Detained, page 31
“Gentlemen, Homeland Security has intercepted e-mail traffic from several sources that terrorists on a Russian Aeroflot airliner that took off from Dulles this morning are planning to crash the jet into the US Embassy in London.”
“Did you say the US Embassy?” Admiral Cameron said.
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Fallington. Erwin Lopez here. How solid is your intel?”
“Hard to say, Erwin,” Strayhorn said. “We can’t say for sure if it’s a hoax or it’s real. The information has come in so fast that we haven’t been able to fully cross-verify everything. But we’ve got it pouring in from several sources, and that plane is already in the air. So with a missile potentially bearing down on our embassy, we’re putting the threat as high priority.”
“Mr. Secretary. Admiral Cameron here. What’s the flight number of that Aeroflot flight, and when did it take off?”
“Give me a second, Admiral. I want to make sure we are precise.” A second passed. Then another. The president exchanged looks of concern with Admiral Cameron and Secretary Lopez. “Admiral, that’s Flight 4325, and we show a takeoff time from Dulles at 9:30 a.m.”
Cameron grunted. “They’re well over the Atlantic by now.”
“What if the info isn’t right?” the president said.
“It might not be, Mr. President,” SECDEF Lopez said. “The problem is, we don’t have time to fully verify before they’re on top of London. After Benghazi, we can’t not act, sir.”
“Agreed, Erwin. But I can’t just shoot down a civilian airliner, either,” Surber said. “We’ve got civilians on board.” He paused. “Fallington, any Americans on that plane?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Primarily Russians, but some Americans, as we understand it.”
“I mean, am I supposed to take out American citizens to save our embassy?”
“Not just our embassy, but civilians in London, including Americans, Mr. President,” Erwin Lopez said. “I’d remind you, sir, that on 9/11, Vice President Cheney gave the order to take out Flight 93, but that never happened because Todd Beamer and his buddies took the flight down before it reached Washington. And Vice President Cheney was operating under a tight time constraint. Even tighter than what we have here.”
“I remember,” the president said. “And President Obama took no action to protect our consulate in Libya, which turned out to be a disaster. But in this case, we’re talking about shooting down a Russian airliner. That could start World War III. At the very least, we need to immediately evacuate the embassy.”
“Definitely, Mr. President,” Lopez said.
Doug picked up another phone and punched the direct line for his chief of staff, Arnie Brubaker.
A second later, “Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
“You still in New York, Arnie?”
“Yes, sir. Should be home tonight.”
“Arnie, we’ve got a situation brewing, which I’ll brief you on later. But listen. I want you to call Secretary of State Mauney and order our embassy in London evacuated immediately.”
“What should I say if the ambassador asks why, sir?”
“Elevated terror threat. Get on it now, Arnie. And let me know when it’s done.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president hung up the phone and returned to the sofa.
“Mr. President,” Strayhorn said, “maybe the Russians would never know what hit the airliner. Airliners can disappear over the ocean. When they shot down KAL 007, that didn’t start a war.”
“Different circumstances, Fallington,” Surber said. “KAL was a Korean airliner. Plus the Russians claimed it violated their airspace and thought it was a bomber. Besides, there’s no guarantee they wouldn’t find out about it. Maybe I should call President Zalevsky and turn the problem over to the Russians.”
“With respect, Mr. President,” Secretary Lopez said, “I’d advise against that. You can’t trust the Russians, and they might send aircraft out to challenge us.”
“Mr. President, there’s a possible alternative.”
“I’m all ears, Admiral.”
“Sir, depending on where the plane is, we could force them down before they reach Britain. I’d suggest Iceland. But we have to hurry. If they won’t cooperate, then you could order it shot down.”
A pause.
Lopez nodded. “Not a bad idea, Mr. President. I think I’d brief Prime Minister Mulvaney. After all, the Brits are the targets here. Persuade them to take part in the military mission so it’s not all on us if this goes south. But that would be it. Mr. President, we’ve got to get moving or that plane will be in London.”
The secretary of defense was right. There was no time for delay. “What’s your recommendation, Mr. Secretary?”
“I’ll defer to Admiral Cameron.”
“Admiral?”
“Sir, we’ve got the George Bush Strike Group in the North Atlantic. I say let’s send a couple of fighters up and order that plane down in Iceland. Jam it so they can’t get a distress call out. Get the Brits involved too. If the Aeroflot jet won’t land, we’ve got to splash it.”
Surber nodded. He twisted in his chair and felt sick. Perhaps he should call the White House physician for something to soothe his stomach.
No time for that.
If he’d known in advance what he would have to endure the last couple of days, he would not have run for president. But he asked for the job, and now another world-changing decision was on his shoulders.
“Okay, Admiral. I concur. Let’s get our jets up there, order that airliner down, and if it won’t cooperate, splash it.”
• • •
UNITED FLIGHT 8893
SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC
1:42 P.M. EST
1842 HOURS ZULU TIME
From her window seat in row 42, under the tranquilizing hum of the jet’s four engines, Emily peered down at partial cloud cover that cast spotted shadows on the sun-glistened ocean below.
What had she done?
Had she thrown her life away?
How had she wound up in this situation? She had wrestled with this question ever since Strayhorn’s proposition.
It was clearer now. Strayhorn had tried swooning her by offering her one of the top legal jobs in the country. He sweetened the bait because she was a long-shot candidate and would leapfrog over at least a half dozen other government lawyers more senior to her. Strayhorn banked on her becoming so enthralled with the position of power that she would find a way to legally justify his plans.
From the Teapot Dome scandal, to Watergate, to Operation Fast and Furious, this was how government corruption worked. Bureaucrats and corrupt politicians dangling golden carrots of power with the understanding that the recipient would turn a blind eye to the corruption and, when the corruption was exposed, defend such corruption legally with a straight face.
That’s what Strayhorn wanted from her. If this was exposed, she had the legal mind to defend it. He had seen that when she devised the TSA legal strategy for declaring Najib Makari to be outside of the protective procedures of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, based on the fraudulent enlistment theory. Yes, his motives were becoming clearer by the second.
But what choice did she have? To play ball with them. Or die.
“Could I get you anything, ma’am?”
The smiling flight attendant interrupted her thoughts.
“No, thank you.”
She looked out the window, down at the ocean.
The ocean.
Seeing it now, from thirty thousand feet, rekindled the question that every naval officer who had left before retirement asked at one point or another: “Why did I leave the Navy?” She had asked this question many times. The idyllic years of service in the United States Navy were the best years of her life
Against those thoughts, the words of Thomas Wolfe saddened her. “You can’t go home again.”
But if she saw him again, would she feel like she had come home?
Their affair was electric, incomparable to anything she had ever experienced. When she announced that she was leaving active duty to join the TSA, they reached an irreconcilable fork in the road. He would “never leave the Navy for a government-bureaucrat job” and encouraged her to reject the offer.
She should have listened. But ambition and a thirst for new adventure got the best of her. Their last night together followed her hail and farewell, then the Navy processed her out of the service and sent him to Europe.
Should she try to contact him? Why get him involved? For that matter, could she trust him anymore? Maybe he had found someone else.
He had professed his love for her, and they’d even discussed marriage. But both remained stubborn. He wanted to stay in the Navy, and she wanted something else.
How she hated bad timing.
No, she would not involve him with this.
But what choice did she have? Besides, he didn’t have to help her. He could say no.
And why not? She said no to him when he needed her most. Maybe he’d shove it right back at her by saying no when she needed him.
Was there hope for them?
Was there hope for her?
Soon, she would know.
She closed her eyes to get her mind off things. As the jet streaked east across the Atlantic, the memory of his kisses dominated her thoughts and, like an incredible wonder drug, distracted her mind from Fallington Strayhorn and Max Porterfield, and thoughts of following Jerry Myer to a certain death.
• • •
DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY JET
BOEING 777 (DHS 1)
SOMEWHERE OVER THE ATLANTIC
1:45 P.M.
1845 HOURS ZULU TIME
From the plush first-class cabin leather seats directly behind the cockpit, Max Porterfield checked his laptop screen, watching the flight trajectory as the Boeing 777 rocketed over the ocean to the east.
Because of prevailing tailwinds, and with the plane lightly loaded, the pilots promised they could shave from thirty minutes to one hour off the flight to Moscow.
“Based on their takeoff time, it may be difficult, but still possible, to beat the Aeroflot flight there,” the pilot had said.
But even if they landed on the heels of the Aeroflot flight, they could arrest Emily, detain her, and fly her back to the US aboard the 777.
No matter what, they could not allow her to survive long enough to stand trial. Porterfield had considered how to dispose of her. The most efficient means would be an unsolved missing person report.
They would handcuff her, bring her aboard the 777, take off, and then execute her in the plane. They could drop the body from five thousand feet over the Atlantic, and local police could issue a missing person report for her.
The DHS aircrew and TSA ELITE agents had been briefed—Emily Gardner, now an enemy of the United States, could damage the country more than Ed Snowden. The role of DHS and TSA ELITE was one and the same—to stop enemies of the US government at all costs.
Everyone understood: for the good of the country, she had to be silenced.
The big plane banked left and the secure telephone rang. Porterfield reached down into a black leather bag and picked up the phone.
“Yes, sir.”
“Change of plans, Porterfield,” Fallington Strayhorn said.
“How so, Mr. Secretary?”
“Tell the pilot to change course. I’ve convinced the president to either shoot the Aeroflot jet down or force it down in Iceland.”
“Iceland?”
“That’s it. Set your course for Reykjavík. I hope the Navy does the dirty work for us and splashes that jet. But if not, I want you to arrest her in Iceland and execute the plan as discussed.”
“We’ll get her, Mr. Secretary.”
• • •
2 US NAVY F/A-18 HORNETS
STRIKE FIGHTER SQUADRON 87
“GOLDEN WARRIORS”
CARRIER AIR WING 8
USS GEORGE H. W. BUSH STRIKE GROUP
ALTITUDE 41,000 FEET
SOMEWHERE OVER THE NORTH ATLANTIC
1859 HOURS ZULU TIME
Lieutenant Commander Michael A. “Mikey” Garcia, code named “Maverick,” nudged the control stick to the right, sending the powerful war bird into a bank. Garcia, a second-generation Navy pilot, grew up living, breathing, and drinking naval aviation. His father flew an F-14 Tomcat, one of the greatest fighters ever built. Indeed, naval aviation was in Garcia’s blood from birth.
As the jet continued in its bank, turning to zero-four-zero degrees, leveling out for its trajectory back to the supercarrier George H. W. Bush, Garcia looked out at the choppy blue waters of the North Atlantic. The thrill of banking the fighter into a turn, opening up a wide view of the ocean below, still sent a rush through his body.
Garcia loved flying combat air patrol and would fly twenty-four hours a day if they would let him. But the wide swoop thirty miles off the southern tip of Greenland meant that Garcia and his wingman, Lieutenant Seth Angel, were on the back side of their patrol and would soon yield this section of the airspace to two other jets from Strike Squadron 15.
Garcia depressed the mike, opening communication with the ship. “Bush Control. Golden Warrior One. Lined up at zero-four-zero degrees. Range four-niner-four. We’ll see you in about forty minutes.”
“Golden Warrior. Bush Control. Copy that. See you in a few.”
Out to the right of Garcia’s cockpit, Seth Angel’s jet flew a hundred yards off his wingtip. Garcia shot Angel a thumbs-up, signaling the final return flight to the Bush, and Angel reciprocated.
With the attacks against the malls back home, Garcia wanted to unleash his jet’s firepower against whoever was responsible.
But in the War on Terror, these cowardly yellowbelly terrorists hid in the shadows and blended in with the civilians. Few were brave enough to fight like men.
No point in worrying about that now. The air wing’s job was to keep this section of the skies, and the sea below, safe for democracy. And in this section of the world, that’s exactly what they were doing.
“Golden Warrior. Bush Control.”
“Bush Control. Go ahead.”
“Be advised that we have received orders to intercept a Russian Aeroflot passenger jet, Airbus 330A, flying in this sector bound for Moscow. Stand by for coordinates.”
“Bush Control. Roger that. Standing by. Bush Control, I now have coordinates on my monitor. Awaiting further orders.”
“Very well. Stand by for further orders.”
Electricity shot through Garcia’s body. Nothing excited a fighter pilot more than an intercept order. “Bush Control. Golden Warrior One. Copy intercept coordinates for Aeroflot airbus. Standing by for further orders.”
Garcia adjusted the control stick to bring the Hornet in line for intercepting the Russian airliner. Probably some dignitary was aboard and the government wanted to provide fighter escort over the Atlantic, in light of the terror attacks on the US.
“Golden Warrior One. Bush Control.”
“Go ahead, Bush.”
“Stand by for orders.”
“Standing by.”
Three seconds passed.
“Golden Warrior One. Your orders are as follows: You are to jam communications with the Russian jet upon approach, then order the plane to land in Reykjavík. If the plane refuses to land, you will then consider the plane to be a hostile target and eliminate it.”
Garcia jerked his head back. “Say again? Bush Control? Did you just order me to shoot down an airliner?”
“Golden Warrior One. Roger that. Repeat. If the plane refuses to land, you will then consider the plane to be a hostile target and eliminate it.”
They wanted him to shoot down an airliner? The last time that order was given to a US pilot was September 11, 2001. And although that order was never executed, that order came from the vice president of the United States.
Garcia depressed the Talk button. “Bush Control. Roger that. Understand my orders. If the plane refuses to land, consider the plane to be a hostile target and eliminate it.”
“Roger that, Golden Warrior. Set vector for intercept and go to afterburners.”
“Roger that, Bush. Setting vector for intercept and going to afterburners.”
• • •
AEROFLOT AIRBUS 330A
FLIGHT 4325
SOMEWHERE OVER THE NORTH ATLANTIC
BETWEEN GREENLAND AND ICELAND
1859 HOURS ZULU TIME
Commander Dimitry Petrokov, the first officer of the Aeroflot airliner, in the right copilot’s seat, checked his instrument panel and gazed out at the open sea below. The ten-hour flight from Washington to Moscow was a long one, and the routine could be boring.
But still, it beat the Red Air Force. At least the pay beat Red Air Force pay.
“Would you like coffee, Giorgy-Alexeevich?” he asked the pilot.
“What I would like is a shot of vodka,” the pilot said. “But I haven’t been able to persuade the big guys at Aeroflot Control that because the airbus flies itself, the pilots should be able to take a vodka break at the midway point.”
“Love your thinking, Giorgy-Alexeevich. Only six more hours to Moscow, and the vodka is on me.”
The pilot laughed. “Good enough. For now, coffee will do. Yes, order a pot from the stewardess.”
“Yes, sir.” Petrokov started to get out of the copilot’s chair when the electronic alarm buzzed on the control panel.
A message flashed:
Электронные зажатые передачи!
“Captain, our transmissions are jammed.”
“What?” The pilot looked over. “Check alternate frequencies.”
“Yes, sir.” Dimitry punched in four alternate frequencies. Then five. Six. “Sir, I’ve tried six, now seven alternate frequencies. All jammed.”
“Check long-range radar. Let’s see what’s out there.”
“Yes, Captain.” He punched a button to draw back to a view three hundred miles around the aircraft. “Looks like we have visitors approaching at high speed, Captain.”
“I knew it,” Giorgy-Alexeevich said. “Can you get a make on the approaching aircraft?”
“Stand by, sir.” He programmed the computer for an identification read. “Computer shows two McDonnell Douglas F/A-18s approaching at Mach speed.”
