"Satan; so call him now, his former name is heard no more in heaven."
~ John Milton ~
Paradise Lost, Book V, Line. 658.
 

Shoot Down

00:20:15
The passenger in seat 2K in the business class section of the Virgin Atlantic Airbus 340 stared through thick eyeglasses at the cockpit door. Only ten seconds before, his head had shot up from the copy of Newsweek at the sound of a loud bang coming from the cockpit.

Now, along with those around him, he sat stunned as the pilot’s words blared from the intercom.

“This is Captain Krull. We are experiencing technical difficulties. Everyone remain seated.”

The captain had made other announcements during the flight from London to New York. But this time his voice sounded stressed, edgy.

A flight attendant moved cautiously from the galley that separated first class and the cockpit. She stood silently in front of the heavily reinforced flight deck, still holding a towel that she had been using to clean a stain from her apron. The passenger in 2K followed her gaze to the lettering in the middle of the door that read: Restricted area. No admittance during flight.

As he watched, the flight attendant pulled a handset from the wall and pushed a button that he assumed connected her to the cockpit. She spoke into the receiver and waited for a reply. He saw her facial expression change as she listened. Then, slowly she hung up the handset and covered her mouth with her palm. Her face paled as she turned toward the passengers.

The man nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose and started to stand.

“Please stay in your seat, sir,” she said.

“What’s going on?” a woman called out.

“What the hell was that noise?” another passenger asked.

Despite her order, passenger 2K rose. “Is there something wrong with the plane?” he asked.

“No, the aircraft is fine,” she answered, still seemingly trying to digest what she had just heard.

“Are we being hijacked?” he asked.

She bit her bottom lip. “Captain Krull says he shot the copilot and is about to kill himself.” She took a step backwards into the galley. “There’s no way to get into the cockpit and stop him.”

00:12:06
“Captain Krull, this is Thomas Wyatt.” Tall and trim in faded jeans and a denim shirt, Wyatt stood on the front porch of his cottage overlooking the dark waters of Alligator Lake in the backwoods of North Florida. “Can you hear me?” he said into the satellite phone.

No response.

“Captain, I’m here to help you.”

Static.

Wyatt knew there were at least a hundred people listening to the call that had been routed directly into the aircraft’s communications system. He pictured groups of military and civilians at the Department of Homeland Security, the Pentagon, DoD, NORAD, FAA, and countless other agencies leaning toward the speakers of their electronic devices. And he was acutely aware that he had only a short time before things would turn tragic. Virgin Atlantic flight 45 was squawking a 7500 hijack code and would not be allowed to land or even approach New York with a suicidal pilot at the controls.

Pressing the phone to his ear, Wyatt said, “Captain, no matter what brought you to this moment, there’s still time to turn back. This is not only about you, Captain, but about two hundred and eighty innocent people onboard your plane. They don’t deserve to die. Whatever issue you have, they are not responsible. Let’s put it into the hands of experts who can solve it for you.”

Wyatt glanced at his watch. He knew that two F-18 Hornets were vectored to intercept the airbus. They were under explicit rules of engagement regarding a 7500 code—force the plane to divert to a secure landing location or, if necessary, fire upon the aircraft and shoot it down. The airbus, big and lumbering, would present no challenge for the fighter pilots.

00:11:04
“Captain, you are a seventeen-year veteran,” Wyatt said, glancing at a 3-page fax in his hand. “Your record is one other pilots aspire to achieve. You have a family—twin ten-year-old girls. Are you ready to leave them fatherless? Taking the lives of those innocent passengers onboard would affect hundreds, if not thousands of lives as their friends and relatives grieve. And if you take this aircraft down with you, what about the lives on the ground? Why don’t you tell me what you want—I’ll do everything in my power to help you get it. It’s not too late.”

Wyatt knew there were usually three reasons someone takes hostages—martyrdom, murder, or suicide. The information he had been given clearly indicated number three. And number three was Thomas Wyatt’s specialty.

00:10:19
“Captain, we’re running out of time here.” He pressed his palm to his forehead as he looked out over the glassy surface of the lake reflecting the tall pines and palmetto thickets that surrounded it. His cottage was the only one for twelve miles. Wyatt managed to retreat to it a few times a year to relax and fish. There would be no fishing today.

“Captain Krull, the world is a tough place. I know. Maybe the others don’t understand what stress can do to a man. But I do.”

Thomas Wyatt scanned the faxes once more. There was nothing in Krull’s profile that he could determine might have made the pilot go over the edge. No marital or financial difficulties. No drug or alcohol abuse. And that made Wyatt’s task more problematic. He had nothing to hook on to, nothing to target to convince the pilot that Wyatt was his friend—perhaps the only one he had right now. Wyatt needed Krull’s trust, but without finding something he could use to lead the pilot into conversation, Krull would never see him as an ally. That was bad news. There would be little chance of talking him down.

“Captain Krull,” Wyatt said, knowing this was his last opportunity to deter the pilot from whatever plan he had. “There are F-18 fighter jets approaching your aircraft from the rear. One is about to pull alongside and signal you to decrease your airspeed, drop to ten thousand feet, and follow him to an alternative landing site. Do you understand?”

The silence was as empty as Wyatt’s hopes. He looked at his watch again. “Captain?”

00:09:25
“Oh God!” a woman screamed from a few rows behind where passenger 2K sat. She pointed out the window. “They’re going to shoot us down!”

Within the last few moments the airbus grew from whispered concerns to panic. Now, as they all glared in disbelief out the port side of the aircraft, passenger 2K saw the threatening, sleek shape of a military jet fighter. Twin tail fins reminded him of knife blades. The long, needle nose looked like an insect about to sting. Sitting inside the swept-back cockpit, the pilot motioned to attract Krull’s attention.

As passenger 2K glared out the window to get a better look at the fighter, he saw something that caused his pulse to quicken and his breath to be sucked from his lungs. Attached to the wingtip of the jet fighter was a small, blue, guided missile. Would it be the one used to turn Flight 45 into a raging ball of flames and drop the airliner into the cold waters below?

“Holy shit,” a teenage passenger shouted.

“Everyone remain calm,” the flight attendant shouted over the screams of the passengers. “This is standard procedure. That plane is just here to escort us safely to the closest landing site.”

“Why?” the teen yelped. “What do we need an escort for? What’s wrong with landing at JFK?”

“There’s another one!” someone cried from the opposite side of the cabin.

The second F-18 was so close that the pilot’s face could be seen. Passenger 2K felt his knees give way as he slumped back into his seat. He took his glasses off and closed his eyes. Standard procedure? he thought. Escort us in? If the copilot is dead and the pilot is threatening to shoot himself, who will fly the plane?

00:04:02
“Captain Krull, I know that by now you can see the F-18s off each side of your aircraft.” Wyatt paced his deck as sweat formed on his brow. The weathered two-by-fours creaked under his boots. He heard the screech of blue jays as they argued over peanuts Wyatt had thrown in the grass for them just before getting this call. If his problem could only be as trivial is theirs right now.

00:03:23
“Captain, those pilots are hearing every word I say. So is the NORAD commander. There will be no hesitation if he feels that you and I are not coming to terms. His sworn duty and those of his pilots is to protect the citizens of the United States. Captain, they are under orders that have no ambiguity, no flexibility. A single word from me and I can call them off. I know you’re a good man, a father, a husband. The lives of so many are now in your hands. Please tell me what you want. I’ll move mountains to get it for you. I can do that. I’ve done it for others. Just let me hear your voice.”

00:01:02
The muffled pop caused everyone in the business class section of the Virgin Atlantic Airbus 340 to stop as if someone had pushed the pause button on a video player. A bitter taste rose up into the throat of passenger 2K as he stood and took a step toward the cockpit door. His glasses fell to the floor. The flight attendant was two paces ahead of him, and another coming up the aisle.

“Let us in!” the attendant screamed, pounding on the door. “Open up!”

Passenger 2K shoved the attendant aside and kicked the door with all his strength. He felt as if he had kicked a block of stone—his leg aflame with pain. Another passenger came from behind, a fire extinguisher in his hands. Using the bottom as a battering ram, he struck the door repeatedly, leaving behind only smears of red paint.

Suddenly the nose of the plane pitched down causing everyone to tumble. At the same moment, a woman a few rows back yelled, “We’re going to crash!”

The airbus pitched again.

Luggage, blankets, pillows, drinks, and passengers dropped to the floor and slid toward the bulkhead.
Passenger 2K was slammed to his knees as the man with the fire extinguisher fell onto him—his breath knocked from his lungs. He opened his mouth to call for the other passenger to get off when a sound, like the crack of thunder, struck his ears. He turned his head to look down the aisle. Without his glasses, what he saw was blurry, but he knew it for what it was. A wall of flame raged toward him like a searing fiery wave. He cried as he took his last breath knowing the small, blue guided missile had found its target.

00:00:00

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Copyright © 2005-2010 Lynn Sholes & Joe Moore and Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide, Ltd.