were reflecting in the black screen of the cockpit computer. The 25-year veteran of airline flight was sitting in the left-hand seat of his 767-200ER as it was being readied for takeoff. After he made sure the Avionics ground crew had addressed the problem with an indicator on the Non-Directional Beacon, he had a moment to attend to an item from his personal checklist. From his iPad he was able to check his reservation for dinner in Milan that evening with Maria DeNardo, the sexy assistant to Milan’s Minister of Commerce. The pilot had a twenty-seven hour layover. Appropriately named, he mused. The man didn’t notice as the screen he was reading from delivered more information than he was aware of.
At the same time, Press Secretary Spence was on her computer in the White House, conducting a Nexus Lexus search for statutory regulations on agricultural price supports for wheat and grain. A press conference loomed in 20 minutes and she was researching a quote from the Secretary of Agriculture during the dust bowl era. As the screen flickered, she scanned for any reference of price supports, not noticing her moments of total inactivity — seconds where she was frozen, still.
The captain’s 767, fully loaded with 181 passengers and 160,000 pounds of fuel, accelerated through 190 m.p.h. to V2, then rotated and lifted off runway two-two-right from JFK. At 300 feet, the standard hard right turn was executed to avoid the inbound traffic lanes in the New York Center area of control. The captain then relinquished his flying duties by flipping on the autopilot. The preprogrammed course would bring the plane up over the top of Manhattan out to the Atlantic. It would then traverse the North Atlantic Track. Five hours later it would cross the Scottish coast at Lockerbie, then into the European system of air lanes to his wheels-down point in Milan. As the plane banked hard over the Inwood Park section of Manhattan Island the sun rotated to dead ahead. Normally, transatlantic flights tracked along Long Island’s southern shore out to the Atlantic routes. On this day when the prevailing winds prevented planes taking off in that easterly direction, the flights were routed in a big turn over New York City. The flight plans for those airliners that flew over city took them down the Hudson River.
At the cockpit’s slight angle of ascent, the flight deck crew could not see the island of Manhattan, or its buildings. The little icon representing their craft on the cockpit GPS system showed them to be smack dab in the middle of the Hudson River. The Ring Laser Gyro Inertial Navigation System was starting to sense a disparity between the GPS reported position of the plane, and its own dead reckoning based on physics.
As soon as the plane diverted from its assigned airspace, an FAA flight controller in New York Center, following protocol, sent out a scramble order followed by an attempt to contact the off-course plane.
Major Jack Haus was in the cockpit of his F-18c Eagle. He and his wingman were in the on strip alert, in the hot seats. Their two Grumman fighters, looking like needle-nosed hatchlings nestled under a corrugated steel canopy at the end of runway 2–9’er, were ready to go. Two ground-support units were attached to their engines, keeping them hot and turning. From where they sat, it was a straight shot down the runway and up into the air. When the alert came, all he had to do was snap on his oxygen mask and throttle up.
It had been that way since the terrible attack on New York’s symbol of World Trade. He and his squadron had responded a total of 47 times since the new security measures were initiated. Thankfully, every time had been an innocent mistake, or electronic glitch that caused airliners and other planes to veer dangerously close to the nation’s collective nightmare in lower Manhattan. As it happened, each time they scrambled, he and his wingman shot off into the sky not knowing whether the threat was real or not.
Sitting in his war bird loaded with war shots seemed so incongruous to the Annapolis graduate. He was, after all, right here in America, in the affluent suburbs of New York. There were kids playing baseball right outside the gates of the base while his little gnat of a plane sat, with enough explosive ordinance cocked and loaded under its wings to rain hell down on a whole shitload of bad guys. The problem was the cretins who would take a plane weren’t in uniforms or massed nicely on a border somewhere. Major Haus’ flying death machine had a redefined purpose; to minimize collateral damage. God forbid, killing a few hundred on a plane, to save thousands in buildings. The math of the equation was terrible because even a low number, like one hundred, was still one hundred innocent people. Except for maybe one to four maniacs, who would dare attempt something so insane again? The other passengers, moms, dads, sons, and daughters, would simply be sacrificed to save thousands, and in the case of an attack on a nuclear reactor, millions.
His great sweat, the one that kept him and every other good, American born, professionally trained fighter warrior up at night was having to make the split second decision to terminate the lives of innocent folks. The Major knew he could be flying into a nightmare from which he might never awake.
As he eased the throttle forward, he said a little prayer, “Oh, God, let this be just another screwed up navigation system, and if not, let me get there while they are still over water.”
Both screaming Eagles were airborne 30 seconds after the alert signal was sent. The on-board cockpit computer immediately told him the threat was coming from JFK and that was too close. Previous attacks came from planes rerouted (hijacked) well outside of New York.
As it was on that infamous September morning, a fighter pilot, in a similar plane, missed being on the scene by 1 minute, thus escaping the terrible dilemma by losing the “opportunity” to create a “mini-tragedy” in order to stop the massive one.
The instant time-distance calculations Major Haus made in his head told him to go to afterburners, a carefully controlled explosion in the exhaust pipe of his engines, which propels the fighter plane at almost supersonic speeds. With full after-burners, the trip from the National Guard base at Gabreski Airport, Westhampton, 60 miles east on Long Island, bee-lined to New York City would take four minutes. At that burn rate he wouldn’t be able to make it back to base. He’d have to land at LaGuardia.