“Julie and the girls?”
“They’re being airlifted to Mount Weather, sir, along with the VP’s wife.”
“Where’s the vice president?”
“Checkmate is inbound to the White House. Should be here in a few minutes.”
“What about the Speaker?”
“En route to New York for a fund-raiser, Mr. President. We’ve rerouted his plane and are giving him a fighter escort out of the northeast corridor. House and Senate leadership are all being secured. The Hill is being evacuated as we speak, and the army is deploying triple-A batteries around the Capitol, the Pentagon, and Langley.”
“And your guys?”
“We’re good, sir. I’ve got Avengers and Stingers on the roof. We’ve got two F-16s scrambled out of Andrews flying CAP and four more about to go up.”
The president entered the PEOC, where National Security Advisor Marsha Kirkpatrick and White House Chief of Staff Bob Corsetti were already working the phones along with another dozen military aides and Press Secretary Chuck Murray.
“Where are we?” asked MacPherson as he took a seat at the head of the conference table.
“Mr. President, NMCC just initiated the air threat conference,” said Kirkpatrick. “We’ve got all the relevant agencies on secure audio and video. The VP is still a few minutes out. The SecDef is choppering to the Pentagon and should be in place shortly. Right now I need you to speak with General Charlie Briggs — four star, air force, commander at NORAD. He’s on one of the secure feeds.”
“What’ve we got, General?” asked MacPherson.
“Sir, on the far left screen you can see the radar track of the Russian jet.”
“That’s real time?”
“Yes, sir — they’re 163 miles outside of D.C. In a moment we’ll have live video feeds from the F-16s involved in the intercept.”
“Who’s up there?” MacPherson asked.
“Two F-16s out of the 119th in Atlantic City, Mr. President.”
MacPherson watched another video screen flicker to life. He could now see the two F-16s roaring in behind the Russian jet, moving faster than the speed of sound, and could overhear the pilots as they communicated with their commanders.
“NEADS, this is Devil One-One, in half-mile trail behind the airliner,” came the voice of the lead U.S. fighter pilot, thirty thousand feet above the coast of Delaware.
“Devil One-One, this is NEADS Command,” replied the two-star general from NORAD’s Continental Region at Tyndall Air Force Base in Panama City, Florida. “You are authorized to switch to Guard frequency and begin communications with the Russian jumbo.”
“Roger that, sir.”
MacPherson heard the F-16 pilot attempting to reach the Russian pilots on the standard frequency all aircraft were required to monitor. “Aeroflot six-six-one-seven, this is a United States Air Force F-16 off your left wing, transmitting on Guard.”
There was no answer.
“Six-six-one-seven, again, this is a United States Air Force F-16 off your left wing. Acknowledge.”
Nothing.
“Six-six-one-seven, this is Devil One-One, transmitting on Guard, two-four-three-point-zero, and one-two-one-point-five. If you can hear me, acknowledge with a wing rock, over.”
There was nothing but the hiss of static.
“Devil One-One, this is CONR Command. Son, can you see into the cockpit?”
“Negative, CONR. No frost. No signs of depressurization. But the sun’s pretty hot up here. We’re getting a wicked glare off the Russian’s windshield. Devil One-Two, this is Devil One-One. Do you have a line of sight into the cockpit from your side?”
The second F-16—positioned off the right wing of the Russian jet — tried to maneuver for a better look.
“Negative, Devil One-One. Can’t really tell.”
The two-star in Panama City came on again. “Devil One-One, what about the passenger windows? Any movement inside?”
“Negative, sir. All the shades are pulled down on this side. Can’t see a thing.”
His wingman fared no better.
“Roger that, Devil One-One,” came the word from Panama City. “Try the flares.”
“Copy that, CONR. Stand by one.”
The lead F-16 now banked away from the Russian’s left wing, then roared forward, pulling in front of the Russian by about half a mile.
Devil 12 banked right, slowed a bit, then pulled in behind the Russian jumbo.
Sixty seconds later, the lead fighter jet released a barrage of sizzling, red-hot flares. They were typically used as decoys to confuse heat-seeking missiles. Now they were trying to catch the attention of anyone who might be alive inside the Aeroflot cockpit.
Again the F-16s attempted radio contact.
Again there was nothing but hiss and static.
President MacPherson’s stomach tightened. He caught the eye of his chief of staff, then looked back at the radar track. Aeroflot 6617 was now only 109 miles outside of the nation’s capital and coming in at nearly the speed of sound.
The plan was almost set.
Stuchenko reached his hand back to receive one last crumpled note from his aides in the first-class seats behind him. His hands trembled. He glanced to his right, listened carefully, but saw and heard no one as he opened the napkin under the protection of his fold-out tray.
“We know there are two in the cockpit,” it read. “But what about behind us? Where’s #3? Is there a fourth? more? We must know before we move.”
Stuchenko was furious. They wanted him to turn around? They wanted him to look back to find the other terrorists? Wasn’t he their boss? Why didn’t they turn around? But Stuchenko knew full well why not. They were as terrified as he was. Everyone on the plane had been ordered not to move, not to stand, not to go to the bathroom, not to turn around. To disobey was suicide. But what other choice did they have?
Stuchenko closed his eyes, straining to hear any sign of trouble. But aside from all the crying children, all he could hear now was his PR agent rubbing worry beads and mumbling some sort of prayer over and over again.
What a fool, thought Stuchenko. The idiot is going to get us all killed.
Stuchenko tried to breathe, tried to steel himself.
If he had to die, he would die like a man.
Marsha Kirkpatrick put the question directly.
“Mr. President, are you ready to order this plane shot down?”
MacPherson hesitated to say no out loud. Instead he began firing off questions.
“Are any U.S. marshals on board?”
“No,” said Kirkpatrick. “There aren’t enough marshals for every flight, and this route has never been a problem.”
“What about Russian marshals?”
“We’re not sure yet. Aeroflot is supposed to fax the flight manifest to the FBI’s field office in Moscow, but nothing has come in yet.”
“Is there any possibility that passengers on board might be able to overtake the hijackers?”
“Perhaps,” Kirkpatrick conceded. “But there isn’t much time, and if the flight gets within fifty miles of Washington, the situation will get infinitely more dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because the plane would have to be shot down over land, sir. That puts the lives of innocent people on the ground at risk.”
MacPherson struggled to think clearly. “Is there any other way to stop the plane?”
“Unlikely,” Kirkpatrick said. “Mr. President, you should be under no illusions. If Chechen rebels are in control of the aircraft, they are likely on a kamikaze mission, and there will be no negotiations.”